The Beat Goes On

Concrete Evidence

‘It’s amazing what you find in these old buildings,’ said the contractor, a middle-aged man in safety helmet and overalls. Beneath the overalls lurked a shirt and tie, the marks of his station. He was the chief, the gaffer. Nothing surprised him any more, not even unearthing a skeleton.

‘Do you know,’ he went on, ‘in my time, I’ve found everything from ancient coins to a pocket-watch. How old do you reckon he is then?’

‘We’re not even sure it is a he, not yet. Give us a chance, Mr Beesford.’

‘Well, when can we start work again?’

‘Later on today.’

‘Must be gey old though, eh?’

‘How do you make that out?’

‘Well, it’s got no clothes on, has it? They’ve perished. Takes time for that to happen, plenty of time...’

Rebus had to concede, the man had a point. Yet the concrete floor beneath which the bones had been found... it didn’t look so old, did it? Rebus cast an eye over the cellar again. It was situated a storey or so beneath road-level, in the basement of an old building off the Cowgate. Rebus was often in the Cowgate; the mortuary was just up the road. He knew that the older buildings here were a veritable warren, long narrow tunnels ran here, there and, it seemed, everywhere, semi-cylindrical in shape and just about high enough to stand up in. This present building was being given the full works — gutted, new drainage system, rewiring. They were taking out the floor in the cellar to lay new drains and also because there seemed to be damp — certainly there was a fousty smell to the place — and its cause needed to be found.

They were expecting to find old drains, open drains perhaps. Maybe even a trickle of a stream, something which would lead to damp. Instead, their pneumatic drills found what remained of a corpse, perhaps hundreds of years old. Except, of course, for that concrete floor. It couldn’t be more than fifty or sixty years old, could it? Would clothing deteriorate to a visible nothing in so short a time? Perhaps the damp could do that. Rebus found the cellar oppressive. The smell, the shadowy lighting provided by portable lamps, the dust.

But the photographers were finished, and so was the pathologist, Dr Curt. He didn’t have too much to report at this stage, except to comment that he preferred it when skeletons were kept in cupboards, not confined to the cellar. They’d take the bones away, along with samples of the earth and rubble around the find, and they’d see what they would see.

‘Archaeology’s not really my line,’ the doctor added. ‘It may take me some time to bone up on it.’ And he smiled his usual smile.

It took several days for the telephone call to come. Rebus picked up the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘Inspector Rebus? Dr Curt here. About our emaciated friend.’

‘Yes?’

‘Male, five feet ten inches tall, probably been down there between thirty and thirty-five years. His left leg was broken at some time, long before he died. It healed nicely. But the little finger on his left hand had been dislocated and it did not heal so well. I’d say it was crooked all his adult life. Perfect for afternoon tea in Morningside.’

‘Yes?’ Rebus knew damned well Curt was leading up to something. He knew, too, that Curt was not a man to be hurried.

‘Tests on the soil and gravel around the skeleton show traces of human tissue, but no fibres or anything which might have been clothing. No shoes, socks, underpants, nothing. Altogether, I’d say he was buried there in the altogether.’

‘But did he die there?’

‘Can’t say.’

‘All right, what did he die of?’

There was an almost palpable smile in Curt’s voice. ‘Inspector, I thought you’d never ask. Blow to the skull, a blow of considerable force to the back of the head. Murder, I’d say. Yes, definitely murder.’

There were, of course, ways of tracing the dead, of coming to a near-infallible identification. But the older the crime, the less likely this outcome became. Dental records, for example. They just weren’t kept in the 50s and 60s the way they are today. A dentist practising then would most probably be playing near-full-time golf by now. And the record of a patient who hadn’t been in for his check-up since 1960? Discarded, most probably. Besides, as Dr Curt pointed out, the man’s teeth had seen little serious work, a few fillings, a single extraction.

The same went for medical records, which didn’t stop Rebus from checking. A broken left leg, a dislocated left pinkie. Maybe some aged doctor would recall? But then again, maybe not. Almost certainly not. The local papers and radio were interested, which was a bonus. They were given what information the police had, but no memories seemed to be jogged as a result.

Curt had said he was no archaeologist; well, Rebus was no historian either. He knew other cases — contemporary cases — were yammering for his attention. The files stacked up on his desk were evidence enough of that. He’d give this one a few days, a few hours of his time. When the dead ends started to cluster around him, he’d drop it and head back for the here and now.

