A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

  He knew he shouldn’t feel entirely sad about that, but he did.

  39

  Joseph Collins took his time opening the door of his cottage, his walking frame proving an impediment. Rebus greeted him from the path, where he was admiring the garden.

  ‘Can’t all be your own work?’ he speculated.

  ‘Mostly May these days. What the hell do you want?’

  ‘Wondered how you were doing–can’t have been easy yesterday. May’s still not over it. All the rumours, and the eyes on her when her back’s turned.’

  Collins squared his shoulders. ‘We’re strong, the both of us.’

  Rebus had approached the front step. ‘Can I maybe come in?’

  ‘Why?’ Collins was peering at him through glasses that needed a polish to clean them of various smears and smudges. Seated in the bar, he had seemed stooped and tremulous, but his eyes were the same ones that had seen warfare and bloodshed. The young Josef Kolln was visible to Rebus, trapped deep within an aged receptacle.

  ‘Because,’ he intoned, ‘your gun was used to kill an innocent man, meaning it’s time you came clean. For May’s sake as much as yours.’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  ‘I was a cop for over thirty years, Mr Collins–I’ve been to hell. What I saw in Camp 1033 wasn’t as bad as some, but it’ll still haunt me. Keith didn’t deserve what happened to him, but he deserves your help.’

  ‘Your own daughter most likely did it.’ The old man was growing agitated.

  ‘You really think that?’

  ‘I don’t know what I think.’

  ‘I’m more interested in what you know. See, there was a reason that gun was put on display. You were goading someone, letting them know you knew.’

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘The truth about who killed Sergeant Davies. And with Keith digging the whole story up again, no telling what might happen. He believed it was the same gun. Maybe he thought he could get it tested for DNA. That’s why he lifted it from behind the bar. You always told people the truth–that you found it washed ashore. But I don’t think you did much to dispel the other rumours. In fact, once they’d started, you got to like them, because they pointed the way to the real story.’

  Rebus had taken another step towards Joseph Collins. He could see past him into the narrow hallway beyond. Family photos on the walls, the usual clutter of a long life.

  ‘Stefan Novack, Helen Carter and Frank Hess–Keith interviewed all of them. Stefan drives, but he wasn’t at the camp at the time Sergeant Davies was murdered–unless you know different. Helen’s sister had more than her share of admirers, some of whom became her lovers. Was Helen jealous? Did she have a thing for Sergeant Davies? Then there’s Frank, who admired her but doesn’t seem to have been admired back.’ Rebus paused. ‘And then there’s you. You knew both Frank and Helen. Which means you knew her sister too. I began to wonder if the gun was your way of telling people you’d done it. See, planting the murder weapon in Hoffman’s room means it had to be someone with access to the camp. Helen worked there; you and Frank Hess were interned there.’

  ‘Leaving only a few hundred other potential suspects.’ Collins sounded suddenly weary, shoulders starting to droop. The gnarled, liver-spotted hands were trembling as they gripped the walker. ‘Tell me, Mr Rebus, which of us had the strength to cause Keith’s death? You say the revolver was in his possession–we must have fought him for it, no? Wrestled it away from him? Can you picture that? Really? Can you?’

  Rebus waited a moment before taking a final step. His face was now inches from Collins’.

  ‘Time to end it, Herr Kolln–for both our daughters’ sakes.’

  Collins’ eyes seemed to cloud over a little. He lifted one hand from the walker and rubbed it across his lips. Then, with slow deliberation, he began to back away from the doorway, hauling the walker with him.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said as he retreated. ‘I never told him it wasn’t the same gun. He never lost his thing for the ladies, you see–it was my way of warning him off my wife… both my wives, come to that.’

  ‘Who, though?’

  ‘Go talk to Frank, Mr Rebus.’ Slowly the door began to close.

  ‘From what I know of him, that could be pretty one-sided.’

  ‘Try anyway.’

  The door clicked shut, leaving Rebus on a spotless path in a well-kept garden.

  ‘I will then,’ he said quietly, scratching a hand through his hair.

