‘Not forgetting his clapped-out steed.’ Collins couldn’t hide the fatigue as she slid off the stool. ‘Let’s put the lights out and head up.’
‘You probably knew Keith a lot better than I did. In truth, I hardly knew him at all. What was he like?’
‘He was quiet, but he had personality. Everyone loved him, and you could see he doted on Carrie.’
‘When Samantha started seeing Jess Hawkins, that must have hurt. Do you really think they patched things up? Properly, I mean?’
‘They seemed all right.’ Collins considered for a moment. ‘I suppose we all tiptoed around it.’
‘There was never any reckoning between Keith and Hawkins?’
‘Maybe some words, but not blows as far as I know.’
‘Samantha told me they only met the once. Sounded like that was well before the falling-out.’
‘Maybe I’m wrong then.’
‘You know he found out about Hawkins from an anonymous note — any thoughts on who would do something like that?’
‘I don’t like the idea that anybody would do that.’ She made eye contact with Rebus. ‘If you’re asking me whether Keith might have bottled his feelings up — it’s entirely possible. I’m sure it rankled that the whole village knew. Must have gnawed away at him, wondering why none of them had said anything. He was definitely a bit more withdrawn afterwards.’
‘And putting all his efforts into Camp 1033...’ Rebus’s phone alerted him to an incoming text.
‘Samantha?’ Collins enquired.
‘Edinburgh,’ Rebus corrected her. ‘I might just phone back before I head upstairs.’ He thought of something. ‘Actually, can I use the computer in the office?’ John Neilson had come good a couple of hours back, mailing various links to internet sites. Rebus had checked his emails on his phone and found Neilson’s message there. But if he was going to read screeds, he wanted a decent-sized screen.
Collins was nodding her agreement. ‘I’m setting the alarm, though, so don’t go wandering too far. See you in the morning.’
‘Bacon rolls, I hear.’
‘Night, John.’
Rebus walked over to one of the windows. The glass was frosted, so he couldn’t see anything. It wasn’t completely dark out, despite the hour. He knew they would pay for it come the short winter days, though. No more voices, just a solitary car cruising past. He texted Clarke — Okay to speak? — and when she answered in the affirmative, he made the call.
‘We’re a couple of night owls,’ he said. ‘Everything okay with Brillo?’
‘He’s here in the flat with me.’
‘Your flat?’
‘My flat. How’s it all going?’
‘Keith was killed.’
‘I saw online, but the story was vague.’
‘Whacked with a blunt object, not yet identified. The forces of law and order are grinding into action. Samantha’s in a state, as you can imagine. Carrie’s gone to stay at a friend’s.’
‘Did he have any family?’
‘A sister in Canada — I wonder if Sammy will remember to let her know.’
‘No obvious suspects as yet?’
‘No,’ Rebus admitted.
‘So you’re rolling up your sleeves?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘You’ve a pretty full schedule then?’
Rebus paused, taking in her tone of voice. ‘What is it, Siobhan?’
‘A tenuous connection between my victim and where you are right now.’
He listened as she explained about Stewart Scoular, the bin Mahmoud family, the golf course scheme, Isabella Meiklejohn and Lord Strathy.
‘Not the first time I’ve heard his name,’ he commented when Strathy was mentioned. ‘Want me to do a bit of digging?’
‘Not especially...’
He couldn’t help smiling. ‘Yet here you are calling me in the middle of the night to tell me all about it. I can see through you like a freshly cleaned window, DI Clarke.’
‘It would have to be kept off the books, John.’
‘Naturally.’
‘And if you find anything the least bit relevant...’
‘I bring it to you straight away.’
‘You’re sure you’ve got time for this? I know Samantha’s need is a lot greater than mine.’
‘Leave it with me, Siobhan, I’ll see what I can do. Now get yourself tucked into bed and tell Brillo I’m missing him.’
‘Will do, John. And thanks.’
‘Speak soon.’
Rebus ended the call and tapped his phone against his chin as he walked through the open bar flap. The light switches were next to where the missing gun had been displayed. He stared at the nails for a moment before plunging the bar into darkness and heading for the office.
Three hours later he lay in bed, unable to sleep, staring towards the ceiling. It would be light again in a couple of hours. He reckoned he knew now why Keith had been so interested in Camp 1033. It was to do with how people were treated during the Second World War. Neighbours were locked up just because they had been born outside the UK. People began to distrust their bakers, grocers and restaurant owners. The Isle of Man had for a time become one huge internment camp, as had the Isle of Bute. ‘Collar the lot,’ Churchill had said, after which it became a free-for-all, everyone of foreign extraction considered a potential fifth columnist, the situation exacerbated when Sikorski, who led the thousands of Polish troops stationed in the UK, began locking up people who disagreed with his politics. Keith had written several long pieces, which Rebus had found filed in the garage along with various rejection letters from magazines and newspapers. His anger at the injustice shone through — perhaps too baldly. In one article, he compared the attitude then to what he saw happening in the here and now. The piece had been called ‘The Never-Ending Witch Hunt’.
‘Looks like you were one of the good guys,’ Rebus whispered to the night.
So why had he been fated to die at someone else’s hands?
Day Three
15
At 7.30 a.m., Rebus stood outside the bungalow, the wind stinging his face. The door was locked, no sign of life within. Samantha must already have left; she’d be picking up Carrie from her friend’s house. He realised he didn’t know where that was. As he was heading back to the Saab, a marked patrol car drew up, blocking him in. The sole occupant got out. He was in uniform and knew better than to bother with headwear of any kind — he wasn’t about to let the swirling gusts have their fun.
‘You John Rebus?’
‘Depends.’
‘It’s just that you look more like a tramp than an ex-cop. DS Creasey sent me to get your prints.’
‘Right.’
‘So if you’ll step into my office...’
By which he meant the patrol car’s passenger seat. The fingerprint kit was in the back. The uniform fetched it and got to work.
‘You’re taking my daughter’s, too?’ Rebus asked.
‘It’s all in hand, sir.’ The man smiled at what he probably thought of as his little joke.
Job done, the prints sealed in a clear polythene bag tagged with Rebus’s name and date of birth, the officer dismissed him with a gesture and got busy on his official-issue radio.
‘Nice doing business with you,’ Rebus muttered, crouching to wipe his fingertips on the grass and watching as the patrol car reversed out onto the main road, heading to its next destination.
The Saab still didn’t sound too healthy, but it started and its wheels turned when Rebus asked them to. Slowly he drove to the primary school. Parents were arriving with their offspring, heads angled into the unceasing wind. Rebus got out of the car and stood by the gates. Many of the parents seemed to know who he was, gave him a wary greeting or just stared at him as they passed. Eventually he saw Carrie. She was holding hands with a girl the same age as her. He couldn’t think what to say, so said nothing. The woman with them ushered the girls through the gates, a peck on the top of the head for each, before turning to face him, folding her arms.