Who owned the building back in the 1950s? That was easy enough to discover: a wine importer and merchant. Pretty much a one-man operation, Hillbeith Vintners had held the premises from 1948 until 1967. And yes, there was a Mr Hillbeith, retired from the trade and living over in Burntisland, with a house gazing out across silver sands to the grey North Sea.

He still had a cellar, and insisted that Rebus have a ‘wee taste’ from it. Rebus got the idea that Mr Hillbeith liked visitors — a socially acceptable excuse for a drink. He took his time in the cellar (there must have been over 500 bottles in there) and emerged with cobwebs hanging from his cardigan, holding a dusty bottle of something nice. This he opened and sat on the mantelpiece. It would be half an hour or so yet at the very least before they could usefully have a glass.

Mr Hillbeith was, he told Rebus, seventy-four. He’d been in the wine trade for nearly half a century and had ‘never regretted a day, not a day, nor even an hour’. Lucky you, Rebus thought to himself.

‘Do you remember having that new floor laid in the cellar, Mr Hillbeith?’

‘Oh, yes. That particular cellar was going to be for best claret. It was just the right temperature, you see, and there was no vibration from passing buses and the like. But it was damp, had been ever since I’d moved in. So I got a building firm to take a look. They suggested a new floor and some other alterations. It all seemed fairly straightforward and their charges seemed reasonable, so I told them to go ahead.’

‘And when was this, sir?’

‘1960. The spring of that year. There you are, I’ve got a great memory where business matters are concerned.’ His small eyes beamed at Rebus through the thick lenses of their glasses. ‘I can even tell you how much the work cost me... and it was a pretty penny at the time. All for nothing, as it turned out. The cellar was still damp, and there was always that smell in it, a very unwholesome smell. I couldn’t take a chance with the claret, so it became the general stock-room, empty bottles and glasses, packing-cases, that sort of thing.’

‘Do you happen to recall, Mr Hillbeith, was the smell there before the new floor was put in?’

‘Well, certainly there was a smell there before the floor was laid, but the smell afterwards was different somehow.’ He rose and fetched two crystal glasses from the china cabinet, inspecting them for dust. ‘There’s a lot of nonsense talked about wine, Inspector. About decanting, the type of glasses you must use and so on. Decanting can help, of course, but I prefer the feel of the bottle. The bottle, after all, is part of the wine, isn’t it?’ He handed an empty glass to Rebus. ‘We’ll wait a few minutes yet.’

Rebus swallowed drily. It had been a long drive. ‘Do you recall the name of the firm, sir, the one that did the work?’

Hillbeith laughed. ‘How could I forget? Abbot & Ford, they were called. I mean, you just don’t forget a name like that, do you? Abbot & Ford. You see, it sounds like Abbotsford, doesn’t it? A small firm they were, mind. But you may know one of them, Alexander Abbot.’

‘Of Abbot Building?’

‘The same. He went on to make quite a name for himself, didn’t he? Quite a fortune. Built up quite a company, too, but he started out small like most of us do.’

‘How small, would you say?’

‘Oh, small, small. Just a few men.’ He rose and stretched an arm towards the mantelpiece. ‘I think this should be ready to taste, Inspector. If you’ll hold out your glass—’

Hillbeith poured slowly, deliberately, checking that no lees escaped into the glass. He poured another slow, generous measure for himself. The wine was reddish-brown. ‘Robe and disc not too promising,’ he muttered to himself. He gave his glass a shake and studied it. ‘Legs not promising either.’ He sighed. ‘Oh dear.’ Finally, Hillbeith sniffed the glass anxiously, then took a swig.

‘Cheers,’ said Rebus, indulging in a mouthful. A mouthful of vinegar. He managed to swallow, then saw Hillbeith spit back into the glass.

‘Oxidisation,’ the old man said, sounding cruelly tricked. ‘It happens. I’d best check a few more bottles to assess the damage. Will you stay, Inspector?’ Hillbeith sounded keen.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Rebus, ready with his get-out clause. ‘I’m still on duty.’

Alexander Abbot, aged fifty-five, still saw himself as the force behind the Abbot Building Company. There might be a dozen executives working furiously beneath him, but the company had grown from his energy and from his fury. He was Chairman, and a busy man too. He made this plain to Rebus at their meeting in the executive offices of ABC. The office spoke of business confidence, but then in Rebus’s experience this meant little in itself. Often, the more dire straits a company was in, the healthier it tried to look. Still, Alexander Abbot seemed happy enough with life.

