The navigation system offered few clues, no destination having been set. Around here, it paid to know your routes rather than depending on technology to know them for you. As if to reinforce this, there was a road atlas in the passenger-side pocket. Rebus couldn’t quite reach it, so, leaving the engine idling, he got out and rounded the car, settling in the passenger seat. Quickly he realised it was damp. He got out again and pressed his palm to the seat. Definitely damp. He grabbed the road atlas and flicked through it, concentrating on the pages showing the local area. Nothing had been marked or circled. Leaning back into the car, he lifted the central armrest. The storage space below was empty save for a few chocolate wrappers and sticks of chewing gum. Keith wasn’t a smoker, though Samantha had admitted to Creasey that he liked the occasional night at the pub with his cronies, these mostly being people he worked beside. The pubs ranged from the local in Naver to as far afield as Thurso. No driving while inebriated, though — always a cab or a willing teetotal friend.
The glove box held nothing other than the car’s log book and various garage bills. Rebus closed the passenger-side door and checked the back seats, then the boot, which contained a muddy cagoule, a pair of thick knitted socks, and hiking boots that had seen good use. Rebus imagined this would be Keith’s kit for trips to Camp 1033.
Retreating to the driver’s seat once more, he stared out through the windscreen at a view of rising hills. The land here was greener than in nearby Tongue, less scraped and craggy. He knew from previous visits that dunes lay to the other side of the churchyard and led to a long, curving stretch of sandy beach. He thought he remembered Samantha saying Keith had grown up in Dundee, but that there were family ties to the local area — summer holidays with relatives; fond memories. He wondered if he should leave the key in the ignition, for when Keith returned. But Samantha had made the decision to take it home with her, so he turned off the ignition, locked the car and put the key in his pocket.
When he reached the bungalow, there was no sign of Samantha, so he climbed into his own car and set off for the village proper. Its only real shopping street lay just off the main road. There was a bar called The Glen, a shop that doubled as post office and café, and a pottery. When he parked outside The Glen, the first person he saw was Creasey. He was in conversation with a couple of locals outside the shop. Rebus knew what he was doing: same thing Rebus himself intended to do. Namely: dig. He entered the pub and walked up to the bar. The place was dead, apart from a barmaid rearranging glasses on a shelf. She glanced in his direction.
‘Your friend’s just been in,’ she said.
‘What gave the game away?’
‘I know a copper when I see one. I’ll tell you what I told him.’ She faced Rebus, her hands pressing against the bar top. ‘Keith keeps his nose clean; knows when he’s had enough.’
‘He’s a regular, then?’
‘Sits over there with his history group.’ She gestured towards a corner table. ‘Couple of pints apiece and that’s them done.’
‘This is the same group that’s been researching Borgie Camp?’
The barmaid studied him. ‘Your friend didn’t know its name.’
‘You told him, though?’
‘But now I’m wondering how come you know and he didn’t. Makes me think I might have jumped to conclusions a bit soon.’
‘I’m John Rebus. Samantha’s my daughter.’
‘You used to be police,’ she said with a slow nod.
‘So you weren’t far out in your assessment.’
‘Good to know I’ve not lost the touch. The other man was asking about Samantha — did she come in with Keith, did they seem to be getting along as a couple.’
‘Mind if I ask how you answered?’
‘A kid can put a strain on a relationship. Keith’s commute means he’s away long stretches of the day.’
‘And when he’s not busy at work, he’s got Camp 1033.’
‘Have you been there?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Can’t have been much fun for the prisoners — freezing in the winter and a gale constantly howling. And yet some of them stayed put when the war finished, settled down with local lassies.’
‘I get the feeling you speak from experience.’
‘My dad.’
‘You don’t seem old enough.’
She rolled her eyes but didn’t look unflattered. ‘Second marriage for him when his first wife died. He was nearly fifty when I came along. He’d changed his name from Kolln to Collins. Christened me May after the month I was born — lack of imagination if you ask me.’
‘Is he still with us?’
‘In his nineties but wearing well enough.’
‘Nice to meet you, May.’ Rebus shook her hand across the bar. He’d had to revise her age upwards by around a decade — the climate hadn’t managed to leave its mark on her features. Dark shoulder-length hair, a face that needed little or no make-up. She held herself with the no-nonsense confidence of bar staff everywhere. ‘What else was DS Creasey asking?’
Instead of answering, she offered Rebus a drink. ‘Just to keep me company.’ When he shook his head, she poured herself lemonade from the mixer gun, adding a slice of lemon.
‘We’re sophisticated up here,’ she said as she dropped it into the glass.
‘So I’ve noticed.’
She was thoughtful as she sipped; Rebus got the idea she was trying to decide what to tell him.
‘He asked me if I knew Samantha’s history,’ she eventually confided. ‘That surprised me. I mean, she’s not the one who’s done a runner. Whereas Keith’s biography didn’t seem to interest him at all.’
‘Almost as if he suspects her of something?’ Rebus offered.
‘I refused to play along. Rumours are quick enough to spread without anyone aiding and abetting.’
‘Did he ask what you think might have happened to Keith?’
She gave a slow nod, eyes fixed on her drink. ‘People leave all the time for any number of reasons. I’ve thought of it myself more than once.’
‘So what keeps you here? Your dad, I guess.’
‘Maybe — or maybe the same reason people move here in the first place: to turn their backs on all the shit happening elsewhere. That’s why I hardly ever switch that thing on unless a customer demands it.’ She gestured towards the TV that sat high up on the wall above the door. Rebus noticed the framed pictures alongside. They showed John Lennon and Yoko Ono.
‘Just been listening to him in the car,’ he commented.
‘We get a few fans in now and again.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He used to come here. Well, Durness really. Holidays when he was a boy. Then there was the accident.’
Rebus walked towards the TV. One of the photos showed a car, its front severely dented.
‘He was bringing Yoko north to show her his childhood haunts,’ May Collins explained. ‘They went off the road, ended up in hospital in Golspie.’
‘I don’t think I knew that.’
‘That’s my kind of local history.’
Rebus turned back towards her. ‘Did Keith’s group ever quiz you about your dad?’
‘They’re nothing if not thorough.’ She fixed him with a look. ‘You’re pretty thorough too, for a pensioner.’
‘That’s not what I am, though, as well you know.’
She nodded her understanding. ‘You’re a parent. Means you’ve a personal stake in the game.’
‘So if you happen to think of anything that might help me...’ Rebus wrote his mobile number on the beer mat in front of him and slid it in her direction. ‘I’d be really grateful. And maybe next time I’m in, I can buy us both a drink.’
She waved the mat at him. ‘Size of this place, I won’t need to phone you — a loud enough shout will do the job just as well.’