Ian Rankin - The Beat Goes On

‘Any support from Ms Stokes? Financially, I mean?’

The man shook his head. ‘I hardly ever saw her — maybe a phone call or a text once a week.’

‘But no nastiness?’ Rebus asked, echoing Welburn’s own words.

‘No.’

‘Did you know she was coming to Edinburgh?’

Another slow shake of the head.

‘Did she have any friends in the city? Any connection to the place?’

‘We visited a few times — years ago now. It’s quick on the train. Used to book a B and B, hit a few of the pubs, maybe catch some music...’ Welburn’s voice cracked as the memories took hold. He cleared his throat. ‘It was terrible, seeing her like that.’

‘Formal identification is always difficult on the loved ones,’ Clarke offered, trying to sound sympathetic, though she had trotted out the same words so many times before.

‘When was the last time you were in Edinburgh?’ Rebus broke in. ‘Before today, I mean?’

‘Couple of years, probably.’

‘And this past weekend...?’

Welburn lifted his eyes to meet Rebus’s. ‘I was at home. With my girlfriend and her kid.’

Clarke lifted a hand. ‘I’m sorry, but these things have to be asked.’

‘Why would I want to kill Maria? It’s insane.’

‘Did she have anyone she was seeing? Someone she might have wanted to spend the weekend with?’

‘No idea.’

‘And I’m guessing no enemies that you’d know of?’

‘Enemies?’ Welburn’s face crumpled. ‘She was a sweetheart, an absolute angel. Even when we were splitting up, there wasn’t any drama. We just... got on with it.’ He placed the mug on the desk and let his head fall into his hands, shoulders spasming as he sobbed.

‘What do you reckon?’ Clarke asked. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she waited for the lights to change.

‘Seemed genuine enough. Did the deceased take the train this time, or did she drive?’

‘She didn’t leave a car at the hotel. It’s a five-minute walk from the station.’

‘I didn’t see a return ticket in her bag. Maybe her coat or jacket?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Meaning she only bought a single. Does she strike you as the impetuous type?’

‘We really don’t know much about her.’

‘Are you on to CID in Newcastle?’

Clarke nodded. ‘They’ll give her flat a look. See if there’s a diary, or maybe something useful on her computer. You think she was meeting someone? Returning to Newcastle not uppermost in her mind?’

‘Or she left in a hurry.’

‘She’d taken some care packing that case. Didn’t look thrown together in a panic.’

‘Then we’re not much further forward, are we?’

‘Not much. But whoever did it, they’ve had three days to make themselves scarce.’

‘And arrange an alibi.’

‘That too,’ Clarke agreed.

The general manager’s name was Kate Ferguson. She met them in the airy reception and asked if anyone had offered them something to drink.

‘We declined,’ Clarke replied.

‘Well then. This way.’

Ferguson led them to an office on the mezzanine level. Her sizeable desk had been cleared of everything but a laptop computer. Two chairs awaited, both with a view of the screen.

‘Two of your officers have already viewed the footage,’ she said, in a tone that told them she was busy and important and wanted the whole business consigned to history.

‘Just need to see for ourselves.’

‘I’m sure we could have forwarded you a copy.’

Clarke offered a professional smile. ‘We appreciate the hotel’s cooperation.’

Realising that she had lost the skirmish, Ferguson used the mouse to start the film. Four onscreen squares, all in colour and of high quality: the outside steps, reception desk, lift and bar.

‘This is her checking in,’ she said. She was standing just behind the two detectives, her hand reaching between them to point to the top left square. ‘Just the one overnight case, meaning she didn’t need help with luggage and didn’t want to be escorted to her room.’

‘How long ago did she book?’

‘Ten days.’

‘By phone? Email?’

‘It was an online booking.’

‘She didn’t say if it was business or pleasure?’

‘She arrives dressed for business,’ Clarke interrupted. ‘Two-piece, neutral, flat shoes.’

The clothes that had been left in a pile on the bathroom floor, prior to her shower.

‘She didn’t hang anything up,’ Rebus commented.

The action moved to the lift, Maria Stokes pushing the button. Then pushing it again a couple of times.

‘She’s in a hurry,’ Clarke said.

‘No calls that needed connecting to her room?’ Rebus asked.

‘Everyone has their own phone these days.’ The general manager seemed every bit as irritated by this as by the intrusion of the police into her life.

‘We’re asking her service provider for a breakdown,’ Clarke added for Rebus’s benefit.

They watched as the lift doors opened and Maria Stokes got in. ‘No cameras in the corridors?’ Rebus enquired.

‘No.’

‘So someone could try the doors on every floor and not be spotted?’

‘As I told your colleagues, that sort of thing has never happened here.’

‘Why not?’ Rebus turned to meet Ferguson’s stare. ‘It’s a genuine question — seems to me you’ve left the place wide open.’

‘Staff are rigorously vetted. They’re also trained to tell a guest from someone who doesn’t belong.’

‘So what happens now?’ Clarke interrupted. ‘With Ms Stokes, I mean.’

Ferguson dragged the cursor along the timeline at the bottom of the screen.

‘Seven twenty-three p.m.,’ she said. ‘As you can see, she’s changed her outfit.’

Stokes was emerging from the lift, dressed in the clothes they had seen next to her bed. She looked nervous, scanning the lobby.

‘A rendezvous?’ Rebus offered. He watched as she made her way to the bar. She stopped at the threshold, a member of staff smiling a greeting.

‘She’s looking for someone, isn’t she?’ Clarke asked, to herself as much as anyone else.

‘And not finding them,’ Rebus added. Because now Stokes was shaking her head at the offer of a table. There seemed to be only two couples in the whole place. Friday night was happening elsewhere.

Back in the lobby, she stopped to talk to someone.

‘That’s one of our concierges,’ Ferguson offered. ‘Daniel. Very knowledgeable.’

‘So what’s he telling her?’ Clarke asked.

‘She wanted to know where to eat, where to drink.’ Daniel was nodding in the direction of the bar. ‘Of course,’ Ferguson went on, sounding proud, ‘he told her that our own bar and dining room couldn’t be bettered.’

There was a little laugh from Maria Stokes, and she even touched the concierge on the arm.

‘Friendly sort,’ Rebus commented.

‘His patter didn’t seal the deal, though.’ Clarke leaned in a little towards the screen, where Stokes was walking out of the hotel — the door held open by Daniel. She looked to right and left, until the obliging concierge emerged to point her in the right direction. Then off she went, slightly hesitantly, as though the height of her heels were a new and daunting experience.

‘Which brings us to...’ Ferguson again used the mouse, dragging the cursor along the screen. ‘Ten twenty-six.’

‘So she was out and about for almost exactly three hours.’ Clarke added the numbers to a small notepad. The sky was dark but the front of the hotel was brightly illuminated. The bar area was at last doing good business, and a middle-aged couple laden with luggage were checking in at the reception desk. There was no one to hold open the door for Maria Stokes, and she struggled a little. Tipsy strides across the floor to the lift, whose button she needed to press just the once, its doors sliding open immediately. A half-glance behind her as a man arrived from outside. She entered the lift and he hurried forward, squeezing in as the doors slid shut.