‘In a recession,’ he explained, lighting an overlong cigar, ‘you trim your workforce pronto. You stick with regular clients, good payers, and don’t take on too much work from clients you don’t know. They’re the ones who’re likely to welch on you or go bust, leaving nothing but bills. Young businesses... they’re always hit hardest in a recession, no back-up you see. Then, when the recession’s over for another few years, you dust yourself off and go touting for business again, re-hiring the men you laid off. That’s where we’ve always had the edge over Jack Kirkwall.’

Kirkwall Construction was ABC’s main competitor in the Lowlands, when it came to medium-sized contracts. Doubtless Kirkwall was the larger company. It, too, was run by a ‘self-made’ man, Jack Kirkwall. A larger-than-life figure. There was, Rebus quickly realised, little love lost between the two rivals.

The very mention of Kirkwall’s name seemed to have dampened Alexander Abbot’s spirits. He chewed on his cigar like it was a debtor’s finger.

‘You started small though, didn’t you, sir?’

‘Oh aye, they don’t come much smaller. We were a pimple on the bum of the construction industry at one time.’ He gestured to the walls of his office. ‘Not that you’d guess it, eh?’

Rebus nodded. ‘You were still a small firm back in 1960, weren’t you?’

‘1960. Let’s think. We were just starting out. It wasn’t ABC then, of course. Let’s see. I think I got a loan from my dad in 1957, went into partnership with a chap called Hugh Ford, another self-employed builder. Yes, that’s right. 1960, it was Abbot & Ford. Of course it was.’

‘Do you happen to remember working at a wine merchant’s in the Cowgate?’

‘When?’

‘The spring of 1960.’

‘A wine merchant’s?’ Abbot furrowed his brow. ‘Should be able to remember that. Long time ago, mind. A wine merchant’s?’

‘You were laying a new floor in one of his cellars, amongst other work. Hillbeith Vintners.’

‘Oh, aye, Hillbeith, it’s coming back now. I remember him. Little funny chap with glasses. Gave us a case of wine when the job was finished. Nice of him, but the wine was a bit off as I remember.’

‘How many men were working on the job?’

Abbot exhaled noisily. ‘Now you’re asking. It was over thirty years ago, Inspector.’

‘I appreciate that, sir. Would there be any records?’

Abbot shook his head. ‘There might have been up to about ten years ago, but when we moved into this place a lot of the older stuff got chucked out. I regret it now. It’d be nice to have a display of stuff from the old days, something we could set up in the reception. But no, all the Abbot & Ford stuff got dumped.’

‘So you don’t remember how many men were on that particular job? Is there anyone else I could talk to, someone who might—’

‘We were small back then, I can tell you that. Mostly using casual labour and part-timers. A job that size, I wouldn’t think we’d be using more than three or four men, if that.’

‘You don’t recall anyone going missing? Not turning up for work, that sort of thing?’

Abbot bristled. ‘I’m a stickler for time-keeping, Inspector. If anyone had done a bunk, I’d remember, I’m pretty sure of that. Besides, we were careful about who we took on. No lazy buggers, nobody who’d do a runner halfway through a job.’

Rebus sighed. Here was one of the dead ends. He rose to his feet. ‘Well, thanks anyway, Mr Abbot. It was good of you to find time to see me.’ The two men shook hands, Abbot rising to his feet.

‘Not at all, Inspector. Wish I could help you with your little mystery. I like a good detective story myself.’ They were almost at the door now.

‘Oh,’ said Rebus, ‘just one last thing. Where could I find your old partner Mr Ford?’

Abbot’s face lost its animation. His voice was suddenly that of an old man. ‘Hugh died, Inspector. A boating accident. He was drowned. Hell of a thing to happen. Hell of a thing.’

Two dead ends.

Mr Hillbeith’s telephone call came later that day, while Rebus was ploughing through the transcript of an interview with a rapist. His head felt full of foul-smelling glue, his stomach acid with caffeine.

‘Is that Inspector Rebus?’

‘Yes, hello, Mr Hillbeith. What can I do for you?’ Rebus pinched the bridge of his nose and screwed shut his eyes.

‘I was thinking all last night about that skeleton.’

‘Yes?’ In between bottles of wine, Rebus didn’t doubt.

