The Beat Goes On: The Complete Rebus Stories

by Ian Rankin

  They were passing studios and offices. Loudspeakers placed in the ceiling of the corridor relayed the station’s afternoon show.

  ‘Ever been inside a radio station before, Inspector?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘I’ll show you around if you like.’

  ‘If you can spare the time …’

  ‘No problem.’ They were approaching one studio outside which a middle-aged man was in quiet conversation with a spiky-headed teenager. The teenager looked sullen and in need of a wash. Rebus wondered if he were the man’s son. If so, a lesson in parental control was definitely needed.

  ‘Hi, Norman,’ Penny Cook said in passing. The man smiled towards her. The teenager remained sullen: a controlled pose, Rebus decided. Further along, having passed through another combination-lock door, Penny herself cleared things up.

  ‘Norman’s one of our producers.’

  ‘And the kid with him?’

  ‘Kid?’ She smiled wryly. ‘That was Jez Jenks, the singer with Leftover Lunch. He probably makes more a day than you and I make in a good year.’

  Rebus couldn’t remember ever having a ‘good year’ – the curse of the honest copper. A question came to him.

  ‘And Candy Barr?’

  She laughed at this. ‘I thought my own name took some beating. Mind you, I don’t suppose it’s her real name. She’s an actress or a comedienne or something. From across the water, of course.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like an Irish name,’ Rebus said as Penny Cook held open her office door.

  ‘I wouldn’t make jokes around here, Inspector,’ she said. ‘You’ll probably find yourself being signed up for a spot on one of our shows.’

  ‘The Laughing Policeman?’ Rebus suggested. But then they were in the office, the door was closed, and the atmosphere cooled appropriately. This was business, after all. Serious business. She sat at her desk. Rebus sat down on the chair across from her.

  ‘Do you want a coffee or anything, Inspector?’

  ‘No thanks. So, when did these calls start, Miss Cook?’

  ‘About a month ago. The first time he tried it, he actually got through to me on-air. That takes some doing. The calls are filtered through two people before they get to me. Efficient people, too. They can usually tell a crank caller from the real thing.’

  ‘How does the system work? Somebody calls in … then what?’

  ‘Sue or David takes the call. They ask a few questions. Basically, they want to know the person’s name, and what it is they want to talk to me about. Then they take a telephone number, tell the caller to stay by his or her telephone, and if we want to put the person on-air, they phone the caller back and prepare them.’

  ‘Fairly rigorous then.’

  ‘Oh yes. And even supposing the odd crank does get through, we’ve got a three-second delay on them when they’re on-air. If they start cussing or raving, we cut the call before it goes out over the ether.’

  ‘And is that what happened with this guy?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ She shook a cassette box at him. ‘I’ve got the tape here. Do you want to hear?’

  ‘Please.’

  She started to load a cassette player on the ledge behind her. There were no windows in the office. From the number of steps they’d descended to get there, Rebus reckoned this whole floor of the building was located beneath ground-level.

  ‘So you got a phone number for this guy?’

  ‘Only it turned out to be a phone box in some housing scheme. We didn’t know that at the time. We never usually take calls from phone boxes. But it was one of those ones that use the phone cards. No beeps, so nobody could tell.’ She had loaded the tape to her satisfaction, but was now waiting for it to rewind. ‘After he tried getting through again, we phoned his number. It rang and rang, and then some old girl picked it up. She explained where the box was. That was when we knew he’d tricked us.’ The tape thumped to a stop. She hit the play button, and sat down again. There was a hiss as the tape began, and then her voice filled the room. She smiled in embarrassment, as if to say: yes, it’s a pose, this husky, sultry, late-night me. But it’s a living …

  ‘And now we’ve got Peter on line one. Peter, you’re through to Penny Cook. How are things with you this evening?’

  ‘Not so good, Penny.’

  She interrupted the tape for a moment: ‘This is where we cut him off.’

  The man’s voice had been sleepy, almost tranquillised. Now it erupted. ‘I know what you’re up to! I know what’s going on!’ The tape went dead. She leaned back in her chair and switched off the machine.

