A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

  ‘We guessed he’d want to be here,’ Carter said quietly. ‘Chrissy did anyway.’

  Rebus took stock of the scenery. It felt like they might be the only living things in the whole landscape–no livestock visible, no birdsong. Then he turned his attention back to Sergeant Gareth Davies’s grave.

  ‘Age twenty-nine,’ he recited. ‘How old was Chrissy?’

  ‘Nineteen. Two years younger than me.’

  ‘I heard she died a few years back.’

  ‘She had a good life down south, and a long one.’

  ‘You kept in touch after she left?’

  ‘She didn’t often visit–too many memories.’

  ‘It was a terrible thing to happen.’

  ‘And such a stupid thing, too.’

  ‘Sergeant Davies’s killer must have harboured strong feelings for her,’ Rebus agreed. ‘That was what it was, wasn’t it–a crime of passion?’

  ‘It’s what was said at the trial.’

  ‘You don’t sound convinced.’

  Helen Carter took a deep breath. ‘Chrissy wasn’t the bonniest of lassies–she’d tell you that herself. But she liked the attention of men, and she found ways to make sure she got that attention.’

  ‘She was a flirt?’

  ‘It went a bit beyond that.’ Carter almost had a glint in her eye. ‘Another good reason for her to head south–our parents weren’t going to stand for much more of it. They were religious, as was I, I suppose. They knew they could trust me not to get into

  trouble.’

  ‘But not Chrissy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you dating your future husband at this time?’

  Carter considered for a moment. The breeze had caught her hair. She pushed some strands back behind her ear.

  ‘Should we go sit in the car?’

  ‘A friend is picking me up soon.’

  ‘Stefan Novack, by any chance?’

  She smiled. ‘You are a detective, aren’t you?’

  ‘The pair of you just seemed comfortable with one another as you were leaving the bar that day.’

  ‘Well, maybe you’re right.’ She gave a slight shiver. ‘I can feel this wind getting into my bones.’

  Rebus put his arm out for her to take, but she waved the offer away, gripping the handles of her walker and shuffling towards the gates.

  ‘Do you come here on Chrissy’s behalf?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You never did answer my question about your boyfriend…’

  ‘Fred,’ she said. ‘Friedrich, actually. We were friends for a while, lovers eventually.’

  ‘Your parents approved?’

  ‘Not overly. There was always that element of “sleeping with the enemy”.’

  ‘Did they grow to like him?’

  ‘They grew to accept him.’ Her beady eyes drilled into Rebus’s. ‘Why are you asking about all this?’

  ‘I’ve listened to the recording Keith made of his interview with you. You told him Chrissy didn’t really know Hoffman. He wasn’t part of her coterie?’

  ‘They’d met on several occasions. The evidence pointed to him as Gareth’s killer.’ She offered a small shrug.

  ‘Could there have been another reason why Sergeant Davies was targeted?’

  ‘I can’t think of one.’

  ‘And none of her other admirers might have been jealous of him?’

  ‘I’d imagine they were all jealous of him.’

  ‘These were British guards or internees?’

  ‘Both. As I say, Chrissy had a certain reputation and she was hell-bent on upholding it.’

  ‘She sounds a handful. I don’t suppose you were jealous of her, Helen?’ They had reached Rebus’s car. He opened the passenger-side door.

  ‘Maybe I was–just a little.’

  ‘But then you had Friedrich…’

  The car door was still open, but she seemed reluctant to get in.

  ‘As a friend, yes,’ she said. ‘But if I’m being honest, I had my eye on Franz, too. A bit naughty of me, but I think I was trying to stir Friedrich into action, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Franz? As in Frank Hess?’ Rebus watched her nod. ‘Another of Chrissy’s admirers?’

  ‘Oh yes–until Gareth came along and swept her off her feet.’

  ‘And was Joe Collins part of that group too?’

  Carter wrinkled her brow in thought. ‘Not that I remember. Josef was a bit gruff, a bit of a grouch. We always wondered…’ She broke off.

