Good old Keith. So why had Samantha been seeing another man?
As he passed by Tongue, Rebus switched off the wipers. The sun had broken from behind a bank of cloud. The sea, when he caught sight of it, was gleaming and calm. The wind had died down. Past Tongue was another stretch of single-track road, winding inland so that he lost sight of the sea again for a bit. Eventually he reached Naver, driving through the village. As he passed Samantha’s bungalow, he checked for a patrol car, seeing no sign of one. The church was a few hundred metres further along, the lay-by just in front of it. Keith’s dark blue Volvo XC90 sat there.
Rebus drew to a stop behind it and got out, rolling his shoulders to loosen them. The key had been removed from the Volvo’s ignition and the doors were locked. Rebus peered inside without noting anything unusual. He estimated the distance back to the bungalow — a walk of a few minutes? He doubted public transport was plentiful, though there was a bus stop on the other side of the road. Maybe Keith had hitched a ride or organised a taxi or something. Maybe mates from Dounreay had taken him drinking in Thurso and he’d woken up ashamed at something he’d done, lying low in a hotel or a spare room until he could summon the courage to confess.
After all, hadn’t Samantha confessed?
Or had she? Had she told Keith, or had she been found out? Rebus watched as a car approached. It was a Mondeo rather than a marked vehicle, but he somehow knew it was the police. Unmarked meant CID, so it was no surprise when the car pulled up next to Rebus’s Saab, blocking half the carriageway. The driver put the flashers on and got out, leaving his door ajar, engine running.
‘Can I help you with anything, sir?’ he asked, in a tone that suggested something needed explaining. He was in his late twenties, short black hair already going silver at the temples. Clean-shaven, square-jawed, ruddy-cheeked, broad-shouldered. In other circumstances, Rebus might have taken him for a farmer.
‘You’re here to question my daughter,’ he said. ‘And that’s why I’m here.’
The man arched his back a little, as if for a more appraising look. ‘You’ll be John Rebus then?’ He saw Rebus attempt to disguise his surprise. ‘Internet makes it easy these days. I ran your daughter’s name and there you were.’
‘It’s her partner you should be interested in.’
‘Everybody interests me, sir.’ A hand was shoved towards Rebus. ‘I’m a detective sergeant, all the way from Inverness.’
‘Long way to come.’
‘Not nearly as far as some.’
Rebus shook the proffered hand. ‘Does the detective have a name?’
‘Robin Creasey.’
‘And you know I’m ex-CID?’
‘Strictly civvy street now, though.’
‘Is that you telling me not to get involved?’
‘Of course you’re involved — you’re her family. But if this does turn out to be police business...’
‘It’ll be none of my business?’ Rebus guessed.
‘We understand one another.’ Creasey looked at Rebus’s car. ‘You’ve just arrived, eh? I can feel the heat coming off the engine.’
‘I might need to get that seen to.’
Creasey offered a broad smile. ‘Let’s go see your daughter then.’ But he paused halfway to his Mondeo, scanning his surroundings. ‘Odd place to leave the car, isn’t it? I wonder if he was much of a churchgoer...’
Samantha kept biting off bits of her fingernails throughout the interview. The living room was messy, most of the damage done by Carrie. Rebus doubted Samantha had even noticed. The same was true in the kitchen — the previous day’s dishes piled in the sink; breakfast leftovers on the table. Rebus had made them mugs of tea. Samantha was on a chair, Creasey the sofa. Rebus took the spare chair, moving toys and books from it. Creasey kept his questions short but incisive. Problems at work? At home? Was this sort of behaviour out of character? Could she give him Keith’s phone number, and those of his friends and family? Rebus learned that Keith’s surname was Grant and his parents were deceased. He had a sister in Canada but they weren’t close. Did he ever go for a swim — there was a beach nearby, after all? No, because he’d never learned.
‘He didn’t drown himself,’ Samantha stated.
She’d tried his phone, of course, but had he maybe used his bank card? He had not. Why did she think he’d left the car in the lay-by? She shook her head in response, choosing a fresh fingernail to gnaw on. Rebus noticed how many framed photographs there were in the room, mostly posed shots of Carrie, taken at her school — but family holidays too, everyone smiling for the camera. In the flesh, Samantha looked tired, hair long and straggly with an increasing amount of grey in it. Rebus reckoned she’d lost some weight, her face gaunt, skin loose at the neck.
‘You should tell him,’ he announced, just as the interview was winding down. His daughter gave him a hard stare. ‘He’ll find out anyway, if he’s as thorough as I think he is.’
Creasey looked from daughter to father and back again, content to bide his time. Samantha focused her eyes on the wooden floor at her feet.
‘There was a guy I was seeing for a while. It’s finished now, but Keith found out. Hard to keep secrets in a place this size.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘A couple of months.’
‘This other man — a friend of his?’
She shook her head. ‘He runs a commune. That’s what you’d probably call it. Keith and me were curious, so we visited one day. Keith didn’t go back, but I did.’
‘So Keith does know the man?’
‘His name’s Jess Hawkins. Far as I know they just met the once, and only really for a quick handshake.’
‘When Keith found out, he didn’t go looking for Mr Hawkins?’
‘I told him not to. Whatever it was, it had ended by then.’
‘How did he find out?’ Rebus asked. ‘Did you tell him?’
She shook her head again. ‘A note — anonymous, of course.’
‘Someone in the village, then?’ Samantha shrugged. ‘Do you still have it?’
‘No.’
‘Have you seen Mr Hawkins since?’ Creasey enquired.
An eventual slow nod of the head. ‘In social situations, yes.’
‘I appreciate you sharing this with me, and I have to ask if you think it could have anything at all to do with Keith’s disappearance.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘There must have been an impact on your relationship, though?’
She glared at the detective. ‘I don’t remember booking to see a counsellor.’
Creasey held up a hand in appeasement. ‘It’s just that it might explain Keith’s actions — he needs to go somewhere to clear his head, think things through.’
‘He’s had a couple of months to do that,’ Rebus reasoned.
‘Time for things to fester,’ Creasey countered. Rebus noticed that he hadn’t touched his tea. It sat on the floor on a ceramic coaster. ‘I’d imagine things were difficult, Samantha. Did he retreat into himself, or is he more the type who lashes out?’
Samantha gave a snort. ‘Keith’s never ever raised a hand to me.’
‘You talked? Tried to work things out?’
‘When he was around.’
‘He started staying out more than usual?’
‘He had his hobby people. They probably saw more of him than Carrie and me did.’
‘What’s the hobby?’
‘Local history. There’s an old POW camp back towards Tongue. They’re looking at its history, doing some excavating. There’s a half-baked plan to open it to tourists.’