The Beat Goes On

Tell Me Who to Kill

Saturday afternoon, John Rebus left the Oxford Bar after the football results and decided that he would try walking home. The day was clear, the sun just above the horizon, casting ridiculously long shadows. It would grow chilly later, maybe even frost overnight, but for now it was crisp and bright — perfect for a walk. He had limited himself to three pints of IPA, a corned beef roll and a pie. He carried a large bag with him — shopping for clothes his excuse for a trip into the city centre, a trip he’d known would end at the Ox. Edinburgh on a Saturday meant day-trippers, weekend warriors, but they tended to stick to Princes Street. George Street had been quieter, Rebus’s tally finally comprising two shirts and a pair of trousers. He’d gone up a waist size in the previous six months, which was reason enough to cut back on the beer, and for opting to walk home.

He knew his only real problem would be The Mound. The steep slope connected Princes Street to the Lawnmarket, having been created from the digging out of the New Town’s foundations. It posed a serious climb. He’d known a fellow cop — a uniformed sergeant — who’d cycled up The Mound every day on his way to work, right up until the day he’d retired. For Rebus, it had often proved problematical, even on foot. But he would give it a go, and if he failed, well, there was a bus stop he could beat a retreat to, or taxis he could flag down. Plenty of cabs about at this time of day, ferrying spent shoppers home to the suburbs, or bringing revellers into town at the start of another raucous evening. Rebus avoided the city centre on Saturday nights, unless duty called. The place took on an aggressive edge, violence spilling on to the streets from the clubs on Lothian Road and the bars in the Grassmarket. Better to stay at home with a carry-out and pretend your world wasn’t changing for the worse.

A crowd had gathered at the foot of Castle Street. Rebus noticed that an ambulance, blue lights blinking, was parked in front of a stationary double-decker bus. Walking into the middle of the scene, Rebus overheard muttered exchanges of information.

‘Just walked out...’

‘... right into its path...’

‘Wasn’t looking...’

‘Not the first time I’ve seen...’

‘These bus drivers think they own the roads, though...’

The victim was being carried into the ambulance. It didn’t look good for him. One glance at the paramedics’ faces told Rebus as much. There was blood on the roadway. The bus driver was sitting in the open doorway of his vehicle, head in his hands. There were still passengers on the bus, reluctant to admit that they would need to transfer, loaded down with shopping and unable to think beyond their own concerns. Two uniformed officers were taking statements, the witnesses only too happy to fulfil their roles in the drama. One of the uniforms looked at Rebus and gave a nod of recognition.

‘Afternoon, DI Rebus.’

Rebus just nodded back. There was nothing for him to do here, no part he could usefully play. He made to cross the road, but noticed something lying there, untouched by the slow crawl of curious traffic. He stooped and picked it up. It was a mobile phone. The injured pedestrian must have been holding it, maybe even using it. Which would explain why he hadn’t been paying attention. Rebus turned his head towards the ambulance, but it was already moving away, not bothering to add a siren to its flashing lights: another bad sign, a sign that the medics in the back either didn’t want or didn’t feel the need of it. There was either severe trauma, or else the victim was already dead. Rebus glanced down at the phone. It was unscathed, looked almost brand new. Strange to think such a thing could survive where its owner might not. He pressed it to his ear, but the line wasn’t open. Then he looked at it again, noting that there were words on its display screen. Looked like a text message.

TELL ME WHO TO KILL.

Rebus blinked, narrowed his eyes. He was back on the pavement.

TELL ME WHO TO KILL.

He scrolled up and down the message, but there wasn’t any more to it than those five words. Along the top ran the number of the caller; looked like another mobile phone. Plus time of call: 16.31. Rebus walked over to the uniformed officer, the one who’d spoken to him.

‘Larry,’ he said, ‘where was the ambulance headed?’

‘Western General,’ the uniform said. ‘Guy’s skull’s split open, be lucky to make it.’

‘Do we know what happened?’

‘He walked straight out into the road, by the look of it. Can’t really blame the driver...’

Rebus nodded slowly and walked over to the bus driver, crouched down in front of him. The man was in his fifties, head shaved but with a thick silvery beard. His hands shook as he lifted them away from his eyes.

