A Song for the Dark Times: The Brand New Must-Read Rebus Thriller

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Hope you know what you’re doing, John,’ she muttered.

  ‘We could go talk to Avis,’ Fox was suggesting, ‘show them the photos, see if they can ID the car. We’ve got a rough idea when it would have been taken out and returned.’

  ‘Did Robbie say anything about the number plate?’

  ‘He thinks he can get most of it into a readable state, probably by tomorrow lunchtime.’

  ‘Let’s cut him some slack then.’ Clarke scuffed the ball across the grass with her foot, Brillo, tongue lolling, giving chase.

  ‘Have you thought about bringing Brillo into the office?’ Fox asked. ‘I doubt the team would mind.’

  ‘Gamble’s got an allergy to dogs apparently.’

  ‘He’s got an allergy to hard work, too, but you don’t hear us complaining.’

  Clarke managed a smile. ‘I keep coming back to the money, Malcolm. If Salman was about to hand it over, The Flow was a huge step closer to becoming a reality. Who gained most from that not happening? Not Issy or her father, not Stewart Scoular.’

  ‘People up north who didn’t want it,’ Fox answered. ‘Only thing is, none of this would be in the public domain. It’s the reason why commercial espionage has become big business.’

  ‘Your source told you that, did he?’

  ‘Want me to see if he knows something we don’t about The Flow? Who the competition might be?’

  Clarke gave a slow nod, so Fox got his phone out and made the call. Brillo was seated on his haunches at Clarke’s feet, the ball ready and waiting. But she was busy with her own phone again, rereading the news story about the recovered weapon. There was a photo of Camp 1033 and she clicked on it, enlarging it with her fingers. Keith Grant was described as a campaigner who had been raising funds to buy the camp and bring it into the community as a ‘tourism resource’.

  ‘Can’t be a connection,’ Clarke muttered to herself, giving the ball another almighty kick.

  But stranger things had definitely happened.

  36

  Rebus had taken a shift behind the bar so Cameron could have a break. Usual handful of regulars, armed with anecdotes about the revolver, May and her father. He had tried putting Cameron’s mind at rest, but the memory of his fingerprints being taken lingered and the young man wasn’t entirely reassured. When a barrel needed changing, Rebus went into the kitchen and saw Cameron pacing the yard outside, puffing on a joint and checking his phone. He left him to it and told the customer he’d have to pick something else.

  ‘But I always have lager.’

  ‘They say variety’s the spice of life,’ Rebus coaxed him.

  ‘Give me a can of lager then,’ the man decided.

  ‘I knew there was a touch of the rebel in you,’ Rebus said, reaching into the chiller.

  Cameron was in the cellar changing the barrel when May Collins arrived back. Eyes followed her all the way from the door to the rear of the bar. She disappeared into the corridor, hanging up her jacket before returning.

  ‘Christ,’ she said, taking in the looks of her clientele, ‘if this was a Western, the piano player would have stopped.’

  This raised a few smiles, after which people went back to their conversations and newspapers.

  ‘And what the hell is that?’ she asked Rebus, gesturing towards the loudspeaker attached to one corner of the ceiling.

  ‘Leonard Cohen,’ he answered.

  She rolled her eyes before turning to the optics and pouring a whisky. Rebus could sense her staring at the space where the revolver had sat. Eventually she turned again, slopping water into her glass before taking a swallow.

  ‘It went well then,’ Rebus said.

  ‘They grilled my dad for over an hour, John. At his age! And then they started on me. How long’s the gun been missing, who do I think could have taken it?’

  ‘It is the same gun, then?’

  ‘Our prints – Dad’s and mine – are on it.’ She watched Cameron emerge from the cellar. ‘Yours too. Creasey’s on his way here to have a chat with you.’

  ‘Joe’s okay, though?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘He’s shattered. Slept all the way to the house.’

  ‘You don’t want to stay with him?’

  ‘He refused the offer.’ Her shoulders slumped a little. ‘How has it been here?’

  ‘Fairly quiet. I took a trip to the cemetery, bumped into Helen and Stefan.’

  ‘Any chance we can maybe live in the here and now just for a bit?’

