‘From the accounts, there were no witnesses. Davies was ambushed somewhere between the village and the camp. His weapon was wrestled from him and he was shot in the head.’
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t understand why Hoffman would hang onto the weapon.’
‘Perhaps he planned to use it again.’
‘It doesn’t seem to have been very well hidden. He could have left it anywhere, but he took it to his room.’
‘And this is what troubles you?’
‘He also doesn’t seem to have courted Chrissy Carter. The two hardly knew one another.’
‘Whatever the story, all I can tell you is that someone threw that particular revolver away–probably at the end of the war–and it was covered over by time and tide. But both of those have a way of bringing things back again, wanted and unwanted.’
‘And you put it on display because…?’
‘Not as a trophy, if that’s what you think. Am I the one who shot Gareth Davies? I answer that in the negative with all the force I can muster.’ Collins paused. ‘I cannot understand why you would spend your evenings and weekends following this hobby when you have Samantha and Carrie waiting for you at home.’
‘They’re very patient.’
‘You think so? Well, I pray you are right.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing, nothing–I’m just an old man who rambles sometimes…’
As the recording ended, Rebus stood up, stretching his limbs and his spine. He wandered through to the bar, caught sight of Lawrie Blake speaking to what he assumed were other journalists, and retreated to the kitchen. There was a note on the table–Soup in pot–so he reheated the broth and sat down to eat it, feeling suddenly ravenous. He cut himself a wedge of bread to go with it and poured a glass of water from the tap.
‘A proper prisoner’s meal, that,’ May Collins said, walking into the kitchen as he was finishing.
‘Didn’t fancy the bar for some reason.’
She nodded her understanding. ‘They’re away again, though–I don’t think we’re feeding them enough titbits. How’s it going?’
‘I’ve just been listening to Keith talking with your father.’
‘I heard from the hallway. You seemed engrossed.’
‘I’m wondering how he felt about Samantha and Hawkins–he must have wondered how many people had known or suspected and hadn’t told him.’
Standing behind him, May gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. ‘Have you heard from Samantha?’
‘She’s with her pal Julie.’
‘Actually she’s with the police–or she was. They turned up at Julie’s door and took her away. That’s what I’m hearing.’
Rebus dug out his phone. No signal.
‘Try out by the caravan,’ Collins advised.
Rebus unlocked the back door and went outside. The rain had stopped, the sky bright blue. The caravan was small, maybe only a two-berth, dotted with lichen, its single window in need of a good clean. Rebus made the call. Creasey answered almost immediately.
‘Don’t,’ the detective said. ‘All we’re after is a better idea of how the deceased ties to Lord Strathy. We know they argued about the camp buyout and we know things got a bit heated when Keith barged into a social gathering at the castle.’
‘And?’
‘And Samantha’s being asked what she knew about any or all of it.’
‘And?’
‘And I’m sure she’ll tell you in the fullness of time.’
‘You’re stranding her in Inverness again?’
‘Relax, she’s a lot closer to home than that.’
‘You got the door unlocked at the station in Tongue?’
‘I wish you’d leave us to get on with our job, John.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything about the memory stick?’
‘Can I remind you for the umpteenth time–you’re not the detective here. In fact, you’re the father of our chief suspect. We don’t tend to share with anyone unless there’s good reason.’ He paused to take a breath. ‘Have you listened to it?’
‘Most of it.’
‘So you’ll agree there’s nothing there for us to get excited about? Apart from oral history buffs, I mean.’
‘The killer took his laptop, notes and phone. That has to mean something. Then there’s the gun…’
‘What about it?’
‘Say Keith was the one who took it. Maybe he thought with all our forensic advances there’d be evidence that could be gleaned from it.’
‘So?’
‘So where is it? Was it in the bag?’
‘John, the person who killed Sergeant Davies went to the firing squad.’
‘Someone went to the firing squad, certainly.’
There was silence on the line for a moment. ‘So what are we talking about here–a fit young man overpowered and murdered by someone in their nineties? Or maybe you think a ghost did it–there are plenty on social media who do. We’ve had to chase half a dozen of them away from the crime scene this week.’
Rebus leaned a hand against the side of the caravan. There were cigarette butts on the ground beneath him. He crouched to pick one up. The filter was a sliver of rolled-up cardboard. Spliffs. Looked like cider wasn’t Cameron’s only indulgence.
‘How long will you keep her?’ he asked Creasey.
‘Actually we’re done. That’s why I’ve got time to waste with you. Her friend is fetching her. Oh, and by the way–that news leak? Strathy and the anonymous note? Don’t think I’m not aware who’s behind it. So thanks a bunch for that, John. Cooperation is a two-way street, remember.’
‘Well, here’s me cooperating then, like a good citizen. The night Keith was killed, Ron Travis heard a motorbike.’
‘He mentioned it.’
‘There’s a bike at Hawkins’ compound. Available for anyone to use. Maybe ask if someone took it out that night. Oh, and the party at Strathy Castle, the one Keith was bundled out of? I reckon our friend Colin Belkin is in the frame for that. So maybe you could ease up on an innocent woman and go check those leads out…’ Rebus broke off, realising he was talking to himself. He studied his phone screen. He still had a signal. Creasey had ended the call.
‘Shitehawk,’ he muttered. Then, after another glance towards the remains of Cameron’s spliffs, he tried the door of the caravan. It was unlocked. He ducked under the lintel and took a step inside. The space was cramped and stuffy, the area around the sink
