by Ian Rankin
Rebus walked around the desk so she could show him what she’d found. The lift doors opening and the man emerging, moving briskly across the floor. No one around at all.
‘There’s a night manager,’ Clarke explained. ‘But he’s in an office somewhere. If you’re late back, there’s a bell you can press and he’ll come let you in. But if you’re already in, you just push the bar on the door and you’re gone.’
Which was what the visitor had done. Walking out of shot into what remained of the night, hands digging into his pockets. The other cameras showed a silent reception desk and a closed bar.
‘Half past ten till quarter past four,’ Rebus commented, lifting a photocopied still from next to the laptop – the general manager had provided half a dozen, all showing the clearest shot of the man. ‘Doesn’t take that long to throttle someone.’
‘Well,’ Clarke replied, as though she’d given it some thought, ‘first you’ve got to get good and angry.’ She picked up another of the photos and studied it.
‘Because things aren’t turning out as planned?’ Rebus guessed.
‘Maybe.’ She stretched her spine, rolling her shoulders and neck.
‘It’s been a long day,’ Rebus sympathised. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’
‘I’ve got to go home. Bills to open, plants to water. Need me to give you a lift?’
Rebus was shaking his head. ‘I’ll walk,’ he said.
‘Without your course deviating at any point into some pub or other?’
‘Oh ye of little faith,’ Rebus tutted, his smile eventually matching hers.
‘Are you Doddy?’
Time was, all that was required of a bouncer was that he look scary. But these days they had to be smartly dressed too. The man giving Rebus a hard stare wasn’t tall, or especially broad, but there was plenty of muscle beneath the black woollen coat and polo neck. An earpiece coiled down past his collar, and an embossed photo ID was strapped high up on one arm.
‘Anything wrong, officer?’
Rebus had been about to dig his warrant card from his pocket, but smiled instead. ‘Guilty as charged,’ he said. The doorman shook his head when Rebus offered a cigarette. He got his own lit and blew the smoke upwards. ‘Quiet tonight,’ he commented.
‘Usual Monday. Money’s all spent.’
‘That explain the half-price drinks?’ Rebus nodded towards a poster to one side of the door.
‘Might be an extra reduction for members of the constabulary.’
‘Fruit-flavour shots, though – which rots first, the liver or the teeth?’
Doddy dredged up a thin smile. ‘So that’s the ice broken. Now what do you want?’
‘The tourist strangled in her hotel room – I assume you’ve heard.’
‘It was on the news.’
‘Friday night around half past seven, we think she came by here.’ Rebus described Maria Stokes and Doddy nodded slowly.
‘I remember,’ he said. ‘We get a few single women coming here, but not too many.’
‘Did she say anything?’
‘Just asked if it cost anything to get in.’
‘Did you see her come out again?’
‘No.’
‘Might have been just before ten thirty.’
‘There was a bit of an altercation. Stag party trying to get in. Two of them could barely stand.’
‘There’ll be CCTV inside, yes?’ As Doddy nodded, Rebus held up the photo of the man from the hotel foyer. ‘Recognise him?’
‘Might have seen him.’
‘To talk to?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Is he a regular?’
‘No. Just looks familiar. Should I tell the boss you want a chat?’ The doorman held up his wrist, showing Rebus the mic secreted there.
‘I think so,’ Rebus said.
Inside, the Abilene was a single room, a long rectangle with a dance floor at one end and a raised dining area at the other, with a shiny chrome bar separating the two. There were about thirty people in the place, only four of them dancing to piped music. Rebus didn’t recognise the singer and couldn’t make out the words. It was the kind of thing he only heard being pumped from cars, usually driven by young men with carburettor problems.
‘Let me get you a drink,’ the manager said. ‘I’m guessing you’re either whisky or beer.’
‘An IPA, thanks,’ Rebus said. The manager’s name was Terry Soames. He was in his late twenties and dressed in a suit that looked made for him. Open-necked shirt and an unadorned silver chain around his throat. They perched on stools at the bar while their drinks were fetched.