  The house Frank Hess shared with his grandson Jimmy sat on a short terrace leading off the main road down towards the shore. The sun was out, the day becoming pleasantly warm. Rebus thought he could hear the semi-distant crashing of waves. It struck him he’d yet to visit the beach. Maybe soon. He had rung the bell three times before he heard a voice bawling from somewhere inside.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Mr Hess? It’s John Rebus, Samantha’s father.’ He had prised open the letter box and was yelling through it.

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Mr Hess. We need to talk.’ He placed his eye to the slit in the door, withdrawing rapidly as a walking stick was jabbed into the space.

  ‘It’s about the revolver and why Keith took it from the pub. He tried asking you about it. Seemed to make you angry. Mind you, judging by today, I’d say that’s probably your default setting.’

  ‘Leave us alone.’

  ‘Is Jimmy there? Can I speak to him?’ Rebus risked placing his eye to the letter box again. He could see the old man’s torso, the chaotic hallway behind him. He let the flap close again and tried the door handle. The door wasn’t locked, so he took a step inside. The walking stick caught him across one shoulder but did not deflect his attention from the objects he had seen from outside. He lifted the heavy leather jacket from its hook, studying it as another blow landed against his back. The old man was wheezing and spluttering. Rebus crouched down and picked up the crash helmet, in which nestled a pair of leather gloves. He turned towards Frank Hess, deflecting the latest blow with his elbow.

  ‘Jimmy has a bike,’ he stated.

  ‘No,’ Hess said, making to land another blow. Rebus dropped the jacket and snatched the end of the walking stick, holding it tight while Hess tried to wrest it away from him.

  ‘So he just likes dressing in the gear?’

  ‘He’s a good boy. He looks after me.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘Unconditional love–he’ll do whatever it takes to keep you contented. You guessed why Keith had lifted the gun. You knew why Joe kept it on display behind his bar. Always with an eye for the ladies–hit you hard that Chrissy had no time for you but seemed perfectly happy giving herself to anyone else.’ He paused for a moment, watching as Hess’s chest rose and fell, as if he was having trouble catching a breath. ‘No love for Hoffman in the camp,’ he ploughed on. ‘No one about to complain if he went to the firing squad–easy to plant the revolver in his room and then get word to the authorities.’ He paused again, studying Hess. The man was medium height, and had lost any weight he’d carried in younger years. Folds of flesh hung from his neck. His cheeks were sunken, teeth yellow. ‘You’ve been filled with rage all your life, haven’t you, Herr Hess? Not much you can do with it at your age. Jimmy, on the other hand…’

  Hess’s eyes lit up suddenly, the years seeming to fall from him, until Rebus could see the young conscript, the zealot, the unlovable admirer of the local flirt.

  ‘My grandson has done nothing,’ he spat. He looked around the hallway as if seeking something, then padded off deeper into the house.

  Rebus did his own looking. No bike. There was a narrow close to one side of the house, but he hadn’t seen one there either. He took out his phone: no signal. He was putting it away again when Hess emerged from the gloom, brandishing a carving knife.

  ‘The hell are you doing, Frank?’ Rebus said, hands in front of him, palms facing the oncoming figure.

  ‘I could kill you, you know. You said so yourself–a man fi
lled with rage.’

  ‘Unlike Jimmy, you mean?’ Rebus nodded as if in understanding, then flung out his left hand, wrapping it around Hess’s wrist, twisting until the knife dropped to the floor. He took a step forward, his mouth close to the old man’s ear.

  ‘You don’t ride a bike, though,’ he said in a quiet voice, before turning and leaving the house.

  He entered the close. A couple of old bicycles, one of them dating back to childhood by the look of it. A small rear garden. More junk: rotting wooden doors; a makeshift cloche constructed from discarded window frames in which only weeds seemed to be thriving; old car tyres and hubcaps. In one corner stood a small shed, bought not too many years back judging by its condition. He yanked open the door and peered in. A rotary lawnmower gathering cobwebs; boxes of tools; garden implements hanging from nails. No motorbike. He closed the door and stalked back to his car, checking his phone for signal as he drove. When he gained a single bar, he stopped and called Creasey.

