Ian Rankin - The Beat Goes On

‘Interesting painting,’ he said, as Waters turned the photo back towards himself.

‘It’s still in the family.’

‘Is it a loch or a river?’

‘I think the artist invented it, whatever it is. Not too many clifftop castles in Scotland.’

‘Not that I know of.’ Rebus made to rise to his feet, Waters following suit.

‘I’m still not sure why you came, Inspector,’ he commented.

‘Me neither,’ Rebus told him. Then he slid his hands into his pockets. ‘Your brother just seemed so confused and lonely. I take it a visit from you would upset him?’

Waters shrugged. ‘I’m a ghost, remember.’

‘And your sister? Does she see him much?’

Waters shook his head. ‘It upsets her too much to see him like that.’ He gestured with an expansive right arm. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else...’

‘I appreciate your time, sir.’ Rebus didn’t bother mentioning the Saab; reckoned it would do him another year.

He decided that a further visit to Renshaw House was in order, but first drove towards his home in Marchmont, stopping at the local butcher’s shop. He was a known face here, and as with a good barman, the butcher knew what his regulars liked.

‘Steak pie, Mr Rebus?’ he was asking as Rebus walked over the threshold.

‘No thanks, Andy.’

‘Couple of nice pork chops, then?’

Rebus shook his head. There was sawdust on the floor — for show rather than anything else. Andy wore a striped apron and a straw boater. Photos on the white-tiled wall showed his father in the selfsame get-up. Rebus was struck again by what the photo on Waters’s desk must have meant to the car dealer.

‘Just a question actually, Andy,’ he said.

‘Is this me becoming a police informer? The Huggy Bear of Edinburgh?’

Rebus answered the laugh with a smile of his own. He’d never seen the butcher at rest. Even now, with no order to fill, Andy was sorting the display of various hams and sausages. ‘I was wondering if you knew about a butcher called Pakenham.’

‘Pakenham?’

Rebus spelled it for him. ‘They’d be local, I think. “Fresh Fleshing” is what it says on their van.’

‘Have they got a shop?’

‘I’ve only seen the van. It was delivering to an old folk’s home’

Andy pursed his lips.

‘What is it?’ Rebus asked.

‘Well, it’s not always top-grade, is it?’

‘Cheap cuts, you mean?’

‘Cheapest possible.’ Andy held his hands up. ‘I’m not saying they’re all like that...’

‘But some are?’ Rebus nodded to himself. ‘Got a phone book, Andy?’

The butcher fetched one from the back of the shop. Rebus checked, but there was no Pakenham Fresh Fleshing.

‘Thanks, Andy,’ he said, handing it back.

‘Sorry I can’t be more help. More Yogi Bear than Huggy, eh?’

‘Actually, you’ve been a big help. And maybe I will take one of those steak pies.’

‘Family size, as usual?’

‘As usual,’ Rebus confirmed. He would drop it home before his visit to Renshaw House.

He rang the bell and waited. It was late afternoon now, the sun low in the sky. The detached villa sat on Minto Street, a busy thoroughfare on the city’s south side. The house had a faded elegance, its stonework blackened by time and traffic. Most of the houses around it had become bed and breakfasts, but not this one. The name on the unpolished brass door plate was Waters, the letters picked out in verdigris. The sister, it seemed, had never married.

She opened the door herself. No pigtails now, the hair grey and thin, scraped back from the forehead and tucked behind both ears. Her eyes were sunken, as were her cheeks. Colin Waters, it seemed, had stolen all the heartiest genes from his parents.

‘Martha Waters?’ Rebus said, realising that he was pitching his voice a little louder than was probably necessary — she was only ten or so years older than him.

‘Yes?’

He held open his warrant card. ‘I’m from the police, Miss Waters. Do you mind if I come in?’

She said nothing, her mouth forming a crumpled O. But she held the door open so he could pass into the hall. It wasn’t the same one as in the photograph. The banisters were wooden, darkly varnished. The only natural light came from a window on the upstairs landing. The carpet was ornate but as worn as its owner. She closed the door, adding to the pervasive gloom. Rebus noted an alarm panel on the wall beside the umbrella stand. The panel looked new, with a digital display. A sensor blinked in the far corner of the ceiling.

‘Would you care for a cup of tea?’ She spoke quietly, pronouncing each syllable. She had yet to ask him why he was here.

‘Is there somewhere we can sit, Miss Waters?’

She shuffled in her carpet slippers towards another door, opening it to reveal what she would probably call the parlour. It was like stepping back in time: antimacassars on the sofas, an empty three-tiered cake stand on a large embroidered doily. Little ornaments and knick-knacks covered every surface. A grandfather clock had ceased to work some time back, frozen for ever at one minute to twelve.

‘Did you say you wanted tea?’ she enquired.

‘No thanks.’ Rebus had strode over to the fireplace, admiring the large painting framed above the mantel. A bus sped past outside, causing some of the ornaments to rattle. Martha Waters sat herself down. Before his arrival, she’d been listening to the radio: a classical station, the sound barely audible. Nothing much wrong with her hearing, then... or she was just saving batteries.

‘This is a grand painting,’ Rebus told her.

‘I used to like it,’ she said. ‘I hardly see it any more.’

Rebus nodded his understanding. Nothing wrong with her eyes either; she meant something else entirely.

‘Who’s it by?’ he asked.

‘My brother says it’s a Gainsborough.’

‘Explains the alarm system... I take it Colin had that fitted?’

‘Do you know about art?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘But I know the name. It must be quite old, then.’

‘Seventeen eighties.’

‘As old as that? And worth a bit, I dare say?’

‘Six figures, so Colin tells me.’

Rebus shook his head again, this time in apparent wonder. ‘I saw that photograph of it. You know the one I mean?’ He turned to her. ‘Colin keeps it on his office desk. It stares back at him every working day.’

Her eyes seemed to regain their focus. ‘What is it you want here?’

‘Me?’ He shrugged. ‘I just wanted to see it in the flesh. I thought maybe you’d’ve sold it or something.’

‘We could never sell it.’

‘Not even after what you went through to get it?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I think you do, Miss Waters. I think it’s been your little secret all these long years. I’ve just come from Renshaw House, had a nice long chat with Lionel.’

At the mention of her brother’s name, Martha stiffened, clasping her hands on her lap in front of her.

‘All those crazy stories he tells... about his treasure and how he killed his brother... and how you buried him. He keeps rambling about a boat and a castle.’ Rebus pointed to the painting. ‘And there they are: a castle on a hilltop, fishing boat on the water below it — Lionel’s treasure. My bet is, he loved that painting and your parents had decided he could have it. Maybe they were going to will it to him, I don’t know. But Colin wanted it, didn’t he? And you, young as you were, you wanted it too. Two greedy little kids.’ Rebus was standing in front of her now. He crouched so that she couldn’t escape his eyes. ‘Two brothers having a wrestle. Colin told me Lionel loved to wrestle, but Lionel says he never did: the wrestling was Colin’s idea.’ Rebus paused for effect. ‘And then one of them’s not moving, and he’s covered in blood. What was it, Martha — ketchup? Paint? Whatever it was, it did the trick, sent Lionel over the edge. Especially when you told him you’d buried Colin.’ Rebus stayed in a crouch, but Martha’s eyes had drifted to the painting.