‘I’d like to see the footage from Friday night,’ Rebus said, having explained about Maria Stokes.
‘I wish I could help,’ Soames apologised, sipping orange juice. ‘But we record on a loop. Every forty-eight hours there’s a refresh. We only store the pictures if there’s been a problem.’
‘There was a problem Friday night.’
Soames thought for a moment. ‘The stag party? Doddy dealt with that. They didn’t get in.’
‘This is someone we’d like to talk to,’ Rebus went on, placing the photo on the bar. ‘Doddy says he’s a known quantity.’
‘Not to me.’ Soames was peering at the face. He gestured for the barman to join them. ‘Any ideas, James?’
‘He’s been in a few times.’
‘Got a name?’ Rebus asked.
The barman pursed his lips, then shook his head. ‘He paid with a card, though.’
‘He did?’
‘I remember because the first two tries at his PIN, he got it wrong. Couple of drinks too many. He managed on the third go. We had a little joke about it.’
Rebus turned his attention to Terry Soames.
‘My office,’ Soames said. ‘We keep the receipts in the safe …’
Clarke was already at her desk when Rebus got into Gayfield Square next morning.
‘Autopsy and forensics,’ she said, gesturing towards the paperwork in front of her.
‘Anything useful?’
‘Plenty of prints in the room – too many, in fact. Seems housekeeping didn’t do a great job with a duster.’
‘How about the Do Not Disturb sign?’
‘Just the victim’s prints on that.’
Rebus ran a hand along his jawline. ‘They sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘So our notion that the attacker put the sign up to stop anyone going in …’
‘May need rethinking. Victim had downed a fair few gin and tonics and eaten nothing but salted peanuts. No drugs. Signs of sexual intercourse – traces of the lubricant from a condom.’
‘No condom in the room, though.’
‘And no wrapper either. So the assailant either pocketed both or else flushed them. And we can’t be sure if penetration was pre- or post-mortem. No signs of trauma.’
Rebus rubbed at his jaw again. ‘We’re saying this is all the one guy? She picks him up in a bar and takes him to her room. Instead of saying thank you, he then strangles her?’
‘It’s the simplest explanation, no?’
Eventually Rebus nodded.
‘There are some strands of hair that don’t seem to match the victim …’ Clarke was skimming the pages. ‘Et cetera, et cetera.’ She paused, holding up one final sheet. ‘And then there’s this.’
Rebus took the piece of paper from Clarke and started to read as she spoke.
‘A team from Newcastle went to her flat. Everything neat and tidy, but there was stuff next to her computer, including correspondence from her GP and a couple of hospitals …’
‘Brain tumour,’ Rebus muttered.
‘Shelf in her bathroom stacked with strong painkillers, none of which she brought to Edinburgh – unless he lifted them.’
Rebus placed the sheet of paper on top of the others. ‘She was dying.’
‘Maybe Edinburgh was on her bucket list.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Ironic, though, is
n’t it? You head north to let your hair down. You want to feel something, so you maybe don’t bother deadening the pain with drugs. And you end up meeting the one man you shouldn’t.’
‘Ironic, yes,’ Rebus echoed, though he didn’t really believe it. ‘And his name’s Robert Jeffries, by the way.’
‘What?’
‘The man who went up to her room with her. I’m in the process of getting an address.’
‘You better take a seat and tell me.’
Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘But can we make it quick?’
Clarke just stared at him.
‘I have a book I need to read,’ he explained.
That evening, Rebus and Clarke sat in the office, listening to the recording that had been made of their interview with Robert Jeffries. A lawyer had been present throughout, but Jeffries had made it clear that he had nothing to hide and wanted to explain.
‘That’s good, Mr Jeffries,’ Clarke had said. ‘And we appreciate your help.’
‘I hate my voice,’ she said to Rebus as she listened.
‘Hush,’ he chided her.
