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

for others. So John MacFarlane had said.
    On the desk there was more clutter, though in some appearance of organisation. There was also a neat word processor, and beside it a telephone. And next to the telephone sat an answering machine.
    ‘Yes,’ Rebus repeated. ‘You need to be in contact.’ Rebus smiled towards Thomson. ‘Communication, that’s the secret. And I’ll tell you something else about journalists.’
    ‘What?’ Unable to comprehend Rebus’s direction, Thomson’s tone had become that of someone bored with a conversation. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets.
    ‘Journalists are hoarders.’ Rebus made this sound like some great wisdom. His eyes took in the room again. ‘I mean, near-pathological hoarders. They can’t bear to throw things away, because they never know when something might become useful. Am I right?’
    Thomson shrugged.
    ‘Yes,’ said Rebus, ‘I bet I am. Look at these cassettes, for example.’ He went to where the rows of tapes were neatly displayed. ‘What are they? Interviews, that sort of thing?’
    ‘Mostly, yes,’ Thomson agreed.
    ‘And you still keep them, even though they’re years old?’
    Thomson shrugged again. ‘So I’m a hoarder.’
    But Rebus had noticed something on the top shelf, some brown cardboard boxes. He reached up and lifted one down. Inside were more tapes, marked with months and years. But these tapes were smaller. Rebus gestured with the box towards Thomson, his eyes seeking an explanation.
    Thomson smiled uneasily. ‘Answering machine messages,’ he said.
    ‘You keep these, too?’ Rebus sounded amazed.
    ‘Well,’ Thomson said, ‘someone may agree to something over the phone, an interview or something, then deny it later. I need them as records of promises made.’
    Rebus nodded, understanding now. He replaced the brown box on its shelf. He still had his back to Thomson when the telephone rang, a sharp electronic sound.
    ‘Sorry,’ Thomson apologised, going to answer it.
    ‘Not at all.’
    Thomson picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’ He listened, then frowned. ‘Of course,’ he said finally, holding the receiver out towards Rebus. ‘It’s for you, Inspector.’
    Rebus raised a surprised eyebrow and accepted the receiver. It was, as he had known it would be, Detective Constable Holmes.
    ‘Okay,’ Holmes said. ‘Costain no longer owes you that favour. He’s listened to both tapes. He hasn’t run all the necessary tests yet, but he’s pretty convinced.’
    ‘Go on.’ Rebus was looking at Thomson, who was sitting, hands clasping knees, on the arm of the chair.
    ‘The call we received last night,’ said Holmes, ‘the one from John MacFarlane admitting to the murder of Moira Bitter, originated from a portable telephone.’
    ‘Interesting,’ said Rebus, his eyes on Thomson. ‘And what about the other one?’
    ‘Well, the tape you gave me seems to be twice-removed.’
    ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘It means,’ said Holmes, ‘that according to Costain it’s not just a recording, it’s the recording of a recording.’ Rebus nodded, satisfied.
    ‘Okay, thanks, Brian.’ He put down the receiver.
    ‘Good news or bad?’ Thomson asked.
    ‘A bit of both,’ answered Rebus thoughtfully. Thomson had risen to his feet.
    ‘I feel like a drink, Inspector. Can I get you one?’
    ‘It’s a bit early for me, I’m afraid,’ Rebus said, looking at his watch. It was eleven o’clock: opening time. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘just a small one.’
    ‘The whisky’s in the kitchen,’ Thomson explained. ‘I’ll just be a moment.’
    ‘Fine, sir, fine.’
    Rebus listened as Thomson left the room and headed off towards the kitchen. He stood beside the desk, thinking through what he now knew. Then, hearing Thomson returning from the kitchen, floor-boards bending beneath his weight, he picked up the wastepaper basket from below the desk, and, as Thomson entered the room, proceeded to empty the contents in a heap on the