by Ian Rankin
‘Rooftops?’ Wilson guessed. ‘Chimneys?’ He even looked out towards the bungalow, as if scanning the skies above it.
Siobhan kept silent. Rebus would tell them eventually. Tell them what he’d gleaned in two minutes that they’d been unable to work out over the past two days. But instead he posed a further question.
‘Where do all the jolly Santas go?’
And then, for the first time, Siobhan knew the answer.
Two in the afternoon, a couple of hours of daylight left, and Princes Street Gardens was filling up. The Festival of Santas drew locals as well as tourists to watch a couple of hundred Father Christmases running for charity. Some participants were changing into their costumes; others had arrived suited and bearded. As usual, there were some flourishes: a tartan suit instead of the archetypal red; a long blue beard in place of white… It was a well-organised event. Each runner had raised money by sponsorship. They’d registered beforehand and were given numbers to attach to their costumes, just like any other athlete. Registration was a bonus for Siobhan: made it easy to check the alphabetised list of runners to ensure there was no one called John Kerr on it.
‘Could be using an alias,’ Wilson had proposed.
But it was much more likely he would just turn up, hoping to blend in with the other runners. Except he wouldn’t quite blend in. He’d be the Santa with no number on his back.
‘Bit of a long shot?’ Wilson had suggested.
No, not really; just annoying that Rebus had thought of it first. A chance for Kerr to spend time with his family without the fear of being apprehended as he entered his home. Siobhan rubbed her hands together, trying to put some feeling back into them. She and Wilson had watched the taxi pull to a stop outside the bungalow. They’d watched Selina Kerr and her son and daughter come out of the house. They had stayed a couple of cars back from the cab as it headed for the city centre.
‘Bingo,’ Siobhan had said as the cab signalled to a stop on Princes Street.
But then there had been a slight glitch. The son, Francis, had begun a conversation on the pavement with his mother. She had seemed to remonstrate with him. He’d touched her arm, as if to reassure her, then had turned and walked away, sticking his hands into the front of his jacket. His mother had called after him, then rolled her eyes.
‘Should we split up?’ Wilson had suggested to Siobhan. ‘I’ll tail him, you stay with mother and daughter?’
Siobhan had shaken her head.
‘What if he’s off to see his dad?’
‘He’s not. I think that’s what’s got his mum narked.’
As Francis Kerr melted into the crowd of shoppers, Selina Kerr and daughter Andrea crossed the street towards the Gardens. They weren’t the only ones, of course. Probably a thousand or more spectators would be on hand to watch the runners. But Siobhan and Wilson had no trouble keeping them in view, thanks to Andrea’s bright-pink knee-length coat and matching bobble hat.
‘Not exactly subtle,’ was Rebus’s comment when they caught up with him. He was finishing a mug of glühwein from the German market, and a garlicky sausage smell was wafting up from his fingers.
‘Getting in the spirit?’ Siobhan asked.
‘Always.’ He smacked his lips and glanced towards mother and daughter. ‘Was I right or was I right?’
‘Well, they’re here,’ Siobhan commented. ‘But that could just be family tradition.’
‘Aye, right.’ Rebus took out his mobile phone and checked the screen.
‘We keeping you from something?’ Siobhan asked.
‘Bit of business elsewhere,’ Rebus stated. People were milling around. Some had started taking photographs of the Santas, or of the glowering Castle Rock, acting as background scenery to this performance. A DJ had been installed on the Ross Bandstand and was playing the usual favourites, between which he doled out instructions to the runners and interviewed a few of them. One Santa had run from Dundee to Edinburgh, collecting money all the way. There was a cheer from the crowd and a round of applause.
‘They don’t seem to be on the lookout for anyone,’ Wilson commented, watching the mother and daughter.
‘Don’t seem that excited either,’ Siobhan added.
‘This was probably Kerr’s idea,’ Rebus suggested. ‘They’d much rather be meeting him in the Harvey Nicks café, but Kerr needs his wee annual dressing-up fix.’ He paused. ‘Where’s the son?’
