by Ian Rankin
He knew his only real problem would be The Mound. The steep slope connected Princes Street to the Lawnmarket, having been created from the digging out of the New Town’s foundations. It posed a serious climb. He’d known a fellow cop – a uniformed sergeant – who’d cycled up The Mound every day on his way to work, right up until the day he’d retired. For Rebus, it had often proved problematical, even on foot. But he would give it a go, and if he failed, well, there was a bus stop he could beat a retreat to, or taxis he could flag down. Plenty of cabs about at this time of day, ferrying spent shoppers home to the suburbs, or bringing revellers into town at the start of another raucous evening. Rebus avoided the city centre on Saturday nights, unless duty called. The place took on an aggressive edge, violence spilling on to the streets from the clubs on Lothian Road and the bars in the Grassmarket. Better to stay at home with a carry-out and pretend your world wasn’t changing for the worse.
A crowd had gathered at the foot of Castle Street. Rebus noticed that an ambulance, blue lights blinking, was parked in front of a stationary double-decker bus. Walking into the middle of the scene, Rebus overheard muttered exchanges of information.
‘Just walked out …’
‘… right into its path …’
‘Wasn’t looking …’
‘Not the first time I’ve seen …’
‘These bus drivers think they own the roads, though …’
The victim was being carried into the ambulance. It didn’t look good for him. One glance at the paramedics’ faces told Rebus as much. There was blood on the roadway. The bus driver was sitting in the open doorway of his vehicle, head in his hands. There were still passengers on the bus, reluctant to admit that they would need to transfer, loaded down with shopping and unable to think beyond their own concerns. Two uniformed officers were taking statements, the witnesses only too happy to fulfil their roles in the drama. One of the uniforms looked at Rebus and gave a nod of recognition.
‘Afternoon, DI Rebus.’
Rebus just nodded back. There was nothing for him to do here, no part he could usefully play. He made to cross the road, but noticed something lying there, untouched by the slow crawl of curious traffic. He stooped and picked it up. It was a mobile phone. The injured pedestrian must have been holding it, maybe even using it. Which would explain why he hadn’t been paying attention. Rebus turned his head towards the ambulance, but it was already moving away, not bothering to add a siren to its flashing lights: another bad sign, a sign that the medics in the back either didn’t want or didn’t feel the need of it. There was either severe trauma, or else the victim was already dead. Rebus glanced down at the phone. It was unscathed, looked almost brand new. Strange to think such a thing could survive where its owner might not. He pressed it to his ear, but the line wasn’t open. Then he looked at it again, noting that there were words on its display screen. Looked like a text message.
TELL ME WHO TO KILL.
Rebus blinked, narrowed his eyes. He was back on the pavement.
TELL ME WHO TO KILL.
He scrolled up and down the message, but there wasn’t any more to it than those five words. Along the top ran the number of the caller; looked like another mobile phone. Plus time of call: 16.31. Rebus walked over to the uniformed officer, the one who’d spoken to him.
‘Larry,’ he said, ‘where was the ambulance headed?’
‘Western General,’ the uniform said. ‘Guy’s skull’s split open, be lucky to make it.’
‘Do we know what happened?’
‘He walked straight out into the road, by the look of it. Can’t really blame the driver …’
Rebus nodded slowly and walked over to the bus driver, crouched down in front of him. The man was in his fifties, head shaved but with a thick silvery beard. His hands shook as he lifted them away from his eyes.
‘Couldn’t stop in time,’ he explained, voice quavering. ‘He was right there …’ His eyes widened as he played the scene again. Shaking his head slowly. ‘No way I could’ve stopped …’
‘He wasn’t looking where he was going,’ Rebus said softly.
‘That’s right.’
‘Busy on his phone, maybe?’
The driver nodded. ‘Staring at it, aye … Some people haven’t got the sense they were born with. Not that I’m … I mean, I don’t want to speak ill or anything.’
‘Wasn’t your fault,’ Rebus agreed, patting the man’s shoulder.
‘Colleague of mine, same thing happened not six months past. Hasn’t worked since.’ He held up his hands to examine them.
‘He was too busy looking at his phone,’ Rebus said. ‘That’s the whole story. Reading a message, maybe?’
‘Maybe,’ the driver agreed. ‘Doing something anyway, something more important than looking where he was bloody well going …’
‘Not your fault,’ Rebus repeated, rising to his feet. He walked to the back of the bus, stepped out into the road, and waved down the first taxi he saw.
Rebus sat in the waiting area of the Western General Hospital. When a dazed-looking woman was led in by a nurse and asked if she wanted a cup of tea, he got to his feet. The woman sat herself down, twisting the handles of her shoulder bag in both hands, as if wringing the life out of them. She’d shaken her head, mumbled something to the nurse, who was now retreating.
‘As soon as we know anything,’ were the nurse’s parting words.
Rebus sat down next to the woman. She was in her early thirties, blonde hair cut in a pageboy style. What make-up she had applied to her eyes that morning had been smudged by tears, giving her a haunted look. Rebus cleared his throat, but she still seemed unaware of his close presence.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Rebus.’ He opened his ID; she looked at it, then stared down at the floor again. ‘Has your husband just been in an accident?’
