A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

  ‘And leave the window open–explains why the passenger seat was damp.’

  ‘Maybe trying to clear their head,’ Creasey said. ‘It rained that night but not until two a.m. Car was most likely in the lay-by by then.’

  ‘They must have been fairly sure the gun would have no prints on it.’

  ‘If they were thinking straight, yes.’

  ‘No blood on the seat, though…’

  ‘Maybe the revolver was lying on the notes or the computer. And to go back to your first question, once I had my hypothesis, I decided to test it by having officers walk the length of the route from the camp to where the Volvo was abandoned, some on the road itself, checking the ditches, others in the fields either side.’

  ‘Proper policing,’ Rebus conceded. ‘I bet the ones you sent out loved you for it, too.’

  ‘They’re loving me now–though my bank manager won’t.’

  ‘Beers all round, eh? Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that some of them are still hard at it. What time do you think you’ll be back?’

  ‘I’m heading to Inverness.’

  ‘Good luck finding someone in the lab this time of night.’

  ‘Overtime’s been approved and a willing body or two found.’ Creasey paused. ‘I just need to see it with my own eyes, John.’

  ‘Any chance you could send me a photo?’

  ‘So you can go shoving it in the face of everyone on your list of likely suspects? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Reckon you’ll get prints? God knows how many pub regulars have handled it down the years.’

  ‘All that’s for later. I’ll catch up with you sometime tomorrow. Until I do–play nice.’

  ‘Did you get talking to Siobhan about me?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Then you probably know playing nice doesn’t feature heavily on my list of qualities. Have fun at the lab, son.’

  ‘John…’ Sounded to Rebus as though another warning was coming, but he’d already ended the call.

  Cole Burnett lay on his bed, earbuds in, music pounding in an attempt to overwhelm his thoughts. It wasn’t working, though, not tonight. His parents were out, Christ knew where. Pub, party, dogging site. He barely exchanged a word with them these days. Stuck to his bedroom, smoking his weed and dropping tabs. One of them might put their head around the door occasionally, mutter something about food being on the table. He was never hungry; he’d eat later. At dead of night he might raid the fridge or get some toast and jam on the go, if either of them had bothered to buy bread.

  Tonight he had a multipack of crisps and a jar of peanut butter. Scoop the peanut butter out with a finger and suck on it. Brilliant stuff. To wash it down he had a four-pack of energy drinks, half-bottle of vodka, litre of lemonade. King of his castle, blinds open, window ajar. The posters on his walls harked back to childhood–Marvel superheroes and cartoon characters. Plus one from the Walking Dead TV show and one from Narcos. He loved Narcos. The doing he’d got at the hands of Cafferty and his sidekick, that would have turned out a lot differently–a lot differently–if he had been able to pull a gun from his waistband. He knew where to get one, too. People who knew people. Expensive, though, and up until now, while sometimes fantasising about the power that ownership would confer, he’d never felt the urgent need.

  But that was changing. And he’d heard that if you rented and brought it back unused, you’d get a decent chunk of the deposit refunded. Fired, there might be a bit of money due, but not much. Traceability, he’d been told. Bullets could be matched to the pieces that had fired them.

  ‘So here’s a tip for you, Cole–if you use the thing, dig the bullet out of wherever it’s ended up. Do not leave it at the scene.’

  He replayed the conversation in his head as he stared at the ceiling, hands clasped around the back of his head. He thought of Les’s aunt, of her home of nine years being turned into a factory. She’d be the one going to jail when the bust came. Cafferty would remain nicely distanced from the fallout. He lived in a top-floor flat in a nice part of town. He had his club and his big car and his hangers-on. He had a lot of things Cole wanted. Yet who was he? What was he? Just another fucker who got lucky. Wasn’t like he had an invisibility cloak or some Marvel-style weaponry. His only shield was his rep; the sort of hard man drunks talked pish about in old men’s pubs.

  Cole raised himself up from his prone position, swung his feet off the bed and onto the carpeted floor. Stopped the music. Walked to the window, pushing it as far open as it would go. He wanted to stick his head out and howl at the sky, a sky that had only just turned dark.