‘Couldn’t stop in time,’ he explained, voice quavering. ‘He was right there...’ His eyes widened as he played the scene again. Shaking his head slowly. ‘No way I could’ve stopped...’

‘He wasn’t looking where he was going,’ Rebus said softly.

‘That’s right.’

‘Busy on his phone, maybe?’

The driver nodded. ‘Staring at it, aye... Some people haven’t got the sense they were born with. Not that I’m... I mean, I don’t want to speak ill or anything.’

‘Wasn’t your fault,’ Rebus agreed, patting the man’s shoulder.

‘Colleague of mine, same thing happened not six months past. Hasn’t worked since.’ He held up his hands to examine them.

‘He was too busy looking at his phone,’ Rebus said. ‘That’s the whole story. Reading a message, maybe?’

‘Maybe,’ the driver agreed. ‘Doing something anyway, something more important than looking where he was bloody well going...’

‘Not your fault,’ Rebus repeated, rising to his feet. He walked to the back of the bus, stepped out into the road, and waved down the first taxi he saw.

Rebus sat in the waiting area of the Western General Hospital. When a dazed-looking woman was led in by a nurse and asked if she wanted a cup of tea, he got to his feet. The woman sat herself down, twisting the handles of her shoulder bag in both hands, as if wringing the life out of them. She’d shaken her head, mumbled something to the nurse, who was now retreating.

‘As soon as we know anything,’ were the nurse’s parting words.

Rebus sat down next to the woman. She was in her early thirties, blonde hair cut in a pageboy style. What make-up she had applied to her eyes that morning had been smudged by tears, giving her a haunted look. Rebus cleared his throat, but she still seemed unaware of his close presence.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Rebus.’ He opened his ID; she looked at it, then stared down at the floor again. ‘Has your husband just been in an accident?’

‘He’s in surgery,’ she said.

Rebus had been told as much at the front desk. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t even know his name.’

‘Carl,’ she said. ‘Carl Guthrie.’

‘And you’re his wife?’

She nodded. ‘Frances.’

‘Must be quite a shock, Frances.’

‘Yes.’

‘Sure you don’t want that tea?’

She shook her head, looked up into his face for the first time. ‘Do you know what happened?’

‘Seems he was starting to cross Princes Street and didn’t see the bus coming.’

She squeezed shut her eyes, tears glinting in her lashes. ‘How is that possible?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Maybe he had something on his mind,’ he said quietly. ‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’

‘Breakfast this morning. I was planning to go shopping.’

‘What about Carl?’

‘I thought he was working. He’s a physiotherapist, sports injuries mostly. He has his own practice in Corstorphine. He gets some work from the Bupa hospital at Murrayfield.’

‘And a few rugby players too, I’d guess.’

Frances Guthrie was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. ‘How could he get hit by a bus?’ She looked up at the ceiling, blinking back tears.

‘Do you know what he was doing in town?’

She shook her head.

‘This was found lying in the road,’ Rebus said, holding up the phone. ‘There’s a text message displayed. You see what it says?’

She peered at the screen, then frowned. ‘What does it mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Do you recognise the caller’s number?’

She shook her head, then reached out a hand and took the phone from Rebus, turning it in her palm. ‘This isn’t Carl’s.’

‘What?’

‘This isn’t Carl’s phone. Someone else must have dropped it.’

Rebus stared at her. ‘You’re sure?’

She handed the phone back, nodding. ‘Carl’s is a silver flip-top sort of thing.’

Rebus studied the one-piece black Samsung. ‘Then whose is it?’ he asked, more to himself than to her. She answered anyway.

‘What does it matter?’

‘It matters.’

‘But it’s a joke, surely.’ She nodded at the screen. ‘Someone’s idea of a practical joke.’

‘Maybe,’ Rebus said.

The same nurse was walking towards them, accompanied by a surgeon in green scrubs. Neither of them had to say anything. Frances Guthrie was already keening as the surgeon began his speech.

‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Guthrie... we did everything we could.’

Frances Guthrie leaned in towards Rebus, her face against his shoulder. He put his arm around her, feeling it was the least he could do.

