He took out his own phone. Signal strength of a single bar. Angling the phone, the words NO SIGNAL came up. He climbed the gate and tried again.
NO SIGNAL.
Decided that what was left of the afternoon merited a walk into the woods. The air was warm; birdsong and distant traffic. A plane high overhead, its undercarriage glinting. I’m on my way, Rebus thought, to meeting a man, in the middle of nowhere, with no phone worth the name. A man who once got into a fight. A man who knows the police are coming and doesn’t like them...
“Just great, John,” he said out loud, his breathing a little ragged as he climbed toward the tree line. Couldn’t even say what kinds of trees they were. Brown ones with leaves—which ruled out conifers but not much else. He hoped to hear sounds of an ax or maybe a chain saw. No...scrub that—didn’t want Barclay holding any form of sharpened tool. Wondered if maybe he should call out. Cleared his throat but didn’t get any further. Now he was higher up, maybe his phone would...
NO SIGNAL.
Lovely views though. Pausing to catch his breath, he just hoped he would live to remember them. Why was Duncan Barclay nervous about seeing the police? Rebus would be sure to ask, if he ever found him. He’d entered the forest now, the ground yielding underfoot, a thick mulchy carpet. He had the feeling he was on a path of some kind, invisible to the untutored eye but there all the same—a route between saplings and shorn trunks, avoiding the low scrub. The place reminded him a lot of the Clootie Well. He kept glancing to left and right, stopping every few steps for another listen.
All alone.
And then another track appeared—this one wide enough for a vehicle. Rebus crouched down. The pattern of tires looked crusted—a few days old at the very least. He gave a little snort.
“Not exactly Tonto,” he muttered, straightening up and brushing dried mud from his fingers.
“Not exactly,” a man’s voice echoed. Rebus looked around and spotted its owner eventually. He was seated on a fallen tree, one leg crossed over the other. A few yards off the track, and dressed in olive green outerwear.
“Good camouflage,” Rebus said. “Are you Duncan?”
Duncan Barclay gave a little bow of his head. Rebus got closer and noted the sandy hair and freckled face. Maybe six feet tall, but wiry. The eyes were the same pale color as their owner’s jacket.
“You’re a policeman,” Barclay stated. Rebus wasn’t about to deny it.
“Did Debbie warn you?”
Barclay stretched out his arms. “No means...I’m a Luddite in that regard, as in several others.”
Rebus nodded. “I noticed at the cottage—no TV or phone line.”
“And no cottages either, soon enough—developer’s got his eye on them. Then it’ll be the field, and after that the woods...I thought you’d be coming.” He paused at Rebus’s look. “Not you personally, but someone like you.”
“Because...?”
“Trevor Guest,” the young man stated. “I didn’t know he was dead till I read it in the paper. But when they said the case was being handled in Edinburgh—well, I thought there might still be something about me in the files.”
Rebus nodded and lifted out his cigarettes. “Mind if I...?”
“I’d rather you didn’t—and so would the trees.”
“They’re your friends?” Rebus asked, putting the pack away. Then: “So you only found out about Trevor Guest...?”
“When it was in the papers.” Barclay paused to consider. “Was it Wednesday? I didn’t actually buy a paper, you understand—I’ve no time for them. But I saw the headline on the front of the Scotsman. Went and got himself done in by some sort of serial killer.”
“Some sort of killer, yes.” Rebus took a step back as Barclay suddenly bounded to his feet, but all the young man did was gesture with a crooked finger and then start walking.
“Follow me and I’ll show you,” he said.
“Show me what?”
“The whole reason you’re here.”
Rebus held back, but eventually relented, catching up with Barclay. “Is it far, Duncan?” he asked.
Barclay shook his head. He walked with large, purposeful strides.
“You spend a lot of time in the woods?”
“As much as I can.”
“Other woods, too? Not just these ones, I mean.”
“I find bits and pieces all over.”
“Bits and...?”
“Branches, uprooted trunks...”
“And the Clootie Well?”
