‘You don’t sound as though you think those figures will have changed for the better.’
‘I sometimes think I ended up here so I could stop having to live with it. Rosemary and me, we used to be active – go on marches, sign petitions and all that. CND, anti-apartheid, Friends of the Earth. We were drunk for two days when Tony Blair got elected.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘Made not a jot of difference really.’
‘Yet I don’t sense you have much time for the commune.’
‘To my thinking, they’ve turned their backs on the world. As long as they’re all right in their little bubble, the rest of us can go burn. And Hawkins … well, he’s obviously got something, or they wouldn’t stick around, but I’m damned if I can see what it is.’ His eyes met Rebus’s. ‘Samantha saw it, though. I’m assuming you’ve heard about that?’
‘I’ve heard. But it didn’t last long and she patched things up with Keith.’
‘A patch is a patch, though – reminds you there’s damage beneath.’
Two motorcyclists pulled up outside, their bikes laden with camping gear. The riders dismounted and began peeling away layers of leather and tugging off their crash helmets. Both were silver-haired.
‘First of the day,’ Travis commented.
‘NC 500?’ Rebus watched Travis nod. ‘How much do I owe for the coffee?’
‘Two seventy-five. Toilet’s to the left when you head outside – you won’t find much at Camp 1033.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Good luck, John. Tell your daughter I’m thinking of her.’
‘I will.’
The bikers said hello to Rebus as he passed them. He got the feeling they were Scandinavian. They looked ruddy-faced and wholesome and comfortable with their place in the world. He felt his heart pounding after the injection of caffeine. His knees and back still ached from the previous day’s long drive and his head was slightly thick from the whisky he’d imbibed with Samantha. He sat in the Volvo and composed a text to Siobhan Clarke, updating her on the Saab and hoping Brillo wasn’t pining too much. He tried to imagine being out on a bike all day and then setting up a tent and crawling inside, sheltering from the elements; doing it all again the following day.
‘Different strokes,’ he muttered to himself, wishing he hadn’t had to give up the cigarettes.
His phone announced that it had a signal by ringing suddenly. An Edinburgh number, but not one he recognised. He answered anyway.
‘Hello?’
‘John? It’s John Neilson. I heard you’d moved.’
Ex-cop, a decade older than Rebus. Stationed at Gayfield Square and the high street when Rebus had known him. They used to share the occasional drink and story.
‘Who grassed me up?’ Rebus asked.
‘Kirsty.’
Owner of the Oxford Bar. One of a select few Rebus had confided in.
‘She didn’t think you’d mind me knowing.’
‘As it happens, she’s right.’
‘Is it the COPD?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Neither of us is getting any younger. Just calling to check you’re managing.’
Rebus thought of something. ‘You still keeping your nose in a few books, John? Maybe you could help me. I’ve taken a sudden interest in Second World War prison camps.’
‘A cheery subject.’
‘There’s a list of documents and books I’m trying to track down.’
‘It’s not a library you need, it’s the internet.’
Rebus had forgotten that since his retirement Neilson had developed an interest in computers. He’d boasted once of recovering a wiped hard drive. ‘How would I find out what sites are useful?’ he enquired.
‘Camps in Germany?’
‘The UK,’ Rebus corrected him. ‘Internment rather than POW, and specifically Camp 1033.’ He sensed Neilson picking up a pen and beginning to write.
‘I’ll send you some links. What’s your email?’
Rebus spelled it out for him.
‘AOL, John?’ Neilson chuckled. ‘You really are a dinosaur. Leave it with me.’ He paused. ‘So the move’s gone okay? I know it can all be a bit traumatic. When do I get to see the place?’
‘Let me finish unpacking first. You’ll get that gen to me?’
‘Wee bit of police work – I miss it every bit as much as you do.’
Rebus ended the call, started the Volvo and got back on the road.
7
He managed to drive past Camp 1033 without really noticing, mistaking it for tumbledown farm buildings. Realising his error, he doubled back, parking on the grass verge and trudging to a broken-down metre-high fence. He recalled from the photos in Keith’s garage that back in the 1940s a high fence topped with barbed wire had formed the camp’s perimeter, along with a tall gate. None of that remained. The replacement gate came up to just past Rebus’s knees and could be stepped over by those younger and nimbler than him. There was no lock as such, the height of the grass serving to keep it closed.
A forceful push and he was inside the compound. Overgrown paths were laid out between the shells of elongated Nissen huts, their roofs mostly gone, windows shattered. There was a bit of graffiti, but not much. A large blue tarpaulin, weighted with rubble, showed where the history group’s archaeological dig was taking place.
As Rebus moved further into the camp, he became aware that it was larger than he’d thought. He remembered the plans in the garage. They had shown not just accommodation blocks but a water plant, cookhouse, surgery, guardrooms and more. It was a bleak spot, which made it perfect. If anyone absconded into the hills, they might be lost for days, growing weaker and weaker without ever reaching civilisation. If they headed for the road, they would easily be spotted in their inmates’ garb. He peered through the gaping doorway of one of the accommodation huts. It would have contained bunk beds and a stove and probably not much else. There would almost certainly have been no insulation to speak of, just thin breeze-block walls and a corrugated roof.
He took out his phone and noted that the single bar denoting already minimal signal had disappeared altogether. Rain was blowing in again. No cars passed him and there were no signs of
