Exit Music

35

When Rebus woke up next morning, it was to an insistent buzzing from the entryphone. He rolled over in bed and checked his watch – not yet seven. Still dark outside, and a few more minutes until the timer would kick the central heating into action. The room was cold, the hall floor sucking heat from his feet as he padded down it and picked up the phone next to the door.

'This better be good,' he croaked.

'Depends on your point of view.' Rebus recognised the voice but couldn't place it. 'Come on, John,' the man drawled. 'It's Shug Davidson.'

'Up with the lark, Shug.'

'I've not been to bed yet.'

'Bit early for a social call.'

'Isn't it? Now how about letting me in?'

Rebus's finger hesitated above the entry button. He sensed that if he pressed it, his whole world would start to change – and probably not for the better. Problem was, what was the alternative?

He pressed the button.

DI Shug Davidson was one of the good guys. The force believed that human existence could be divided into two straightforward camps – good guys and bad. Davidson had made few enemies and many friends. He was conscientious and pragmatic, humane and sympathetic. But he had a serious look on his face this morning, only some of which could be attributed to lack of sleep. He also had a uniformed constable with him. Rebus had left the door ajar while he retreated to the bedroom to put some clothes on, yelling that Davidson could make tea if he liked. But Davidson and the uniform seemed content to stand in the hallway, so

that Rebus had to squeeze past them to get to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth with more care than usual, staring at himself in the mirror above the sink. He was still staring at the reflection as he wiped his mouth dry. Back in the hall, he said the word 'shoes' and made for the living room, finding them next to his chair.

'Do I take it,' Rebus asked as he wrestled with the laces, ' West End has need of my finely honed detective skills?'

'Stone's told us all about your rendezvous with Cafferty,'

Davidson stated. 'And Siobhan mentioned the cigarette butt. Not the only thing we found floating in the canal, though…'

'Oh?'

'We found a polythene overshoe, John. Looks like there might be some blood on it.'

'The sort of overshoes the SOCOs wear?'

'The SOCOs wear them, yes, but so do we.'

Rebus nodded slowly. 'I keep some in the boot of the Saab.'

'Mine are in the VWs glovebox.'

'Just the place for them, when you think of it.' Finally, Rebus seemed happy with the knots. He stood up and made eye contact with Davidson. 'Am I a suspect, then, Shug?'

'Bit of questioning should put everyone's minds at rest.'

'Glad to help, DI Davidson.'

There was a bit more work to be done: finding keys and phone, picking out a coat to wear over his suit jacket. But then they were ready. Rebus locked the front door after him and followed Davidson downstairs, the constable bringing up the rear.

'Heard about the poor sod in London?' Davidson asked.

'Litvinenko?'

'Recently deceased. They've ruled out thallium, whatever that is…'

Turned out the two detectives were expected to sit in the back of the Passat while the uniform did the driving. Marchmont to Torphichen Place was a ten-minute ride. Melville Drive was quiet, the morning rush hour not yet begun. There were joggers busy on the Meadows, the car's headlights picking out the reflective strips on their shoes. They waited at the Tollcross junction for the light to change to green, drove round the one-way into Fountainbridge and were soon passing the wine bar at the canal basin. This was where Rebus had waited for Cafferty and Andropov to come out, the night he'd followed them to Granton. Rebus was trying to remember if there was any CCTV on the canal itself. He didn't think so. But

maybe there'd be cameras outside the wine bar. Just because he hadn't noticed any didn't mean they weren't there. Unlikely they'd have spotted him loitering in the vicinity, but you never knew.

The Leamington Lift Bridge wasn't much used at night, but it was used. Drunks congregated with their bottles, youths walked to and fro, looking for action. Might someone have seen something? A figure running away? The tenement on Leamington Road where he'd parked his car that first night… if a neighbour had been peering from their window at the right moment…

'I think I'm being fitted up, Shug,' Rebus said as the car took a right at the roundabout, squeezing down the narrow arc of Gardner's Crescent and signalling left at the next lights, into Morrison Street.

They were back into the one-way system and would have to take a couple more rights to bring them to C Division HQ.

'Lot of people,' Davidson said, 'are going to think he deserves a medal – the guy who clobbered Cafferty, I mean.' He paused, fixing Rebus with a look. 'Just for the record, I don't happen to be among them.'

'I didn't do it, Shug.'

'Then you'll be fine, won't you? We're cops, John, we know the innocent always go free…'

They were silent after that until the patrol car drew up outside the police station. No media, for which Rebus was thankful, but as they entered the lobby he saw Derek Starr having a whispered confab with Calum Stone.

'Nice day for a lynching,' Rebus told them. Davidson just kept moving, so Rebus followed.

'Reminds me,' Davidson was saying, 'I think the Complaints are after a word, too.'

The Complaints: Internal Affairs… cops who liked nothing more than dustbinning their own.

'Seems you were suspended a few days back,' Davidson added, 'but didn't take it to heart.' He'd paused at the door to one of the interview rooms. 'In here, John.' The door opened outwards. Reason for that was, a prisoner couldn't barricade himself in. Usual arrangement of table and chairs, with tape recorders and even a video camera bolted high up on the wall above the door, aimed at the table.

“The accommodation's fine,' Rebus said, 'but does it come with breakfast?'

'I can probably summon a bacon roll.'

'With brown sauce,' Rebus stated.

'Tea or coffee with that?'

'Milky tea, I think, garqon. No sugar.'

'I'll see what I can do.' Davidson closed the door after him, and Rebus sat down at the table, resting his head on his arms. So what if a SOCO had found an overshoe? Could be that one of the SOCOs themselves had left it there. Bloodstains might well turn out to be bits of bark or rust – plenty of both in the canal. Cops and SOCOs used overshoes, but who else? Some hospitals… maybe the mortuary… places that needed to be kept sterile. He thought of the lock on the Saab's boot and how he'd been meaning to get it fixed. It would close eventually, but only with persistence, and even then it would spring open with minimal effort. Cafferty knew Rebus's car. Stone and Prosser knew it, too. Had Andropov's driver clocked it that day outside the City Chambers? No, because they'd been in Siobhan's car, hadn't they? But Rebus had left the Saab kerbside while he'd followed Cafferty and Andropov to the wine bar… an opportunity for either of the bodyguards to swipe anything they liked from the boot. Cafferty himself had said it: Andropov's driver had recognised Rebus… A bloodstained overshoe – what were the chances of finding anything on it leading back to Rebus? He'd no way of knowing.

