The Beat Goes On: The Complete Rebus Stories (Rebus Collection) (55 page)

‘Francis?’ John Kerr’s voice was shaking. ‘What’s he talking about?’

‘Nothing,’ the son muttered. His shoulders were twitching.

‘Then take your hands out and show me.’ When his son made show of ignoring this, Kerr took a step forward and hauled both hands out from their hiding place. The purse dropped to the ground. Selina Kerr clamped a hand to her mouth, but Andrea didn’t seem surprised. Rebus thought to himself: she probably knows; maybe he told her, proud of his little secret and desperate to share.

‘Well now,’ Rebus said into the silence. ‘There’s good news as well as bad.’ John Kerr stared at him. ‘The bad news,’ he went on, ‘is that the two of you are coming with us.’

‘And the good?’ John Kerr asked in a voice just above a whisper.

‘Courts won’t be sitting until after Christmas. Means the two of you can share a cell at the station for the duration of the festivities.’ He looked towards mother and daughter. ‘I don’t suppose a visit’s out of the question either.’

There were whoops and screams from the spectators. The race had begun. Rebus glanced in Siobhan’s direction.

‘Don’t say I never give you anything,’ he told her. ‘And this year,’ gesturing towards Kerr’s Santa outfit, ‘it even comes gift-wrapped …’

The Passenger

‘She was from Edinburgh.’

‘The victim?’

Siobhan Clarke shook her head and gestured towards the book Rebus was holding. ‘Muriel Spark.’

It was a slim paperback, not much more than a hundred pages. Rebus had been looking at the blurb on the back. He placed the book on the bedside table where he’d found it.

‘How much does a room like this cost?’ he asked.

‘Got to be a few hundred.’ Clarke saw his look. ‘Yes, that does mean per night.’

‘With breakfast extra, I dare say.’

Clarke was opening the last drawer, checking it was every bit as empty as the others. The small suitcase lay on the floor under the window, unzipped and mostly unpacked. The victim had changed just the once. A toilet bag sat next to the sink in the bathroom. She had showered, made up her face, and brushed her teeth. Clothes lay rumpled on the floor next to the bed – short dress, slip, tights, underwear. A pair of black high-heeled shoes. Jewellery on the bedside table next to the book, including an expensive watch.

‘Her name’s Maria Stokes,’ Clarke said. Rebus had picked up the woman’s handbag. It had already been taken apart by the scene-of-crime team. Cash and credit cards still in her purse, meaning they were probably ruling out robbery as a motive.

‘Where’s she from?’ Rebus asked.

‘We don’t know that yet. I’ve got someone going through her phone.’

‘She didn’t give an address when she checked in?’

‘Not needed. Just signed her name and turned down the offer of a newspaper or wake-up call.’

‘And this was Friday?’

‘Friday afternoon,’ Clarke confirmed. ‘Do Not Disturb sign on the door, meaning it wasn’t until lunchtime today that anyone bothered to knock.’

‘And they knocked because … ?’

‘Checkout’s eleven. They needed to get the room ready. Called up from reception but of course she didn’t answer. Just assumed she’d left, I suppose.’

‘Maid must have got a fright.’ Rebus was staring at the unmade bed. He thought Maria Stokes’s outline was still there, contoured into the sheets and pillows.

‘Doctor reckons she was probably killed the night she got here. Whoever did it, they were clever to put the sign on the door.’

‘I suppose we’re lucky she didn’t pay for a week. How do you think he got in?’

‘Either he had a key card, or he just knocked.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Someone knocks, you’ll assume it’s staff. Hotel’s the easiest place to walk in and out of, as long as you look like you belong.’

‘We’ll be asking the manager if there have been any problems.’

‘Stuff going missing from rooms, you mean? Not the sort of thing they’d want to broadcast.’

‘I wouldn’t think so.’

Rebus was studying a card on the dressing table. ‘There’s a list here of all the different pillows you can request with your turndown service. Doesn’t say if strangulation comes extra. What time’s the autopsy?’

Clarke glanced at her watch. ‘Just under an hour.’

‘Staff are being questioned?
CCTV
?’ Rebus watched her nod. ‘Not much more for us to do here, then.’

