him, trying to get images of Blair Witch out of his head. The landscape was sloping down a gradient, growing steeper. Rebus realized they were now on the other side of the track from civilization. He started looking around for a weapon of some kind; bent down and picked up a tree branch, gave it a shake, and it crumbled in his hand, its innards rotted away.
“What is it you’re going to show me?” he asked.
“One more minute.” Barclay held up a single digit for effect. “Hey, I don’t even know who you are.”
“Name’s Rebus. I’m a detective inspector.”
“I talked to you guys, you know…back when it happened. Tried to get you to look at Trevor Guest, but I don’t think you did. I was in my teens-already marked out as the weird kid. Coldstream’s like one big tribe, Inspector. When you don’t fit in, it’s not easy to pretend you do.”
“I’m sure that’s true.” A comment rather than the question Rebus really wanted to ask-What the hell are you talking about?
“It’s better now. People see the things I make, they can appreciate that there’s a glimmer of talent there.”
“When did you move to Kelso?”
“This is my third year.”
“Must like it then.”
Barclay looked at Rebus, then gave a quick smile. “Making conversation, eh? Because you’re nervous?”
“I don’t like games,” Rebus stated.
“I’ll tell you who does though-whoever left those trophies at the Clootie Well.”
“That’s something we agree on.” Rebus almost lost his footing, felt something tear in his ankle as he went over on it.
“Careful,” Barclay said, without stopping.
“Thanks,” Rebus replied, hobbling after him. But the young man stopped again almost immediately. There was a chain-link fence in front of them, and farther down the hill a modern bungalow.
“Great views,” Barclay offered. “Nice and quiet. You have to drive all the way down there”-he traced the route with a finger-“to reach the main road.” He turned his whole body toward Rebus. “This is where she died. I’d seen her in town, chatted with her. We were all in shock when it happened.” His look intensified as he saw Rebus was still in the dark. “Mr. and Mrs. Webster,” he hissed. “I mean, he died later, but that’s where his wife was murdered.” He stabbed a finger at the bungalow. “In there.”
Rebus’s mouth felt dry. “Ben Webster’s mother?” Yes, of course-vacation home in the Borders. He remembered the photos from the file Mairie had compiled. “You’re saying Trevor Guest killed her?”
“He’d moved here only a few months before; moved out again quick afterward. A few of his drinking pals said it was because he already had a history with the police in Newcastle. He used to hassle me in the street, tell me I was a teenager with long hair, so I had to know where he could get drugs…” He paused for a moment. “Then I was up in Edinburgh that night, drinking with a pal, and I saw him. I’d already told the cops I thought he did it. Seemed to me the whole case was shoddy.” He stared hard at Rebus. “You never followed it up!”
“You saw him in the pub?” Rebus’s head was reeling, the blood pounding in his ears.
“I lashed out, I admit it. Felt bloody wonderful. And then when I saw that he’d been killed…well, I felt better still-and vindicated, too. Said as much in the paper-he’d been in jail for burglary and rape.”
“Sexual assault,” Rebus said weakly. The anomaly…one of several.
“And that’s what he’d done here-broken in, killed Mrs. Webster, and ransacked the place.”
Then fled to Edinburgh, suddenly penitent and of a mind to help those older and weaker than himself. Gareth Tench had been right-something had happened to Trevor Guest. Something life-changing…
If Rebus were to believe Duncan Barclay’s story.
“He didn’t assault her,” Rebus argued.
“Say again?”
Rebus cleared his throat, spat out some gluey saliva. “Mrs. Webster wasn’t raped or assaulted.”
“No, because she was too old-the kid he did in Newcastle was in her teens.” Yes, and hadn’t Hackman confirmed it-liked them a bit on the young side.
“You’ve given it a lot of thought,” Rebus seemed to concede.
“But you wouldn’t believe me!”
“Well, I’m sorry about that.” Rebus leaned against a tree and ran a hand through his hair. His fingers came away coated in sweat.
“And I can’t be a suspect,” Barclay went on, “because I didn’t know the other two men. Three killings,” he stressed, “not just one.”
“That’s right…not just one.” A killer who likes games. Rebus thought back to Dr. Gilreagh-rurality and anomalies.
“I could tell he was trouble,” Barclay was saying, “from the first time I clapped eyes on him in Coldstream.”
“I could use one of those right now,” Rebus interrupted. A nice cool current of water to duck his head under.
Trevor Guest as the killer of Ben Webster’s mother.
The father dies of a broken heart…meaning Guest has destroyed the whole family.
Goes to jail for another offense, but when he gets out…
And soon after, Ben Webster, MP, takes a nosedive over the parapets of Edinburgh Castle.
Ben Webster?
“Duncan!” A yell in the distance, somewhere uphill.
“Debbie?” Barclay called back. “Down here!” He started clambering up the slope, Rebus toiling in his wake. By the time he reached the vehicle track, Barclay was enveloping Debbie with a hug.
“I wanted to tell you,” she was explaining, her words muffled by his jacket, “and I couldn’t get a lift, and I knew he’d be looking for me, and I got here as soon as-” She broke off as she caught sight of Rebus. Gave a little squeal and pulled back from Barclay.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “Me and the inspector have just been talking, that’s all.” He looked over his shoulder at Rebus. “And what’s more, I actually think he’s been listening.”
Rebus nodded his agreement with this, and slid his hands into his pockets. “But I’ll need you in Edinburgh all the same,” he announced. “Everything you’ve just said could do with being a matter of record, don’t you think?”
Barclay smiled a tired smile. “After all this time, it’ll be my pleasure.”
Debbie bounced on her toes, one arm sliding around Duncan Barclay’s waist. “I want to come, too. Don’t leave me here.”
“Thing is,” Barclay said with a sly glance at Rebus, “the inspector here has me down as a suspect…which would make you my accomplice.”
She looked shocked. “Duncan wouldn’t hurt a soul!” she squealed, gripping him more tightly than ever.
“Or a wood louse, I daresay,” Rebus added.
“These woods have looked after me,” Barclay said quietly, eyes fixed on Rebus. “That’s why the stick you picked up fell apart in your hand.” He gave a huge wink. Then, to Debbie: “You sure about this? Our first date, a police station in Edinburgh?” She replied by going up onto her tiptoes again and planting a kiss on his lips. The trees started rustling in a sudden, gentle breeze.
“Back to the car, children,” Rebus commanded. He’d taken half a dozen tentative steps along the track when Barclay indicated that he was headed in completely the wrong direction.
Siobhan realized she was headed the wrong way.
Well, not the wrong way exactly-depended which destination she had in mind, and that was the problem: she couldn’t think of one. Home, probably, but what would she do there? As she was already on Silverknowes Road, she pushed on until Marine Drive, then pulled over at the side of the road. Other cars were already parked there. It was a popular spot on weekends, with views across the Firth of Forth. Dogs were being exercised, sandwiches eaten. A helicopter rose loudly into the air, taking its passengers on one of the regular sightseeing tours, reminding her of the chopper at Gleneagles. One year, Siobhan had bought Rebus a gift certificate for the tour as a birthday present. As far as she knew, he’d never used it.
