A Song for the Dark Times Read online

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2020 by John Rebus Ltd.

  Cover design by Lucy Kim

  Cover images: road © iStock/Getty Images, sky © Shutterstock

  Cover © 2020 Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  First ebook edition: October 2020

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  ISBN 978-0-316-47923-3

  E3-20200830-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Day One Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Day Two Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Day Three Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Day Four Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Day Five Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Day Six Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Day Seven Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Acknowledgements

  Discover More

  About the Author

  Also by Ian Rankin

  Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.

  Tap here to learn more.

  In the dark times

  Will there also be singing?

  Yes, there will also be singing.

  About the dark times.

  Bertolt Brecht

  We love making damaged people our playthings.

  Jon Ronson

  Prologue

  i

  Siobhan Clarke walked through the emptied flat. Not that it was empty; rather the life had been sucked from it. Packing crates sat the length of the hallway. The kitchen cupboards gaped, as did the door to the tenement stairwell. The window in the main bedroom had been opened to air the place. It looked bigger, of course, without the furniture and the restless figure of John Rebus himself. Bare light bulbs dangled from each ceiling. Some curtains had been left, as had most of the carpeting. (She’d run a vacuum cleaner over all the bedrooms the previous day.) In the hall, she studied the boxes. She knew what they held, each one written on in her own hand. Books; music; personal papers; case notes.

  Case notes: one bedroom had been filled with them–investigations John Rebus had worked on, solved and unsolved, plus other cases that had held an interest for him, helping keep him busy in his retirement. She heard footsteps on the stairs. One of the movers gave a nod and a smile as he hefted a crate, turning to go. She followed him, squeezing past his colleague.

  ‘Nearly there,’ the second man said, puffing out his cheeks. He was perspiring and she hoped he was all right. Probably in his mid fifties and carrying too much weight around his middle. Edinburgh tenements could be murder. She herself wouldn’t be sorry not to have to climb the two storeys again after today.

  The main door to the tenement had been wedged open with a folded triangle of thick cardboard–the corner of a packing case, she guessed. The first mover, tattooed arms bared, had reached the pavement and was making a sharp turn, left and left again, passing through a gateway. Beyond the small paved area–probably a neat garden in the distant past–stood another open door, this one leading to the ground-floor flat.

  ‘Living room?’ he asked.

  ‘Living room,’ Siobhan Clarke confirmed.

  John Rebus had his back to them as they entered. He was standing in front of a row of brand-new bookcases, bought at IKEA the previous weekend. That trip–and the clash of wills during the shelves’ assembly–had put more strain on the friendship between Rebus and Clarke than any operation they’d worked on during their joint time in CID. Now he turned and frowned at the

  box.

  ‘More books?’

  ‘More books.’

  ‘Where the hell do they keep coming from? Didn’t we make a dozen trips to the charity shop?’

  ‘I’m not sure you factored in how much smaller this flat is than your old one.’ Clarke had crouched to give some attention to Rebus’s dog Brillo.

  ‘They’ll have to go in the spare room,’ Rebus muttered.

  ‘I told you to ditch those old case notes.’

  ‘They’re sensitive documents, Siobhan.’

  ‘Some are so old they’re written on vellum.’ The mover had made his exit. Clarke tapped one of the books Rebus had shelved. ‘Didn’t take you for a Reacher fan.’

  ‘I sometimes need a break from all the philosophy and ancient languages.’

  Clarke studied the shelves. ‘Not going to alphabetise them?’

  ‘Life’s too short.’

  ‘What about your music?’

  ‘Same goes.’

  ‘So how will you find anything?’

  ‘I just will.’

  She took a couple of steps back and spun around. ‘I like it,’ she said. Wallpaper had been removed, the walls and ceiling freshly painted, though Rebus had drawn the line at the skirting boards and window frames. The heavy drapes from his old living room’s bay window fitted the near-identical window here. His chair, sofa and hi-fi had been placed as he wanted them. The dining table had had to go–too large for the remaining space. In its place stood a modern drop-leaf, courtesy of IKEA again. The kitchen was a narrow galley-style affair. The bathroom, too, was long and narrow but perfectly adequate. Rebus had baulked at the idea of a refit: ‘maybe later’. Clarke had grown used to that refrain these past few weeks. She’d had to bully him into decluttering. Thinning out the books and music had taken the best part of a fortnight, and even then she would sometimes catch him lifting an item from one of the boxes or bags destined for the charity shop. It struck her that he didn’t have much in the way of family mementoes or what could be termed ‘heirlooms’�
�no bits and pieces that had belonged to his parents; a handful of framed photos of his ex-wife and his daughter. Clarke had suggested he might want to contact his daughter so she could help him move.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  So she had applied for a week’s leave and rented a small van, big enough for runs to IKEA, the charity shop and the dump.

