The Beat Goes On

The Passenger

‘She was from Edinburgh.’

‘The victim?’

Siobhan Clarke shook her head and gestured towards the book Rebus was holding. ‘Muriel Spark.’

It was a slim paperback, not much more than a hundred pages. Rebus had been looking at the blurb on the back. He placed the book on the bedside table where he’d found it.

‘How much does a room like this cost?’ he asked.

‘Got to be a few hundred.’ Clarke saw his look. ‘Yes, that does mean per night.’

‘With breakfast extra, I dare say.’

Clarke was opening the last drawer, checking it was every bit as empty as the others. The small suitcase lay on the floor under the window, unzipped and mostly unpacked. The victim had changed just the once. A toilet bag sat next to the sink in the bathroom. She had showered, made up her face, and brushed her teeth. Clothes lay rumpled on the floor next to the bed — short dress, slip, tights, underwear. A pair of black high-heeled shoes. Jewellery on the bedside table next to the book, including an expensive watch.

‘Her name’s Maria Stokes,’ Clarke said. Rebus had picked up the woman’s handbag. It had already been taken apart by the scene-of-crime team. Cash and credit cards still in her purse, meaning they were probably ruling out robbery as a motive.

‘Where’s she from?’ Rebus asked.

‘We don’t know that yet. I’ve got someone going through her phone.’

‘She didn’t give an address when she checked in?’

‘Not needed. Just signed her name and turned down the offer of a newspaper or wake-up call.’

‘And this was Friday?’

‘Friday afternoon,’ Clarke confirmed. ‘Do Not Disturb sign on the door, meaning it wasn’t until lunchtime today that anyone bothered to knock.’

‘And they knocked because...?’

‘Checkout’s eleven. They needed to get the room ready. Called up from reception but of course she didn’t answer. Just assumed she’d left, I suppose.’

‘Maid must have got a fright.’ Rebus was staring at the unmade bed. He thought Maria Stokes’s outline was still there, contoured into the sheets and pillows.

‘Doctor reckons she was probably killed the night she got here. Whoever did it, they were clever to put the sign on the door.’

‘I suppose we’re lucky she didn’t pay for a week. How do you think he got in?’

‘Either he had a key card, or he just knocked.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Someone knocks, you’ll assume it’s staff. Hotel’s the easiest place to walk in and out of, as long as you look like you belong.’

‘We’ll be asking the manager if there have been any problems.’

‘Stuff going missing from rooms, you mean? Not the sort of thing they’d want to broadcast.’

‘I wouldn’t think so.’

Rebus was studying a card on the dressing table. ‘There’s a list here of all the different pillows you can request with your turndown service. Doesn’t say if strangulation comes extra. What time’s the autopsy?’

Clarke glanced at her watch. ‘Just under an hour.’

‘Staff are being questioned? CCTV?’ Rebus watched her nod. ‘Not much more for us to do here, then.’

‘Not much,’ she agreed.

He took a final look around. ‘A better place to die than some, but even so...’

‘Even so,’ Clarke echoed.

Maria Stokes had reverted to her own surname after the divorce. Her ex-husband’s name was Peter Welburn. They had been separated for four years and divorced for one. No children.

Welburn sat in one of the small office cubicles at Gayfield Square police station. He was holding a mug of tea, focusing all his attention on it. He had just been explaining that Maria and he lived on opposite sides of Newcastle but were still friendly.

‘Well, sociable, anyway. No nastiness.’

‘The separation was amicable?’ Clarke asked.

‘We just sort of drifted apart — busy lives, usual story.’

‘Where did she work?’

‘She owns a graphic design business.’

‘In Newcastle?’ Rebus watched the man nod. ‘Doing OK, is it?’

‘Far as I know.’ Welburn lifted one hand from the mug long enough to scratch the side of his head. He was in his late forties, a couple of years older than his ex-wife. Rebus reckoned they’d have made a good-looking couple — same sort of height and build.

‘What do you do, Mr Welburn?’ Clarke was asking.

‘Architect — currently between projects.’

‘Any support from Ms Stokes? Financially, I mean?’

The man shook his head. ‘I hardly ever saw her — maybe a phone call or a text once a week.’

‘But no nastiness?’ Rebus asked, echoing Welburn’s own words.

‘No.’

‘Did you know she was coming to Edinburgh?’

Another slow shake of the head.

‘Did she have any friends in the city? Any connection to the place?’

‘We visited a few times — years ago now. It’s quick on the train. Used to book a B and B, hit a few of the pubs, maybe catch some music...’ Welburn’s voice cracked as the memories took hold. He cleared his throat. ‘It was terrible, seeing her like that.’

‘Formal identification is always difficult on the loved ones,’ Clarke offered, trying to sound sympathetic, though she had trotted out the same words so many times before.

‘When was the last time you were in Edinburgh?’ Rebus broke in. ‘Before today, I mean?’

‘Couple of years, probably.’

‘And this past weekend...?’

Welburn lifted his eyes to meet Rebus’s. ‘I was at home. With my girlfriend and her kid.’

Clarke lifted a hand. ‘I’m sorry, but these things have to be asked.’

‘Why would I want to kill Maria? It’s insane.’

‘Did she have anyone she was seeing? Someone she might have wanted to spend the weekend with?’

‘No idea.’

‘And I’m guessing no enemies that you’d know of?’

‘Enemies?’ Welburn’s face crumpled. ‘She was a sweetheart, an absolute angel. Even when we were splitting up, there wasn’t any drama. We just... got on with it.’ He placed the mug on the desk and let his head fall into his hands, shoulders spasming as he sobbed.

