The Beat Goes On

by Ian Rankin

  ‘The car dealer?’

  ‘Biggest on the east coast–isn’t that what the advert says?’

  Rebus nodded slowly. ‘He comes from a rich family, then. They’re paying for this place?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Waters’s eyes had closed now. Annie motioned with her head for Rebus to leave. Out in the corridor, she left the door ajar a few inches. The unconscious figure of Lionel Waters could be seen through the gap.

  ‘Why did they let him out of the other place?’ The other place–because Rebus didn’t know what the current term was for a nut-house, a loony bin, an asylum.

  ‘Said he no longer posed a threat. If you ask me, it’s been a long time since he did. All he wants to do is run away.’

  ‘To see his treasure.’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Aye, right.’

  ‘And to tell Colin he’s sorry… sorry for what?’

  ‘Sorry he killed him.’ She started walking down the corridor, trying hard not to limp. ‘He thinks he killed his brother.’

  ‘But Colin must have visited?’

  ‘A few times, yes.’

  ‘Only a few?’

  She stopped again, turned to face him. ‘How would you feel if every time your brother saw you, he thought you were a ghost?’

  Rebus could think of no reply, so gave a shrug. Satisfied with this, she went a few more paces, then stopped at a swing door, ready with her palm against its surface.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ she said.

  ‘My name’s John.’

  She nodded at this information. ‘You’re a friend of Mr Flatley. Did he tell you his theory?’

  ‘He thinks people are dying.’

  ‘And what do you think, John?’

  ‘I think you get lousy pay for back-breaking work.’

  ‘And?’ Her face was almost breaking into a smile.

  ‘And you do the best you can for your patrons.’

  She nodded slowly, pushed open the door and disappeared through it into what seemed to be the kitchen.

  The painting had been removed from the entrance hall. There was no sign of either Ken Flatley or Donald Morrison. Outside, Morrison’s Merc had gone from the car park. As Rebus manoeuvred his own rusting Saab down the driveway, slowing for the speed bumps, each one a potential nail in his car’s coffin, he had to pull on to the verge so that a delivery van could pass him. His eyes sought the driver’s, expecting some gesture of thanks at the show of courtesy, but the man stared resolutely ahead. The side of the white transit bore the legend ‘Pakenham Fresh Fleshing’. Rebus stayed on the verge and watched in his rear-view as the van rattled towards its destination. He knew the driver from somewhere; seemed to recognise the face. It was the jawline, the set of the mouth. Maybe from a butcher’s shop, but he didn’t know the name Pakenham. All the same, he was reminded that he needed something for dinner. Steak pie maybe, and a tin of marrowfat peas. Or he could always eat out, provided he could find a dinner partner. He thought again of Annie and those deep hazel eyes. Shame she wore a wedding ring. His mobile started ringing. He fished it out of his pocket and checked the display, then held it to his ear.

  ‘How do you fancy dinner tonight, my treat?’

  ‘And will there be any solids involved?’ a voice replied.

  ‘Some,’ he promised, knowing that Detective Sergeant Siobhan Clarke had already taken the bait.

  Diners in the Oxford Bar needed no menu. There was the Cambridge Bar further along Young Street if you really wanted a meal. The Ox, on the other hand, served pies and bridies (until they ran out), and filled rolls–corned beef and beetroot a speciality. Snacks consisted of crisps, nuts and pork scratchings.

  ‘Yummy,’ Siobhan Clarke said.

  ‘We can hit a chip shop later if you’re not replete,’ Rebus responded, placing her vodka and lemonade on the table. She’d settled for a ham and tomato roll. The barman had gone to some lengths to also supply a crusty jar of French mustard. Rebus pulled out a chair and settled himself. Two inches were already missing from his pint of IPA. A macaroni cheese pie sat on the plate before him. ‘It was the last hot thing they had,’ he explained now.

  ‘I can imagine.’

  He took a bite and shrugged. Siobhan spread mustard thinly across the roll, and closed it up again. ‘How was Ken?’ she asked, lifting it to her mouth.

