‘A proper prisoner’s meal, that,’ May Collins said, walking into the kitchen as he was finishing.
‘Didn’t fancy the bar for some reason.’
She nodded her understanding. ‘They’re away again, though — I don’t think we’re feeding them enough titbits. How’s it going?’
‘I’ve just been listening to Keith talking with your father.’
‘I heard from the hallway. You seemed engrossed.’
‘I’m wondering how he felt about Samantha and Hawkins — he must have wondered how many people had known or suspected and hadn’t told him.’
Standing behind him, May gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. ‘Have you heard from Samantha?’
‘She’s with her pal Julie.’
‘Actually she’s with the police — or she was. They turned up at Julie’s door and took her away. That’s what I’m hearing.’
Rebus dug out his phone. No signal.
‘Try out by the caravan,’ Collins advised.
Rebus unlocked the back door and went outside. The rain had stopped, the sky bright blue. The caravan was small, maybe only a two-berth, dotted with lichen, its single window in need of a good clean. Rebus made the call. Creasey answered almost immediately.
‘Don’t,’ the detective said. ‘All we’re after is a better idea of how the deceased ties to Lord Strathy. We know they argued about the camp buyout and we know things got a bit heated when Keith barged into a social gathering at the castle.’
‘And?’
‘And Samantha’s being asked what she knew about any or all of it.’
‘And?’
‘And I’m sure she’ll tell you in the fullness of time.’
‘You’re stranding her in Inverness again?’
‘Relax, she’s a lot closer to home than that.’
‘You got the door unlocked at the station in Tongue?’
‘I wish you’d leave us to get on with our job, John.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything about the memory stick?’
‘Can I remind you for the umpteenth time — you’re not the detective here. In fact, you’re the father of our chief suspect. We don’t tend to share with anyone unless there’s good reason.’ He paused to take a breath. ‘Have you listened to it?’
‘Most of it.’
‘So you’ll agree there’s nothing there for us to get excited about? Apart from oral history buffs, I mean.’
‘The killer took his laptop, notes and phone. That has to mean something. Then there’s the gun...’
‘What about it?’
‘Say Keith was the one who took it. Maybe he thought with all our forensic advances there’d be evidence that could be gleaned from it.’
‘So?’
‘So where is it? Was it in the bag?’
‘John, the person who killed Sergeant Davies went to the firing squad.’
‘Someone went to the firing squad, certainly.’
There was silence on the line for a moment. ‘So what are we talking about here — a fit young man overpowered and murdered by someone in their nineties? Or maybe you think a ghost did it — there are plenty on social media who do. We’ve had to chase half a dozen of them away from the crime scene this week.’
Rebus leaned a hand against the side of the caravan. There were cigarette butts on the ground beneath him. He crouched to pick one up. The filter was a sliver of rolled-up cardboard. Spliffs. Looked like cider wasn’t Cameron’s only indulgence.
‘How long will you keep her?’ he asked Creasey.
‘Actually we’re done. That’s why I’ve got time to waste with you. Her friend is fetching her. Oh, and by the way — that news leak? Strathy and the anonymous note? Don’t think I’m not aware who’s behind it. So thanks a bunch for that, John. Cooperation is a two-way street, remember.’
‘Well, here’s me cooperating then, like a good citizen. The night Keith was killed, Ron Travis heard a motorbike.’
‘He mentioned it.’
‘There’s a bike at Hawkins’ compound. Available for anyone to use. Maybe ask if someone took it out that night. Oh, and the party at Strathy Castle, the one Keith was bundled out of? I reckon our friend Colin Belkin is in the frame for that. So maybe you could ease up on an innocent woman and go check those leads out...’ Rebus broke off, realising he was talking to himself. He studied his phone screen. He still had a signal. Creasey had ended the call.
‘Shitehawk,’ he muttered. Then, after another glance towards the remains of Cameron’s spliffs, he tried the door of the caravan. It was unlocked. He ducked under the lintel and took a step inside. The space was cramped and stuffy, the area around the sink cluttered with mugs and glasses. Didn’t look like the two-ring stove got much use. Breakfast cereal; some milk staying cool in a basin of water. The bed had been turned back into a table. There were American comics spread across the floor. The tiny toilet cubicle looked like it doubled as a shower, a faint aroma of waste water emanating from it.
‘Help you?’
Cameron was standing just outside the caravan, tobacco and cigarette papers in his hand. Rebus tried not to look like the guilty party as he backed out into the courtyard.
‘Just wondering if you happened to have a revolver lying about in there,’ he said.
‘What use would I have for that?’
‘Maybe there’s a collectors’ market.’
‘Steal from May?’ The barman was focused on constructing his cigarette. ‘You think I’d do that after all the kindness she’s shown me?’ His eyes finally met Rebus’s as he licked the edge of the paper.
‘Okay, let’s say you’re the shining knight then, taking it to protect someone.’
Cameron reached into the back pocket of his denims and brought out a disposable lighter. He got the cigarette going and inhaled deeply, taking pleasure in releasing the stream of smoke in Rebus’s direction.
‘Look all you want, there’s no rusty old revolver in there.’
‘You knew Keith a bit — could he have taken it?’
‘Pub was always busy when he was in.’
Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Easier if the place was quiet, no one behind the bar. Or it happened between closing time and reopening.’
Cameron squinted through the smoke. ‘That would certainly narrow things down.’
‘Ever been in trouble with the law, son?’
‘Because I have tattoos and a few piercings, you mean?’ He gestured towards the roaches on the ground. ‘Smokes a bit of dope so he has to be a bad ’un.’ His mouth formed a sour smile. ‘Sam always said you were a bit of a dinosaur. I’m starting to see what she meant.’ A final draw on the thin cigarette and it was done. He flicked it to the ground. ‘Came out to tell you Joyce McKechnie left a bag for you. I’ve put it on the kitchen table.’
‘Thanks.’ The two men’s eyes met again and both gave slow nods. Rebus watched Cameron head indoors, waited a few moments and then followed.
The kitchen was empty, but a mug of tea sat where his soup bowl had been. He took a mouthful before opening the carrier bag. Magazines. McKechnie had folded down the relevant corners. Gatherings at Strathy Castle; events where Lord Strathy had been a guest. One showed him cutting the ribbon on an upgraded school playground. In another, he was opening a birdwatching facility in ‘the heart of the Flow Country’. To Rebus’s untrained eye, the Flow Country looked like miles and miles of bugger alclass="underline" flat, treeless, colourless. But Strathy looked happy enough, or at least well fed and watered. If the society occasions were anything to go by, he liked his wine. Glass of red raised in almost every shot, mouth open as if he were about to start cheering. Pink-faced, paunchy, thinning hair and a roguish sparkle in the eye.