‘Keep moving, sir,’ the officer commanded.
Instead of complying, Rebus undid his seat belt and got out. ‘Just wanted to congratulate you,’ he said. The officer was intent on blocking him from getting any closer to the search party. ‘On finding the gun, I mean,’ he continued. ‘I was going to say well done to DS Creasey. He’s not about, is he?’
‘Back in the vehicle, please, sir.’
‘It’s a long drive from Edinburgh for him, isn’t it? There and back in a day. But he’ll want to see if you turn up anything else — maybe the phone or laptop...’
The officer was having none of it. He had stretched both arms out, forming a one-man shield. Over his shoulder Rebus could make out the small white tent they’d erected. There was a lamp shining inside it.
‘Forensics still here?’ he speculated. ‘Late one for them.’
‘Sir...’
‘Revolver will already have gone for analysis — bit of a priority, I’d imagine. Turned up anything else?’
‘I’m going to have to arrest you. And I’ll make sure you’re taken to a nice, far-distant police station for processing, Mr Rebus.’
Finally Rebus made eye contact. It was the officer from Camp 1033, the one he’d given the V-sign to.
‘Just naturally nosy,’ he explained.
‘Doesn’t mean you can’t spend a night in the cells. Not quite as comfortable as a bed at The Glen, so why don’t you turn your car around and go back there?’
‘You’ll let Creasey know I was asking for him?’
‘You can count on it.’
Defeated, Rebus got back behind the wheel. But before moving off, he composed a text and sent it to Creasey: See you in the pub? Took a while for it to go — one single bar of signal. With the help of a passing place, he did a three-point turn and drove slowly towards Naver. The officer flicked the Vs as he passed.
‘Fair play to you,’ Rebus said as he returned the gesture through the open driver’s-side window.
He’d been seated at a corner table for over an hour, skimming one newspaper after another and even a months-old magazine about angling. Now that Lord Strathy had raised his head above the parapet, the media interest had evaporated. May had vetoed the turning-on of the TV. She’d put Rebus in charge of the music, which was why Siobhan Clarke’s CD was playing.
‘You know how to liven up a pub,’ she’d teased him, topping up his glass of cola.
He hadn’t told her about the gun. Creasey’s team would want her or her dad to identify it, after which the fun and games would start. But that could wait till tomorrow — May looked exhausted, the busy days taking their toll. Even Cameron appeared to be flagging. Rebus glanced at the single security camera, fixed to a corner of the high ceiling. As May had already admitted, it was for show only, never turned on.
‘But don’t tell the insurance that,’ she had added.
When his phone sounded, Rebus snatched at it. Creasey’s voice sounded echoey, almost as if he were calling from an orbiting spaceship. Rebus walked outside and stopped on the deserted pavement.
‘Was it good fortune or good policing?’ he asked.
‘I assume Siobhan Clarke spilled the beans, right after promising to my face that I could trust her.’
‘Trust has to be earned — that’s why she trusts me. So talk me through it.’
‘Pretty straightforward really. Weapon wasn’t found at the scene, so stood to reason the killer took it. They were most probably in the victim’s car, driving it back to Naver. They realise they’ve got the murder weapon sitting right there next to them, so they wind down the window and toss it.’
‘And leave the window open — explains why the passenger seat was damp.’
‘Maybe trying to clear their head,’ Creasey said. ‘It rained that night but not until two a.m. Car was most likely in the lay-by by then.’
‘They must have been fairly sure the gun would have no prints on it.’
‘If they were thinking straight, yes.’
‘No blood on the seat, though...’
‘Maybe the revolver was lying on the notes or the computer. And to go back to your first question, once I had my hypothesis, I decided to test it by having officers walk the length of the route from the camp to where the Volvo was abandoned, some on the road itself, checking the ditches, others in the fields either side.’
‘Proper policing,’ Rebus conceded. ‘I bet the ones you sent out loved you for it, too.’
‘They’re loving me now — though my bank manager won’t.’
‘Beers all round, eh? Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that some of them are still hard at it. What time do you think you’ll be back?’
‘I’m heading to Inverness.’
‘Good luck finding someone in the lab this time of night.’
‘Overtime’s been approved and a willing body or two found.’ Creasey paused. ‘I just need to see it with my own eyes, John.’
‘Any chance you could send me a photo?’
‘So you can go shoving it in the face of everyone on your list of likely suspects? I don’t think so.’
‘Reckon you’ll get prints? God knows how many pub regulars have handled it down the years.’
‘All that’s for later. I’ll catch up with you sometime tomorrow. Until I do — play nice.’
‘Did you get talking to Siobhan about me?’
‘A little.’
‘Then you probably know playing nice doesn’t feature heavily on my list of qualities. Have fun at the lab, son.’
‘John...’ Sounded to Rebus as though another warning was coming, but he’d already ended the call.
Cole Burnett lay on his bed, earbuds in, music pounding in an attempt to overwhelm his thoughts. It wasn’t working, though, not tonight. His parents were out, Christ knew where. Pub, party, dogging site. He barely exchanged a word with them these days. Stuck to his bedroom, smoking his weed and dropping tabs. One of them might put their head around the door occasionally, mutter something about food being on the table. He was never hungry; he’d eat later. At dead of night he might raid the fridge or get some toast and jam on the go, if either of them had bothered to buy bread.
Tonight he had a multipack of crisps and a jar of peanut butter. Scoop the peanut butter out with a finger and suck on it. Brilliant stuff. To wash it down he had a four-pack of energy drinks, half-bottle of vodka, litre of lemonade. King of his castle, blinds open, window ajar. The posters on his walls harked back to childhood — Marvel superheroes and cartoon characters. Plus one from the Walking Dead TV show and one from Narcos. He loved Narcos. The doing he’d got at the hands of Cafferty and his sidekick, that would have turned out a lot differently — a lot differently — if he had been able to pull a gun from his waistband. He knew where to get one, too. People who knew people. Expensive, though, and up until now, while sometimes fantasising about the power that ownership would confer, he’d never felt the urgent need.
But that was changing. And he’d heard that if you rented and brought it back unused, you’d get a decent chunk of the deposit refunded. Fired, there might be a bit of money due, but not much. Traceability, he’d been told. Bullets could be matched to the pieces that had fired them.