Ian Rankin - The Beat Goes On

‘I doubt he’ll be armed,’ Wilson said into the silence, having given the matter some thought. Rebus and Siobhan shared a look. ‘Nothing in his profile suggests violent tendencies.’

‘Violent tendencies?’ Rebus was nodding slowly. He patted Wilson on the shoulder. ‘With insights like that, son, you’re headed to the top. Wouldn’t you agree, DS Clarke? Young officers like Wilson here are the future of the force.’

Siobhan Clarke managed the slightest of nods. Wilson looked as if his name had just been announced at school prize-giving.

‘Let me ask you this,’ Rebus went on. He had Wilson’s full attention now. ‘What makes you think Kerr’ll come back here? Won’t he know we’re waiting for him to do just that?’

‘No sign of the family shipping out elsewhere for Christmas,’ Siobhan felt obliged to respond.

Rebus was shaking his head. ‘They don’t need to. But tell me this...’ She saw that he was holding up one of the photos of Kerr dressed as Santa Claus. ‘Where’s St Nick going to go when his sledge lands in our fair city?’

‘Rooftops?’ Wilson guessed. ‘Chimneys?’ He even looked out towards the bungalow, as if scanning the skies above it.

Siobhan kept silent. Rebus would tell them eventually. Tell them what he’d gleaned in two minutes that they’d been unable to work out over the past two days. But instead he posed a further question.

‘Where do all the jolly Santas go?’

And then, for the first time, Siobhan knew the answer.

Two in the afternoon, a couple of hours of daylight left, and Princes Street Gardens was filling up. The Festival of Santas drew locals as well as tourists to watch a couple of hundred Father Christmases running for charity. Some participants were changing into their costumes; others had arrived suited and bearded. As usual, there were some flourishes: a tartan suit instead of the archetypal red; a long blue beard in place of white... It was a well-organised event. Each runner had raised money by sponsorship. They’d registered beforehand and were given numbers to attach to their costumes, just like any other athlete. Registration was a bonus for Siobhan: made it easy to check the alphabetised list of runners to ensure there was no one called John Kerr on it.

‘Could be using an alias,’ Wilson had proposed.

But it was much more likely he would just turn up, hoping to blend in with the other runners. Except he wouldn’t quite blend in. He’d be the Santa with no number on his back.

‘Bit of a long shot?’ Wilson had suggested.

No, not really; just annoying that Rebus had thought of it first. A chance for Kerr to spend time with his family without the fear of being apprehended as he entered his home. Siobhan rubbed her hands together, trying to put some feeling back into them. She and Wilson had watched the taxi pull to a stop outside the bungalow. They’d watched Selina Kerr and her son and daughter come out of the house. They had stayed a couple of cars back from the cab as it headed for the city centre.

‘Bingo,’ Siobhan had said as the cab signalled to a stop on Princes Street.

But then there had been a slight glitch. The son, Francis, had begun a conversation on the pavement with his mother. She had seemed to remonstrate with him. He’d touched her arm, as if to reassure her, then had turned and walked away, sticking his hands into the front of his jacket. His mother had called after him, then rolled her eyes.

‘Should we split up?’ Wilson had suggested to Siobhan. ‘I’ll tail him, you stay with mother and daughter?’

Siobhan had shaken her head.

‘What if he’s off to see his dad?’

‘He’s not. I think that’s what’s got his mum narked.’

As Francis Kerr melted into the crowd of shoppers, Selina Kerr and daughter Andrea crossed the street towards the Gardens. They weren’t the only ones, of course. Probably a thousand or more spectators would be on hand to watch the runners. But Siobhan and Wilson had no trouble keeping them in view, thanks to Andrea’s bright-pink knee-length coat and matching bobble hat.

‘Not exactly subtle,’ was Rebus’s comment when they caught up with him. He was finishing a mug of glühwein from the German market, and a garlicky sausage smell was wafting up from his fingers.

‘Getting in the spirit?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Always.’ He smacked his lips and glanced towards mother and daughter. ‘Was I right or was I right?’

‘Well, they’re here,’ Siobhan commented. ‘But that could just be family tradition.’

‘Aye, right.’ Rebus took out his mobile phone and checked the screen.

‘We keeping you from something?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Bit of business elsewhere,’ Rebus stated. People were milling around. Some had started taking photographs of the Santas, or of the glowering Castle Rock, acting as background scenery to this performance. A DJ had been installed on the Ross Bandstand and was playing the usual favourites, between which he doled out instructions to the runners and interviewed a few of them. One Santa had run from Dundee to Edinburgh, collecting money all the way. There was a cheer from the crowd and a round of applause.

‘They don’t seem to be on the lookout for anyone,’ Wilson commented, watching the mother and daughter.

‘Don’t seem that excited either,’ Siobhan added.

‘This was probably Kerr’s idea,’ Rebus suggested. ‘They’d much rather be meeting him in the Harvey Nicks café, but Kerr needs his wee annual dressing-up fix.’ He paused. ‘Where’s the son?’

‘Francis came as far as Princes Street,’ Siobhan explained, ‘but then went his own way.’

Rebus watched Selina Kerr check the time and then turn to peer in the direction of the gates. She said something to her daughter, who glanced in the same direction, gave a shrug, then did some texting on her phone.

‘Can we get any closer?’ Wilson asked.

‘If Kerr sees us, we lose him,’ Siobhan cautioned.

‘Always supposing he’s coming. What if he’s meeting them one at a time? The son comes back and the daughter heads off?’

‘It’s a fair point,’ Rebus agreed. ‘We can only wait and see.’ He looked at his own phone again.

‘This bit of business...’ Siobhan began. Rebus just shook his head.

‘Think he’ll actually do any running?’ Wilson was asking.

‘Not without a number. The organisers are pretty strict.’

Rebus’s phone was ringing. He held it to his ear.

‘Ten minutes left until the start,’ the DJ was announcing. ‘Get those limbs warmed up. Can’t have any Santa cramps...’

‘Yes?’ Rebus asked into the phone.

‘We didn’t get him.’ It was Debby’s voice. She was calling from the St James Centre. Rebus could hear noises in the background: bystanders, trying to comfort Liz.

‘He got away?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Aye. Fast as a ferret. Maybe if you’d been here...’

‘What about security?’

‘The guy’s right here. Ferret shot past him. Got away with the purse.’

The purse with nothing in it. The purse sitting in a tempting position at the top of the shopping bag on the back of the wheelchair.

The bait.

The bait that had so nearly worked.

‘Description?’ Rebus asked.

‘Same one you gave us. Just another hoodie with trackie bottoms and trainers...’

‘Hey, look,’ Wilson was saying. There was a Santa standing just behind Selina Kerr and her daughter. Behind them and between them. Talking to them. Andrea Kerr spun round and gave him a hug.

‘That him?’ Wilson was asking.

‘We tried, though,’ Debby was telling Rebus. ‘We did what you told us to. So the deal’s still good, eh? You’ll still put in a word?’

‘I have to go,’ Rebus told her. ‘Be at the police station in an hour. I’ll meet you there.’