Set in Darkness (23 page)

Sandra Carnegie mumbled something inaudible.

‘I didn’t catch that.’

A burst of fury: ‘I said you’re all the same! You look like you’re concerned, but you’re not doing anything to catch him! I can’t go out now without wondering, is he
watching me? Is that him on the bus, or crossing the road?’ The anger melting to tears. ‘And I thought you . . . that night we . . .’

‘I’m sorry, Sandra.’

‘Stop saying that! Jesus, just stop, will you?’

‘Maybe if I talked to the officers at Sex Crimes . . .’ But the phone had gone dead. Siobhan put down the receiver, then lifted it off the hook, sat it on the desktop. She had Sandra’s number somewhere, but looking at the chaos of papers on her desk, she knew it might take hours to find.

And her headache was getting worse.

And the frauds and lunatics would keep hammering at her.

And what kind of job was it that could make you feel so bad about yourself . . . ?

The kind of morning just made for a long drive: sky a pale wash of blue, thin strings of clouds, almost no traffic and Page/Plant on the radio-cassette. A long drive might help clear his head. The bonus ball: he was missing the morning briefing. Linford could have the stage all to himself.

Rebus headed out of town against the tide of the rush hour. Crawling queues on Queensferry Road, the usual tailback at the Barnton roundabout. Snow on the roofs of some cars: the gritting lorries had been out at dawn. He stopped for petrol and downed two more paracetamol with a can of Irn-Bru. Crossing the Forth Bridge, he saw that they’d put up the Millennium Clock on the Rail Bridge, providing a reminder he didn’t need. He remembered a trip to Paris with his ex-wife . . . was it twenty years ago? A similar clock was set up outside the Beaubourg, only it had stopped.

And here he was time travelling, back to the haunt of childhood holidays. When he came off the M90, he was surprised to see he still had over twenty miles to go. Was St Andrews really so isolated? A neighbour had usually given the family a lift: Mum and Dad, and Rebus and his brother. Three of them crushed against each other on the back seat, bags squashed by their knees and legs, beach balls and towels resting on their laps. The trip would take all morning. Neighbours would have waved them off, as though an expedition were being undertaken. Into the dark continent of north-east Fife, final destination a caravan site, where their four-berth rental awaited,
smelling of mothballs and gas mantles. At night there’d be the toilet block with its skittering insect life, moths and jenny-long-legs casting huge shadows on the whitewashed walls. Then back to the caravan for games of cards and dominoes, their father usually winning except when their mother persuaded him not to cheat.

Two weeks of summer. It was called the Glasgow Fair Fortnight. He was never sure if ‘fair’ was as in festival or not raining. He never saw a festival in St Andrews and it seemed to rain often, sometimes for a whole week. Plastic macs and long bleak walks. When the sun broke through, it could still be cold; the brothers turning blue as they splashed in the North Sea, waving at ships on the horizon, the ships their father told them were Russian spies. There was an RAF base near by; the Russians were after their secrets.

As he approached the town, the first thing he saw was the golf course, and heading into the centre he noticed that St Andrews seemed not to have changed. Had time really stood still here? Where were the High Street shoe shops and bargain outlets, the fast-food chains? St Andrews could afford to be without them. He recognised the spot where a toy shop had once stood. It now sold ice cream. A tearoom, an antique emporium . . . and students. Students everywhere, looking bright and cheerful in keeping with the day. He checked his directions. It was a small town, six or seven main streets. Even so, he made a couple of mistakes before driving through an ancient stone archway. He stopped by the side of a cemetery. Across the road were gates which led to a Gothic-style building, looking more like a church than a school. But the sign on the wall was clear enough: Haugh Academy.

He wondered if he needed to lock the car, but did so anyway: too old to change his ways.

Teenage girls were heading into the building. They all wore grey blazers and skirts, crisp white blouses with school ties knotted tight at the throat. A woman was
standing in the doorway, donning a long black woollen coat.

‘Inspector Rebus?’ she asked as he approached. He nodded. ‘Billie Collins,’ she said, a hand shooting out towards him. Her grip was brisk and firm. As a girl, head bowed, made to pass them, she tutted and gripped her by the shoulder.

‘Millie Jenkins, have you finished that homework yet?’

‘Yes, Miss Collins.’