  ‘What?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘We wondered if, given a gun, would he shoot the lot of us? I mean, we used to ask that question a lot–me and Chrissy and the other girls. They all seemed so polite and so charming, but until they surrendered, they’d been merrily slaughtering our menfolk. Plenty at Camp 1033 were still loyal Nazis. One or two even went to Nuremberg.’

  ‘Shall we get in?’ Rebus gestured towards the car’s interior, but she shook her head. ‘What if I told you,’ he continued, his voice dropping a fraction, ‘that Joe Collins’ revolver had been used to kill Keith Grant?’

  Her face didn’t change. ‘Is that what happened?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I don’t really know what to say.’

  ‘Keith was bringing the past back to life, dusting off a few ugly truths some people might have wanted kept hidden.’

  ‘You can’t seriously think one of us…? We’re almost ready for the grave ourselves!’

  ‘Maybe there was more than one attacker,’ Rebus commented. He saw she was becoming agitated. ‘Then again, it could all be a con trick–pushing the investigation one way when the truth is hiding down another track entirely.’ He heard a car approaching and turned towards it. ‘Looks like your ride’s here. Handy that Mr Novack’s still up to driving.’

  ‘Try and stop him,’ Carter said with a faint smile.

  The Land Rover came to a stop next to them. Novack gave a wave through the window.

  ‘The walker goes in the boot,’ Carter told Rebus. He opened the passenger door for her, then stowed the walker while she eased herself into the car. Rebus went to the driver’s-side window.

  ‘What brings you here?’ Novack asked, winding the window down.

  ‘Paying my respects.’

  Novack’s look suggested that he doubted this. ‘You’ve heard about the revolver?’

  ‘Wasn’t sure word had got out.’

  ‘I assure you it has, along with the news that Joe and May are under arrest.’

  ‘What?’ Helen Carter froze with the seat belt half strapped across her.

  ‘They’re verifying the gun, that’s all,’ Rebus countered. He went around the car and closed Carter’s door. Novack lowered the passenger-side window.

  ‘Joe’s gun, though,’ he went on. ‘Used to murder a man.’

  Rebus leaned in at the window. ‘Do you see your old friend Joe as a killer, Stefan?’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t!’ Carter snapped.

  ‘Maybe his daughter, then, eh?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Best not let rumours get started. You never know where they’ll stop.’ The window began to rise, Novack’s finger on the switch as he glared at Rebus, while his passenger couldn’t make eye contact at all.

  You’re rattled, Rebus thought. You’re both rattled.

  Rather than watch the Land Rover roll away, he marched back into the cemetery, stopping once more at Gareth Davies’s resting place.

  ‘She didn’t bring anything to mark the occasion, did she?’ he asked out loud. No flowers of remembrance, no card or note.

  Just Helen Carter herself.

  34

  Siobhan Clarke’s mobile rang at precisely noon. She didn’t recognise the number.

  ‘Hello?’ she answered.

  ‘I’m calling because Issy Meiklejohn more or less demanded it. I have no intention of giving you my name, so please don’t ask.’

  The voice was clipped, upper class, English Home Counties.

/>   ‘Define “demanded”.’

  ‘There’s rather a venomous streak to that young woman, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I’ve always found her perfectly charming.’

  ‘Is that supposed to be funny? Anyway, you know why I’m calling?’

  ‘You’re Lord Strathy’s alibi, the one I’m supposed to accept on trust–without seeing your face or having a name to put to it. You’ll appreciate that’s not usually how we operate on a murder inquiry. Still, I’m listening.’

  As were the others in the MIT office. Clarke ignored them and walked into the hallway, closing the door after her. Fox was in the admin room next door, talking to one of the staff. Clarke descended the stairs until she was beyond his eyeline.

  ‘He was with me for the best part of five days. I doubt we were out of one another’s sight for more than half an hour in all that time.’

  ‘This was in London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Clarke did the calculation. Five days, which finished yesterday morning. Strathy’s little romp had started only a day or so after Keith Grant died and three days after Salman bin Mahmoud’s murder.

  ‘During your time with him, did you watch the news, read a paper?’

  ‘Not so you’d notice.’

  ‘One of Lord Strathy’s business partners had been found murdered. The man was a friend of his daughter’s. He didn’t mention it at any stage?’

