by Ian Rankin
‘That’s right.’
‘Busy on his phone, maybe?’
The driver nodded. ‘Staring at it, aye… Some people haven’t got the sense they were born with. Not that I’m… I mean, I don’t want to speak ill or anything.’
‘Wasn’t your fault,’ Rebus agreed, patting the man’s shoulder.
‘Colleague of mine, same thing happened not six months past. Hasn’t worked since.’ He held up his hands to examine them.
‘He was too busy looking at his phone,’ Rebus said. ‘That’s the whole story. Reading a message, maybe?’
‘Maybe,’ the driver agreed. ‘Doing something anyway, something more important than looking where he was bloody well going…’
‘Not your fault,’ Rebus repeated, rising to his feet. He walked to the back of the bus, stepped out into the road, and waved down the first taxi he saw.
Rebus sat in the waiting area of the Western General Hospital. When a dazed-looking woman was led in by a nurse and asked if she wanted a cup of tea, he got to his feet. The woman sat herself down, twisting the handles of her shoulder bag in both hands, as if wringing the life out of them. She’d shaken her head, mumbled something to the nurse, who was now retreating.
‘As soon as we know anything,’ were the nurse’s parting words.
Rebus sat down next to the woman. She was in her early thirties, blonde hair cut in a pageboy style. What make-up she had applied to her eyes that morning had been smudged by tears, giving her a haunted look. Rebus cleared his throat, but she still seemed unaware of his close presence.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Rebus.’ He opened his ID; she looked at it, then stared down at the floor again. ‘Has your husband just been in an accident?’
‘He’s in surgery,’ she said.
Rebus had been told as much at the front desk. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t even know his name.’
‘Carl,’ she said. ‘Carl Guthrie.’
‘And you’re his wife?’
She nodded. ‘Frances.’
‘Must be quite a shock, Frances.’
‘Yes.’
‘Sure you don’t want that tea?’
She shook her head, looked up into his face for the first time. ‘Do you know what happened?’
‘Seems he was starting to cross Princes Street and didn’t see the bus coming.’
She squeezed shut her eyes, tears glinting in her lashes. ‘How is that possible?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Maybe he had something on his mind,’ he said quietly. ‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’
‘Breakfast this morning. I was planning to go shopping.’
‘What about Carl?’
‘I thought he was working. He’s a physiotherapist, sports injuries mostly. He has his own practice in Corstorphine. He gets some work from the Bupa hospital at Murrayfield.’
‘And a few rugby players too, I’d guess.’
Frances Guthrie was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. ‘How could he get hit by a bus?’ She looked up at the ceiling, blinking back tears.
‘Do you know what he was doing in town?’
She shook her head.
‘This was found lying in the road,’ Rebus said, holding up the phone. ‘There’s a text message displayed. You see what it says?’
She peered at the screen, then frowned. ‘What does it mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Do you recognise the caller’s number?’
She shook her head, then reached out a hand and took the phone from Rebus, turning it in her palm. ‘This isn’t Carl’s.’
‘What?’
‘This isn’t Carl’s phone. Someone else must have dropped it.’
Rebus stared at her. ‘You’re sure?’
She handed the phone back, nodding. ‘Carl’s is a silver flip-top sort of thing.’
Rebus studied the one-piece black Samsung. ‘Then whose is it?’ he asked, more to himself than to her. She answered anyway.
‘What does it matter?’
‘It matters.’
‘But it’s a joke, surely.’ She nodded at the screen. ‘Someone’s idea of a practical joke.’
‘Maybe,’ Rebus said.
The same nurse was walking towards them, accompanied by a surgeon in green scrubs. Neither of them had to say anything. Frances Guthrie was already keening as the surgeon began his speech.
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Guthrie… we did everything we could.’
Frances Guthrie leaned in towards Rebus, her face against his shoulder. He put his arm around her, feeling it was the least he could do.
