At Dyce, they climbed back into Jack’s car and sat there for a couple of minutes, adjusting to being back on the ground. Then they headed south on the A92, using the directions Jake Harley had given them. It was the same road Rebus had been taken on the night Tony El had been killed. They had Stanley for that — no matter what. Rebus wondered what else the young psychopath might spill, especially now he’d lost Eve. He’d know she’d flown; he’d know she wouldn’t have left the loot behind. Maybe Gill would have twisted more stories out of him.
It could be the making of her.
They saw signposts to Cove Bay, followed Harley’s instructions and came to a lay-by, behind which were parked a dozen vans, caravans, buses and campers. Bumping over ineffectual earth mounds, they came into a clearing in front of a forest. Dogs were barking, kids out playing with a punctured football. Clothes-lines hung between branches, and someone had lit a bonfire. A few adults had parked themselves around the fire, passing joints, one woman strumming a guitar. Rebus had been to travellers’ camps before. They came in two designs. There was the old-style gypsy camp, with smart caravans and builders’ lorries, the inhabitants — Romanies — olive-skinned and lapsing into a tongue Rebus couldn’t understand. Then there were the ‘New Age travellers’: usually with buses which had passed their last MOT on a wing and a prayer. They were young and savvy, cut dead wood for fuel, and worked the social security system, despite government attempts to render it unworkable. They gave their kids names the kids would kill them for when they grew up.
Nobody paid Rebus and Jack any heed as they walked towards the camp-fire. Rebus kept his hands in his pockets, and tried not to make fists of them.
‘Looking for Jo,’ he said. He recognised the guitar chords: ‘Time of the Preacher’. He tried again. ‘Joanna Bruce.’
‘Bummer,’ someone said.
‘That could be arranged,’ Jack cautioned.
The joint went from hand to hand. ‘Decade from now,’ someone else said, ‘this won’t be illegal. It might even be on prescription.’
Smoke billowed from grinning mouths.
‘Joanna,’ Rebus reminded them.
‘Warrant?’ the guitarist asked.
‘You know better than that,’ Rebus told her. ‘I only need a warrant if I want to bust this place. Want me to fetch one?’
‘Macho Man!’ someone sang.
‘What do you want?’
There was a small white caravan hooked up to an antiquated Land Rover. She’d opened the caravan door — just the top half — and was leaning out.
‘Can you smell the bacon, Jo?’ the guitarist asked.
‘Need to talk to you, Joanna,’ Rebus said, walking towards the caravan, ‘about Mitch.’
‘What about him?’
‘Why he died.’
Joanna Bruce looked at her fellow travellers, saw that Rebus had their attention, and unlocked the bottom half of her door. ‘Better come in,’ she said.
The caravan was cramped and unheated. There was no TV, but untidy stacks of magazines and newspapers, some of them with articles clipped out, and on the small folding table — benches either side, the whole thing convertible into a bed — a laptop computer. Standing, Rebus’s head touched the caravan roof. Joanna shut down the computer, then gestured for Rebus and Jack to take the bench seats, while she balanced atop a pile of magazines.
‘So,’ she said, folding her arms, ‘what’s the story?’
‘My question exactly,’ Rebus replied. He nodded towards the wall behind her, where some photos had been pinned for decoration. ‘Snap.’ She looked round at the pictures. ‘I’ve just had another lot of those developed,’ Rebus explained: they were the originals missing from Mitch’s envelope. She sat there with a face like stone, giving nothing away. There was kohl around her eyes and her hair was white fire in the glow from the gas lighting. For a full half-minute, the soft roar of igniting gas was the only sound in the caravan. Rebus was giving her time to change her mind, but she was using that time to erect further barricades, her eyes closing to slits, mouth pressed shut.
‘Joanna Bruce,’ Rebus mused. ‘Interesting choice of name.’ She half-opened her mouth, closed it again.
‘Is Joanna your real first name, or did you change that too?’
‘What do you mean?’
Rebus looked at Jack, who was sitting back, trying to look the part of the relaxed visitor, telling her it wasn’t two against one, that she’d no need to be afraid. When Rebus spoke, he spoke to Jack’s face.
‘Your real surname’s Weir.’
‘How... who told you that?’ Trying to laugh it off.
‘Nobody needed to. Major Weir had a daughter; they fell out; he disowned her.’ And changed her sex to a son, maybe to muddy the water. Mairie’s source had said as much.
‘He didn’t disown her! She disowned him!’
Rebus turned to her. Her face and body were animated now, clay come to life. Her fists gouged at her knees.
‘Two things put me on track,’ he said quietly. ‘One, that surname: Bruce, as in Robert the... as any student of Scottish history would know. Major Weir is daft on Scots history, he even named his oilfield after Bannockburn, which as we know was won by Robert the Bruce. Bruce and Bannock. I’m guessing you picked the name because you thought it would rile him?’
‘It riles him all right.’ Half a smile.
‘The second thing was Mitch himself, once I knew you two were friends. Jake Harley tells me Mitch had gleaned some gen on Negrita, top-secret stuff. Well, Mitch might have been resourceful in some areas, but I couldn’t see how he’d manage to work his way back through a paper trail. He travelled light, no sign of any notes or anything like that, either in his flat or in his cabin. I’m assuming he got the gen from you?’ She nodded. ‘And you’d have to seriously have it in for T-Bird Oil to bother with that sort of labyrinth in the first place. But we already know you’ve got something against T-Bird — the demo outside their HQ; chaining yourself to Bannock in full view of the TV cameras. I thought maybe it was something personal...’
‘It is.’
‘Major Weir’s your father?’
Her face turned sour and strangely childlike. ‘Only in the biological sense. Even then, if you could get a gene transplant I’d be at the front of the queue.’ Her voice sounded more American than ever. ‘Did he kill Mitch?’
‘Do you think he did?’
‘I’d like to think so.’ She stared at Rebus. ‘I mean, I’d like to think he’d sink that low.’
‘But?’
‘But nothing. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.’
‘You reckon he had the motive?’
‘Sure.’ Not aware she was doing it, she picked at a nail and then bit it, before starting on another. ‘I mean, Negrita and the way T-Bird’s culpability was hushed up... and now the dumping. He had plenty of economic reasons.’
‘Was Mitch threatening to go to the media with the story?’
She removed a sliver of nail from her tongue. ‘No, I think he was trying blackmail first. Keep quiet about everything, so long as T-Bird went for ecological scrapping of Bannock.’
‘Everything?’
‘What?’
‘You said “everything”, like there was more.’
She shook her head. ‘No.’ But she wasn’t looking at him.
‘Joanna, let me ask you something: why didn’t you go to the media, or try blackmail on your father? Why did it have to be Mitch?’