‘Well, I was trying to think back to when the work was being done. It might not be much, but I definitely recall that there were four people involved. Mr Abbot and Mr Ford worked on it pretty much full-time, and there were two other men, one of them a teenager, the other in his forties. They worked on a more casual basis.’

‘You don’t recall their names?’

‘No, only that the teenager had a nickname. Everyone called him by that. I don’t think I ever knew his real name.’

‘Well, thanks anyway, Mr Hillbeith. I’ll get back to Mr Abbot and see if what you’ve told me jogs his memory.’

‘Oh, you’ve spoken to him then?’

‘This morning. No progress to report. I didn’t realise Mr Ford had died.’

‘Ah, well, that’s the other thing.’

‘What is?’

‘Poor Mr Ford. Sailing accident, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Only I remember that, too. You see, that accident happened just after they’d finished the job. They kept talking about how they were going to take a few days off and go fishing. Mr Abbot said it would be their first holiday in years.’

Rebus’s eyes were open now. ‘How soon was this after they’d finished your floor?’

‘Well, directly after, I suppose.’

‘Do you remember Mr Ford?’

‘Well, he was very quiet. Mr Abbot did all the talking, really. A very quiet man. A hard worker though, I got that impression.’

‘Did you notice anything about his hands? A misshapen pinkie?’

‘Sorry, Inspector, it was a long time ago.’

Rebus appreciated that. ‘Of course it was, Mr Hillbeith. You’ve been a great help. Thank you.’

He put down the receiver. A long time ago, yes, but still murder, still calculated and cold-blooded murder. Well, a path had opened in front of him. Not much of a path perhaps, a bit overgrown and treacherous. Nevertheless... Best foot forward, John. Best foot forward.

Of course, he kept telling himself, he was still ruling possibilities out rather than ruling them in, which was why he wanted to know a little more about the boating accident. He didn’t want to get the information from Alexander Abbot.

Instead, the morning after Hillbeith’s phone-call, Rebus went to the National Library of Scotland on George IV Bridge. The doorman let him through the turnstile and he climbed an imposing staircase to the reading room. The woman on the desk filled in a one-day reader’s card for him, and showed him how to use the computer. There were two banks of computers, being used by people to find the books they needed. Rebus had to go into the reading room and find an empty chair, note its number and put this on his slip when he’d decided which volume he required. Then he went to his chair and sat, waiting.

There were two floors to the reading room, both enveloped by shelves of reference books. The people working at the long desks downstairs seemed bleary. Just another morning’s graft for them; but Rebus found it all fascinating. One person worked with a card index in front of him, to which he referred frequently. Another seemed asleep, head resting on arms. Pens scratched across countless sheets of paper. A few souls, lost for inspiration, merely chewed on their pens and stared at the others around them, as Rebus was doing.

Eventually, his volume was brought to him. It was a bound edition of the Scotsman, containing every issue for the months from January to June, 1960. Two thick leather buckles kept the volume closed. Rebus unbuckled these and began to turn the pages.

He knew what he was looking for, and pretty well where to find it, but that didn’t stop him browsing through football reports and front page headlines. 1960. He’d been busy trying to lose his virginity and supporting Hearts. Yes, a long time ago.

The story hadn’t quite made the front page. Instead, there were two paragraphs on page three. ‘Drowning Off Lower Largo.’ The victim, Mr Hugh Ford, was described as being twenty-six years of age (a year older than the survivor, Mr Alex Abbot) and a resident of Duddingston, Edinburgh. The men, on a short fishing-holiday, had taken a boat out early in the morning, a boat hired from a local man, Mr John Thomson. There was a squall, and the boat capsized. Mr Abbot, a fair swimmer, had made it back to the shore. Mr Ford, a poor swimmer, had not. Mr Ford was further described as a ‘bachelor, a quiet man, shy according to Mr Abbot, who was still under observation at the Victoria Hospital, Kirkcaldy’. There was a little more, but not much. Apparently, Ford’s parents were dead, but he had a sister, Mrs Isabel Hammond, somewhere out in Australia.

Why hadn’t Abbot mentioned any of this? Maybe he wanted to forget. Maybe it still gave him the occasional bad dream. And of course he would have forgotten all about the Hillbeith contract precisely because this tragedy happened so soon afterwards. So soon. Just the one line of print really bothered Rebus; just that one sentence niggled.

‘Mr Ford’s body has still not been recovered.’