Carl Guthrie’s effects had been placed in a large cardboard box. His blood-soaked clothes were protected by a clear polythene bag. Rebus lifted them out. The pockets had been emptied. Watch, wallet, small change, keys. And a silver flip-top mobile phone. Rebus checked its screen. The battery was low, and there were no messages. He told the nurse that he wanted to take it with him. She shrugged and made him sign a docket to that effect. He flipped through the wallet, finding banknotes, credit cards, and a few of Carl Guthrie’s business cards, giving an address in Corstorphine, plus office and mobile numbers. Rebus took out his own phone and punched in the latter. The silver telephone trilled as it rang. He cancelled the call, then nodded to the nurse to let her know he was finished. The docket was placed in the box, along with the polythene bag. Rebus pocketed all three phones.
The police lab at Howdenhall wasn’t officially open at weekends, but Rebus knew that someone was usually there, trying to clear a backlog, or just because they’d nothing better to do. He got lucky. Ray Duff was one of the better technicians. He sighed when Rebus walked in.
‘I’m up to my eyes,’ he complained, turning away to walk back down the corridor.
‘Yes, but you’ll like this,’ Rebus said, holding out the mobile. Duff stopped and turned, stared at it, then ran his fingers through an unruly mop of hair.
‘I really am up to my eyes…’
Rebus shrugged, arm still stretched out. Duff sighed again and took the phone from him.
‘Discovered at the scene of an accident,’ Rebus explained. Duff had found a pair of spectacles in one of the pockets of his white lab coat and was putting them on. ‘My guess is that the victim had just received the text message, and was transfixed by it.’
‘And walked out in front of a car?’
‘Bus actually. Thing is, the phone doesn’t belong to the victim.’ Rebus produced the silver flip-top. ‘This is his.’
‘So whose is this?’ Duff peered at Rebus over the top of his glasses. ‘That’s what you’re wondering.’ He was walking again, heading for his own cubicle, Rebus following.
‘Right.’
‘And also who the caller was.’
‘Right again.’
‘We could just phone them.’
‘We could.’ They’d reached Duff’s workstation. Each surface was a clutter of wires, machines and paperwork. Duff rubbed his bottom lip against his teeth. ‘Battery’s getting low,’ he said, as the phone uttered a brief chirrup.
‘Any chance you can recharge it?’
‘I can if you like, but we don’t really need it.’
‘We don’t?’
The technician shook his head. ‘The important stuff’s on the chip.’ He tapped the back of the phone. ‘We can transfer it…’ He grew thoughtful again. ‘Of course, that would mean accessing the code number, so we’re probably better off hanging on to it as it is.’ He reached down into a cupboard and produced half a dozen mains adaptors. ‘One of these should do the trick.’
Soon the phone was plugged in and charging. Meantime, Duff had worked his magic on the keypad, producing the phone number. Rebus punched it into his own phone, and the black mobile trilled.
‘Bingo,’ Duff said with a smile. ‘Now all we do is call the service provider…’ He left the cubicle and returned a couple of minutes later with a sheet of numbers. ‘I hope you didn’t touch anything,’
he said, waving a hand around his domain.
‘I wouldn’t dare.’ Rebus leaned against a workbench as Duff made the call, identified himself, and reeled off the mobile phone number. He placed his hand over the mouthpiece.
‘It’ll take a minute,’ he told Rebus.
‘Can anyone get this sort of information?’ Rebus asked. ‘I mean, what’s to stop Joe Public calling up and saying they’re a cop?’
Duff smiled. ‘Caller recognition. They’ve got a screen their end. IDs the caller number as Lothian and Borders Police Forensic Branch.’
‘Clever,’ Rebus admitted. Duff just shrugged. ‘So how about the other number? The one belonging to whoever sent that message.’
Duff held up a finger, indicating that he was listening to the person at the other end of the line. He looked around him, finding a scrap of paper. Rebus provided the pen, and he started writing.
‘That’s great, thanks,’ he said finally. Then: ‘Mind if I try you with something else? It’s a mobile number…’ He proceeded to reel off the number on the message screen, then, with his hand again muffling the mouthpiece, he handed the scrap of paper to Rebus.
