A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

  ‘I’ve known folk hightail it, passport or not, boss.’

  ‘I think George has a point,’ Clarke said in a level voice. ‘I’m not sure we need the report.’

  ‘You think he’s suddenly going to get chatty with his expensive solicitor sitting right there beside him telling him “no comment” will suffice?’

  ‘I actually do.’

  ‘Something up your sleeve, Siobhan?’

  ‘Just female intuition maybe.’

  Sutherland gave her a look that told her he didn’t totally believe this. But he said okay anyway.

  Prior to Giovanni Morelli being brought up from his cell, and while Sutherland was confirming that Patricia Coleridge was on her way, Clarke stepped into the corridor to make a discreet call, after which she descended the station’s ornate staircase, stopping at the front desk.

  ‘Anyone asks for me,’ she told the officer there, ‘send them straight up. I’ll be in IRB.’

  The officer nodded his understanding. As Clarke climbed the stairs again, she saw Fox waiting for her at the top.

  ‘You’re up to something,’ he commented.

  ‘I’m really not.’

  ‘You are, though. I thought we were partners.’

  ‘The kind who turns up at a car-rental desk half an hour early to steal some glory?’

  Fox made a show of wincing. ‘Brillo must be due a walk, surely.’

  ‘Nice try, Malcolm. Though if you’re offering…’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Didn’t think so.’ She leaned in towards him until her lips were only a centimetre from his ear. ‘Watch and learn, Mr Brawn.’

  He was attempting a scowl as she headed back into the office.

  ‘Here we are again,’ Patricia Coleridge announced, with no obvious enthusiasm.

  Clarke had once more checked the recording equipment before switching it on. Sutherland was in the same seat as before, opposite the lawyer and her client.

  ‘The cell is disgusting,’ Morelli was telling Coleridge. ‘The toilet–unbelievable. The sandwich they gave me–inedible!’

  ‘Just a little longer, Gio,’ Coleridge consoled him. Notebook, iPad and pen laid out, hands pressed together above them as if in prayer, eyes flitting between the two detectives opposite.

  ‘I assume there’s news of some kind?’ she demanded.

  ‘A forensic search of Mr Morelli’s home has uncovered a pair of shoes with spots of blood on them,’ Clarke announced. ‘That blood is being analysed as we speak.’

  ‘So it could well be my client’s?’

  ‘We both know that’s not the case, though.’ Clarke’s attention was focused on Morelli. ‘You got rid of everything else you’d been wearing, but no way you were going to part with such a lovely pair of shoes. You wore chain-store stuff when renting the car–less conspicuous that way–but for a meeting with Salman… well, he’d be expecting the usual sharply dressed Gio.’

  ‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Coleridge reminded her client.

  ‘Cooperation now could play in your client’s favour. Once we have the blood match, we won’t have much need for his assistance.’

  ‘No comment,’ Morelli said.

  Clarke could sense Sutherland growing uneasy, realising how little they had to play with and wondering why Clarke had been keen to hold the interview. She wished she could reassure him, but couldn’t think how.

  ‘Can we talk about the knife that’s missing from one of your drawers in the kitchen?’

  ‘Knives get thrown away all the time,’ Coleridge drawled.

  ‘No comment,’ Morelli repeated. Sutherland shifted slightly in his seat again. Clarke risked a glance in his direction.

  Relax.

  ‘When the test shows that it’s Salman bin Mahmoud’s blood on your shoes, Mr Morelli, what then? Reckon “no comment” will suffice in a courtroom?’

  ‘This is outrageous.’ Coleridge tossed down the pen she’d only just picked up and fixed Sutherland with a look. ‘You’ve dragged us in here with no new evidence, just a succession of wild theories and suppositions–is this really the way you run your major cases, DCI Sutherland?’

  Sutherland looked like he was struggling to form a suitable answer, while Clarke’s attention had turned to the interview room door, beyond which she could hear raised voices. Eventually Coleridge noticed them too.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ she was asking as the door was yanked open. Issy Meiklejohn appeared, Malcolm Fox behind her, his hand grasping her forearm.

  ‘What the fuck did you do?’ Meiklejohn screamed at Morelli. ‘You fucking murdering fucking…’

  Morelli was on his feet so fast that his chair tipped over and clattered to the floor. He had his hands raised as if to fend off the apparition before him. Saliva flew from Meiklejohn’s mouth as she yelled, her face puce with rage, both rows of teeth visible.

