The Beat Goes On

by Ian Rankin

  ‘I’m guessing you’ve looked at Mr Forbes’s emails?’

  ‘Your lot told me to–there was nothing out of the ordinary.’

  ‘How about stuff he deleted?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘When you press delete, stuff doesn’t just vanish.’

  She was studying a list of recent transaction details. ‘His cards still haven’t been used,’ she muttered.

  ‘The ones you’re able to check,’ Rebus added.

  ‘What were you saying about emails?’

  ‘Even deleted ones will be stored somewhere, unless your husband really wanted them gone.’

  She had closed the banking website and clicked on the email account.

  ‘See where it says “deleted”?’ Rebus reached past her so his finger nearly touched the screen. If you click on that…’

  She did so, and a long list appeared.

  ‘I’d no idea,’ she said.

  Rebus’s eyes were running down the items. They were mostly rubbish–offers for insurance and Canadian medicines. But one caught his attention, the one right at the top–received on the Sunday, the eve of Forbes’s disappearing act. The subject line consisted of only the one word–Philip–followed by three exclamation marks. The sender was marked as Unknown.

  ‘Can you open that?’ Rebus asked.

  Barbara Forbes did as she was asked, then gave a little gasp.

  WE NEED TO MAKE A RUN FOR IT! THEY KNOW!!!

  Nothing else. It didn’t look as if Philip Forbes had replied. He had just deleted the message and followed the instruction.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Barbara Forbes’s voice was shaking. Clarke was standing in the doorway, a carton of milk in her hand.

  ‘You might want to offer Mrs Forbes something stronger,’ Rebus said, gesturing towards the screen.

  ‘It’s called forensic computing,’ Clarke told Rebus. They were in her car again. The laptop had spent the afternoon at the forensic science facility at Howdenhall. Now night had fallen and Rebus was holding his fifth or sixth takeaway coffee of the day.

  ‘So just because it says “Sender Unknown…”?’

  ‘There’s information tucked away for a lab coat to work with.’

  ‘Like a deleted file that isn’t actually deleted?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Rebus drained the last of his drink. ‘No news from the airport?’

  ‘No record of P. T. Forbes as a passenger with any carrier.’

  ‘But he did take his passport.’

  ‘Airport might be a red herring. Plenty of other ways to leave the country.’

  ‘It would help if we knew the why.’

  ‘Fingers crossed Archie Sellers has some answers.’

  They parked on a wide residential street near Inverleith Park. The houses were substantial. Archie Sellers’s top-floor flat had been carved from one of them. The windows were small but gave views south across the city, the castle and Calton Hill silhouetted against the darker sky.

  ‘Is this about Philip?’ Sellers had asked when he’d answered the door. In place of an answer, Clarke had suggested they go in.

  ‘Lovely view, Mr Sellers,’ Rebus said as he stood by one of the living room’s three windows. Sellers had lowered himself into a leather armchair. The room had a distinct bachelor feel to it: car magazines, a dartboard on the back of the door, untidy stacks of CDs on the floor next to a hi-fi system. ‘Better than from the police station anyway.’ With a smile, Rebus settled on the sofa beside Clarke.

  ‘It was DS Rebus’s opinion,’ Clarke explained to Sellers, ‘that Gayfield Square police station should be where we’re having this little chat.’

  Sellers’s eyes widened a fraction. He hadn’t shaved in a day or two and his collar-length hair was unruly. A generation younger than his employer, but maybe still too old for the distressed denims and Cuban-heeled boots.

  ‘Why? What have I done?’

  ‘How was business, Mr Sellers? Anything untoward that an audit might be about to throw up? VAT in order?’

  ‘Things were fine.’

  ‘Then how do you explain this?’ Clarke unfolded the sheet of paper and held it up towards him, the message printed there clear to see. ‘You sent this,’ she stated.

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘We have proof that you did. Identifiers lead more or less straight back to your Hotmail account.’

  ‘There must be a mistake.’

