Beggars Banquet by Ian Rankin Page B

went over to where a twenty-foot row of LPs was standing against the wall beneath the window.
    ‘I thought those went out with the Ark,’ said Holmes.
    Wardle smiled. ‘You mean with the CD. No, vinyl’s still the best. Sit down.’ He went over to the turntable and took off the LP he’d been playing. Rebus and Holmes sat. Holmes looked to Rebus, who nodded. Holmes got up again.
    ‘Actually, could I use your loo?’ he asked.
    ‘First right out on the landing,’ said Wardle. Holmes left the room. ‘Any particular track, Inspector?’
    ‘“Gimme Shelter”,’ stated Rebus. Wardle nodded agreement, set the needle on the disc, rose to his feet, and turned up the volume. ‘Something to drink?’ he asked. The room exploded into a wall of sound. Rebus had heard the phrase ‘wall of sound’ before. Well, here he was with his nose pressed against it.
    ‘A whisky, please,’ he yelled. Wardle tipped his head towards the hall. ‘Same for him.’ Wardle nodded and went off towards the kitchen area. Pinned to the sofa as he was, Rebus looked around the room. He had eyes for everything but the hi-fi. Not that there was much to see. A small coffee table whose surface seemed to be covered with arcana to do with the hi-fi system, cleaning-brushes and such like. There were some nice-looking prints on the wall. Actually, one looked like a real painting rather than a print: the surface of a swimming-pool, someone moving through the depths. But no TV, no shelves, no books, no knick-knacks, no family photos. Rebus knew Wardle was divorced. He also knew Wardle drove a Y-registered Porsche 911. He knew quite a lot about Wardle, but not yet enough . . .
    A healthy glass of whisky was handed to him. Wardle placed another on the floor for Holmes, then returned to the kitchen and came back with a glass for himself. He sat down next to Rebus.
    ‘What do you think?’
    ‘Fantastic,’ Rebus called back.
    Wardle grinned.
    ‘How much would this lot cost me?’ Rebus asked, hoping Wardle wouldn’t notice how long Holmes had been out of the room.
    ‘About twenty-five K.’
    ‘You’re joking. My flat didn’t cost that.’
    Wardle just laughed. But he was glancing towards the living-room door. He looked as though he might be about to say something, when the door opened and Holmes came in, rubbing his hands as though drying them off. He smiled, sat, and toasted Wardle with his glass. Wardle went over to the amplifier to turn down the volume. Holmes nodded towards Rebus. Rebus toasted no one in particular and finished his drink. The volume dipped.
    ‘What was that?’ Holmes asked.
    ‘ Let It Bleed .’
    ‘I thought my ears would.’
    Wardle laughed. He seemed to be in a particularly good mood. Maybe it was because of the cassette deck.
    ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘how the hell did you get that deck back so quickly?’
    Holmes was about to say something, but Rebus beat him to it. ‘It was abandoned.’
    ‘Abandoned?’
    ‘At the bottom of a flight of stairs on Queen Street,’ Rebus went on. He had risen to his feet. Holmes took the hint and, eyes twisted shut, gulped down his whisky. ‘So you see, sir, we were just lucky, that’s all. Just lucky.’
    ‘Well, thanks again,’ said Wardle. ‘If you ever want some hi-fi, drop into the shop. I’m sure a discount might be arranged.’
    ‘We’ll bear that in mind, sir,’ said Rebus. ‘Just don’t expect me to put my flat on the market . . .’

    Back at the station, Rebus first of all had Jib released, then went to his office, where he spread the files out across his desk, while Holmes pulled over a chair. Then they both sat, reading aloud from lists. The lists were of stolen goods, high-quality stuff stolen in the dead of night by real professionals. The hauls - highly selective hauls - came from five addresses, the homes of well-paid middle-class people, people with things well worth the stealing.
    Five robberies, all at dead of night, alarm systems disconnected. Art objects