‘I’m Samantha’s dad,’ he said.
‘I know.’
‘How’s Carrie?’
‘The girl’s not daft — she knows something’s happened.’
‘Samantha hasn’t told her?’
‘She’s tried.’ The woman watched the two girls skip across the playground, backpacks swinging. ‘And before you ask, I offered to keep Carrie off school today, but Sam wants things as normal as possible. She knows she’s asking the impossible, but who am I to deny her?’
‘You call her Sam?’ Rebus commented with the beginnings of a smile. ‘I’m only allowed to use “Samantha”. I was hoping to talk to her...’
‘Police have taken her to Thurso. They need her to identify the body, though you wouldn’t have thought that was necessary. I said if she waited I’d go with her, but she was adamant.’
‘How long ago was this?’ The fingerprint cop had almost certainly known, but hadn’t said anything. Samantha would have her prints taken either before or after the identification. Christ...
‘They were at the door first thing.’ The woman paused. ‘I can see from your face you think you should be there. Trust me, I told her the same.’
‘She was adamant?’ Rebus guessed.
The woman held out her hand. ‘I’m Julie Harris, by the way.’ Rebus gripped it. ‘Jenny’s mum.’ Her accent sounded local.
‘Thanks for all the help you’re giving Sam and Carrie. And if you could keep putting a word in on my behalf...’
‘She’s got a lot to process, you need to understand that. Right now, you’re collateral damage.’ Harris saw the look he was giving her. ‘I’m a nurse. Used to work in A&E before Jenny came along and I decided to be a full-time mother instead.’ She paused again. ‘You’re going to go haring off to Thurso now, aren’t you, try and get her to let you help?’
‘I’m that transparent?’
‘No, you’re just a lot like your daughter, Mr Rebus. It’s worth bearing that in mind.’
Leaving Naver, heading east, the road widened to two lanes. Rebus caught glimpses of distant inland wind farms and, to his left, occasional apparently inaccessible bays and beaches, hemmed by steep cliffs. Eventually he spotted the bulbous form of Dounreay’s reactor, the same reactor Keith had been busy helping decommission. The large car park was filling with workers’ vehicles. He realised he didn’t know what specific role Keith had played. He wasn’t management, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t skilled. Quite the opposite, in Rebus’s experience.
He had the compilation CD playing softly; recognised The Clash and Jethro Tull but not the three songs that followed. As he hit the outskirts of Thurso, he saw land beyond the water to the north. Orkney, he guessed. The signpost to the ferry at Scrabster hadn’t been too far back along the road. Samantha and Keith had taken Carrie there a few times, Samantha rhapsodising about the place in phone calls afterwards.
‘You didn’t even let her know you were moving,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Your own bloody daughter...’
There was a road sign pointing in the direction of the hospital, which was where he assumed the mortuary would be. He’d considered calling Deborah Quant to see if she could pass word on to whichever pathologist was going to be in attendance, make sure Rebus was allowed past the door. But that would have entailed a bit of explaining — and probably a warning about not overtaxing himself. So instead he planned to wing it. Why break the habit of a lifetime?
Having stopped behind a line of kerbside cars to allow traffic past in the opposite direction, he decided to wind down the window and get some air. That was when he noticed that one of the parade of vehicles was a patrol car. A patrol car with Samantha in the back, looking pale and shaken. He called out, but to no effect. Cursing, he waited until the traffic had cleared, an eager local motorist so close behind that his front grille was almost kissing the Saab’s boot. Having passed the stationary vehicles, Rebus signalled and pulled over, waiting for the road to clear so he could do a three-point turn. Nothing for it but to follow Samantha back to Naver.
But then he remembered passing the village of Strathy, probably halfway between Naver and Thurso. He dug his phone out of his pocket and looked up Lord Strathy, aka Ramsay Augustus Ranald Meiklejohn. The range of photos he found showed a man every bit as fleshed-out as his name. Hair almost non-existent; face the colour of a poppy field in bloom. In one picture he was in full hunting gear, atop his horse and surrounded by eager-looking hounds. Another had been taken in front of Strathy Castle. The building was the full bagpipe-baronial, with turrets and a plethora of crowstep gables. Rebus’s phone was soon showing him a map of the castle’s whereabouts, a couple of miles inland from the village.
‘Don’t say I’m not good to you, Siobhan,’ he said to himself as he drove, turning up the volume on the CD player.
The patrol car must have been doing a lick, because he had failed to catch up with it by the time he reached Strathy. There was no sign in the village directing him towards the castle, but then again, there was just the one narrow road off to the left, heading away from the coast. He took it, the lane narrowing, fields to either side. Potholes filled with rainwater added to the fun, Rebus slowing to steer the Saab past as many of them as he could, while the engine whined and wheezed. An imposing gateway came into view, stone posts topped by statues, the ornate wrought-iron gates closed. A weathered wooden sign at ground level warned that what lay beyond was PRIVATE.
Rebus got out of the Saab and approached the gates. Looking up, he saw that the statues represented a lion and a unicorn, holding shields in front of them. Both had been eroded by the elements down the years.
‘You and me both, guys,’ he said, pushing at the gates, feeling them give. When they stood gaping, he got back into the Saab and continued up the drive.
The castle appeared around a long curve. There was a gravelled parking area between the front door and a lawn with an out-of-commission fountain as its centrepiece. Not another dwelling for miles, the views expansive, but precious little protection from the prevailing weather. No trees, no hedges.
As Rebus parked, the heavy wooden door opened. A woman stood there, hands pressed together, almost as if in prayer. He studied her as he approached. Mid fifties, hair tied back in a bun, plain grey skirt with matching cardigan and blouse. Though he’d not met many, he was reminded of a type of nun.
‘Can I help you?’ she was asking.
‘I hope so. I was looking to speak to Lord Strathy if he’s about.’
Any trace of affability her face had carried now evaporated. ‘He’s not.’
‘That’s a pity. I’ve come all the way from Edinburgh...’
‘Without an appointment?’ She sounded incredulous at such a course of action.
‘We don’t often need them.’ Rebus slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘You’ve heard about the murder of the Saudi student?’
He got the impression that if she’d been wearing pearls, she might have clutched at them. As it was, she merely squeezed one hand beneath the other, as though wringing a dishcloth.
‘You’re with the police?’ Rebus said nothing, content to let her think what she would. ‘Has something happened to...?’ She broke off. ‘You better come in, please.’
‘Thank you.’
The hallway was everything he’d assumed it would be: stags’ heads on the walls; Barbour jackets on a row of pegs, below which sat an array of green rubber boots; a preponderance of dark wood and a brown, fibrous floor covering.