  ‘Must there?’ The two detectives sat side by side in silence, while Sellers twisted in his chair, looking as though it were made of drawing pins rather than cowhide. He sprang to his feet, but couldn’t think what came next.

  ‘Sit down,’ Rebus ordered, glowering until Sellers obeyed.

  Clarke turned the sheet of paper round again so she could recite the words. ‘“We need to make a run for it! They know!!!” Sent by you to Philip Forbes on Sunday afternoon at half past three. What was it the pair of you had to be scared of, Mr Sellers? And why are you still here?’

  ‘It was a joke!’ Sellers blurted out, clasping his hands around his knees.

  ‘A joke?’

  ‘A prank. I sent it to half a dozen people. Just to see what their reaction would be.’

  ‘Who else got one?’

  ‘A mate I play squash with… couple of old school friends… a cousin… plus Philip and Andrea.’

  ‘Andrea being…?’

  ‘She works for us.’

  ‘On reception?’

  ‘Reception, secretary, you name it. I was going to go into work on Tuesday and see what they said. It was supposed to be a bit of fun.’ He paused. ‘You don’t know the story?’

  ‘Enlighten us,’ Clarke said, no emotion in her voice.

  ‘Arthur Conan Doyle–Sherlock Holmes and all that. It was in an article I was reading about him. He sent an anonymous telegram to a few of his friends. It said something like “We’ve been rumbled! What will we do?”’

  Sellers was grinning, with the eager-to-make-amends look of a schoolkid caught red-handed.

  ‘And?’ Rebus asked.

  The grin vanished. Sellers licked his lips, eyes towards the floor. ‘Apparently one of them did a runner. He was never seen again. That’s what’s happened, isn’t it? Philip did have something he didn’t want rumbled.’

  ‘Any idea what that might have been?’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘Do you have a number for Andrea, Mr Sellers?’

  ‘Andrea?’

  ‘To verify your story.’

  The man’s face sagged further. ‘She’s going to be furious with me.’ Then he thought of something. It was obvious in his eyes, in the way his spine stiffened.

  ‘Yes?’ Clarke nudged.

  But Sellers shook his head.

  ‘We’ll need the other names, too,’ Rebus stated. ‘Your friends, your cousin…’

  ‘Can’t I tell them myself ?’ Sellers begged.

  Clarke eventually nodded. ‘If you let us speak to them first, just so we hear it from them. After that, we’ll hand the phone back to you and you can come clean.’ She was gesturing towards Sellers’s mobile. It was sitting on the coffee table, half hidden under the magazine he’d been reading only ten minutes ago, before his world started to go wrong.

  ‘How funny is that joke looking now?’ Rebus decided to enquire, as Sellers reached towards the phone.

  They were seated in the back room of the Oxford Bar, having found a parking space right outside. That had been the deal: no convenient place to park, no stopping for a drink. Instead of which, Rebus was starting on his third pint while Clarke nursed a soda water and lime.

  ‘I can take a taxi home if you want a proper drink,’ Rebus had offered.

  ‘And leave the car outside to be towed in the morning?’

  ‘Right enough.’

  There was an open packet of crisps in front of them, but neither had turned out to be hungry enough. The back room was midweek empty. Only four regulars in the front bar, and some
European football game on the TV.

  ‘So what have we got?’ Clarke asked, playing with one of the beer mats.

  ‘Maybe nothing at all. That email might not have anything to do with it.’

  ‘Bit of a coincidence, though.’

  ‘A bit, aye.’ Rebus took another mouthful of beer.

  ‘Is this your version of the three-pipe problem?’ Clarke nodded towards Rebus’s glass.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Sherlock Holmes–when he was stuck, he smoked three pipes.’

  ‘Not at the same time, I hope.’

  She shook her head. ‘And probably not tobacco either.’

  ‘This might be the opposite.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Maybe we’re thinking too hard.’

  ‘So there’s a nice simple explanation, and you’re just about to provide it?’

  ‘We should talk to Andrea.’

  ‘The secretary?’

