Ian Rankin - The Beat Goes On

Liz was in the electric wheelchair. Debby was on a hard plastic seat next to her. They were at a table in a fast-food restaurant on Princes Street. Debby’s chair was bolted to the floor, meaning she couldn’t get comfortable. They were having a bit of a rest. Edinburgh wasn’t a place they knew well. They’d come by train, booking off-peak to make it worthwhile. Liz had her head screwed on about such things. No point making money on the day if your outgoings added up to more.

‘Harsh economic realities,’ she’d explained, nodding slowly at her own wisdom.

Debby was in her early twenties, Liz her mid forties. They lived in a scheme on the outskirts of Glasgow. Glasgow’s shopping streets had given them their first taste of success, three years back. The run-up to Christmas, that was their season. They’d get want-lists from friends and would always say, ‘We’ll see what we can do.’ But the lists had to be specific: electrical goods were usually too bulky and well guarded. Clothes and perfumes were what it came down to. Dresses and tops; posh underwear; Paris brands. Liz in the wheelchair, shopping bags hooked over its handles, a travel rug on her lap. Debby light-fingered and shrewd, eyes in the back of her head.

There’d be security staff, but they could be blindsided or distracted. CCTV wasn’t always the all-seeing eye. The clothes would carry security tags, but that was where the wheelchair came in. Exiting each shop, Liz would get a bit clumsy and barge into the alarm rail, setting it off. There’d be apologies from Debby as she helped her mother manoeuvre the chair past the obstacle. The staff would be helpful, might even say that the security measures were a pain. No one, so far, had ever stopped them and asked for a rummage.

There was a big ‘but’, though. It wasn’t the sort of stunt you could pull time and again. If you went back to the same shop and set the alarm off a second time, there’d be a bit more suspicion. So they’d moved the operation from Glasgow to Dundee last year, and now it was Edinburgh’s turn. Princes Street: big names... department stores and fashion chains... easy pickings. They’d already done three shops, and after the burger and fizzy drink would try at least two more.

‘Need the loo?’ Debby asked. Her mother shook her head. The stuff they’d lifted so far, Debby had gone into Princes Street Gardens with it and found a hiding place in a clump of bushes. Always a worry: you never knew if it would be waiting for you at the day’s end. But you couldn’t risk the tags setting off alarms as you entered other shops — a lesson learned after their very first attempt. Besides, they needed the shopping bags on the back of the wheelchair nice and empty, the travel rug unbulging.

Their next port of call was all of twenty yards further along the street. Liz had felt it worth pointing out that Princes Street was good for wheelchairs: ramped pavements, helpful pedestrians. Waverley Station had been more of a challenge, sunk as it was beneath street level. All the same, the day was shaping up. They’d even discussed going further afield next time — Carlisle or Newcastle or Aberdeen. Debby wasn’t sure about England: ‘we’d stand out a mile with these accents’. But her mother had added that maybe they didn’t need to wait a whole year. Their friends were always after clothes and make-up and other bits and pieces.

‘This operation could go global,’ was the seed she planted in her daughter’s head.

Their chosen shop turned out to be less than brilliant. The better stuff was kept under glass. The available accessories looked cheap because they were cheap. It was a question of weighing up the risks. The guard was in a uniform of sorts and prowled the floor like he was pacing a cage, just waiting to pounce. The music was too loud for Liz’s taste. The place was packed with customers, too. There was a sort of ideal midway point: you didn’t want it to be dead, but neither did you want too many pairs of eyes on you. That was one thing about the wheelchair: it drew attention. You had to be careful.

On their way to the exit, Liz did some clumsy reversing. The alarm rang out, the red light on the sensor flashing. Debby started to chide her and the security guard came over. She told him she was sorry.

‘One too many sherries,’ she explained. ‘Lucky there’s nobody with a breathalyser.’