  ‘It makes me shiver every time I hear it. That anger … such a sudden change in the voice. Brr.’ She reached into her drawer and brought out cigarettes and a lighter. Rebus accepted a cigarette from her.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. Then: ‘The name’ll be false, of course, but did he give a surname?’

  ‘A surname, an address, even a profession. He said he lived in Edinburgh, but we looked up the street name in the A to Z and it doesn’t exist. From now on, we check that addresses are real before we call back. His surname was Gemmell. He even spelt it out for Sue. She couldn’t believe he was a crank, he sounded so genuine.’

  ‘What did he tell her his problem was?’

  ‘Drinking too much … how it was affecting his work. I like that sort of problem. The advice is straightforward, and it can be helping a lot of people too scared to phone in.’

  ‘What did he say his job was?’

  ‘Bank executive. He gave Sue the bank’s name and everything, and he kept saying it wasn’t to be broadcast.’ She smiled, shook her head. ‘I mean, this nut really was good.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘He seems to have known the set-up pretty well.’

  ‘You mean he got to the safe without triggering any of the alarms?’ She smiled still. ‘Oh yes, he’s a real pro.’

  ‘And the calls have persisted?’

  ‘Most nights. We’ve got him tagged now though. He’s tried using different accents … dialects … always a different name and job. But he hasn’t managed to beat the system again. When he knows he’s been found out, he does that whole routine again. “I know what you’ve done.” Blah, blah. We put the phone down on him before he can get started.’

  ‘And what have you done, Miss Cook?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing, Inspector. Not that I know of.’

  Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Can I hear the tape again?’

  ‘Sure.’ She wound it back, and they listened together. Then she excused herself – ‘to powder my nose’ – and Rebus listened twice more. When she returned, she was carrying two plastic beakers of coffee.

  ‘Thought I might tempt you,’ she said. ‘Milk, no sugar … I hope that’s all right.’

  ‘Thank you, yes, that’s just the job.’

  ‘So, Inspector, what do you think?’

  He sipped the lukewarm liquid. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘you’ve got an anonymous phone-caller.’

  She raised her cup, as though to toast him. ‘God bless CID,’ she said. ‘What would we do without you?’

  ‘The problem is that he’s probably mobile, not sticking to the same telephone kiosk every time. That’s supposing he’s as clever as he seems. We can get BT to put a trace on him, but for that you’d have to keep him talking. Or, if he gives his number, we can trace him from that. But it takes time.’

  ‘And meanwhile he could be slipping off into the night?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Still, apart from continuing to fend him off and hoping he gets fed up, I can’t see what else can be done. You don’t recognise the voice? Someone from your past … an ex-lover … someone with a grudge?’

  ‘I don’t make enemies, Inspector.’

  Looking at her, listening to her voice, he found that easy to believe. Maybe not personal enemies …

  ‘What about the other radio stations? They can’t be too thrilled about your ratings.’

  Her laughter was loud. ‘You think they’ve p
ut out a contract on me, is that it?’

  Rebus smiled and shrugged. ‘Just a thought. But yours is the most popular show Lowland has got, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think I’m still just about ahead of Hamish, yes. But then Hamish’s show is just … well, Hamish. My show’s all about the people themselves, the ones who call in. Human interest, you could say.’

  ‘And there’s plenty of interest.’

  ‘Suffering is always interesting, isn’t it? It appeals to the voyeur. We do get our fair share of crank calls. Maybe that’s why. All those lonely, slightly deranged people out there … listening to me. Me, pretending I’ve got all the answers.’ Her smile this time was rueful. ‘The calls recently have been getting … I don’t know whether to say “better” or “worse”. Worse problems, better radio.’

  ‘Better for your ratings, you mean?’

  ‘Most advertisers ignore the late-night slots. That’s common knowledge. Not a big enough audience. But it’s never been a problem on my show. We did slip back for a little while, but the figures picked up again. Up and up and up … Don’t ask me what sort of listeners we’re attracting. I leave all that to market research.’

  Rebus finished his coffee and clasped both knees, preparing to rise. ‘I’d like to take the tape with me, is that possible?’