  ‘You saw it, didn’t you? Sellers was thinking how mad she was going to be with him…’

  ‘He froze for a second.’

  ‘He did, didn’t he? And someone like Andrea–working the phones, making appointments, doing the paperwork…’

  ‘Might know what the big bad secret was?’

  Rebus was nodding slowly, his glass halfway to his mouth.

  ‘First thing tomorrow then,’ Clarke decided. ‘Reckon her migraine will have gone?’

  ‘You think that’s why she stayed home Monday?’ Rebus asked. His eyes were twinkling behind the pint as he tipped it towards him.

  They sat in Clarke’s car and watched the receptionist unlock the showroom. Through the plate-glass window they saw her walk briskly to a keypad on the wall behind her desk and disarm the alarm. Her phone was already ringing and she answered it, pushing stray locks of hair back behind one ear.

  ‘Ten sharp,’ Rebus commented, tapping his wristwatch.

  ‘Much the same time the boss usually arrives.’

  ‘I’d say Archie Sellers then slopes in a bit later. Not quite as dedicated.’

  ‘Not like us.’

  No, because they’d already had to brief their own boss on the case–half past eight in his office. For once he’d seemed apologetic–pressure bearing down on him from above; all those politicians who considered P.T. Forbes a friend, an ally, a contributor.

  Having dealt with the call, the receptionist shrugged off her coat. Rebus judged her to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Good-looking. Seated at her desk, she suddenly seemed at a loss what to do next. She got up and walked over to one of the gleaming cars, ran a finger along its paintwork.

  ‘Maserati,’ Clarke stated.

  ‘I knew that,’ Rebus said, opening the passenger door.

  ‘Liar,’ Clarke retorted, removing the key from the ignition.

  ‘She didn’t drive,’ she added as they crossed the empty forecourt.

  ‘So I noticed.’ Rebus was pushing open the showroom door, a smile on his face. ‘Nice Maserati,’ he said, gesturing towards the car.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘You’re Andrea…?’

  ‘Mathieson,’ she obliged. ‘Are you the detectives I spoke with last night?’

  They both opened their warrant cards for an inspection that never came. Mathieson had retreated back behind her desk, pulling the seat in.

  ‘You don’t drive?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘You arrived on foot.’

  ‘Sometimes I take the bus.’

  ‘Better for the environment, eh?’

  She stared at him, unblinking. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’

  ‘Must have come as a shock,’ Rebus began. He saw that Clarke was either taking a keen interest in the contents of the showroom or else pretending to, so as to give him a clear run. He took the chair opposite Andrea Mathieson. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

  ‘Philip, you mean?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Well, that too. But I was thinking of the email.’

  ‘Bloody Archie!’ She spat out the words, causing Clarke to turn away from a sleek BMW.

  ‘Likes to think of himself as a bit of a joker,’ Rebus sympathised. ‘For what it’s worth, the friends he sent the message to were every bit as pissed off. He might be in the market for new drinking buddies.’ He paused. ‘Did you know he was going to Carlisle on the Monday?’

  She eventually nodded. ‘I’ve a good mind to slap him when I see him.’

  ‘He sent you the email Sunday afternoon–when did you open it?’

  ‘That night. I nearly jumped out of my clothes. Ran to the door and made sure it was locked. I was scared half to death. Your imagina tion starts running away with you…’

  ‘Same for everyone. But only Mr Forbes seemed to take any action.’

  ‘Is that what you think happened?’

  ‘Did you really have a migraine on the Monday?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Or was it that you couldn’t bring yourself to come to work? Maybe because you’d been fretting about that email all night.’

  ‘Well, yes, maybe.’

  ‘Who did you think had sent it?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘No?’

  She shook her head, without making eye contact.

  ‘Not Archie? Not Philip Forbes?’

  ‘I’m not sure what it is you’re getting at.’

  ‘So everything was fine between the three of you? A happy ship and all that?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘Business doing OK?’

  Clarke had wandered over from her tour of the showroom. She had a question of her own. ‘What car do you drive, Ms Mathieson?’

