The Beat Goes On: The Complete Rebus Stories (Rebus Collection) by Ian Rankin Page A

eleven-thirty. If you want to find out about someone, reasoned a thirsty Rebus, visit his local.
    The reasoning, in this case, proved false: Dean had never been near The Claymore.
    ‘The daughter came in though,’ commented one young man. There weren’t many people in the pub at this early stage of the day, save a few retired gentlemen who were in conversation with three or four reporters. The barman, too, was busy telling his life story to a young female hack, or rather, into her tape recorder. This made getting served difficult, despite the absence of a lunchtime scrum. The young man had solved this problem, however, reaching behind the bar to refill his glass with a mixture of cider and lager, leaving money on the bartop.
    ‘Oh?’ Rebus nodded towards the three-quarters full glass. ‘Have another?’
    ‘When this one’s finished I will.’ He drank greedily, by which time the barman had finished with his confessions – much ( judging by her face) to the relief of the reporter. ‘Pint of Snakebite, Paul,’ called the young man. When the drink was before him, he told Rebus that his name was Willie Barr and that he was unemployed.
    ‘You said you saw the daughter in here?’ Rebus was anxious to have his questions answered before the alcohol took effect on Barr.
    ‘That’s right. She came in pretty regularly.’
    ‘By herself ?’
    ‘No, always with some guy.’
    ‘One in particular, you mean?’
    But Willie Barr laughed, shaking his head. ‘A different one every time. She’s getting a bit of a name for herself. And,’ he raised his voice for the barman’s benefit, ‘she’s not even eighteen, I’d say.’
    ‘Were they local lads?’
    ‘None I recognised. Never really spoke to them.’ Rebus swirled his glass, creating a foamy head out of nothing.
    ‘Any Irish accents among them?’
    ‘In here?’ Barr laughed. ‘Not in here. Christ, no. Actually, she hasn’t been in for a few weeks, now that I think of it. Maybe her father put a stop to it, eh? I mean, how would it look in the Sunday papers? Brigadier’s daughter slumming it in Barnton.’
    Rebus smiled. ‘It’s not exactly a slum though, is it?’
    ‘True enough, but her boyfriends … I mean, there was more of the car mechanic than the estate agent about them. Know what I mean?’ He winked. ‘Not that a bit of rough ever hurt her kind, eh?’ Then he laughed again and suggested a game or two of pool, a pound a game or a fiver if the detective were a betting man.
    But Rebus shook his head. He thought he knew now why Willie Barr was drinking so much: he was flush. And the reason he was flush was that he’d been telling his story to the papers – for a price. Brigadier’s Daughter Slumming It . Yes, he’d been telling tales all right, but there was little chance of them reaching their intended audience. The Powers That Be would see to that.
    Barr was helping himself to another pint as Rebus made to leave the premises.
     
     
    It was late in the afternoon when Rebus received his visitor, the Anti-Terrorist accountant.
    ‘A Mr Matthews to see you,’ the Desk Sergeant had informed Rebus, and ‘Matthews’ he remained, giving no hint of rank or proof of identity. He had come, he said, to ‘have it out’ with Rebus.
    ‘What were you doing in The Claymore?’
    ‘Having a drink.’
    ‘You were asking questions. I’ve already told you, Inspector Rebus, we can’t have—’
    ‘I know, I know.’ Rebus raised his hands in a show of surrender. ‘But the more furtive you lot are, the more interested I become.’
    Matthews stared silently at Rebus. Rebus knew that the man was weighing up his options. One, of course, was to go to Farmer Watson and have Rebus warned off. But if Matthews were as canny as he looked, he would know this might have the opposite effect from that intended. Another option was to talk to Rebus, to ask him what he wanted to know.
    ‘What do you want to know?’ Matthews said at last.
    ‘I want to know about