Tour last days as a cop, John,' he told himself. 'Savour them…'

The door opened and a woman constable appeared with a polystyrene beaker.

'Tea?' he speculated, sniffing the contents.

'If you say so,' she responded, before making a tactical retreat. He took a sip and decided to be satisfied. When the door next opened, it was Shug Davidson, carrying in a third chair.

'Strangest bacon butty I've ever seen,' Rebus told him.

'Rolls are coming.' Davidson placed the chair next to his own, then sat down. He produced two cassette tapes from his pocket, unwrapped them and slotted them into the machine.

'Do I need a lawyer, Shug?'

Tou're the detective, you tell me,' Davidson answered. And then the door opened once more and DI Calum Stone made his entry.

He carried a case file with him, and wore a grim look on his face.

Tou've handed over control?' Rebus guessed, eyes on Davidson.

But it was Stone who replied.

'SCD takes precedence.'

'Feel free to help yourselves to some of my station's case load, too,' Rebus told him. Stone just smirked and opened the file. It

was dog-eared and coffee-stained and bore the hallmarks of having been pored over many times in pursuit of a fresh angle on Cafferty. Funny thing was, Rebus kept a file much like it at home…

'Right then, DI Davidson,' Stone said, adjusting his jacket and shirt cuffs as he made himself comfortable, 'switch that tape machine on and let's get down to business Half an hour later, the rolls arrived. Stone rose to his feet and began pacing, not quite managing to look sanguine that he had not been included in the food order. Rebus's was cold, and the sauce was tomato rather than brown, but he attacked it with exaggerated zeal.

'This is delicious,' he would say one minute, and 'Proper butter, too,' the next. Davidson had offered to split his own helping with Stone, but Stone had waved it aside. 'Another cup of tea's what we need,' Rebus suggested, and Davidson, finding his mouth full of stodgy dough, was forced to agree. So another round of teas arrived and they washed down the last remnants of roll with them, Rebus daintily brushing bits of flour from the corners of his mouth before declaring himself 'ready for round two'.

The machine was switched on again and Rebus went back to defending Siobhan Clarke's role in the previous evening's events.

'She does whatever you tell her,' Stone insisted.

'I'm sure DI Davidson here will vouch that DS Clarke is very much her own woman…' Rebus broke off and watched Davidson nod. 'DI Davidson nods,' he added for the benefit of the tapes. Then he rubbed a finger across the bridge of his nose. 'Look, here's the bottom line – I've not tried to hide anything from you. I admit I saw Cafferty last night. I was there by the canal with him. But I didn't attack him.'

Tou admit you led an SCD surveillance unit away from the scene?'

'Stupid in retrospect,' Rebus agreed.

'But that's all you did?'

'That's all I did.'

Stone looked to Davidson and then back at Rebus. 'In which case, Inspector, you won't mind if we go down to the processing area?'

Rebus stared at Stone. 'Are you charging me?'

'We're asking you to volunteer your fingerprints,' Davidson explained.

'And a DNA swab,' Stone added.

'For purposes of elimination, John.'

'And if I refuse?'

'Why would an innocent man refuse?' Stone asked. The smirk was back again.

36

Siobhan Clarke knew damned well she wouldn't find a space in the car park at Gayfield Square – all those new arrivals, driving in from all over the city. Her own flat was only a five-minute walk, her car parked kerbside in a residents' bay. So she walked to work, taking with her a personal CD player. She'd found it under her bed, coated with dust. Replaced the batteries and found that the earphones from her iPod fitted the socket. On her way to work, she picked up coffee from the Broughton Street basement cafe. Seemed like an age since she'd met Todd Goodyear there. Derek Starr still didn't seem to have noticed her new recruit – plenty of bodies in the CID suite, meaning Todd might go undetected a while longer.

When she arrived, there was someone at her desk. She flung her shoulder bag on to the floor next to the chair, hoping it might act as a hint. When it didn't, she flicked the officer's ear. He looked up from the call he was making, and she gestured for him to vamoose.

He didn't seem happy about it, but got up anyway, continuing the conversation as he moved away. Todd Goodyear was standing in front of her with more sheets of transcript from the Urban Regeneration Committee.

'Doesn't seem quite as busy in here,' Clarke commented, noting that Starr was in earnest conversation with Macrae in the DCI's office.

'We've requisitioned two of the interview rooms,' he explained. 'Numbers one and two – three's too cold, apparently.' Then, after a meaningful pause: 'What's this I hear about Cafferty?'

'Did your girlfriend tell you?' Clarke took a sip of cappuccino. Goodyear was nodding.

'She was summoned to the canal,' he confirmed.

'That must have put a damper on your evening.'

'Part and parcel of the job.' He paused. 'She saw you there, too.

How do you want to play it?'

She didn't get his meaning at first, then realised that Todd had been present outside the pub. He, too, knew that Rebus had been on his way to a rendezvous with Cafferty.

'Anyone asks,' she told him, 'you tell them just as much as you know. For what it's worth, DI Rebus has already talked to the inquiry team.'

Goodyear expelled some air. 'Is he a suspect?'

Clarke shook her head. But she knew damned well the possibility was being discussed in Macrae's room. As soon as Goodyear had retreated, she reached into her bag for the CD player and took the disc from the top drawer of her desk. Todorov's recital for the benefit of the Word Power bookshop. She plugged herself in, cranked up the volume and closed her eyes.

A cafe. The espresso machine was hissing somewhere in the distance. Charles Riordan had to be positioned near the front of the audience. She could hear Todorov clearing his throat. One of the booksellers gave the welcome and made some introductory remarks. Clarke knew the cafe. It was near the old Odeon cinema, popular with students. Big comfy sofas and mood music, the sort of place where you felt guilty ordering anything not Fairtrade or organic. Didn't sound like there was amplification for the poet.

Riordan's mic was good, though. When he changed its positioning, she could sense individuals in the audience: a cough here, a sniffle there. Murmurs and whispers. Riordan seemed almost as interested in these as in the main event. Figured: the man did like to eavesdrop.