  ‘A BMW Z4.’

  ‘Oh, those are nice.’ Then, as if for Rebus’s benefit: ‘Sporty. Twoseater. I’d have mine in red…’

  ‘Same as mine,’ Mathieson conceded.

  ‘They drink the fuel, though, don’t they? Probably not a hit with the environmental lobby…’

  Mathieson’s head collapsed into her hands. She mumbled something they struggled to make out.

  ‘Sorry?’ Clarke asked.

  Mathieson lifted her face. Tears were streaming down either cheek. ‘It was a present from Philip!’

  ‘Nice of him,’ Clarke said quietly.

  ‘Is that why you’ve not been able to drive to work, Andrea?’ Rebus asked, dropping his own voice. ‘Every time you see your car, you think of him?’

  ‘He loved me.’

  Rebus and Clarke shared a look.

  ‘You were having an affair?’ Clarke enquired.

  Andrea Mathieson shook her head violently. ‘Not now. Then.’

  ‘Then being…?’

  ‘Two years ago. It didn’t last long–“a fling”, he called it. But I knew what it really was.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘He was still grieving for his son. After Rory died, Philip felt crushed. His wife didn’t help–that whole part of his life was just dust. He could talk to me–did talk to me. Poured everything out. And that’s when it started. Just long enough for some healing. But not a “fling”. He was wrong about that.’ She took in gulps of air, trying to regain some composure. Clarke offered a tissue, which she accepted with a nod of thanks.

  When enough time had elapsed, Rebus threw out another question.

  ‘So when Mr Forbes opened that email…?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He might have thought the affair was about to come to light?’

  When Mathieson didn’t answer, Clarke asked a question of her own.

  ‘He phoned you, didn’t he?’

  ‘He tried.’

  ‘Because the message said we need to flee. So if it was to do with your affair, it could only have come from you?’

  ‘I was out early evening. He left a voicemail. I texted him back.’

  ‘On Sunday night?’

  ‘I’d seen the email for myself by then.’


  ‘You must have wondered…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, suddenly it’s not a creepy anonymous message sent out randomly. As far as you knew, only the two of you received it.’

  Rebus cleared his throat. ‘It had to be someone who knew you both, whether it was about the affair or not.’

  ‘I didn’t really think about it,’ Mathieson admitted. ‘My head was… You’re right, of course. Maybe if I’d had the chance to speak to Philip.’

  ‘Did you think he’d come to your home on Monday?’

  ‘I hoped he would.’

  ‘He knew the place from back in the day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But instead of that, he disappeared. Andrea, do you think he’s run away?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is there anything that could have panicked him? Anything at all?’

  ‘Maybe he just wanted to be free from that bloody woman.’

  ‘His wife, you mean?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Did she know about the affair…?’

  There was a soft tapping from the other side of the glass door. Archie Sellers stood there, attempting to look contrite.

  ‘You bastard!’ Mathieson shrieked. She was up out of her chair, marching towards confrontation, eyes suddenly steely. Sellers had already started to retreat. The Aston Martin DB5 was parked on the forecourt. He unlocked the driver’s side with an old-fashioned key.

  ‘This is all your fault!’ Mathieson was yelling as she pulled open the showroom door. Rebus noticed the large welcome mat she’d had to cross. Various marques were listed on it, but what caught his eye were the runs of tape fixing it firmly to the floor.

  Health and safety.

  Couldn’t have anyone taking a tumble.

  ‘Should we do something?’ Clarke was asking.

  Sellers had gunned the engine and was reversing on to the carriage way. A white van had to brake hard, its horn rasping. Her anger spent, Mathieson’s face was in her hands again, shoulders heaving.

  ‘Maybe make her a cup of tea,’ Rebus suggested.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then we pay another visit to Heriots…’

  ‘You again,’ was all Barbara Forbes said when she opened the door.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you,’ Rebus managed.

  ‘I suppose you want to come in.’

  ‘You’ll be wondering if there’s news.’