Ian Rankin - The Beat Goes On

‘Philip. The wife’s name is Barbara. Twenty-six years married.’

Rebus had seen the photos of P.T. Forbes in the Scotsman and the Evening News — a head of thick silver hair, a bit of heft filling out a pinstripe suit. Always posing with one of his cars. He dealt in ‘cherished’ high-end automobiles, meaning second-hand but pricier than most new models.

‘Was the Bentley his?’ Rebus asked as Clarke slowed to a stop at a set of traffic lights. They were heading out of town down the coast, towards Musselburgh. The Forbes home was part of a small modern estate backing on to a newish golf course. Rebus reckoned the developer would have called it ‘bespoke’, like one of P.T. Forbes’s motors.

‘Not as such,’ Clarke was answering. ‘According to Mrs Forbes, he came home with a different car every week.’

‘Must have been confusing when she came out of the supermarket looking for it.’

‘She drives a Mini,’ Clarke said.

The disappearance of Philip Forbes was out of character. He had left the house as usual at 9.30 on Monday morning, headed for his glass-fronted South Gyle premises. His wife hadn’t begun to fret until 7 p.m. She had called her husband’s right-hand man, but found him driving back from Carlisle, where he’d spent the day negotiating the purchase of an Aston Martin DB5. He in turn had called the showroom’s receptionist, but she’d been at home all day with a migraine, having texted her boss to apologise.

Forbes had never replied. The showroom had remained closed all that day, mail sitting unopened on the floor.

Philip Forbes was what was known as ‘a weel-kent face’ in the city. He had been part of a group that had dug deep to try to keep one of the local football teams afloat, and he was photographed at plenty of charity balls and black-tie events. The local MPs and MSPs knew him, as did many councillors and the Lord Provost. Consequently, there was media interest, though no one had gone to the lengths of doorstepping the family home or setting up camp nearby.

Clarke signalled off the main road into Musselburgh and headed down a long straight lane. The modern two-storey golf club was visible in the near distance, the houses bordering it forming a wide crescent. They were constructed predominantly of brick, with feature windows, and garages big enough for three or four vehicles. Each house boasted a name rather than a number. The Forbeses lived at Heriots.

‘They’re all named after private schools,’ Rebus pointed out as Clarke parked her car on the driveway.

Barbara Forbes was already at the door, one hand clasped in the other. She was dressed soberly, and hadn’t bothered with her hair or make-up. There were tired cusps under her eyes.

‘You’ve found the Bentley?’ she said.

Clarke nodded her agreement, before identifying herself and Rebus.

‘Come in,’ Mrs Forbes said, backing up a couple of steps into a huge entrance hall. Polished wood underfoot, cream-coloured walls, and a wide central staircase. The space was flooded with light from a glass cupola.

‘You know about the car?’ Rebus was asking. ‘We thought we were here to break the news...’

‘A reporter phoned me. He said it was at the airport.’

‘I’m assuming your husband had no plans to fly anywhere?’ Clarke enquired.

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Did he carry his passport with him?’

‘It’s kept in one of the drawers in the bedroom.’

‘You’ve checked?’

The woman hesitated. ‘I don’t remember,’ she finally admitted. ‘Should I go and look?’

‘Please,’ Clarke said.

They watched her as she headed upstairs. Rebus walked across the hall to a set of double doors and opened them, entering a well-appointed living room. There was a flat-screen TV attached to one wall. French windows led to an enclosed patio beyond which stretched a professionally tended garden. Behind a further set of doors was a formal dining room. One more door and he was back in the entrance hall. Clarke had gone in the opposite direction and was emerging from the kitchen.

‘Worth a look,’ she informed him.

‘Ditto,’ he replied, gesturing over his shoulder.

The kitchen offered all mod cons, several of which Rebus failed to recognise. There was a table where he reckoned husband and wife took most of their meals. He nearly tripped over a narrow Persian rug, smoothing it back into place with the heel of his shoe. Off the kitchen was a smaller room, probably originally intended for laundry or as a walk-in pantry but converted into a home office. There were shelves crammed with paperwork, car brochures stacked on the floor, and a laptop computer on the wooden desk. It was currently in sleep mode, a green light on the side of the keyboard pulsing slowly. Rebus lifted a framed snapshot from the far corner of the desk. Voices were approaching, Clarke and Mrs Forbes entering the kitchen.

‘No sign of it,’ Clarke explained for Rebus’s benefit.

‘But why would he take a sudden notion to fly anywhere?’ Barbara Forbes was asking, voice trembling a little.

‘Your son?’ Rebus asked, holding up the photo.

‘Until five years ago,’ she replied. Then, into the questioning silence: ‘He took an overdose. In Thailand.’

Clarke was looking at the photo with its three smiling faces. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘That picture was a couple of years before. Rory was twenty-two when he...’

‘Just the one child?’ Rebus asked. The woman nodded. She seemed dazed, pinching the bridge of her nose and screwing shut her eyes for a moment.

‘I hate to ask,’ Rebus said, ‘but is Rory buried here or in Thailand?’

She took a deep breath. ‘We brought him home.’ She suddenly saw what he was getting at. ‘Why would Philip go to Thailand?’

Rebus could only shrug.

‘We’re checking with the airport anyway,’ Clarke offered. ‘Still no sign of him using his credit cards or withdrawing money?’

‘It’s been a few hours since I checked. I know he hasn’t switched his phone on.’

‘Oh?’

‘He was very proud of some tracking thing he has on it. The phone’s been off since Monday.’ She paused. ‘Should I look at the bank stuff again?’

‘Might be an idea,’ Clarke said. ‘Maybe while I put the kettle on...?’

Barbara Forbes went through to her husband’s study and woke up the computer. Rebus followed her, placing the photo back where he’d found it.

‘A terrible blow, losing your son like that,’ he offered.

‘Yes,’ she agreed. She had taken a pair of spectacles from a pocket and was peering at the screen.

‘Your husband must trust you,’ Rebus added.

‘In what way?’

‘Allowing you to see all his finances.’

‘This only lets me into our joint account.’

‘He has others in his own name?’

She nodded. ‘I’ve applied for access. Apparently it takes time. You think he’s using those to fund his... well, whatever it is he’s doing or done? I mean, nobody’s kidnapped him, have they?’ She looked up at Rebus.

‘There’s no evidence of it.’

‘Archie probably knows more about the company money than I do.’

‘Archie being your husband’s business partner?’

‘Not partner, no — Archie works for Philip.’

‘An employee, in other words. But he’d still know if Mr Forbes had dipped into the till, as it were?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘What about the receptionist?’

‘What about her?’

‘In my experience, they often know more about the place where they work than anyone else.’

‘Then ask her.’

Rebus stayed silent for a moment, watching over her shoulder. ‘Is this the only computer in the house?’

‘We have laptops, too.’