  Instead of which, he returned to the bed. Sat on it. Looked at his phone. Gnawed on his bottom lip. Made his decision and called the number.

  ‘Fuck is it?’ the voice at the other end demanded.

  ‘I can get you the dough,’ Cole said. ‘So how soon can I have it?’

  ‘You fussed about make and model?’

  ‘As long as it works.’

  ‘Tomorrow then. Deets later.’

  The call was ended. Cole picked up the open can of energy drink and took a slug before starting to text some mates. Time to ask a few favours…

  Day Six

  32

  Rebus, May and Cameron were in the kitchen finishing breakfast when they heard a noise at the pub’s locked and bolted front door. May went to investigate, Rebus knowing full well what she’d find. Sure enough, she returned slightly flustered, trying not to show it.

  ‘Cameron,’ she announced. ‘Our fingerprints are needed. Police are waiting in the bar.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Cameron asked.

  ‘They found a gun. They think it might be the one from here.’ She fetched her jacket from the coat rail. ‘I’ve got to go with them–they need Dad’s prints too.’

  Cameron pushed a last corner of bread into his mouth as he rose from his chair. Rebus was up too. He followed May into the bar. The print kit had been set up on one of the tables. Robin Creasey was studying the photographs of John Lennon.

  ‘Have you had any sleep?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Not much.’ He turned his attention to May. ‘You and your father will have to come to Inverness, I’m afraid. That’s where the firearm is and we need an identification.’

  ‘Won’t our fingerprints be proof enough?’ May enquired.

  ‘Would showing May a photograph suffice?’ Rebus added.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ But Creasey produced his phone anyway and opened its picture gallery, holding the screen close to May’s face as he used a finger to slide between shots. Rebus changed position so he could view over May’s shoulder. A rusty revolver, with a piece of white muslin cloth covering a section of the grip. He knew the cloth’s purpose: blood and hair beneath, not the sort of thing you wanted civilians seeing. As Creasey flipped back through the gallery, he had eyes only for May, checking her reaction. She had placed a palm to one cheek as if to aid concentration.

  ‘Looks similar,’ she eventually conceded.

  ‘We think there are marks that will correspond to the nails on the wall.’ Creasey nodded to where a photographer was busy getting close-ups of the gap below the optics while an assistant held up a simple wooden ruler as a measurement aid.

  ‘Easier just to bring the gun here,’ Rebus suggested. ‘Inverness is a hellish long trip for a frail old man.’

  ‘We’ll be fine, John,’ May attempted to reassure him. Then, to Cameron: ‘You going to be okay on your own?’

  The young barman was seated at the table while his prints were taken. ‘These’ll be destroyed after, won’t they? Not kept on some Big Brother database?’

  ‘Never fear,’ Creasey said, which didn’t seem to console Cameron in the least.

  When May’s turn came to sit at the table, Rebus drew Creasey to one side. ‘So what’s your thinking now?’ he asked in an undertone.

  Creasey gave the beginnings of a shrug. ‘As ever, I’m keeping an open mind.’

  ‘The gun was lift
ed from here for a reason. Maybe the same reason it was used against Keith.’

  ‘Or it was just handy in the heat of the moment. Like I say, I’m ruling nothing out.’ Creasey rolled his shoulders and gave his neck a few stretches.

  ‘Racking up the miles,’ Rebus commented. ‘How long till Forensics finish with the gun?’

  ‘I’ll have a report later today. Blood and hair have gone for analysis. They’re checking for fibres and prints. It dates to the 1940s. Hasn’t been decommissioned but it’s corroded to hell, trigger and cylinder jammed. Barrel full of gunk and no bullets in any of the chambers.’

  ‘Serial number?’

  ‘Just about readable. Luckily there’s a guy in the lab knows someone who fancies himself an expert. If it can be traced, we’ll trace it.’ Creasey opened his notebook and glanced at it. ‘It’s a Webley .38, Mark 4, apparently. Turned them out by the crateload during the war.’

