The Beat Goes On: The Complete Rebus Stories

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Look, if you’re worried, just take me off whatever table he’s playing.’

  ‘Nothing like that, Matty.’ Mandelson’s face broke into a grin. ‘It’s nice to have a friend, eh? Nice to meet up again after all these years. Don’t you worry about anything. Stevie’s the King of Edinburgh. As long as he keeps scoring goals, we’re all his subjects.’ He paused. ‘Nice to know someone who knows the King, almost makes me feel like royalty myself. On you go now, Matty.’

  Matty got up, leaving the Coke unopened.

  ‘And don’t you go upsetting that young man. We don’t want to put him off his game, do we?’

  IV

  It had taken a couple of days to get the tape from Gaitanos. At first, they thought they’d wiped it, and then they’d sent the wrong day’s recording. But at last Rebus had the right tape and had watched it at home half a dozen times before deciding he could use someone who knew what he was doing … and a video machine that would freeze-frame without the screen looking like a technical problem.

  Now he’d seen all there was to see. He’d watched a young man cease to exist. Of course, Hendry was right, a lot of people disappeared every year. Sometimes they turned up again – dead or alive – and sometimes they didn’t. What did it have to do with Rebus, beyond the promise to a family that he’d make sure the Fife police hadn’t missed something? Maybe the pull wasn’t Damon Mee, but Bowhill itself; and maybe even then, the Bowhill of his past rather than the town as it stood today.

  He was working the Damon Mee case in his free time, which, since he was on day shift at St Leonard’s, meant the evenings. He’d checked again with the bank – no money had been withdrawn from any machines since the twenty-second – and with Damon’s building society. No money had been withdrawn from that account either. Even this wasn’t unknown in the case of a runaway; sometimes they wanted to shed their whole history, which meant ditching their identity and everything that went with it. Rebus had passed a description of Matty to hostels and drop-in centres in Edinburgh, and faxed the same description to similar centres in Glasgow, Newcastle, Aberdeen and London. He’d also faxed details to the National Missing Persons Bureau in London. He checked with a colleague who knew about ‘MisPers’ that he’d done about all he could.

  ‘Not far off it,’ she confirmed. ‘It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack without knowing which field to start with.’

  ‘How big a problem is it?’

  She puffed out her cheeks. ‘Last figures I saw were for the whole of Britain. I think there are around 25,000 a year. Those are the reported MisPers. You can add a few thousand for the ones nobody notices. There’s a nice distinction actually: if nobody knows you’re missing, are you really missing?’

  Afterwards, Rebus telephoned Janis Mee and told her she might think about running up some flyers and putting them up in positions of prominence in nearby towns, maybe even handing them out to Saturday shoppers or evening drinkers in Kirkcaldy. A photo of Damon, a brief physical description, and what he was wearing the night he left. She said she’d already thought of doing so, but that it made his disappearance seem so final. Then she broke down and cried and John Rebus, thirty-odd miles away, asked if she wanted him to ‘drop by’.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ she said.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Well …’

  Rebus reasoned that he was going to go to Fife anyway. He had to drop the tape back to Gaitanos, and wanted to see the club when it was lively. He’d take the photos of Damon with him and show them around. He’d ask about the candyfloss blonde. The technician who had worked with the videotape had transferred a still to his computer and managed to boost the quality. Rebus had some hard copies in his pocket. Maybe other people who’d been queuing at the bar would remember something.

  Maybe.

  His first stop, however, was the cemetery. He didn’t have any flowers to put on his parents’ grave, but he crouched beside it, fingers touching the grass. The inscription was simple, just names and dates really, and underneath, ‘Not Dead, But at Rest in the Arms of the Lord’. He wasn’t sure whose idea that had been, not his certainly. The headstone’s carved lettering was inlaid with gold, but it had already faded from his mother’s name. He touched the surface of the marble, expecting it to be cold, but finding a residual warmth there. A blackbird nearby was trying to worry food from the ground. Rebus wished it luck.

