The Beat Goes On

by Ian Rankin

  Penalty Claus

  They even had a name for themselves: the Holly and Ivy Gang.

  It was Debby’s idea. ‘They’re our aliases.’

  Her mother, Liz, wasn’t so sure. ‘Why do we need aliases? And which one am I?’

  ‘You’re Ivy.’

  Liz snorted at this. ‘Why can’t I be Holly?’

  ‘The name’s just something they can use about us on the news.’

  ‘But that’s my whole point–we’re good at this, and that means we don’t get anywhere near the news.’

  ‘But just in case…’

  ‘Besides which, there’s only the two of us, so we’re not technically a “gang”.’

  ‘Bandits, then. The Holly and Ivy Bandits…’

  Liz was in the electric wheelchair. Debby was on a hard plastic seat next to her. They were at a table in a fast-food restaurant on Princes Street. Debby’s chair was bolted to the floor, meaning she couldn’t get comfortable. They were having a bit of a rest. Edinburgh wasn’t a place they knew well. They’d come by train, booking off-peak to make it worthwhile. Liz had her head screwed on about such things. No point making money on the day if your outgoings added up to more.

  ‘Harsh economic realities,’ she’d explained, nodding slowly at her own wisdom.

  Debby was in her early twenties, Liz her mid forties. They lived in a scheme on the outskirts of Glasgow. Glasgow’s shopping streets had given them their first taste of success, three years back. The run-up to Christmas, that was their season. They’d get want-lists from friends and would always say, ‘We’ll see what we can do.’ But the lists had to be specific: electrical goods were usually too bulky and well guarded. Clothes and perfumes were what it came down to. Dresses and tops; posh underwear; Paris brands. Liz in the wheelchair, shopping bags hooked over its handles, a travel rug on her lap. Debby light-fingered and shrewd, eyes in the back of her head.

  There’d be security staff, but they could be blindsided or distracted. CCTV wasn’t always the all-seeing eye. The clothes would carry security tags, but that was where the wheelchair came in. Exiting each shop, Liz would get a bit clumsy and barge into the alarm rail, setting it off. There’d be apologies from Debby as she helped her mother manoeuvre the chair past the obstacle. The staff would be helpful, might even say that the security measures were a pain. No one, so far, had ever stopped them and asked for a rummage.

  There was a big ‘but’, though. It wasn’t the sort of stunt you could pull time and again. If you went back to the same shop and set the alarm off a second time, there’d be a bit more suspicion. So they’d moved the operation from Glasgow to Dundee last year, and now it was Edinburgh’s turn. Princes Street: big names… department stores and fashion chains… easy pickings. They’d already done three shops, and after the burger and fizzy drink would try at least two more.

  ‘Need the loo?’ Debby asked. Her mother shook her head. The stuff they’d lifted so far, Debby had gone into Princes Street Gardens with it and found a hiding place in a clump of bushes. Always a worry: you never knew if it would be waiting for you at the day’s end. But you couldn’t risk the tags setting off alarms as you entered other shops–a lesson learned after their very first attempt. Besides, they needed the shopping bags on the back of the wheelchair nice and empty, the travel rug unbulging.

  Their next port of call was all of twenty yards further along the street. Liz had felt it worth pointing out that Princes Street was good for wheelchairs: ramped pavements, helpful pedestrians. Waverley Station had been more of a challenge, sunk as it was beneath street level. All the same, the day was shaping up. They’d even discussed going further afield next time–Carlisle or Newcastle or Aberdeen. Debby wasn’t sure about England: ‘we’d stand out a mile with these accents’. But her mother had added that maybe they didn’t need to wait a whole year. Their friends were always after clothes and make-up and other bits and pieces.

  ‘This operation could go global,’ was the seed she planted in her daughter’s head.

  Their chosen shop turned out to be less than brilliant. The better stuff was kept under glass. The available accessories looked cheap because they were cheap. It was a question of weighing up the risks. The guard was in a uniform of sorts and prowled the floor like he was pacing a cage, just waiting to pounce. The music was too loud for Liz’s taste. The place was packed with customers, too. There was a sort of ideal midway point: you didn’t want it to be dead, but neither did you want too many pairs of eyes on you. That was one thing about the wheelchair: it drew attention. You had to be careful.

