Ian Rankin - The Beat Goes On

‘So what have we got?’ Clarke asked, playing with one of the beer mats.

‘Maybe nothing at all. That email might not have anything to do with it.’

‘Bit of a coincidence, though.’

‘A bit, aye.’ Rebus took another mouthful of beer.

‘Is this your version of the three-pipe problem?’ Clarke nodded towards Rebus’s glass.

‘The what?’

‘Sherlock Holmes — when he was stuck, he smoked three pipes.’

‘Not at the same time, I hope.’

She shook her head. ‘And probably not tobacco either.’

‘This might be the opposite.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Maybe we’re thinking too hard.’

‘So there’s a nice simple explanation, and you’re just about to provide it?’

‘We should talk to Andrea.’

‘The secretary?’

‘You saw it, didn’t you? Sellers was thinking how mad she was going to be with him...’

‘He froze for a second.’

‘He did, didn’t he? And someone like Andrea — working the phones, making appointments, doing the paperwork...’

‘Might know what the big bad secret was?’

Rebus was nodding slowly, his glass halfway to his mouth.

‘First thing tomorrow then,’ Clarke decided. ‘Reckon her migraine will have gone?’

‘You think that’s why she stayed home Monday?’ Rebus asked. His eyes were twinkling behind the pint as he tipped it towards him.

They sat in Clarke’s car and watched the receptionist unlock the showroom. Through the plate-glass window they saw her walk briskly to a keypad on the wall behind her desk and disarm the alarm. Her phone was already ringing and she answered it, pushing stray locks of hair back behind one ear.

‘Ten sharp,’ Rebus commented, tapping his wristwatch.

‘Much the same time the boss usually arrives.’

‘I’d say Archie Sellers then slopes in a bit later. Not quite as dedicated.’

‘Not like us.’

No, because they’d already had to brief their own boss on the case — half past eight in his office. For once he’d seemed apologetic — pressure bearing down on him from above; all those politicians who considered P.T. Forbes a friend, an ally, a contributor.

Having dealt with the call, the receptionist shrugged off her coat. Rebus judged her to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Good-looking. Seated at her desk, she suddenly seemed at a loss what to do next. She got up and walked over to one of the gleaming cars, ran a finger along its paintwork.

‘Maserati,’ Clarke stated.

‘I knew that,’ Rebus said, opening the passenger door.

‘Liar,’ Clarke retorted, removing the key from the ignition.

‘She didn’t drive,’ she added as they crossed the empty forecourt.

‘So I noticed.’ Rebus was pushing open the showroom door, a smile on his face. ‘Nice Maserati,’ he said, gesturing towards the car.

‘Can I help you?’

‘You’re Andrea...?’

‘Mathieson,’ she obliged. ‘Are you the detectives I spoke with last night?’

They both opened their warrant cards for an inspection that never came. Mathieson had retreated back behind her desk, pulling the seat in.

‘You don’t drive?’ Rebus asked.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘You arrived on foot.’

‘Sometimes I take the bus.’

‘Better for the environment, eh?’

She stared at him, unblinking. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’

‘Must have come as a shock,’ Rebus began. He saw that Clarke was either taking a keen interest in the contents of the showroom or else pretending to, so as to give him a clear run. He took the chair opposite Andrea Mathieson. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

‘Philip, you mean?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Well, that too. But I was thinking of the email.’

‘Bloody Archie!’ She spat out the words, causing Clarke to turn away from a sleek BMW.

‘Likes to think of himself as a bit of a joker,’ Rebus sympathised. ‘For what it’s worth, the friends he sent the message to were every bit as pissed off. He might be in the market for new drinking buddies.’ He paused. ‘Did you know he was going to Carlisle on the Monday?’

She eventually nodded. ‘I’ve a good mind to slap him when I see him.’

‘He sent you the email Sunday afternoon — when did you open it?’

‘That night. I nearly jumped out of my clothes. Ran to the door and made sure it was locked. I was scared half to death. Your imagination starts running away with you...’

‘Same for everyone. But only Mr Forbes seemed to take any action.’

‘Is that what you think happened?’

‘Did you really have a migraine on the Monday?’

‘What?’

‘Or was it that you couldn’t bring yourself to come to work? Maybe because you’d been fretting about that email all night.’

‘Well, yes, maybe.’

‘Who did you think had sent it?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘No?’

She shook her head, without making eye contact.

‘Not Archie? Not Philip Forbes?’

‘I’m not sure what it is you’re getting at.’

‘So everything was fine between the three of you? A happy ship and all that?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘Business doing OK?’

Clarke had wandered over from her tour of the showroom. She had a question of her own. ‘What car do you drive, Ms Mathieson?’

‘A BMW Z4.’

‘Oh, those are nice.’ Then, as if for Rebus’s benefit: ‘Sporty. Two-seater. I’d have mine in red...’

‘Same as mine,’ Mathieson conceded.

‘They drink the fuel, though, don’t they? Probably not a hit with the environmental lobby...’

Mathieson’s head collapsed into her hands. She mumbled something they struggled to make out.

‘Sorry?’ Clarke asked.

Mathieson lifted her face. Tears were streaming down either cheek. ‘It was a present from Philip!’

‘Nice of him,’ Clarke said quietly.

‘Is that why you’ve not been able to drive to work, Andrea?’ Rebus asked, dropping his own voice. ‘Every time you see your car, you think of him?’

‘He loved me.’

Rebus and Clarke shared a look.

‘You were having an affair?’ Clarke enquired.

Andrea Mathieson shook her head violently. ‘Not now. Then .’

‘Then being...?’

‘Two years ago. It didn’t last long — “a fling”, he called it. But I knew what it really was.’

‘And what was that?’

‘He was still grieving for his son. After Rory died, Philip felt crushed. His wife didn’t help — that whole part of his life was just dust. He could talk to me — did talk to me. Poured everything out. And that’s when it started. Just long enough for some healing. But not a “fling”. He was wrong about that.’ She took in gulps of air, trying to regain some composure. Clarke offered a tissue, which she accepted with a nod of thanks.

When enough time had elapsed, Rebus threw out another question.

‘So when Mr Forbes opened that email...?’

‘Yes?’

‘He might have thought the affair was about to come to light?’

When Mathieson didn’t answer, Clarke asked a question of her own.

‘He phoned you, didn’t he?’

‘He tried.’

‘Because the message said we need to flee. So if it was to do with your affair, it could only have come from you?’

‘I was out early evening. He left a voicemail. I texted him back.’

‘On Sunday night?’

‘I’d seen the email for myself by then.’

‘You must have wondered...’

‘What?’

‘Well, suddenly it’s not a creepy anonymous message sent out randomly. As far as you knew, only the two of you received it.’

Rebus cleared his throat. ‘It had to be someone who knew you both, whether it was about the affair or not.’