Sutherland looked like he was struggling to form a suitable answer, while Clarke’s attention had turned to the interview room door, beyond which she could hear raised voices. Eventually Coleridge noticed them too.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ she was asking as the door was yanked open. Issy Meiklejohn appeared, Malcolm Fox behind her, his hand grasping her forearm.
‘What the fuck did you do?’ Meiklejohn screamed at Morelli. ‘You fucking murdering fucking…’
Morelli was on his feet so fast that his chair tipped over and clattered to the floor. He had his hands raised as if to fend off the apparition before him. Saliva flew from Meiklejohn’s mouth as she yelled, her face puce with rage, both rows of teeth visible.
‘Get her out of here!’ Graham Sutherland was saying to anyone who would listen.
‘How did she get in?’ Coleridge was demanding. ‘The Fiscal needs to be told. This is appalling. Surely any possible prosecution is now—’
‘I did it for you, Issy,’ Morelli blurted out. ‘I did it for you.’
‘You murdered our friend!’
‘He was lying to you to get you into his bed! There was never any money for The Flow!’
‘DCI Sutherland!’ Coleridge howled. ‘I must protest in the strongest terms!’
‘Get her out,’ Sutherland repeated. Fox had his arms around Meiklejohn’s waist now, pulling her backwards as best he could.
‘Bastard,’ Meiklejohn said, all energy spent and replaced by a low, steady sobbing.
‘Issy…’ Morelli had taken a step towards her.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’ She shrugged Fox aside and disappeared from view.
‘DCI Sutherland,’ Coleridge was saying, attempting to regain both her composure and control of the situation. ‘None of this is admissible anywhere–you must see that.’
Fox was making to close the door from outside. He gave Clarke a look and she gave him one back–a look that ended with a wink.
‘If we’re pausing the interview,’ she said to the room at large as Morelli righted his chair and sat down, head in his hands, ‘maybe I should switch off the recording?’
‘Best if we take a break,’ Sutherland agreed.
‘Better still,’ Coleridge said through gritted teeth, ‘if you explain how a member of the public got past the desk downstairs–almost as if they knew where to find us.’
Clarke was affecting a look of complete innocence as she reached towards the machine and pressed the stop button.
‘No, leave it on,’ Morelli said. ‘I want to explain.’
‘That’s very unwise, Gio,’ Coleridge warned him.
‘I want to explain,’ he repeated, with a bit more iron in his voice.
Clarke turned the machine on again.
44
‘He wore motorcycle gloves,’ Rebus said croakily. He was in The Glen, seated at the same corner table where he had first met Jimmy Hess. Creasey sat opposite, next to May Collins. She had made Rebus a drink comprising hot water, whisky, honey and a squeeze of lemon, plus a couple of ibuprofen tablets that he’d struggled to swallow. ‘Hence no prints,’ he continued. ‘Drove the Volvo back here, maybe thinking he’d buy himself some time that way. Walked to the camp to retrieve the bike–no one on the road that late of an evening, meaning no witnesses.’
‘John did tell you it was to do with the camp,’ Collins admonished Creasey. He turned his head to her.
‘Are you sure you didn’t know anything about it? Your dad goading Frank Hess all these years? He didn’t drop a hint of any sort?’
She glared at the detective. ‘Definitely not. All I knew was that there was always a bit of needle between them.’
‘Why did your father never come forward?’
Rebus watched May Collins shrug. ‘I think maybe he liked tormenting Frank, or it could be he just wasn’t overly bothered. He’d been through a war–what was one more innocent life?’
Creasey’s phone vibrated and he checked the screen, his face unreadable.
‘Any sign?’ Rebus wanted to know.
‘He can’t get far.’
Rebus was reminded of the stories about escapes from Camp 1033. The runaways would head into the wilderness but soon give up. He imagined Jimmy Hess running, the laptop under his arm. He would run, then rest, then run again, growing thirsty and hungry and cold. Eventually he would realise the futility of it, but would he be able to find his way back, or would the peatlands all look the same, lacking landmarks of any kind? Of course, he could be sticking to another course, following the coast to east or west. But patrol cars were on the hunt, hiding places in short supply and easily searched.
‘Callum’s farm?’ he suggested.
‘Two officers are there, just in case.’
‘What about Frank?’
‘Under lock and key in Tongue. We’ll transfer him to Inverness later.’
‘He’s your catch–shouldn’t you be there?’
‘Soon as I’m sure you’re okay.’
‘I keep telling you I’m dandy.’ Rebus swallowed, wincing in pain again.
‘Christ, John,’ Creasey said.
May Collins reached out and gave his hand a squeeze. ‘At least let a doctor take a look,’ she said.
Rebus was about to protest when the door to the bar rattled open and Samantha burst in. She spotted them and flopped down next to her father, giving him as much of a hug as the cramped space would allow.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Might have to skip choir practice tonight.’
‘You’ve seen a doctor?’
‘He’s refusing,’ May Collins said. ‘Can I get you anything, Sam?’
Samantha shook her head.
‘How’s Carrie?’ Rebus wheezed.
‘She’s okay, but you’re not.’ She turned to Creasey. ‘He’s got COPD, you know. Finds breathing hard enough as it is.’
‘I did consider bundling him into a patrol car in handcuffs,’ Creasey replied. ‘Short of that, I’m not sure what I can do.’
Samantha turned back to her father again. ‘You’re a stubborn old goat.’
‘With the bleat to match.’ Rebus stroked his throat with thumb and forefinger.
‘It was Jimmy, then?’ she said. ‘Killed Keith, tried to strangle you?’
‘Jimmy,’ Rebus confirmed.
Her brow wrinkled. ‘Because of something that happened seventy-odd years ago?’
‘Some people have long memories.’
May pointed towards the bar. ‘It was