‘And has Miss McCallister seen it?’

‘Yes, Miss Collins.’

‘Then along you go.’

The shoulder was released, the girl fairly flew through the door.

‘Walk, Millie! No running!’ She kept her head turned, checking the girl’s progress, then brought her attention back to Rebus.

‘The day being a fine one, I thought we might walk.’

Rebus nodded his agreement. He wondered, the day apart, whether there might be some other reason she didn’t want him in the school . . .

‘I remember this place,’ he said.

They’d descended the hill and were crossing a bridge over a burn, harbour and pier to the left of them, sea views ahead. Rebus pointed far to the right, then brought his arm down, lest the teacher scold him:
John Rebus, no pointing
!

‘We came here on holiday . . . that caravan site up there.’

‘Kinkell Braes,’ Billie Collins said.

‘That’s right. There used to be a putting green just there.’ Nodding with his head, a safer option. ‘You can still see the outline.’

And the beach falling away just yards below them. The promenade was empty, save for a Labrador being walked by its owner. As the man passed them, he smiled, bowed
his head. A typically Scots greeting: more evasion than anything else. The dog’s hair hung wetly from its belly, where it had enjoyed a trip into the water. A wind was whipping off the sea, icy-smelling and abrasive. He got the feeling his companion would call it bracing.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think you’re only the second policeman I’ve had dealings with since I came here.’

‘Not much crime, eh?’

‘The usual student boisterousness.’

‘What was the other time?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The other policeman.’

‘Oh, it was last month. The severed hand.’

Rebus nodded, remembered reading about it. Some student joke, bits going missing from the medical lab, turning up around the town.

‘Raisin Day, it’s called,’ Billie Collins informed him. She was tall, bony. Prominent cheekbones and black brittle-looking hair. Seona Grieve was a teacher, too. Roddy Grieve had married two teachers. Her profile showed a jutting forehead, hooded eyes. Her nose fell to a point. Masculine features married to a strong, deep voice. Low-heeled black shoes, the navy-blue skirt falling way past her knees. Blue woollen jumper with decoration provided by a large Celtic brooch.

‘Some sort of initiation?’ Rebus asked.

‘The third-year students throw out challenges to the first years. There’s a lot of dressing up, and far too much drinking.’

‘Plus body parts.’

She glanced at him. ‘That was a first, so far as I’m aware. An anatomy prank. The hand was found on the school wall. Several of my girls had to be treated for shock.’

‘Dear me.’

Their walk had slowed. Rebus gestured towards a
bench and they sat a decent distance apart. Billie Collins tugged at the hem of her skirt.

‘You came here on holidays, did you say?’

‘Most years. Played on the beach down there, went to the castle . . . There was a kind of dungeon there.’

‘The bottle dungeon.’

‘That’s it. And a haunted tower . . .’

‘St Rule’s. It’s just over the cathedral wall.’

‘Where my car’s parked?’ She nodded and he laughed. ‘Everything seemed a lot further apart when I was a boy.’

‘You’d have sworn St Rule’s was a distance from your putting green?’ She seemed to consider this. ‘Who’s to say it wasn’t?’

He nodded slowly, almost understanding her. She was saying that the past was a different place, that it could not be revisited. The town had tricked him by seeming unchanged. But
he
had changed: that was what mattered.

She took a deep breath, spread her hands out across her lap. ‘You want to talk to me about my past, Inspector, and that’s a painful subject. Given the choice, it’s something I’d avoid. Few happy memories, and those aren’t what interest you anyway.’

‘I can appreciate—’

‘I wonder if you can, I really do. Roddy and I met when we were too young. Second-year undergraduates, right here. We were happy here, maybe that’s why I’ve been able to stay. But when Roddy got his job in the Scottish Office . . .’ She reached into a sleeve for her handkerchief. Not that she was about to cry, but it helped her to work at the cotton with her fingers, her eyes fixed on the embroidered edges. Rebus looked out to sea, imagining spy ships – probably fishing boats, transformed by imagination.

‘When Peter was born,’ she went on, ‘it was at the worst time. Roddy was snowed under at work. We were living at his parents’ place. It didn’t help that his father was ailing. With my post-natal depression . . . well, it was
a kind of living hell.’ Now she looked up. In front of her lay the beach, and the Labrador bounding across it to fetch a stick. But she was seeing a different picture altogether. ‘Roddy seemed to immerse himself in his work; his way of escaping it all, I suppose.’

