Ian Rankin - The Beat Goes On

‘Another guest?’ Clarke asked.

‘Or the person she was meeting?’ Rebus added.

‘Did she look as though she knew him?’

‘Hard to say?’ Rebus turned towards Ferguson. ‘We need as clear a printout of his face as we can get. Then all the staff need to be shown it.’

‘I assumed he was staying here,’ Ferguson blurted out. ‘Are you saying he could be the one who...?’ She lifted the palm of one hand to her mouth.

‘As of right now, we’re saying precisely nothing,’ Rebus said in a warning tone. ‘But we do need that printout.’

‘Yes, of course. Anything while you’re waiting? A tea or coffee maybe?’

‘Tea would be fine,’ Clarke said.

‘Of course.’

‘And one more thing,’ Rebus said. ‘Get Daniel to fetch it, please.’

‘I only spoke to her that one time,’ the concierge protested.

‘Easy, Daniel. No one’s accusing you of anything.’

They were in Ferguson’s office, with the general manager on the other side of the door. Clarke was seated behind the desk and Daniel Woods opposite her, with Rebus standing off to one side, feet apart and arms folded. Woods was in his late twenties, lean and sharp-faced. His uniform consisted of charcoal waistcoat and tie, white shirt, dark trousers. Only the shoes really belonged to him, and they were scuffed and cheap.

‘Actually,’ Rebus broke in, ‘ I’m accusing him of something.’ He had Clarke’s attention, while his was on the concierge. ‘Faking your application, for a start. Ferguson’s vetting’s not as hot as she thinks. Been a while, though, hasn’t it, Daniel? Since you did time, I mean.’

Woods’s mouth opened but then closed again soundlessly.

‘Don’t know what it is that changes a man when they’re put away,’ Rebus ploughed on. ‘But it sticks to them. Either that or I’m just receptive. Young Offenders, was it? Fighting or break-ins?’

Woods was running a finger along the edge of his gold-coloured badge, the one that identified him as Concierge. ‘Drugs,’ he eventually muttered.

‘Wee bit of dealing? Probably grassed up by the competition. Clean since?’

‘Ever since.’ Woods tightened his jaw. ‘So do I lose my job now or what?’

‘Management hold you in high regard, Danny. I just wanted you to know how things lie, here in this room, between the three of us.’

‘Right.’

‘So tell us again.’

Woods took a deep breath. ‘Just like I said. She looked dressed for a bit of fun, said she was after a wine bar or similar, somewhere she could maybe get a bite. She’d put on too much perfume and lipstick — trying that bit too hard. I wondered if she’d already had a drink, either that or a wee bit of powder or a tab.’

‘Nothing out of the minibar,’ Clarke interjected. ‘No sign of drugs in her handbag.’

‘Maybe it was just excitement, then. She was like one of those... cougars, is it?’

‘An older woman out for a good time?’

‘And a bit of male company,’ Woods added with a nod.

‘You didn’t offer?’ Rebus enquired.

‘Not at all.’

‘Don’t tell me it hasn’t happened in the past.’

‘Not once.’ The fixing of the jaw again. ‘I mean, sometimes guests ask me to sort them out...’

‘With an escort?’

Another nod. ‘But I didn’t get the feeling she was in the market.’

‘So where did you send her?’

‘The Abilene, on Market Street.’

Clarke looked to Rebus, who knew pretty much every pub in the city, but he just offered a twitch of one shoulder. ‘Why there?’ she asked Woods.

‘It’s not too raucous. They do bar food that’s edible and pretty good cocktails.’

‘You know anyone who works there?’

‘Doddy works the door, but he wouldn’t have been on duty till later.’

‘What sort of crowd is it?’

‘Office drones. Ties off and jackets over chairs while they work up a sweat on the dance floor. Tunes the ladies can sing along to. It can be a fun night.’

‘Ms Stokes was back here by ten thirty.’

‘Do we know she even went there? Plenty of other places in the vicinity.’

Clarke turned the laptop around so it was facing Woods. The CCTV footage had been paused. ‘This man here,’ she said, ‘the one making for the lift.’

‘What about him?’

‘A guest?’

‘Might be.’

‘You don’t recognise him?’

Woods shook his head. ‘Has he got something to do with it?’

Clarke didn’t answer. Instead she swivelled the laptop back around again.

‘One way to tell if he’s a guest,’ Woods offered.

‘What’s that?’

‘Keep watching. See if he leaves...’

With Clarke supplied with another pot of tea and the fast-forward function, Rebus stepped outside for a cigarette. He’d just missed a shower and the pavement glistened, the evening crowd hurrying past, some with hair still dripping. The doorman knew he was a cop and didn’t have anything to say. He was in his sixties and had the thickset build and squashed nose of a one-time boxer. Pale blue eyes sinking into puffy red-veined flesh. He held a rolled umbrella, ready for any taxi that might arrive.

Someone had died a few windows up, strangled in their bed, the last moments of their life filled with horror and terror. Rebus doubted any of the pedestrians would care. They had worries of their own and not half enough time. As he headed back inside, the doorman cleared his throat.

‘Papers have been sniffing,’ he said.

‘Make sure they cough up for anything you give them,’ Rebus advised. As reward, the door was held open for him, as if he were a regular and cherished guest, the kind that always tipped.

At reception, Rebus showed his ID and asked for the key to 407. He shared the lift with a young couple who didn’t look as if they were going to make it fully clothed to their room. Rebus slid the key card into 407’s lock, stepped inside and switched on the light. Everything deemed potential evidence had been removed by the forensics team since his last visit — sheets and pillowcases, Stokes’s bag and belongings. But the book was still there. Maybe someone had decided that it belonged to the hotel or a previous guest. Maybe it did at that. Rebus picked it up and sniffed it. It smelled faintly of perfume. It was called The Driver’s Seat and had obviously been turned into a film — the cover showed a heavily made-up Elizabeth Taylor. It had cost £1.25 when first published, but had been bought second-hand for twice that, according to a pencilled price on the inside cover. The author’s biography was there, too: born and educated in Edinburgh... spent time in Africa... became a Roman Catholic... Rebus nodded to himself when he came to the title of another of her books: The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie . He’d gone to see the film when it had come out. Had it been on a double bill with something else Scottish...? The Wicker Man , maybe? Closing the book, he rubbed his thumb over Elizabeth Taylor’s face, removing a light dusting of fingerprint powder. Then he stuck the book in his jacket pocket, went over to the chair in the corner, and sat down to think.

‘Quarter past four,’ Clarke said, sounding satisfied.

Rebus walked around the desk so she could show him what she’d found. The lift doors opening and the man emerging, moving briskly across the floor. No one around at all.

‘There’s a night manager,’ Clarke explained. ‘But he’s in an office somewhere. If you’re late back, there’s a bell you can press and he’ll come let you in. But if you’re already in, you just push the bar on the door and you’re gone.’

Which was what the visitor had done. Walking out of shot into what remained of the night, hands digging into his pockets. The other cameras showed a silent reception desk and a closed bar.