‘It happens,’ the guard said with a smile. He was resetting the alarm as Liz trundled the chair out through the doors. Her way was blocked by a pair of legs. She looked up and saw that the man had his arms folded. He was smiling too, but she sensed there was nothing friendly about it.

‘Aw, no,’ was all she said.

‘So who does the wheelchair belong to?’

Liz and Debby were seated in one of the interview rooms at Gayfield Square police station. Detective Inspector John Rebus was standing, arms folded again.

‘It was my gran’s,’ Debby answered.

Rebus nodded slowly. Even he — though he would never admit as much — had been surprised when Liz Doherty had opted for a patrol car over a van with a ramp at the back. She had risen from the wheelchair with what might have passed for a sheepish look and walked to the car unaided.

‘And where’s your gran now?’ he asked.

‘Buried her four years back. Nobody ever came for the wheelchair...’

Liz asked for a cup of tea. Rebus told her she’d get one in a minute.

‘Before that,’ he said, ‘I need you to tell me where the rest of the stuff is.’

The silence was broken by Debby. ‘What stuff?’

Rebus made a tutting sound, as though disappointed in her. He dragged the empty chair out from under the table and sat down so he was facing both women.

‘You’re not as smart as you think you are. Store detectives tend to share gossip about their day. They’d start telling each other about the clumsy woman in the wheelchair. Glasgow two years back and Dundee last. So you might say alarm bells were ringing across the country. First shop you were in today, they got on the phone. You’d done two more by the time I could get to the scene. We’ve got CCTV going back three years. It was just a matter of time...’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Liz muttered.

Rebus tutted again. ‘Christmas in the cells for the pair of you. Is there a Mr Doherty?’

‘Aye,’ from the mother. A shake of the head from the daughter.

‘Best tell him he’ll be doing his own cooking.’

‘Couldn’t boil an egg,’ Debby blurted out. Then, turning towards her mother, ‘And he’s not Mr Doherty. He’s just a fat guy you brought home one night.’

‘That’s enough from you,’ her mother snapped back.

Rebus let them bicker for a few more minutes, biding his time by checking messages on his phone. Debby kept looking at the device greedily. Her own mobile had been taken from her at the booking desk. Half an hour had passed, and she was suffering the texting DTs.

‘What did we ever do without these?’ Rebus asked out loud, twisting the knife.

‘So when do we get out?’ Liz Doherty was fixing him with a look.

‘When the process says you can,’ Rebus assured her. ‘But I’m still waiting to hear where the rest of the stuff is. Hidden up a lane somewhere? Or how about Princes Street Gardens? Me, I’d probably say the Gardens. Edinburgh’s not your turf. Laziest option’s probably the one you went for.’ He turned his attention back to his phone’s screen.

‘Am I warm?’ he asked into the silence. ‘Toasty warm,’ he decided.

He gave it a couple more minutes, then got up, stretched, and left the room. Liz Doherty was reminding him about the tea as he closed the door on her. He went to the machine and got one for himself, then took it outside so he could smoke a cigarette. He had half a mind to phone his colleague, Siobhan Clarke. She was on a surveillance operation and hadn’t replied to the dozen or so mischievous texts he’d sent her over the course of the past twenty-four hours. It was mid afternoon, but dark and damp in the car park. A metal No Smoking notice on the brick wall had seen so many butts stubbed out on it that its message had been all but obliterated. Rebus stood next to it and tried not to think about Christmas. He would be on his own, because that was how he liked it. There were a couple of pubs he could visit on the day itself. He’d buy himself something decent for dinner, and a better-than-usual bottle of malt. Maybe a few CDs and a DVD box-set. Sorted. Then, mid evening would come the phone call or the door buzzer. Siobhan Clarke, feeling sorry for him and maybe a little for herself, though she would never admit it. She’d want them to watch a soppy comedy, or go for a stroll through the silent streets. He had already considered his options, but felt he couldn’t let her down, couldn’t scurry out of town for the day or unplug his phone.