‘Name and address of the phone’s owner.’
Rebus looked. The owner’s name was William Smith, the address a street in the New Town. ‘What about the text sender?’ he asked.
‘She’s checking.’ Duff removed his hand from the mouthpiece, listening intently. Then he started shaking his head. ‘Not one of yours, eh? Don’t suppose you can tell from the number just who is the service provider?’ He listened again. ‘Well, thanks anyway.’ He put down the receiver.
‘No luck?’ Rebus guessed. Duff shrugged.
‘Just means we have to do it the hard way’ He picked up the sheet of telephone numbers. ‘Maybe nine or ten calls at the most.’
‘Can I leave it with you, Ray?’
Duff stretched his arms wide. ‘What else was I going to be doing at half past six of a Saturday?’
Rebus smiled. ‘You and me both, Ray.’
‘What do you reckon we’re dealing with? A hit man?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But if it is… then Mr Smith would be his employer, making him someone you might not want to mess about with.’
‘I’m touched by your concern, Ray.’
Duff smiled. ‘Can I take it you’re headed over to that address anyway?’
‘Not too many gangsters living in the New Town, Ray.’
‘Not that we know of,’ Duff corrected him. ‘Maybe after this, we’ll know better…’
The streets were full of maroon-scarved Hearts fans, celebrating a rare victory. Bouncers had appeared at the doors of most of the city-centre watering holes: an unnecessary expense in daylight, but indispensable by night. There were queues outside the fast-food restaurants, diners tossing their empty cartons on to the pavement. Rebus kept eyes front as he drove. He was in his own car now, having stopped home long enough for a mug of coffee and two paracetamol. He guessed that a breath test might just about catch him, but felt OK to drive nonetheless.
The New Town, when he reached it, was quiet. Few bars here, and the area was a dead end of sorts, unlikely to be soiled by the city-centre drinkers. As usual, parking was a problem. Rebus did one circuit, then left his car on a double yellow line, right next to a set of traffic lights. Doubled back on himself until he reached the tenement. There was an entryphone, a list of residents printed beside it. But no mention of anyone called Smith. He ran a finger down the column of names. One space was blank. It belonged to Flat 3. He pushed the button and waited. Nothing. Pushed it again, then started pressing various bells, waiting for someone to respond. Eventually the tiny loudspeaker grille crackled into life.
‘Hello?’
‘I’m a police officer. Any chance of speaking to you for a minute?’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘No problem. It’s just a couple of questions concerning one of your neighbours…’
There was silence, then a buzzing sound as the door unlocked itself. Rebus pushed it open and stepped into the stairwell. A door on the ground floor was open, a man standing there. Rebus had his ID open. The man was in his twenties, with cropped hair and Buddy Holly spectacles. A dishtowel was draped over one shoulder.
‘Do you know anyone called William Smith?’ Rebus asked.
‘Smith?’ The man narrowed his eyes, shook his head slowly.
‘I think he lives here.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘I’m not sure.’
The man stared at him, then shrugged. ‘People come and go. Some times they move on before you get to know their names.’
‘But you’ve been here a while?’
‘Almost a year. Some of the neighbours I know to say hello to, but I don’t always know their names.’ He smiled apologetically. Yes, that was Edinburgh for you: people kept themselves to themselves, didn’t want anyone getting too close. A mixture of shyness and mistrust.
‘Flat 3 doesn’t seem to have a name beside it,’ Rebus said, nodding back towards the main door.
The man shrugged again.
‘I’m just going to go up and take a look,’ Rebus said.
‘Be my guest. You know where I am if you need me.’
‘Thanks for your help.’ Rebus started climbing the stairs. The shared space was well maintained, the steps clean, smelling of disinfectant mixed with something else, a perfume of sorts. There were ornate tiles on the walls. Flats 2 and 3 were on the first floor. There was a buzzer to the right of Flat 3, a typed label attached to it. Rebus bent down for a closer look. The words had faded but were readable: LT Lettings. While he was down there, he decided he might as well take a look through the letter box. All he could see was an unlit hallway. He straightened up and pressed the bell for Flat 2. Nobody was home. He took out one of his business cards and a ballpoint pen, scribbled the words Please call me on the back, and pushed the card through the door of Flat 2. He thought for a moment, but decided against doing the same for Flat 3.