  ‘He did not.’

  ‘Maybe he excused himself to make or take a phone call?’

  ‘We promised ourselves–phones off.’

  ‘Awkward if your husband needed to contact you.’

  ‘Look, I’ve told you what I can. Ramsay was with me. We were having a good time.’

  ‘He was relaxed, didn’t seem at all worried?’

  ‘Same old Ramsay.’

  ‘The crime I’m investigating took place in Scotland, and our legal system demands corroboration.’

  ‘Pity we weren’t engaged in a ménage à trois, then, isn’t it?’ There was a throaty chuckle as the line went dead.

  Clarke stared at the screen of her phone. ‘Gotcha,’ she said quietly.

  Back in MIT, she crossed to Christine Esson’s desk and jotted the telephone number onto a much-doodled pad.

  ‘Analyst would have a field day with those,’ she said, admiring the swirls, swooshes, lightning bolts and zigzags that kept Esson busy during every phone call she made.

  ‘What am I doing with this?’ Esson asked, tapping her pen against the line of digits.

  ‘Finding me a name, address and anything else that can be gleaned. I’d do it myself if I possessed half your skill set.’

  ‘And that concludes Siobhan’s motivational TED talk. Thank you all for coming…’

  Clarke was smiling as she headed for her own desk. Fox had just taken his seat and was stifling a yawn.

  ‘Still not sleeping?’ Clarke guessed, noting how bloodshot his eyes were.

  ‘Sleep’s overrated.’

  ‘Strathy’s lover just called me. Christine’s going to put a name and face to her.’

  ‘She used her own phone?’

  ‘With any luck. What did admin want?’

  ‘I’m using too much paper.’ She stared at him. ‘Seriously. All the background stuff I’ve been printing out and photocopying.’

  ‘I thought we had a proper budget–how much stuff have you been churning out?’

  ‘A fair bit.’

  She looked at the piles on his side of the desk. More was stacked on the floor.

  ‘Two copies of everything,’ he confessed.

  ‘One for home, one for here?’ Clarke guessed. ‘So you can keep at it even when you’re not in the office?’ But then she made a clucking sound. ‘No, Siobhan, that’s not quite it–it’s so you can pass one set along to either the ACC or Cafferty, and my antennae tell me the latter is the more likely.’

  ‘Keeping him onside,’ Fox intoned quietly.

  ‘Just stuff relating to Stewart Scoular, though? Not the bin Mahmoud case per se? Tell me he’s not watching us do our job…’

  ‘I’m being careful.’

  ‘How careful?’

  ‘As much as I can be. There’s obviously a bit of crossover here and there.’

  ‘That’s great news, Malcolm. Means if we ever lift Cafferty for anything, he can brag that he’s got you tucked into his breast pocket like a little silk handkerchief. I thought we’d covered this when we were walking back here from his big shiny gangster car?’ She saw the look Fox was giving her. ‘What is it you’re hiding?’

  He started shaking his head.

  ‘Please tell me you’ve not gone all lone wolf and reckon you can deal with him without anyone’s help?’

  Having stopped shaking his head, Fox made a zipping motion with his fingers across his mouth.

  ‘Can we have a grown-up conversation here?’ Clarke insisted.

  ‘Not quite yet.’

  She was about to remonstrate further, but Christine Esson was approaching.

  ‘Fast work,’ Clarke commented.

  ‘This isn’t that,’ Esson said. ‘But it’s kind of interesting nonetheless. Just got a message about the Chinese student who was mugged on Argyle Place. Seems her phone’s been returned to her, along with an apology.’

  ‘An apology?’

  ‘In English and Mandarin Chinese, apparently. The student’s friend, the one who helped translate for her, she got in touch just now. Says the Chinese is really ropy, wonders if the apology was fed into some online translation site.’

  ‘What does it say exactly?’

  ‘She sent a photo of the note.’ Esson handed her phone over to Clarke. Fox slid his chair closer so he could see it too.

  Really sorry for what I did to you. Promise never to do it again. And then presumably the same message in Chinese characters. Written with the same black ballpoint pen and in the same hand by the look of it. The Chinese rendition looked clumsy, mistakes scored out and corrected. The English version was in capitals, and even that looked a bit wonky. Clarke angled the phone’s screen towards Esson.