When the poet started speaking, he covered almost identical ground to his recital at the Poetry Library – made the same ice-breaking jokes, said how welcoming he found Scottish people.

Clarke could imagine his eyes scanning the audience for any women who might like to take the welcome a little further. He veered a few times from the Poetry Library script, announcing at one point that he would next read a poem by Robert Burns. It was called 'Farewell to All Our Scottish Fame'. Todorov read it in heavily accented English, having apologised for 'anglicising' certain words:

Farewell to all our Scottish fame, Farewell our ancient glory.

Farewell even to the Scottish name,

So famed in martial story.

Now Sark runs over the Solway sands, And Tweed runs to the ocean, To mark where England's province stands Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.

There were two further verses, each ending with the same last line. Applause and a couple of whoops when the poet had finished.

Todorov then went back to poems from Astapovo Blues and ended by saying that copies were available for sale at the door. After the ovation had died down, Riordan's mic made another circuit of the room, catching reactions to the recital.

'Going to buy a copy, then?'

'Ten quid's a bit steep… anyway, we've heard most of them now.'

'Which pub you headed for?'

'Pear Tree probably.'

'What did you think?'

'Bit pompous.'

'We on for Saturday?'

'Depends on the kids.'

'Has it started raining?'

'I've got the dog in the car.'

And then the ringing of a mobile phone, silenced when the recipient answered…

Answered in what sounded to Clarke suspiciously like Russian.

Only a couple of words before the voice was muffled. Did the poet himself possess a mobile phone? Not as far as she knew. Meaning someone in the audience…? Yes, because now the mic was sweeping back round again, catching Todorov being thanked by the bookseller.

'And if you'd be happy to sign some stock afterwards…?' she was asking.

'Absolutely. My pleasure.'

'Then a drink on us at the Pear Tree… You're sure we can't tempt you to supper?'

'I try to avoid temptation, my dear. It's not good for a poet of my advancing years.' But then Todorov's attention was deflected. 'Ah, Mr Riordan, isn't it? How did the recording go?'

'It was great, thank you.'

Dead men talking, Clarke couldn't help thinking. The mic itself cut out after that. The timer on the player told her she'd been

listening for the best part of an hour. Macrae's office was empty, no sign of Starr anywhere nearby. Clarke removed her earphones and checked her mobile for messages. There were none. She tried Rebus's home number but got his machine. He wasn't answering his mobile either. She was tapping the phone against her pursed lips when Todd Goodyear reappeared.

'Girlfriend's just given me a tip-off,' he said.

'Remind me of her name.'

'Sonia.'

'And what does Sonia tell you?'

'When they were searching the canal, they came up with an overshoe. You know, the polythene sort with the elastic around the ankle?'

'Talk about contaminating the crime scene…'

He caught her meaning. 'No,' he clarified, 'it wasn't dropped by a SOCO. There were spots of blood on it. Well, that's what they think, anyway.'

'Meaning the assailant wore it?' Goodyear was nodding. Scene-of crime clothing – protective overalls, hats, overshoes and disposable gloves… the whole lot designed so as not to leave trace evidence.

Yes, but that worked both ways, didn't it? Meant the investigators didn't leave anything that could be misconstrued; meant anyone wearing the get-up could mount an attack without fear of getting the victim's blood or hair or fibres on them. Dump the overalls – or better still, burn them – and you had a good chance of getting away with it.

'Don't go thinking what you're thinking,' Clarke warned Goodyear, the same words Rebus had used on her. 'This had nothing to do with DI Rebus.'

'Not saying it did.' Goodyear seemed stung by the accusation.

'What else did Sonia say?'

He shrugged by way of an answer. Clarke made a flicking motion with her fingers, and he took the hint, turning and finding that the desk he'd been using had found a new owner in his absence. As he walked away, readying to remonstrate, Clarke picked up her bag and coat, headed downstairs and out into Gayfield Square. Rebus was parked by the kerb. She gave the briefest of smiles and opened the passenger-side door, climbing in.

Tour phone's off,' she told him.

'Haven't got round to switching it on.'

'Have you heard? They've found an overshoe.'

'Shug's already dragged me in for questioning,' Rebus admitted,

punching his PIN into his mobile. 'Stone was there, too, enjoying every bastard minute.'

'What did you tell them?'

'The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.'

'This is serious, John!'

'Who knows that better than me?' he muttered. 'But it only becomes problematic when they trace the overshoe to the boot of my car.'

She stared at him. 'When?' she echoed.

'Think about it, Shiv. Only reason to leave the shoe was to stick me more firmly in the frame. The Saab's boot hasn't shut properly for months, and there's nothing in there but crime-scene kit.'

'And that old pair of hiking boots,' she corrected him.

'Aye,' he agreed, 'and if a hiking boot would have served the purpose, you can bet they'd have taken that instead.'

'So who's the “they”? You still think Andropov?'

He dragged his palms down his face, accentuating the bloodshot and dark-ringed eyes, the day's worth of grey stubble. 'Proving it is going to be the killer,' he replied at last.

Clarke nodded her agreement and they sat in silence for a while, until Rebus asked how everything else was shaping up.

'Starr and Macrae started the day with a good old chinwag.'

'No doubt my name featured on the agenda.'

'All I've been doing is listening to that other recording of Todorov.'

'Nice to see you breaking a sweat.'

'Riordan's mic picked up some of the audience. I think I heard a Russian voice.'

'Oh?'

'Thought I might nip over to Word Power and ask them.'

'Need a lift?'

'Sure.'

'Do me a favour first, will you? I need the CD of Todorov's other performance.'

Why?' He explained about Scarlett Colwell and the new poem.

'So you're keeping in her good books, eh?'

'Just go fetch it.'

She opened the car door but then paused. 'The show Todorov did for Word Power, he read out a poem by Burns – “Farewell to All Our Scottish Fame”.'

Rebus nodded. 'I know that one. It's about the English buying us off. Scotland lost all its money in a Panama land-grab. England

suggested a union of the two countries.'

'What was so bad about that?'

'I keep forgetting you're English… We ceased to be a nation, Siobhan.'

'And became a parcel of rogues instead?'

'According to Burns, yes.'

'Sounds to me as if Todorov was a bit of a Scot Nat.'