  By the time he reached Janis’s, Brian was home from work. Rebus told them what he’d done so far, after which Brian nodded, apologised, and said he had a Burns Club meeting. The two men shook hands. When the door closed, Janis and Rebus exchanged a look and then a smile.

  ‘I see that bruise finally faded,’ she said.

  Rebus rubbed his right cheek. ‘It was a hell of a punch.’

  ‘Funny how strong you can get when you’re angry.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She laughed. ‘Bit late to apologise.’

  ‘It was just …’

  ‘It was everything,’ she said. ‘Summer holidays coming up, all of us leaving school, you going off to join the army. The last school dance before all of that. That’s what it was.’ She paused. ‘Do you know what happened to Mitch?’ She watched Rebus shake his head. ‘Last I heard,’ she said, ‘he was living somewhere down south. The two of you used to be so close.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She laughed again. ‘Johnny, it was a long time ago, don’t look so solemn.’ She paused. ‘I’ve sometimes wondered … ach, not for years, but just now and then I used to wonder what would have happened …’

  ‘If you hadn’t punched me?’

  She nodded. ‘If we’d stayed together. Well, you can’t turn the clock back, eh?’

  ‘Would the world be any better if we could?’

  She stared at the window, not really seeing it. ‘Damon would still be here,’ she said quietly. A tear escaped her eye, and she fussed for a handkerchief in her pocket. Rebus got up and made towards her. Then the front door opened, and he retreated.

  ‘My mum,’ Janis smiled. ‘She usually pops in around this time. It’s like a railway station around here, hard to find any privacy.’

  Then Mrs Playfair walked into the living-room.

  ‘Hello, Inspector, thought that was your car. Is there any news?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Rebus said. Janis got to her feet and hugged her mother, the crying starting afresh.

  ‘There there, pet,’ Mrs Playfair said quietly. ‘There there.’

  Rebus walked past the two of them without saying a word.

  It was still early when he reached Gaitanos. He had a word with one of the bouncers, who was keeping warm in the lobby until things started getting busy, and the man lumbered off to fetch Charles Mackenzie, aka Charmer. It seemed strange to Rebus: here he was, standing in the very foyer he’d stared at for so long on the video monitor. The camera was high up in one corner with nothing to show whether it was working. Rebus gave it a wave anyway. If he disappeared tonight, it could be his farewell to the world.

  ‘Inspector Rebus.’ They’d spoken on the phone. The man who came forward to shake Rebus’s hand stood about five feet four and was as thin as a cocktail glass. Rebus placed him in his mid-fifties. He wore a powder-blue suit and an open-necked white shirt with suntan and gold jewellery beneath. His hair was silver and thinning, but as well-cut as the suit. ‘Come through to the office.’

  Rebus followed Mackenzie down a carpeted corridor to a gloss-black door with a sign on it saying ‘Private’. There was no door handle. Mackenzie unlocked the door and motioned for Rebus to go in.

  ‘After you, sir,’ Rebus said. You never knew what could be waiting behind a locked door.

  What greeted Rebus this time was an office which seemed to double as a broom-cupboard. Mops and a vacuum cleaner rested against one wall. A bank of screens spread across three filing cabinets showed what was happening inside and outside the club. Unlike the video Rebus had watched, these screens each showed a certain locatio
n.

  ‘Are these recording?’ Rebus asked. Mackenzie shook his head.

  ‘We’ve got a roaming monitor, and that’s the only recording we get. But this way, if we spot trouble anywhere, we can watch it unfold.’

  ‘Like that knifing in the alley?’

  ‘Messed up my Mercedes.’

  ‘So I heard. Is that when you called the police? When your car stopped being a bystander?’

  Mackenzie laughed and wagged a finger, but didn’t answer. Rebus couldn’t see where he’d earned his nickname. The guy had all the charm of sandpaper.

  ‘I brought back your video.’ Rebus placed it on the desk.

  ‘All right to record over it now?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Rebus handed over the computer-enhanced photograph. ‘The missing person is slightly right of centre, second row.’

  ‘Is that his doll?’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Wish I did.’

