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. Then 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 on 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. Rebus 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.”
“Thanks for your help.” Rebus started climbing the stairs. The shared space was well maintained, the steps clean, smelling of disinfectant mixed with something else, a perfume of sorts. There were ornate tiles on the walls. Flats 2 and 3 were on the first floor. There was a buzzer to the right of Flat 3, a typed label attached to it. Rebus bent down for a closer look. The words had faded, but were readable: LT Lettings. While he was down there, Rebus decided he might as well take a look through the letter-box. All he could see was an unlit hallway. He straightened up and pressed the bell for Flat 2. Nobody was home. Rebus took out one of his business cards and a ballpoint pen, scribbled the words “Please call me” on the back, and pushed the card through the door of Flat 2. He thought for a moment, but decided against doing the same for Flat 3.
Back downstairs again, he knocked on the door of the young man with the dishtowel. Smiled as it was opened.
“Sorry to bother you again, but do you think I could take a look at your phone book . . .?”
Rebus went back to his car and made the call from there. An answering machine played its message, informing him that LT Lettings was closed until ten o’clock on Monday morning, but that any tenant with an emergency should call another number. Rebus jotted it down and called. The person who answered sounded like he was stuck in traffic. Rebus explained who he was.
“I need to ask about one of your properties.”
“I’m not the person you need to speak to. I just mend things.”
“What sorts of things?”
“Some tenants aren’t too fussy, know what I mean? Place isn’t their own, they treat it like shit.”
“Until you turn up and sort them out?”
The man laughed. “I put things right, if that’s what you mean.”
“And that’s all you do?”
“Look, I’m not sure where you’re going with this . . . It’s my boss you need to speak to. Lennox Tripp.”
“Okay, give me his number.”
“Office is shut till Monday.”
“His home number, I meant.”
“I’m not sure he’d thank me for that.”
“This is a police matter. And it’s urgent.”
Rebus waited for the man to speak, then jotted down the eventual reply. “And your name is . .
.?”
“Frank Empson.”
Rebus jotted this down, too. “Well, thanks for your help, Mr Empson. You heading for a night out?”
“Absolutely, Inspector. Just as soon as I’ve fixed the heating in one flat and unblocked the toilet in another.”
Rebus thought for a moment. “Ever had cause to visit Gilby Street?”
“In the New Town?”
“Number 26, Flat 3?”
“I moved some furniture in, but that was months back.”
“Never seen the person who lives there?”
“Nope.”
“Well, thanks again . . .” Rebus cut the call, punched in the number for Lennox Tripp. The phone was answered on the fifth ring. Rebus asked if he was speaking to Lennox Tripp.
“Yes.” The voice hesitant.
“My name’s John Rebus. I’m a detective inspector with Lothian and Borders Police.”
“What seems to be the problem?” The voice more confident now, an educated drawl.
“One of your tenants, Mr Tripp, 26 Gilby Street.”
“Yes?”
“I need to know what you know . . .”
Rebus was smoking his second cigarette when Tripp arrived, driving a silver Mercedes. He double-parked outside number 26, using a remote to set the locks and alarm.
“Won’t be long, will we?” he asked, turning to glance at his car as he shook Rebus’s hand. Rebus flicked the half-smoked cigarette on to the road.
“Wouldn’t imagine so,” he said. Lennox Tripp was about Rebus’s age – mid-fifties – but had worn considerably better. His face was tanned, hair groomed, clothes casual but classy. He stepped up to the door and let them in with a key. As they climbed the stairs, he said his piece.
“Only reason William Smith sticks in my head is that he pays cash for the let. A wad of twenties in an envelope, delivered to the office on time each month. This is his seventh month.”
“You must have met him, though.”
Tripp nodded. “Showed him the place myself.”
“Can you describe him?”
Tripp shrugged. “White, tallish . . . nothing much to distinguish him.”
“Hair?”
Tripp smiled. “Almost certainly.” Then, as if to apologise for the glib comeback: “It was six months ago, Inspector.”
“And that’s the only time you’ve seen him?”
Tripp nodded. ‘I’d have called him the model tenant . . .”
“A model tenant who pays cash? You don’t find that a mite suspicious?”
Tripp shrugged again. “I try not to pry, Inspector.” They were at the door to Flat 3. Tripp unlocked it and motioned for Rebus to precede him inside.
“Was it rented furnished?” Rebus asked, walking into the living room.
“Yes.” Tripp took a look around. ‘Doesn’t look like he’s added much.”
“Not even a TV,” Rebus commented, walking into the kitchen. He opened the fridge. There was a bottle of white wine inside, open and with the cork pushed back into its neck. Nothing else: no butter, milk . . . nothing. Two tumblers drying on the draining-board, the only signs that anyone had been here in recent memory.
There was just the one bedroom. The bedclothes were mostly on the floor. Tripp bent to pick them up, draping them over the mattress. Rebus opened the wardrobe, exposing a single dark-blue suit hanging there. Nothing in any of the pockets. In one drawer: underpants, socks, a single black T-shirt. The other drawers were empty.
“Looks like he’s moved on,” Tripp commented.
“Or has something against possessions,” Rebus added. He looked around. “No phone?”
Tripp shook his head. “There’s a wall-socket. If a tenant wants to sign up with BT or whoever, they’re welcome to.”
“Too much trouble for Mr Smith, apparently.”
“Well, a lot of people use mobiles these days, don’t they?”