Barclay turned his head toward Rebus. “What about it?”
“Ever been there?”
“Don’t think so.” Barclay stopped so suddenly, Rebus almost went past him. The young man’s eyes had widened. He slapped a hand to his forehead. Rebus could see the bruised fingernails and traces of scar tissue—evidence of an artisan’s life.
“Holy Christ!” Barclay gasped. “I can see what you’re thinking!”
“And what’s that, Duncan?”
“You think maybe I did it! Me!”
“Really?”
“Holy Mother of Christ.” Barclay gave a shake of the head and started walking again, almost faster than before so that Rebus struggled to keep up.
“Just wondering why you and Trevor Guest had that fight,” he asked between lungfuls of oxygen. “Background info, that’s all I’m here for.”
“But you do think I did it!”
“Well, did you?”
“No.”
“Nothing to worry about then.” Rebus looked around, not really sure of his bearings. He could retrace the vehicle track, but would he know where to branch off to reach the meadow and civilization?
“I can’t believe you think that.” Barclay gave another shake of his head. “I conjure new life from dead wood. The living world means everything to me.”
“Trevor Guest isn’t coming back as a fruit bowl anytime soon.”
“Trevor Guest was an animal.” As abruptly as before, Barclay stopped again.
“Aren’t animals part of the living world?” Rebus asked breathlessly.
“You know I don’t mean it like that.” He was sweeping the area with his eyes. “They said as much in the Scotsman...he was locked up for burglary, rape...”
“Sexual assault actually.”
Barclay continued regardless. “He was locked away because they’d finally caught up with him—the truth had come out. But he’d been an animal long before that.” He was heading into the woods again, Rebus trailing after him, trying to get images of Blair Witch out of his head. The landscape was sloping down a gradient, growing steeper. Rebus realized they were now on the other side of the track from civilization. He started looking around for a weapon of some kind; bent down and picked up a tree branch, gave it a shake, and it crumbled in his hand, its innards rotted away.
“What is it you’re going to show me?” he asked.
“One more minute.” Barclay held up a single digit for effect. “Hey, I don’t even know who you are.”
“Name’s Rebus. I’m a detective inspector.”
“I talked to you guys, you know...back when it happened. Tried to get you to look at Trevor Guest, but I don’t think you did. I was in my teens—already marked out as the weird kid. Coldstream’s like one big tribe, Inspector. When you don’t fit in, it’s not easy to pretend you do.”
“I’m sure that’s true.” A comment rather than the question Rebus really wanted to ask—What the hell are you talking about?
“It’s better now. People see the things I make, they can appreciate that there’s a glimmer of talent there.”
“When did you move to Kelso?”
“This is my third year.”
“Must like it then.”
Barclay looked at Rebus, then gave a quick smile. “Making conversation, eh? Because you’re nervous?”
“I don’t like games,” Rebus stated.
“I’ll tell you who does though—whoever left those trophies at the Clootie Well.”
“That’s something we agree on.” Rebus almost lost his footing, felt something tear in his ankle as he went over on it.
“Careful,” Barclay said, without stopping.
“Thanks,” Rebus replied, hobbling after him. But the young man stopped again almost immediately. There was a chain-link fence in front of them, and farther down the hill a modern bungalow.
“Great views,” Barclay offered. “Nice and quiet. You have to drive all the way down there”—he traced the route with a finger—“to reach the main road.” He turned his whole body toward Rebus. “This is where she died. I’d seen her in town, chatted with her. We were all in shock when it happened.” His look intensified as he saw Rebus was still in the dark. “Mr. and Mrs. Webster,” he hissed. “I mean, he died later, but that’s where his wife was murdered.” He stabbed a finger at the bungalow. “In there.”
Rebus’s mouth felt dry. “Ben Webster’s mother?” Yes, of course—vacation home in the Borders. He remembered the photos from the file Mairie had compiled. “You’re saying Trevor Guest killed her?”