Records might get lost in time, but not by Fife Police. They sent on what they had, much of it written in fading ink on fragile paper, some of it typed — badly. The two friends and colleagues, Abbot and Ford, had set out on Friday evening to the Fishing-Net Hotel in Largo, arriving late. As arranged, they’d set out early next morning on a boat they’d hired from a local man, John Thomson. The accident had taken place only an hour or so after setting out. The boat was recovered. It had been overturned, but of Ford there was no sign. Inquiries were made. Mr Ford’s belongings were taken back to Edinburgh by Mr Abbot, after the latter was released from hospital, having sustained a bump to the head when the boat went over. He was also suffering from shock and exhaustion. Mr Ford’s sister, Mrs Isabel Hammond, was never traced.

They had investigated a little further. The business run jointly by Messrs Abbot and Ford now became Mr Abbot’s. The case-notes contained a good amount of information and suspicion — between the lines, as it were. Oh yes, they’d investigated Alexander Abbot, but there had been no evidence. They’d searched for the body, had found none. Without a body, they were left with only their suspicions and their nagging doubts.

‘Yes,’ Rebus said quietly to himself, ‘but what if you were looking for the body in the wrong place?’ The wrong place at the wrong time. The work on the cellar had ended on Friday afternoon and by Saturday morning Hugh Ford had ceased to exist.

The path Rebus was on had become less overgrown, but it was still rock-strewn and dangerous, still a potential dead-end.

The Fishing-Net Hotel was still in existence, though apparently much changed from its 1960 incarnation. The present owners told Rebus to arrive in time for lunch if he could and it would be on the house. Largo was north of Burntisland but on the same coastline. Alexander Selkirk, the original of Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe, had a connection with the fishing village. There was a small statue of him somewhere which Rebus had been shown as a boy (but only after much hunting, he recalled). Largo was picturesque, but then so were most, if not all, of the coastal villages in Fife’s ‘East Neuk’. But it was not yet quite the height of the tourist season and the customers taking lunch at the Fishing-Net Hotel were businessmen and locals.

It was a good lunch, as picturesque as its surroundings but with a bit more flavour. And afterwards, the owner, an Englishman for whom life in Largo was a long-held dream come true, offered to show Rebus round, including ‘the very room your Mr Ford stayed in the night before he died’.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘I looked in the register.’

Rebus managed not to look too surprised. The hotel had changed hands so often since 1960, he despaired of finding anyone who would remember the events of that weekend.

‘The register?’

‘Yes, we were left a lot of old stuff when we bought this place. The store-rooms were choc-a-bloc. Old ledgers and what have you going back to the 1920s and ’30s. It was easy enough to find 1960.’

Rebus stopped in his tracks. ‘Never mind showing me Mr Ford’s room, would you mind letting me see that register?’

He sat at a desk in the manager’s office with the register open in front of him, while Mr Summerson’s finger stabbed the line. ‘There you are, Inspector, H. Ford. Signed in at 11.50 p.m., address given as Duddingston. Room number seven.’

It wasn’t so much a signature as a blurred scrawl and above it, on a separate line, was Alexander Abbot’s own more flowing signature.

‘Bit late to arrive, wasn’t it?’ commented Rebus.

‘Agreed.’

‘I don’t suppose there’s anyone working here nowadays who worked in the hotel back then?’

Summerson laughed quietly. ‘People do retire in this country, Inspector.’

‘Of course, I just wondered.’ He remembered the newspaper story. ‘What about John Thomson? Does the name mean anything to you?’

‘Old Jock? Jock Thomson? The fisherman?’

‘Probably.’

‘Oh, yes, he’s still about. You’ll almost certainly find him down by the dockside or else in the Harbour Tavern.’

‘Thanks. I’d like to take this register with me if I may?’

Jock Thomson sucked on his pipe and nodded. He looked the archetype of the ‘old salt’, from his baggy cord trousers to his chiselled face and silvery beard. The only departure from the norm was, perhaps, the Perrier water in front of him on a table in the Harbour Tavern.

‘I like the fizz,’ he explained after ordering it, ‘and besides, my doctor’s told me to keep off the alcohol. Total abstinence, he said, total abstinence. Either the booze goes, Jock, or the pipe does. No contest.’

And he sucked greedily on the pipe. Then complained when his drink arrived without ‘the wee slice of lemon’. Rebus returned to the bar to fulfil his mission.

