A Song for the Dark Times Read online

  ‘That’s not what I am, though, as well you know.’

  She nodded her understanding. ‘You’re a parent. Means you’ve a personal stake in the game.’

  ‘So if you happen to think of anything that might help me…’ Rebus wrote his mobile number on the beer mat in front of him and slid it in her direction. ‘I’d be really grateful. And maybe next time I’m in, I can buy us both a drink.’

  She waved the mat at him. ‘Size of this place, I won’t need to phone you–a loud enough shout will do the job just as well.’

  Outside, there was no sign of Creasey. In fact, the street was empty. Rebus walked its length and then retraced his steps back to the Saab. But when he turned the key in the ignition, nothing happened. He tried again, pumping the accelerator. A single click was all he received for his troubles. He got out and opened the bonnet, staring at the engine.

  ‘Who are you kidding?’ he muttered to himself, slamming it shut and heading into The Glen.

  ‘So soon?’ May Collins said.

  ‘Car won’t start. Is there a garage I can phone?’

  ‘In Tongue there is, but we usually rely on Jess Hawkins.’ She saw the look on Rebus’s face. ‘Ah, you know about Jess. I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘He’s the guy from the commune?’

  ‘All manner of skills out there. There’s usually someone who knows about engines. Want me to phone them?’

  ‘They have phones, then?’

  She smiled. ‘They’re not exactly the Amish.’

  ‘So what are they?’

  ‘Remember what I said about what brings people here?’

  ‘Shit happening elsewhere?’

  ‘Fresh start’s what they aspire to. That and saving the planet. So should I phone?’

  Rebus considered his options and gave a nod. But when she tried, there was no answer.

  ‘Maybe leave it an hour and try again,’ she suggested. ‘You can always park yourself with a drink and the paper.’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘But I’ll leave the car key with you if that’s okay. When you need me, I’ll be at Samantha’s.’

  ‘I could give you a lift.’

  ‘And shut the bar?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Despite appearances, I’ve still got the use of my legs.’

  ‘So I might see you out jogging later?’

  ‘That’s always been more of a morning thing with me.’ Rebus gave a wave as he made his exit, grabbing the toothbrush and toothpaste from the unlocked Saab and stuffing them into his pocket.

  He was half lying on the sofa in the living room–and probably three quarters asleep–when Carrie came careering through the front door, leaving duffel coat, backpack and shoes in her wake. She drew up short at the sight of him. He met Samantha’s eyes.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d still be here,’ she said, explaining why his appearance was coming as a surprise to his granddaughter.

  ‘Hiya, Carrie,’ he said, opening his arms. Carrie marched forward as if into battle, resting her head against his shoulder as he embraced her and kissed the top of her head. Her hair was fair, cut short, her face round, eyes inquisitive. ‘You look more like your mum every day,’ he said.

  ‘Mum’s got grey hair,’ Carrie countered.

  ‘I mean when she was your age.’

  Carrie studied him. ‘Can I see a photo?’

  ‘Of your mum?’ He made show of patting his pockets. ‘I don’t have one on me.’

  ‘You’ve got a phone.’

  ‘Grandad doesn’t keep photos on his phone,’ Samantha said, coming forward to rub her daughter’s hair.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Let’s get you some milk and a biscuit.’ Samantha started ushering Carrie towards the kitchen, head half turned towards her father. ‘Do you want anything? Are you staying for dinner?’

  ‘My car’s died on me.’

  ‘Wondered where it was.’

  ‘They said in the village Jess Hawkins was my best bet.’

  Samantha didn’t answer. Rebus got to his feet and followed her into the kitchen.

  ‘It’s probably true,’ she said as she poured out the milk. Carrie had settled at the table and was busying herself with what looked like her own personal iPad. ‘I mean, there’ll be someone there who can help.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Towards Tongue.’

  ‘So near Camp 1033, then?’

  ‘Practically next door.’

  ‘I took a look at all the stuff in the garage.’

  ‘So you’ll appreciate it’s become a bit of an obsession with Keith.’ Samantha glanced at her own phone before slipping it back into her pocket–still no message.

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’ Carrie asked.

  ‘Working,’ Samantha said.