  ‘You need a search warrant for Frank Hess’s house. And you need to question the grandson.’ He paused. ‘Grandson and grandfather both,’ he corrected himself.

  ‘And why is that, John?’ Creasey’s voice was in danger of breaking up. The single bar was fluttering.

  ‘I’ll explain when I see you. Just get on it.’ He ended the call and continued driving, finding a space outside The Glen. He walked in as Cameron was finishing mopping the floor.

  ‘Careful you don’t slip,’ the barman warned him.

  ‘I never slip, son, which doesn’t stop me falling on my arse sometimes. Question for you: does Jimmy Hess own a motorbike?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘He has all the accoutrements.’

  Cameron was nodding. ‘That’s because he sometimes borrows Callum’s.’

  ‘And who the hell is Callum?’

  ‘Him and his dad run Torries farm. Mad keen on bikes is Callum, though you’ll mostly find him on an ATV.’ He saw Rebus’s blank look. ‘You’d probably call it a quad bike. Handy for getting around the fields.’

  ‘So Torries farm, how do I find it?’

  Cameron started a complicated explanation, but Rebus cut him off.

  ‘Easier if you come with me.’

  ‘But we’re opening—’

  ‘Do what the man says.’

  They turned their heads towards the voice. May Collins was standing in the doorway behind the bar, drying her hands on a cloth. Her eyes were on Rebus.

  ‘Dad says you paid him a visit. Looks to me like you’ve got the scent of something, so what are you waiting for?’ She made a shooing motion with her fingers.

  ‘I’ll grab my jacket,’ Cameron said.

  In the brief time he was gone, Collins and Rebus maintained eye contact without a word being exchanged between them. But there was a faint smile on Collins’ lips as Cameron squeezed past her, shrugging his arms into his denim jacket.

  ‘Good luck,’ were her parting words as the two men left the bar.

  It was a twenty-minute drive, east at first and then winding inland. The farm’s main compound lay down a rutted track, Rebus taking it at speed. It was a hire car after all. At the sound of the approaching engine, a young man wearing a blue boiler suit appeared in the yard from one of the barns.

  ‘That’s Callum,’ Cameron said. Rebus stopped next to a muddy quad bike and got out. Cameron and Callum were shaking hands and exchanging greetings by the time he reached them.

  ‘I’m John Rebus, Samantha’s dad,’ he said by way of introduction.

  ‘Sorry for your loss,’ the young man said. He was brawny and red-cheeked, with wild hair and a no-nonsense manner. ‘What brings you out here?’

  ‘You’re friends with Jimmy Hess?’

  ‘Since school.’

  ‘He borrows your bike sometimes?’

  Callum gave a quizzical look. ‘He does, aye.’

  ‘When was the last time that happened?’

  ‘I’d have to think.’

  ‘Recently, though? Just over a week back?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Did he say why he needed it?’

  ‘Jimmy just likes to hit the road sometimes, let off a bit of steam. His grandad’s not the easiest man to live with.’

  ‘I know I couldn’t do it,’ Cameron confirmed.

  Rebus turned to him. ‘You don’t need to, though, do you? Frank Hess hardly ever visits the pub.’

  ‘Never, actually,’ Cameron corrected him. ‘Says it’s because he’s not a man for the drink, yet if you visit the house…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Plenty whisky bottles, and Jimmy’s definitely not a fan of malts.’

  Rebus focused his attention on the farmer again. ‘So how long did Jimmy have the bike for?’

  ‘Just the one day.’

  ‘Day and night?’

  ‘Being on a bike at night is a joy. You don’t need a destination, not up here. The drive is everything.’

  ‘If you thought about it, you could get me the exact date?’ Rebus persisted.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when he brought the bike back, how did he seem?’

  Callum looked from Rebus to Cameron and back again. ‘Wait a sec, this is my mate you’re talking about.’

  ‘And you’re going to be talking about him a lot more, not to me but to a murder inquiry.’

  Callum was shaking his head, while Cameron looked stunned. Rebus’s phone was vibrating in his pocket. He lifted it out.

