Ian Rankin - The Beat Goes On

‘I didn’t really think about it,’ Mathieson admitted. ‘My head was... You’re right, of course. Maybe if I’d had the chance to speak to Philip.’

‘Did you think he’d come to your home on Monday?’

‘I hoped he would.’

‘He knew the place from back in the day?’

‘Yes.’

‘But instead of that, he disappeared. Andrea, do you think he’s run away?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is there anything that could have panicked him? Anything at all?’

‘Maybe he just wanted to be free from that bloody woman.’

‘His wife, you mean?’

‘Who else?’

‘Did she know about the affair...?’

There was a soft tapping from the other side of the glass door. Archie Sellers stood there, attempting to look contrite.

‘You bastard!’ Mathieson shrieked. She was up out of her chair, marching towards confrontation, eyes suddenly steely. Sellers had already started to retreat. The Aston Martin DB5 was parked on the forecourt. He unlocked the driver’s side with an old-fashioned key.

‘This is all your fault!’ Mathieson was yelling as she pulled open the showroom door. Rebus noticed the large welcome mat she’d had to cross. Various marques were listed on it, but what caught his eye were the runs of tape fixing it firmly to the floor.

Health and safety.

Couldn’t have anyone taking a tumble.

‘Should we do something?’ Clarke was asking.

Sellers had gunned the engine and was reversing on to the carriageway. A white van had to brake hard, its horn rasping. Her anger spent, Mathieson’s face was in her hands again, shoulders heaving.

‘Maybe make her a cup of tea,’ Rebus suggested.

‘And then?’

‘Then we pay another visit to Heriots...’

‘You again,’ was all Barbara Forbes said when she opened the door.

‘Sorry to trouble you,’ Rebus managed.

‘I suppose you want to come in.’

‘You’ll be wondering if there’s news.’

‘What?’

‘Would we drive over here if there wasn’t news,’ Rebus explained. They were in the entrance hall by now, Clarke pushing the door closed.

‘Has he been sighted, is that it?’ Mrs Forbes had her back to the detectives as she headed in the direction of the kitchen. But she paused when she reached its threshold, and turned towards the living room instead.

‘I’m parched,’ Rebus said, holding his hand to his throat for effect. ‘Water or a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss.’

‘I’ll make tea,’ Mrs Forbes said.

‘Very grateful.’ Rebus even gave a small bow.

‘If you’d like to wait in there.’ She was gesturing towards the living room.

‘Fine,’ Rebus agreed.

‘I might just use the...’ Clarke held up a thumb, indicating one of the closed doors behind her.

‘On the left behind the stairs,’ Barbara Forbes said with a sigh. Then she turned and entered the kitchen. Rebus gave Clarke the nod and made sure he was filling the kitchen doorway as she started making her way noiselessly up the stairs.

‘It’s very quiet out here, isn’t it?’ Rebus asked.

‘Comparatively,’ Mrs Forbes agreed, filling the kettle and switching it on. ‘I did say you could wait in the—’

‘You’re not anxious to hear what we’ve learned?’

‘All right then.’ But rather than stop to concentrate, she got busy with mugs, teapot, sugar bowl and milk. Rebus said his piece anyway — as much of the story as she needed to hear. By the time he had finished, Clarke was back. He felt the pressure of her hand on the small of his back and turned his head. She nodded gravely. So the passport was in the drawer in the bedroom, and Barbara Forbes had lied to them.

‘I’ve never thought much of Archie Sellers,’ she was saying as she stared at the kettle, willing it to come to the boil. ‘He’s like an adolescent in many respects. Bloody irresponsible of him to send that message. I hope he feels a measure of guilt.’

‘Interesting phrase,’ Rebus said.

‘What?’

‘“A measure of guilt”. Meaning there’s more to be apportioned elsewhere.’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘I think you do, Mrs Forbes. And if we were to go upstairs, I think we’d find your husband’s passport just where he left it. You saw an opportunity to muddy the water and you took it. But that means you were trying to mislead us, and that looks bad. Almost as bad as that rug.’

‘The rug?’ She looked down at it.

‘Not something you often see in a kitchen. On a stone floor, I mean. It’s too slippy. Could lead to a nasty accident. A rug like this is more the sort of thing you’d find in a room like your husband’s den. So what is it doing here?’ He had placed one foot on the rug and was starting to move it.

‘Don’t touch that!’ she implored. But Rebus had already revealed the stained surface beneath. A series of blotches and splashes of a dull rust colour.

‘Will Forensics tell us that’s blood, Mrs Forbes?’ Rebus enquired quietly. Clarke had stepped past him to switch off the kettle, and to stand guard near the display of chef’s knives. But Barbara Forbes had gone very still, one hand clasped in the other as when they’d first set eyes on her.

‘So here’s what I think,’ Rebus intoned. ‘Either you saw the original email, in which case you were maybe the one who deleted it, not knowing it would linger on the machine. Or else it was the text you saw, the one Andrea Mathieson sent to your husband’s phone. Was he maybe asleep by then? Or in a different room? You’d known about the relationship but he’d promised it was in the past. Now here was proof to the contrary. She still had her talons in him, and you were furious. Furious enough to grab one of those big solid knives. Furious enough to stab at him. The blood wouldn’t shift, so you covered it up as best you could in the meantime.’

Her eyes were closed but she seemed at peace — the ordeal over now that her secret was out. No tears, her breathing slow and steady.

‘What happens next?’ was all she said, after a few seconds of silence, a silence deeper than any Rebus could remember.

‘You need to show us — show us or tell us.’

She nodded, understanding exactly.

‘The Mercedes Benz in the garage,’ she said quietly. ‘It was the only one with a boot big enough. Anyway, I wanted to drop the Bentley at the airport; that’s the one he would have taken.’ She opened her eyes again and seemed to be staring into some distance far beyond the walls of her kitchen and her home.

‘After Rory died,’ she began. But then she decided that those three words were maybe enough. Enough to her mind, certainly.

‘After Rory died,’ she repeated in a whisper, closing her eyes again as if for the last time.

‘And this is where the ghost’s usually seen,’ the guide said. ‘So I hope nobody’s of a nervous disposition.’ His eyes were fixed on Rebus, though there were four other people on the tour. They had wandered through the brewery in their luminous health-and-safety vests and white hard-hats, climbing up flights of steps, ducking for low doorways, and were now huddled together on what seemed to be the building’s attic level. The tour itself had been a retirement present. Rebus had almost let the voucher lapse, until reminded by Siobhan Clarke, whose gift it had been.

‘Ghost?’ she asked now. The guide nodded slowly. His name was Albert Simms, and he’d told them to call him ‘Albie’ — ‘not alibi, though I’ve provided a few in my time’. This had been said at the very start of the tour, as they’d been trying the protective helmets for size. Siobhan had made a joke of it, warning him that he was in the presence of police officers. ‘Officer singular,’ Rebus had almost interrupted.