‘What do you reckon?’ Clarke asked. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she waited for the lights to change.

‘Seemed genuine enough. Did the deceased take the train this time, or did she drive?’

‘She didn’t leave a car at the hotel. It’s a five-minute walk from the station.’

‘I didn’t see a return ticket in her bag. Maybe her coat or jacket?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Meaning she only bought a single. Does she strike you as the impetuous type?’

‘We really don’t know much about her.’

‘Are you on to CID in Newcastle?’

Clarke nodded. ‘They’ll give her flat a look. See if there’s a diary, or maybe something useful on her computer. You think she was meeting someone? Returning to Newcastle not uppermost in her mind?’

‘Or she left in a hurry.’

‘She’d taken some care packing that case. Didn’t look thrown together in a panic.’

‘Then we’re not much further forward, are we?’

‘Not much. But whoever did it, they’ve had three days to make themselves scarce.’

‘And arrange an alibi.’

‘That too,’ Clarke agreed.

The general manager’s name was Kate Ferguson. She met them in the airy reception and asked if anyone had offered them something to drink.

‘We declined,’ Clarke replied.

‘Well then. This way.’

Ferguson led them to an office on the mezzanine level. Her sizeable desk had been cleared of everything but a laptop computer. Two chairs awaited, both with a view of the screen.

‘Two of your officers have already viewed the footage,’ she said, in a tone that told them she was busy and important and wanted the whole business consigned to history.

‘Just need to see for ourselves.’

‘I’m sure we could have forwarded you a copy.’

Clarke offered a professional smile. ‘We appreciate the hotel’s cooperation.’

Realising that she had lost the skirmish, Ferguson used the mouse to start the film. Four onscreen squares, all in colour and of high quality: the outside steps, reception desk, lift and bar.

‘This is her checking in,’ she said. She was standing just behind the two detectives, her hand reaching between them to point to the top left square. ‘Just the one overnight case, meaning she didn’t need help with luggage and didn’t want to be escorted to her room.’

‘How long ago did she book?’

‘Ten days.’

‘By phone? Email?’

‘It was an online booking.’

‘She didn’t say if it was business or pleasure?’

‘She arrives dressed for business,’ Clarke interrupted. ‘Two-piece, neutral, flat shoes.’

The clothes that had been left in a pile on the bathroom floor, prior to her shower.

‘She didn’t hang anything up,’ Rebus commented.

The action moved to the lift, Maria Stokes pushing the button. Then pushing it again a couple of times.

‘She’s in a hurry,’ Clarke said.

‘No calls that needed connecting to her room?’ Rebus asked.

‘Everyone has their own phone these days.’ The general manager seemed every bit as irritated by this as by the intrusion of the police into her life.

‘We’re asking her service provider for a breakdown,’ Clarke added for Rebus’s benefit.

They watched as the lift doors opened and Maria Stokes got in. ‘No cameras in the corridors?’ Rebus enquired.

‘No.’

‘So someone could try the doors on every floor and not be spotted?’

‘As I told your colleagues, that sort of thing has never happened here.’

‘Why not?’ Rebus turned to meet Ferguson’s stare. ‘It’s a genuine question — seems to me you’ve left the place wide open.’

‘Staff are rigorously vetted. They’re also trained to tell a guest from someone who doesn’t belong.’

‘So what happens now?’ Clarke interrupted. ‘With Ms Stokes, I mean.’

Ferguson dragged the cursor along the timeline at the bottom of the screen.

‘Seven twenty-three p.m.,’ she said. ‘As you can see, she’s changed her outfit.’

Stokes was emerging from the lift, dressed in the clothes they had seen next to her bed. She looked nervous, scanning the lobby.

‘A rendezvous?’ Rebus offered. He watched as she made her way to the bar. She stopped at the threshold, a member of staff smiling a greeting.

‘She’s looking for someone, isn’t she?’ Clarke asked, to herself as much as anyone else.

‘And not finding them,’ Rebus added. Because now Stokes was shaking her head at the offer of a table. There seemed to be only two couples in the whole place. Friday night was happening elsewhere.

Back in the lobby, she stopped to talk to someone.

‘That’s one of our concierges,’ Ferguson offered. ‘Daniel. Very knowledgeable.’

‘So what’s he telling her?’ Clarke asked.

‘She wanted to know where to eat, where to drink.’ Daniel was nodding in the direction of the bar. ‘Of course,’ Ferguson went on, sounding proud, ‘he told her that our own bar and dining room couldn’t be bettered.’

There was a little laugh from Maria Stokes, and she even touched the concierge on the arm.

‘Friendly sort,’ Rebus commented.

‘His patter didn’t seal the deal, though.’ Clarke leaned in a little towards the screen, where Stokes was walking out of the hotel — the door held open by Daniel. She looked to right and left, until the obliging concierge emerged to point her in the right direction. Then off she went, slightly hesitantly, as though the height of her heels were a new and daunting experience.

‘Which brings us to...’ Ferguson again used the mouse, dragging the cursor along the screen. ‘Ten twenty-six.’

‘So she was out and about for almost exactly three hours.’ Clarke added the numbers to a small notepad. The sky was dark but the front of the hotel was brightly illuminated. The bar area was at last doing good business, and a middle-aged couple laden with luggage were checking in at the reception desk. There was no one to hold open the door for Maria Stokes, and she struggled a little. Tipsy strides across the floor to the lift, whose button she needed to press just the once, its doors sliding open immediately. A half-glance behind her as a man arrived from outside. She entered the lift and he hurried forward, squeezing in as the doors slid shut.

‘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.’

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, isn’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.