Ian Rankin - The Beat Goes On

‘Half past ten till quarter past four,’ Rebus commented, lifting a photocopied still from next to the laptop — the general manager had provided half a dozen, all showing the clearest shot of the man. ‘Doesn’t take that long to throttle someone.’

‘Well,’ Clarke replied, as though she’d given it some thought, ‘first you’ve got to get good and angry.’ She picked up another of the photos and studied it.

‘Because things aren’t turning out as planned?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Maybe.’ She stretched her spine, rolling her shoulders and neck.

‘It’s been a long day,’ Rebus sympathised. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

‘I’ve got to go home. Bills to open, plants to water. Need me to give you a lift?’

Rebus was shaking his head. ‘I’ll walk,’ he said.

‘Without your course deviating at any point into some pub or other?’

‘Oh ye of little faith,’ Rebus tutted, his smile eventually matching hers.

‘Are you Doddy?’

Time was, all that was required of a bouncer was that he look scary. But these days they had to be smartly dressed too. The man giving Rebus a hard stare wasn’t tall, or especially broad, but there was plenty of muscle beneath the black woollen coat and polo neck. An earpiece coiled down past his collar, and an embossed photo ID was strapped high up on one arm.

‘Anything wrong, officer?’

Rebus had been about to dig his warrant card from his pocket, but smiled instead. ‘Guilty as charged,’ he said. The doorman shook his head when Rebus offered a cigarette. He got his own lit and blew the smoke upwards. ‘Quiet tonight,’ he commented.

‘Usual Monday. Money’s all spent.’

‘That explain the half-price drinks?’ Rebus nodded towards a poster to one side of the door.

‘Might be an extra reduction for members of the constabulary.’

‘Fruit-flavour shots, though — which rots first, the liver or the teeth?’

Doddy dredged up a thin smile. ‘So that’s the ice broken. Now what do you want?’

‘The tourist strangled in her hotel room — I assume you’ve heard.’

‘It was on the news.’

‘Friday night around half past seven, we think she came by here.’ Rebus described Maria Stokes and Doddy nodded slowly.

‘I remember,’ he said. ‘We get a few single women coming here, but not too many.’

‘Did she say anything?’

‘Just asked if it cost anything to get in.’

‘Did you see her come out again?’

‘No.’

‘Might have been just before ten thirty.’

‘There was a bit of an altercation. Stag party trying to get in. Two of them could barely stand.’

‘There’ll be CCTV inside, yes?’ As Doddy nodded, Rebus held up the photo of the man from the hotel foyer. ‘Recognise him?’

‘Might have seen him.’

‘To talk to?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Is he a regular?’

‘No. Just looks familiar. Should I tell the boss you want a chat?’ The doorman held up his wrist, showing Rebus the mic secreted there.

‘I think so,’ Rebus said.

Inside, the Abilene was a single room, a long rectangle with a dance floor at one end and a raised dining area at the other, with a shiny chrome bar separating the two. There were about thirty people in the place, only four of them dancing to piped music. Rebus didn’t recognise the singer and couldn’t make out the words. It was the kind of thing he only heard being pumped from cars, usually driven by young men with carburettor problems.

‘Let me get you a drink,’ the manager said. ‘I’m guessing you’re either whisky or beer.’

‘An IPA, thanks,’ Rebus said. The manager’s name was Terry Soames. He was in his late twenties and dressed in a suit that looked made for him. Open-necked shirt and an unadorned silver chain around his throat. They perched on stools at the bar while their drinks were fetched.

‘I’d like to see the footage from Friday night,’ Rebus said, having explained about Maria Stokes.

‘I wish I could help,’ Soames apologised, sipping orange juice. ‘But we record on a loop. Every forty-eight hours there’s a refresh. We only store the pictures if there’s been a problem.’

‘There was a problem Friday night.’

Soames thought for a moment. ‘The stag party? Doddy dealt with that. They didn’t get in.’

‘This is someone we’d like to talk to,’ Rebus went on, placing the photo on the bar. ‘Doddy says he’s a known quantity.’

‘Not to me.’ Soames was peering at the face. He gestured for the barman to join them. ‘Any ideas, James?’

‘He’s been in a few times.’

‘Got a name?’ Rebus asked.

The barman pursed his lips, then shook his head. ‘He paid with a card, though.’

‘He did?’

‘I remember because the first two tries at his PIN, he got it wrong. Couple of drinks too many. He managed on the third go. We had a little joke about it.’

Rebus turned his attention to Terry Soames.

‘My office,’ Soames said. ‘We keep the receipts in the safe...’

Clarke was already at her desk when Rebus got into Gayfield Square next morning.

‘Autopsy and forensics,’ she said, gesturing towards the paperwork in front of her.

‘Anything useful?’

‘Plenty of prints in the room — too many, in fact. Seems housekeeping didn’t do a great job with a duster.’

‘How about the Do Not Disturb sign?’

‘Just the victim’s prints on that.’

Rebus ran a hand along his jawline. ‘They sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘So our notion that the attacker put the sign up to stop anyone going in...’

‘May need rethinking. Victim had downed a fair few gin and tonics and eaten nothing but salted peanuts. No drugs. Signs of sexual intercourse — traces of the lubricant from a condom.’

‘No condom in the room, though.’

‘And no wrapper either. So the assailant either pocketed both or else flushed them. And we can’t be sure if penetration was pre- or post-mortem. No signs of trauma.’

Rebus rubbed at his jaw again. ‘We’re saying this is all the one guy? She picks him up in a bar and takes him to her room. Instead of saying thank you, he then strangles her?’

‘It’s the simplest explanation, no?’

Eventually Rebus nodded.

‘There are some strands of hair that don’t seem to match the victim...’ Clarke was skimming the pages. ‘Et cetera, et cetera.’ She paused, holding up one final sheet. ‘And then there’s this.’

Rebus took the piece of paper from Clarke and started to read as she spoke.

‘A team from Newcastle went to her flat. Everything neat and tidy, but there was stuff next to her computer, including correspondence from her GP and a couple of hospitals...’

‘Brain tumour,’ Rebus muttered.

‘Shelf in her bathroom stacked with strong painkillers, none of which she brought to Edinburgh — unless he lifted them.’

Rebus placed the sheet of paper on top of the others. ‘She was dying.’

‘Maybe Edinburgh was on her bucket list.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Ironic, though, isn’t it? You head north to let your hair down. You want to feel something, so you maybe don’t bother deadening the pain with drugs. And you end up meeting the one man you shouldn’t.’

‘Ironic, yes,’ Rebus echoed, though he didn’t really believe it. ‘And his name’s Robert Jeffries, by the way.’

‘What?’

‘The man who went up to her room with her. I’m in the process of getting an address.’

‘You better take a seat and tell me.’

Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘But can we make it quick?’

Clarke just stared at him.

‘I have a book I need to read,’ he explained.

That evening, Rebus and Clarke sat in the office, listening to the recording that had been made of their interview with Robert Jeffries. A lawyer had been present throughout, but Jeffries had made it clear that he had nothing to hide and wanted to explain.