  ‘You haven’t seen her before.’

  ‘She doesn’t look the sort I’d forget.’

  Rebus took back the picture. ‘Mind if I show this around?’

  ‘The place is practically empty.’

  ‘I thought I might stick around.’

  Mackenzie frowned and studied the backs of his hands. ‘Well, you know, it’s not that I don’t want to help or anything …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Well, it’s hardly conducive to a party atmosphere, is it? That’s our slogan – “The best party of your life, every night!” – and I don’t think a police officer mooching around asking questions is going to add to the ambience.’

  ‘I quite understand, Mr Mackenzie. I was being thoughtless.’ Mackenzie lifted his hands, palms towards Rebus: no problem, the hands were saying.

  ‘And you’re quite right,’ Rebus continued. ‘In fact, I’d be a lot quicker if I had some assistance – say, a dozen uniforms. That way, I wouldn’t be “mooching around” for nearly so long. In fact, let’s make it a couple of dozen. We’ll be in and out, quick as a virgin’s first poke. Mind if I use your phone?’

  ‘Whoah, wait a minute. Look, all I was saying was … Look, how much do you want?’

  ‘Sorry, sir?’

  Mackenzie reached into a desk drawer, lifted out a brick of twenties, pulled about five notes free. ‘Will this do it?’

  Rebus sat back. ‘Am I to understand you’re trying to offer me a cash incentive to leave the premises?’

  ‘Whatever. Just slope off, eh?’

  Rebus stood up. ‘To me, Mr Mackenzie, that’s an open invitation to stay.’

  So he stayed.

  The looks he got from staff made him feel like a football fan trapped on the opposition’s turf. The way they all shook their heads as soon as he held up the photo, he knew word had gone around. He had a little more luck with the punters. A couple of lads had seen the woman before.

  ‘Last week, was it?’ one asked the other. ‘Maybe the week before.’

  ‘Not long ago anyway,’ the other agreed. ‘Cracker, isn’t she?’

  ‘Has she been in since?’

  ‘Haven’t seen her. Just that one night. Didn’t quite get the nerve up to ask for a dance.’

  ‘Was she with anyone?’

  ‘No idea.’

  They didn’t recognise Damon Mee though. They said they never paid much attention to blokes.

  ‘We’re not that way inclined, sweetie.’

  The place was still only half full, but the bass was loud enough to make Rebus feel queasy. He managed to order an orange juice at the bar and just sat there, looking at the photo. The woman interested him. The way her head was angled, the way her mouth was open, she could have been saying something to Damon. A minute later, he was gone. Had she said she’d meet him somewhere? Had something happened at that meeting? He’d shown the photo to Damon’s mates from that night. They remembered seeing her, but swore Damon hadn’t introduced himself.

  ‘She seemed sort of cold,’ one of them had said. ‘You know, like she wanted to be left alone.’

  Rebus had studied the video again, watched her progress towards the bar, showing no apparent interest in Damon’s leaving. But then she’d turned and started pushing her way back through the throng, no drink to show for her long wait.

  At midnight exactly, she’d left the nightclub. The final shot was of her turning left along the pavement, watched by a few people who were waiting to get in. And now Charles Mackenzie wanted to give Rebus money.

  At three quid for an orange juice, maybe he should have taken it.

  If the place had been heaving, maybe he wouldn’t have noticed them.

  He was finishing his second drink and trying not to feel like a leper in a children’s ward when he recognised one of the doormen. There was another man with him, tall and fat and pale. His idea of clubbing was probably the connection of baseball bat to skull. The bouncer was pointing Rebus out to him. Here we go, Rebus thought. They’ve brought in the professionals. The fat man said something to the bouncer, and they both retreated to the foyer, leaving Rebus with an empty glass and only one good reason to order another drink.

  Get it over with, he thought, sliding from his bar stool and walking around the dance floor. There was always the fire exit, but it led on to the alley and, if they were waiting for him there, the only witness would be Mackenzie’s Mercedes. He wanted things kept as public as possible. The street outside would be busy, no shortage of onlookers and possible good Samaritans. Or at the very least, someone to call for an ambulance.