“He’d moved here only a few months before; moved out again quick afterward. A few of his drinking pals said it was because he already had a history with the police in Newcastle. He used to hassle me in the street, tell me I was a teenager with long hair, so I had to know where he could get drugs...” He paused for a moment. “Then I was up in Edinburgh that night, drinking with a pal, and I saw him. I’d already told the cops I thought he did it. Seemed to me the whole case was shoddy.” He stared hard at Rebus. “You never followed it up!”
“You saw him in the pub?” Rebus’s head was reeling, the blood pounding in his ears.
“I lashed out, I admit it. Felt bloody wonderful. And then when I saw that he’d been killed...well, I felt better still—and vindicated, too. Said as much in the paper—he’d been in jail for burglary and rape.”
“Sexual assault,” Rebus said weakly. The anomaly...one of several.
“And that’s what he’d done here—broken in, killed Mrs. Webster, and ransacked the place.”
Then fled to Edinburgh, suddenly penitent and of a mind to help those older and weaker than himself. Gareth Tench had been right—something had happened to Trevor Guest. Something life-changing...
If Rebus were to believe Duncan Barclay’s story.
“He didn’t assault her,” Rebus argued.
“Say again?”
Rebus cleared his throat, spat out some gluey saliva. “Mrs. Webster wasn’t raped or assaulted.”
“No, because she was too old—the kid he did in Newcastle was in her teens.” Yes, and hadn’t Hackman confirmed it—liked them a bit on the young side.
“You’ve given it a lot of thought,” Rebus seemed to concede.
“But you wouldn’t believe me!”
“Well, I’m sorry about that.” Rebus leaned against a tree and ran a hand through his hair. His fingers came away coated in sweat.
“And I can’t be a suspect,” Barclay went on, “because I didn’t know the other two men. Three killings,” he stressed, “not just one.”
“That’s right...not just one.” A killer who likes games. Rebus thought back to Dr. Gilreagh—rurality and anomalies.
“I could tell he was trouble,” Barclay was saying, “from the first time I clapped eyes on him in Coldstream.”
“I could use one of those right now,” Rebus interrupted. A nice cool current of water to duck his head under.
Trevor Guest as the killer of Ben Webster’s mother.
The father dies of a broken heart...meaning Guest has destroyed the whole family.
Goes to jail for another offense, but when he gets out...
And soon after, Ben Webster, MP, takes a nosedive over the parapets of Edinburgh Castle.
Ben Webster?
“Duncan!” A yell in the distance, somewhere uphill.
“Debbie?” Barclay called back. “Down here!” He started clambering up the slope, Rebus toiling in his wake. By the time he reached the vehicle track, Barclay was enveloping Debbie with a hug.
“I wanted to tell you,” she was explaining, her words muffled by his jacket, “and I couldn’t get a lift, and I knew he’d be looking for me, and I got here as soon as—” She broke off as she caught sight of Rebus. Gave a little squeal and pulled back from Barclay.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “Me and the inspector have just been talking, that’s all.” He looked over his shoulder at Rebus. “And what’s more, I actually think he’s been listening.”
Rebus nodded his agreement with this, and slid his hands into his pockets. “But I’ll need you in Edinburgh all the same,” he announced. “Everything you’ve just said could do with being a matter of record, don’t you think?”
Barclay smiled a tired smile. “After all this time, it’ll be my pleasure.”
Debbie bounced on her toes, one arm sliding around Duncan Barclay’s waist. “I want to come, too. Don’t leave me here.”
“Thing is,” Barclay said with a sly glance at Rebus, “the inspector here has me down as a suspect...which would make you my accomplice.”
She looked shocked. “Duncan wouldn’t hurt a soul!” she squealed, gripping him more tightly than ever.
“Or a wood louse, I daresay,” Rebus added.
“These woods have looked after me,” Barclay said quietly, eyes fixed on Rebus. “That’s why the stick you picked up fell apart in your hand.” He gave a huge wink. Then, to Debbie: “You sure about this? Our first date, a police station in Edinburgh?” She replied by going up onto her tiptoes again and planting a kiss on his lips. The trees started rustling in a sudden, gentle breeze.