Carl Guthrie’s effects had been placed in a large cardboard box. His blood-soaked clothes were protected by a clear polythene bag. Rebus lifted them out. The pockets had been emptied. Watch, wallet, small change, keys. And a silver flip-top mobile phone. Rebus checked its screen. The battery was low, and there were no messages. He told the nurse that he wanted to take it with him. She shrugged and made him sign a docket to that effect. He flipped through the wallet, finding banknotes, credit cards, and a few of Carl Guthrie’s business cards, giving an address in Corstorphine, plus office and mobile numbers. Rebus took out his own phone and punched in the latter. The silver telephone trilled as it rang. He cancelled the call, then nodded to the nurse to let her know he was finished. The docket was placed in the box, along with the polythene bag. Rebus pocketed all three phones.

The police lab at Howdenhall wasn’t officially open at weekends, but Rebus knew that someone was usually there, trying to clear a backlog, or just because they’d nothing better to do. He got lucky. Ray Duff was one of the better technicians. He sighed when Rebus walked in.

‘I’m up to my eyes,’ he complained, turning away to walk back down the corridor.

‘Yes, but you’ll like this,’ Rebus said, holding out the mobile. Duff stopped and turned, stared at it, then ran his fingers through an unruly mop of hair.

‘I really am up to my eyes...’

Rebus shrugged, arm still stretched out. Duff sighed again and took the phone from him.

‘Discovered at the scene of an accident,’ Rebus explained. Duff had found a pair of spectacles in one of the pockets of his white lab coat and was putting them on. ‘My guess is that the victim had just received the text message, and was transfixed by it.’

‘And walked out in front of a car?’

‘Bus actually. Thing is, the phone doesn’t belong to the victim.’ Rebus produced the silver flip-top. ‘This is his.’

‘So whose is this?’ Duff peered at Rebus over the top of his glasses. ‘That’s what you’re wondering.’ He was walking again, heading for his own cubicle, Rebus following.

‘Right.’

‘And also who the caller was.’

‘Right again.’

‘We could just phone them.’

‘We could.’ They’d reached Duff’s workstation. Each surface was a clutter of wires, machines and paperwork. Duff rubbed his bottom lip against his teeth. ‘Battery’s getting low,’ he said, as the phone uttered a brief chirrup.

‘Any chance you can recharge it?’

‘I can if you like, but we don’t really need it.’

‘We don’t?’

The technician shook his head. ‘The important stuff’s on the chip.’ He tapped the back of the phone. ‘We can transfer it...’ He grew thoughtful again. ‘Of course, that would mean accessing the code number, so we’re probably better off hanging on to it as it is.’ He reached down into a cupboard and produced half a dozen mains adaptors. ‘One of these should do the trick.’

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. 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 of 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. He 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, he 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. He 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. He 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.’

‘OK, 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 a 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 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 offhand.’

‘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...’

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 grudging ‘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. He 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. He 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 he 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 all 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.

And he’d walked out under a bus.

TELL ME WHO TO KILL.

Which meant Rebus had wasted half a day. Half a day that could have been better spent... well, spent differently, anyway. And the film had been preposterous: the assistant’s summary had only just scratched the surface. Starting off with a surfeit of twists, there’d been nowhere for the film to go but layer on more twists, deceits, mixed identities, and conspiracies. Rebus could not have been more insulted if the guy had woken up at the end and it had all been a dream.

He went into the kitchen to make some coffee. The place still held the aroma of the fry-up he’d amassed before sitting down to watch the video. Over the sound of the boiling kettle, he heard his phone ringing. Went back through to the living room and picked it up.

‘Got a name for you, sorry it took so long.’

‘Ray? Is that you?’ Rebus checked his watch: not far short of midnight. ‘Tell me you’re not still at work.’

‘Called a halt hours ago, but I just got a text message from my friend who was doing some cross-checking for me.’

‘He works odder hours than even we do.’

‘He’s an insomniac, works a lot from home.’

‘So I shouldn’t ask where he got this information?’

‘You can ask, but I couldn’t possibly tell you.’

‘And what is it I’m getting?’

‘The text message came from a phone registered to Alexis Ojiwa. I’ve got an address in Haddington.’

‘Might as well give it to me.’ Rebus picked up a pen, but something in his voice had alerted Ray Duff.

‘Do I get the feeling you no longer need any of this?’

‘Maybe not, Ray.’ Rebus explained about the film.

‘Well, I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.’

‘It was news to me too,’ Rebus didn’t mind admitting.