  On their way to the exit, Liz did some clumsy reversing. The alarm rang out, the red light on the sensor flashing. Debby started to chide her and the security guard came over. She told him she was sorry.

  ‘One too many sherries,’ she explained. ‘Lucky there’s nobody with a breathalyser.’

  ‘It happens,’ the guard said with a smile. He was resetting the alarm as Liz trundled the chair out through the doors. Her way was blocked by a pair of legs. She looked up and saw that the man had his arms folded. He was smiling too, but she sensed there was nothing friendly about it.

  ‘Aw, no,’ was all she said.

  ‘So who does the wheelchair belong to?’

  Liz and Debby were seated in one of the interview rooms at Gayfield Square police station. Detective Inspector John Rebus was standing, arms folded again.

  ‘It was my gran’s,’ Debby answered.

  Rebus nodded slowly. Even he–though he would never admit as much–had been surprised when Liz Doherty had opted for a patrol car over a van with a ramp at the back. She had risen from the wheelchair with what might have passed for a sheepish look and walked to the car unaided.

  ‘And where’s your gran now?’ he asked.

  ‘Buried her four years back. Nobody ever came for the wheelchair…’

  Liz asked for a cup of tea. Rebus told her she’d get one in a minute.

  ‘Before that,’ he said, ‘I need you to tell me where the rest of the stuff is.’

  The silence was broken by Debby. ‘What stuff ?’

  Rebus made a tutting sound, as though disappointed in her. He dragged the empty chair out from under the table and sat down so he was facing both women.

  ‘You’re not as smart as you think you are. Store detectives tend to share gossip about their day. They’d start telling each other about the clumsy woman in the wheelchair. Glasgow two years back and Dundee last. So you might say alarm bells were ringing across the country. First shop you were in today, they got on the phone. You’d done two more by the time I could get to the scene. We’ve got CCTV going back three years. It was just a matter of time…’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Liz muttered.

  Rebus tutted again. ‘Christmas in the cells for the pair of you. Is there a Mr Doherty?’

  ‘Aye,’ from the mother. A shake of the head from the daughter.

  ‘Best tell him he’ll be doing his own cooking.’

  ‘Couldn’t boil an egg,’ Debby blurted out. Then, turning towards her mother, ‘And he’s not Mr Doherty. He’s just a fat guy you brought home one night.’

  ‘That’s enough from you,’ her mother snapped back.

  Rebus let them bicker for a few more minutes, biding his time by checking messages on his phone. Debby kept looking at the device greedily. Her own mobile had been taken from her at the booking desk. Half an hour had passed, and she was suffering the texting DTs.

  ‘What did we ever do without these?’ Rebus asked out loud, twisting the knife.

  ‘So when do we get out?’ Liz Doherty was fixing him with a look.

  ‘When the process says you can,’ Rebus assured her. ‘But I’m still waiting to hear where the rest of the stuff is. Hidden up a lane somewhere? Or how about Princes Street Gardens? Me, I’d probably say the Gardens. Edinburgh’s not your turf. Laziest option’s probably the one you went for.’ He turned his attention back to his phone’s screen.

&
nbsp; ‘Am I warm?’ he asked into the silence. ‘Toasty warm,’ he decided.

  He gave it a couple more minutes, then got up, stretched, and left the room. Liz Doherty was reminding him about the tea as he closed the door on her. He went to the machine and got one for himself, then took it outside so he could smoke a cigarette. He had half a mind to phone his colleague, Siobhan Clarke. She was on a surveillance operation and hadn’t replied to the dozen or so mischievous texts he’d sent her over the course of the past twenty-four hours. It was mid afternoon, but dark and damp in the car park. A metal No Smoking notice on the brick wall had seen so many butts stubbed out on it that its message had been all but obliterated. Rebus stood next to it and tried not to think about Christmas. He would be on his own, because that was how he liked it. There were a couple of pubs he could visit on the day itself. He’d buy himself something decent for dinner, and a better-than-usual bottle of malt. Maybe a few CDs and a DVD box-set. Sorted. Then, mid evening would come the phone call or the door buzzer. Siobhan Clarke, feeling sorry for him and maybe a little for herself, though she would never admit it. She’d want them to watch a soppy comedy, or go for a stroll through the silent streets. He had already considered his options, but felt he couldn’t let her down, couldn’t scurry out of town for the day or unplug his phone.

