Ian Rankin - Beggars Banquet

‘What’s it all about, lad?’ asked Greig.

‘Could we step inside the station, sir?’ Duniec said. To anyone standing within earshot, it didn’t sound much like a question…

The man who called himself Des Beattie was packing his bag.

He tore the ring-pull from another can of McEwan’s and gulped from the can. The photographs were lying on the bed. He paused in his packing and studied the photos again. Cooke with Duncan Webster. Cooke with Mrs Webster. Cooke looking very comfortable with Mrs Webster. Cooke looking extremely uncomfortable with Duncan Webster, looking like maybe he owed the man money, money he couldn’t hope to repay. But that wasn’t Cooke’s problem. No, Cooke’s problem was the wife. Look at the two of them: touching, kissing. With Mr Webster, Cooke looked more like a business acquaintance than anything; but with Mrs Webster he looked like a very close friend indeed.

Whether Webster knew or not, he couldn’t tell. But the daughter had known. Gillian Webster had found out about Cooke and her mother, about their affair. Christ, and she was Daddy’s little daughter, wasn’t she? When she’d spoken to him of her home life, hoping to ingratiate herself, hoping he wouldn’t harm someone he knew as a real person rather than an item (yes, she’d been clever all right), when she had done this, she had spoken always of her father first, her mother second. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy: it had always been Daddy. While Mother had remained just that: ‘Mother’.

All those hours she’d been alone, those hours with little to do but struggle against her bonds, little to think about but… but how to turn this little adventure to her own advantage. She would set up Bernard Cooke. She must have known his company was in trouble, giving him the motive. Who would suspect she’d lie about something like this? No one, no one would know except three people: Cooke himself, the mother, and the real kidnapper. Cooke would protest his innocence, but it was his word against Gillian’s. Mrs Webster… what could she say without revealing the extent of her ties to Cooke? And as for the kidnapper… well, was he going to come forward to help Cooke? Of course not!

It was true, wasn’t it? He wasn’t going to do anything. He was going to leave this town and never return. With Cooke inside, the heat would be off, the police would stop checking airports and seaports. Yes, a foreign holiday, somewhere sunny and dry, not like this cold miserable island where he worked. He could stop by a travel agent’s tomorrow. On the plane out, he’d order champagne and drink to poor Bernard Cooke.

That was that.

He opened another can and picked up the photo, the one of Cooke and Mrs Webster kissing. The more he looked at it, the more he saw that he could be wrong. What if it was just a friendly kiss? These types, types like Mrs Webster, they could get overfamiliar. What if it had nothing to do with the mother? What if… what if it had to do with Gillian instead? She’d told him, ‘Daddy doesn’t like it when I bring home older men.’ Could there have been something between Gillian and Bernard Cooke? Maybe he’d broken it off and she was out for his blood…

Wait, think a bit. If Cooke was single, it wouldn’t work. It only worked if he was married and had to hide the relationship. His head began spinning, and he tried to stand up. How could he be sure? How could he be sure that Cooke and Mrs Webster or Cooke and Gillian had been an item?

He caught that word ‘item’ and smiled. If they’d been an item, people would have seen them together, somewhere they felt safe from Mr Webster. Maybe that was why Cooke started using the pub across from the estate more often; nothing to do with his financial troubles. It should be easy enough to check. He’d go there now, on his way out of town. He thought of Stefan Duniec. Stefan, who probably wasn’t fit to report on a flower show, never mind a police inquiry. There were some real thick bastards in the world, when you thought about it.

Jesus, weren’t there just.

It was five o’clock when he walked into the bar. As he’d hoped, the shift had changed. The barman was new. What’s more, Arthur had moved on. Good: they’d have thought it more than a little off, the Lancastrian returning to ask questions about Cooke and some woman.

The beer he’d drunk in his room had given him a taste, so he ordered a double Armagnac with a half of lager to chase it down. Fuel for the long drive ahead. The bar was medium-busy with workers on their way home from the estate. He sat on the same stool as earlier, and made a show of checking his watch and keeping an eye on the door.

‘Waiting on someone?’ the new barman dutifully asked.

‘Bernard Cooke. I thought we arranged to meet at five.’

The barman tried the name. ‘Don’t think I know him.’

‘He’s a lunchtime regular.’

‘I never do lunchtime.’

He nodded miserably and finished the Armagnac. It burned him all the way down. One last time then: ‘He usually has a woman with him, a bit of posh.’

The barman shrugged and went back to wiping glasses.

‘Thanks anyway.’ He finished the lager and had another idea. It was a bit late, but worth a try. As he pushed open the door to the outside world, he met resistance. It was Arthur, coming in. Arthur looked surprised. Beattie switched to a north-west accent.

‘Hello, Arthur.’

‘Thought you were off to the wide blue yonder.’

‘Just heading back now. I’ve been hearing Cooke has a fancy piece.’ He winked. ‘That’s an expensive hobby, no wonder he’s gone broke.’

Arthur just stared, as though listening to a ghost. There was almost… it wasn’t shock, it was more like fear in his eyes.

Beattie persisted. ‘Nice looker, by the sound of her.’

‘Eh?’

‘They used to come in here.’

‘Did they?’

Was the man pissed? Maybe those crosswords had addled his brain. Beattie felt good and mellow.

‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘See you around.’

Arthur seemed to perk up. ‘Oh, right you are. Take care now.’

‘I will, Arthur, I will.’

The secretary, having faithfully placed a dustcover over the computer, was putting on her coat when he arrived. She looked daggers at him, and he raised his hands in surrender.

‘I’ll only take a minute,’ he said. He hadn’t really expected her to still be here. How much paperwork could an empty factory produce? The reporters had vanished from outside, along with most of the cars on the estate.

‘You’re persistent,’ she said. ‘He’s not here.’

‘It was you I wanted to speak to.’

‘Oh?’

He stepped forward and produced the photo from his pocket, the one of Cooke and Mrs Webster kissing.

‘Is your boss married?’ he asked.

She smiled sourly. ‘I knew you weren’t a rep.’

‘Did I say I was? So what’s the answer? A simple yes or no.’

‘What business is it of yours?’

He gave a fumey sigh. ‘I can find out. It’s not difficult.’

‘Off you go then and find out.’

‘Did you know he was having an affair?’

‘It’s only an affair if the person’s married.’

‘Oh? So Cooke’s a bachelor then?’

‘That’s not what I said.’

‘Mrs Webster’s married though.’ He was seeking a reaction, any reaction. ‘Her daughter’s single.’

‘Get out.’ Her voice was colder than the lager he’d just consumed.

‘Let me guess,’ he persisted. ‘You had the hots for him yourself, maybe he was stringing you along…’

She picked up the receiver.

‘All right, I’m going.’ He put the photo back in his pocket. ‘But remember, you don’t owe him anything. It’s him that owes you. Just give me a yes or no: is he married?’