by Ian Rankin
Perhaps it said something about the lowlands of Scotland that Penny Cook’s show was said to be the more popular of the two. Again, people at the station talked about it with the fervour usually reserved for TV programmes.
‘Did you hear yon guy with the bend in his tackle…?’
‘That woman who said her husband didn’t satisfy her…’
‘I felt sorry for that hooker though, wantin’ out o’ the game…’
And so on. Rebus had listened to the show himself a few times, slumped on his chair after closing-time. But never for more than a few minutes; like a bedtime story, a few minutes of Penny Cook sent John Rebus straight to the land of Nod. He’d wondered what she looked like. Husky, comfortable, come-to-bed: the picture of her he’d built up was all images, but none of them exactly physical. Sometimes she sounded blonde and tiny, sometimes statuesque with flowing raven hair. His picture of Hamish MacDiarmid was much more vivid: bright red beard, caber-tossing biceps and a kilt.
Well, the truth would out. Rebus stood in the cramped reception area of Lowland Radio and waited for the girl on the switchboard to finish her call. On the wall behind her, a sign said WELCOME:. That colon was important. This seemed to be Lowland Radio’s way of greeting the personalities who’d come to the station, perhaps to give interviews. Today, below the WELCOME:, written in felt tip were the names JEZ JENKS and CANDY BARR. Neither name meant anything to Rebus, though they probably would to his daughter. The receptionist had finished her call.
‘Have you come for some stickers?’
‘Stickers?’
‘Car-stickers,’ she explained. ‘Only we’re all out of them. Just temporary, we’ll be getting more next week if you’d like to call back.’
‘No, thanks anyway. I’m Inspector Rebus. I think Miss Cook’s expecting me.’
‘Oh, sorry.’ The receptionist giggled. ‘I’ll see if she’s around. It was Inspector…?’
‘Rebus.’
She scribbled the name on a pad and returned to her switchboard. ‘An Inspector Reeves to see you, Penny…’
Rebus turned to another wall and cast an eye over Lowland Radio’s small display of awards. Well, there was stiff competition these days, he supposed. And not much advertising revenue to go round. Another local station had countered the challenge posed by Hamish MacDiarmid, hiring what they called ‘The Ranter’, an anonymous individual who dished out insult upon insult to anyone foolish enough to call his show.
It all seemed a long way from the Light Programme, a long way from glowing valves and Home Counties diction. Was it true that the BBC announcers used to wear dinner jackets? DJs in DJs, Rebus thought to himself and laughed.
‘I’m glad somebody’s cheerful.’ It was Penny Cook’s voice; she was standing right behind him. Slowly he turned to be confronted by a buxom lady in her early forties – only a year or two younger than Rebus himself. She had permed light brown hair and wore round glasses – the kind popularised by John Lennon on one hand and the NHS on the other.
‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘I’m never what people expect.’ She held out a hand, which Rebus shook. Not only did Penny Cook sound unthreatening, she looked unthreatening.
All the more mysterious then that someone, some anonymous caller, should be threatening her life…
They walked down a corridor towards a sturdy-looking door, to the side of which had been attached a push-button array.
‘Security,’ she said, pressing four digits before pulling open the door. ‘You never know what a lunatic might do given access to the airwaves.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Rebus, ‘I’ve heard Hamish MacDiarmid.’
She laughed. He didn’t think he’d heard her laugh before. ‘Is Penny Cook your real name?’ he asked, thinking the ice sufficiently broken between them.
‘Afraid so. I was born in Nairn. To be honest, I don’t think my parents had heard of Penicuik. They just liked the name Penelope.’
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 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 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 put 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?’
Pr
entice 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 airtime to fill and so few advertisers to fill it…
‘… and mmm… it tastes so good.’