‘I’m guessing you’re not a walker–not today, at any rate.’
‘The clothes give it away?’
‘The lack of boots primarily.’
‘I’m into history more than geography.’
‘Camp 1033?’
Rebus approached the counter. ‘That’s right. Local history group told me about this place.’
‘They come in,’ the man acknowledged with a slow nod.
‘You’ve heard one of their number’s gone missing?’
‘Keith Grant, yes.’ The man fixed Rebus with a look. ‘And you’re Samantha’s father, pretending to be a casual tourist. News travels, you know.’ He gestured towards the window. ‘And that’s Keith’s car you’re driving.’
‘My daughter’s up to high doh,’ Rebus confessed. ‘I’m just asking around in the hope of finding some answers.’
‘I don’t really know your daughter, but Keith was–is–a regular. They’d almost have to drag him away from the camp at dusk. Then they’d pull two tables together so they could sit round and pore over their maps and notes and photographs. Doubtful I’ll ever retire on the proceeds, though.’ He broke off and held up the coffee he’d just finished pouring. ‘You still want this, or was it merely a pretext?’
‘I definitely want it.’ The mug was placed on the counter and Rebus picked it up. ‘When you talk about retirement,’ he said, ‘I can’t help thinking…’
‘That at my age I should already be retired?’ The man ran his fingernails down one ruddy cheek. His eyes sparkled beneath bushy silver brows. ‘Well, you’re not wrong. Wife and I moved up here after we sold our business. We’re Lancaster originally. She passed away last year.’ He looked at his surroundings. ‘This was her idea–she liked being around folk. Not in the sense of living in a city, but visitors, you know? She’d cajole the life stories from most of them, then write a few lines about them in one of her notebooks–a sort of hobby, you might say.’
‘Sounds like a local history group might have been her thing.’
‘Oh, it was. That’s one reason they started coming here–my Rosemary even suggested Camp 1033 as their pet project.’
‘I’m sorry she’s no longer with us.’
‘Me too.’ The man stuck out a hand for Rebus to shake. ‘I’m Ron Travis, by the way.’
‘John Rebus. So you’ll know Keith fairly well, Ron?’
‘Which is why I’m as in the dark as you are. Completely out of character, if you ask me.’
‘An accident then, maybe?’
Travis considered this, rubbing at his cheek again. ‘Is that what your daughter thinks?’
Rebus studied the man. ‘I’m realising this is a hard place to keep secrets.’
‘Keith had Camp 1033, she had Jess Hawkins and his lot.’
‘The commune’s not far from here?’
‘Five more minutes along the road.’
‘Close to the camp?’
Travis nodded. ‘All sorts wash ashore here, John. People like me and Rosemary, looking for a change, and people like Hawkins and company, after much the same thing. Doesn’t always go down well with the locals, the ones who’ve been here for decades, scratching a living.’
‘Samantha and Keith are incomers, too.’
‘But they’ve got a kid–that helps get you accepted. Half the folk in the local history group came here from elsewhere. Funny that they’re the ones who show a passion for keeping the stories alive.’
‘Keith certainly seems to have been doing that for Camp 1033. He’s turned his garage into a museum.’
‘Well, it’s an interesting story–and practically forgotten. Have you seen the camp?’
‘I’m heading there next.’
‘You know it housed all sorts? When war broke out, scare stories weren’t far behind. Italians and Germans who’d been in the country for generations found themselves locked up. Later on, it was proper war criminals–Nazi hard-liners and the like. The Poles even locked up their own countrymen if they didn’t like the look of them. Half this coastline was patrolled by Polish infantrymen.’ He saw the look Rebus was giving him. ‘Can’t help listening in sometimes when the group gets talking. They have this dream of a community buyout for the camp, turn it into a tourist attraction. That was Keith’s idea, as I recall. Won’t happen, though.’
‘I saw the sums.’
‘Even if they could raise the cash, I doubt the owner would sell.’ Travis chuckled. ‘He had plans to turn this whole area into a spaceport.’
‘A what?’
‘Launching satellites. Fell through, though. After that, it was to be a dark-sky park–to attract stargazers. Big new hotel and lots of guest lodges. Still on the drawing board as far as I know, though now with a golf course and country club attached.’
‘You own this place, though?’
Travis nodded. ‘But I’m pretty well hemmed in by thousands of acres belonging to Lord Strathy–who of course lives in London rather than up here.’
‘Lord Strathy owns the land the commune’s on too?’
‘But he reckoned without Jess Hawkins. Hawkins had the tenancy agreement structured in such a way that it’ll be hellish pricey to shift him if he’s not for shifting. I hear Strathy has a bunch of expensive lawyers trying to find loopholes. So far, no joy.’
‘I’ve never heard of this Lord Strathy.’
‘Surname’s actually Meiklejohn–one of probably dozens of landowners you’ve never heard of. Doesn’t stop them owning a decent chunk of the country you and I call home. You know the theatre company 7:84?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Called themselves that because of the statistic–seven per cent of the population owned eighty-four per cent of the wealth. That was a while back, mind.’
‘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