  ‘State it’s in, has it definitely spent time in the sea?’

  Creasey fixed Rebus with a look. ‘You’re doubting Mr Collins’ story?’

  ‘Like you, I’m ruling nothing out.’

  ‘Amount of wear and tear makes his version of events feasible. If we need to, we can probably carbon-date the sand in the cylinder.’

  The scraping of chair legs against the floor caused them both to turn round. May Collins was on her feet.

  ‘Ready when you are,’ she told Creasey, all businesslike. Then, to Rebus: ‘Pay’s not great, but there’s a shift for you here if you’re willing.’

  ‘I can manage,’ Cameron argued.

  ‘If needed, I can be here,’ Rebus said. May nodded without meeting his eyes. She fastened her jacket and checked she had her phone.

  ‘Best behaviour while Mummy’s gone,’ she said, pausing at the door until Creasey had opened it for her. Rebus and Cameron watched as the rest of the crew followed. Once the door was closed, Cameron bolted it again.

  ‘Not nearly opening time yet,’ he explained. ‘Not that I couldn’t do with a drink after all that.’ He was behind the bar by now, his fingers touching the three thin nails. Then he flinched and cursed, tugging the sleeve of his jumper over his hand and rubbing at the nails and the mirrored glass behind.

  ‘They’ll call that tampering with the evidence,’ Rebus chided him.

  ‘I call it protecting the innocent,’ Cameron countered. ‘Do we need to get some more tea on?’

  ‘Wouldn’t go amiss. And if it’s okay with you, I need time on the computer, look a few things up.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Local history to start with.’

  ‘You could always consult Keith’s group.’

  ‘Might end up at that, but meantime…’

  Cameron nodded, whether he understood or not. ‘I’ll get that brew going,’ he said, heading in the direction of the kitchen.

  Having rung the bell, Rebus could sense Samantha hesitating on the other side of the door, checking through the spyhole. He heard the sound of a chain being slid open and the lock being turned.

  ‘Can’t be too careful, eh?’ he offered as the door swung wide. ‘Unlike the old days.’

  She ushered him inside, sliding the chain back across afterwards. ‘Reporter walked straight in yesterday,’ she muttered.

  ‘Which one?’

  She shrugged, already slouching back towards the kitchen. It was messier than ever. Samantha’s face was paler even than before, cheeks sunken, hair unwashed.

  ‘How’s Carrie?’ he asked, watching his daughter slump onto one of the chairs around the breakfast table.

  ‘Full of questions I either can’t answer or don’t want to. She keeps looking at photos on her iPad–holidays and birthdays and Christmas…’ She got up, heading for the kettle and switching it on. ‘This is what we’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Make tea and pretend it makes everything bearable for a while?’

  ‘Is it all right if I ask a question?’

  She gave him a quick glance. ‘Do you ever stop?’

  ‘It’s all I seem to be good for.’

  She was concentrating all her efforts on lifting two tea bags from the box, placing them in mugs next to the kettle. It took her a moment to work out what came next. She walked to the fridge, checking the date on the milk.

  ‘I’m not even sure what day it is,’ she said to herself. Then, to her father: ‘Go on then.’

  ‘They’ve found the murder weapon. It’s the revolver that used to sit behind the bar in The Glen.’

  ‘They hit him with it? Why not just shoot him?’ She thought for a moment. ‘I think I remember it. May’s dad found it on the beach.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘I don’t suppose you ever saw it here? In Keith’s bag maybe?’

  She was shaking her head as she handed him his tea, having forgotten to take the tea bag out.

  ‘And he never mentioned taking it from the pub?’

  ‘No.’ She sat down again, her own tea forgotten about, the mug still over by the kettle. Her eyes met his. ‘Remember when that man abducted me, back when I was a kid? He did it to get at you. And afterwards, Mum took me to London. We couldn’t live in Edinburgh any more. Is that what I’m going to have to do with Carrie? Make a new life elsewhere? I’ll need to find a job, whatever happens…’

  ‘I’ve got money. Best you have it now rather than when I’m gone.’

