Eventually, he found that Floors Castle was on the road marked Edinburgh. Its high perimeter wall seemed to stretch for hundreds of yards. Rebus saw signs to the golf course, then spotted a park with sets of rugby posts. But the housing all around him looked too new, until a couple of schoolgirls walking a dog put him right.
Behind the new houses.
The Saab complained as he slammed it back into first. Engine was making a funny sound; he’d only just noticed it. Carlingnose Lane comprised a single row of tumbledown cottages. The first couple had been modernized and given a lick of paint. The track ended at the final cottage, its whitewashed walls turning yellow. A homemade sign proclaimed LOCAL CRAFTS FOR SALE. Bits of discarded tree lay strewn across the small front garden. Rebus stopped the car at a five-bar gate, beyond which a trail led across a meadow and into some woods. He tried Barclay’s door and peered in through the small window. Living room with kitchenette off it, and untidy at that. Part of the back wall had been removed and French doors fitted, meaning Rebus could see that the back garden was every bit as deserted and unkempt as the front. He looked up and saw that a pylon fed an electricity cable to the house. No antenna though, and no sign of a TV inside.
And no phone line. Next door had one-arcing toward it from a wooden telegraph pole in the meadow.
“Doesn’t mean he’s not got a cell,” Rebus muttered to himself-in fact, probably made it more likely. Barclay had to keep in touch with those Edinburgh galleries somehow. To the side of the cottage sat a venerable Land Rover. Didn’t look like it was used much, hood cool to the touch. But the key dangled from the ignition, meaning one of two things-no fear of car thieves, or ready for a quick getaway. Rebus opened the driver’s-side door and removed the key, tucking it into his top pocket. He stood by the meadow and lit a cigarette. If Debbie had managed to warn Barclay, he’d either hoofed it on foot, or had access to another vehicle…or he was on his way back.
He took out his own phone. Signal strength of a single bar. Angling the phone, the words NO SIGNAL came up. He climbed the gate and tried again.
NO SIGNAL.
Decided that what was left of the afternoon merited a walk into the woods. The air was warm; birdsong and distant traffic. A plane high overhead, its undercarriage glinting. I’m on my way, Rebus thought, to meeting a man, in the middle of nowhere, with no phone worth the name. A man who once got into a fight. A man who knows the police are coming and doesn’t like them…
“Just great, John,” he said out loud, his breathing a little ragged as he climbed toward the tree line. Couldn’t even say what kinds of trees they were. Brown ones with leaves-which ruled out conifers but not much else. He hoped to hear sounds of an ax or maybe a chain saw. No…scrub that-didn’t want Barclay holding any form of sharpened tool. Wondered if maybe he should call out. Cleared his throat but didn’t get any further. Now he was higher up, maybe his phone would…
NO SIGNAL.
Lovely views though. Pausing to catch his breath, he just hoped he would live to remember them. Why was Duncan Barclay nervous about seeing the police? Rebus would be sure to ask, if he ever found him. He’d entered the forest now, the ground yielding underfoot, a thick mulchy carpet. He had the feeling he was on a path of some kind, invisible to the untutored eye but there all the same-a route between saplings and shorn trunks, avoiding the low scrub. The place reminded him a lot of the Clootie Well. He kept glancing to left and right, stopping every few steps for another listen.
All alone.
And then another track appeared-this one wide enough for a vehicle. Rebus crouched down. The pattern of tires looked crusted-a few days old at the very least. He gave a little snort.
“Not exactly Tonto,” he muttered, straightening up and brushing dried mud from his fingers.
“Not exactly,” a man’s voice echoed. Rebus looked around and spotted its owner eventually. He was seated on a fallen tree, one leg crossed over the other. A few yards off the track, and dressed in olive green outerwear.
“Good camouflage,” Rebus said. “Are you Duncan?”
Duncan Barclay gave a little bow of his head. Rebus got closer and noted the sandy hair and freckled face. Maybe six feet tall, but wiry. The eyes were the same pale color as their owner’s jacket.
“You’re a policeman,” Barclay stated. Rebus wasn’t about to deny it.
“Did Debbie warn you?”
Barclay stretched out his arms. “No means…I’m a Luddite in that regard, as in several others.”
Rebus nodded. “I noticed at the cottage-no TV or phone line.”
“And no cottages either, soon enough-developer’s got his eye on them. Then it’ll be the field, and after that the woods…I thought you’d be coming.” He paused at Rebus’s look. “Not you personally, but someone like you.”
“Because…?”
“Trevor Guest,” the young man stated. “I didn’t know he was dead till I read it in the paper. But when they said the case was being handled in Edinburgh-well, I thought there might still be something about me in the files.”
Rebus nodded and lifted out his cigarettes. “Mind if I…?”
“I’d rather you didn’t-and so would the trees.”
“They’re your friends?” Rebus asked, putting the pack away. Then: “So you only found out about Trevor Guest…?”
“When it was in the papers.” Barclay paused to consider. “Was it Wednesday? I didn’t actually buy a paper, you understand-I’ve no time for them. But I saw the headline on the front of the Scotsman. Went and got himself done in by some sort of serial killer.”
“Some sort of killer, yes.” Rebus took a step back as Barclay suddenly bounded to his feet, but all the young man did was gesture with a crooked finger and then start walking.
“Follow me and I’ll show you,” he said.
“Show me what?”
“The whole reason you’re here.”
Rebus held back, but eventually relented, catching up with Barclay. “Is it far, Duncan?” he asked.
Barclay shook his head. He walked with large, purposeful strides.
“You spend a lot of time in the woods?”
“As much as I can.”
“Other woods, too? Not just these ones, I mean.”
“I find bits and pieces all over.”
“Bits and…?”
“Branches, uprooted trunks…”
“And the Clootie Well?”
Barclay turned his head toward Rebus. “What about it?”
“Ever been there?”
“Don’t think so.” Barclay stopped so suddenly, Rebus almost went past him. The young man’s eyes had widened. He slapped a hand to his forehead. Rebus could see the bruised fingernails and traces of scar tissue-evidence of an artisan’s life.
“Holy Christ!” Barclay gasped. “I can see what you’re thinking!”
“And what’s that, Duncan?”
“You think maybe I did it! Me!”
“Really?”
“Holy Mother of Christ.” Barclay gave a shake of the head and started walking again, almost faster than before so that Rebus struggled to keep up.
“Just wondering why you and Trevor Guest had that fight,” he asked between lungfuls of oxygen. “Background info, that’s all I’m here for.”
“But you do think I did it!”
“Well, did you?”
“No.”
“Nothing to worry about then.” Rebus looked around, not really sure of his bearings. He could retrace the vehicle track, but would he know where to branch off to reach the meadow and civilization?
“I can’t believe you think that.” Barclay gave another shake of his head. “I conjure new life from dead wood. The living world means everything to me.”
“Trevor Guest isn’t coming back as a fruit bowl anytime soon.”
“Trevor Guest was an animal.” As abruptly as before, Barclay stopped again.
“Aren’t animals part of the living world?” Rebus asked breathlessly.