A Song for the Dark Times

couldn’t live without, even if he would never read them; the albums he played maybe once or twice a decade but still clung to; the boxes of case files that seemed a veritable part of him, like an extra limb. Why would he part with them when he had a spare bedroom no overnight guest ever graced? His only family consisted of his daughter and granddaughter, and they never opted to stay. That was why he had ditched the old bed and replaced it with a two-seater sofa, leaving space for more bookshelves, the suitcase he doubted he would ever use, and his second-best record player, the same one he’d had when dancing with Rhona that first night. It no longer worked but he reckoned he could find someone to fix it. He would put it on his list.

When he went into the kitchen to make a mug of tea, he examined the central heating timer. Mrs Mackay had left the instruction manual but it looked straightforward enough.

‘Heating bills are quite reasonable,’ she’d told him. But then she had always opted for another layer of wool rather than an extra degree on the thermostat. He wondered if her various cardigans, pullovers and shawls had accompanied her to Australia. He wouldn’t bet against it.

While the kettle boiled, he walked into the main bedroom. With the double bed, plus his old wardrobe and chest of drawers, floor space was limited. Siobhan had helped him make up the bed, only having to shift Brillo half a dozen times in the process.

‘Tell me he doesn’t sleep next to you,’ she’d said.

‘Of course not,’ Rebus had lied.

The dog was watching now from the hallway. Rebus checked his watch. ‘Soon enough,’ he said. ‘Just one more mug of tea and maybe another record, eh?’

He wondered how many times he would wake up in the night and not know the new route to the bathroom. Maybe he’d leave the hall light on.

‘Or stop drinking bloody tea,’ he muttered to himself, heading back into the kitchen.

iv

But it wasn’t his need to pee that woke him at 5 a.m. It was a call. He fumbled for both his phone and the bedside lamp, waking Brillo in the process. He couldn’t quite focus on the screen but pressed the phone to his ear anyway.

‘Dad?’ His daughter Samantha’s urgent voice.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, sitting up, growing more awake by the second.

‘Your landline–it’s been cut off.’

‘I meant to tell you about that…’

‘About what?’

‘My landline’s not the reason you’re calling at this hour. Is it Carrie?’

‘She’s fine.’

‘What then? Are you all right?’

‘It’s Keith.’

Her partner; Carrie’s father. Rebus swallowed. ‘What’s happened?’ He listened as Samantha began to sob quietly. Her voice cracked when she spoke.

‘He’s gone.’

‘The bastard…’

‘Not like that… I don’t think so anyway.’ She sniffed. ‘I mean, I don’t really know. He’s disappeared. It’s been two days.’

‘And things were all right at home?’

‘No worse than usual.’

‘But you don’t think he’s just–I don’t know–maybe gone on a bender somewhere?’

‘He’s not like that.’

‘You’ve reported him missing?’

‘They’re sending someone to talk to me.’

‘They probably told you two days isn’t long?’

‘Yes. But his phone just goes to voicemail.’

‘And he didn’t pack a bag or anything?’

‘No. We’ve got a joint bank account–I looked online and he’s not bought anything or taken money out. His car was left in the lay-by near the church.’

Rebus knew where she meant–a five-minute walk from their home. He had parked there himself once to take in the view. Samantha lived on the edge of the village of Naver, on the wild north coast eight miles east of Tongue. The wind had rocked Rebus’s car as he’d sat in it.

‘Problems at work?’ he asked. ‘Money troubles?’

‘He knew I’d been seeing someone,’ she blurted out.

‘Right,’ Rebus said.

‘But that’s over and done with. It’s not why he left–I’m sure it’s not. He’d have taken his things. The key was still in the ignition… Parked so close to the house… it doesn’t make any sense. Does it make sense to you? I’m just… I’ve been awake all night going over it again and again, and I’m scared the police will think I had something to do with it.’

Rebus was quiet for a moment. ‘Why would they think that, Samantha?’

‘Because everyone here knows we were going through a rough patch. And they know about me and Jess.’

‘He’s the guy you were seeing? Did Keith ever square up to him?’

‘I don’t know. But this can’t have anything to do with Jess. It really can’t.’

‘Most likely outcome is that Keith will turn up–I’m speaking from experience here.’

‘I’ve got such a bad feeling, Dad.’

‘I can be there before lunchtime. What time are they coming to talk to you?’

‘They didn’t say.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got to get Carrie to school, I told them that.’

‘It’s going to be okay, Sammy, I promise.’ Sammy: his name for her until she’d decided she was too grown-up for it. For once, she didn’t correct him.

‘Thank you,’ she said instead, so quietly he almost didn’t catch it.

Day One

1

Siobhan Clarke woke to a text from Rebus. She decided it could wait until she’d made coffee. It was just gone seven and Graham Sutherland had already gone. She wondered if she should be unnerved by his ninja-like ability to dress and depart without her noticing.

‘Could have made me a drink, though…’

She tramped back to her bedroom, still in her pyjamas, mug cupped in both hands. Placed it on the bedside table and lifted her phone, swiping it awake.

Big favour. Look after Brillo today. Key under half-brick next to front door. Talk later.

‘The hell?’ Clarke seated herself on the edge of the still-warm bed and made the call.

‘I’m driving,’ Rebus warned her. ‘Don’t want to get a ticket.’ His old Saab had no hands-free option. She could hear the engine churning.

‘Where’s the fire?’

‘Samantha. Her partner’s gone AWOL.’

‘You’re driving to Tongue?’

‘Not quite–they moved to the next village along a couple of years back.’

‘And you reckon your rust bucket’s up to the