  ‘Would you say this person’s hand was shaking?’

  ‘Parkinson’s?’ Esson suggested.

  ‘But in the real world?’

  ‘Written under duress or in an emotional state,’ Fox answered.

  Esson took her phone back. ‘Phone and note were in a Tesco bag stuffed through the victim’s letter box.’

  ‘How did the mugger know where she lives?’

  Esson shrugged. ‘I’m guessing maybe her phone? Probably got a tracker or something–maybe a food delivery app. People are increasingly sloppy with their personal information.’

  ‘A mugger who grew a conscience,’ Clarke pretended to marvel.

  ‘I assume you don’t think that’s the case here?’

  ‘I suppose what matters is that we can remove her from the wall. Hugely doubtful she ties to the attacks on Salman and Gio.’

  ‘Do you want to tell the boss or shall I?’ Esson asked.

  ‘It’s all yours, Christine. We’ve done sod all to earn the privilege.’

  35

  Clarke and Fox had just returned from a late lunch–soup and a roll at a café on Constitution Street–and were settling themselves at their shared desk. Clarke could see from the corner of her eye that Christine Esson had news. Sure enough, as soon as they were seated, she was on her feet and striding towards them.

  ‘Here comes DCI Sutherland’s favourite student,’ Clarke teased.

  ‘She’s about to become yours too,’ Esson retorted, handing over a sheet of paper. ‘Name’s Violetta Pakenham. Lives in Kensington. Owns a boutique there. Married, two grown kids.’

  ‘I know that name,’ Fox said, getting to work on his computer. A moment later he had what he was looking for. ‘Probably George Pakenham’s wife. He’s one of Stewart Scoular’s investors.’

  ‘I can see why Lord Strathy would want the affair kept hush-hush,’ Clarke commented.
‘Piss off Pakenham and you’d mightily piss off Scoular.’

  ‘And everyone else in the consortium,’ Fox added. ‘These things are built on sand, and that sand is made up of public confidence. To have one of your big names cheating with the wife of another…’

  ‘Gives us a bit of leverage, if we want it,’ Esson argued. ‘I mean, if we think there’s anything about the case that Strathy’s been hiding from us…’

  ‘He tells or we leak?’ Clarke nodded her understanding and met Fox’s eyes. ‘Do we think he’s hiding anything?’

  ‘I’m not sure, and I certainly don’t want him sparking out on us again.’ Fox busied himself on his keyboard for a moment, then angled his screen towards Clarke and Esson. The photo he’d found showed a couple at a red-carpet event. The man was in his seventies, the woman much younger.

  ‘Just the twenty-year age gap,’ Esson commented.

  ‘What about Issy?’ Fox asked Clarke. ‘She’s the one who put Mrs Pakenham in touch with us. She must know her dad is playing with fire.’

  ‘Reckon she told any of her mates?’

  ‘I’d say she’s good at playing things close to her chest.’

  ‘Or else Scoular would probably already know.’

  Fox nodded. ‘As Christine says, this gives us leverage. Fetch Issy in, get her to tell us everything she knows or suspects.’

  ‘Okay,’ Clarke said after the briefest consideration, ‘let’s do it.’

  An hour later, the two uniforms who had been sent to St Stephen Street to collect Lady Isabella Meiklejohn escorted her up the stairs and into the same interview room she’d been made to wait outside while her father was being questioned the previous day. She took her time composing herself, ignoring Clarke and Fox, who sat opposite.

  ‘Turns out I was wrong to trust you, Detective Inspector Clarke,’ she intoned as she adjusted her jacket. ‘I’d be an idiot not to know why I’m here.’ Finally she looked up, her eyes throwing darts in Clarke’s direction.

  ‘How is Lord Strathy?’ Fox asked in a voice that was almost genuinely solicitous.

  ‘He’s no longer in danger. Some lifestyle adjustments have been suggested.’

  ‘By his doctors or by you?’ Clarke enquired. Meiklejohn gave her another withering look.

  ‘Should I be calling Patsy and inviting her to join us?’