'Maybe he just looked at this country and saw a version of his own… bought and sold for gold, tin, zinc, gas…'

'Andropov again?'

Rebus offered a shrug. 'Go get that CD,' he told her.

37

The bookshop was small and cramped. Rebus feared that if he so much as turned around he would topple a display. The woman behind the till had her nose in a copy of something called Labyrinth. She only worked there part-time and hadn't been to the Todorov reading.

“We've got some of his books, though.'

Rebus looked in the direction she was pointing. 'Are they signed?'

he asked. For his troubles, Clarke poked him in the ribs before asking the assistant if any photos had been taken on the night.

She nodded and muttered something about the shop's website.

Clarke looked to Rebus.

'Should've thought of that first,' she told him. So they drove back to her flat, Rebus deciding to double-park rather than seek a space further afield.

'A while since I've been here,' he said as she led him down the narrow hallway. It was much the same layout as his own flat, but with meaner proportions.

'It's nothing personal,' she apologised. 'Just that I don't entertain much.'

They were in the living room by now. Chocolate wrappers on the rug next to the sofa, alongside an empty wine glass. On the sofa itself sat a large, venerable-looking teddy bear. Rebus picked it up.

'It's a Steiff,' Clarke told him. 'Had him since I was a kid.'

'Has he got a name?'

Tea.'

'Going to tell me what it is?'

'No.' She'd gone over to the computer desk by the window and

switched on the laptop which rested there. She had one of those S-shaped stools that were supposed to be good for your back, but sat with her feet on the bit that was meant for her knees. Within a matter of moments, she had found the Word Power website.

Clicked on 'recent events' and then 'photo gallery' and started a slow scroll. And there was Todorov, being introduced to the crowd.

They were seated on the floor and standing at the back, and all had about them the aura of the converted.

'How are we supposed to spot the Russians?' Rebus asked, leaning his hands against the edge of the desk. 'Cossack hats? Ice picks in their ears?'

'We never did take a proper look at that list,' Clarke said.

'What list?'

“The one Stahov brought – Russian residents in Edinburgh. He even had his own name on it, remember? Wonder if his driver's on it, too.' She was tapping the screen. Only his face was visible.

He was seated on a brown leather sofa but with people crouched and seated on the floor in front of him. The photographer was no professional; everyone had been given red eyes. 'Remember that stooshie at the mortuary? Stahov wanted Todorov's remains repatriated.

I'm pretty sure our friend here was with him.' She tapped the screen again. Rebus leaned in further for a better look.

'He's Andropov's driver,' he said. 'We went eyeball-to-eyeball in the lobby of the Caledonian Hotel.'

'Must be working for two masters, then, because Stahov got into the back of his old Merc and this guy got behind the wheel.' She turned her head and looked up at him. 'Reckon he'll talk to us?'

Rebus shrugged. 'Maybe he'll claim diplomatic immunity.'

'Was he with Andropov that night in the bar?'

'No one's mentioned him.'

'Might have been waiting outside with the car.' She glanced at her watch.

'What now?' Rebus asked.

'I've got that appointment with Jim Bakewell MSP.'

'Where are you meeting him?'

'The Parliament building.'

'Tell him you need a coffee – I'll be at the next table over.'

'Haven't you got anything better to do?'

'Like what?'

'Finding out who's behind the attack on Cafferty.'

You don't think there's a link?'

'We don't know.'

'I could really use a shot of that parliamentary espresso,' Rebus told her.

She couldn't help smiling. 'All right then,' she said. 'And I really will have you over to supper one night – promise.'

'Best give me plenty of warning… diary's going to be bursting at the seams.'

'Retirement's a whole new beginning for some people,' she agreed.

'I don't plan on twiddling my thumbs,' he assured her.

Clarke had risen from the stool. She stood in front of him, arms by her sides, eyes fixed on his. The silence lasted fifteen or twenty seconds, Rebus smiling at the end, feeling they'd shared a long conversation without the need for words.

'Let's go,' he said, breaking the spell.

They called the Western General from the car, checking on Cafferty's progress.

'He's not woken up,' Rebus said, relaying the message for Clarke's benefit. 'Due another scan later today and they've got him on drugs to prevent a blood clot.'

'Think we should send him flowers?'

'Bit early for a wreath…'

They'd taken a short cut down Calton Road, parked in one of the residential streets at Abbeyhill. Clarke told him to give her a five-minute start, which gave Rebus enough time for a cigarette.

Tourists were milling around, a few interested in the Parliament building but the majority keener on the Palace of Holyrood across the street. One or two seemed to be puzzling over the vertical bamboo bars across some of the Parliament's windows.

'Join the club,' Rebus muttered, stubbing the cigarette and heading inside. As he emptied his pockets and prepared for the metal detector at security, he asked one of the guards about the bamboo.

'Search me,' the man said.

'Isn't that supposed to be my line?' Rebus replied. On the other side of the detector, he scooped up his stuff and made for the coffee bar. Clarke was in the queue and he took his place directly behind her. 'Where's Bakewell?' he asked.

'On his way down. He's not a “coffee person” apparently, but I said it was for my benefit rather than his.' She ordered her cappuccino and got out some money.

'Might as well add mine to the order,' Rebus said. 'And make it a double.'

'Want me to drink it for you, too?'

'Could be the last espresso you ever buy me,' he chided her.

They found two adjacent tables and settled at them. Rebus still wasn't sure about this vast, echoing interior. If someone had told him he was in an airport, he might have believed them. He couldn't tell what sort of statement it was supposed to be making. One newspaper report from a few years back had stuck in his mind, the journalist speculating that the building was too elaborate for its actual purpose and was, in fact, 'an independent parliament in waiting5. Made sense when you remembered that the architect was Catalan.

'Detective Sergeant Clarke?' Jim Bakewell shook Clarke's hand and she asked him if he wanted anything. 'We could take your drink to my office,' was all he said.

Yes, but now that we're here…'

Bakewell sighed and sat down, adjusting his glasses. He wore a tweed jacket and what looked like a tweed tie over a check shirt.

'Won't take long, sir,' Clarke was telling him. 'Wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Alexander Todorov.'

'I was sorry to hear about him,' Bakewell declared, but he was adjusting the creases in his trousers as he spoke.

