The Beat Goes On

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus dropped his hands from her shoulders. ‘I haven’t danced in years.’

  ‘So you’d be rusty.’

  ‘Thanks, Janis, but not tonight.’

  ‘Know something? I bet they play the same records we used to dance to at school.’

  It was his turn to smile. Brian was coming back downstairs, patting his hair into place.

  ‘You’d be welcome to join us, Johnny,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve another appointment, Brian. Maybe next time, eh?’

  ‘Let’s make that a promise.’

  They went out to their cars together. Janis pecked him on the cheek, Brian shook his hand. He watched them drive off then headed to the cemetery.

  It was dark, and the gates were locked, so Rebus sat in his car and smoked a cigarette. He thought about his parents and the rest of his family and remembered stories about Bowhill, stories which seemed inextricable from family history: mining tragedies; a girl found drowned in the River Ore; a holiday car crash which had erased an entire family. Then there was Johnny Thomson, Celtic goalkeeper, injured during an ‘Old Firm’ match. He was in his early twenties when he died, and was buried behind those gates, not far from Rebus’s parents. Not Dead, But at Rest in the Arms of the Lord.

  The Lord had to be a bodybuilder.

  From family he turned to friends and tried recalling a dozen names to put to faces he remembered from schooldays. Other friends: people he’d known in the army, the SAS. All the people he’d dealt with during his career in the police. Villains he’d put away, some who’d slipped through his fingers. People he’d interviewed, suspected, questioned, broken the worst kind of news to. Acquaintances from the Oxford Bar and all the other pubs where he’d ever been a regular. Local shopkeepers. Jesus, the list was endless. All these people who’d played a part in his life, in shaping who he was and how he acted, how he felt about things. All of them, out there somewhere and nowhere, gathered together only inside his head. And chief among them tonight, Brian and Janis.

  That night of the school dance… It was true he’d been drunk–elated. He’d felt he could do anything, be anything. Because he’d come to a decision that day–he wouldn’t join the army, he’d stay in Bowhill with Janis, apply for a job at the dockyard. His dad had told him not to be so stupid–‘short-sighted’ was the word he’d used. But what did parents know about their children’s desires? So he’d drunk some beer and headed off to the dance, his thoughts only of Janis. Tonight he’d tell her. And Mitch, of course. He’d have to tell Mitch, tell him he’d be heading into the army alone. But Mitch wouldn’t mind, he’d understand, as best friends had to.

  But while Rebus had been outside with Janis, his friend Mitch was being cornered by four teenagers who considered themselves his enemies. This was their last chance for revenge, and they’d gone in hard, kicking and punching. Four against one… until Barney had waded in, shrugging off blows, and dragged Mitch to safety. But one kick had done the damage, dislodging a retina. Mitch’s vision stayed fuzzy in that eye for a few days, then disappeared. And where had Rebus been? Out cold on the concrete by the bike sheds.

  And why had he never thanked Barney Mee?

  He blinked now and sniffed, wondering if he was coming down with a cold. He’d had this idea when he came back to Bowhill that the place would seem beyond redemption, that he’d be able to tell himself it had lost its sense of community, become just another town for him to pass through. Maybe he’d wanted to put it behind him. Well, it hadn’t worked. He got out of the car and looked around. The street was dead. He reached up and hauled himself over the iron railings and walked a circuit of the cemetery for an hour or so, and felt strangely at peace.

  IX

  ‘So what’s the panic, Matty?’

  After a home draw with Rangers, Stevie was ready for a night on the town. One–one, and of course he’d scored his team’s only goal. The reporters would be busy filing their copy, saying for the umpteenth time that he was his side’s hero, that without him they were a very ordinary team indeed. Rangers had known that: Stevie’s marker had been out for blood, sliding studs-first into tackles which Stevie had done his damnedest to avoid. He’d come out of the game with a couple of fresh bruises and grazes, a nick on one knee but, to his manager’s all too palpable relief, fit to play again midweek.

  ‘I said what’s the panic?’

