The Beat Goes On: The Complete Rebus Stories

  Forbes had never replied. The showroom had remained closed all that day, mail sitting unopened on the floor.

  Philip Forbes was what was known as ‘a weel-kent face’ in the city. He had been part of a group that had dug deep to try to keep one of the local football teams afloat, and he was photographed at plenty of charity balls and black-tie events. The local MPs and MSPs knew him, as did many councillors and the Lord Provost. Consequently, there was media interest, though no one had gone to the lengths of doorstepping the family home or setting up camp nearby.

  Clarke signalled off the main road into Musselburgh and headed down a long straight lane. The modern two-storey golf club was visible in the near distance, the houses bordering it forming a wide crescent. They were constructed predominantly of brick, with feature windows, and garages big enough for three or four vehicles. Each house boasted a name rather than a number. The Forbeses lived at Heriots.

  ‘They’re all named after private schools,’ Rebus pointed out as Clarke parked her car on the driveway.

  Barbara Forbes was already at the door, one hand clasped in the other. She was dressed soberly, and hadn’t bothered with her hair or make-up. There were tired cusps under her eyes.

  ‘You’ve found the Bentley?’ she said.

  Clarke nodded her agreement, before identifying herself and Rebus.

  ‘Come in,’ Mrs Forbes said, backing up a couple of steps into a huge entrance hall. Polished wood underfoot, cream-coloured walls, and a wide central staircase. The space was flooded with light from a glass cupola.

  ‘You know about the car?’ Rebus was asking. ‘We thought we were here to break the news …’

  ‘A reporter phoned me. He said it was at the airport.’

  ‘I’m assuming your husband had no plans to fly anywhere?’ Clarke enquired.

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Did he carry his passport with him?’

  ‘It’s kept in one of the drawers in the bedroom.’

  ‘You’ve checked?’

  The woman hesitated. ‘I don’t remember,’ she finally admitted. ‘Should I go and look?’

  ‘Please,’ Clarke said.

  They watched her as she headed upstairs. Rebus walked across the hall to a set of double doors and opened them, entering a well-appointed living room. There was a flat-screen TV attached to one wall. French windows led to an enclosed patio beyond which stretched a professionally tended garden. Behind a further set of doors was a formal dining room. One more door and he was back in the entrance hall. Clarke had gone in the opposite direction and was emerging from the kitchen.

  ‘Worth a look,’ she informed him.

  ‘Ditto,’ he replied, gesturing over his shoulder.

  The kitchen offered all mod cons, several of which Rebus failed to recognise. There was a table where he reckoned husband and wife took most of their meals. He nearly tripped over a narrow Persian rug, smoothing it back into place with the heel of his shoe. Off the kitchen was a smaller room, probably originally intended for laundry or as a walk-in pantry but converted into a home office. There were shelves crammed with paperwork, car brochures stacked on the floor, and a laptop computer on the wooden desk. It was currently in sleep mode, a green light on the side of the keyboard pulsing slowly. Rebus lifted a framed snapshot from the far corner of the desk. Voices were approaching, Clarke and Mrs Forbes entering the kitchen.

  ‘No sign of it,’ Clarke explained for Rebus’s benefit.

  ‘But why would he take a sudden notion to fly anywhere?’ Barbara Forbes was asking, voice trembling a little.

  ‘Your son?’ Rebus asked, holding up the photo.

  ‘Until five years ago,’ she replied. Then, into the questioning silence: ‘He took an overdose. In Thailand.’

  Clarke was looking at the photo with its three smiling faces. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘That picture was a couple of years before. Rory was twenty-two when he …’

  ‘Just the one child?’ Rebus asked. The woman nodded. She seemed dazed, pinching the bridge of her nose and screwing shut her eyes for a moment.

  ‘I hate to ask,’ Rebus said, ‘but is Rory buried here or in Thailand?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘We brought him home.’ She suddenly saw what he was getting at. ‘Why would Philip go to Thailand?’

  Rebus could only shrug.

  ‘We’re checking with the airport anyway,’ Clarke offered. ‘Still no sign of him using his credit cards or withdrawing money?’

  ‘It’s been a few hours since I checked. I know he hasn’t switched his phone on.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He was very proud of some tracking thing he has on it. The phone’s been off since Monday.’ She paused. ‘Should I look at the bank stuff again?’

  ‘Might be an idea,’ Clarke said. ‘Maybe while I put the kettle on …?’

  Barbara Forbes went through to her husband’s study and woke up the computer. Rebus followed her, placing the photo back where he’d found it.

  ‘A terrible blow, losing your son like that,’ he offered.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. She had taken a pair of spectacles from a pocket and was peering at the screen.

  ‘Your husband must trust you,’ Rebus added.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Allowing you to see all his finances.’

  ‘This only lets me into our joint account.’

  ‘He has others in his own name?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ve applied for access. Apparently it takes time. You think he’s using those to fund his … well, whatever it is he’s doing or done? I mean, nobody’s kidnapped him, have they?’ She looked up at Rebus.

  ‘There’s no evidence of it.’

  ‘Archie probably knows more about the company money than I do.’

  ‘Archie being your husband’s business partner?’

  ‘Not partner, no – Archie works for Philip.’

  ‘An employee, in other words. But he’d still know if Mr Forbes had dipped into the till, as it were?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘What about the receptionist?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘In my experience, they often know more about the place where they work than anyone else.’

  ‘Then ask her.’

  Rebus stayed silent for a moment, watching over her shoulder. ‘Is this the only computer in the house?’

  ‘We have laptops, too.’

  ‘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 pi
nt 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.