‘Prints on the gun handle are mostly partials, but still good enough.’
‘May, her father and Cameron?’
‘Plus the deceased’s — though that’s between us for the time being.’
‘So Keith did swipe the gun?’
‘He really thought it was the one used to kill the soldier, didn’t he?’ Rebus gave a slow nod. ‘To answer your question, I doubt either Ms Collins or her father did for Keith — which doesn’t mean they’re not involved in some capacity.’
‘What about Cameron? Any motive there?’
Creasey gave a tired smile. ‘Anyone but your daughter, eh? Well, that’s why I wanted to speak to you. I need to go see her and I thought it might help if you were there too.’
‘Tell me her prints aren’t on the gun?’
Creasey shook his head. ‘But one of the partials is much smaller than the others. Almost certainly a child’s.’
‘Carrie?’
‘Rather than take the girl’s prints, I thought maybe a chat would suffice.’
Rebus reached across to his seat belt, buckling himself in. Creasey started the engine and pulled away from the kerb. Rebus called Samantha. She was at Julie’s, as was Carrie. He got directions and passed them to Creasey.
‘What is it he wants?’ Samantha was asking. ‘I’ve told him everything I know.’
‘We’ll be there in a couple of minutes. I’ll explain then.’
The house was a new-looking bungalow on the hillside overlooking the village. Two cars were already parked in the driveway, so Creasey stopped next to the grass verge. Julie Harris ushered them in.
‘Kettle’s on,’ she said.
Samantha was in the living room, Carrie and Jenny playing in Jenny’s bedroom. While Creasey started explaining the visit, Rebus went into the kitchen to help with the drinks.
‘Is she okay?’ he asked.
‘Sam or Carrie?’
‘Both, I suppose.’
‘There’s a counsellor they’re going to start seeing, maybe an hour a week for a wee while.’
The kitchen was neat and unremarkable, photos and a to-do list stuck to the refrigerator door.
‘Your partner?’ Rebus asked. The family were posing next to a human-sized Goofy and Donald Duck.
‘Disneyland Paris, two Christmases back. I’d have binned it, but Jenny wouldn’t let me.’ She turned briefly to look at Rebus. ‘Walked out two months later. He’s good with the upkeep, I’ll give him that. Sees Jenny every couple of weeks.’
‘He’s still local?’
‘Aberdeen. New job, new life. All right for some, eh?’
‘You grew up here?’ She nodded. ‘I’ve actually not met too many people who did.’
‘Bright lights elsewhere.’
‘The same lights some people escape by moving here?’
She handed him two mugs. ‘How does he take it?’
‘Whatever way we give it to him,’ Rebus said, heading for the door.
Carrie was eventually summoned to the living room, Julie Harris replacing her in the bedroom. The girl climbed onto her mother’s knee, looking wary. It had been decided that Samantha should ask the questions. The story was quickly told, once Carrie had decided saying nothing wasn’t going to get her anywhere.
‘Nobody’s in trouble,’ Samantha attempted to assure her. ‘It’s just a piece of the puzzle that needs to be filled in. There was a rusty old gun in Daddy’s shoulder bag, wasn’t there? Did he show it to you?’
Carrie bit her lip and shook her head. ‘Found it,’ she said, in a voice not much above a whisper.
‘And you took it out?’
‘It was really heavy.’
‘I’ll bet it was. Did Daddy see you?’
She shook her head again.
‘So you just put it back and left it where you’d found it?’
A nod.
‘And never said anything to Daddy?’
Carrie turned her attention to the only stranger in the room. ‘My daddy’s gone to heaven,’ she explained to Creasey. ‘He won’t come back for a long time.’
Samantha Rebus worked hard at keeping her composure.
‘Where was this, Carrie?’ Rebus asked quietly. ‘The rusty old gun, I mean?’
‘The garage.’
‘The bag was on Daddy’s desk?’ Another nod. ‘Lying open?’
‘I just wanted to look. I wasn’t going to take anything.’
‘What else was in there? Maybe some notebooks and a computer?’
‘Those were on his desk.’
‘So he’d been working? Could you see anything he’d written?’
A shake of the head. Samantha’s eyes were on Creasey.
‘Is that enough?’ she asked.
‘I think so,’ he replied. ‘Thank you for your help, Carrie.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She slid from her mother’s lap and skipped out of the room.
Samantha squeezed her eyes shut. ‘So the gun’s the one from The Glen,’ she said, as if getting things straight in her mind, ‘and Keith took it as part of his research, and someone hit him over the head with it. I still don’t understand why.’
‘We’re working on it,’ Creasey said with some confidence.
‘I never knew he had it, swear to God. If Carrie had told me, I’d have made him get rid of it.’ She opened her eyes and stared at the living room door. ‘That’s what I’d have done,’ she said.
‘Carrie’s not to blame,’ Rebus cautioned, but Samantha wasn’t listening.
‘If she’d only said something...’
‘Your father’s right, Ms Rebus. You shouldn’t start—’
She silenced him with a glare. ‘Maybe the two of you could just go away now.’ She leapt from the chair and left the room.
Rebus and Creasey sat in silence for a moment, then Creasey rose slowly to his feet.
‘Do you ever drink any of the cups of tea that get made for you?’ Rebus asked, gesturing towards the still-full mug.
‘Don’t really like the stuff,’ Creasey admitted. ‘But people do seem to enjoy making it.’
37
Siobhan Clarke was stretched along her sofa, Brillo tucked in next to her and an old episode of Inside No. 9 on the TV, when her phone rang.
‘Hello?’ she answered.
‘It’s Robbie. Robbie Stenhouse.’
‘I don’t remember giving you my number, Robbie.’
‘I have ways — and I wasn’t sure this could wait.’
Clarke lifted herself up to sitting, swinging her feet to the floor. Brillo awoke with a start and she comforted him with a pat.
‘You’ve got something for me?’
‘It’s a rental, right enough. I’ve run the plate and the car’s based out at the Avis concession at Edinburgh airport. Give me your email and I’ll send you everything I’ve got.’
She did so, realising that she was now patting Brillo rather more briskly than the dog would like.
‘Does the offer of a Hibs — Motherwell match still stand?’ Stenhouse was asking.
‘Half-time pies on me. I’ll check the fixture list once we’ve put this case to bed.’
‘Speaking of which, I might call it a night. It’s a tungsten-silver VW Passat.’ He reeled off the registration number, Clarke jotting it down on the front page of the day’s Evening News.
‘Thanks again, Robbie,’ she said, ending the call. She chewed on the pen, lost in thought for a moment, and then called Malcolm Fox. ‘It’s an airport rental,’ she told him. ‘Robbie’s emailing me the specifics.’
‘Told you he was good.’
‘Good enough to track down my phone number.’ She broke off. ‘He asked you for it, didn’t he?’
‘About an hour after we left Gartcosh. Not that he’d thank me for revealing his secrets.’