  ‘He says the inmates are dropping like flies–his exact words.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning a few of his fellow codgers have caught the last train.’

  ‘Isn’t that what happens when you get old?’

  Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘Something else happened while I was out there.’

  Siobhan ate in silence as Rebus told her the story of Lionel Waters. By the end of it, he’d finished his first pint. He raised the empty glass. She shook her head, letting him know she didn’t yet need a refill.

  ‘I mean it’s your shout,’ he said. When she made to get up, he beat her to it. ‘Only kidding: you’re my guest, remember?’

  By the time he returned from the bar, she had finished her roll and was swirling the ice cubes in what was left of her drink.

  ‘I bought my car from Waters Motors,’ she told him.

  ‘So did half the city.’

  ‘I’d never heard about a brother, though.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘He’s lucky he wasn’t lobotomised–they used to do that, you know.’

  ‘You mean they don’t any more?’

  She saw that he was teasing. ‘John F. Kennedy’s sister… I was reading about her only the other day.’

  ‘He had a sister?’

  ‘She died recently. Locked up for sixty years…’

  ‘And given a lobotomy?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, we don’t do that any more.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, concentrating on their drinks. Siobhan was first to speak. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Something’s bugging you. I hope it’s not gold fever.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Tales of hidden treasure.’ She widened her eyes theatrically. ‘They’ve sent many a man mad before you.’

  ‘Sod off, Siobhan.’

  She laughed. ‘But there is something, isn’t there?’

  ‘It’s what he said when he was standing in front of me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘“I’m not what you think I am”. He said “what” rather than “who”.’

  Siobhan snapped her fingers. ‘They’ve swapped places! Lionel is Colin and vice versa–that’s how it would work in a film.’

  ‘I’m warning you…’ Rebus stared into his beer. ‘And he said “she”–“she buried the body”. He wanted to say sorry to his brother.’

  Siobhan leaned across the table. ‘We’re not psychiatrists, John.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘We’re detectives.’

  ‘That’s right.’ He looked up at her. ‘You’re absolutely right.’

  His tone alerted her. She sat back again, hands resting around her empty glass. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘For now, I’m going to get you a refill.’ He pushed himself to his feet.

  ‘And after?’

  ‘You said it yourself, Shiv: I’m a detective.’

  ‘You’re going to see the car man, aren’t you?’

  A smile flitted across Rebus’s face. ‘If nothing else, maybe he’ll do me a trade-in on the Saab…’

  The main Edinburgh showroom for Waters Motors was just off Calder Road. Rebus headed there next morning, the rush-hour traffic numbing his senses, so that he happily accepted the secretary’s offer of caffeine.

  ‘Instant OK?’ she asked apologetically.

  ‘Instant’s fine.’ Colin Waters had yet to arrive from his home in Linlithgow, but that didn’t bother Rebus. He had a call to make: to the Scottish Criminal Records Office. During part of the crawl her
e, he’d stared at the blacked-out windows of the van in front, and this had triggered a memory–a name, which in turn had brought another name into play. He gave both to his SCRO colleague, along with his mobile phone number.

  ‘How soon till you call me?’ he asked. He was seated on the showroom’s mezzanine level, its smoked-glass walls giving a view of the business area below. The cars on display gleamed. Their very tyres sparkled, picked out by well-positioned halogen bulbs suspended from the ceiling. The salesmen were young and wore commission-bought suits, which made it easy to spot the most successful ones. When the revolving door spat out a newcomer, those who had been sitting leaped to their feet, eyes seeking an acknowledgement from the elderly man in the sagging jacket and slacks.

  Colin Waters.

  He was in his seventies, much the same age as his brother, but there the similarity ended. Colin Waters was about a foot shorter than Lionel, and boasted a thick head of hair and a face grown pink and round from indulgence. Ignoring the greetings from those around him, he started climbing the open-sided glass staircase, a busy man with a crowded schedule ahead. He glanced at Rebus as he passed him, perhaps mistaking him for a rep of some kind. He closed the office door after him, and Rebus thought he could hear the muffled conversation that followed. When the door opened again, Colin Waters gestured with a crooking of his finger. Rebus thought about staying put–just to see how the man would react–but decided against it. He followed Waters into the office, accepted the mug from the secretary, and watched her leave, closing the door quietly behind her.