  ‘Jesus, Dad.’ Her head went down into her hands. ‘Is one fucking death not enough to be getting on with?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  After a moment, her head lifted again. ‘Why did they use the gun?’

  ‘Maybe to make a point,’ Rebus offered.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The camp, the revolver, the stuff still missing…’

  ‘It’s to do with the camp then? Not me, not Jess?’

  ‘Creasey and his team might take a bit more persuading,’ Rebus cautioned.

  Samantha remembered her tea, got up to fetch it. ‘I see Strathy turned up. I remember how excited Keith was the day he went to the castle. On his way to work he’d seen the vans–the marquee company and caterers. He knew what he was doing–maximum embarrassment for his lordship. He was like a kid afterwards, bouncing off the walls like someone had given him too much sugar, when all he’d really been given was a burst lip.’

  ‘Courtesy of the gardener?’

  ‘I told him he should report it, but he laughed it off.’

  She checked the time on her phone.

  ‘I’m seeing Julie,’ she explained. ‘Means running the gauntlet again.’ She exhaled noisily. ‘I just want to go back to being me–does that make any sense?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘Mind if I stick around?’ he asked. ‘Not here, but the garage?’

  ‘You’ll need to unlock it. Key’s on the hall table. Put it through the letter box when you’re done.’

  ‘You’ll be locking up the house?’

  She gave a slow, regretful nod. ‘Everything’s changed,’ she said.

  33

  After a couple of hours spent in the garage, Rebus felt the need to clear his head. He walked to the rear of the bungalow. The garden was basically just lawn, a tool shed, a swing and a folded-away whirligig clothes line. After less than a minute’s battering by the wind, he changed his mind and climbed into his rental car. One bar of signal on his phone, so he called Creasey.

  ‘You’re worse than a bloody newshound,’ Creasey answered. ‘And there’s nothing to report.’

  ‘That’s not why I’m calling.’

  ‘In which case, I can give you two minutes.’

  ‘I’ve got a fair idea who wrote the notes,’ Rebus began.

  ‘She’s had another?’

  ‘I meant the one telling Keith about Samantha’s fling with Hawkins.’

  ‘Okay, I’m listening.’

  ‘Angharad Oates.’

  ‘I suppose that’s credible. Not sure it makes any difference to—’

  ‘Are you forgetting the motorbike? They all g
et to use it. The night Keith was killed, Ron Travis heard it.’

  ‘So to your mind, because Oates wrote a couple of anonymous letters, she then murdered Keith, making it more likely that her lover Jess Hawkins and your daughter might be thrown together again?’

  ‘She’d know who the police would most likely point the finger at. Plus, chances are, it’d lead to Samantha getting out of Dodge.’

  ‘John…’

  ‘Okay, how about this–the day Keith barged into that party at Strathy Castle, he was hauled away by Colin Belkin, who gave him a smack in the mouth as a send-off.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And these are leads you should be following.’

  ‘I’ve got the lead I need right here at the lab.’

  ‘Prints on the revolver?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ The line went dead. Rebus felt like punching something. Instead of which, he started the engine.

  The cemetery lay a mile inland from Tongue, above the village and just off the road to Altnaharra. A low stone wall surrounded it, with high metal gates giving access for hearses. Rebus reckoned that at one time there’d have been a horse-drawn procession from the nearby communities. Maybe not even horses–the coffin carried aloft by family or friends. Only a handful of the gravestones looked new; most were weathered, their inscriptions faded. The grass had been mown recently, though, and fresh flowers had been added to several plots. Not an easy place to hide, and Rebus saw Helen Carter straight away. She was leaning on her walking frame, deep in thought–or more likely remembrance. Rebus approached her, clearing his throat to announce his presence.

  ‘I heard the car,’ she said.

  ‘And here was me thinking you’re stone deaf.’

  ‘I’ve got my hearing aid in.’ She pointed to one of her ears.

  Rebus took up position next to her and studied the name on the headstone.

  ‘Anniversary of his death,’ she explained.

  ‘I know–I looked him up online. Thought he’d be in one of the war cemeteries.’