  ‘Get her out of here!’ Graham Sutherland was saying to anyone who would listen.

  ‘How did she get in?’ Coleridge was demanding. ‘The Fiscal needs to be told. This is appalling. Surely any possible prosecution is now—’

  ‘I did it for you, Issy,’ Morelli blurted out. ‘I did it for you.’

  ‘You murdered our friend!’

  ‘He was lying to you to get you into his bed! There was never any money for The Flow!’

  ‘DCI Sutherland!’ Coleridge howled. ‘I must protest in the strongest terms!’

  ‘Get her out,’ Sutherland repeated. Fox had his arms around Meiklejohn’s waist now, pulling her backwards as best he could.

  ‘Bastard,’ Meiklejohn said, all energy spent and replaced by a low, steady sobbing.

  ‘Issy…’ Morelli had taken a step towards her.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’ She shrugged Fox aside and disappeared from view.

  ‘DCI Sutherland,’ Coleridge was saying, attempting to regain both her composure and control of the situation. ‘None of this is admissible anywhere–you must see that.’

  Fox was making to close the door from outside. He gave Clarke a look and she gave him one back–a look that ended with a wink.

  ‘If we’re pausing the interview,’ she said to the room at large as Morelli righted his chair and sat down, head in his hands, ‘maybe I should switch off the recording?’

  ‘Best if we take a break,’ Sutherland agreed.

  ‘Better still,’ Coleridge said through gritted teeth, ‘if you explain how a member of the public got past the desk downstairs–almost as if they knew where to find us.’

  Clarke was affecting a look of complete innocence as she reached towards the machine and pressed the stop button.

  ‘No, leave it on,’ Morelli said. ‘I want to explain.’

  ‘That’s very unwise, Gio,’ Coleridge warned him.

  ‘I want to explain,’ he repeated, with a bit more iron in his voice.

  Clarke turned the machine on again.

  44

  ‘He wore motorcycle gloves,’ Rebus said croakily. He was in The Glen, seated at the same corner table where he had first met Jimmy Hess. Creasey sat opposite, next to May Collins. She had made Rebus a drink comprising hot water, whisky, honey and a squeeze of lemon, plus a couple of ibuprofen tablets that he’d struggled to swallow. ‘Hence no prints,’ he continued. ‘Drove the Volvo back here, maybe thinking he’d buy himself some time that way. Walked to the camp to retrieve the bike–no one on the road that late of an evening, meaning no witnesses.’

  ‘John did tell you it was to do with the camp,’ Collins admonished Creasey. He turned his head to her.

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t know anything about it? Your dad goading Frank Hess all these years? He didn’t drop a hint of any sort?’

  She glared at the detective. ‘Definitely not. All I knew was that there was always a bit of needle between them.’

  ‘Why did your father never come forward?’

  Rebus watched May Collins shrug. ‘I think maybe he liked tormenting Frank, or it could be he
just wasn’t overly bothered. He’d been through a war–what was one more innocent life?’

  Creasey’s phone vibrated and he checked the screen, his face unreadable.

  ‘Any sign?’ Rebus wanted to know.

  ‘He can’t get far.’

  Rebus was reminded of the stories about escapes from Camp 1033. The runaways would head into the wilderness but soon give up. He imagined Jimmy Hess running, the laptop under his arm. He would run, then rest, then run again, growing thirsty and hungry and cold. Eventually he would realise the futility of it, but would he be able to find his way back, or would the peatlands all look the same, lacking landmarks of any kind? Of course, he could be sticking to another course, following the coast to east or west. But patrol cars were on the hunt, hiding places in short supply and easily searched.

  ‘Callum’s farm?’ he suggested.

  ‘Two officers are there, just in case.’

  ‘What about Frank?’

  ‘Under lock and key in Tongue. We’ll transfer him to Inverness later.’

  ‘He’s your catch–shouldn’t you be there?’

  ‘Soon as I’m sure you’re okay.’

  ‘I keep telling you I’m dandy.’ Rebus swallowed, wincing in pain again.

  ‘Christ, John,’ Creasey said.