  ‘You should go rest. Hate to say it, but the bar’s coping without you.’

  She shook her head. ‘Don’t want anyone whispering that I’m hiding. Bad enough I seem to be a murder suspect all of a sudden.’

  ‘I still think Keith lifted the revolver. Killer took it from his satchel.’

  ‘Might have had the decency to wipe my prints off when they’d finished.’ She flinched. ‘Sorry, that wasn’t exactly tactful.’

  ‘Take a break, half an hour or an hour.’ Rebus looked to Cameron, who backed him up with a firm nod.

  ‘Maybe I will then … ’ She broke off as the door opened. Two detectives walked in, one of them Creasey, another a younger woman Rebus hadn’t seen before.

  ‘Need a wee chat,’ Creasey informed Cameron. ‘Somewhere quiet if possible.’

  ‘Kitchen?’ Cameron suggested, eyes on his employer. She nodded.

  ‘DC Larkin will take care of you,’ Creasey said. Larkin went behind the bar, following Cameron into the corridor. Creasey’s attention had already turned to Rebus. ‘And I need to borrow this one, too.’

  ‘Looks like that’s my break over,’ May Collins said. Then, to the bar generally: ‘Everyone happy being served by a murder suspect? It’s either that or time to finish up and vamoose … ’

  By the time Rebus caught up with Creasey, he was in the front seat of his Mondeo. Rebus climbed into the passenger side and closed the door. ‘I told her she’s not really a suspect,’ he said.

  ‘Prints on the gun handle are mostly partials, but still good enough.’

  ‘May, her father and Cameron?’

  ‘Plus the deceased’s – though that’s between us for the time being.’

  ‘So Keith did swipe the gun?’

  ‘He really thought it was the one used to kill the soldier, didn’t he?’ Rebus gave a slow nod. ‘To answer your question, I doubt either Ms Collins or her father did for Keith – which doesn’t mean they’re not involved in some capacity.’

  ‘What about Cameron? Any motive there?’

  Creasey gave a tired smile. ‘Anyone but your daughter, eh? Well, that’s why I wanted to speak to you. I need to go see her and I thought it might help if you were there too.’

  ‘Tell me her prints aren’t on the gun?’

  Creasey shook his head. ‘But one of the partials is much smaller than the others. Almost certainly a child’s.’

  ‘Carrie?’

  ‘Rather than take the girl’s prints, I thought maybe a chat would suffice.’

  Rebus reached across to his seat belt, buckling himself in. Creasey started the engine and pulled away from the kerb. Rebus called Samantha. She was at Julie’s, as was Carrie. He got directions and passed them to Creasey.

  ‘What is it he wants?’ Samantha was asking. ‘I’ve told him everything I know.’

  ‘We’ll be there in a couple of minutes. I’ll explain then.’

  The house was a new-looking bungalow on the hillside overlooking the village. Two cars were already parked in the driveway, so Creasey stopped next to the grass verge. Julie Harris ushered them in.

  ‘Kettle’s on,’ she said.

  Samantha was in the living room, Carrie and Jenny playing in Jenny’s bedroom. While Creasey started explaining the visit, Rebus went into the kitchen to help with the drinks.

  ‘Is she
okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Sam or Carrie?’

  ‘Both, I suppose.’

  ‘There’s a counsellor they’re going to start seeing, maybe an hour a week for a wee while.’

  The kitchen was neat and unremarkable, photos and a to-do list stuck to the refrigerator door.

  ‘Your partner?’ Rebus asked. The family were posing next to a human-sized Goofy and Donald Duck.

  ‘Disneyland Paris, two Christmases back. I’d have binned it, but Jenny wouldn’t let me.’ She turned briefly to look at Rebus. ‘Walked out two months later. He’s good with the upkeep, I’ll give him that. Sees Jenny every couple of weeks.’

  ‘He’s still local?’

  ‘Aberdeen. New job, new life. All right for some, eh?’

  ‘You grew up here?’ She nodded. ‘I’ve actually not met too many people who did.’

  ‘Bright lights elsewhere.’

  ‘The same lights some people escape by moving here?’

  She handed him two mugs. ‘How does he take it?’

  ‘Whatever way we give it to him,’ Rebus said, heading for the door.

