by Ian Rankin
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?’
‘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 lik
e 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, underwear. 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.’
