The face was turned away from him, the body twisted and stiff. Rebus knew a corpse when he saw one–and knew a likely crime scene, too.
‘Christ’s sake, Keith,’ he said in a low voice. He crouched and tried the throat and wrist for signs of a pulse, knowing it would be a miracle if he found one. Knowing too that this was not a time of miracles. A few flies were busy in the gaping wound visible at the back of the dead man’s skull. He tried waving them away, but then remembered that their larvae could be useful for establishing a rough time of death–Deborah Quant had told him often enough. He stood up again and checked his phone–no signal. How was he going to break it to Samantha? What was he going to tell her? Keith hadn’t run away, hadn’t committed suicide or been the victim of an accident.
He studied the floor, seeking the weapon. He lifted his phone and photographed the empty satchel. Then, with a final silent apology to Keith, he walked out of the hut, taking a few steadying deep breaths as he headed to the Volvo.
He was within sight of Travis’s hostel before he tried his phone again. Still no signal. Nothing for it but to pull up outside the café and go in. The bikers were finishing their scones and coffees. Travis was busy at the sink.
‘Can I use your landline?’ Rebus asked.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Travis joked, before quickly realising the import of both Rebus’s demeanour and his voice. He led him behind the counter into a cramped office and then retreated. Rebus tapped in the number the detective had given him.
‘DS Creasey,’ the voice eventually answered.
‘It’s John Rebus. I’ve just found Keith Grant’s body.’
‘Where?’
‘Accommodation block at Camp 1033.’
‘The internment camp?’
‘The very same.’
‘Did he fall or something?’
‘Hit from behind. His skull’s cracked open.’
‘Who else knows?’
‘Right now, just you and me.’
‘It’ll take me a couple of hours to get a scene-of-crime team there. I’ll call Thurso. I’m sure they can spare a uniform or two until then, secure the locus if nothing else.’ Creasey paused. ‘What took you there, John?’
‘Questions later,’ Rebus said firmly. ‘For now, get the ball rolling.’ He ended the call, staring at the handset while squeezing the bridge of his nose, trying to organise his thoughts. After a few moments, he walked back into the café. Travis was clearing the visitors’ table. Rebus watched their bikes roar off in the direction of Tongue.
‘Don’t worry,’ Travis said, reading his mind. ‘They’ve no plans to stop at the camp.’ Then: ‘Sweetened tea’s supposed to be the thing for shock…’
Rebus shook his head. ‘But I need to do a spot of guard duty–maybe a couple of filled rolls to take away?’
‘I can do you a flask of something hot to go with them?’
‘Great, aye, thanks.’
‘Am I allowed to ask what’s happened?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘The poor lad. I did warn him about sleeping there.’
Rebus stared at Travis. ‘You did?’
‘He had a sleeping bag, mind, but you can still catch hypothermia, even in summer.’
‘When was this?’
‘A month or so back. After the trouble at home. I was driving past one night and saw his car parked by the fence. He was in one of the huts. I told him I had a bed for him here, but he said no.’
Rebus opened his phone and found the photo of the satchel. ‘Recognise this?’ he asked, turning the screen towards Travis.
‘Looks like his bag. Kept his history stuff in it.’ Travis paused. ‘And his laptop, of course.’ He seemed to realise the import of the photograph. ‘It wasn’t the cold that killed him?’ he guessed.
Rebus shook his head, saying nothing.
‘Oh.’ Some of the blood left Travis’s cheeks. ‘I’ll fetch you that flask,’ he said distractedly, shuffling off towards the kitchen area. ‘Ham or cheese for the rolls?’
‘Maybe one of each.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Five minutes later, Rebus was back on the road, having warned Travis not to say anything to anyone. He parked in the same spot as before but stayed in the car this time, one window lowered until the rain started blowing in. The radio was failing to find stations on any of its wavelengths. The flask was filled with lentil soup, which poured like sludge into the cup and was saltier than Rebus liked. Not that he really tasted it; same went for the rolls. Travis had added lettuce and tomato, Rebus tossing both onto the verge.
It was the best part of an hour before he heard the approaching engine. The patrol car’s blue lights were flashing as it pulled to a skidding stop alongside the Volvo, effectively blocking the road. Rebus got out and watched four uniformed officers–three men, one woman–decant from the vehicle.
‘Blues and twos all the way from Thurso, eh?’ he enquired.
‘We were told to hurry.’
‘Well, you’ve successfully alerted every living thing within forty miles that something’s happened. Rumour mill will be grinding as we speak.’
‘Who are you anyway?’ the driver asked, reckoning attack a better tactic than defence.
‘I’m the one who alerted CID. How long till the SOCOs get here?’
‘So you found the body?’ All four officers turned to look