‘I was in the Abilene,’ Jeffries was saying. ‘It’s a nightclub on Market Street. I don’t go often, but sometimes the boredom gets to me. Ever since Margaret passed away, I’ve found my life … not withering away exactly. Squeezed into a box maybe. Just the telly and the computer, you know. Used to go to the football, but I lost interest. Stopped returning friends’ calls. Bit pathetic really.’
Rebus’s voice: ‘Why the Abilene in particular?’
‘I suppose it’s handy for the train back to Falkirk. You can sit at the bar and sometimes people talk to you. Even if they don’t, you can watch them enjoying themselves. I used to reminisce about clubs me and Margaret went to. Duran Duran was her thing. Simon Le Bon. Even in the living room, I’d come home and find her shimmying around the place.’
There was a pause. A plastic cup of water was being lifted, sipped from, placed with care back on the table. A chair creaked as the lawyer shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable.
‘I only meant to have a couple of drinks that night, but then she was standing beside me. I told her I liked her perfume. She laughed. Really nice white teeth. So then we got talking. Gin and tonic she was drinking. With a slice of lime rather than lemon, and not too much ice. After the third round, they brought us some peanuts and pretzels. She didn’t like pretzels.’
Clarke: ‘What did you talk about?’
‘My job … her job. She’d dumped her husband – that was the word she used, “dumped” – and found herself a nice flat near the river in Newcastle. I said I’d been through it on the train to York and London but never stopped. She said I should. “It’s full of life.” She was full of life. It was like sparks were coming off her. Deep dark eyes and a nice husky voice. A couple of times I thought she was losing interest – she would scan the room, smiles for everybody. But then she would turn her attention back to me. I was … flattered.’
Rebus: ‘Whose idea was it to leave?’
‘Hers. I think she saw me glance at my watch. Horrible thing to say, but I was thinking of last trains. “You’re not leaving?” she said. She sounded aghast that I might be. “It’s Friday night, you need to live!” Then she mentioned her hotel and how it had a bar that would be getting lively. I honestly thought that was where we were heading.’
Another pause.
‘No, I’m lying. I hoped that after the bar there’d be an invite to her room. I was tingling all over. Feelings I hadn’t had in years. But as it turned out, the bar wasn’t the destination she had in mind.’
Clarke: ‘You paid for the drinks like a gentleman?’
‘I nearly didn’t, though. I got my PIN wrong twice.’
Rebus: ‘Footage from the hotel entrance shows you a few seconds behind Ms Stokes …’
‘Yes. I thought I’d lost my phone. I stopped to check my pockets. By the time I caught up, she was already in the lift. So that was that.’
Rebus: ‘But you’d come prepared? A condom, I mean?’
‘That was hers. She had it in her bag.’
‘You flushed it afterwards?’
‘Yes.’ Another pause for water. ‘After I’d got dressed. We’d fallen asleep. I mean … I was sure she was asleep. I woke up feeling awful. Pounding headache and everything.’
Clarke: ‘We need you to tell us what happened, Mr Jeffries. Not just the before and the after.’
‘Oh God …’
There was a short interjection by the lawyer, but Jeffries started to make noises. Then: ‘No, I need to say it. I need to!’ Sniffling, nose-blowing, throat-clearing.
‘I need you to know it wasn’t me. I’m not the adventurous sort. I’d never even heard of it. I know now, though – auto-erotic asphyxiation. She said she liked it, said she wanted it. My hands around her throat while we had sex. “Squeeze tighter. Keep squeezing. Your thumbs. Harder …” Oh Christ.’ Another loud sob. ‘And this look on her face, her eyes tight shut, teeth clenched. I thought she was enjoying it, getting into it. So I kept pressing down, pressing, pressing. And then I collapsed on her, rolled off, even said a few sweet nothings … And passed out.’
Clarke: ‘And when you woke up?’
‘I got dressed as quietly as I could. Didn’t want to wake her. I thought … well, cold light of day and all that. She might hate herself or me.’
Rebus: ‘You didn’t check she was breathing?’
