‘So nothing at all out of the ordinary that day?’ Rebus asked.
‘No.’
‘Keith came home from work, had dinner, then went out?’
‘Weren’t you listening when I told the detective?’
‘Just getting it clear in my mind. What time did you start to worry?’
‘Bedtime, I suppose.’
‘You suppose?’
‘I texted him.’ She waved her phone in front of her father’s face. ‘Take a look if you don’t believe me.’
‘Of course I believe you.’
‘Doesn’t sound like it to me.’ She checked the time again. ‘Anyway, I really do have to go fetch Carrie.’
‘Creasey knows, you know.’
She scowled at him. ‘Knows what?’
‘That you lied to get rid of him.’
‘I couldn’t stand it another minute.’ She lifted her coat from the back of a chair and started putting it on. ‘You coming?’
‘Does Keith keep anything about the POW camp here?’
‘In the garage.’
‘I might stick around then.’
‘Suit yourself. It’s not locked. And you can leave the door unlocked here, too.’
‘Everywhere used to be like that,’ Rebus commented.
‘A nice safe place to bring up kids,’ Samantha said, mostly to herself, wrapping a long scarf around her neck and making for the door.
When she was gone, he wandered through the house. There were no bedside drawers in the main bedroom, just identical small tables. Her side: a half-empty blister pack of ibuprofen; nail scissors; phone charger; clock radio. His: a football biography; iPad; headphones. The iPad required a password. The screen saver was one of the framed photos from the living room – a beach holiday, father and daughter presumably with Samantha on the other end of the camera. He considered opening the clothes drawers and the fitted wardrobe but managed to stop himself.
Carrie’s room was a riot of colour and toys, including one he remembered buying her for her eighth birthday. There wasn’t much else apart from the small bathroom and a box room being used for storage, so he donned his coat and headed to the garage. Shelves filled with DIY stuff, tools and lengths of wire and cable. And in the centre, where a vehicle might sit, a large trestle table with a folding wooden chair. Rebus sat down and started examining the reams of paper, books, notebooks, plans and photocopied photographs.
Camp 1033 was also known as Borgie Camp, named after the river that ran past it. Rebus got the sense that it had housed different sets of people at different times during the Second World War, from ‘aliens’ long resident in the UK to captured German soldiers. Keith had been diligent. There were books about the history of concentration camps and about specific camps in Scotland and elsewhere. He’d picked them up from dealers, the cardboard packaging tossed on the floor nearby. To Rebus’s mind, that spoke of an urgency, a hunger – maybe a way to stop thinking about what had happened with Samantha? Immersing himself. Losing himself. There was a long handwritten list of official documents and books that he had yet to get his hands on. The words ‘National Library?’ had been double-underscored.
Rebus knew he could spend hours here without necessarily learning much that would help. All the same, he was curious. If Borgie was Camp 1033, presumably that meant there were at least another 1,032 camps like it scattered throughout the British Isles. Why hadn’t he known? One of the books was dedicated to another Scottish camp called Watten, near Wick. Not so far away in the scheme of things. There was also a flyer for a camp called Cultybraggen, near Comrie, which, practically intact, already operated as a tourist destination. Rebus saw that Keith – or someone – had made scribbled calculations about how much it would cost to do something similar with Camp 1033. The answer was several hundred thousand pounds. Whoever had written the figures had added a frowning face to the final underlined sum.
He listened as a car drew up, engine idling for half a minute, before driving off again. He made his way from the garage to the bungalow, unsurprised to find the Volvo key fob on the floor of the hallway. Picking it up, he closed the door again and decided to walk to the lay-by. The wind whipped around him, making him wish he had a hat while also aware that he’d have had trouble stopping it flying away. He unlocked the car and climbed into the driver’s side, closing the door on the elements. He turned the ignition and the engine sprang into life. When he tried the hi-fi, the radio was tuned to Radio Scotland, but there was no signal.
The navigation system offered few clues, no destination having been set. Around here, it paid to know your routes rather than depending on technology to know them for you. As if to reinforce this, there was a road atlas in the passenger-side pocket. Rebus couldn’t quite reach it, so, leaving the engine idling, he got out and rounded the car, settling in the passenger seat. Quickly he realised it was damp. He got out again and pressed his palm to the seat. Definitely damp. He grabbed the road atlas and flicked through it, concentrating on the pages showing the local area. Nothing had been marked or circled. Leaning back into the car, he lifted the central armrest. The storage space below was empty save for a few chocolate wrappers and sticks of chewing gum. Keith wasn’t a smoker, though Samantha had admitted to Creasey that he liked the occasional night at the pub with his cronies, these mostly being people he worked beside. The pubs ranged from the local in Naver to as far afield as Thurso. No driving while inebriated, though – always a cab or a willing teetotal friend.
The glove box held nothing other than the car’s log book and various garage bills. Rebus closed the passenger-side door and checked the back seats, then the boot, which contained a muddy cagoule, a pair of thick knitted socks, and hiking boots that had seen good use. Rebus imagined this would be Keith’s kit for trips to Camp 1033.
Retreating to the driver’s seat once more, he stared out through the windscreen at a view of rising hills. The land here was greener than in nearby Tongue, less scraped and craggy. He knew from previous visits that dunes lay to the other side of the churchyard and led to a long, curving stretch of sandy beach. He thought he remembered Samantha saying Keith had grown up in Dundee, but that there were family ties to the local area – summer holidays with relatives; fond memories. He wondered if he should leave the key in the ignition, for when Keith returned. But Samantha had made the decision to take it home with her, so he turned off the ignition, locked the car and put the key in his pocket.
When he reached the bungalow, there was no sign of Samantha, so he climbed into his own car and set off for the village proper. Its only real shopping street lay just off the main road. There was a bar called The Glen, a shop that doubled as post office and café, and a pottery. When he parked outside The Glen, the first person he saw was Creasey. He was in conversation with a couple of locals outside the shop. Rebus knew what he was doing: same thing Rebus himself intended to do. Namely: dig. He entered the pub and walked up to the bar. The place was dead, apart from a barmaid rearranging glasses on a shelf. She glanced in his direction.