  Matty had worried himself sleepless. He knew he had several options. Speak to Stevie, that was one of them. Another was not to speak to him, but tell Mandelson he had. Then it would be down to whether or not Mandelson believed him. Option three: do a runner; only Mandelson was right about that–he was running out of places to hide. With two casino bosses out for his blood, how could he ever pick up another croupier’s job?

  If he spoke with Stevie, he’d lose a new-found friend. But to stay silent… well, there was very little percentage in it. So here he was in Stevie’s flat, having demanded to see him. In the corner, a TV was replaying a tape of the afternoon’s match. There was no commentary, just the sounds of the terraces and the dug-outs.

  ‘No panic,’ he said now, playing for time.

  Stevie stared at him. ‘You all right? Want a drink or something?’

  ‘Maybe a vodka.’

  ‘Anything in it?’

  ‘I’ll take it as it comes.’

  Stevie poured him a drink. Matty had been here half an hour now, and they still hadn’t talked. The telephone had hardly stopped: reporters’ questions, family and friends offering congratulations. Stevie had shrugged off the superlatives.

  Matty took the drink, swallowed it, wondering if he could still walk away. Then he remembered Malibu, and saw shadows falling.

  ‘Thing is, Stevie,’ he said. ‘You know my boss at the Morvena, Mr Mandelson?’

  ‘I owe him money, of course I know him.’

  ‘He says we could do something about that.’

  ‘What? My tab?’ Stevie was checking himself in the mirror, having changed into his on-the-town clothes. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said.

  Well, Stevie, Matty thought, it was nice knowing you, pal. ‘All you have to do is ease off next Saturday.’

  Stevie frowned and turned from the mirror. ‘Away to Raith?’ He came and sat down opposite Matty. ‘He told you to tell me?’ He waited till Matty nodded. ‘That bastard. What’s in it for him?’

  Matty wriggled on the leather sofa. ‘I’ve been thinking about it. Raith are going through a bad patch, but you know yourself that if you’re taken out of the equation…’

  ‘Then they’d be up against not very much. My boss has told everybody to get the ball to me. If they spend the whole game doing that and I don’t do anything with it…’

  Matty nodded. ‘What I think is, the odds will be on you scoring. Nobody’ll be expecting Raith to put one in the net.’

  ‘So Mandelson’s cash will be on a goalless draw?’

  ‘And he’ll get odds, spread a lot of small bets around…’

  ‘Bastard,’ Stevie said again. ‘How did he get you into this, Matty?’

  Matty shifted again. ‘Something I did in London.’

  ‘Secrets, eh? Hard things to keep.’ Stevie got up, went to the mirror again, and just stood there, hands by his sides, staring into it. There was no emotion in his voice when he spoke.

  ‘Tell him he can fuck himself.’

  Matty had to choke out the words. ‘You sure that’s the message?’

  ‘Cheerio, Matty.’

  Matty rose shakily to his feet. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Cheerio, Matty.’

  Stevie was as still as a statue as Matty walked to the door and let himself out.

  Mandelson sat at his desk, playing with a Cartier pen he’d taken from a punter that day. The man was overdue on a payment. The pen was by way of a gift.

  ‘So?’ he asked Matty.

  Matty sat on the chair and licked his lips. There was no offer of a drink today; this was just business. Malibu stood by the door. Matty
took a deep breath–the last act of a drowning man.

  ‘It’s on,’ he said.

  Mandelson looked up at him. ‘Stevie went for it?’

  ‘Eventually,’ Matty said.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘As sure as I can be.’

  ‘Well, that better be watertight, or you might find yourself going for a swim with heavy legs. Know what I mean?’

  Matty held the dark gaze and nodded.

  Mandelson glanced towards Malibu, both of them were smiling. Then he picked up the telephone. ‘You know, Matty,’ he said, pushing numbers. ‘I’m doing you a favour. You’re doing yourself a favour.’ He listened to the receiver. ‘Mr Hamilton, please.’ Then, to Matty, ‘See, what you’re doing here is saving your job. I overstretched myself, Matty. I wouldn’t like that to get around, but I’m trusting you. If this comes off–and it better–then you’ve earned that trust.’ He tapped the receiver. ‘It wasn’t all my own money either. But this will keep the Morvena alive and kicking.’ He motioned for Matty to leave. Malibu tapped his shoulder as an incentive.