“Back to the car, children,” Rebus commanded. He’d taken half a dozen tentative steps along the track when Barclay indicated that he was headed in completely the wrong direction.
Siobhan realized she was headed the wrong way.
Well, not the wrong way exactly—depended which destination she had in mind, and that was the problem: she couldn’t think of one. Home, probably, but what would she do there? As she was already on Silverknowes Road, she pushed on until Marine Drive, then pulled over at the side of the road. Other cars were already parked there. It was a popular spot on weekends, with views across the Firth of Forth. Dogs were being exercised, sandwiches eaten. A helicopter rose loudly into the air, taking its passengers on one of the regular sightseeing tours, reminding her of the chopper at Gleneagles. One year, Siobhan had bought Rebus a gift certificate for the tour as a birthday present. As far as she knew, he’d never used it.
She knew he’d want to hear about Denise and Gareth Tench. Ellen Wylie had promised to call Craigmillar and get them to come take a statement, which hadn’t stopped Siobhan requesting the selfsame thing as soon as she’d left the house. She’d had half a mind to get them to pull both women in, kept hearing Wylie’s laughter...more than a touch of hysteria to it. Maybe natural under the circumstances, but all the same...She lifted her phone now, took a deep breath, and punched in Rebus’s number. The woman who answered was just a recording: Your call cannot be taken...please try again later.
She stared at the liquid crystal display and remembered that Eric Bain had left a message.
“In for a penny,” she muttered to herself, pushing more buttons.
“Siobhan, it’s Eric...” The recorded voice sounded slurred. “Molly’s walked out and...Christ, I don’t know why I’m...” The sound of coughing. “Juss wann you to...’matryin’ to say?” Another dry cough, as though he was on the verge of being sick. Siobhan stared out at the scenery, not really seeing it. “Oh, hell and...taken...taken too many...”
She cursed under her breath and turned the ignition, slammed the car into gear. Headlights switched to high beam and her hand pressed to the horn at every red light. Managed to steer and call for an ambulance at the same time. Thought she’d still beat it. Twelve minutes and she was pulling to a stop outside his block—no damage other than a scrape to her bodywo
rk and a dinged wing mirror. Meaning another trip to Rebus’s friendly repair shop.
Outside Bain’s place, she didn’t even have to knock—the door had been left ajar. She ran in, found him slumped on the floor in the living room, head resting against a chair. Empty Smirnoff bottle, empty Tylenol bottle. She snatched his wrist—it was warm, his breathing shallow but steady. A sheen of sweat on his face, and a stain at the crotch where he’d wet himself. She shouted his name a few times, slapping his cheeks, prying open his eyes.
“Come on, Eric, wakey-wakey!” Shaking his body. “Time to get up, Eric! Come on, you lazy fuck!” He was too heavy for her; no way she could haul him to his feet unaided. She checked that his mouth was clear—nothing impeding the airway. Shook him again. “How many did you take, Eric? How many tablets?”
The door left ajar was a good sign—meant he wanted to be found. And he’d called her, too...Called her.
“You always were a drama queen, Eric,” she told him, pushing the slick hair back from his forehead. The room was messy. “What if Molly comes back and sees how untidy you’ve made everything? Better get up right now.” His eyes were fluttering, a groan coming from deep within him. Noises at the door: paramedics in their green uniforms, one of them toting a box.
“What’s he taken?”
“Tylenol.”
“How long ago?”
“Couple of hours.”
“What’s his name?”
“Eric.”
She got up and moved back a little, giving them room. They were checking his pupils, taking out the instruments they’d need.
“Can you hear me, Eric?” one of them asked. “Any chance you can give me a nod? Maybe just move your fingers for me? Eric? My name’s Colin and I’m going to be looking after you. Eric? Just nod your head if you’re hearing me. Eric...?”
Siobhan stood there with arms folded. When Eric spasmed and then started to puke, one of the paramedics asked her to look around the rest of the apartment: “See what else he might have ingested.”