“You shared a platform with him on Question Time?'

'That's correct.'

'Can I ask for your general impression of him?'

Bakewell's eyes were milky-blue. He nodded a greeting to a passing flunky before addressing the question. 'I was late arriving, got held up in traffic. Barely had time to shake hands with him before we were ushered into the hall. He wouldn't wear any make-up, I remember that much.' He removed his glasses and started polishing them with a handkerchief. 'Seemed quite brusque with everybody, but he was fine in front of the cameras.' He put his glasses back on and tucked the handkerchief into a trouser pocket.

'And afterwards?' Clarke asked.

'I seem to think he shot off. Nobody really hangs around. It would mean making small talk with each other.'

'Fraternising with the enemy?' Clarke offered.

'Along those lines, yes.'

'So is that how you see Megan Macfarlane?'

'Megan's a lovely woman…'

'But you're not dropping round one another's houses for a chin wag?'

'Not exactly,' Bakewell said with a thin smile.

'Ms Macfarlane seems to think the SNP will win May's election.'

'Nonsense.'

You don't think Scotland's going to want to give Blair a bloody nose over Iraq?'

'There's no appetite for independence,' Bakewell stated gruffly.

'No appetite for Trident either.'

'Labour will do just fine come May, Sergeant. Please don't lose any sleep on our behalf.'

Clarke seemed to be collecting her thoughts. 'And what about the last time you saw him?'

'I don't think I understand.'

'The night Mr Todorov was killed, he'd just been having a drink in the Caledonian Hotel. You were there, too, Mr Bakewell.'

'Was I?' Bakewell furrowed his brow, as if trying to remember.

Tfou were seated in one of the booths with a businessman called Sergei Andropov.'

'Was that the same night?' He watched Clarke nod slowly. 'Well, I'll take your word for it.'

'Mr Andropov and Mr Todorov grew up together.'

'That's news to me.'

'You didn't see Todorov in the bar?'

'I did not.'

'He was bought a drink by a local gangster called Morris Gerald Cafferty.'

'Mr Cafferty did join us at the table, but he didn't have anyone with him.'

'Had you met him before?'

'No.'

'But you knew his reputation?'

'I knew he was… well, “gangster” is maybe a bit strong, Sergeant.

But he's a reformed character now.' The politician paused. 'Unless you have evidence to the contrary.'

“What were the three of you talking about?'

“Trade… the commercial climate.' Bakewell shrugged. 'Nothing very riveting.'

'And when Cafferty joined you, he didn't happen to mention Alexander Todorov?'

'Not that I remember.'

'What time did you leave the bar, sir?'

Bakewell puffed out his cheeks with the effort of remembering. 'Quarter past eleven… some time around then.'

'Andropov and Cafferty were still there?'

Yes.'

Clarke paused for a moment's thought. 'How well did Cafferty seem to know Mr Andropov?'

'I couldn't say.'

'But it wasn't the first time they'd met?'

'Mr Cafferty's company is representing Mr Andropov in some development projects.'

'Why did he choose Cafferty?'

Bakewell gave an irritated laugh. 'Go ask him yourself.'

'I'm asking you, sir.'

'I get the feeling you're fishing, Sergeant, and none too subtly at that. As development minister it's my job to discuss future planning potential with businesspersons of good standing.'

'So you had your advisers with you?' Clarke watched Bakewell try to form an answer. 'If you were there in your official capacity,'

she pressed, 'I'm assuming you'd have a team backing you up…?'

'It was an informal meeting,' the politician snapped.

'Is that a regular occurrence, sir, in your line of work?' Bakewell was about to remonstrate, either that or retreat. He had his hands pressed to his knees, readying to rise to his feet. But there was a woman approaching, and she was already addressing him.

'Jim, where have you been hiding yourself?' Megan Macfarlane turned towards Clarke and her face fell. 'Oh, it's you.'

'I'm being grilled about Alexander Todorov,' Bakewell explained. 'And Sergei Andropov.'

Macfarlane glowered at Clarke and seemed ready to attack, but Clarke didn't give her the chance. 'I'm glad I caught you, Ms Macfarlane,' she said. 'I wanted to ask about Charles Riordan.'

'Who?'

'He was recording your committee for an art installation.'

'Roddy Denholm's project, you mean?' Macfarlane sounded interested.

“What about it?'

'Mr Riordan was friends with Alexander Todorov, and now both men are dead.'

But if Clarke had hoped to divert Macfarlane's attention, she'd failed. The MSP stabbed a finger in Rebus's direction. 'What's he doing skulking there?'

Bakewell turned towards Rebus but had no idea who he was.

'I'm at a loss,' he admitted.

'That's her boss,' Macfarlane explained. 'Looks to me like your private chat wasn't so private, Jim.'

Bakewell stopped looking puzzled and started to look furious instead. 'Is this true?' he asked Clarke. But Macfarlane, clearly enjoying every moment, was speaking again.

'What's more, I hear he's been suspended from duty, pending retirement.'

'And how did you hear that, Ms Macfarlane?' Rebus asked.

'I had a meeting with your Chief Constable yesterday and happened to mention your name.' She made a tutting sound. 'He's not going to be pleased about this, is he?'

'It's an outrage,' Bakewell spluttered, finally rising to his feet.

'I've James Corbyn's number if you need it,' Macfarlane was telling her colleague as she waved her phone at him. Her assistant, Roddy Liddle, had arrived by her side, laden with files and folders.

'An outrage!' Bakewell repeated, causing heads to turn. Two security guards were looking particularly interested.

'Shall we?' Clarke suggested to Rebus. He still had half a shot of espresso left, but thought it only good manners to accompany her as she stalked towards the exit.

38

'What now?' Rebus asked as he drove her back towards Gayfield Square.

'Talk to Stahov's driver, I suppose.'

'Think the consulate will let you?'

'Have you got a better idea?'

He shrugged. 'Just that it might be easier to grab him on the street.'

'What if he doesn't speak English?'

'I think he does,' Rebus stated, remembering the cars parked by the canal, Cafferty's bodyguard in conversation with Andropov's driver. 'And if he doesn't, we both know a friendly translator.'

Rebus gestured towards the back seat, where he'd slung the CD.

'And she's about to owe us a favour.'