  ‘He’s always working,’ Carrie complained. ‘When I grow up I’m not going to do any work.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ Rebus said. Then, to his daughter: ‘Where’s the nearest B and B?’

  ‘You can stay here,’ she said, placing a plate of biscuits on the table.

  ‘You’ve not got room.’

  ‘We’ve got a sofa. You’d like Grandad to stay with us, wouldn’t you, Carrie?’

  Carrie glanced up, but whatever was on the screen was the focus of her attention now, and Rebus failed to catch her mumbled response.

  ‘Once Carrie’s in bed, we can do some catching up,’ Samantha continued. ‘And you can tell me why you no longer have a landline. I did a bit of thinking and my guess is you’ve moved.’ She stared him out until he nodded. ‘Moved and not told me,’ she said. Her voice was emotionless but her eyes weren’t.

  ‘It literally happened yesterday,’ Rebus argued. ‘I was going to phone you today.’

  ‘It’s the stairs, isn’t it? You can’t manage the stairs any more.’

  Carrie looked up. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m getting a bit creaky,’ Rebus explained.

  ‘Are you going to die?’ She sounded curious rather than fearful.

  ‘Not for a while yet.’

  ‘Daddy spends all his time with dead people.’

  Samantha tried to laugh. ‘That’s not true, Carrie.’

  ‘In the garage.’ She flapped an arm towards the outside world. ‘All the photos and the names–hardly any of them are still alive.’

  Samantha jumped as her phone sounded, her face falling as she saw the name of the caller on the screen. ‘Jenny’s mum,’ she said, answering. Carrie gave a little wave, as if Jenny could see her. Samantha walked into the hallway. Arrangements for a play meet seemed to be the subject under discussion.

  ‘I need to make a call too,’ Rebus informed his granddaughter, checking for a signal–one bar; good enough. Samantha was in the living room, so he stood in the hallway and tapped in the number, wondering how Siobhan Clarke was going to react to the news he was about to give her.

  4

  ‘So when will you be back?’ Siobhan Clarke, phone pressed to her ear, watched Brillo sniffing the grass thirty-odd feet away. The dog suddenly squatted, and Clarke gestured for Fox to take the small black polythene bag from her outstretched hand. His face registered an objection, quickly countered by her glare.

  The Meadows was relatively busy: a few barbecues they’d had to coax Brillo away from; an improvised game of football; joggers and cyclists; toddlers connected to their wary parents by reins; prone students readying to rouse themselves for an evening elsewhere.

  ‘Can’t you just rent another one?’ Clarke asked, watching Fox as he crouched to complete his task. He looked for the nearest bin and strode towards it, while Brillo returned to tracking some invisible spoor.

  ‘Christ, John…’ Clarke gave a loud sigh. By the time Fox reached her, the call had ended.

  ‘He’s staying put?’ Fox guessed.

  ‘Car trouble.’

  ‘Is his daughter okay?’

  ‘Her other half’s gone AWOL. I think she’s pretty much on her own up there apart from her daughter.’

/>   ‘So what do we do with the dog?’

  Clarke managed a thin smile, grateful for that ‘we’.

  ‘I should probably take him home with me.’

  ‘After we’ve spoken to the deceased’s friend?’

  Clarke nodded. ‘I’ll come pick Brillo up after.’ She clapped her hands against her thighs and Brillo bounded up to her. Clarke clipped the lead onto the dog’s collar and all three walked back to Melville Drive, crossing it and heading up Marchmont Road. When they turned into Arden Street, Brillo hesitated at the entrance to the stairwell but seemed resigned to the gate leading to the small garden. Clarke unlocked the door. While she checked the food and water bowls in the kitchen, Fox paced the living room, reaching into a box and pulling out a handful of seven-inch singles.

  ‘Archaeology, most of these,’ he said when Clarke found him.

  ‘John says he wants it put on his gravestone: “He listened to the B-sides”.’

  Fox smiled and scanned the room. ‘Feels weird–same stuff, different setting. He talked to me about buying a bungalow…’

  ‘Like the one you live in?’

  ‘Said that was the main reason he couldn’t bring himself to do it.’

  ‘What did he mean by that?’