  ‘Cornicing’s the same as your old place,’ she said, studying the ceiling.

  ‘We’ll make a detective of you yet,’ Rebus said, hefting more books onto a shelf. ‘But let’s save the next lesson for after we’ve had that mug of tea you’re about to brew…’

  At the end of the kitchen was a door leading out to the enclosed rear garden, a large expanse of lawn with an ornamental border. Clarke let Brillo out before filling the kettle. Opening cupboards, she noted that Rebus had rearranged her work of the previous day–obviously there was some system he preferred: pots, tins and packets lower down; crockery higher up. He had even swapped around the cutlery in the two drawers. She popped tea bags into two mugs and lifted the milk from the fridge. It was the old fridge from the upstairs flat–same went for the washing machine. Neither fitted quite right, jutting out into the room. If it were her kitchen, she’d always be bruising a knee or stubbing a toe. She’d told him they wouldn’t fit, that he should replace them.

  ‘Maybe later,’ had come the reply.

  The two movers did not require tea–they seemed to work on a supply of fizzy drinks and vaping. Besides which, they were almost done. She heard them fetching more boxes.

  ‘Living room?’ one asked.

  ‘If you must,’ Rebus answered.

  ‘One more trip, I reckon. You’ll want to lock up after us.’

  ‘Just pull the door shut when you’re finished.’

  ‘No last wee sentimental look-see?’

  ‘I’ve got the meter readings, what else do I need?’

  The mover seemed to have no answer to this. Clarke watched him retreat as she took the mugs through.

  ‘Forty years of your life, John,’ she said, handing him his tea.

  ‘Fresh start, Siobhan. Keys are going to the buyer’s solicitor. Post’s being redirected.’ He seemed to be wondering if he’d forgotten anything. ‘Just bloody lucky this place fell vacant when it did. Mrs Mackay had been here almost as long as me. Son living in Australia, so that’s her twilight years taken care of.’

  ‘Whereas you couldn’t bear to move even fifty yards.’

  He fixed her with a look. ‘I can still surprise you, though.’ He jabbed a finger towards the ceiling. ‘You reckoned they’d be carrying me out of there in a box.’

  ‘Is everyone this cheery when they move house?’

  ‘Maybe you’re forgetting why I’m moving.’

  No, she hadn’t forgotten. COPD: Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. He was finding stairs too much of a chore. So when the For Sale sign appeared in the downstairs front garden…

  ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘two flights wasn’t fair on Brillo and those poor wee legs of his.’ He looked around for the dog.

  ‘Garden,’ Clarke explained.

  The pair of them headed through the kitchen and out of the door. Brillo was sniffing his way around the lawn, tail wagging.

  ‘Settled in already,’ Clarke commented.

  ‘Might not be so easy for his owner.’ Rebus peered up at the tenement windows that surrounded them, then gave a sigh, avoiding eye contact with Clarke. ‘You should go back to work tomorrow. Tell Sutherland you don’t need the full week.’

  ‘We’ve stuff to unpack.’

  ‘And you’ve a murder waiting for you. Speaking of which: any news?’

  Clarke shook her head. ‘Graham’s got his team assembled; doubtful I’d make much of a difference.’

  ‘You’d make a difference,’ Rebus countered. ‘I think I’m just about capable of lifting things from boxes and failing to find anywhere to put them.’

  They shared a smile, turning as the movers arrived. The men entered the living room and reappeared a few seconds later.

  ‘Reckon that’s us,’ the older man said from the kitchen doorway. Rebus approached him, digging banknotes from his pocket. Clarke watched as Brillo came trotting up to her, settling on his haunches, eyes expectant.

  ‘You going to promise me you’ll look after him?’ Clarke asked.

  The dog angled its head, as if considering how best to answer.

  ii

  Siobhan Clarke’s own flat was just off Broughton Street, across the city from Rebus. One storey up in a tenement she’d been considering moving out of for the past several months. DCI Graham Sutherland had gone from being an occasional colleague–albeit several rungs above her–to her lover. Sutherland headed one of the major incident teams. His own home was in Glasgow, and he’d asked her to move in with him.

  ‘I’ll have to think about it,’ she’d said. She’d visited his place several times, stayed over just the once. Though divorced, signs of his ex-wife lingered, and she doubted he had bothered to buy a new bed.

