Ian Rankin - The Beat Goes On

‘And you’ll put in a word?’

‘I’ll put in a word.’

‘We’re the Holly and Ivy Bandits, remember...’

Rebus slid the phone back into his pocket.

‘Is it him?’ Siobhan was asking. There were so many heads between them and the Kerrs, and the light was already fading.

‘Got to be.’ Wilson was sounding agitated, ready to barge in there.

‘Is there a number on his back? Let’s get a bit closer.’ Siobhan was already heading off. Rebus clasped a hand around Wilson’s forearm.

‘Nice and slow,’ he cautioned.

They took a wide curve around and behind the three figures. The three figures in animated conversation.

A young man brushed past Rebus, and the three were suddenly four. Francis Kerr had his hands stuffed in his pockets. Black hooded top... tracksuit bottoms... dark blue trainers... He was sweating, breathing hard. Nodded at Santa without taking his hands from the pouch on the front of his jacket. Santa gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. Rebus decided it was time to move, Siobhan and Wilson flanking him. The competitors were being called to the starting line.

‘All right, John?’ Rebus said, tugging down the elasticated beard and staring into the face of John Kerr.

‘Leave him alone,’ Selina Kerr snarled. ‘He’s not done anything.’

‘Oh, but he has. He’s led young Francis here astray.’ Rebus nodded in the son’s direction. John Kerr’s brow furrowed.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Might not be your influence,’ Rebus allowed. ‘Might be your employer’s. But something’s rubbed off, hasn’t it, Francis?’ Rebus turned towards the youth. ‘Private school and plenty of money... makes me wonder why you’d take the risk.’ He held out his hand. ‘Still got the purse, or did you ditch it already? Bit miffed that it was empty, I dare say. But there’s plenty of CCTV. Plenty of witnesses, too. Wonder what the search warrant’ll turn up in your bedroom...’

‘Francis?’ John Kerr’s voice was shaking. ‘What’s he talking about?’

‘Nothing,’ the son muttered. His shoulders were twitching.

‘Then take your hands out and show me.’ When his son made show of ignoring this, Kerr took a step forward and hauled both hands out from their hiding place. The purse dropped to the ground. Selina Kerr clamped a hand to her mouth, but Andrea didn’t seem surprised. Rebus thought to himself: she probably knows; maybe he told her, proud of his little secret and desperate to share.

‘Well now,’ Rebus said into the silence. ‘There’s good news as well as bad.’ John Kerr stared at him. ‘The bad news,’ he went on, ‘is that the two of you are coming with us.’

‘And the good?’ John Kerr asked in a voice just above a whisper.

‘Courts won’t be sitting until after Christmas. Means the two of you can share a cell at the station for the duration of the festivities.’ He looked towards mother and daughter. ‘I don’t suppose a visit’s out of the question either.’

There were whoops and screams from the spectators. The race had begun. Rebus glanced in Siobhan’s direction.

‘Don’t say I never give you anything,’ he told her. ‘And this year,’ gesturing towards Kerr’s Santa outfit, ‘it even comes gift-wrapped...’

‘She was from Edinburgh.’

‘The victim?’

Siobhan Clarke shook her head and gestured towards the book Rebus was holding. ‘Muriel Spark.’

It was a slim paperback, not much more than a hundred pages. Rebus had been looking at the blurb on the back. He placed the book on the bedside table where he’d found it.

‘How much does a room like this cost?’ he asked.

‘Got to be a few hundred.’ Clarke saw his look. ‘Yes, that does mean per night.’

‘With breakfast extra, I dare say.’

Clarke was opening the last drawer, checking it was every bit as empty as the others. The small suitcase lay on the floor under the window, unzipped and mostly unpacked. The victim had changed just the once. A toilet bag sat next to the sink in the bathroom. She had showered, made up her face, and brushed her teeth. Clothes lay rumpled on the floor next to the bed — short dress, slip, tights, underwear. A pair of black high-heeled shoes. Jewellery on the bedside table next to the book, including an expensive watch.

‘Her name’s Maria Stokes,’ Clarke said. Rebus had picked up the woman’s handbag. It had already been taken apart by the scene-of-crime team. Cash and credit cards still in her purse, meaning they were probably ruling out robbery as a motive.

‘Where’s she from?’ Rebus asked.

‘We don’t know that yet. I’ve got someone going through her phone.’

‘She didn’t give an address when she checked in?’

‘Not needed. Just signed her name and turned down the offer of a newspaper or wake-up call.’

‘And this was Friday?’

‘Friday afternoon,’ Clarke confirmed. ‘Do Not Disturb sign on the door, meaning it wasn’t until lunchtime today that anyone bothered to knock.’

‘And they knocked because...?’

‘Checkout’s eleven. They needed to get the room ready. Called up from reception but of course she didn’t answer. Just assumed she’d left, I suppose.’

‘Maid must have got a fright.’ Rebus was staring at the unmade bed. He thought Maria Stokes’s outline was still there, contoured into the sheets and pillows.

‘Doctor reckons she was probably killed the night she got here. Whoever did it, they were clever to put the sign on the door.’

‘I suppose we’re lucky she didn’t pay for a week. How do you think he got in?’

‘Either he had a key card, or he just knocked.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Someone knocks, you’ll assume it’s staff. Hotel’s the easiest place to walk in and out of, as long as you look like you belong.’

‘We’ll be asking the manager if there have been any problems.’

‘Stuff going missing from rooms, you mean? Not the sort of thing they’d want to broadcast.’

‘I wouldn’t think so.’

Rebus was studying a card on the dressing table. ‘There’s a list here of all the different pillows you can request with your turndown service. Doesn’t say if strangulation comes extra. What time’s the autopsy?’

Clarke glanced at her watch. ‘Just under an hour.’

‘Staff are being questioned? CCTV?’ Rebus watched her nod. ‘Not much more for us to do here, then.’

‘Not much,’ she agreed.

He took a final look around. ‘A better place to die than some, but even so...’

‘Even so,’ Clarke echoed.

Maria Stokes had reverted to her own surname after the divorce. Her ex-husband’s name was Peter Welburn. They had been separated for four years and divorced for one. No children.

Welburn sat in one of the small office cubicles at Gayfield Square police station. He was holding a mug of tea, focusing all his attention on it. He had just been explaining that Maria and he lived on opposite sides of Newcastle but were still friendly.

‘Well, sociable, anyway. No nastiness.’

‘The separation was amicable?’ Clarke asked.

‘We just sort of drifted apart — busy lives, usual story.’

‘Where did she work?’

‘She owns a graphic design business.’

‘In Newcastle?’ Rebus watched the man nod. ‘Doing OK, is it?’

‘Far as I know.’ Welburn lifted one hand from the mug long enough to scratch the side of his head. He was in his late forties, a couple of years older than his ex-wife. Rebus reckoned they’d have made a good-looking couple — same sort of height and build.

‘What do you do, Mr Welburn?’ Clarke was asking.

‘Architect — currently between projects.’