  Fox put the records back in their box. ‘It was just a general dig, I think. You know what he’s like.’ He brushed his hands together as if to rid them of dust. Clarke was checking her phone. ‘Almost time? The dog’ll be okay here on its own?’

  ‘I said I’ll come back after–unless you’re offering.’

  ‘I’m not good with animals.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  There was a snorting sound from the doorway. Brillo sat there, head cocked.

  ‘He knows a liar when he sees one,’ Fox said with a grin. ‘Come on then, let’s go see what a trust fund looks like nowadays.’

  Circus Lane was one of the most picturesque and therefore photographed streets in Edinburgh. At one time it would have provided stabling and staff accommodation for grand houses nearby. These days its mews homes were highly sought-after and immaculately maintained, with floral displays gracing some of the frontages. Clarke would once have described the road surface as cobbled, but she knew better now–the stones underfoot were setts, being more brick-like than pebble-shaped.

  Giovanni Morelli lived halfway along the street. Clarke and Fox had been expecting to meet him inside, but he was on his doorstep. He wore no jacket, but had tied a fashionable-looking scarf around his neck above a yellow woollen V-neck and white T-shirt.

  ‘Mr Morelli?’ Clarke felt it necessary to ask. The young man nodded. He was clean-shaven, albeit with a five o’clock shadow, and tanned, with thick dark hair that he ran a hand through before nodding. There was a woman with him, dressed in a short suede jacket, jeans and knee-high boots. She stood several inches taller than the Italian, with broader shoulders. Her hair was thick and straw-blonde, swept back over one ear. As she concentrated on her cigarette, Clarke had a view of varnished nails, expertly manicured.

  ‘Issy was visiting,’ Morelli explained. ‘I don’t like the smell of smoke, so…’

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to see us,’ Fox said, introducing himself and Clarke.

  ‘So here we are, on the street like a couple of tramps,’ the woman called Issy snapped. ‘Will this take long? We’re heading to a drinks party.’

  ‘Lady Isabella Meiklejohn?’ Clarke deduced. Meiklejohn seemed only momentarily thrown by the identification. She was in her mid twenties, with flawless skin and pearly teeth.

  ‘We should start by saying we’re sorry for your loss,’ Fox stated. ‘As you know, it’s our priority to get to the bottom of whatever happened.’

  ‘By trying to put Giovanni in the frame?’ Meiklejohn muttered, grinding her cigarette stub under her heel.

  ‘Issy, please,’ Morelli said, placing his fingers lightly on her arm. She wrapped them in her own hand for a moment.

  ‘One theory,’ Fox went on, ‘is that the two attacks could be linked. Someone with a grudge against Salman and yourself, Mr Morelli.’ He ignored the roll of the eyes from Meiklejohn. ‘The mugging took place here, didn’t it?’

  Morelli nodded, pointing to a spot only a few feet away. ‘I was coming home.’

  ‘Where had you been?’

  ‘Salman’s.’

  ‘He lived–what?–five or so minutes’ walk away?’

  Morelli nodded again. ‘Midnight or maybe just after. One attacker, I think. From behind. A blow to the head.’ He placed his hand on his crown. ‘I fell over. One more blow, I think.’

  ‘A fist, or…?’

  ‘The hospital thought maybe an object of some kind.’

  ‘Were you dressed much like tonight?’

  ‘A jacket. It was later, which means cooler.’

  ‘A hooded jacket?’

  ‘Yes, you’re correct–they said the hood softened the blows.’

  Meiklejohn was making show of checking and sending texts on her phone.

  ‘I think you went to the hospital with Mr Morelli?’ Clarke asked her.

  ‘We’ve been through this more than once,’ Meiklejohn said. ‘Which means it’s on record, which means you know damned well I did.’

  ‘You’re just a friend?’

  Finally the woman looked up, her eyes meeting Clarke’s.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And with Mr bin Mahmoud?’

  ‘Again, yes.’ Her eyes went back to her screen. ‘Look, we all know it’s down to Brexit. Attacks on foreigners have rocketed.’

  ‘Not too many fans of Brexit in these parts,’ Fox commented.

  ‘Is that so? My family’s full of them.’

  ‘They live locally?’

