‘Never a dull moment, eh?’ a voice piped up.
Clarke looked down at the seated figure who had spoken. A young man cradling his injured shoulder.
‘Know what an ex-colleague of mine would say to that?’
‘What?’ he asked.
‘One of Rod Stewart’s finest…’
She was about to join Creasey outside–nothing to be gained from hanging around A&E any longer–when he burst in through the doors.
‘I have to head north.’ He looked distracted, eyes everywhere but on her.
‘What’s up?’
‘Can’t say.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ Now his eyes did meet hers, albeit briefly. He led her outside by the forearm, checking to left and right for potential eavesdroppers.
‘We may just have found the murder weapon.’
‘The revolver?’
‘Rebus told you?’ He watched her nod. ‘Looks like matted blood and human hair on the grip.’
‘Found where?’
‘Just off the road, edge of a field. I have to get back right now.’
‘Car’s this way,’ she said, leading him to the Astra.
While they drove, Creasey busied himself with calls. The revolver would be taken for forensic examination. The search around the drop spot would be resumed and intensified, in case the killer had ditched anything else: bloodied clothing maybe, or the items missing from the satchel. The press would learn about it soon enough, so a press conference might be an idea, with one of Creasey’s bosses made ready to read out a statement.
‘Let’s try to keep this under wraps, eh?’ Creasey concluded. ‘And job well done–make sure the team get that message. No slacking, though. If anything, we need to be busier than ever.’
‘How big is the team?’ Clarke asked when he’d finished.
‘We’re stretched,’ he admitted.
‘Commuting from Inverness?’
‘We’ve put together a base at Tongue. Officers from Thurso, Wick, Ullapool, Dingwall… all over really. You’ve got it easy down here, all the resources you need.’
‘Lives of pampered luxury,’ Clarke commented. ‘Which means I can offer you a sandwich before you leave.’
Creasey shook his head. ‘I’ll stop for petrol on the way, grab something then.’ There was a gleam in his eye, the gleam all self-respecting detectives got when sensing a break in a difficult case. ‘It was your old friend John who noticed the revolver, you know, noticed it was missing from behind the bar of The Glen.’
‘Work out who took it and you’ve got your murderer.’
But Creasey was shaking his head. ‘Most likely culprit is the victim himself. Part of his obsession with the camp. Might just have been in his satchel.’
‘So how come the killer used it? If it was safely hidden in the satchel, I mean?’
‘Maybe Keith got it out thinking he could scare them off, and they took it off him. Or else the killer knew it was there and wanted it.’
‘A rusty old wartime revolver?’
Some of the initial excitement was leaving Creasey’s face. ‘Lot of work still to be done,’ he agreed.
‘Just as well you’ll be nice and fresh in the morning then.’
‘I’ll manage,’ he said. Clarke didn’t doubt it for a moment.
At Leith Links there was the briefest of handshakes before he drove off. As his car disappeared into the distance, Clarke took out her phone and called Rebus.
Call failed.
She tried again with the same result, so composed a text instead.
Revolver located. Creasey rushing back.
Then she pressed send.
Fox must have seen her from the office window. He had come downstairs and was on the police station’s doorstep.
‘I hope you’ve got news,’ he said.
She made eye contact and held it. ‘Can I trust you?’ she asked.
‘You know you can.’
‘Really, though?’
But then when it came down to it, what did she owe Issy Meiklejohn? And how far could she trust her?
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘but let’s grab a bite first–I’m bloody famished.’
31
Rebus was in his car, heading out towards the camp. Siobhan’s text had taken its time reaching him and Creasey wasn’t answering his phone. The camp and its yellow Portakabin were on his way to the police station at Tongue. At one or the other he was hoping for answers. But before he was halfway there, he began to see lights–not on the road, but behind a low dry-stone wall. A couple of officers in high-vis clothing were by the roadside, torches sweeping the ground around them, despite there being plenty of light left in the evening sky. As Rebus slowed, they waved him on. He drew to a halt and began to reverse. One of the officers was quick to approach, standing behind the car so that he had to brake. The man then came to the side window, which Rebus had already lowered.
‘Keep moving, sir,’ the officer commanded.
Instead of complying, Rebus undid his seat belt and got out. ‘Just wanted to congratulate you,’ he said. The officer was intent on blocking him from getting any closer to the search party. ‘On finding the gun, I mean,’ he continued. ‘I was going to say well done to DS Creasey. He’s not about, is he?’
‘Back in the vehicle, please, sir.’
‘It’s a long drive from Edinburgh for him, isn’t it? There and back in a day. But he’ll want to see if you turn up anything else–maybe the phone or laptop…’
The officer was having none of it. He had stretched both arms out, forming a one-man shield. Over his shoulder Rebus could make out the small white tent they’d erected. There was a lamp shining inside it.
‘Forensics still here?’ he speculated. ‘Late one for them.’
‘Sir…’
‘Revolver will already have gone for analysis–bit of a priority, I’d imagine. Turned up anything else?’
‘I’m going to have to arrest you. And I’ll make sure you’re taken to a nice, far-distant police station for processing, Mr Rebus.’
Finally Rebus made eye contact. It was the officer from Camp 1033, the one he’d given the V-sign to.
‘Just naturally nosy,’ he explained.
‘Doesn’t mean you can’t spend a night in the cells. Not quite as comfortable as a bed at The Glen, so why don’t you turn your car around and go back there?’
‘You’ll let Creasey know I was asking for him?’
‘You can count on it.’
Defeated, Rebus got