  ‘Topper?’ Mandelson was saying as Matty left the room. ‘It’s locked up. How much are you in for?’

  Matty bided his time and waited till his shift was over. He walked out of the smart New Town building like a latterday Lazarus, and found the nearest payphone, then had to fumble through all the rubbish in his pockets, stuff that must have meant something once upon a time, until he found the card.

  The card with a phone number on it.

  The following Saturday, Stevie Scoular scored his team’s only goal in their 1–0 win over Raith Rovers, and Mandelson sat alone in his office, his eyes on the Teletext results.

  His hand rested on the telephone receiver. He was expecting a call from Topper Hamilton. He couldn’t seem to stop blinking, like there was a grain of sand in either eye. He buzzed the reception desk, told them to tell Malibu he was wanted. Mandelson didn’t know how much time he had, but he knew he would make it count. A word with Stevie Scoular, see if Matty really had put the proposition to him. Then Matty himself… Matty was a definite, no matter what. Matty was about to be put out of the game.

  The knock at the door had to be Malibu. Mandelson barked for him to come in. But when the door opened, two strangers sauntered in like they owned the place. Mandelson sat back in his chair, hands on the desk. He was almost relieved when they introduced themselves as police officers.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Rebus,’ the younger one said, ‘this is Chief Superintendent Watson.’

  ‘And you’ve come about the Benevolent Fund, right?’

  Rebus sat down unasked, his eyes drifting to the TV screen and the results posted there. ‘Looks like you just lost a packet. I’m sorry to hear it. Did Topper take a beating, too?’

  Mandelson made fists of his hands. ‘That wee bastard!’

  Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Matty did his best, only there was something he didn’t know. Seems you didn’t know either. Topper will be doubly disappointed.’

  ‘What?’

  Farmer Watson, still standing, provided the answer. ‘Ever heard of Big Ger Cafferty?’

  Mandelson nodded. ‘He’s been in Barlinnie a while.’

  ‘Used to be the biggest gangster on the east coast. Probably still is. And he’s a fan of Stevie’s, gets videotapes of all his games. He almost sends him love letters.’

  Mandelson frowned. ‘So?’

  ‘So Stevie’s covered,’ Rebus said. ‘Try fucking with him, you’re asking Big Ger to bend over. Your little proposal has probably already made it back to Cafferty.’

  Mandelson swallowed and felt suddenly dry-mouthed.

  ‘There was no way Stevie was going to throw that game,’ Rebus said quietly.

  ‘Matty…’ Mandelson choked the sentence off.

  ‘Told you it was fixed? He was scared turdless, what else was he going to say? But Matty’s mine. You don’t touch him.’

  ‘Not that you’d get the chance,’ the Farmer added. ‘Not with Topper and Cafferty after your blood. Malibu will be a big help, the way he took off five minutes ago in the Roller.’ Watson walked up to the desk, looming over Mandelson like a mountain. ‘You’ve got two choices, son. You can talk, or you can run.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing.’

  ‘I saw you that night at Gaitanos,’ Rebus said. ‘If you’re going to lay out big bets, where better than Fife? Optimistic Raith fans might have bet on a goalless draw. You got Charmer Mackenzie to place the bets locally, spreading them around. That way it looked less suspicious.’

  Which was why Mackenzie had wanted Rebus out of there, whatever the price: he’d been about to do some business…

  ‘Besides,’ Rebus continued, ‘when it comes down to it, what choice do you have?’

  ‘You either talk to us…’ the Farmer said.

  ‘Or you disappear. People do it all the time.’

  And it never stops, Rebus could have added. Because it’s part of the dance–shifting partners, people you shared the floor with, it all changed. And it only ended when you disappeared from the hall.

  And sometimes… sometimes, it didn’t even end there.

  ‘All right,’ Mandelson said at last, the way they’d known he would, all colour gone from his face, his voice hollow, ‘what do you want to know?’

  ‘Let’s start with Topper Hamilton,’ the Farmer said, sounding like a kid unwrapping his birthday present.

  It was Wednesday morning when Rebus got the phone call from a Mr Bain. It took him a moment to place the name: Damon’s bank manager.