‘But for the record, I do know Alexis Ojiwa.’

‘You do?’

‘I take it you don’t follow football.’

‘I watch the results.’

‘Then you’ll know that Hearts put four past Aberdeen this afternoon.’

‘Four — one, final score.’

‘And two of them were scored by Alexis Ojiwa...’

Rebus’s mobile woke him an hour earlier than he’d have liked. He blinked at the sunshine streaming through his uncurtained windows and grabbed at the phone, dropping it once before getting it to his ear.

‘Yes?’ he rasped.

‘I’m sorry, is this too early? I thought maybe it was urgent.’

‘Who is this?’

‘Am I speaking to DI Rebus?’

‘Yes.’

‘My name’s Richard Hawkins. You put your card through my door.’

‘Did I?’

Rebus heard a soft chuckle. ‘Maybe I should call back later...’

‘No, wait a sec. You live at Gilby Street?’

‘Flat 2, yes.’

‘Right, right.’ Rebus sat up, ran his free hand through his hair. ‘Thanks for getting back to me.’

‘Not at all.’

‘It was about your neighbour, actually.’

‘Will Smith?’

‘What?’

Another chuckle. ‘When he introduced himself, we had a laugh about that coincidence. Really it was down to me. He called himself “William”, and it just clicked: Will Smith, same as the actor.’

‘Right.’ Rebus was trying to gather himself. ‘So you’ve met Mr Smith, talked to him?’

‘Just a couple of times. Passing on the stairs... He’s never around much.’

‘Not much sign of his flat being lived in, either.’

‘I wouldn’t know, never been inside. Must have something going for him, though.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Absolute cracker of a girlfriend.’

‘Really?’

‘Just saw her the once, but you always know when she’s around.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Her perfume. It fills the stairwell. Smelled it last night, actually...’

Yes, Rebus had smelt it too. He moistened his lips, feeling sourness at the corners of his mouth. ‘Mr Hawkins, can you describe William Smith to me?’

Hawkins could, and did.

Rebus turned up unannounced at Alexis Ojiwa’s, reckoning the player would be resting after the rigours of the previous day. The house was an unassuming detached bungalow with a red Mazda sports car parked in the driveway. It was on a modern estate, a couple of neighbours washing their cars, watching Rebus with the intensity of men for whom his arrival was an event of sorts, something they could dissect with their wives over the carving of the afternoon sirloin. Rebus rang the doorbell and waited. A woman answered. She seemed surprised to see him.

He showed his ID as he introduced himself. ‘Mind if I come in for a minute?’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Nothing. I just have a question for Mr Ojiwa.’

She left the door standing open and walked back through the hall and into an L-shaped living area, calling out: ‘Cops are here to put the cuffs on you, baby.’ Rebus closed the door and followed her. She stepped out through French windows into the back garden, where a tiny, bare-chested man stood, nursing a drink that looked like puréed fruit. Alexis Ojiwa was wiry, with thick-veined arms and a tight chest. Rebus tried not to think about what the neighbours thought. Scotland was still some way short of being a beacon of multiculturalism, and Ojiwa, like his partner, was black. Not just coffee-coloured, but as black as ebony. Still, probably the only question that would count in most local minds was whether he was Protestant black or Catholic black.

Rebus held out a hand to shake, and introduced himself again.

‘What’s the problem, officer?’

‘I didn’t catch your wife’s name.’

‘It’s Cecily.’

Rebus nodded. ‘This is going to sound strange, but it’s about your mobile phone.’

‘My phone?’ Ojiwa’s face creased in puzzlement. Then he looked to Cecily, and back again at Rebus. ‘What about my phone?’

‘You do have a mobile phone, sir?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘But I’m guessing you wouldn’t have used it yesterday afternoon? Specifically not at 16.31. I think you were still on the pitch at that time, am I right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Then someone else used your phone to send this message.’ Rebus held up William Smith’s mobile so Ojiwa could read the text. Cecily came forward so she could read it too. Her husband stared at her.

‘What’s this all about?’

‘I don’t know, baby.’

‘You sent this?’ His eyes had widened. She shook her head.

‘Am I to assume that you had your husband’s phone with you yesterday, Mrs Ojiwa?’ Rebus asked.