‘He’s in surgery,’ she said.
Rebus had been told as much at the front desk. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t even know his name.’
‘Carl,’ she said. ‘Carl Guthrie.’
‘And you’re his wife?’
She nodded. ‘Frances.’
‘Must be quite a shock, Frances.’
‘Yes.’
‘Sure you don’t want that tea?’
She shook her head, looked up into his face for the first time. ‘Do you know what happened?’
‘Seems he was starting to cross Princes Street and didn’t see the bus coming.’
She squeezed shut her eyes, tears glinting in her lashes. ‘How is that possible?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Maybe he had something on his mind,’ he said quietly. ‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’
‘Breakfast this morning. I was planning to go shopping.’
‘What about Carl?’
‘I thought he was working. He’s a physiotherapist, sports injuries mostly. He has his own practice in Corstorphine. He gets some work from the Bupa hospital at Murrayfield.’
‘And a few rugby players too, I’d guess.’
Frances Guthrie was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. ‘How could he get hit by a bus?’ She looked up at the ceiling, blinking back tears.
‘Do you know what he was doing in town?’
She shook her head.
‘This was found lying in the road,’ Rebus said, holding up the phone. ‘There’s a text message displayed. You see what it says?’
She peered at the screen, then frowned. ‘What does it mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Do you recognise the caller’s number?’
She shook her head, then reached out a hand and took the phone from Rebus, turning it in her palm. ‘This isn’t Carl’s.’
‘What?’
‘This isn’t Carl’s phone. Someone else must have dropped it.’
Rebus stared at her. ‘You’re sure?’
She handed the phone back, nodding. ‘Carl’s is a silver flip-top sort of thing.’
Reb
us studied the one-piece black Samsung. ‘Then whose is it?’ he asked, more to himself than to her. She answered anyway.
‘What does it matter?’
‘It matters.’
‘But it’s a joke, surely.’ She nodded at the screen. ‘Someone’s idea of a practical joke.’
‘Maybe,’ Rebus said.
The same nurse was walking towards them, accompanied by a surgeon in green scrubs. Neither of them had to say anything. Frances Guthrie was already keening as the surgeon began his speech.
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Guthrie … we did everything we could.’
Frances Guthrie leaned in towards Rebus, her face against his shoulder. He put his arm around her, feeling it was the least he could do.
Carl Guthrie’s effects had been placed in a large cardboard box. His blood-soaked clothes were protected by a clear polythene bag. Rebus lifted them out. The pockets had been emptied. Watch, wallet, small change, keys. And a silver flip-top mobile phone. Rebus checked its screen. The battery was low, and there were no messages. He told the nurse that he wanted to take it with him. She shrugged and made him sign a docket to that effect. He flipped through the wallet, finding banknotes, credit cards, and a few of Carl Guthrie’s business cards, giving an address in Corstorphine, plus office and mobile numbers. Rebus took out his own phone and punched in the latter. The silver telephone trilled as it rang. He cancelled the call, then nodded to the nurse to let her know he was finished. The docket was placed in the box, along with the polythene bag. Rebus pocketed all three phones.
The police lab at Howdenhall wasn’t officially open at weekends, but Rebus knew that someone was usually there, trying to clear a backlog, or just because they’d nothing better to do. He got lucky. Ray Duff was one of the better technicians. He sighed when Rebus walked in.
‘I’m up to my eyes,’ he complained, turning away to walk back down the corridor.
‘Yes, but you’ll like this,’ Rebus said, holding out the mobile. Duff stopped and turned, stared at it, then ran his fingers through an unruly mop of hair.
‘I really am up to my eyes …’
Rebus shrugged, arm still stretched out. Duff sighed again and took the phone from him.
‘Discovered at the scene of an accident,’ Rebus explained. Duff had found a pair of spectacles in one of the pockets of his white lab coat and was putting them on. ‘My guess is that the victim had just received the text message, and was transfixed by it.’
‘And walked out in front of a car?’
‘Bus actually. Thing is, the phone doesn’t belong to the victim.’ Rebus produced the silver flip-top. ‘This is his.’
‘So whose is this?’ Duff peered at Rebus over the top of his glasses. ‘That’s what you’re wondering.’ He was walking again, heading for his own cubicle, Rebus following.
‘Right.’
‘And also who the caller was.’
‘Right again.’
‘We could just phone them.’
‘We could.’ They’d reached Duff’s workstation. Each surface was a clutter of wires, machines and paperwork. Duff rubbed his bottom lip against his teeth. ‘Battery’s getting low,’ he said, as the phone uttered a brief chirrup.
‘Any chance you can recharge it?’
‘I can if you like, but we don’t really need it.’
‘We don’t?’
The technician shook his head. ‘The important stuff’s on the chip.’ He tapped the back of the phone. ‘We can transfer it …’ He grew thoughtful again. ‘Of course, that would mean accessing the code number, so we’re probably better off hanging on to it as it is.’ He reached down into a cupboard and produced half a dozen mains adaptors. ‘One of these should do the trick.’
