The Beat Goes On: The Complete Rebus Stories (Rebus Collection) Read Online Free PDF Page A

machines infallible? Of course not. The time displayed could have been tampered with. The recording itself could be a fake. After all, whose word did he have that this was the voice of Moira Bitter? Only John MacFarlane’s. But John MacFarlane had been caught leaving the scene of a murder. And now Rebus was being presented with a sort of an alibi for the man. Yes, the tape could well be a fake, used by MacFarlane to substantiate his story, but stupidly not put into use until after the time of death. Still, from what Rebus had heard from Moira’s own answering machine, the voice was certainly similar to her own. The lab boys could sort it out with their clever machines. One technician in particular owed him a rather large favour.
    Rebus shook his head. This still wasn’t making much sense. He played the tape again and again.
    ‘Hello.’ Pause. ‘I need to see you.’
    ‘Hello.’ Pause. ‘I need to see you.’
    ‘Hello.’ Pause. ‘I need—’
    And suddenly it became a little clearer in his mind. He ejected the tape and slipped it into his jacket pocket, then picked up the telephone and called the station. He asked to speak to Detective Constable Brian Holmes. The voice, when it came on the line, was tired but amused.
    ‘Don’t tell me,’ Holmes said, ‘let me guess. You want me to drop everything and run an errand for you.’
    ‘You must be psychic, Brian. Two errands really. Firstly, last night’s calls. Get the recording of them and search for one from John MacFarlane, claiming he’d just killed his girlfriend. Make a copy of it and wait there for me. I’ve got another tape for you, and I want them both taken to the lab. Warn them you’re coming—’
    ‘And tell them it’s priority, I know. It’s always priority. They’ll say what they always say: give us four days.’
    ‘Not this time,’ Rebus said. ‘Ask for Bill Costain and tell him Rebus is collecting on his favour. He’s to shelve what he’s doing. I want a result today, not next week.’
    ‘What’s the favour you’re collecting on?’
    ‘I caught him smoking dope in the lab toilets last month.’
    Holmes laughed. ‘The world’s going to pot,’ he said. Rebus groaned at the joke and put down the receiver. He needed to speak with John MacFarlane again. Not about lovers this time, but about friends.
     
     
    Rebus rang the doorbell a third time and at last heard a voice from within.
    ‘Jesus, hold on! I’m coming.’
    The man who answered the door was tall, thin, with wire-framed glasses perched on his nose. He peered at Rebus and ran his fingers through his hair.
    ‘Mr Thomson?’ Rebus asked. ‘Kenneth Thomson?’
    ‘Yes,’ said the man, ‘that’s right.’
    Rebus flipped open his ID. ‘Detective Inspector John Rebus,’ he said by way of introduction. ‘May I come in?’
    Kenneth Thomson held open the door. ‘Please do,’ he said. ‘Will a cheque be all right?’
    ‘A cheque?’
    ‘I take it you’re here about the parking tickets,’ said Thomson. ‘I’d have got round to them eventually, believe me. It’s just that I’ve been hellish busy, and what with one thing and another …’
    ‘No, sir,’ said Rebus, his smile as cold as a church pew, ‘nothing to do with parking fines.’
    ‘Oh?’ Thomson pushed his glasses back up his nose and looked at Rebus. ‘Then what’s the problem?’
    ‘It’s about Miss Moira Bitter,’ said Rebus.
    ‘Moira? What about her?’
    ‘She’s dead, sir.’
    Rebus had followed Thomson into a cluttered room overflowing with bundles of magazines and newspapers. A hi-fi sat in one corner, and covering the wall next to it were shelves filled with cassette tapes. These had an orderly look to them, as though they had been indexed, each tape’s spine carrying an identifying number.
    Thomson, who had been clearing a chair for Rebus to sit on, froze at the detective’s words.
    ‘Dead?’ he gasped. ‘How?’
    ‘She was murdered, sir. We think John MacFarlane did it.’