Ian Rankin - The Beat Goes On

‘Humbug,’ he said, stabbing the remains of his cigarette against the sign.

Back indoors, a couple of officers were discussing the bag-snatcher. He’d gone and done it again, the little sod. His targets were the elderly and infirm, walking frames and wheelchairs a speciality. There’d be a handbag hanging from one or the other, and he’d have his hand in and out of it in a flash, hurtling from the scene with bus passes, purses and keepsakes, none of which ever turned up, meaning he was either dumping them intelligently or else keeping them as trophies. Description: denims and a dark hooded top. The local evening paper had been having a go at the police for their inability to stop him, interviewing victims and potential targets.

Shopping centres were what he liked. The Gyle, Waverley, Cameron Toll.

‘Got to be the St James Centre one of these days,’ one of the officers was saying. Yes, that was Rebus’s feeling, too. The St James Centre, sited at the east end of Princes Street. Plenty of exits. All on one level, meaning it was popular with the walking frames and wheelchairs.

Walking frames and wheelchairs...

Rebus ran a finger from his chin to his Adam’s apple, then made his way back to the interview room.

There had obviously been a bit of a falling-out. The daughter was up on her feet, standing in one corner with her back to the room. The mother had decided to turn away from her in her chair. Rebus cleared his throat.

‘All out of tea,’ he said. ‘But I’ve brought something else instead.’

Both women turned their heads towards him. Both asked the same question: ‘What?’

‘A deal,’ Rebus said, retaking his seat and motioning for Debby Doherty to do the same.

Siobhan Clarke had another two hours left of her shift. She was seated in an unmarked car alongside a detective constable called Ronnie Wilson. The small talk had run out of steam almost before it had begun. Ronnie had no interest in football or music. He built models — galleons and racing cars and the like. There were blobs of glue on the tips of his fingers, which he took delight in picking clean. And he had a cold, a persistent sniffle. Siobhan had tried the radio, but he only seemed to like the classical station, and then proceeded to hum along to the first three tunes, causing Siobhan to switch the sound off. There was a faint aroma in the car: the cheese and onion sandwich Wilson had brought with him from home; the chive and sour cream crisps he’d bought from a petrol station. Every now and then he would attempt to dislodge a morsel from between his teeth with his tongue or a fingernail, making sucking noises throughout.

They were parked in a suburban street. It was lined with cars and vans, meaning they stood out less. They were sixty yards shy of John Kerr’s bungalow. The family was at home — wife Selina and teenage son and daughter. Everyone but John Kerr himself. Kerr had gone on the run from prison two days ago. He’d been done for fraud, tax evasion and a dozen or so further money-related crimes, but all without landing his employer in it with him. Kerr was the accounting brain behind Morris Gerald Cafferty’s operation. Cafferty had more or less run Edinburgh these past several decades. If money was to be made from anything illegal, you’d usually find his name linked to it somewhere. But despite a lengthy court appearance and a slew of questions and inferences, Kerr had kept his trap shut. Then, on a community work placement to the west of the city, he’d simply walked off the job and not come back.

Siobhan had the files with her. They took up half the back seat, and every now and then she would reach for one and flick through it. Kerr had been sentenced to two and a half years, but with good behaviour and incentives would serve only nine or ten months. A model prisoner, it said in the report. Helping inmates on a literacy programme; working in the library; keeping himself to himself. Of course, no one was going to have a pop at him — he was protected by his employer’s reputation. So why did he do a runner? As far as anyone could see, the answer had to be Christmas. He wasn’t due to be released until March. There were photos in one of the folders. Kerr playing Santa Claus at an old people’s home; Kerr — again dressed as Santa — donating a Christmas tree to a city hospice; Kerr with a sack of toys as he arrived at a special needs school...

Siobhan stared through the windscreen. The bungalow was unassuming. The car in the driveway was a five-year-old mid-range Jaguar. The wife worked behind the desk at a health centre. The kids went to a private school, but that was far from unusual in Edinburgh. It didn’t appear to be a lavish lifestyle for a man who’d had two million pounds in his various accounts at the time of his arrest. Siobhan studied his photograph again. Kerr was fifty, short and overweight. That was why they were guessing he’d use the front door. An eight-foot-high fence went around the rest of the property, disguised by leylandii. Nobody could envisage Kerr shinning his way into his garden. He would use front gate, path and door.

Because of Christmas. Because Christmas obviously meant something to him. Siobhan had already asked Wilson what plans he had for the big day. He was travelling to see his parents, who lived in Peterhead. He’d catch up with old pals from school. Boxing Day would see a schedule of visits to members of what seemed to be a hugely extended family. Siobhan just had her mum and dad, and they were in England. She could surprise them, turn up out of the blue, but she knew she wouldn’t. She had to visit Rebus, make sure he wasn’t sinking. Keep his spirits up. He would miss her if she didn’t.

She looked at the clock on the dashboard. An hour and forty minutes till the changeover. She felt muzzy from inactivity. She’d taken a couple of breaks, walking around the block. Christmas trees in most of the windows, lights sparkling. One householder had gone a bit further, adding an outdoor display: reindeer and sleigh on the roof; a waterfall effect cascading down the walls and past the windows; polystyrene snowman next to the front step. Her own decorations hadn’t been put up yet. They were still in their box in the hall cupboard. She was wondering whether it was worth going to all the trouble when no one would see them but her.

Wilson was whistling through his teeth. Sounded vaguely like a carol. There was a newspaper on his lap, crossword and other puzzles completed. He was drumming his fingers against the newsprint. Ten seconds he’d been at it, and she was already irritated. But he stopped and jerked his head around as the car’s back door flew open. Files and folders were shoved aside. Someone had climbed in and was slamming the door shut again. Siobhan looked in the rear-view mirror.

‘Evening,’ she said. Then, for Wilson’s benefit: ‘Don’t panic. He’s with us. DC Wilson, meet DI Rebus.’

Wilson had had a shock and was slow to recover. He stretched out a trembling hand, which Rebus met with his own.

‘Smells like a chip shop in here,’ Rebus stated.

‘My fault,’ Wilson owned up.

‘Don’t apologise, son. I’m quite liking it.’

‘What brings you here?’ Siobhan asked.

‘You never got back to me.’ Rebus was trying to sound aggrieved.

Siobhan’s eyes met his in the mirror. ‘No, I didn’t,’ she said. ‘So you thought you’d come and gloat in person?’

‘Who’s gloating? Nice warm car. Bit of a chinwag and a read of the papers... not a bad way to spend a shift. Some of us are out there on the front line.’

Siobhan’s face creased into a smile.

‘I haven’t heard any reports,’ Wilson said in all seriousness.

‘Princes Street’s a war zone, son. Those Christmas shoppers are like something out of a video game.’ Rebus made show of peering in the direction of the bungalow. ‘No sign of Al Capone? Do we think he’s armed and dangerous?’ He had opened one of the files. He knew about John Kerr, knew all about him. Cafferty had been top of Rebus’s hit list for most of his professional life. He was picking up the photos Siobhan had been looking at, the Christmas shots.