From the dates of publication, Rebus reckoned he knew which party it was Keith had crashed. The names of the photographed guests meant little to him, but he recognised Lady Isabella Meiklejohn and Salman bin Mahmoud. Stewart Scoular was there too, off to the right in one shot, behind someone’s shoulder in another. Siobhan had mentioned an Italian friend of bin Mahmoud’s and there was one name — Giovanni Morelli — that fitted the bill. Handsome face, arm around Lady Isabella’s waist. Wait, though... here was someone else Rebus recognised. Martin Chappell, stood next to his wife Mona. Both were holding champagne glasses and smiling for the camera. Rebus had never met Chappell, but he knew who he was.
He was Chief Constable of Police Scotland.
In the photograph, Mona Chappell was sandwiched between her husband and Stewart Scoular, as if the three were old friends. Rebus took out his phone and photographed the page a few times from different angles. Stepping outside and finding a signal, he dispatched them to Siobhan Clarke. He waited a couple of minutes, wishing he still smoked. The smell from Cameron’s roll-up lingered in his nostrils, the taste clung to the back of his throat. For luck, he touched the inhaler in his pocket. Hadn’t needed it this whole trip. He wondered if it was the quality of the air.
‘Maybe just the lack of tenement stairs,’ he said to himself, heading indoors again, scooping up the mug of tea and making for the office.
He knew the final recording would be Frank Hess. But when he clicked on it, he wondered if something had gone wrong — it wasn’t even half the length of the others. When he began to listen, he understood why. For the first few minutes everything was fine. Keith asked Hess about his post-war years, his various jobs — mostly labouring and building work — his family. But when it came to Camp 1033, Hess grew agitated.
‘I have erased it from my head — all of it.’ The voice was slightly high-pitched, Germanic but with touches of Scots intonation. ‘If others wish to remember, so be it. I want to be allowed to forget — that is my right, no?’
Keith: ‘Yes, of course. But you must have happy memories of that time too. You were allowed out of the camp most days. I believe you worked on several farms and repaired some of the dry-stone walls, walls we can still see today. You mixed easily with the local community.’
‘So what? I ask you, Keith: so what? It was long ago and everyone I knew is now dead. Why would I want to remember any of that?’
‘Helen isn’t dead; Stefan and Joe aren’t dead.’
‘As good as — and we will all be feeding the worms soon. This world is on a path to chaos. Have you not noticed? I have heard it compared to the 1930s. Everyone bitter and pointing the finger at the person they think is to blame for their misfortune. It was an ugly time then and it is an ugly time now. Please don’t ask me to dig it all up again.’
‘All I’m trying to do is—’
‘No, Keith, no — enough. I tried to tell you many times that this is not for me. Switch it off. We are finished here.’
‘There are so few of you left who remember. Just one last question about the revolver then—’
‘Enough, I said!’
A third voice interrupted. Rebus recognised it: Jimmy Hess.
‘Christ’s sake, Keith, you trying to give him a heart attack?’
‘We’re just talking, Jimmy.’
‘Maybe so, but now you’re done. You okay, Grandpa?’
‘I feel terrible.’
‘I told you he wasn’t keen,’ Jimmy Hess was saying. ‘Pack your stuff up — I’ll see you for a drink later.’
‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Frank,’ Keith apologised.
‘If that was true, you would not have come here in the first place,’ the old man barked.
‘Look, I’m switching it off,’ Keith said, at which point the recording ended.
Rebus knew now why Frank Hess hadn’t made it to the pub that evening. Maybe he had been unwell, but it wasn’t just that. What was that quote about the past being another country? There were things in his own past he would rather not linger on, too many skeletons for just the one closet.
‘How’s it all going?’ May Collins asked from the doorway.
‘How long have you been there?’
‘Not long.’ She gestured towards the empty mug. ‘Need a top-up?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Frank Hess isn’t the talkative sort, is he?’
‘Frank’s a grumpy old sod. By all accounts he was a grumpy young sod, too. His only daughter died in a car crash about ten years back. Her husband was in the car with her. He died too. Been to a party, drinking, not thinking it mattered — roads around here deserted and all that. Off the road and into a tree.’ Collins sighed. ‘Don’t think that improved his general outlook on life.’
‘So it’s just him and Jimmy?’
Collins nodded. ‘Jimmy has two sisters but they’re down south. Either one of them would take Frank, but he won’t budge. They come up sometimes, give Jimmy a bit of respite.’
‘Families, eh?’ Rebus commented, for want of anything else to say.
‘I reckon we all live too long these days, that’s the problem. What’s that film where you only get to reach a certain age? Sci-fi thing.’
‘Michael York,’ Rebus said. ‘I forget the title, but I seem to remember they were culled when they reached forty.’
‘Bad news for both of us,’ May said with a smile. ‘Did you get any joy about Sam?’
‘They’re done and dusted with her. Few questions about Keith and Lord Strathy.’
‘The land buy?’ She watched as he nodded. ‘Joyce told me about the magazines. You reckon Strathy’s vanishing act is connected?’
‘Christ knows, May.’ Rebus ran a hand across his forehead. ‘Maybe I’m not so different from the ghost-hunters who’ve been heading to the camp.’
Collins laughed. ‘I heard about that. They had equipment and everything — wands attached to machines. Waving them around, waiting for a reading.’
‘Pretty much what I’m doing here.’ Rebus nodded towards the computer.
‘You’re doing more than that.’ He sensed her reaching a hand out towards his shoulder again. He stood up and she lowered her arm. He crouched to remove the memory stick. By the time he’d straightened up, she was gone.
28
Siobhan Clarke had been to Gartcosh before, but not often and not for a while. An hour or so’s drive from Edinburgh; probably less than half that from Glasgow. The land surrounding it still had a bleak post-industrial feel. There were no houses, hotels or shops that she could see. Instead, the place sat in splendid isolation, far away from the world it investigated. The Scottish Crime Campus had the look of a modern polytechnic, albeit one protected by a high fence and whose only entry was via a guardroom. Her warrant card had been checked; she had been photographed and a visitor pass printed out.
‘Make sure it’s visible at all times,’ she was told.
Having passed through a set of glass double doors with an airlock, she waited for Fox to do the same. It was a short walk to the complex’s main entrance. During those steps, something happened to Fox. His gait became more confident and his shoulders slackened, his face relaxing. This was a place where his abilities made sense and were recognised. Clarke wondered, had their roles been reversed, whether she’d feel the same. As they crossed the atrium, he couldn’t help playing tour guide, pointing in the vague direction of the HMRC and Procurator Fiscal units. Having climbed the stairs, it was the turn of Counter-Terrorism. But they were headed to the other side of the concourse and Fox’s own domain, Major Crime.