  ‘Yes, Mr Bain, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Damon Mee, Inspector. You wanted us to keep an eye on any transactions.’

  Rebus leaned forward in his chair. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘There’ve been two withdrawals from cash machines, both in central London.’

  Rebus grabbed a pen. ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘Tottenham Court Road was three days ago: fifty pounds. Next day, it was Finsbury Park, same amount.’

  Fifty pounds a day: enough to live on, enough to pay for a cheap bed and breakfast and two extra meals.

  ‘How much is left in the account, Mr Bain?’

  ‘A little under six hundred pounds.’

  Enough for twelve days. There were several ways it could go. Damon could get himself a job. Or when the money ran out he could try begging. Or he could return home. Rebus thanked Bain and telephoned Janis.

  ‘John,’ she said, ‘we got a postcard this morning.’

  A postcard saying Damon was in London and doing fine. A postcard of apology for any fright he’d given them. A postcard saying he needed some time to ‘get my head straight’. A postcard which ended ‘See you soon.’ The picture on the front was of a pair of breasts painted with Union Jacks.

  ‘Brian thinks we should go down there,’ Janis said. ‘Try to find him.’

  Rebus thought of how many B&Bs there’d be in Finsbury Park. ‘You might just chase him away,’ he warned. ‘He’s doing OK, Janis.’

  ‘But why did he do it, John? I mean, is it something we did?’

  New questions and fears had replaced the old ones. Rebus didn’t know what to tell her. He wasn’t family and couldn’t begin to answer her question. Didn’t want to begin to answer it.

  ‘He’s doing OK,’ he repeated. ‘Just give him some time.’

  She was crying now, softly. He imagined her with head bowed, hair falling over the telephone receiver.

  ‘We did everything, John. You can’t know how much we’ve given him. We always put ourselves second, never a minute’s thought for anything but him…’

  ‘Janis…’ he began.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Will you come and see me, John?’

  Rebus looked around the office, eyes resting eventually on his own desk and the paperwork stacked there.

  ‘I can’t, Janis. I’d like to, but I just can’t. See, it’s not as if I…’

  He didn’t know
how he was going to finish the sentence, but it didn’t matter. She’d put her phone down. He sat back in his chair and remembered dancing with her, how brittle her body had seemed. But that had been half a lifetime ago. They’d made so many choices since. It was time to let the past go. Siobhan Clarke was at her desk. She was looking at him. Then she mimed the drinking of a cup of coffee, and he nodded and got to his feet.

  Did a little dance as he shuffled towards her.

  No Sanity Clause

  It was all Edgar Allan Poe’s fault. Either that or the Scottish Parliament. Joey Briggs was spending most of his days in the run-up to Christmas sheltering from Edinburgh’s biting December winds. He’d been walking up George IV Bridge one day and had watched a down-and-out slouching into the Central Library. Joey had hesitated. He wasn’t a down-and-out, not yet anyway. Maybe he would be soon, if Scully Aitchison MSP got his way, but for now Joey had a bedsit and a trickle of state cash. Thing was, nothing made you miss money more than Christmas. The shop windows displayed their magnetic pull. There were queues at the cash machines. Kids tugged on their parents’ sleeves, ready with something new to add to the present list. Boyfriends were out buying gold, while families piled the food trolley high.

  And then there was Joey, nine weeks out of prison and nobody to call his friend. He knew there was nothing waiting for him back in his home town. His wife had taken the children and tiptoed out of his life. Joey’s sister had written to him in prison with the news. So, eleven months on, Joey had walked through the gates of Saughton Jail and taken the first bus into the city centre, purchased an evening paper and started the hunt for somewhere to live.

  The bedsit was fine. It was one of four in a tenement basement just off South Clerk Street, sharing a kitchen and bathroom. The other men worked, didn’t say much. Joey’s room had a gas fire with a coin-meter beside it, too expensive to keep it going all day. He’d tried sitting in the kitchen with the stove lit, until the landlord had caught him. Then he’d tried steeping in the bath, topping up the hot. But the water always seemed to run cold after half a tub.

  ‘You could try getting a job,’ the landlord had said.