‘And his laptop,’ McKechnie added.
‘Any idea what he’d keep on the laptop?’
‘They’re not even called that these days, are they?’ Taylor interrupted before taking a sip from his cup. ‘Something to do with burnt knees and a lawsuit.’
McKechnie had been pondering. ‘Notes about the camp, of course. And photos, maps, that sort of thing.’
Rebus’s phone buzzed and he checked the screen, noting that he’d missed a few other calls. Two were from Laura Smith, crime reporter on the Scotsman newspaper. He switched the phone off and pocketed it.
‘Would you say the camp had become an obsession?’ he asked.
‘Probably,’ Taylor said, while McKechnie nodded her agreement.
‘Though I did wonder…’ McKechnie broke off, mouth tightening.
‘Anything you say could be helpful,’ Rebus prompted.
‘Well, the camp is practically next door to Stalag Hawkins…’
‘Stalag Hawkins?’
She gave a thin smile. ‘Keith’s name for it–we all found ourselves using it in time.’
‘You mean the commune?’
Taylor brushed a few crumbs from the legs of his trousers. ‘You know Samantha had become quite friendly with them?’
‘She told me about her and Hawkins, if that’s what you’re asking. But that was over and done with.’
‘Of course.’
Rebus focused on McKechnie. ‘The camp was a way for Keith to spy on the commune? It’s not even visible from there, is it?’
‘But cars coming and going are.’
‘He told you this?’
She shook her head. ‘We just wondered, that’s all.’
‘It hardly explains the amount of work he put in–all the costings to turn the camp into a visitor attraction.’
‘You’re right, of course,’ Taylor said, placing his cup back on the tray and refusing the offer of a refill. ‘The place got its talons into him.’
‘Ghosts don’t have talons, Edward,’ McKechnie said with a thin smile.
‘Ghosts?’ Rebus looked from McKechnie to Taylor and back again.
‘Plenty of people perished in and around Camp 1033 during its short existence. Some from illness and natural causes, others by firing squad or other means.’
‘Other means?’ Rebus echoed.
‘Murder; poisonings…’
‘And Keith was interested in all that?’
‘Quite interested,’ Taylor agreed.
Rebus rubbed a hand along his jaw. ‘I’ve been through all his notes I can find. I think I saw mention in at least one of the books he’d bought of deaths at other camps. But nothing about Camp 1033.’
‘He even recorded some interviews, didn’t he?’ McKechnie looked to Taylor, who nodded his agreement. ‘With those who remember the camp–and before you ask, Mr Rebus, it was slightly before my time.’
Rebus managed the smile she seemed to be expecting. ‘Just so I’m clear, you mean interviews with people living right here?’
‘He also wrote to a few survivors overseas–internees who’d returned to Germany or Poland after the war.’
‘Or England or the States,’ Taylor added.
‘Filmed interviews?’ Rebus enquired.
‘Audio, I think.’ Taylor looked to McKechnie, who offered a shrug. ‘Kept on a memory stick.’
Rebus tried to remember if he’d seen any in the garage. ‘We can’t be talking about many people,’ he said.
‘And fewer all the time,’ Taylor acknowledged.
‘I know he spoke to May Collins, but he interviewed her father too?’
‘Joe Collins, yes. And Frank Hess, Stefan Novack, Helen Carter…’ Taylor’s eyes were on Joyce McKechnie again.
‘I’m pretty sure those are all that remain,’ she agreed.
‘It would be a huge help to me,’ Rebus said, leaning forward, elbows on knees, ‘if you could maybe put your heads together and write down anything you can remember about those interviews and the deaths at Camp 1033. Would that be possible?’
‘The ghosts didn’t kill him, Mr Rebus,’ McKechnie said, not unkindly.
‘I’m just trying to get a sense of who he was. I really wish I’d taken the chance while he was alive.’
‘We quite understand,’ Taylor said. ‘And we’ll do whatever we can.’
‘I appreciate that,’ Rebus said, getting to his feet.
Samantha was in Carrie’s bedroom, packing a bag. Her eyes were red-rimmed when she looked at him.
‘Your stuff will be dry soon. Where did the clothes come from?’
‘May Collins.’
‘Her husband’s?’
‘Aye.’
‘She kept her dead husband’s clothes?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Carrie’s going to stay with Jenny.’
‘You’ve told her?’
She puffed out her cheeks and expelled air. ‘Where have you been anyway?’
‘Talking to the local history group.’
She gave him another look. ‘Any particular reason?’
‘He was found at the camp, Sammy.’
‘Please–it’s Samantha.’ She zipped shut the bag, considered for a moment. ‘Toothbrush,’ she said, squeezing past him. He followed her the few steps to the bathroom.
‘Can we talk?’
‘What about?’
‘Keith’s satchel was at the camp. Looks like whatever was in it was taken.’
‘So?’
‘You never mentioned a satchel. Or his laptop–that’s missing, too, unless you know better.’
She froze, eventually turning to face him. ‘Who the fuck am I talking to right now? I really need to know it’s my dad standing there and not just another cop who’s pulled me in for questioning.’
‘Sammy—’
‘Samantha!’ She was choking back tears as she barged past him. By the time he caught up with her, she was circling the kitchen table, looking around her wildly as if trying to locate something irretrievably lost.
‘They all think I had something to do with it,’ she blurted out. ‘Eyes on me as I walk past. Facebook and the rest ready to burn me at the stake. Your lot need fingerprints, a hair sample for DNA; they need a statement, a formal identification. And they’re just getting started.’ The fire inside her began to die back a little. ‘We’d had a row that night. Not much of one in the grand scheme of things, but your pal Creasey won’t see it like that. I’m so tired and I’m at my wits’ end and Keith’s dead and I have to keep Carrie from seeing me falling apart.’ She blinked the world back into some kind of focus. ‘Any words of wisdom, Detective Inspector?’
‘I’m here for you, Samantha.’
‘Same as you ever were, eh? Phone call twice a year if Mum and me were lucky.’ She sucked in some air and gestured towards the washer-dryer. ‘When that’s done, I want you to leave.’
‘Christ’s sake, Samantha…’
‘I mean it. I can manage. I’m going to have to.’ She wouldn’t
meet his eyes.