Back downstairs again, he knocked on the door of the young man with the dishtowel. Smiled as it was opened.
‘Sorry to bother you again, but do you think I could take a look at your phone book…?’
Rebus went back to his car and made the call from there. An answering machine played its message, informing him that LT Lettings was closed until ten o’clock on Monday morning, but that any tenant with an emergency should call another number. He jotted it down and called. The person who answered sounded like he was stuck in traffic. Rebus explained who he was.
‘I need to ask about one of your properties.’
‘I’m not the person you need to speak to. I just mend things.’
‘What sorts of things?’
‘Some tenants aren’t too fussy, know what I mean? Place isn’t their own, they treat it like shit.’
‘Until you turn up and sort them out?’
The man laughed. ‘I put things right, if that’s what you mean.’
‘And that’s all you do?’
‘Look, I’m not sure where you’re going with this… It’s my boss you need to speak to. Lennox Tripp.’
‘OK, give me his number.’
‘Office is shut till Monday.’
‘His home number, I meant.’
‘I’m not sure he’d thank me for that.’
‘This is a police matter. And it’s urgent.’
Rebus waited for the man to speak, then jotted down the eventual reply. ‘And your name is…?’
‘Frank Empson.’
Rebus jotted this down too. ‘Well, thanks for your help, Mr Empson. You heading for a night out?’
‘Absolutely, Inspector. Just as soon as I’ve fixed the heating in one flat and unblocked the toilet in another.’
Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Ever had cause to visit Gilby Street?’
‘In the New Town?’
‘Number 26, Flat 3.’
‘I moved som
e furniture in, but that was months back.’
‘Never seen the person who lives there?’
‘Nope.’
‘Well, thanks again…’ Rebus cut the call, punched in the number for Lennox Tripp. The phone was answered on the fifth ring. Rebus asked if he was speaking to Lennox Tripp.
‘Yes.’ The voice hesitant.
‘My name’s John Rebus. I’m a detective inspector with Lothian and Borders Police.’
‘What seems to be the problem?’ The voice more confident now, an educated drawl.
‘One of your tenants, Mr Tripp, 26 Gilby Street.’
‘Yes?’
‘I need to know what you know…’
Rebus was smoking his second cigarette when Tripp arrived, driving a silver Mercedes. He double-parked outside number 26, using a remote to set the locks and alarm.
‘Won’t be long, will we?’ he asked, turning to glance at his car as he shook Rebus’s hand. Rebus flicked the half-smoked cigarette on to the road.
‘Wouldn’t imagine so,’ he said.
Lennox Tripp was about Rebus’s age–mid fifties–but had worn considerably better. His face was tanned, hair groomed, clothes casual but classy. He stepped up to the door and let them in with a key. As they climbed the stairs, he said his piece.
‘Only reason William Smith sticks in my head is that he pays cash for the let. A wad of twenties in an envelope, delivered to the office on time each month. This is his seventh month.’
‘You must have met him, though.’
Tripp nodded. ‘Showed him the place myself.’
‘Can you describe him?’
Tripp shrugged. ‘White, tallish… nothing much to distinguish him.’
‘Hair?’
Tripp smiled. ‘Almost certainly.’ Then, as if to apologise for the glib comeback: ‘It was six months ago, Inspector.’
‘And that’s the only time you’ve seen him?’
Tripp nodded. ‘I’d have called him a model tenant…’
‘A model tenant who pays cash? You don’t find that a mite suspicious?’
Tripp shrugged again. ‘I try not to pry, Inspector.’ They were at the door to Flat 3. Tripp unlocked it and motioned for Rebus to precede him inside.
‘Was it rented furnished?’ Rebus asked, walking into the living room.