‘I was shopping in town all day... I didn’t make any calls.’

‘What the hell is this?’ It appeared that the footballer had a short fuse, and Rebus had touched a match to it.

‘I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation, sir,’ Rebus said, raising his hands to try to calm Ojiwa.

‘You go spending all my money, and now this!’ Ojiwa shook the phone at his wife.

‘I didn’t do it!’ She was yelling too now, loud enough to be heard by the car-polishers. Then she dived inside, producing a silver mobile phone from her bag. ‘Here it is,’ she said, brandishing the phone. ‘Check it, check and see if I sent any messages. I was shopping all day!’

‘Maybe someone could have borrowed it?’ Rebus suggested.

‘I don’t see how,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Why would anyone want to do that, send a message like that?’

Ojiwa had slumped on to a garden bench, head in hands. Rebus got the feeling that theirs was a relationship stoked by melodrama. He seated himself on the bench next to the footballer.

‘Can I ask you something, Mr Ojiwa?’

‘What now?’

‘I was just wondering if you’ve ever needed physio?’

Ojiwa looked up. ‘Course I need physio! You think I’m Captain Superman or something?’ He slapped his hands against his thighs.

If anything, Rebus’s voice grew quieter as he began his next question. ‘Then does the name Carl Guthrie mean anything to you...?’

‘You’ve not committed any crime.’

These were Rebus’s first words to Frances Guthrie when she opened her door to him. The interior of her house was dark, the curtains closed. The house itself was large and detached and sited in half an acre of grounds in the city’s Ravelston area. Physios either earned more than Rebus had counted on, or else there was family money involved.

Frances Guthrie was wearing black slacks and a loose, low-cut black top. Mourning casual, Rebus might have termed it. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and the area around her nose looked raw.

‘Mind if I come in?’ he asked. It wasn’t really a question. He was already making to pass the widow. Hands in pockets, he walked down the hallway and into the sitting room. Stood there and waited for her to join him. She did so slowly, perching on the arm of the red leather sofa. He repeated his opening words, expecting that she would say something, but all she did was stare at him, wide-eyed, maybe a little scared.

He made a tour of the room. The windows were large, and even when curtained there was enough light to see by. He stopped by the fireplace and folded his arms.

‘Here’s the way I see it. You were out shopping with your friend Cecily. You got to know her when Carl was treating her husband. The pair of you were in Harvey Nichols. Cecily was in the changing room, leaving her bag with you. That’s when you got hold of her phone and sent the message.’ He paused to watch the effect his words were having. Frances Guthrie had lowered her head, staring down at her hands.

‘It was a video you’d watched recently. I’m guessing Carl watched it too. A film about a man who cheats on his wife. And Carl had been cheating on you, hadn’t he? You wanted to let him know you knew, so you sent a text to his other phone, the one registered to his fake name — William Smith.’ Smith’s neighbour had given Rebus a good description of the man, chiming with accident victim Carl Guthrie. ‘You’d done some detective work of your own, found out about the phone, the flat in town... the other woman.’ The one whose perfume had lingered in the stairwell. Saturday afternoon: Carl Guthrie heading home after an assignation, leaving behind only two glasses and an unfinished bottle of wine.

Frances Guthrie’s head jerked up. She took a deep breath, almost a gulp.

‘Why use Cecily’s phone?’ Rebus asked quietly.

She shook her head, not blinking. Then: ‘I never wanted this... Not this...’

‘You weren’t to know what would happen.’

‘I just wanted to do something.’ She looked up at him, wanting him to understand. He nodded slowly. ‘What... what do I do now?’

Rebus slipped his hands back into his pockets. ‘Learn to live with yourself, I suppose.’

That afternoon, he was back at the Oxford Bar, nursing a drink and thinking about love, about how it could make you do things you couldn’t explain. All the passions — love and hate and everything in between — they all made people act in ways that would seem inexplicable to a visitor from another planet. The barman asked him if he was ready for another, but Rebus shook his head.

‘How’s the weekend been treating you?’ the barman asked.

‘Same as always,’ Rebus replied. It was one of those little lies that went some way towards making life appear that bit less complicated.

‘Seen any good films lately?’

Rebus smiled, stared down into his glass. ‘Watched one last night,’ he said. ‘Let me tell you about it...’