  May Collins reached out and gave his hand a squeeze. ‘At least let a doctor take a look,’ she said.

  Rebus was about to protest when the door to the bar rattled open and Samantha burst in. She spotted them and flopped down next to her father, giving him as much of a hug as the cramped space would allow.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Might have to skip choir practice tonight.’

  ‘You’ve seen a doctor?’

  ‘He’s refusing,’ May Collins said. ‘Can I get you anything, Sam?’

  Samantha shook her head.

  ‘How’s Carrie?’ Rebus wheezed.

  ‘She’s okay, but you’re not.’ She turned to Creasey. ‘He’s got COPD, you know. Finds breathing hard enough as it is.’

  ‘I did consider bundling him into a patrol car in handcuffs,’ Creasey replied. ‘Short of that, I’m not sure what I can do.’

  Samantha turned back to her father again. ‘You’re a stubborn old goat.’

  ‘With the bleat to match.’ Rebus stroked his throat with thumb and forefinger.

  ‘It was Jimmy, then?’ she said. ‘Killed Keith, tried to strangle you?’

  ‘Jimmy,’ Rebus confirmed.

  Her brow wrinkled. ‘Because of something that happened seventy-odd years ago?’

  ‘Some people have long memories.’

  May pointed towards the bar. ‘It was that bloody revolver that started it. Wish to hell I’d taken it down when I had the chance.’ She took Samantha by the wrist. ‘I’m so, so sorry, Sam.’

  ‘It was that camp,’ Samantha said quietly. ‘It got under Keith’s skin. He couldn’t let it go…’ Her eyes flitted between the detective and the publican. ‘Can I have a minute with my dad?’

  They nodded and headed to the bar. Samantha took Rebus’s hand in hers.

  ‘Suppose we can plan the funeral now,’ she said. ‘I could do with a bit of help with that. And maybe a move south, too–if you wouldn’t mind us living nearer you.’

  ‘I reckon I could cope. You need to think it through, though, once the dust settles–Carrie’s schooling and all that.’ He paused. ‘And I’m sorry if I ever had any doubts about you.’

  ‘You’ve got a suspicious mind. Comes with the job.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean we can’t go on together, though, eh?’

  She smiled and wrapped her arms around him again. Over her shoulder, Rebus saw Creasey lift his phone up, checking an incoming message and then motioning to May Collins that he needed to be elsewhere. His eyes met Rebus’s as he walked towards the door, and he mouthed a single word, knowing Rebus would understand.

  The word was ‘farm’.

  45

  ‘So when is he back?’ Fox asked into his phone as he walked.

  ‘Tomorrow or the day after. Saab’s been fixed, so that’s one less funeral to worry about. Though he’ll have to head north again at some point.’

  ‘John always gets his man, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Even if he barely makes it out alive. Killer damn near choked him to death. Where are you anyway?’

  ‘Clearing my head with a walk.’

  ‘Nowhere in the vicinity of a certain penthouse of recent acquaintance?’

  ‘Always so suspicious.’ Fox paused. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I’m at John’s new place. I was just going to drop off that signed Lee Child–bit of a house-warming gift. But then I sort of started on the unpacking.’

  ‘He won’t thank you for it.’

  ‘If it’s left to him, it could take months. Anyway, I won’t get it finished tonight–I’m out for dinner with Graham in a bit to celebrate.’

  ‘What’s the music?’

  ‘One of John’s–R. Dean Taylor.’

  ‘Never heard of him. Isn’t it a bit early to be celebrating? Long way still to go.’

  ‘Taped confession, though, Malcolm.’

  ‘That was a nice trick you pulled. Of course, it only takes Issy to tell her old pal Patsy that you phoned and told her everything, then invited her to pay her respects in person…’

  ‘A confession’s still a confession. No duress involved.’

  ‘He’s been in love with her for a long time? Morelli and Issy, I mean.’

  ‘Since they first met in their teens,’ Clarke agreed. ‘Never became physical–her choice, I’m guessing. But when Morelli found out she intended studying in Edinburgh, he signed up to the same course–which is a bit creepy if you ask me.’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘Salman meantime was on his uppers–he’d even been borrowing from Morelli. But he couldn’t help blabbing to him about the money he’d told Issy would save her father’s dream project.’