  ‘Sure.’ She ejected the tape.

  ‘And I’d like to have a word with … Sue, is it?’

  She checked her watch. ‘Sue, yes, but she won’t be in for a few hours yet. Night shift, you see. Only us poor disc jockeys have to be here twenty-four hours. I exaggerate, but it feels like it sometimes.’ She patted a tray on the ledge beside the cassette player. The tray was filled with correspondence. ‘Besides, I have my fan mail to deal with.’

  Rebus nodded, glanced at the cassette tape he was now holding. ‘Let me have a think about this, Miss Cook. I’ll see what we can do.’

  ‘OK, Inspector.’

  ‘Sorry I can’t be more constructive. You were quite right to contact us.’

  ‘I didn’t suppose there was much you could—’

  ‘We don’t know that yet. As I say, give me a little time to think about it.’

  She rose from her chair. ‘I’ll see you out. This place is a maze, and we can’t have you stumbling in on the Afternoon Show, can we? You might end up doing your Laughing Policeman routine after all …’

  As they were walking down the long, hushed corridor, Rebus saw two men in conversation at the bottom of the stairwell. One was a beefy, hearty-looking man with a mass of rumpled hair and a good growth of beard. His cheeks seemed veined with blood. The other man proved a significant contrast, small and thin with slicked-back hair. He wore a grey suit and white shirt, the latter offset by a bright red paisley-patterned tie.

  ‘Ah,’ said Penny Cook quietly, ‘a chance to kill two birds. Come on, let me introduce you to Gordon Prentice – he’s the station chief – and to the infamous Hamish MacDiarmid.’

  Well, Rebus had no trouble deciding which man was which. Except that, when Penny did make the introductions, he was proved utterly wrong. The bearded man pumped his hand.

  ‘I hope you’re going to be able to help, Inspector. There are some sick minds out there.’ This was Gordon Prentice. He wore baggy brown cords and an open-necked shirt from which protruded tufts of wiry hair. Hamish MacDiarmid’s hand, when Rebus took it, was limp and cool, like something lifted from a larder. No matter how hard he tried, Rebus couldn’t match this … for want of a better word, yuppie … couldn’t match him to the combative voice. But then MacDiarmid spoke.

  ‘Sick minds is right, and stupid minds too. I don’t know which is worse, a deranged audience or an educationally subnormal one.’ He turned to Penny Cook. ‘Maybe you got the better bargain, Penelope.’ He turned back to Prentice. So that’s what a sneer looks like, Rebus thought. But MacDiarmid was speaking again. ‘Gordon, how about letting Penny and me swap shows for a day? She could sit there agreeing with every bigoted caller I get, and I could get stuck in about her social cripples. What do you think?’

  Prentice chuckled and placed a hand on the shoulder of both his star DJs. ‘I’ll give it some thought, Hamish. Penny might not be too thrilled though. I think she has a soft spot for her “cripples”.’

  Penny Cook certainly didn’t look ‘too thrilled’ by the time Rebus and she were out of earshot.

  ‘Those two,’ she hissed. ‘Sometimes they act like I’m not even there! Men …’ She glanced towards Rebus. ‘Present company excluded, of course.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be so hard on Gordon actually. I know I joke about being here twenty-four hours a day, but I really think he does spend all day and all night at the station. He’s here from early morning, but each night he comes into the studio to listen to a bit of my show. Beyond the call of duty, wouldn’t you say?’

  Rebus merely shrugged.

  ‘I bet,’ she went on, ‘when you saw them you thought it was Hamish with the beard.’

  Rebus nodded. She giggled. ‘Everybody does,’ she said. ‘Nobody’s what they seem in this place. I’ll let you into a secret. The station doesn’t keep any publicity shots of Hamish. They’re afraid it would hurt his image if everyone found out he looks like a wimp.’

  ‘He’s certainly not quite what I expected.’

  She gave him an ambiguous look. ‘No, well, you’re not quite what I was expecting either.’ There was a moment’s stillness between them, broken only by some coffee commercial being broadcast from the ceiling: ‘… but Camelot Coffee is no myth, and mmm … it tastes so good.’ They smiled at one another and walked on.