‘Oh aye,’ said Thomson, ‘remember it like it was yesterday. Only there’s not much to remember, is there?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Two inexperienced laddies go out in a boat. Boat tips. End of story.’

‘Was the weather going to be bad that morning?’

‘Not particularly. But there was a squall blew up. Blew up and blew out in a matter of minutes. Long enough though.’

‘How did the two men seem?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, were they looking forward to the trip?’

‘Don’t know, I never saw them. The younger one, Abbot was it? He phoned to book a boat from me, said they’d be going out early, six or thereabouts. I told him he was daft, but he said there was no need for me to be on the dockside, if I’d just have the boat ready and tell him which one it was. And that’s what I did. By the time I woke up that morning, he was swimming for the shore and his pal was food for the fish.’

‘So you never actually saw Mr Ford?’

‘No, and I only saw the lad Abbot afterwards, when the ambulance was taking him away.’

It was fitting into place almost too easily now. And Rebus thought, sometimes these things are only visible with hindsight, from a space of years. ‘I don’t suppose,’ he ventured, ‘you know anyone who worked at the hotel back then?’

‘Owner’s moved on,’ said Thomson, ‘who knows where to. It might be that Janice Dryman worked there then. Can’t recall if she did.’

‘Where could I find her?’

Thomson peered at the clock behind the bar. ‘Hang around here ten minutes or so, you’ll bump into her. She usually comes in of an afternoon. Meantime, I’ll have another of these if you’re buying.’

Thomson pushed his empty glass over to Rebus. Rebus, most definitely, was buying.

Miss Dryman — ‘never married, never really saw the point’ — was in her early fifties. She worked in a gift-shop in town and after her stint finished usually nipped into the Tavern for a soft drink and ‘a bit of gossip’. Rebus asked what she would like to drink.

‘Lemonade, please,’ she said, ‘with a drop of whisky in it.’ And she laughed with Jock Thomson, as though this were an old and cherished joke between them. Rebus, not used to playing the part of straight-man, headed yet again for the bar.

‘Oh yes,’ she said, her lips poised above the glass. ‘I was working there at the time all right. Chambermaid and general dogsbody, that was me.’

‘You wouldn’t see them arrive though?’

Miss Dryman looked as though she had some secret to impart. ‘Nobody saw them arrive, I know that for a fact. Mrs Dennis who ran the place back then, she said she’d be buggered if she’d wait up half the night for a couple of fishermen. They knew what rooms they were in and their keys were left at reception.’

‘What about the front door?’

‘Left unlocked, I suppose. The world was a safer place back then.’

‘Aye, you’re right there,’ added Jock Thomson, sucking on his sliver of lemon.

‘And Mr Abbot and Mr Ford knew this was the arrangement?’

‘I suppose so. Otherwise it wouldn’t have worked, would it?’

So Abbot knew there’d be nobody around at the hotel, not if he left it late enough before arriving.

‘And what about in the morning?’

‘Mrs Dennis said they were up and out before she knew anything about it. She was annoyed because she’d already cooked the kippers for their breakfast before she realised.’

So nobody saw them in the morning either. In fact...

‘In fact,’ said Rebus, ‘nobody saw Mr Ford at all. Nobody at the hotel, not you, Mr Thomson, nobody.’ Both drinkers conceded this.

‘I saw his stuff though,’ said Miss Dryman.

‘What stuff?’

‘In his room, his clothes and stuff. That morning. I didn’t know anything about the accident and I went in to clean.’

‘The bed had been slept in?’

‘Looked like it. Sheets all rumpled. And his suitcase was on the floor, only half unpacked. Not that there was much to unpack.’

‘Oh?’

‘A single change of clothes, I’d say. I remember them because they seemed mucky, you know, not fresh. Not the sort of stuff I’d take on holiday with me.’

‘What? Like he’d been working in them?’

She considered this. ‘Maybe.’

‘No point wearing clean clothes for fishing,’ Thomson added. But Rebus wasn’t listening.

Ford’s clothes, the clothes he had been working in while laying the floor. It made sense. Abbot bludgeoned him, stripped him and covered his body in fresh cement. He’d taken the clothes away with him and put them in a case, opening it in the hotel room, ruffling the sheets. Simple, but effective. Effective these past thirty years. The motive? A falling out perhaps, or simple greed. It was a small company, but growing, and perhaps Abbot hadn’t wanted to share. Rebus placed a five-pound note on the table.