‘She looked so peaceful. I still can’t believe she was dead. It was an accident. A terrible, terrible accident …’
Clarke: ‘Why didn’t you come forward, sir? Why did we have to fetch you?’
‘I knew how horrible it would sound. The whole thing. And I didn’t think.’ A further pause. ‘Just that, really – I didn’t think …’
Clarke stopped the recording and leaned back in her chair, staring across the desk at Rebus.
‘You’ve had a chance to read it?’ he asked.
She nodded and took the copy of The Driver’s Seat from her drawer, flicking through its pages.
‘It’s a sort of nightmare,’ she said. ‘A woman travels to a strange city looking for someone to kill her. Not because she has cancer, but … well, I’m not quite sure why. To create a sensation at the end of a mundane life?’
‘Maybe.’
‘The book gave Maria Stokes the idea?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘The story doesn’t turn out the way Maria’s life did.’
‘She was in the driving seat, though – is that what we’re saying? With Robert Jeffries as her passenger – meaning we should feel sorry for him.’
‘You don’t sound as if you do.’
Clarke started gathering up all the loose sheets of paper on the desk, as if putting them in some sort of order were suddenly important.
‘A single ticket,’ Rebus said into the silence.
‘Sorry?’
‘She didn’t buy a return because she wasn’t going home. Yet she paid for three nights at the hotel – three shots at getting it right.’
‘Her head was pretty messed up.’
‘And she’s messed up Robert Jeffries’ head pretty good now too.’ Rebus rose to his feet. ‘Let me buy you a drink,’ he said, reaching across the desk for the book.
‘Anywhere but the Abilene.’
‘Anywhere but the Abilene,’ Rebus agreed.
Clarke placed the paperwork in a drawer, stood up and lifted her jacket from the back of her chair. She crossed to the window as she slipped it on. There was a whole city somewhere out there, waking to another night of possibility and accident, chance and fate, pity and fear.
A Three-Pint Problem
The missing man’s car was found on the third day.
It was a gloss-black Bentley GT, parked in a bay two floors up at Edinburgh airport’s multi-storey car park – a businessman had recognised it from the description on the news. When police arrived, they found the Bentley unlocked. No key, no parking chitty.
‘He took a flight?’
‘We’re checking.’
‘Was the business in trouble? That’s why people usually run.’
‘According to the wife, things had picked up after a lean couple of years.’
‘P.T. Forbes – I’ve been past the showroom many a time.’
‘Me too. There was a red E-type in the window one time …’
‘You were tempted?’
‘Until I saw the price tag. Plus: no power steering in those old models.’
‘What does the P stand for, by the way?’
‘Philip. The wife’s name is Barbara. Twenty-six years married.’
Rebus had seen the photos of P.T. Forbes in the Scotsman and the Evening News – a head of thick silver hair, a bit of heft filling out a pinstripe suit. Always posing with one of his cars. He dealt in ‘cherished’ high-end automobiles, meaning second-hand but pricier than most new models.
‘Was the Bentley his?’ Rebus asked as Clarke slowed to a stop at a set of traffic lights. They were heading out of town down the coast, towards Musselburgh. The Forbes home was part of a small modern estate backing on to a newish golf course. Rebus reckoned the developer would have called it ‘bespoke’, like one of P.T. Forbes’s motors.
‘Not as such,’ Clarke was answering. ‘According to Mrs Forbes, he came home with a different car every week.’
‘Must have been confusing when she came out of the supermarket looking for it.’
‘She drives a Mini,’ Clarke said.
The disappearance of Philip Forbes was out of character. He had left the house as usual at 9.30 on Monday morning, headed for his glass-fronted South Gyle premises. His wife hadn’t begun to fret until 7 p.m. She had called her husband’s right-hand man, but found him driving back from Carlisle, where he’d spent the day negotiating the purchase of an Aston Martin DB5. He in turn had called the showroom’s receptionist, but she’d been at home all day with a migraine, having texted her boss to apologise.