by Ian Rankin
‘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 an
yway 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 ticket. (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.’
He broke off. ‘I might grab a glass of water.’ As he walked over to the sink and lifted a clean glass from the draining board, he heard Cafferty clapping his hands slowly.
‘Wee speech over and done with?’ Cafferty asked once he’d finished the round of mock applause. ‘Feel better for getting all that off your chest? If so, drink your drink and get your fat arse out of here. I’ve got calls to make and some juicy wee bits of video to send out into the world.’
Fox took his time draining the glass, placing it in the sink after. He checked the time on his wristwatch.
‘Somewhere else you need to be, Malcolm?’
Fox shook his head. ‘Something you need to see.’ He had activated his phone and was tapping in keystrokes. ‘It’s being streamed on the Scotsman website. They got the exclusive, but it’ll be everywhere tomorrow. Your eyesight up to a screen this size?’
Cafferty had risen slowly to his feet. Fox turned the volume all the way up and held the phone away from him. Dennis Jones was seated on a sofa, his wife Jennifer Lyon next to him. The interview had already started, but they were getting to the meat of it. Jones and Lyon held hands, as had been arranged. The questions had been vetted. The interviewer was Laura Smith. While not exactly the tamest inquisitor, she had been warned about what gaining an exclusive meant.
‘So I want to apologise publicly and profoundly to my wife especially,’ Jones was saying, ‘but also to everyone else involved in this sorry episode – a mess entirely of my own making. I can only hope that Jenni will be able to forgive me. I know I will work tirelessly to regain some level of trust. I’ve certainly never stopped loving her and I never shall. I will, of course, be resigning with immediate effect from my university post, and will be seeking counselling … ’
Fox watched Cafferty as Cafferty watched the scene play out. ‘The ACC thinks she can ride out the storm,’ he explained while Laura Smith asked one of her prepared questions. ‘She’s assembled a team of PR people and lawyers, so do what you like with those tapes. Story’s already been broken, and my boss is controlling it. All you’ve done is make yourself a target. Every agency based at the Scottish Crime Campus is going to move your name to the top of their wanted list.’ He shifted his attention to the window overlooking the Meadows. ‘Enjoy the uninterrupted view while you can.’
He switched off the live feed and pocketed the phone, walked to the door in silence and let himself out. Waiting for the lift, he half expected Cafferty to emerge, ready to vent. But the lift came and Fox stepped into it, turning to face the doors as they closed. He pressed G for ground floor. Halfway down, he released the breath he’d been holding. He would give Jennifer Lyon an hour before calling her, let her know it had gone to plan. Her plan, outlined to him that day in Gartcosh. It had taken time to persuade her husband, but then the only other option offered to him had been divorce.
‘Bloody waste of all that surveillance, though,’ Fox muttered to himself. Still, the ACC owed him now, and she would not be allowed to forget.
The lift doors slid open again and he stepped out. One more door separated him from the clear fresh air of the world outside. Through the glass, he could see a hooded figure waiting just the other side.
Food delivery? No, the figure wasn’t carrying anything. Tenant? Just possibly. But Fox was starting
to think otherwise: one of Cafferty’s collection of scumbags. A junior-level dealer most likely. He pulled open the door. Beneath the hood, the pockmarked face was hesitant.
‘You going in or what?’ Fox demanded to know.
Another moment before the decision was made. Then: ‘Aye, thanks.’ Hands stuffed deep inside the hoodie’s pockets, the youth started to move past Fox, who was still holding the door open for him.
‘I’m assuming you know the way – P for penthouse.’
‘I know the way, aye. Cheers. Really helpful.’
‘Don’t expect him to be in the best of moods, mind,’ Fox said as he exited the building. It was still light outside. This time of the year, it was hard to imagine the many long dark nights that would arrive all too soon …
Acknowledgements
This book was begun long before the COVID outbreak of 2020, but edited while the lockdown was in force. I am so grateful to my wife Miranda for putting up with me throughout, as well as for being my first reader and most telling reviewer. I’d also like to thank the staff of Forward Vision in Edinburgh for their dedication in looking after not only our son Kit but all the other young adults in their care.
Those who know the area around Tongue will realise that I have taken several liberties. There is no village of Naver, nor does Camp 1033 exist, though other camps mentioned are real, as are some of the incidents recounted.
I’m grateful to Edinburgh Central Library for pointing me in the direction of several valuable resources, most notably Camp 165 by Valerie Campbell and British Concentration Camps: A Brief History from 1900–1975 by Simon Webb. On one of my visits to the north coast I also happened across Tongue and Farr by Jim A. Johnston, which helped me explore the history of that beautiful region of Scotland.
All errors and inaccuracies are mine.
Here’s to all the songs and all their singers, in times of darkness and times of light.
I. R.