  ‘Money he didn’t actually have?’

  ‘He was heading back home anyway to either face the regime’s music or save the family business. Far as he was concerned, he was having one last go at nailing Issy before he left. So Morelli lures him to Craigentinny with the promise that he has a source who wants to help with the buyout. They argue, and Morelli pulls out the knife.’

  ‘Which he’s taken because…?’

  ‘Because he’s Italian and reckoned Salman might take a bit of persuading to come clean to Issy and lay off her.’

  ‘Why didn’t Morelli just tell Issy?’

  ‘I think because a bit of his father has rubbed off on him–no compassion, no empathy.’

  ‘Ready to take the nuclear option.’ Fox found himself nodding his agreement as he stepped out of a cyclist’s path.

  ‘Anyway,’ Clarke was saying, ‘I don’t buy his version, not entirely. He chose Craigentinny because closer to home would have been too risky. Explains the fake mugging, too. Rather than an argument gone nuclear, this is about as calmly premeditated as any murder I’ve worked. So yes, I feel like celebrating. And meantime you’re out on a walk?’

  ‘I don’t drink and I don’t smoke–what else am I going to do, to paraphrase Culture Club?’

  ‘Adam and the Ants,’ she corrected him. ‘Well, be careful out there, Malcolm–city’s liable to bite you when you least expect it. I better start finishing up here–need to go home and get changed. See you tomorrow?’ Fox stayed silent. ‘Oh, you’re heading back to Gartcosh?’

  ‘Any reason for me not to?’

  ‘So this is us saying goodbye?’

  ‘You almost sound sorry to see me go. Far cry from when you first set eyes on me.’

  ‘Happy travels, DI Fox. Come see us again sometime.’

  ‘Bye, Siobhan.’ He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He was heading into Quartermile from Lauriston Place, having parked on a single yellow line. This time of the evening, he wasn’t going to get a tic
ket. (The one from outside the restaurant on Hanover Street was still in his glove box.) Quartermile was quiet, a few drinkers in the bar he passed, about half the tables filled in the Malaysian restaurant next door. Food-delivery drivers were coming and going while students hauled bags from the Sainsbury’s supermarket back to their digs.

  Fox approached the tall glass box that Cafferty called home and pressed the intercom. He was buzzed in immediately, but stood in the vestibule a moment, gathering his thoughts before summoning the lift. He’d phoned and confirmed that Cafferty was able to see him. Cafferty had asked the reason of course, and all Fox had said was ‘Scoular’.

  ‘Good news, I hope, Malky.’

  Well, that depended on your viewpoint.

  Cafferty was waiting at the penthouse door for him, dressed in an open-necked white shirt and jogging bottoms, his feet bare. He padded back into the open-plan living area and snatched up a glass half filled with red wine.

  ‘Can I tempt you, Malcolm?’

  ‘Not a cat in hell’s chance.’

  Cafferty sat down in his favourite chair and waited, unsurprised when Fox stayed standing.

  ‘About Scoular,’ Fox began.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’ve dug and dug again, and there’s nothing there.’

  ‘Is that right?’ The apparent good humour vanished from Cafferty’s face.

  ‘Doesn’t matter, though, does it? What matters to you is getting me and especially my boss working on your behalf. Because once you’ve done that–and you’ve got it on tape–you reckon you own us. Isn’t that the truth?’ Cafferty opened his mouth to answer, but Fox wasn’t finished. ‘But it’s not the whole truth–the whole truth would have to include your raging jealousy of the man.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  Fox started counting on his fingers. ‘He’s younger than you, a lot better-looking than you. Rubs shoulders with the great and the good rather than the scumbags you’re stuck with on a daily basis. You see him with his friends at your club and you know there’s a wall between you and them that you can’t seem to scale, and Christ knows you’ve tried. Call it a class thing, or just snobbery–they look down on you when you know they should be looking up. And meantime Scoular sells his wee bits and pieces of coke to his pals, keeps them sweet, fixes people up with each other–a real mover and shaker. And yes, there’s probably dodgy money in the mix somewhere, yet he remains completely non-stick. That’s why he got to you, and that’s why you started us digging. And here I am telling you there’s sweet FA to show for it. He’s still Stewart Scoular, property developer and darling of the society pages, and you’re still you.’