‘To cover the next couple of rounds,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I’d better be off. Some of us are still on duty.’

There were things to be done. He had to speak to his superior, Chief Inspector Lauderdale. And that was for starters. Maybe Ford’s Australian sister could be traced this time round. There had to be someone out there who could acknowledge that Ford had suffered from a broken leg in his youth, and that he had a crooked finger. So far, Rebus could think of only one person — Alexander Abbot. Somehow, he didn’t think Abbot could be relied on to tell the truth, the whole truth.

Then there was the hotel register. The forensics lab could ply their cunning trade on it. Perhaps they’d be able to say for certain that Ford’s signature was merely a bad rendition of Abbot’s. But again, he needed a sample of Ford’s handwriting in order to substantiate that the signature was not genuine. Who did he know who might possess such a document? Only Alexander Abbot. Or Mr Hillbeith, but Mr Hillbeith had not been able to help.

‘No, Inspector, as I told you, it was Mr Abbot who handled all the paperwork, all that side of things. If there is an invoice or a receipt, it will be in his hand, not Mr Ford’s. I don’t recall ever seeing Mr Ford writing anything.’

No through road.

Chief Inspector Lauderdale was not wholly sympathetic. So far all Rebus had to offer were more suppositions to add to those of the Fife Police at the time. There was no proof that Alexander Abbot had killed his partner. No proof that the skeleton was Hugh Ford. Moreover, there wasn’t even much in the way of circumstantial evidence. They could bring in Abbot for questioning, but all he had to do was plead innocence. He could afford a good lawyer; and even bad lawyers weren’t stupid enough to let the police probe too deeply.

‘We need proof, John,’ said Lauderdale, ‘concrete evidence. The simplest proof would be that hotel signature. If we prove it’s not Ford’s, then we have Abbot at that hotel, Abbot in the boat and Abbot shouting that his friend has drowned, all without Ford having been there. That’s what we need. The rest of it, as it stands, is rubbish. You know that.’

Yes, Rebus knew. He didn’t doubt that, given an hour alone with Abbot in a darkened alley, he’d have his confession. But it didn’t work like that. It worked through the law. Besides, Abbot’s heart might not be too healthy. BUSINESSMAN, 55, DIES UNDER QUESTIONING. No, it had to be done some other way.

The problem was, there was no other way. Alexander Abbot was getting away with murder. Or was he? Why did his story have to be false? Why did the body have to be Hugh Ford’s? The answer was: because the whole thing seemed to fit. Only, the last piece of the jigsaw had been lost under some sofa or chair a long time ago, so long ago now that it might remain missing for ever.

He didn’t know why he did it. If in doubt, retrace your steps... something like that. Maybe he just liked the atmosphere. Whatever, Rebus found himself back in the National Library, waiting at his desk for the servitor to bring him his bound volume of old news. He mouthed the words of ‘Yesterday’s Papers’ to himself as he waited. Then, when the volume appeared, he unbuckled it with ease and pulled open the pages. He read past the April editions, read through into May and June. Football results, headlines — and what was this? A snippet of business news, barely a filler at the bottom right-hand corner of a page. About how the Kirkwall Construction Company was swallowing up a couple of smaller competitors in Fife and Midlothian.

‘The 1960s will be a decade of revolution in the building industry,’ said Managing Director Mr Jack Kirkwall, ‘and Kirkwall Construction aims to meet that challenge through growth and quality. The bigger we are, the better we are. These acquisitions strengthen the company, and they’re good news for the workforce, too.’

It was the kind of sentiment which had lasted into the 1980s. Jack Kirkwall, Alexander Abbot’s bitter rival. Now there was a man Rebus ought to meet...

The meeting, however, had to be postponed until the following week. Kirkwall was in hospital for a minor operation.

‘I’m at that age, Inspector,’ he told Rebus when they finally met, ‘when things go wrong and need treatment or replacing. Just like any bit of well-used machinery.’

And he laughed, though the laughter, to Rebus’s ears, had a hollow centre. Kirkwall looked older than his sixty-two years, his skin saggy, complexion wan. They were in his living-room, from where, these days, he did most of his work.

‘Since I turned sixty, I’ve only really wandered into the company headquarters for the occasional meeting. I leave the daily chores to my son, Peter. He seems to be managing.’ The laughter this time was self-mocking.

