17
Camp 1033 was still cordoned off. Rebus pulled in next to a yellow Portakabin that had been placed adjacent to the gate. As he opened the door of his Saab, a gust caught it. He thought the hinges might snap as it blew all the way open. Climbing out, it took him two goes to close it again. The door to the Portakabin was locked, no one answering his knock. The solitary uniform the other side of the cordon gave him an unwelcoming look.
‘The very definition of a short straw,’ Rebus told the man as he approached.
‘Change of shift in the offing. Is there something I can help you with?’
‘I’m related to the deceased. Wondered if DS Creasey is available.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘I got that impression,’ Rebus said, looking around.
‘You the one who found the body?’
‘That’s me,’ Rebus admitted.
‘I was told I might be seeing you. Message is: bugger off and leave us to get on with it. I know you used to be on the force, so you’ll appreciate the sentiment.’
‘You’re only doing your job, son. Fact they’ve stuck you out here tells me all I need to know about the esteem you’re held in by your fellow officers.’ Rebus turned to head back to his Saab. ‘Make sure Creasey knows I need a word.’
‘I’ll be sure to do that, aye.’ The officer cleared his throat and spat on the ground.
Rebus sat in the Saab and considered his next move. His phone pinged, signalling the arrival of a text from May Collins.
4.30 meet here x
Plenty of time before then, so he drove a little further along the road, heading towards Tongue. A hand-made sign on a post caught his eye. It pointed down a rutted track. The only word on the sign was WELCOME.
‘Nice to feel wanted for a change,’ Rebus said to himself, manoeuvring the car along the track. It ran between a series of hillocks, clumps of thistles the predominant vegetation. Eventually he caught sight of what looked like a farm steading. Smoke rose from the chimney of the timber-framed main house. A couple of large barns stood behind it, and there was a smattering of tired-looking caravans. A man, topless, shirt tied around his waist, was splitting logs with an axe. Rebus recognised him as Mick Sanderson and gave a wave.
He parked the Saab next to a familiar-looking Volvo and got out. He saw powder marks on the Volvo’s doors, dashboard and steering wheel. Forensics had been busy–and hadn’t bothered tidying up after themselves. He approached the chopping block, noting a motorbike propped against a nearby tree. A couple of young women were scattering feed to some hungry chickens, while another couple worked on the vegetable beds. Sweat glistened on Sanderson’s torso.
‘Saab’s still working then.’ He nodded towards his handiwork.
‘Running better than ever,’ Rebus said.
‘We both know that’s a lie. If you want to get back to Edinburgh, you’ll let a proper garage give a diagnosis.’
‘I wanted to thank you anyway.’ Rebus held out a hand. Sanderson rested his axe against the woodpile and took it. ‘Also wanted to offer something by way of payment.’
‘No need for that.’
‘If you’re sure?’ Rebus gave a shrug, looking around at the young workers nearby. ‘How many of you are there?’
‘Changes all the time. Some stay a few weeks, others longer.’
Rebus nodded, feigning interest. ‘I notice my daughter’s here. Maybe I’ll just go say hello…’
Sanderson started to say something, but Rebus was already heading for the farmhouse. Before he got there, however, the door was opened by a man in his fifties, face lined, long grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. He wore grubby denims and a blue shirt that had lost almost all its colour.
‘You must be John,’ he said, cracking a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. The eyes were blue and piercing, the pupils small. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and his wrists were festooned with cotton bracelets of various designs. He leaned with one hand on the door frame, the other on his hip.
‘Come inside,’ he said. ‘I’m Jess.’
Rebus entered a large open-plan space. There was a log-burner in the fireplace, a chaotic kitchen area, futons and oversized beanbags instead of sofas and chairs. Against one wall were piled yoga mats in a range of colours. A woman sat at a table in the kitchen area, filling jars with cooked vegetables. Rebus nodded a greeting, but she ignored him. She was only a few years younger than Jess Hawkins, her face weathered, long straw-coloured hair starting to clump. On the floor next to her sat a contented toddler, chewing a toy of some kind.
A staircase led from the centre of the room to the upper floor. It looked hand-made and not particularly safe, bearing in mind the toys and clothes that littered most of its steps.
‘Just thought I’d have a word with Samantha,’ Rebus said, keeping his tone conversational. Hawkins gave him a pained look.
‘She’s not in a mood for talking, John. Space to breathe is what she needs.’
‘I’m right here,’ Rebus yelled up the stairwell. ‘I just want to help!’
Hawkins had placed a hand gently on his forearm, but removed it when Rebus glowered at him.
‘Space to breathe,’ Hawkins echoed softly. ‘When the time’s right, she’ll come back.’
Rebus was still staring at him. ‘Like she went back to Keith after her little fling with you?’ He gestured towards the woman at the table. ‘What did your partner make of that?’
‘We’re as free to love as we are to live,’ Hawkins countered. ‘Would you like some green tea? Maybe just water?’
‘Keith Grant died not far from here.’
‘I’m aware of that–the police have asked their questions.’
‘After he found out about you and my daughter, he slept at the camp–you probably saw his