‘Not much,’ she agreed.

He took a final look around. ‘A better place to die than some, but even so …’

‘Even so,’ Clarke echoed.

Maria Stokes had reverted to her own surname after the divorce. Her ex-husband’s name was Peter Welburn. They had been separated for four years and divorced for one. No children.

Welburn sat in one of the small office cubicles at Gayfield Square police station. He was holding a mug of tea, focusing all his attention on it. He had just been explaining that Maria and he lived on opposite sides of Newcastle but were still friendly.

‘Well, sociable, anyway. No nastiness.’

‘The separation was amicable?’ Clarke asked.

‘We just sort of drifted apart – busy lives, usual story.’

‘Where did she work?’

‘She owns a graphic design business.’

‘In Newcastle?’ Rebus watched the man nod. ‘Doing OK, is it?’

‘Far as I know.’ Welburn lifted one hand from the mug long enough to scratch the side of his head. He was in his late forties, a couple of years older than his ex-wife. Rebus reckoned they’d have made a good-looking couple – same sort of height and build.

‘What do you do, Mr Welburn?’ Clarke was asking.

‘Architect – currently between projects.’

‘Any support from Ms Stokes? Financially, I mean?’

The man shook his head. ‘I hardly ever saw her – maybe a phone call or a text once a week.’

‘But no nastiness?’ Rebus asked, echoing Welburn’s own words.

‘No.’

‘Did you know she was coming to Edinburgh?’

Another slow shake of the head.

‘Did she have any friends in the city? Any connection to the place?’

‘We visited a few times – years ago now. It’s quick on the train. Used to book a B and B, hit a few of the pubs, maybe catch some music …’ Welburn’s voice cracked as the memories took hold. He cleared his throat. ‘It was terrible, seeing her like that.’

‘Formal identification is always difficult on the loved ones,’ Clarke offered, trying to sound sympathetic, though she had trotted out the same words so many times before.

‘When was the last time you were in Edinburgh?’ Rebus broke in. ‘Before today, I mean?’

‘Couple of years, probably.’

‘And this past weekend …?’

Welburn lifted his eyes to meet Rebus’s. ‘I was at home. With my girlfriend and her kid.’

Clarke lifted a hand. ‘I’m sorry, but these things have to be asked.’

‘Why would I want to kill Maria? It’s insane.’

‘Did she have anyone she was seeing? Someone she might have wanted to spend the weekend with?’

‘No idea.’

‘And I’m guessing no enemies that you’d know of ?’

‘Enemies?’ Welburn’s face crumpled. ‘She was a sweetheart, an absolute angel. Even when we were splitting up, there wasn’t any drama. We just … got on with it.’ He placed the mug on the desk and let his head fall into his hands, shoulders spasming as he sobbed.

‘What do you reckon?’ Clarke asked. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she waited for the lights to change.

‘Seemed genuine enough. Did the deceased take the train this time, or did she drive?’

‘She didn’t leave a car at the hotel. It’s a five-minute walk from the station.’

‘I didn’t see a return ticket in her bag. Maybe her coat or jacket?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Meaning she only bought a single. Does she strike you as the impetuous type?’

‘We really don’t know much about her.’

‘Are you on to
CID
in Newcastle?’

Clarke nodded. ‘They’ll give her flat a look. See if there’s a diary, or maybe something useful on her computer. You think she was meeting someone? Returning to Newcastle not uppermost in her mind?’

‘Or she left in a hurry.’

‘She’d taken some care packing that case. Didn’t look thrown together in a panic.’

‘Then we’re not much further forward, are we?’

‘Not much. But whoever did it, they’ve had three days to make themselves scarce.’

‘And arrange an alibi.’

‘That too,’ Clarke agreed.

The general manager’s name was Kate Ferguson. She met them in the airy reception and asked if anyone had offered them something to drink.

‘We declined,’ Clarke replied.

‘Well then. This way.’

Ferguson led them to an office on the mezzanine level. Her sizeable desk had been cleared of everything but a laptop computer. Two chairs awaited, both with a view of the screen.

‘Two of your officers have already viewed the footage,’ she said, in a tone that told them she was busy and important and wanted the whole business consigned to history.

