Collins was nodding her agreement. ‘I’m setting the alarm, though, so don’t go wandering too far. See you in the morning.’
‘Bacon rolls, I hear.’
‘Night, John.’
Rebus walked over to one of the windows. The glass was frosted, so he couldn’t see anything. It wasn’t completely dark out, despite the hour. He knew they would pay for it come the short winter days, though. No more voices, just a solitary car cruising past. He texted Clarke–Okay to speak?–and when she answered in the affirmative, he made the call.
‘We’re a couple of night owls,’ he said. ‘Everything okay with Brillo?’
‘He’s here in the flat with me.’
‘Your flat?’
‘My flat. How’s it all going?’
‘Keith was killed.’
‘I saw online, but the story was vague.’
‘Whacked with a blunt object, not yet identified. The forces of law and order are grinding into action. Samantha’s in a state, as you can imagine. Carrie’s gone to stay at a friend’s.’
‘Did he have any family?’
‘A sister in Canada–I wonder if Sammy will remember to let her know.’
‘No obvious suspects as yet?’
‘No,’ Rebus admitted.
‘So you’re rolling up your sleeves?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘You’ve a pretty full schedule then?’
Rebus paused, taking in her tone of voice. ‘What is it, Siobhan?’
‘A tenuous connection between my victim and where you are right now.’
He listened as she explained about Stewart Scoular, the bin Mahmoud family, the golf course scheme, Isabella Meiklejohn and Lord Strathy.
‘Not the first time I’ve heard his name,’ he commented when Strathy was mentioned. ‘Want me to do a bit of digging?’
‘Not especially…’
He couldn’t help smiling. ‘Yet here you are calling me in the middle of the night to tell me all about it. I can see through you like a freshly cleaned window, DI Clarke.’
‘It would have to be kept off the books, John.’
‘Naturally.’
‘And if you find anything the least bit relevant…’
‘I bring it to you straight away.’
‘You’re sure you’ve got time for this? I know Samantha’s need is a lot greater than mine.’
‘Leave it with me, Siobhan, I’ll see what I can do. Now get yourself tucked into bed and tell Brillo I’m missing him.’
‘Will do, John. And thanks.’
‘Speak soon.’
Rebus ended the call and tapped his phone against his chin as he walked through the open bar flap. The light switches were next to where the missing gun had been displayed. He stared at the nails for a moment before plunging the bar into darkness and heading for the office.
Three hours later he lay in bed, unable to sleep, staring towards the ceiling. It would be light again in a couple of hours. He reckoned he knew now why Keith had been so interested in Camp 1033. It was to do with how people were treated during the Second World War. Neighbours were locked up just because they had been born outside the UK. People began to distrust their bakers, grocers and restaurant owners. The Isle of Man had for a time become one huge internment camp, as had the Isle of Bute. ‘Collar the lot,’ Churchill had said, after which it became a free-for-all, everyone of foreign extraction considered a potential fifth columnist, the situation exacerbated when Sikorski, who led the thousands of Polish troops stationed in the UK, began locking up people who disagreed with his politics. Keith had written several long pieces, which Rebus had found filed in the garage along with various rejection letters from magazines and newspapers. His anger at the injustice shone through–perhaps too baldly. In one article, he compared the attitude then to what he saw happening in the here and now. The piece had been called ‘The Never-Ending Witch Hunt’.
‘Looks like you were one of the good guys,’ Rebus whispered to the night.
So why had he been fated to die at someone else’s hands?
Day Three
15
At 7.30 a.m., Rebus stood outside the bungalow, the wind stinging his face. The door was locked, no sign of life within. Samantha must already have left; she’d be picking up Carrie from her friend’s house. He realised he didn’t know where that was. As he was heading back to the Saab, a marked patrol car drew up, blocking him in. The sole occupant got out. He was in uniform and knew better than to bother with headwear of any kind–he wasn’t about to let the swirling gusts have their fun.
‘You John Rebus?’
‘Depends.’
‘It’s just that you look more like a tramp than an ex-cop. DS Creasey sent me to get your prints.’
‘Right.’
‘So if you’ll step into my office…’
By which he meant the patrol car’s passenger seat. The fingerprint kit was in the back. The uniform fetched it and got to work.
‘You’re taking my daughter’s, too?’ Rebus asked.
‘It’s all in hand, sir.’ The man smiled at what he probably thought of as his little joke.
Job done, the prints sealed in a clear polythene bag tagged with Rebus’s name and date of birth, the officer dismissed him with a gesture and got busy on his official-issue radio.
‘Nice doing business with you,’ Rebus muttered, crouching to wipe his fingertips on the grass and watching as the patrol car reversed out onto the main road, heading to its next destination.
The Saab still didn’t sound too healthy, but it started and its wheels turned when Rebus asked them to. Slowly he drove to the primary school. Parents were arriving with their offspring, heads angled into the unceasing wind. Rebus got out of the car and stood by the gates. Many of the parents seemed to know who he was, gave him a wary greeting or just stared at him as they passed. Eventually he saw Carrie. She was holding hands with a girl the same age as her. He couldn’t think what to say, so said nothing. The woman with them ushered the girls through the gates, a peck on the top of the head for each, before turning to face him, folding her arms.
‘I’m Samantha’s dad,’ he said.
‘I