  ‘Maybe a flat in the city centre would be more your thing,’ he had suggested, without managing to sound enthusiastic, since when he’d directed her towards a couple of properties he’d found online, his emails headed FYI. One of them she’d actually quite liked. Without saying anything, she’d driven through to Glasgow and parked outside the building, getting out and walking around, getting a feel for the area. It was fine, she told herself. It wouldn’t be bad.

  Then she’d driven home.

  Rebus had basically dismissed her this evening. She’d suggested takeaway curry from his favourite place, but he had shooed her out.

  ‘Take a break. Go tell your boyfriend you want back on the team.’

  She checked her phone. It was nearly eight o’clock and Sutherland hadn’t replied to either of her texts, so she put her jacket on, grabbed her keys and headed downstairs. It was a short drive to Leith police station–she could almost have walked it. She paused halfway to dive into a shop, emerging again with a carrier bag. Parking by Leith Links, she made for the police station and was buzzed in. She climbed the imposing marble staircase to the upper floor and entered the MIT room. Two familiar faces looked up from their computers.

  ‘Aren’t you on holiday?’ DC Christine Esson asked.

  ‘That’s why I’m bringing you souvenirs.’ Clarke emptied out the bag of shopping: salted peanuts, crisps, chocolate brownies and bottled water.

  ‘Better than a postcard,’ DC Ronnie Ogilvie said, just beating Esson in a dash to the treats.

  ‘Boss gone home?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Meeting at the Big House.’ Esson retreated to her desk with her share of the swag. Clarke followed her, peering over her shoulder at the computer screen.

  ‘Rest of the team?’

  ‘You’re looking at the late shift.’

  ‘How’s it shaping up?’

  ‘You’re on a break,’ Esson reminded her. ‘How’s the move going?’

  ‘How do you think?’ Clarke had turned towards the wall behind Esson–the Murder Wall. It was covered by a large corkboard covered in blue felt. There were photos of the victim and the locus pinned to it, plus maps, some details of the autopsy, and a staffing rota. Her own name had been crossed out. Typical that she’d arranged to take time off during a really quiet spell, only to have a big case pop up on day one. She’d tried telling the DCI that she could postpone her break, but he’d been adamant: ‘John needs you–he’d never say it, might not even know it, but it’s the truth.’

  ‘We’re getting a bit of outside pressure,’ Ronnie Ogilvie said through a mouthful of crisps.

  ‘Because he’s rich?’

  ‘Rich and connected,’ Esson qualified. ‘His father, Ahmad, is worth squillions but thought to be under house arrest somewhere in Saudi Arabia.’

  ‘Thought to be?’

  ‘The Saudis aren’t exactly being forthcoming. We have a human rights charity to thank for the gen.’

 
Clarke was scanning the information on the wall. Salman bin Mahmoud had been a handsome young man. Age twenty-three. Drove an Aston Martin. Lived in a four-storey Georgian town house on one of Edinburgh’s best New Town streets. Short black hair and a neat beard. Brown eyes. A couple of the photos showed him smiling but not laughing.

  ‘Not every student gets a DB11 for their birthday,’ Clarke commented.

  ‘Or lives in a house with five spacious bedrooms.’ Esson was standing next to her. ‘Best thing is, he wasn’t even studying here.’ Clarke raised an eyebrow. ‘Enrolled at a business school in London, where he happens to have a lease on a penthouse apartment in Bayswater.’

  ‘So where’s the Edinburgh connection?’ Clarke asked.

  Esson and Ogilvie shared a look. ‘You tell her,’ Ogilvie said, opening one of the bottles of water.

  ‘James Bond,’ Esson obliged. ‘He was a nut for James Bond, especially the films, and more specifically the early ones.’

  ‘Meaning Sean Connery?’

  ‘Son of Edinburgh,’ Esson said with a nod. ‘Apparently both homes are filled with memorabilia.’

  ‘Explains the DB11 but doesn’t answer the really big question–what was a rich Saudi student with a James Bond fetish doing in the car park of a carpet warehouse on Seafield Road at eleven o’clock of a summer’s night?’

  ‘Meeting someone,’ Ogilvie suggested.

  ‘Someone who stabbed him and left him bleeding to death,’ Esson added.

  ‘But didn’t rob him or even bother to drive away in his expensive car.’ Clarke folded her arms. ‘Any joy from CCTV?’

  ‘Plenty sightings of the car. Heriot Row to Seafield Road with no obvious stops.’

  ‘Salamander Street’s just along the way–used to be popular with sex workers,’ Clarke mused.

  ‘We’re checking.’

  ‘Is his mother coming to claim the body?’

  ‘Embassy seem to be taking care of things–reading between the lines, I’d say they don’t want her travelling.’