  Driving back into Edinburgh, Rebus listened, despite himself, to the drivel on Lowland Radio. Advertising was tight, he knew that. Maybe that was why he seemed to hear the same dozen or so adverts over and over again. Lots of air-time to fill and so few advertisers to fill it …

  ‘… and mmm … it tastes so good.’

  That particular advert was beginning to get to him. It careered around in his head, even when it wasn’t being broadcast. The actor’s voice was so … what was the word? It was like being force-fed a tablespoon of honey. Cloying, sickly, altogether too much.

  ‘Was Camelot a myth or is it real? Arthur and Guinevere, Merlin and Lancelot. A dream, or—’

  Rebus switched off the radio. ‘It’s only a jar of bloody coffee,’ he told his radio set. Yes, he thought, a jar of coffee … and mmm … it tastes so good. Come to think of it, he needed coffee for the flat. He’d stop off at the corner shop, and whatever he bought it wouldn’t be Camelot.

  But, as a promotional gimmick, there was a fifty-pence refund on Camelot, so Rebus did buy it, and sat at home that evening drinking the vile stuff and listening to Penny Cook’s tape. Tomorrow evening, he was thinking, he might go along to the station to catch her show live. He had an excuse after all: he wanted to speak with Sue, the telephonist. That was the excuse; the truth was that he was intrigued by Penny Cook herself.

  You’re not quite what I was expecting.

  Was he reading too much into that one sentence? Maybe he was. Well, put it another way then: he had a duty to return to Lowland Radio, a duty to talk to Sue. He wound the tape back for the umpteenth time. That ferocious voice. Sue had been surprised by its ferocity, hadn’t she? The man had seemed so quiet, so polite in their initial conversation. Rebus was stuck. Maybe the caller would simply get fed up. When it was a question of someone’s home being called, there were steps you could take: have someone intercept all calls, change the person’s number and keep it ex-directory. But Penny Cook needed her number to be public. She couldn’t hide, except behind the wall provided by Sue and David.

  Then he had an idea. It wasn’t much of an idea, but it was better than nothing. Bill Costain at the Forensic Science Lab was keen on sound recording, tape recorders, all that sort of stuff. Maybe he could do something with Mr Anonymous. Yes, he’d call him first thing tomorrow. He sipped his coffee
, then squirmed.

  ‘Tastes more like camel than Camelot,’ he muttered, hitting the play button.

  The morning was bright and clear, but Bill Costain was dull and overcast.

  ‘I was playing in a darts match last night,’ he explained. ‘We won for a change. The amount of drink we put away, you’d think Scotland had just done the Grand Slam.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Rebus, handing over the cassette tape. ‘I’ve brought you something soothing …’

  ‘Soothing’ wasn’t the word Costain himself used after listening to the tape. But he enjoyed a challenge, and the challenge Rebus had laid down was to tell him anything at all about the voice. He listened several times to the tape, and put it through some sort of analyser, the voice becoming a series of peaks and troughs.

  Costain scratched his head. ‘There’s too big a difference between the voice at the beginning and the voice when hysterical.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Costain always seemed able to baffle Rebus.

  ‘The hysterical voice is so much higher than the voice at the beginning. It’s hardly … natural.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I’d say one of them’s a put-on. Probably the initial voice. He’s disguising his normal tone, speaking in a lower register than usual.’

  ‘So can we get back to his real voice?’

  ‘You mean can we retrieve it? Yes, but the lab isn’t the best place for that. A friend of mine has a recording studio out Morningside way. I’ll give him a bell …’

  They were in luck. The studio’s facilities were not in use that morning. Rebus drove them to Morningside and then sat back as Costain and his friend got busy at the mixing console. They slowed the hysteric part of the tape; then managed somehow to take the pitch of the voice down several tones. It began to sound more than slightly unnatural, like a Dalek or something electronic. But then they started to build it back up again, until Rebus was listening to a slow, almost lifeless vocal over the studio’s huge monitor speakers.