  ‘London and Sutherland.’ She looked at Morelli. ‘We’re going to be late.’

  ‘There’s a bar around the corner if you’re desperate,’ Clarke suggested.

  ‘We’re meeting people in the Cowgate.’

  Clarke’s brow furrowed slightly. ‘The Devil’s Dram?’

  Meiklejohn shook her head. ‘The Jenever Club.’

  ‘We won’t keep you too much longer,’ Fox said.

  Morelli touched his friend’s arm again. ‘Take a taxi. I’ll follow you.’

  Her face twisted. ‘And leave you alone with a couple of cops? No chance.’ Then, to Fox: ‘You seriously think Gio’s tap on the head is linked to someone murdering Salman in cold blood?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think I hear the faint rustle of straws being clutched at by a police force that couldn’t find its own backside on a dimly lit bidet.’

  ‘You’d probably have more experience of bidets than we would,’ Clarke commented, her demeanour hardening alongside her tone. Fox motioned to Morelli that he had a further question.

  ‘The person who attacked you–you got no sense of their height, age, sex?’

  Morelli offered a shrug.

  ‘They didn’t say anything or take anything?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘Ergo a hate crime,’ Meiklejohn interrupted.

  ‘With race crimes, the attacker most often vents verbally as well as physically,’ Fox countered. ‘They want the victim to know why it’s happening to them.’

  Meiklejohn dismissed this with a twitch of one shoulder.

  ‘How did the three of you meet?’ Clarke asked into the silence.

  ‘At a party,’ Morelli said.

  ‘One of Mr bin Mahmoud’s?’

  A shake of the head. ‘A mutual friend in St Andrews.’

  ‘You’re both students here?’ Clarke watched them nod their agreement. ‘English literature?’ Another nod.

  ‘Whereas Mr bin Mahmoud was attending a business course in London…’

  ‘But part of our circle nonetheless,’ Meiklejohn said.

  ‘Sort of like networking?’ Clarke offered.

  ‘A social network,’ Meiklejohn said, smiling as if pleased with the line.

  ‘I remember t
hat film,’ Morelli said.

  ‘Me too.’ Clarke nodded. ‘A bunch of entitled rich kids stabbing each other in the back.’

  Morelli frowned. ‘I don’t remember it like that at all…’

  Clarke had parked her Vauxhall Astra on St Stephen Street. As they passed the Bailie pub, Fox asked her if she fancied a pit stop.

  ‘Not here,’ she replied. ‘Besides, I’m on dog-sitting duties, remember? I’ll drop you back at your car.’

  ‘Did we learn much from the two of them?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  ‘So I notice.’ She paused as she unlocked the car and got in, doing up her seat belt while Fox did the same. ‘They didn’t seem shocked or grieving or any of that.’

  ‘Evidence of the stiff upper-class lip?’

  ‘Or theirs is a world where you know people without ever becoming really close. Salman had money, good looks and pedigree. I’m sure Lady Isabella seems every bit as exotic to the likes of him and Gio as all of them seem to you and me.’

  ‘It certainly feels like a different world.’ Fox was silent for a moment. ‘Morelli has much the same build as the deceased, similar skin tone…’

  ‘Bin Mahmoud had a beard, though.’

  ‘But say someone followed him from the deceased’s. They were behind him and he had his hood up.’

  ‘A case of mistaken identity?’

  ‘The lane is a nice quiet spot for an assault.’

  Clarke seemed to ponder this as she started the engine and eased the car out of the tight parking spot.

  ‘I didn’t think you were entirely fair about that film, though,’ Fox added.

  ‘Me neither,’ Clarke admitted with a smile. ‘But it was all I had to work with at the time.’

  ‘Well, that and a bidet,’ Fox said, returning the smile.

  5

  Having collected Brillo and all his paraphernalia, Clarke sat in her tenement flat while the dog explored his new surroundings. He seemed both puzzled and a little bit sad, clearly missing his owner and maybe wondering if this nomad’s existence was to be his life from now on. Having eaten some leftovers from the fridge and half finished a mug of peppermint tea, Clarke put her coat back on and made for the door, Brillo trying to accompany her. Out on the landing, she listened to the barking from within before unlocking the door again.