Beggars Banquet by Ian Rankin Page A

couldn’t quite sound disinterested. ‘How did you find him?’
    With his hands still behind his head, Holmes managed a shrug. ‘He was on file, sir. I just sat there flipping through them till I spotted him. That acne of his is as good as a tattoo. James Iain Bankhead, known to his friends as Jib. According to the file, you’ve arrested him a couple of times yourself in the past.’
    ‘Jib Bankhead?’ said Rebus, as though trying to place the name. ‘Yes, rings a bell.’
    ‘I’d have thought it’d ring a whole fire station, sir. You last arrested him three months ago.’ Holmes made a show of consulting the file on his desk. ‘Funny, you not recognising him . . .’ Holmes kept his eyes on the file.
    ‘I must be getting old,’ Rebus said.
    Holmes looked up. ‘So what now, sir?’
    ‘Where is he?’
    ‘Interview Room B.’
    ‘Let him stay there then. Can’t do any harm. Has he said anything?’
    ‘Not a word. Mind you, he did seem surprised when I paid him a visit.’
    ‘But he kept his mouth shut?’
    Holmes nodded. ‘So what now?’ he repeated.
    ‘Now,’ said Rebus, ‘you come along with me, Brian. I’ll tell you all about it on the way . . .’

    Wardle lived in a flat carved from a detached turn-of-the-century house on the south-east outskirts of the city. Rebus pressed the bell on the wall to the side of the substantial main door. After a moment, there was the muffled sound of footsteps, three clicks as locks were undone, and the door opened from within.
    ‘Good evening, Mr Wardle,’ said Rebus. I see you’re security-conscious at home at least.’ Rebus was nodding towards the door, with its three separate keyholes, spy-hole and security chain.
    ‘You can’t be too—’ Wardle broke off as he saw what Brian Holmes was carrying. ‘The deck!’
    ‘Good as new,’ said Rebus, ‘apart from a few fingerprints.’
    Wardle opened the door wide. ‘Come in, come in.’
    They entered a narrow entrance hall which led to a flight of stairs. Obviously the ground floor of the house did not belong to Wardle. He was dressed much as he had been in the shop: denims too young for his years, an open-necked shirt louder than a Wee Free sermon, and brown moccasins.
    ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, leading them towards the stairs. ‘I really can’t. But you could have brought it round to the shop . . .’
    ‘Well, sir, we were going to be passing anyway.’ Rebus closed the door, noting the steel plate on its inner face. The door-surround too was reinforced with metal plates. Wardle turned and noticed Rebus’s interest.
    ‘Wait till you see the hi-fi, Inspector. It’ll all become clear.’
    They could already hear the music. The bass was vibrating each step of the stairs.
    ‘You must have sympathetic neighbours,’ Rebus remarked.
    ‘She’s ninety-two,’ said Wardle. ‘Deaf as a post. I went round to explain to her about the hi-fi just after I moved in. She couldn’t hear a word I was saying.’
    They were at the top of the stairs now, where a smaller hallway led into a huge open-plan living-room and kitchen. A sofa and two chairs had been pushed hard back against one wall, and there was nothing but space between them and the opposite wall, where the hi-fi system sat, with large floor-standing speakers either side of it. One rack comprised half a dozen black boxes, boasting nothing to Rebus’s eye but a single red light.
    ‘Amplifiers,’ Wardle explained, turning down the music.
    ‘What, all of them?’
    ‘Pre-amp and power supply, plus an amp for each driver.’
    Holmes had rested the cassette deck on the floor, but Wardle moved it away immediately.
    ‘Spoils the sound,’ he said, ‘if there’s an extra piece of gear in the room.’
    Holmes and Rebus stared at one another. Wardle was in his element now. ‘Want to hear something? What’s your taste?’
    ‘Rolling Stones?’ Rebus asked.
    ‘ Sticky Fingers , Exile , Let It Bleed ?’
    ‘That last one,’ said Rebus.
    Wardle