‘Legal representation?’
‘Everything by the book, John,’ Creasey attempted to reassure him. ‘And she’s holding up okay.’
‘She has a daughter at home...’
‘We won’t be holding her — or charging her at this point.’
‘Good, because you’d look a right twat when the real killer pops up.’
The sigh Creasey gave was theatrical. Rebus decided on a change of tack.
‘Didn’t have you pegged for a smoker.’
‘I’m not, but some on the team are, and I don’t like to be left out. Some of the best ideas come when people allow themselves to switch off for a few minutes.’
Rebus nodded his agreement. He reached into his pocket and handed over the anonymous note. ‘Shoved through her door sometime yesterday. Not everyone’s on her side.’ He paused. ‘Might even be more ominous than that.’
‘How do you reckon?’
‘Someone might want her running, giving you more reason to put her at the top of your list.’
‘The killer?’ Creasey studied the note again. He held it up to what light there was.
‘Doubt you’ll get prints, but you could try.’
‘I’ll hang onto it then.’
‘Remember,’ Rebus said, ‘it was a note like this that told Keith about Samantha and Hawkins.’
‘Same person?’
He gave a shrug. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve done anything about Colin Belkin yet?’
‘Not yet, no.’ Creasey was looking in the direction of the Saab. ‘Halfway point to home, I’d guess.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Edinburgh can wait. I’m staying here until my daughter no longer needs me.’
‘I thought she made that decision when she kicked you out of her house.’ Creasey’s eyes had hardened.
Rebus gave as good as he got, his voice deepening. ‘You got nothing useful from the autopsy; there’s no sign of a weapon or the items taken from Keith’s satchel — no prints on the satchel either, I’m guessing. Don’t let the brick wall you’re slamming your head against cause you to do something rash.’
‘Like charging your daughter? Your daughter Samantha with her prints on the car and the satchel?’
‘She didn’t do it!’ Rebus snapped through half-gritted teeth.
‘Then there’s nothing to worry about,’ Creasey said with a thin smile, turning away and heading back to work.
Rebus considered walking up to the front desk and causing a fuss, but he knew it would be futile. He heard a car door open and saw a figure he recognised emerge. It was one of the journalists who’d been hanging out at The Glen.
‘Catch any of that?’ he said as the journalist started to approach.
‘Bits and pieces.’
‘Do I know your name?’
‘Lawrie Blake. Remember, I told you I’m friends with Laura Smith at the Scotsman? Which means I know a fair bit about you, Mr Rebus.’
‘I couldn’t be more thrilled about that, Lawrie.’
The young man nodded towards the Saab. ‘I recall you were getting it fixed in Naver. Still doesn’t sound too healthy. My brother owns a garage not far from here — he’s a hellish good mechanic and I know he’s sorted Saabs in his time. I could give him a call.’
‘Kind of you, but I need to head back north.’
‘I also know a car-hire place — not far from my brother’s workshop, and with a café halfway between them.’
Rebus thought for a moment. ‘I’ve met some silver-tongued journalists in my time,’ he eventually conceded, ‘but few I’ve taken to like you, young Lawrie.’
‘I’ll even buy the coffees,’ Blake said, ‘while we chat about Samantha and this mysterious note.’
It took Rebus only a few seconds to finish making his mind up.
‘Lead the way,’ he said.
Blake’s brother would take a look at the Saab and let Rebus know what he thought, but it might take a day or two. The scratch would need a respray, always supposing the matching colour could be found. Rebus had said to focus on the engine, then had given the Saab a pat on its bonnet, promising he’d be back. The car-rental office had a hatchback he could have immediately, with a special low rate for a five-day hire. He had asked if it boasted a CD player, having lifted Siobhan Clarke’s compilation from the Saab. The nod from the rental clerk sealed the deal.
The café was a Costa, and Laurie Blake added sandwiches to their order. Rebus offered to go halves but the reporter was adamant.
‘A promise is a promise.’
They found a table by the window and tucked in.
‘There are more attractive parts to Inverness,’ Blake assured Rebus.
‘It’s not my first visit,’ Rebus replied.
‘The A9 murders?’ Blake smiled. ‘I’m pretty good at my job.’
‘I’m beginning to sense that. So will you write something about the note?’
‘What did it say?’
‘Just the one word — “leave”.’
‘Pity we don’t have the note itself.’
Rebus lifted a paper napkin. ‘I could recreate it for you.’
‘That might qualify as fake news.’
‘You think your readers would mind?’
‘These days, probably not.’ Blake bit into his sandwich and chewed.
‘If you’re good at what you do, you’ve probably come across Lord Strathy in your travels?’
‘Of course.’
‘The plans for rocket launch pads and golf resorts?’ Rebus watched Blake nod. ‘And the wife who left him to join a commune?’
‘Same commune your daughter’s friendly with.’
‘How much do you know about them?’
‘I know their landlord wants them gone — it’s been rumbling through the courts and various lawyers’ offices the past couple of years. I dare say the fact his wife left him to go live with Jess Hawkins hasn’t endeared Lord Strathy to the place.’
‘He owns Camp 1033, too,’ Rebus said, keeping his tone conversational.
‘Which is why he was never going to sell to your son-in-law.’
‘They weren’t married.’
‘So that’s one thing I’ve learned today.’ Blake paused, still chewing, and tapped a note into his phone. ‘Mind if I ask you about Samantha?’
‘Yes. Very much.’ Blake looked ready to remonstrate, but Rebus held up a hand. ‘Later we can maybe talk about that. You know the contents of Keith’s satchel have gone missing, presumably taken by his killer?’
Blake nodded. ‘Creasey said as much.’
‘Why do you think the killer took them?’
The reporter’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘Not really.’
‘When you were in the bar, did you notice the gap on the wall underneath the optics? Three nails just sitting there?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe that’s the difference between a reporter and a detective. An old firearm used to be displayed there. Unusable as a gun these days...’
‘But pretty good for clubbing someone?’ Blake nodded his understanding.
‘It was lifted around a month ago — just one more missing piece of the puzzle.’ Rebus paused meaningfully. ‘But it gets better. Lord Strathy seems to have gone AWOL too.’
Now the reporter’s eyes widened. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Can’t believe the Fourth Estate haven’t cottoned on to it, if I’m being honest.’ Rebus pretended to be interested in whatever lay beyond the window. ‘If you were to publish something by day’s end, you’d have an exclusive.’
Blake gave him an appraising look. ‘Don’t think I can’t see what you’re doing. You’ll fight tooth and nail for your daughter.’
‘I’m not bullshitting you, Lawrie. Everything I’ve told you can be fact-checked. All the years I was a cop, I learned that coincidences are as rare as unicorns.’