  There were two desks: one for the secretary, one for her boss. Rebus decided that the proximity had to be for one of two reasons: either Waters liked looking at her, or else he didn’t want to miss anything going on around him. Waters was gesturing again, this time for Rebus to sit, but Rebus stayed standing. There was a full-height glass wall here, again looking down on to the sales floor. Rebus pretended to be watching from it, mug cupped in front of him.

  ‘Elaine says you’re a police officer,’ Waters barked, landing heavily on his own leather-upholstered chair and pulling it in towards his desk.

  ‘That’s right, sir. CID.’

  ‘You wouldn’t tell her what it’s about. All very mysterious.’

  ‘Not really, sir. Just didn’t think you’d want me discussing family matters in front of the staff.’ When Rebus turned his head, the blood was draining from Waters’s face.

  ‘Lionel?’ he gasped.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir, your brother’s fine.’ Rebus decided finally to sit down.

  ‘Then what’s… Not Martha?’

  ‘Martha?’

  ‘My sister.’ Waters caught himself. ‘Obviously not, since you don’t know who I’m talking about.’

  Rebus was remembering Lionel’s words: she buried the body. ‘Actually, sir, it is about your brother. I happened to be at Renshaw House yesterday, and had to help the staff restrain him. Seems he wanted to walk out of there, so he could find you and say sorry.’

  ‘Oh Christ.’ Waters bowed his head, pinching the skin at the bridge of his nose.

  ‘You know he thinks he killed you?’

  Colin Waters nodded. ‘Right from when he was a kid, we knew there was something that wasn’t right about him. He was a lot of fun, though… boisterous, you know?’ He seemed to expect some response, so Rebus produced a slow nod. ‘But he never seemed to have any sense of when he was taking things too far. He’d bite… lash out… even at strangers on the street. Our parents decided he needed to be kept home, at least for as long as they were able.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Martha and I… we tried to pretend he was just like anybody else.’ He broke off, flicked at something invisible on the arm of his jacket. ‘Special needs is the term these days; back then, the local children had other ways of putting it. Keeping Lionel at home became problematic.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been easy,’ Rebus acknowledged. Waters gave the briefest of smiles.

  ‘We were wrestling one day,’ he said. ‘Middle of July–teenagers, the pair of us–out on the lawn. Lionel loved to wrestle… probably fell on me a bit too solidly–he was well built in those days.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I think I passed out. When I came to, he was up to high doh… reckoned he’d done me in. We couldn’t make him see sense.’

  ‘By “we” you mean…?’

  ‘Martha and me. She’s younger than us. The way he was carry ing on, it scared the hell out of her–roaring like a wild beast, almost foaming at the mouth. As far as Lionel was concerned, I was a ghost…’

  Waters paused, lost in memory. His fingers had stretched out to touch a photo frame on his desk. Rebus could see only the back of it.

  ‘Is that…?’ He pointed to the frame.

  ‘This is afterwards. Me and Martha.’

  ‘Do you mind if I take a look?’

  Waters’s shoulder twitched as he turned the photo round. It was black and white, and showed Colin Waters still not quite out of his teens. His sister looked four or five years younger, breasts just beginning to appear, hair still held in pigtails. They were seated on the staircase of what appeared to be a grand house–probably not dissimilar to Renshaw House. They were peering through the iron banisters. There was a painting on the wall behind them. Neither looked particularly happy, and the photographer had failed to get their faces in sharp focus. There was a ghostly quality to the whole. Rebus couldn’t help wondering why the photo was so important. To him, it seemed a daily reminder of something lost: the hopes and dreams of youth.

  ‘Interesting painting,’ he said, as Waters turned the photo back towards himself.

  ‘It’s still in the family.’

  ‘Is it a loch or a river?’

  ‘I think the artist invented it, whatever it is. Not too many cliff-top castles in Scotland.’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ Rebus made to rise to his feet, Waters following suit.

