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

‘John?’ Thomson’s face was quizzical, then sceptical, then resigned. ‘But why?’
    ‘We don’t know that yet, sir. I thought you might be able to help.’
    ‘Of course I’ll help if I can. Sit down, please.’
    Rebus perched on the chair, while Thomson pushed aside some newspapers and settled himself on the sofa.
    ‘You’re a writer, I believe,’ said Rebus.
    Thomson nodded distractedly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Freelance journalism, food and drink, travel, that sort of thing. Plus the occasional commission to write a book. That’s what I’m doing now, actually. Writing a book.’
    ‘Oh? I like books myself. What’s it about?’
    ‘Don’t laugh,’ said Thomson, ‘but it’s a history of the haggis.’
    ‘The haggis?’ Rebus couldn’t disguise a smile in his voice, warmer this time: the church pew had been given a cushion. He cleared his throat noisily, glancing around the room, noting the piles of books leaning precariously against walls, the files and folders and newsprint cuttings. ‘You must do a lot of research,’ he said appreciatively.
    ‘Sometimes,’ said Thomson. Then he shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe it. About Moira, I mean. About John.’
    Rebus took out his notebook, more for effect than anything else. ‘You were Miss Bitter’s lover for a while,’ he stated.
    ‘That’s right, Inspector.’
    ‘But then she went off with Mr MacFarlane.’
    ‘Right again.’ A hint of bitterness had crept into Thomson’s voice. ‘I was very angry at the time, but I got over it.’
    ‘Did you still see Miss Bitter?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘What about Mr MacFarlane?’
    ‘No again. We spoke on the telephone a couple of times. It always seemed to end in a shouting match. We used to be like, well, it’s a cliché, I suppose, but we used to be like brothers.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Rebus, ‘so Mr MacFarlane told me.’
    ‘Oh?’ Thomson sounded interested. ‘What else did he say?’
    ‘Not much really.’ Rebus rose from his perch and went to the window, holding aside the net curtain to stare out onto the street below. ‘He said you’d known each other for years.’
    ‘Since school,’ Thomson added.
    Rebus nodded. ‘And he said you drove a black Ford Escort. That’ll be it down there, parked across the street?’
    Thomson came to the window. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, uncertainly, ‘that’s it. But I don’t see what—’
    ‘I noticed it as I was parking my own car,’ Rebus continued, brushing past Thomson’s interruption. He let the curtain fall and turned back into the room. ‘I noticed you’ve got a car alarm. I suppose you must get a lot of burglaries around here.’
    ‘It’s not the most salubrious part of town,’ Thomson said. ‘Not all writers are like Jeffrey Archer.’
    ‘Did money have anything to do with it?’ Rebus asked. Thomson paused.
    ‘With what, Inspector?’
    ‘With Miss Bitter leaving you for Mr MacFarlane. He’s not short of a bob or two, is he?’
    Thomson’s voice rose perceptibly. ‘Look, I really can’t see what this has to do with—’
    ‘Your car was broken into a few months ago, wasn’t it?’ Rebus was examining a pile of magazines on the floor now. ‘I saw the report. They stole your radio and your car phone.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I notice you’ve replaced the car phone.’ He glanced up at Thomson, smiled, and continued browsing.
    ‘Of course,’ said Thomson. He seemed confused now, unable to fathom where the conversation was leading.
    ‘A journalist would need a car phone, wouldn’t he?’ Rebus observed. ‘So people could keep in touch, contact him at any time. Is that right?’
    ‘Absolutely right, Inspector.’
    Rebus threw the magazine back onto the pile and nodded slowly. ‘Great things, car phones.’ He walked over towards Thomson’s desk. It was a small flat. This room obviously served a double purpose as study and living-room. Not that Thomson entertained many visitors. He was too aggressive for many people, too secretive