  ‘Humbug,’ he said, stabbing the remains of his cigarette against the sign.

  Back indoors, a couple of officers were discussing the bag-snatcher. He’d gone and done it again, the little sod. His targets were the elderly and infirm, walking frames and wheelchairs a speciality. There’d be a handbag hanging from one or the other, and he’d have his hand in and out of it in a flash, hurtling from the scene with bus passes, purses and keepsakes, none of which ever turned up, meaning he was either dumping them intelligently or else keeping them as trophies. Description: denims and a dark hooded top. The local evening paper had been having a go at the police for their inability to stop him, interviewing victims and potential targets.

  Shopping centres were what he liked. The Gyle, Waverley, Cameron Toll.

  ‘Got to be the St James Centre one of these days,’ one of the officers was saying. Yes, that was Rebus’s feeling, too. The St James Centre, sited at the east end of Princes Street. Plenty of exits. All on one level, meaning it was popular with the walking frames and wheelchairs.

  Walking frames and wheelchairs…

  Rebus ran a finger from his chin to his Adam’s apple, then made his way back to the interview room.

  There had obviously been a bit of a falling-out. The daughter was up on her feet, standing in one corner with her back to the room. The mother had decided to turn away from her in her chair. Rebus cleared his throat.

  ‘All out of tea,’ he said. ‘But I’ve brought something else instead.’

  Both women turned their heads towards him. Both asked the same question: ‘What?’

  ‘A deal,’ Rebus said, retaking his seat and motioning for Debby Doherty to do the same.

  Siobhan Clarke had another two hours left of her shift. She was seated in an unmarked car alongside a detective constable called Ronnie Wilson. The small talk had run out of steam almost before it had begun. Ronnie had no interest in football or music. He built models–galleons and racing cars and the like. There were blobs of glue on the tips of his fingers, which he took delight in picking clean. And he had a cold, a persistent sniffle. Siobhan had tried the radio, but he only seemed to like the classical station, and then proceeded to hum along to the first three tunes, causing Siobhan to switch the sound off. There was a faint aroma in the car: the cheese and onion sandwich Wilson had brought with him from home; the chive and sour cream crisps he’d bought from a petrol station. Every now and then he would attempt to dislodge a morsel from between his teeth with his tongue or a fingernail, making sucking noises throughout.

  They were parked in a suburban street. It was lined with cars and vans, meaning they stood out less. They were sixty yards shy of John Kerr’s bungalow. The family was at home–wife Selina and teenage son and daughter. Everyone but John Kerr himself. Kerr had gone on the run from prison two days ago. He’d been done for fraud, tax evasion and a dozen or so further money-related crimes, but all without landing his employer in it with him. Kerr was the accounting brain behind Morris Gerald Cafferty’s operation. Cafferty had more or less run Edinburgh these past several decades. If money was to be made from anything illegal, you’d usually find his name linked to it somewhere. But despite a lengthy court appearance and a slew of questions and inferences, Kerr had kept his trap shut. Then, on a community work placement to the west of the city, he’d simply walked off the job and not come back.

  Siobhan had the files with her. They took up half the back seat, and every now and then she would reach for one and flick through it. Kerr had been sentenced to two and a half years, but with good behaviour and incentives would serve only nine or ten months. A model prisoner, it said in the report. Helping inmates on a literacy programme; working in the library; keeping himself to himself. Of course, no one was going to have a pop at him–he was protected by his employer’s reputation. So why did he do a runner? As far as anyone could see, the answer had to be Christmas. He wasn’t due to be released until March. There were photos in one of the folders. Kerr playing Santa Claus at an old people’s home; Kerr–again dressed as Santa–donating a Christmas tree to a city hospice; Kerr with a sack of toys as he arrived at a special needs school…

  Siobhan stared through the windscreen. The bungalow was unassuming. The car in the driveway was a five-year-old mid-range Jaguar. The wife worked behind the desk at a health centre. The kids went to a private school, but that was far from unusual in Edinburgh. It didn’t appear to be a lavish lifestyle for a man who’d had two million pounds in his various accounts at the time of his arrest. Siobhan studied his photograph again. Kerr was fifty, short and overweight. That was why they were guessing he’d use the front door. An eight-foot-high fence went around the rest of the property, disguised by leylandii. Nobody could envisage Kerr shinning his way into his garden. He would use front gate, path and door.