  He paused in the foyer and saw that the bouncer was back at his post on the front door. No sign of the fat man. Then he glanced along the corridor towards Mackenzie’s office, and saw the fat man planted outside the door. He had his arms folded in front of him and wasn’t going anywhere.

  Rebus walked outside. The air had seldom tasted so good. He tried to calm himself with a few deep breaths. There was a car parked at the kerbside, a gold-coloured Rolls-Royce, with nobody in the driver’s seat. Rebus wasn’t the only one admiring the car, but he was probably alone in memorising its number plate.

  He moved his own car to where he could see the Roller, then sat tight. Half an hour later, the fat man emerged, looking to left and right. He walked to the car, unlocked it and held open the back door. Only now did another figure emerge from the club. Rebus caught a swishing full-length black coat, sleek hair and chiselled face. The man slipped into the car, and the fat man closed the door and squeezed in behind the steering wheel.

  Like them or not, you had to admire Rollers. They carried tonnage.

  V

  Back in Edinburgh he parked his car and sat in it, smoking his eleventh cigarette of the day. He sometimes played this game with himself – I’ll have one more tonight, and deduct one from tomorrow’s allowance. Or he would argue that any cigarette after midnight came from the next day’s stash. He’d lost count along the way, but reckoned by now he should be going whole days without a ciggie to balance the books. Well, when it came down to it, ten cigarettes a day or twelve, thirteen, fourteen – what difference did it make?

  The street he was parked on was quiet. Residential for the most part with big houses. There was a basement bar on the corner, but it did mostly lunchtime business from the offices on neighbouring streets. By ten, the place was usually locked up. Taxis rippled past him and the occasional drunk, hands in pockets, would weave slowly homewards. A few of the taxis stopped just in front of him and disgorged their fares, who would then climb half a dozen steps and push open the door to the Morvena Casino. Rebus had never been inside the place. He placed the occasional bet on the horses, but that was about it. Gave up doing the football pools. He bought a National Lottery ticket when opportunity arose, but often didn’t get round to checking the numbers. He had half a dozen tickets lying around, any one of which could be his fortune. He quite liked the notion that he might have won a million and not know it; preferred it, in fact, to the idea of actually having the million in his bank a
ccount. What would he do with a million pounds? Same as he’d do with fifty thou – self-destruct.

  Only faster.

  Janis had asked him about Mitch – Roy Mitchell, Rebus’s best friend at school. The more time Rebus had spent with her, the less he’d seen of Mitch. They’d been going to join the army together, hoping they might get the same regiment. Until Mitch lost his eye. That had been the end of that. The army hadn’t wanted him any more. Rebus had headed off, sent Mitch a couple of letters, but by the time his first leave came, Mitch had already left Bowhill. Rebus had stopped writing after that …

  When the Morvena’s door opened next, it was so eight or nine young people could leave. The shift changeover. Three of them turned one way, the rest another. Rebus watched the group of three. At the first set of lights, two kept going and one crossed the road and took a left. Rebus started his engine and followed. When the lights turned green, he signalled left and sounded his horn, then pulled the car over and wound down his window.

  ‘Mr Rebus,’ the young man said.

  ‘Hello, Matty. Let’s go for a drive.’

  Officers from other cities, people Rebus met from time to time, would remark on how cushy he had it in Edinburgh. Such a beautiful place, and prosperous. So little crime. They thought to be dangerous a city had to look dangerous. London, Manchester, Liverpool – these places were dangerous in their eyes. Not Edinburgh, not this sleepy walking-tour with its monuments and museums. Tourism aside, the lifeblood of the city was its commerce, and Edinburgh’s commerce – banking, insurance and the like – was discreet. The city hid its secrets well, and its vices too. Potentially troublesome elements had been moved to the sprawling council estates which ringed the capital, and any crimes committed behind the thick stone walls of the city centre’s tenements and houses were often muffled by those same walls. Which was why every good detective needed his contacts.