Rebus had suggested a further postponement of the meeting, but when Jack Kirkwall knew that the subject was to be Alexander Abbot, he was adamant that they should go ahead.

‘Is he in trouble then?’

‘He might be,’ Rebus admitted. Some of the colour seemed to reappear in Kirkwall’s cheeks and he relaxed a little further into his reclining leather chair. Rebus didn’t want to give Kirkwall the story. Kirkwall and Abbot were still business rivals, after all. Still, it seemed, enemies. Given the story, Kirkwall might try some underhand tactic, some rumour in the media, and if it got out that the story originally came from a police inspector, well. Hello, being sued and goodbye, pension.

No, Rebus didn’t want that. Yet he did want to know whether Kirkwall knew anything, knew of any reason why Abbot might wish, might need to kill Ford.

‘Go on, Inspector.’

‘It goes back quite a way, sir. 1960, to be precise. Your firm was at that time in the process of expansion.’

‘Correct.’

‘What did you know about Abbot & Ford?’

Kirkwall brushed the palm of one hand over the knuckles of the other. ‘Just that they were growing, too. Of course, they were younger than us, much smaller than us. ABC still is much smaller than us. But they were cocky, they were winning some contracts ahead of us. I had my eye on them.’

‘Did you know Mr Ford at all?’

‘Oh yes. Really, he was the cleverer of the two men. I’ve never had much respect for Abbot. But Hugh Ford was quiet, hardworking. Abbot was the one who did the shouting and got the firm noticed.’

‘Did Mr Ford have a crooked finger?’

Kirkwall seemed bemused by the question. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said at last. ‘I never actually met the man, I merely knew about him. Why? Is it important?’

Rebus felt at last that his meandering, narrowing path had come to the lip of a chasm. Nothing for it but to turn back.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it would have clarified something.’

‘You know, Inspector, my company was interested in taking Abbot & Ford under our wing.’

‘Oh?’

‘But then with the accident, that tragic accident. Well, Abbot took control and he wasn’t at all interested in any offer we had to make. Downright rude, in fact. Yes, I’ve always thought that it was such a lucky accident so far as Abbot was concerned.’

‘How do you mean, sir?’

‘I mean, Inspector, that Hugh Ford was on our side. He wanted to sell up. But Abbot was against it.’

So, Rebus had his motive. Well, what did it matter? He was still lacking that concrete evidence Lauderdale demanded.

‘... Would it show up from his handwriting?’

Rebus had missed what Kirkwall had been saying. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t catch that.’

‘I said, Inspector, if Hugh Ford had a crooked finger, would it show from his handwriting?’

‘Handwriting?’

‘Because I had his agreement to the takeover. He’d written to me personally to tell me. Had gone behind Abbot’s back, I suppose. I bet Alex Abbot was mad as hell when he found out about that.’ Kirkwall’s smile was vibrant now. ‘I always thought that accident was a bit too lucky where Abbot was concerned. A bit too neat. No proof though. There was never any proof.’

‘Do you still have the letter?’

‘What?’

‘The letter from Mr Ford, do you still have it?’

Rebus was tingling now, and Kirkwall caught his excitement. ‘I never throw anything away, Inspector. Oh yes, I’ve got it. It’ll be upstairs.’

‘Can I see it? I mean, can I see it now?’

‘If you like,’ Kirkwall made to stand up, but paused. ‘Is Alex Abbot in trouble, Inspector?’

‘If you’ve still got that letter from Hugh Ford, then, yes, sir, I’d say Mr Abbot could be in very grave trouble indeed.’

‘Inspector, you’ve made an old man very happy.’

It was the letter against Alex Abbot’s word, of course, and he denied everything. But there was enough now for a trial. The entry in the hotel, while it was possibly the work of Alexander Abbot was certainly not the work of the man who had written the letter to Jack Kirkwall. A search warrant gave the police the powers to look through Abbot’s home and the ABC headquarters. A contract, drawn up between Abbot and Ford when the two men had gone into partnership, was discovered to be held in a solicitor’s safe. The signature matched that on the letter to Jack Kirkwall. Kirkwall himself appeared in court to give evidence. He seemed to Rebus a different man altogether from the person he’d met previously: sprightly, keening, enjoying life to the full.

From the dock, Alexander Abbot looked on almost reproachfully, as if this were just one more business trick in a life full of them. Life, too, was the sentence of the judge.