'So I just grab the driver off the street and interrogate him?' She was staring at Rebus. 'How much more trouble do you want me to be in?'

The Saab crossed at the Regent Road lights and headed into Royal Terrace. 'How much can you take?' he eventually asked.

'Not much more,' she admitted. You think Bakewell will talk to the Chief Constable?'

'He might.'

'Then I'll probably be sharing that suspension with you.'

He glanced at her. 'Won't that be fun?'

'I think you're getting demob-happy, John.'

A patrol car was suddenly behind them, its lights flashing.

'Christ, what now?' Rebus complained to no one in particular. He pulled over just short of the next roundabout and got out.

The patrolman took a bit of time adjusting the cap he'd just fixed to his head. He wasn't anyone Rebus knew.

'DI Rebus?' the officer checked. Rebus nodded his confirmation.

'Got orders to bring you in.'

'Bring me where?'

'West End.'

'Shug Davidson's throwing me a surprise party?'

'I wouldn't know about that.'

Maybe not, but Rebus did: they had something to pin on him, and the bookies were giving a million to one on it being a medal.

Rebus turned towards Clarke. She was out of the car now, resting her hands against its roof. Pedestrians had paused for a moment to watch the drama.

'Take the Saab,' Rebus told her. 'See that Dr Colwell gets the CD.'

'What about the chauffeur?'

'Some things you're going to have to decide for yourself.'

He got into the back of the patrol car. 'Blues and twos, lads,' he said. 'Can't keep Shug Davidson waiting.'

But it wasn't Davidson waiting for him at Torphichen Place, it was DI Calum Stone, seated behind the interview room's only table while DS Prosser stood in the corner, hands in pockets.

'Seems I've got a fan club,' Rebus commented, sitting down opposite Stone.

'Got a bit of news for you,' Stone responded. 'It was Cafferty's blood on that overshoe.'

'DNA usually takes longer than that.'

'All right, then – Cafferty's blood type.'

'I sense a “but”…'

'No usable prints,' Stone admitted.

'Meaning you can't prove it came from the boot of my car?' Rebus clapped his hands together once and began getting to his feet.

Well, nice of you to let me know…'

'Sit down, Rebus.'

Rebus considered for a few seconds, then sat.

'Cafferty's still unconscious,' Stone explained. 'They're not talking coma yet, but I know they're thinking it. Doctor says he could end his days a vegetable.' His eyes narrowed. 'So it looks like we might not get to steal your glory after all.'

You still think I did it?'

'I bloody well know you did.'

'And I told DS Clarke all about it because I needed her to phone

you and get you away from the stakeout?' Rebus watched Stone's slow, sustained nod.

'You used your crime-scene kit so you wouldn't get any blood on you,' Prosser snapped from the corner. 'Shoe blew into the canal and you couldn't risk going in after it…'

'We've been through this!' Rebus spat back.

'No doubt we'll go over it again,' Stone warned. 'Soon as we've completed our inquiries.'

'I can hardly wait.' This time Rebus did rise to his feet. 'That all you wanted me for?'

Stone just nodded again, then waited until Rebus reached the door before firing another question at him. 'Officers who brought you in say there was a woman in the car with you – DS Clarke, I presume?'

'Of course not.'

'Liar,' Prosser shot back at him.

'You're still on suspension, Rebus,' Stone was saying. 'Do you really want to take her down with you?'

'Funny, she asked me much the same thing not half an hour ago…' Rebus pushed open the door and made good his escape.

Dr Scarlett Colwell was at her computer when Siobhan Clarke arrived. To Clarke's mind, the woman used a touch too much make-up and would look better without it. Nice hair, though, even if she suspected there might be a bit of dye in it.

'I've brought the CD of the poetry reading,' Clarke said, placing it on the desk.

'Thank you so much.' Colwell picked it up and studied it.

'Can I ask you to take a look at something?'

'Of course.'

'I'll need to use your computer…' The academic gestured for Clarke to sit at the desk. Clarke squeezed past her, Colwell standing at her shoulder as she accessed the Word Power site and clicked the photo gallery option, bringing up the pictures from the cafe.

'That picture,' she said, nodding towards the wall and the shot of Todorov. 'Did you happen to take any others?'

'They were so bad, I deleted them. I'm not great with cameras.'

Clarke nodded and pressed a finger against the screen. 'Remember him?' she asked.

Colwell peered at the chauffeur's face. 'He was there, yes.'

'But you don't know who he is?'

'Should I?'

'Did Todorov speak to him?'

'I couldn't say. Who is he?'

'A Russian… he works at the consulate.'

Colwell stared more intently at the face. Tou know,' she said, 'I think he was at the Poetry Library, too.'

Clarke turned towards her. 'Are you sure?'

'Him and another man…' But she started to shake her head.

'Actually, I'm not certain.'

'Take your time,' Clarke invited, so Colwell ran both hands through her tresses and did some more thinking.

'I'm really not sure,' she confessed after a pause, letting the hair fall around her face again. 'I could be conflating the two readings – do you see what I mean?'

'Imagining the man into the one because you know he was at the other?'

'Exactly so… Do you have any other photos of him?'

'No.' But Clarke started typing again, entering the name Nikolai Stahov into the search engine. She drew a blank, so described the consular official to Colwell instead.

'Doesn't ring any bells,' the academic apologised, so Clarke tried again, this time with a description of Andropov. When Colwell gave another shrug, Clarke tried the website for the Evening News. Skipping back through the days until she'd found the story about the Russians and their blowout meal. Tapping one of the faces in the onscreen photograph.

'He does look familiar,' Colwell admitted.

'From the Poetry Library?'

The academic shrugged and gave a long sigh. Clarke told her not to worry and called the Poetry Library on her mobile.

'Ms Thomas?' she asked when her call was answered.

'Not in today,' another female voice reported. 'Can I help?'

'My name's Detective Sergeant Clarke. I'm investigating Alexander Todorov's murder and I need to ask her something.'

'She's at home today… do you have her number?'

Clarke jotted the number down, then made the call. She asked Abigail Thomas if she had easy access to the Web, then talked her through the links to Word Power and the newspaper.

'Mm, yes,' Thomas eventually said, 'both of them, I think. Seated near the front, second row maybe.'

