A Song for the Dark Times

Frank Hess–Keith interviewed all of them. Stefan drives, but he wasn’t at the camp at the time Sergeant Davies was murdered–unless you know different. Helen’s sister had more than her share of admirers, some of whom became her lovers. Was Helen jealous? Did she have a thing for Sergeant Davies? Then there’s Frank, who admired her but doesn’t seem to have been admired back.’ Rebus paused. ‘And then there’s you. You knew both Frank and Helen. Which means you knew her sister too. I began to wonder if the gun was your way of telling people you’d done it. See, planting the murder weapon in Hoffman’s room means it had to be someone with access to the camp. Helen worked there; you and Frank Hess were interned there.’

‘Leaving only a few hundred other potential suspects.’ Collins sounded suddenly weary, shoulders starting to droop. The gnarled, liver-spotted hands were trembling as they gripped the walker. ‘Tell me, Mr Rebus, which of us had the strength to cause Keith’s death? You say the revolver was in his possession–we must have fought him for it, no? Wrestled it away from him? Can you picture that? Really? Can you?’

Rebus waited a moment before taking a final step. His face was now inches from Collins’.

‘Time to end it, Herr Kolln–for both our daughters’ sakes.’

Collins’ eyes seemed to cloud over a little. He lifted one hand from the walker and rubbed it across his lips. Then, with slow deliberation, he began to back away from the doorway, hauling the walker with him.

‘You’re right,’ he said as he retreated. ‘I never told him it wasn’t the same gun. He never lost his thing for the ladies, you see–it was my way of warning him off my wife… both my wives, come to that.’

‘Who, though?’

‘Go talk to Frank, Mr Rebus.’ Slowly the door began to close.

‘From what I know of him, that could be pretty one-sided.’

‘Try anyway.’

The door clicked shut, leaving Rebus on a spotless path in a well-kept garden.

‘I will then,’ he said quietly, scratching a hand through his hair.

The house Frank Hess shared with his grandson Jimmy sat on a short terrace leading off the main road down towards the shore. The sun was out, the day becoming pleasantly warm. Rebus thought he could hear the semi-distant crashing of waves. It struck him he’d yet to visit the beach. Maybe soon. He had rung the bell three times before he heard a voice bawling from somewhere inside.

‘What do you want?’

‘Mr Hess? It’s John Rebus, Samantha’s father.’ He had prised open the letter box and was yelling through it.

‘Go away.’

‘I can’t do that, Mr Hess. We need to talk.’ He placed his eye to the slit in the door, withdrawing rapidly as a walking stick was jabbed into the space.

‘It’s about the revolver and why Keith took it from the pub. He tried asking you about it. Seemed to make you angry. Mind you, judging by today, I’d say that’s probably your default setting.’

‘Leave us alone.’

‘Is Jimmy there? Can I speak to him?’ Rebus risked placing his eye to the letter box again. He could see the old man’s torso, the chaotic hallway behind him. He let the flap close again and tried the door handle. The door wasn’t locked, so he took a step inside. The walking stick caught him across one shoulder but did not deflect his attention from the objects he had seen from outside. He lifted the heavy leather jacket from its hook, studying it as another blow landed against his back. The old man was wheezing and spluttering. Rebus crouched down and picked up the crash helmet, in which nestled a pair of leather gloves. He turned towards Frank Hess, deflecting the latest blow with his elbow.

‘Jimmy has a bike,’ he stated.

‘No,’ Hess said, making to land another blow. Rebus dropped the jacket and snatched the end of the walking stick, holding it tight while Hess tried to wrest it away from him.

‘So he just likes dressing in the gear?’

‘He’s a good boy. He looks after me.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Unconditional love–he’ll do whatever it takes to keep you contented. You guessed why Keith had lifted the gun. You knew why Joe kept it on display behind his bar. Always with an eye for the ladies–hit you hard that Chrissy had no time for you but seemed perfectly happy giving herself to anyone else.’ He paused for a moment, watching as Hess’s chest rose and fell, as if he was having trouble catching a breath. ‘No love for Hoffman in the camp,’ he ploughed on. ‘No one about to complain if he went to the firing squad–easy to plant the revolver in his room and then get word to the authorities.’ He paused again, studying Hess. The man was medium height, and had lost any weight he’d carried in younger years. Folds of flesh hung from his neck. His cheeks were sunken, teeth yellow. ‘You’ve been filled with rage all your life, haven’t you, Herr Hess? Not much you can do with it at your age. Jimmy, on the other hand…’

Hess’s eyes lit up suddenly, the years seeming to fall from him, until Rebus could see the young conscript, the zealot, the unlovable admirer of the local flirt.

‘My grandson has done nothing,’ he spat. He looked around the hallway as if seeking something, then padded off deeper into the house.

Rebus did his own looking. No bike. There was a narrow close to one side of the house, but he hadn’t seen one there either. He took out his phone: no signal. He was putting it away again when Hess emerged from the gloom, brandishing a carving knife.

‘The hell are you doing, Frank?’ Rebus said, hands in front of him, palms facing the oncoming figure.

‘I could kill you, you know. You said so yourself–a man filled with rage.’

‘Unlike Jimmy, you mean?’ Rebus nodded as if in understanding, then flung out his left hand, wrapping it around Hess’s wrist, twisting until the knife dropped to