“They do indeed, Mr Tripp.” Rebus rubbed a thumb and forefinger over his temples. “I’m assuming Smith provided you with some references?”
“I’d assume he did.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Not off-hand.”
“Would you have any records?”
“Yes, but it’s by no means certain . . .”
Rebus stared at the man. “You’d rent one of your flats to someone who couldn’t prove who they were?”
Tripp raised an eyebrow by way of apology.
“Cash upfront, I’m guessing,” Rebus hissed.
“Cash does have its merits.”
“I hope your tax returns are in good order.”
Tripp was brought up short. ‘Is that some kind of threat, Inspector?”
Rebus feigned a look that was between surprise and disappointment. “Why would I do a thing like that, Mr Tripp?”
“I wasn’t meaning to suggest . . .”
“I would hope not. But I’ll tell you what . . .” Rebus laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “We’ll call it quits, once we’ve been to your office and checked those files . . .”
But there was precious little in the file relating to Flat 3, 26 Gilby Street – just a signed copy of the lease agreement. No references of any kind. Smith had put his occupation down as “market analyst” and his date of birth as 13 January 1970.
“Did you ask him what a market analyst does?”
Tripp nodded. “I think he said he worked for one of the insurance companies, something to do with making sure their portfolios didn’t lose money.”
“You don’t recall which company?”
Tripp said he didn’t.
In the end, Rebus managed a grudged “thank you”, headed out to his car, and drove home. Ray Duff hadn’t called, which meant he hadn’t made any progress, and Rebus doubted he would be working Sunday. He poured himself a whisky, stuck John Martyn on the hi-fi, and slumped into his chair. A couple of tracks passed without him really hearing them. He slid his hand into his pocket and came out with both phones, the silver and the black. For the first time, he checked the silver flip-top, finding messages from Frances Guthrie to her husband. There was an address book, probably listing clients and friends. Rebus laid this phone aside and concentrated on the black one. There was nothing in its memory: no phone numbers stored, no messages. Just that one text: TELL ME WHO TO KILL. And the number of the caller.
Rebus got up and poured himself another drink, then took a deep breath and pushed the buttons, calling the sender of the text message. The ringing tone sounded tremulous. Rebus was still holding his breath, but after twenty rings he gave up. No one was about to answer. He decided to send a text instead, but couldn’t think what words to use.
Hello, are you a hired killer?
Who do you think I want you to kill?
Please hand yourself in to your nearest police station . . .
He smiled to himself, decided it could wait. Only half past nine, the night stretching ahead of him. He surfed all five TV channels, went into the kitchen to make some coffee, and found that he’d run out of milk. Decided on a walk to the corner shop. There was a video store almost next door to it. Maybe he’d rent a film, something to take his mind off the message. Decided, he grabbed his keys, slipped his jacket back on.
The grocer was about to close, but knew Rebus’s face, and asked him to be quick. Rebus settled for a packet of sausages, a box of eggs, and a carton of milk. Then added a four-pack of lager. Settled up with the grocer and carried his purchases to the video store. He was inside before he remembered that he’d forgotten to bring his membership card; thought the assistant would probably let him rent something anyway. After all, if William Smith could rent a flat in the New Town, surely Rebus could rent a three-quid video.
He was even prepared to pay cash.
But as he stared at the rack of new releases, he found himself blinking and shaking his head. Then he reached out a hand and lifted down the empty video box. He approached the desk with it.
“When did this come out?” he asked.
“Last week.” The assistant was in his teens, but a good judge of Hollywood’s gold dust and dross. His eyes had gone heavy-lidded, letting Rebus know this film was the latter. “Rich guy’s having an affair, hires an assassin. Only the assassin falls for the wife and tops the mistress instead. Rich guy takes the fall, breaks out of jail with revenge in mind.”
“So I don’t need to watch it now?”
The assistant shrugged. “That’s all in the first fifteen minutes. I’m not telling you anything they don’t give away on the back of the box.”
Rebus turned the box over and saw that this was largely true. ‘I should never have doubted you,” he said.
“It got terrible reviews, which is why they end up quoting from an obscure radio station on the front.”
Rebus nodded, turning the box over in his hands. Then he held it out towards the assistant. ‘I’ll take it.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The assistant turned and found a copy of the film in a plain box. “Got your card?”
“Left it in the flat.”
“Surname’s Rebus, right? Address in Arden Street.” Rebus nodded. “Then I suppose it’s OK, this one time.”
“Thanks.”
The assistant shrugged. “It’s not like I’m doing you a favour, letting you walk out with that film.”
“Even so . . . you have to admit, it’s got a pretty good title.”
“Maybe.” The assistant studied the box for Tell Me Who to Kill, but seemed far from convinced.
Rebus had finished all four cans of lager by the time the closing credits rolled. He reckoned he must have dozed off for a few minutes in the middle, but didn’t think this had affected his viewing pleasure. There were a couple of big names in the main roles, but they, too, tended towards drowsiness. It was as if cast, crew and writers had needed a decent night’s sleep.
Rebus rewound the tape, ejected it, and held it in his hand. So it was a film title. That was all the text message had meant. Maybe someone had been choosing a film for Saturday night. Maybe Carl Guthrie had found the phone lying on the pavement. William Smith had dropped it, and Guthrie had found it. Then someone, maybe Smith’s girlfriend, had texted the title of the film they’d be watching later on, and Guthrie had opened the message, hoping to find some clue to the identity of the phone’s owner.
The Mammoth Book Best International Crime Page 67