  Because of Christmas. Because Christmas obviously meant something to him. Siobhan had already asked Wilson what plans he had for the big day. He was travelling to see his parents, who lived in Peterhead. He’d catch up with old pals from school. Boxing Day would see a schedule of visits to members of what seemed to be a hugely extended family. Siobhan just had her mum and dad, and they were in England. She could surprise them, turn up out of the blue, but she knew she wouldn’t. She had to visit Rebus, make sure he wasn’t sinking. Keep his spirits up. He would miss her if she didn’t.

  She looked at the clock on the dashboard. An hour and forty minutes till the changeover. She felt muzzy from inactivity. She’d taken a couple of breaks, walking around the block. Christmas trees in most of the windows, lights sparkling. One householder had gone a bit further, adding an outdoor display: reindeer and sleigh on the roof; a waterfall effect cascading down the walls and past the windows; polystyrene snowman next to the front step. Her own decorations hadn’t been put up yet. They were still in their box in the hall cupboard. She was wondering whether it was worth going to all the trouble when no one would see them but her.

  Wilson was whistling through his teeth. Sounded vaguely like a carol. There was a newspaper on his lap, crossword and other puzzles completed. He was drumming his fingers against the newsprint. Ten seconds he’d been at it, and she was already irritated. But he stopped and jerked his head around as the car’s back door flew open. Files and folders were shoved aside. Someone had climbed in and was slamming the door shut again. Siobhan looked in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Evening,’ she said. Then, for Wilson’s benefit: ‘Don’t panic. He’s with us. DC Wilson, meet DI Rebus.’

  Wilson had had a shock and was slow to recover. He stretched out a trembling hand, which Rebus met with his own.

  ‘Smells like a chip shop in here,’ Rebus stated.

/>   ‘My fault,’ Wilson owned up.

  ‘Don’t apologise, son. I’m quite liking it.’

  ‘What brings you here?’ Siobhan asked.

  ‘You never got back to me.’ Rebus was trying to sound aggrieved.

  Siobhan’s eyes met his in the mirror. ‘No, I didn’t,’ she said. ‘So you thought you’d come and gloat in person?’

  ‘Who’s gloating? Nice warm car. Bit of a chinwag and a read of the papers… not a bad way to spend a shift. Some of us are out there on the front line.’

  Siobhan’s face creased into a smile.

  ‘I haven’t heard any reports,’ Wilson said in all seriousness.

  ‘Princes Street’s a war zone, son. Those Christmas shoppers are like something out of a video game.’ Rebus made show of peering in the direction of the bungalow. ‘No sign of Al Capone? Do we think he’s armed and dangerous?’ He had opened one of the files. He knew about John Kerr, knew all about him. Cafferty had been top of Rebus’s hit list for most of his professional life. He was picking up the photos Siobhan had been looking at, the Christmas shots.

  ‘I doubt he’ll be armed,’ Wilson said into the silence, having given the matter some thought. Rebus and Siobhan shared a look. ‘Nothing in his profile suggests violent tendencies.’

  ‘Violent tendencies?’ Rebus was nodding slowly. He patted Wilson on the shoulder. ‘With insights like that, son, you’re headed to the top. Wouldn’t you agree, DS Clarke? Young officers like Wilson here are the future of the force.’

  Siobhan Clarke managed the slightest of nods. Wilson looked as if his name had just been announced at school prize-giving.

  ‘Let me ask you this,’ Rebus went on. He had Wilson’s full attention now. ‘What makes you think Kerr’ll come back here? Won’t he know we’re waiting for him to do just that?’

  ‘No sign of the family shipping out elsewhere for Christmas,’ Siobhan felt obliged to respond.

  Rebus was shaking his head. ‘They don’t need to. But tell me this…’ She saw that he was holding up one of the photos of Kerr dressed as Santa Claus. ‘Where’s St Nick going to go when his sledge lands in our fair city?’