The Beat Goes On: The Complete Rebus Stories (Rebus Collection) (56 page)

‘Another guest?’ Clarke asked.

‘Or the person she was meeting?’ Rebus added.

‘Did she look as though she knew him?’

‘Hard to say?’ Rebus turned towards Ferguson. ‘We need as clear a printout of his face as we can get. Then all the staff need to be shown it.’

‘I assumed he was staying here,’ Ferguson blurted out. ‘Are you saying he could be the one who …?’ She lifted the palm of one hand to her mouth.

‘As of right now, we’re saying precisely nothing,’ Rebus said in a warning tone. ‘But we do need that printout.’

‘Yes, of course. Anything while you’re waiting? A tea or coffee maybe?’

‘Tea would be fine,’ Clarke said.

‘Of course.’

‘And one more thing,’ Rebus said. ‘Get Daniel to fetch it, please.’

‘I only spoke to her that one time,’ the concierge protested.

‘Easy, Daniel. No one’s accusing you of anything.’

They were in Ferguson’s office, with the general manager on the other side of the door. Clarke was seated behind the desk and Daniel Woods opposite her, with Rebus standing off to one side, feet apart and arms folded. Woods was in his late twenties, lean and sharp-faced. His uniform consisted of charcoal waistcoat and tie, white shirt, dark trousers. Only the shoes really belonged to him, and they were scuffed and cheap.

‘Actually,’ Rebus broke in, ‘
I’m
accusing him of something.’ He had Clarke’s attention, while his was on the concierge. ‘Faking your application, for a start. Ferguson’s vetting’s not as hot as she thinks. Been a while, though, hasn’t it, Daniel? Since you did time, I mean.’

Woods’s mouth opened but then closed again soundlessly.

‘Don’t know what it is that changes a man when they’re put away,’ Rebus ploughed on. ‘But it sticks to them. Either that or I’m just receptive. Young Offenders, was it? Fighting or break-ins?’

Woods was running a finger along the edge of his gold-coloured badge, the one that identified him as Concierge. ‘Drugs,’ he eventually muttered.

‘Wee bit of dealing? Probably grassed up by the competition. Clean since?’

‘Ever since.’ Woods tightened his jaw. ‘So do I lose my job now or what?’

‘Management hold you in high regard, Danny. I just wanted you to know how things lie, here in this room, between the three of us.’

‘Right.’

‘So tell us again.’

Woods took a deep breath. ‘Just like I said. She looked dressed
for a bit of fun, said she was after a wine bar or similar, somewhere she could maybe get a bite. She’d put on too much perfume and lipstick – trying that bit too hard. I wondered if she’d already had a drink, either that or a wee bit of powder or a tab.’

‘Nothing out of the minibar,’ Clarke interjected. ‘No sign of drugs in her handbag.’

‘Maybe it was just excitement, then. She was like one of those … cougars, is it?’

‘An older woman out for a good time?’

‘And a bit of male company,’ Woods added with a nod.

‘You didn’t offer?’ Rebus enquired.

‘Not at all.’

‘Don’t tell me it hasn’t happened in the past.’

‘Not once.’ The fixing of the jaw again. ‘I mean, sometimes guests ask me to sort them out …’

‘With an escort?’

Another nod. ‘But I didn’t get the feeling she was in the market.’

‘So where did you send her?’

‘The Abilene, on Market Street.’

Clarke looked to Rebus, who knew pretty much every pub in the city, but he just offered a twitch of one shoulder. ‘Why there?’ she asked Woods.

‘It’s not too raucous. They do bar food that’s edible and pretty good cocktails.’

‘You know anyone who works there?’

‘Doddy works the door, but he wouldn’t have been on duty till later.’

‘What sort of crowd is it?’

‘Office drones. Ties off and jackets over chairs while they work up a sweat on the dance floor. Tunes the ladies can sing along to. It can be a fun night.’

‘Ms Stokes was back here by ten thirty.’

‘Do we know she even went there? Plenty of other places in the vicinity.’

Clarke turned the laptop around so it was facing Woods. The
CCTV
footage had been paused. ‘This man here,’ she said, ‘the one making for the lift.’

‘What about him?’

‘A guest?’

‘Might be.’

‘You don’t recognise him?’

Woods shook his head. ‘Has he got something to do with it?’

Clarke didn’t answer. Instead she swivelled the laptop back around again.

‘One way to tell if he’s a guest,’ Woods offered.

‘What’s that?’

‘Keep watching. See if he leaves …’

With Clarke supplied with another pot of tea and the fast-forward function, Rebus stepped outside for a cigarette. He’d just missed a shower and the pavement glistened, the evening crowd hurrying past, some with hair still dripping. The doorman knew he was a cop and didn’t have anything to say. He was in his sixties and had the thickset build and squashed nose of a one-time boxer. Pale blue eyes sinking into puffy red-veined flesh. He held a rolled umbrella, ready for any taxi that might arrive.

Someone had died a few windows up, strangled in their bed, the last moments of their life filled with horror and terror. Rebus doubted any of the pedestrians would care. They had worries of their own and not half enough time. As he headed back inside, the doorman cleared his throat.

‘Papers have been sniffing,’ he said.

‘Make sure they cough up for anything you give them,’ Rebus advised. As reward, the door was held open for him, as if he were a regular and cherished guest, the kind that always tipped.

At reception, Rebus showed his ID and asked for the key to 407. He shared the lift with a young couple who didn’t look as if they were going to make it fully clothed to their room. Rebus slid the key card into 407’s lock, stepped inside and switched on the light. Everything deemed potential evidence had been removed by the forensics team since his last visit – sheets and pillowcases, Stokes’s bag and belongings. But the book was still there. Maybe someone had decided that it belonged to the hotel or a previous guest. Maybe it did at that. Rebus picked it up and sniffed it. It smelled faintly of perfume. It was called
The Driver’s Seat
and had obviously been turned into a film – the cover showed a heavily made-up Elizabeth Taylor. It had cost £1.25 when first published, but had been bought second-hand for twice that, according to a pencilled price on the inside cover. The author’s biography was there, too: born and educated in Edinburgh … spent time in Africa … became a Roman Catholic … Rebus nodded to himself when he came to the title of another of her books:
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie
. He’d gone to see the film when it had come out. Had it been on a double bill with something else Scottish …?
The Wicker Man
,
maybe? Closing the book, he rubbed his thumb over Elizabeth Taylor’s face, removing a light dusting of fingerprint powder. Then he stuck the book in his jacket pocket, went over to the chair in the corner, and sat down to think.

‘Quarter past four,’ Clarke said, sounding satisfied.

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.’