  ‘You get a signal all the way out here?’

  ‘Mast over that way.’ Callum pointed towards a distant hill.

  Rebus pressed the phone to his ear, turning away from both young men. ‘Yes, DS Creasey, what can I do for you?’

  ‘You know search warrants don’t come ten a penny? I need to convince my boss to convince a judge–which means you need to convince me.’

  ‘Best done face to face–where are you now?’

  ‘Just past Lairg, heading north.’

  ‘Thing is, as soon as Jimmy Hess’s grandad talks to him, we’ve got a problem. Anything that could be evidence is going to get ditched. And your way takes time, Robin.’

  ‘John…’

  But Rebus had already made up his mind.

  Having dropped Cameron at the pub, he headed back to Frank Hess’s house and tried the door. Locked now. He rang the bell, but there was no answer. Peered through the letter box. No sign of the crash helmet or jacket. Cursing under his breath, he stalked down the close and into the garden. There was a door to the kitchen, but it was locked too. The window was grimy, but he could see in. The carving knife lay on the worktop. The drawer it had been taken from gaped open. A frying pan on the stove and pots and dishes in the sink. Two mugs on the drop-leaf table. No sign of life.

  He stepped back and stared at the upstairs windows. Both had their curtains closed. He headed to the shed and opened it, started rummaging, then decided it would be easier if he shifted the lawnmower. He dragged it out and got to work, tossing tools behind him to make more space. Boxes of screws, nails of odd sizes, most of them rusted, hooks and pieces of wire and old three-pin plugs. Plastic flowerpots, rolls of twine, cans of oil…

  He noticed that the workbench had a drawer. It was stuck shut, so he left it. But having gone through the last box, he had nothing to show for his efforts. Sweat was causing his shirt to cling to his back. He checked that his inhaler was in his pocket, just in case. Then he looked at the drawer and decided to give it another go. This time he used a large screwdriver, wedging it into a gap. Some of the wood began to splinter, but the drawer moved out a fraction. He tried again; more movement. He gripped the sides of the drawer in both hands and—

  ‘You’re trespassing,’ Jimmy Hess said. Rebus turned towards him. Hess filled the shed’s doorway. ‘Criminal damage, too.’

  ‘Police are on their way, son,’ Rebus said, breathing hard. ‘But it’s you they’l
l be talking to, not me.’ He reached a hand through the gap in the drawer and lifted out a laptop. He sensed Keith’s notebooks were in there too, at the back, harder to reach. ‘Best go prepare your grandfather.’

  Jimmy Hess was shaking his head. His large, round face showed no emotion. Gone was the jovial figure who had sat at the table in The Glen; gone, too, the concerned and solicitous grandson who had brought an end to Keith Grant’s interview.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he told Rebus.

  And then he lunged, hands around Rebus’s throat, pushing him back until Rebus collided with the rear wall of the shed. He felt his airway constrict, his eyes bulging and watering at the same time, blurring his vision. He had his own hands around the younger man’s wrists, but couldn’t budge them. He sought a pinkie, intent on bending it back until it snapped, but his strength was already ebbing. His knees buckled and he sank towards the floor, sharp corners of various objects digging into him. Changing tactics, he reached for Jimmy Hess’s face, clawing at it, seeking the vulnerable eyes. But Hess just turned his head to and fro, making purchase impossible. The sea was roaring in Rebus’s ears now, and the world had turned blood-red like a sunset. Hess’s teeth were bared in effort. Rebus only wished he could have given his tormentor a more even fight… and been more help to Sammy…

  Sam…

  Samantha…

  His hands fell away and his eyes fluttered once before closing.

  A deep darkness lay beyond the roaring.

  40

  The Leith team were in high spirits, except for George Gamble, who sat with arms folded, having warned anyone who’d listen: ‘Don’t count your fried chickens.’ His chair creaked as he leaned back in it.

  Most of the team had gathered in the vicinity of the Murder Wall, perched on desks or standing expectantly while Graham Sutherland considered their next move.

  ‘I’ll talk to the Fiscal’s office,’ he announced, ‘that’s probably job one.’