You're sure of that?'

'Fairly sure.'

'Just to check, Ms Thomas… no one took photos that night?'

'The odd person could have used their camera-phone, I suppose.'

'And you've no CCTV in the library?'

'It's a library,' Abigail Thomas stressed.

'Just a thought… Thanks for your help.' Clarke ended the call.

'Why is it so important?' Colwell asked, breaking Clarke's reverie.

'Might not be,' the detective admitted. 'But Todorov and Andropov had a drink in the same bar, the night the poet was killed.'

'Judging by the news story, Mr Andropov is some sort of businessman?'

'They grew up in the same part of Moscow. DI Rebus says they knew one another…'

'Oh.'

Clarke saw that she'd struck a nerve. 'What is it?' she asked.

'Might help to explain something,' Colwell mused.

'And what's that, Dr Colwell?'

The academic picked up the CD. 'Alexander's extempore poem.'

She walked over to a set of shelves and crouched down in front of it. There was a portable hi-fi there, and she slotted home the recording, then pressed 'play'. The room was filled with the sounds of the audience finding their seats and clearing their throats. 'About halfway through,' Colwell added, holding down the skip button.

But this took her directly to the end of the recording. 'Forgot,' she said, 'there's only the one continuous track.' So she went back to the start and this time used the fast-forward facility.

'First time I listened,' Clarke said, 'I noticed he performed some poems in English, some in Russian.'

Colwell nodded. 'The new poem was in Russian. Ah, here it is.'

She trotted back to her desk and brought out a pad of paper and a pen, concentrating hard as she started to write. Eventually, she told Clarke to press 'rewind'. They listened again, Clarke hitting 'pause' when she felt Colwell was falling behind. 'I really need more time,' the academic apologised. 'This isn't the ideal way to translate a poem…'

'Call it a work in progress,' Clarke cajoled her. Colwell pushed a hand through her mane of hair and started again. After twenty minutes, she tossed the pen back on to the desk. On the CD, Todorov was using English to tell the audience that the next poem was from Astapovo Blues.

'He didn't say anything about the new work,' Clarke realised.

'Nothing,' Colwell agreed.

'Didn't introduce it, either.'

Colwell shook her head, then pushed her hair back into place again. 'I'm not sure how many people would have realised it was a new piece.'

'How can you be sure it was new?'

'There don't seem to be any drafts in his flat, and I know his published work rather well.'

Clarke nodded her understanding and held her hand out. 'May I?' The academic seemed reluctant, but eventually handed the pad over. 'It's really very rough… I've no idea where the line breaks would go…'

Clarke ignored her and started reading.

Winter's tongue licks the children of Zhdanov… The Devil's tongue licks Mother Russia, coating tastebuds with precious metals.

Heartless appetite… The gut's greed knows no fullness, no still moment, no love. Desire ripens, but only to blight. There are morsels here for all in the heat of famine, penances for all as the winter's shadow falls… such a package of scoundrels in my country.

Clarke read it through twice more, then met Colwell's eyes. 'It's not very good, is it?'

'It's a bit rough at the edges,' the academic said defensively.

'I don't mean your translation,' Clarke assured her.

Colwell nodded eventually. 'But there's an anger to it.'

Clarke remembered Professor Gates's words at the Todorov autopsy – there's a fury here. Tes,' she agreed. 'And all that imagery of food…'

Colwell cottoned on. 'The news story? But surely that appeared after Alexander died?'

“True, but the dinner itself was a few days earlier – maybe he'd found out about it.'

'So you're saying this is a poem about the businessman?'

'Composed on the spot, just to get up his nose. Andropov made his fortune from those “precious metals” Todorov mentions.'

'Making him the Devil?'

“ioM don't sound wholly convinced.'

The translation is rough… I'm guessing at some of the phrases.

I really need more time with it.'

Clarke nodded slowly, then remembered something. 'Can I try another CD with you?' She found what she was looking for in her Ibag and knelt down next to the hi-fi. Again, it took a little while Ito find the moment when, at the Word Power reading, Charles [Riordan's roving mic picked up the Russian voice.

'There,' Clarke said.

'It's only a couple of words,' Colwell said. 'He's answering a phone call. All he says is “hello” and “yes”.'

'Worth a try,' Clarke said with a sigh, ejecting the disc and rising to her feet. She reached for the pad of paper again. 'Can I take the poem with me meantime? Leave you to get on with something you feel is more accurate?'

'There was bad blood between Alexander and this businessman?'

'I'm not sure.'

'But it's a motive, right? And if they met again in that bar…'

Clarke held up a hand in warning. 'We've no evidence that they even saw one another in that bar, which is why I'd be grateful if you kept all of this to yourself, Dr Colwell. Otherwise you could jeopardise the inquiry.'

'I understand.' The academic nodded her agreement. Clarke tore the sheet from the pad and folded it into four.

'One little piece of advice,' Clarke said as she finished folding.

'The final line of the poem, he's quoting from Robert Burns. It's not “a package of scoundrels”… it's “a parcel of rogues”…'

39

Rebus sat by the bedside of Morris Gerald Cafferty.

He'd shown his warrant card and asked the day shift if Cafferty had had any other visitors. The nurse had shaken her head.

No, because – despite his goading of Rebus – Cafferty had no friends. His wife was dead, his son murdered years back. His trusted lieutenant of long standing had 'disappeared' after a falling-out.

There was just the one bodyguard at the house, and right now his main concern was probably where his next paycheque was coming from. Doubtless there would be accountants and lawyers – Stone would have the details – but these weren't the sort of men to pay respects. Cafferty was still in intensive care, but Rebus had heard two staff members discussing a looming bed crisis. Maybe they would move him back to an open Ward. Or, if his finances could be unlocked, a private room. As of now, he seemed content with the tubes, machines, and flickering screens. There were wires attached to his skull, measuring brain activity. Fluids were being drip-fed into one arm. Cafferty seemed to be wearing some sort of gown with a front but, Rebus guessed, no back. His arms were bare and the hairs covering them were like silver wires. Rebus stood up and leaned down over Cafferty's face, wondering if the machine might suddenly register awareness of his proximity, but there was no change in the readout. He traced the route from Cafferty's body to the machines and from there to the wall sockets. Cafferty wasn't dying; the doctor had confided that much. Another reason to move him from intensive care. How intensively did you have to tend a vegetable? Rebus looked at Cafferty's knuckles and fingernails, the thick wrists, the dry white skin on each elbow. He was a large man, yes, but not particularly muscular. There were lines around

the neck, like the circles on a freshly felled tree. The jaw was slack, the mouth open to accommodate a tube. There was a single track down the side of the face where some saliva had dried to a crust.