  Carrie was eventually summoned to the living room, Julie Harris replacing her in the bedroom. The girl climbed onto her mother’s knee, looking wary. It had been decided that Samantha should ask the questions. The story was quickly told, once Carrie had decided saying nothing wasn’t going to get her anywhere.

  ‘Nobody’s in trouble,’ Samantha attempted to assure her. ‘It’s just a piece of the puzzle that needs to be filled in. There was a rusty old gun in Daddy’s shoulder bag, wasn’t there? Did he show it to you?’

  Carrie bit her lip and shook her head. ‘Found it,’ she said, in a voice not much above a whisper.

  ‘And you took it out?’

  ‘It was really heavy.’

  ‘I’ll bet it was. Did Daddy see you?’

  She shook her head again.

  ‘So you just put it back and left it where you’d found it?’

  A nod.

  ‘And never said anything to Daddy?’

  Carrie turned her attention to the only stranger in the room. ‘My daddy’s gone to heaven,’ she explained to Creasey. ‘He won’t come back for a long time.’

  Samantha Rebus worked hard at keeping her composure.

  ‘Where was this, Carrie?’ Rebus asked quietly. ‘The rusty old gun, I mean?’

  ‘The garage.’

  ‘The bag was on Daddy’s desk?’ Another nod. ‘Lying open?’

  ‘I just wanted to look. I wasn’t going to take anything.’

  ‘What else was in there? Maybe some notebooks and a computer?’

  ‘Those were on his desk.’

  ‘So he’d been working? Could you see anything he’d written?’

  A shake of the head. Samantha’s eyes were on Creasey.

  ‘Is that enough?’ she asked.

  ‘I think so,’ he replied. ‘Thank you for your help, Carrie.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She slid from her mother’s lap and skipped out of the room.

  Samantha squeezed her eyes shut. ‘So the gun’s the one from The Glen,’ she said, as if getting things straight in her mind, ‘and Keith took it as part of his research, and someone hit him over the head with it. I still don’t understand why.’

  ‘We’re working on it,’ Creasey said with some confidence.

  ‘I never knew he had it, swear to God. If Carrie had told me, I’d have made him get rid of it.’ She opened her eyes and stared at the living room door. ‘That’s what I’d have done,’ she said.

  ‘Carrie’s not to blame,’ Rebus cautioned, but Samantha wasn’t listening.

  ‘If she’d only said something … ’

  ‘Your father’s right, Ms Rebus. You shouldn’t start—’

  She silenced him with a glare. ‘Maybe the two of you could just go away now.’ She leapt from the chair and left the room.

  Rebus and Creasey sat in silence for a moment, then Creasey rose slowly to his feet.

  ‘Do you ever drink any of the cups of tea that get made for you?’ Rebus asked, gesturing towards the still-full mug.

  ‘Don’t really like the stuff,’ Creasey admitted. ‘But people do seem to enjoy making it.’

  37

  Siobhan Clarke was stretched along her sofa, Brillo tucked in next to her and an old episode of Inside No. 9 on the TV, when her phone rang.

  ‘Hello?’ she answered.

  ‘It’s Robbie. Robbie Stenhouse.’

  ‘I don’t remember giving you my number, Robbie.’

  ‘I have ways – and I wasn’t sure this could wait.’

  Clarke lifted herself up to sitting, swinging her feet to the floor. Brillo awoke with a start and she comforted him with a pat.

  ‘You’ve got something for me?’

  ‘It’s a rental, right enough. I’ve run the plate and the car’s based out at the Avis concession at Edinburgh airport. Give me your email and I’ll send you everything I’ve got.’

  She did so, realising that she was now patting Brillo rather more briskly than the dog would like.

  ‘Does the offer of a Hibs–Motherwell match still stand?’ Stenhouse was asking.

  ‘Half-time pies on me. I’ll check the fixture list once we’ve put this case to bed.’

  ‘Speaking of which, I might call it a night. It’s a tungsten-silver VW Passat.’ He reeled off the registration number, Clarke jotting it down on the front page of the day’s Evening News.