  ‘I’m still not sure why you came, Inspector,’ he commented.

  ‘Me neither,’ Rebus told him. Then he slid his hands into his pockets. ‘Your brother just seemed so confused and lonely. I take it a visit from you would upset him?’

  Waters shrugged. ‘I’m a ghost, remember.’

  ‘And your sister? Does she see him much?’

  Waters shook his head. ‘It upsets her too much to see him like that.’ He gestured with an expansive right arm. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else…’

  ‘I appreciate your time, sir.’ Rebus didn’t bother mentioning the Saab; reckoned it would do him another year.

  He decided that a further visit to Renshaw House was in order, but first drove towards his home in Marchmont, stopping at the local butcher’s shop. He was a known face here, and as with a good barman, the butcher knew what his regulars liked.

  ‘Steak pie, Mr Rebus?’ he was asking as Rebus walked over the threshold.

  ‘No thanks, Andy.’

  ‘Couple of nice pork chops, then?’

  Rebus shook his head. There was sawdust on the floor–for show rather than anything else. Andy wore a striped apron and a straw boater. Photos on the white-tiled wall showed his father in the selfsame get-up. Rebus was struck again by what the photo on Waters’s desk must have meant to the car dealer.

  ‘Just a question actually, Andy,’ he said.

  ‘Is this me becoming a police informer? The Huggy Bear of Edinburgh?’

  Rebus answered the laugh with a smile of his own. He’d never seen the butcher at rest. Even now, with no order to fill, Andy was sorting the display of various hams and sausages. ‘I was wondering if you knew about a butcher called Pakenham.’

  ‘Pakenham?’

  Rebus spelled it for him. ‘They’d be local, I think. “Fresh Fleshing” is what it says on their van.’

  ‘Have they got a shop?’

  ‘I’ve only seen the van. It was delivering to an old folk’s home’

  Andy pursed his lips.

  ‘What is it?’ Rebus ask
ed.

  ‘Well, it’s not always top-grade, is it?’

  ‘Cheap cuts, you mean?’

  ‘Cheapest possible.’ Andy held his hands up. ‘I’m not saying they’re all like that…’

  ‘But some are?’ Rebus nodded to himself. ‘Got a phone book, Andy?’

  The butcher fetched one from the back of the shop. Rebus checked, but there was no Pakenham Fresh Fleshing.

  ‘Thanks, Andy,’ he said, handing it back.

  ‘Sorry I can’t be more help. More Yogi Bear than Huggy, eh?’

  ‘Actually, you’ve been a big help. And maybe I will take one of those steak pies.’

  ‘Family size, as usual?’

  ‘As usual,’ Rebus confirmed. He would drop it home before his visit to Renshaw House.

  He rang the bell and waited. It was late afternoon now, the sun low in the sky. The detached villa sat on Minto Street, a busy thoroughfare on the city’s south side. The house had a faded elegance, its stonework blackened by time and traffic. Most of the houses around it had become bed and breakfasts, but not this one. The name on the unpolished brass door plate was Waters, the letters picked out in verdigris. The sister, it seemed, had never married.

  She opened the door herself. No pigtails now, the hair grey and thin, scraped back from the forehead and tucked behind both ears. Her eyes were sunken, as were her cheeks. Colin Waters, it seemed, had stolen all the heartiest genes from his parents.

  ‘Martha Waters?’ Rebus said, realising that he was pitching his voice a little louder than was probably necessary–she was only ten or so years older than him.

  ‘Yes?’

  He held open his warrant card. ‘I’m from the police, Miss Waters. Do you mind if I come in?’

  She said nothing, her mouth forming a crumpled O. But she held the door open so he could pass into the hall. It wasn’t the same one as in the photograph. The banisters were wooden, darkly varnished. The only natural light came from a window on the upstairs landing. The carpet was ornate but as worn as its owner. She closed the door, adding to the pervasive gloom. Rebus noted an alarm panel on the wall beside the umbrella stand. The panel looked new, with a digital display. A sensor blinked in the far corner of the ceiling.