Soon the phone was plugged in and charging. Meantime, Duff had worked his magic on the keypad, producing the phone number. Rebus punched it into his own phone, and the black mobile trilled.
‘Bingo,’ Duff said with a smile. ‘Now all we do is call the service provider …’ He left the cubicle and returned a couple of minutes later with a sheet of numbers. ‘I hope you didn’t touch anything,’ he said, waving a hand around his domain.
‘I wouldn’t dare.’ Rebus leaned against a workbench as Duff made the call, identified himself, and reeled off the mobile phone number. He placed his hand over the mouthpiece.
‘It’ll take a minute,’ he told Rebus.
‘Can anyone get this sort of information?’ Rebus asked. ‘I mean, what’s to stop Joe Public calling up and saying they’re a cop?’
Duff smiled. ‘Caller recognition. They’ve got a screen their end. IDs the caller number as Lothian and Borders Police Forensic Branch.’
‘Clever,’ Rebus admitted. Duff just shrugged. ‘So how about the other number? The one belonging to whoever sent that message.’
Duff held up a finger, indicating that he was listening to the person at the other end of the line. He looked around him, finding a scrap of paper. Rebus provided the pen, and he started writing.
‘That’s great, thanks,’ he said finally. Then: ‘Mind if I try you with something else? It’s a mobile number …’ He proceeded to reel off the number on the message screen, then, with his hand again muffling the mouthpiece, he handed the scrap of paper to Rebus.
‘Name and address of the phone’s owner.’
Rebus looked. The owner’s name was William Smith, the address a street in the New Town. ‘What about the text sender?’ he asked.
‘She’s checking.’ Duff removed his hand from the mouthpiece, listening intently. Then he started shaking his head. ‘Not one of yours, eh? Don’t suppose you can tell from the number just who is the service provider?’ He listened again. ‘Well, thanks anyway.’ He put down the receiver.
‘No luck?’ Rebus guessed. Duff shrugged.
‘Just means we have to do it the hard way’ He picked up the sheet of telephone numbers. ‘Maybe nine or ten calls at the most.’
‘Can I leave it with you, Ray?’
Duff stretched his arms wide. ‘What else was I going to be doing at half past six of a Saturday?’
Rebus smiled. ‘You and me both, Ray.’
‘What do you reckon we’re dealing with? A hit man?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But if it is ... then Mr Smith would be his employer, making him someone you might not want to mess about with.’
‘I’m touched by your concern, Ray.’
Duff smiled. ‘Can I take it you’re headed over to that address anyway?’
‘Not too many gangsters living in the New Town, Ray.’
‘Not that we know of,’ Duff corrected him. ‘Maybe after this, we’ll know better …’
The streets were full of maroon-scarved Hearts fans, celebrating a rare victory. Bouncers had appeared at the doors of most of the city-centre watering holes: an unnecessary expense in daylight, but indispensable by night. There were queues outside the fast-food restaurants, diners tossing their empty cartons on to the pavement. Rebus kept eyes front as he drove. He was in his own car now, having stopped home long enough for a mug of coffee and two paracetamol. He guessed that a breath test might just about catch him, but felt OK to drive nonetheless.
The New Town, when he reached it, was quiet. Few bars here, and the area was a dead end of sorts, unlikely to be soiled by the city-centre drinkers. As usual, parking was a problem. Rebus did one circuit, then left his car on a double yellow line, right next to a set of traffic lights. Doubled back on himself until he reached the tenement. There was an entryphone, a list of residents printed beside it. But no mention of anyone called Smith. He ran a finger down the column of names. One space was blank. It belonged to Flat 3. He pushed the button and waited. Nothing. Pushed it again, then started pressing various bells, waiting for someone to respond. Eventually the tiny loudspeaker grille crackled into life.
‘Hello?’
‘I’m a police officer. Any chance of speaking to you for a minute?’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘No problem. It’s just a couple of questions concerning one of your neighbours …’
There was silence, then a buzzing sound as the door unlocked itself. Rebus pushed it open and stepped into the stairwell. A door on the ground floor was open, a man standing there. Rebus had his ID open. The man was in his twenties, with cropped hair and Buddy Holly spectacles. A dishtowel was draped over one shoulder.
‘Do you know anyone called William Smith?’ Rebus asked.
‘Smith?’ The man narrowed his eyes, shook his head slowly.
‘I think he lives here.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘I’m not sure.’
The man stared at him, then shrugged. ‘People come and go. Sometimes they move on before you get to know their names.’
‘But you’ve been here a while?’
‘Almost a year. Some of the neighbours I know to say hello to, but I don’t always know their names.’ He smiled apologetically. Yes, that was Edinburgh for you: people kept themselves to themselves, didn’t want anyone getting too close. A mixture of shyness and mistrust.
‘Flat 3 doesn’t seem to have a name beside it,’ Rebus said, nodding back towards the main door.
The man shrugged again.
‘I’m just going to go up and take a look,’ Rebus said.
‘Be my guest. You know where I am if you need me.’
