DS George Silvers came over. He nodded a greeting to his Chief Superintendent, but took it further, so that it turned into something more akin to a ceremonial bow. That was typical of Silvers, whose station nickname was ‘Hi-Ho’. He was in his late thirties, always smartly dressed and coiffed, always on the eye for promotion without the necessary concomitant of hard work. His black hair and deep-set eyes gave him the look of football pundit Alan Hansen.
‘We think we’ve got the murder weapon, sir. A rock with some blood and hair on it.’ He pointed up the path. ‘Forty yards or so that way.’
‘Who found it?’
‘A dog, sir.’ One eye twitching. ‘Licked most of the blood off before we could get to it.’
Professor Gates looked up from his work. ‘So if the lab gets a match,’ he said, ‘and tells you the victim had a lovely shiny coat, you’ll know what the problem is.’
He laughed, and Rebus laughed with him. It was like that at the locus, everyone pretending nothing was out of the ordinary, erecting barriers to separate them from the glaring fact that everything was out of the ordinary.
‘I’m told you might manage an informal ID,’ Gates said. Rebus nodded, took a deep breath and stepped forward. The body was lying where it had fallen, the back of the skull smashed open and caked with blood. The face rested against the jagged path, one leg bent at the knee, the other straight. One arm was trapped beneath the body, the other stretching so the fingers could claw at the cold earth. Rebus could tell from the clothes, but crouched down to study what could be seen of the face. Gates lifted it a little to help. Light had died behind the eyes; the three-day growth of beard would need to be shaved by the undertaker. Rebus nodded.
‘Darren Rough,’ he said, his voice growing thick.
Having taken a break from recording, Jim Stevens sat naked on the edge of his bed, discarded clothes strewn around him, two empty miniatures of whisky on his bedside cabinet. The empty glass was clutched in one hand, and he stared at it and through it, focusing on things the world couldn’t see...
Part Two
Found
I invite you to examine more closely your duty and the obligations of your earthly service because that is something which all of us are only dimly aware of, and we scarcely...
27
One of Rough’s shoes had come off at some point, about halfway between the spot where his body had fallen and where the rock had been found. One early theory: someone had thumped him hard. He’d stumbled, staggered on, trying to get away from his attacker. His shoe had come off and been discarded. Finally, he’d fallen to the ground, where he’d died from the earlier blows. A barking dog approaching had alerted the attacker to the need to flee.
Another theory: after being hit, Rough had died instantly. His attacker had then dragged him along the path, the shoe coming free. Maybe intending to set things up so it looked like Rough had jumped or fallen from the Crags. But the dog-walker had come along, scaring off the killer.
‘What was he doing up there anyway?’ someone back at the station asked.
‘I think he liked it there,’ Rebus said. He was now officially the St Leonard’s expert on Darren Rough. ‘It was like a sanctuary, somewhere he felt safe. And he could look down on Greenfield from there, see what was happening.’
‘So someone followed him? Sneaked up on him?’
‘Or persuaded him to go there.’
‘Why?’
‘To make it look like suicide. Maybe they read about Jim Margolies in the paper.’
‘It’s a thought...’
There were plenty of thoughts, plenty of theories. One thought was: good riddance to the bastard. A week ago, it would have been Rebus’s view, too.
The murder room was being prepared, computers moved from other parts of the building into the room set aside for such work. The Farmer had put Chief Inspector Gill Templer in charge. Rebus had been her lover for a time, so long ago now it might have been in some past life. Her hair was a dark-streaked feather-cut. Her eyes were emerald green. She moved confidently across the room, checking preparations.
‘Good luck,’ Rebus told her.
‘I want you on the team,’ she said.
Rebus thought he could understand. She was circling the wagons, and it was better to have him in the ring shooting out, than outside shooting in.
‘And I want a report on my desk: everything you can tell me about you and the deceased.’
Rebus nodded, got to work on one of the computers. Everything you can tell me: Rebus liked her wording, it gave him an escape clause — not everything he knew necessarily, but all he felt able to divulge. He looked across to where Siobhan Clarke was compiling a wall-mounted duty roster. She saw him and made a T sign with her hands. He nodded, and five minutes later she was back with two scalding beakers.
‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. She was looking over his shoulder at the screen.
‘Nothing but the truth?’ she asked.
‘What do you think?’
She blew on her cup. ‘Any idea who’d want him dead?’
‘I can’t think of many who didn’t. We’ve got half the population of Greenfield to start with.’ Especially Cal Brady, with his previous convictions; and not forgetting his mother...
‘Chasing him out and killing him aren’t quite in the same league.’
‘No, but something like that can escalate. Maybe Billy Horman was all it took.’
She rested against the corner of the desk. ‘Hit with a rock... doesn’t sound premeditated, does it?’
Hit with a rock... Deirdre, Alan Archibald’s niece, had been killed in a similar way: smashed over the head with a rock and then strangled. Clarke could read his mind.
‘Cary Oakes?’
‘Have we got a time of death yet?’ Rebus asked, reaching for a telephone.
‘Not that I know of. Body was found at eleven thirty.’
‘And we’re guessing the killer heard someone coming and ran for it.’ Rebus had pressed the digits and was waiting. Connected. ‘Hello, could you put me through to James Stevens, please?’
Clarke looked at him. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘I want to know what happened after breakfast.’ He listened again, took his hand away. ‘Could you try Cary Oakes’s room for me?’ Shook his head to let Clarke know Stevens wasn’t in his own room. This time the call was answered.
‘Oakes, is that you? It’s Rebus here, put Stevens on.’ He waited a moment. ‘One question: what happened after breakfast?’ Listened again. ‘Was he out of your sight? You’ve been there all morning?’ Listened. ‘No, it’s all right. You’ll find out soon enough.’
Replaced the receiver.
‘They’ve been working all morning.’
‘No chance it was Oakes then.’ She looked at the computer screen. ‘What would be his motive anyway?’
‘Christ knows. But he was at my flat. He took the patrol car. Maybe he saw Rough leave, worked out he was connected to me.’
‘Can you prove that?’
‘No.’
‘Then all he has to do is deny it.’
Rebus exhaled noisily. ‘It’s all games with him.’