And now Rebus had his own pictures: working ever longer hours, keeping clear of the flat. No arguments about politics; no cushion fights. Nothing any more but the knowledge of failure. Sammy had to be protected: the unspoken agreement; the last pact of husband and wife. Until Rhona told him he was a stranger to her, and walked away, taking their daughter . . .

He couldn’t recall his own parents ever arguing. Money had always been an issue: every week they put a little aside, saving for the boys’ holiday. They scrimped, but Johnny and Mike never went without: patched clothes and hand-me-downs, but hot meals, Christmas treats and the annual holiday. Ice cream and deckchairs, bags of chips on the walk back to the caravan. Games of putting, trips to Craigtoun Park. There was a miniature train there, you sat on it and ended up in some woods with little elfin houses.

It had all seemed so easy, so innocent.

‘And the drinking got worse,’ she was saying, ‘so I ran back here, bringing Peter with me.’

‘How bad did the drinking get?’

‘He did it in secret. Bottles hidden in his study.’

‘Seona says he wasn’t much of a drinker.’

‘She would, wouldn’t she?’

‘Protecting his good name?’

Billie Collins sighed. ‘I’m not sure I really blame Roddy. It was his family, the way they can suffocate you.’ She looked at him. ‘All his life, I think he dreamed of parliament. And just when it was within his reach . . .’

Rebus shifted on the bench. ‘I’ve heard he worshipped Cammo.’

‘Not quite the right word, but I suppose he did want at least some of what Cammo appeared to have.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Cammo can be charming and ruthless. Sometimes never more ruthless than when he’s being charming to your face. Roddy was attracted to that side of his brother: the ability to scheme.’

‘He had more than one brother, though.’

‘Oh, you mean Alasdair?’

‘Did you know him?’

‘I liked Alasdair, but I can’t say I blame him for leaving.’

‘When did he leave?’

‘Late seventies. Seventy-nine, I think.’

‘Do you know why he left?’

‘Not really. He had a business partner, Frankie or Freddy . . . a name like that. Story was, they went off together.’

‘Lovers?’

She shrugged. ‘I didn’t believe it; nor did Alicia, though I don’t think she’d have been against a homosexual in the family.’

‘What did Alasdair do?’

‘All sorts. He owned a restaurant at one time: Mercurio’s on Dundas Street. I should think it’s changed names a dozen times since. He was hopeless with the staff. He dabbled in property – I think that was Frankie or Freddy’s line of work also – and put money into a couple of bars. As I say, Inspector, all sorts.’

‘No arts or politics then?’

She snorted. ‘Lord, no. Alasdair was far too down-to-earth.’ She paused. ‘What has Alasdair got to do with Roddy?’

Rebus slid his hands into his pockets. ‘I’m trying to get to know Roddy. Alasdair’s just another piece of the puzzle.’

‘Bit late to get to know him, isn’t it?’

‘By getting to know him, it’s possible I may see who his enemies were.’

‘But we don’t always know who our enemies are, do we? The wolf in sheep’s clothing, et cetera.’

He nodded agreement, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. But Billie Collins was getting to her feet. ‘We can be at Kinkell Braes in five minutes. Might be interesting for you.’

He doubted it, but as they began to climb the steep path to the caravan site, he remembered something else from his childhood: a hole, deep and manmade, sided with concrete. It had sat to one side of the path, and he’d had to shuffle past it, fearful of falling in. Some sort of sluice? He recalled water trickling through it.

‘Christ, it’s still here!’ He stood looking down. The hole had been fenced off from the path; didn’t seem half as deep. But this was definitely the same hole. He looked to Billie Collins. ‘This thing scared me half to death when I was a kid. Cliffs to one side and this on the other, I could hardly bring myself to come down this path. I had nightmares about this hole.’

‘Hard to believe.’ She was thoughtful. ‘Or maybe not so hard.’ She walked on.

He caught her up. ‘How did Peter get on with his father?’

‘How do fathers and sons usually get on?’

‘Did they see much of one another?’

‘I didn’t dissuade Peter from visiting Roddy.’

‘That doesn’t exactly answer my question.’

‘It’s the only answer I can give.’