‘A cheery subject.’
‘There’s a list of documents and books I’m trying to track down.’
‘It’s not a library you need, it’s the internet.’
Rebus had forgotten that since his retirement Neilson had developed an interest in computers. He’d boasted once of recovering a wiped hard drive. ‘How would I find out what sites are useful?’ he enquired.
‘Camps in Germany?’
‘The UK,’ Rebus corrected him. ‘Internment rather than POW, and specifically Camp 1033.’ He sensed Neilson picking up a pen and beginning to write.
‘I’ll send you some links. What’s your email?’
Rebus spelled it out for him.
‘AOL, John?’ Neilson chuckled. ‘You really are a dinosaur. Leave it with me.’ He paused. ‘So the move’s gone okay? I know it can all be a bit traumatic. When do I get to see the place?’
‘Let me finish unpacking first. You’ll get that gen to me?’
‘Wee bit of police work — I miss it every bit as much as you do.’
Rebus ended the call, started the Volvo and got back on the road.
7
He managed to drive past Camp 1033 without really noticing, mistaking it for tumbledown farm buildings. Realising his error, he doubled back, parking on the grass verge and trudging to a broken-down metre-high fence. He recalled from the photos in Keith’s garage that back in the 1940s a high fence topped with barbed wire had formed the camp’s perimeter, along with a tall gate. None of that remained. The replacement gate came up to just past Rebus’s knees and could be stepped over by those younger and nimbler than him. There was no lock as such, the height of the grass serving to keep it closed.
A forceful push and he was inside the compound. Overgrown paths were laid out between the shells of elongated Nissen huts, their roofs mostly gone, windows shattered. There was a bit of graffiti, but not much. A large blue tarpaulin, weighted with rubble, showed where the history group’s archaeological dig was taking place.
As Rebus moved further into the camp, he became aware that it was larger than he’d thought. He remembered the plans in the garage. They had shown not just accommodation blocks but a water plant, cookhouse, surgery, guardrooms and more. It was a bleak spot, which made it perfect. If anyone absconded into the hills, they might be lost for days, growing weaker and weaker without ever reaching civilisation. If they headed for the road, they would easily be spotted in their inmates’ garb. He peered through the gaping doorway of one of the accommodation huts. It would have contained bunk beds and a stove and probably not much else. There would almost certainly have been no insulation to speak of, just thin breeze-block walls and a corrugated roof.
He took out his phone and noted that the single bar denoting already minimal signal had disappeared altogether. Rain was blowing in again. No cars passed him and there were no signs of livestock. No birds in the sky either. He had seldom felt further from the comforts of home. Having not heeded Travis’s advice, he felt his bladder make sudden complaint, so found a section of wall out of view of the road and unzipped his fly. When he was done, he trudged further into the camp, trying to visualise it filled with men — internees and guards both. Hundreds of the former; presumably dozens of the latter, armed with rifles and pistols.
There was yet another accommodation block to his left, and in a slightly better state of preservation, in that both its roof and door were intact, though again what windows Rebus could see lacked the glass they would once have had. The door still possessed a handle, which he turned. Walking in, he noticed the skeletal remains of a couple of bunk beds. Blackened embers and grey ash showed where a makeshift fire had been lit a long time back, possibly by the partygoers who had left a couple of rusted beer cans nearby. There was something at his feet. A brown leather satchel. He picked it up, but it was empty. Then he saw the boots protruding from behind one of the bed frames. He sucked in a slow lungful of air and composed himself before taking a few steps forward.
The face was turned away from him, the body twisted and stiff. Rebus knew a corpse when he saw one — and knew a likely crime scene, too.
‘Christ’s sake, Keith,’ he said in a low voice. He crouched and tried the throat and wrist for signs of a pulse, knowing it would be a miracle if he found one. Knowing too that this was not a time of miracles. A few flies were busy in the gaping wound visible at the back of the dead man’s skull. He tried waving them away, but then remembered that their larvae could be useful for establishing a rough time of death — Deborah Quant had told him often enough. He stood up again and checked his phone — no signal. How was he going to break it to Samantha? What was he going to tell her? Keith hadn’t run away, hadn’t committed suicide or been the victim of an accident.
He studied the floor, seeking the weapon. He lifted his phone and photographed the empty satchel. Then, with a final silent apology to Keith, he walked out of the hut, taking a few steadying deep breaths as he headed to the Volvo.
He was within sight of Travis’s hostel before he tried his phone again. Still no signal. Nothing for it but to pull up outside the café and go in. The bikers were finishing their scones and coffees. Travis was busy at the sink.
‘Can I use your landline?’ Rebus asked.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Travis joked, before quickly realising the import of both Rebus’s demeanour and his voice. He led him behind the counter into a cramped office and then retreated. Rebus tapped in the number the detective had given him.
‘DS Creasey,’ the voice eventually answered.
‘It’s John Rebus. I’ve just found Keith Grant’s body.’
‘Where?’
‘Accommodation block at Camp 1033.’
‘The internment camp?’
‘The very same.’
‘Did he fall or something?’
‘Hit from behind. His skull’s cracked open.’
‘Who else knows?’
‘Right now, just you and me.’
‘It’ll take me a couple of hours to get a scene-of-crime team there. I’ll call Thurso. I’m sure they can spare a uniform or two until then, secure the locus if nothing else.’ Creasey paused. ‘What took you there, John?’
‘Questions later,’ Rebus said firmly. ‘For now, get the ball rolling.’ He ended the call, staring at the handset while squeezing the bridge of his nose, trying to organise his thoughts. After a few moments, he walked back into the café. Travis was clearing the visitors’ table. Rebus watched their bikes roar off in the direction of Tongue.
‘Don’t worry,’ Travis said, reading his mind. ‘They’ve no plans to stop at the camp.’ Then: ‘Sweetened tea’s supposed to be the thing for shock...’
Rebus shook his head. ‘But I need to do a spot of guard duty — maybe a couple of filled rolls to take away?’
‘I can do you a flask of something hot to go with them?’
‘Great, aye, thanks.’
‘Am I allowed to ask what’s happened?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘The poor lad. I did warn him about sleeping there.’
Rebus stared at Travis. ‘You did?’
‘He had a sleeping bag, mind, but you can still catch hypothermia, even in summer.’
‘When was this?’
‘A month or so back. After the trouble at home. I was driving past one night and saw his car parked by the fence. He was in one of the huts. I told him I had a bed for him here, but he said no.’
Rebus opened his phone and found the photo of the satchel. ‘Recognise this?’ he asked, turning the screen towards Travis.
‘Looks like his bag. Kept his history stuff in it.’ Travis paused. ‘And his laptop, of course.’ He seemed to realise the import of the photograph. ‘It wasn’t the cold that killed him?’ he guessed.