‘Francis came as far as Princes Street,’ Siobhan explained, ‘but then went his own way.’
Rebus watched Selina Kerr check the time and then turn to peer in the direction of the gates. She said something to her daughter, who glanced in the same direction, gave a shrug, then did some texting on her phone.
‘Can we get any closer?’ Wilson asked.
‘If Kerr sees us, we lose him,’ Siobhan cautioned. ‘Always supposing he’s coming. What if he’s meeting them one at a time? The son comes back and the daughter heads off ?’
‘It’s a fair point,’ Rebus agreed. ‘We can only wait and see.’ He looked at his own phone again.
‘This bit of business…’ Siobhan began. Rebus just shook his head.
‘Think he’ll actually do any running?’ Wilson was asking.
‘Not without a number. The organisers are pretty strict.’
Rebus’s phone was ringing. He held it to his ear.
‘Ten minutes left until the start,’ the DJ was announcing. ‘Get those limbs warmed up. Can’t have any Santa cramps…’
‘Yes?’ Rebus asked into the phone.
‘We didn’t get him.’ It was Debby’s voice. She was calling from the St James Centre. Rebus could hear noises in the background: bystanders, trying to comfort Liz.
‘He got away?’ Rebus guessed.
‘Aye. Fast as a ferret. Maybe if you’d been here…’
‘What about security?’
‘The guy’s right here. Ferret shot past him. Got away with the purse.’
The purse with nothing in it. The purse sitting in a tempting position at the top of the shopping bag on the back of the wheelchair.
The bait.
The bait that had so nearly worked.
‘Description?’ Rebus asked.
‘Same one you gave us. Just another hoodie with trackie bottoms and trainers…’
‘Hey, look,’ Wilson was saying. There was a Santa standing just behind Selina Kerr and her daughter. Behind them and between them. Talking to them. Andrea Kerr spun round and gave him a hug.
‘That him?’ Wilson was asking. ‘We tried, though,’ Debby was telling Rebus. ‘We did what you told us to. So the deal’s still good, eh? You’ll still put in a word?’
‘I have to go,’ Rebus told her. ‘Be at the police station in an hour. I’ll meet you there.’
‘And you’ll put in a word?’
‘I’ll put in a word.’
‘We’re the Holly and Ivy Bandits, remember…’
Rebus slid the phone back into his pocket. ‘Is it him?’ Siobhan was asking. There were so many heads between them and the Kerrs, and the light was already fading.
‘Got to be.’ Wilson was sounding agitated, ready to barge in there.
‘Is there a number on his back? Let’s get a bit closer.’ Siobhan was already heading off. Rebus clasped a hand around Wilson’s forearm.
‘Nice and slow,’ he cautioned.
They took a wide curve around and behind the three figures. The three figures in animated conversation.
A young man brushed past Rebus, and the three were suddenly four. Francis Kerr had his hands stuffed in his pockets. Black hooded top… tracksuit bottoms… dark blue trainers… He was sweating, breathing hard. Nodded at Santa without taking his hands from the pouch on the front of his jacket. Santa gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. Rebus decided it was time to move, Siobhan and Wilson flanking him. The competitors were being called to the starting line.
‘All right, John?’ Rebus said, tugging down the elasticated beard and staring
into the face of John Kerr.
‘Leave him alone,’ Selina Kerr snarled. ‘He’s not done anything.’
‘Oh, but he has. He’s led young Francis here astray.’ Rebus nodded in the son’s direction. John Kerr’s brow furrowed.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Might not be your influence,’ Rebus allowed. ‘Might be your employer’s. But something’s rubbed off, hasn’t it, Francis?’ Rebus turned towards the youth. ‘Private school and plenty of money… makes me wonder why you’d take the risk.’ He held out his hand. ‘Still got the purse, or did you ditch it already? Bit miffed that it was empty, I dare say. But there’s plenty of CCTV. Plenty of witnesses, too. Wonder what the search warrant’ll turn up in your bedroom…’
‘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, under wear. 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 sep arated 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.