‘Just need to see for ourselves.’

‘I’m sure we could have forwarded you a copy.’

Clarke offered a professional smile. ‘We appreciate the hotel’s cooperation.’

Realising that she had lost the skirmish, Ferguson used the mouse to start the film. Four onscreen squares, all in colour and of high quality: the outside steps, reception desk, lift and bar.

‘This is her checking in,’ she said. She was standing just behind the two detectives, her hand reaching between them to point to the top left square. ‘Just the one overnight case, meaning she didn’t need help with luggage and didn’t want to be escorted to her room.’

‘How long ago did she book?’

‘Ten days.’

‘By phone? Email?’

‘It was an online booking.’

‘She didn’t say if it was business or pleasure?’

‘She arrives dressed for business,’ Clarke interrupted. ‘Two-piece, neutral, flat shoes.’

The clothes that had been left in a pile on the bathroom floor, prior to her shower.

‘She didn’t hang anything up,’ Rebus commented.

The action moved to the lift, Maria Stokes pushing the button. Then pushing it again a couple of times.

‘She’s in a hurry,’ Clarke said.

‘No calls that needed connecting to her room?’ Rebus asked.

‘Everyone has their own phone these days.’ The general manager seemed every bit as irritated by this as by the intrusion of the police into her life.

‘We’re asking her service provider for a breakdown,’ Clarke added for Rebus’s benefit.

They watched as the lift doors opened and Maria Stokes got in. ‘No cameras in the corridors?’ Rebus enquired.

‘No.’

‘So someone could try the doors on every floor and not be spotted?’

‘As I told your colleagues, that sort of thing has
never
happened here.’

‘Why not?’ Rebus turned to meet Ferguson’s stare. ‘It’s a genuine question – seems to me you’ve left the place wide open.’

‘Staff are rigorously vetted. They’re also trained to tell a guest from someone who doesn’t belong.’

‘So what happens now?’ Clarke interrupted. ‘With Ms Stokes, I mean.’

Ferguson dragged the cursor along the timeline at the bottom of the screen.

‘Seven twenty-three p.m.,’ she said. ‘As you can see, she’s changed her outfit.’

Stokes was emerging from the lift, dressed in the clothes they had seen next to her bed. She looked nervous, scanning the lobby.

‘A rendezvous?’ Rebus offered. He watched as she made her way to the bar. She stopped at the threshold, a member of staff smiling a greeting.

‘She’s looking for someone, isn’t she?’ Clarke asked, to herself as much as anyone else.

‘And not finding them,’ Rebus added. Because now Stokes was shaking her head at the offer of a table. There seemed to be only two couples in the whole place. Friday night was happening elsewhere.

Back in the lobby, she stopped to talk to someone.

‘That’s one of our concierges,’ Ferguson offered. ‘Daniel.
Very
knowledgeable.’

‘So what’s he telling her?’ Clarke asked.

‘She wanted to know where to eat, where to drink.’ Daniel was nodding in the direction of the bar. ‘Of course,’ Ferguson went on, sounding proud, ‘he told her that our own bar and dining room couldn’t be bettered.’

There was a little laugh from Maria Stokes, and she even touched the concierge on the arm.

‘Friendly sort,’ Rebus commented.

‘His patter didn’t seal the deal, though.’ Clarke leaned in a little towards the screen, where Stokes was walking out of the hotel – the door held open by Daniel. She looked to right and left, until the obliging concierge emerged to point her in the right direction. Then off she went, slightly hesitantly, as though the height of her heels were a new and daunting experience.

‘Which brings us to …’ Ferguson again used the mouse, dragging the cursor along the screen. ‘Ten twenty-six.’

‘So she was out and about for almost exactly three hours.’ Clarke added the numbers to a small notepad. The sky was dark but the front of the hotel was brightly illuminated. The bar area was at last doing good business, and a middle-aged couple laden with luggage were checking in at the reception desk. There was no one to hold open the door for Maria Stokes, and she struggled a little. Tipsy strides across the floor to the lift, whose button she needed to press just the once, its doors sliding open immediately. A half-glance behind her as a man arrived from outside. She entered the lift and he hurried forward, squeezing in as the doors slid shut.