  ‘Thanks again, Robbie,’ she said, ending the call. She chewed on the pen, lost in thought for a moment, and then called Malcolm Fox. ‘It’s an airport rental,’ she told him. ‘Robbie’s emailing me the specifics.’

  ‘Told you he was good.’

  ‘Good enough to track down my phone number.’ She broke off. ‘He asked you for it, didn’t he?’

  ‘About an hour after we left Gartcosh. Not that he’d thank me for revealing his secrets.’

  ‘Not so secret – even long-retired DIs know about him.’ She paused again. ‘You out somewhere?’

  ‘Just picking up some takeaway,’ Fox said, explaining the background noise Clarke could hear. ‘Does the airport mean it’s someone who’s just arrived in town? Don’t tell me it’s going to be some London connection the Met hasn’t bothered to mention … ’

  ‘Remember what Issy Meiklejohn told us, though: Stewart Scoular rents cars sometimes.’

  ‘Added to which, she doesn’t own one, so if she felt the need … ’

  ‘We’ll know more in the morning. Rendezvous in Leith or meet at Avis?’

  ‘Avis at nine?’

  ‘Suits me. So what’s on the menu tonight?’

  ‘Indian. Probably waiting for me as we speak. Have you told Graham Sutherland yet?’

  ‘He’s over in Glasgow.’

  ‘Keep him in the loop or hand him a delicious surprise?’

  ‘Let’s wait and see what we get from Avis. If it turns out to be a tourist who got lost on their way to their hotel … ’

  ‘Way to burst a boy’s balloon, Siobhan.’

  ‘Enjoy your curry.’ Clarke ended the call and tossed the phone into the space left by Brillo, who had vacated the sofa and was watching her reproachfully from the middle of the living room floor.

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry,’ she apologised. A curry? No, but a single fish wouldn’t go amiss. She rose to her feet, saw Brillo start to wag his tail in expectation.

  ‘Got it in one,’ she said. ‘A single fish and a battered sausage. Maybe even a jaunt to the airport tomorrow if you’re lucky.’ She stepped into the hallway, Brillo bounding towards the door to the outside world.

  ‘One thing about an airport rental,’ she told the dog as she grabbed her coat and his lead, ‘no shortage of CCTV out there. Meaning whoev
er it was, we’ve got them.’

  ‘Wish I hadn’t mentioned a curry,’ Fox muttered to himself, rubbing his hand across his growling stomach. Hours since he’d eaten. Needed to empty his bladder too, but it was too public on the Cowgate. He had a thing in his glove box, a ‘He-Wee’ he thought it was called. But any of the night-time carousers wandering past could glance down and catch him in the act. So instead he shifted a little in his seat and hoped Scoular wouldn’t be too much longer in the Jenever Club. No sign of Issy or Gio tonight – though they could have arrived before he did.

  Fox picked his notebook up from the passenger seat. Scoular had taken a private-hire cab from his home in Stockbridge, not stopping anywhere en route. He had been inside for ninety-five minutes, during which time the street had altered in character. The pedestrians now were younger and noisier. There were music venues nearby, club nights and concerts starting. One stag party had swaggered past, tapping out a tattoo on the roof of Fox’s car and turning to beam smiles at him. Soon after, a hen party had arrived at the Jenever, dressed in pink sashes over matching T-shirts printed with the bride-to-be’s face. Writing on the back of each: Sue’s Booze Crew. The doormen decided they could go in, and were rewarded with a peck on the cheek or a squeeze of the backside. A little later, a couple from the party were back out again to smoke cigarettes and chat to the doormen, who had perked up as a result.

  He had the radio on – Jazz FM. Not a brilliant signal, due to the Cowgate being akin to a canyon, a narrow sunken stretch with high buildings either side. Better than nothing, though. And now he had something to think about too: an airport rental. They’d agreed nine in the morning, but Fox reckoned the Avis office would open much earlier. He might get there ahead of time, present Siobhan with a fait accompli. Not that she would thank him for it; quite the opposite. Might do it anyway, though.

  The hen party women were back indoors, the night-time chill proving too much for their skimpy outfits. One of the doormen had offered his overcoat, receiving yet another kiss, this time on the lips as far as Fox could tell. When the women had gone, both doormen shuffled their feet in a little dance.