With eyes closed, Cafferty looked harmless enough. What little hair there was on his scalp needed a wash. The charts at the end of the bed had told Rebus nothing. They were just a way of reducing the patient's life to a series of numbers and graphs. Impossible to tell if a line angling upwards was a good sign or a bad…

'Wake up, you old bastard,' Rebus whispered into the gangster's ear. 'Playtime's over.' Not a nicker. 'No point you hiding there inside that thick skull of yours. I'm waiting for you out here.'

Nothing apart from a gurgling in the throat, and Cafferty was making that same sound every thirty seconds or so. Rebus slumped back into his chair. When he'd arrived, a nurse had asked if he was the patient's brother.

'Does it matter?' he'd asked her.

'It's just that you do look like him,' she'd said, waddling away.

He decided that it was a story worth sharing with the patient, but before he could start there was a trembling in his shirt pocket.

He took his mobile out, checking to left and right for anyone who might disapprove.

'What's up, Shiv?' he asked.

'Andropov and his driver were in the audience at the Poetry Library. Todorov made up a poem on the spot, and I think Andropov was its target.'

'Interesting.'

'Have they given you a break?'

It took a moment for Rebus to realise what she meant. 'I'm not being grilled. Nothing on the overshoe but blood – same type as Cafferty.'

'So where are you now?'

'Visiting the patient.'

'Christ, John, how's that going to look?'

'I wasn't planning on sticking a pillow over his face.'

'But say he snuffs it while you're there?'

'Not a bad point, DS Clarke.'

'So walk away.'

'Where do you want to meet?'

'I have to get back to Gayfield Square.'

'I thought we were going to pick up the chauffeur?'

'We are doing no such thing.'

'Meaning you're going to run it past Derek Starr?'

Tea.'

'He doesn't know this case like we do, Siobhan.'

'John, as of now we've got precisely nothing.'

'I disagree. The connections are beginning to come together…

don't tell me you can't sense it?' He'd risen from his chair again, but only to bend over Cafferty's face. One of the machines gave a loud beep, to which Clarke added a voluble sigh.

“You're still by his bed,' she stated.

'Thought I saw his eyelids flicker. So where is it we're going to meet?'

'Let me talk it through with Starr and Macrae.'

'Give it to Stone instead.'

She was silent for a moment. 'I must have misheard.'

'SCD has more clout than us. Give him the Todorov-Andropov connection.'

'Why?'

'Because it might help Stone build his case against Cafferty.

Andropov's a businessman… businessmen like to cut deals.'

'You know that's not going to happen.'

'Then why am I wasting my breath?'

'Because you think I need Stone to be my friend. He's got it in mind that I helped you get to Cafferty. Only way I can show him otherwise is to give him this.'

'Sometimes you're too clever for your own good.' He paused. 'But you should still talk to him. If the consulate starts pleading diplomatic immunity, SCD's got a stronger hand than us.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning channels to Special Branch and the spooks.'

'Are you going all James Bond on me?'

'There's only one James Bond, Shiv,' he told her, hoping for a laugh which didn't come.

'I'll mull it over,' she conceded instead, 'if you promise to be out of that hospital in the next five minutes.'

'Already on my way,' he lied, ending the call. His mouth was dry, and he didn't reckon the patient would mind if he borrowed some of the water on the bedside cabinet. There was a clear plastic jug with a tumbler next to it. Rebus drank two glasses, then decided to take a look inside the cabinet itself.

He wasn't expecting to find Cafferty's watch, wallet and keys. But since they were there, he flipped open the wallet and found that it contained five ten-pound notes, a couple of credit cards, and some scraps of paper with phone numbers on – none of them

meaning anything to Rebus. The watch was a Rolex, naturally, and he weighed it in his hand to confirm that it was the real deal.

Then he picked up the keys. There were half a dozen of them. They chinked and clinked as he rolled them between palm and fingers.

House keys.

Chinked them and clinked them and kept staring at Cafferty.

'Any objections?' he asked quietly. And then, after a further moment: 'Didn't think so…'

His luck just kept getting better and better: no one had bothered to set the alarm, and Cafferty's bodyguard was elsewhere. Having entered by the front door, the first thing Rebus did was check the corners of the ceiling for security cameras. There weren't any, so he padded into the drawing room. The house was Victorian, the ceilings high with ornate cornicing. Cafferty had started collecting art, big splashy paintings which hurt Rebus's eyes. He wondered if any of them were by Roddy Denholm. The curtains were closed and he left them that way, turning on the lights instead. TV and hi-fi and three sofas. Nothing on the marble-topped coffee table but a couple of old newspapers and a pair of spectacles – the gangster too vain to wear them anywhere outside the privacy of his home.

There was a door to the right of the fireplace and Rebus opened it.

Cafferty's booze cupboard, big enough to contain a double fridge and assorted wine racks, with bottles of spirits lining a shelf.

Resisting temptation, he closed the door again and headed back into the hall. More doors off: a huge kitchen; a conservatory with a pool table; laundry room; bathroom; office; yet another, less formal, living room. He wondered if the gangster really enjoyed rattling around in a place this size.

'Course you do,' he said, answering his own question. The stairs were wide and carpeted. Next floor up: two bedrooms with bathrooms attached; a home cinema, forty-two-inch plasma screen flush with the wall; and what seemed to be a storeroom, filled with boxes and tea chests, most of them empty. There was a woman's hat on the top of one box, photo albums and shoes beneath. This, Rebus guessed, was all that remained of the late Mrs Cafferty.

There was a dartboard on one wall, with puncture marks around its circumference, evidence that someone needed to improve their throwing. Rebus guessed that the dartboard would have fallen into disuse once the room changed identity.

The last door off the landing led to a narrow, winding stairwell.

More rooms at the top of the house: one containing a full-size snooker table covered with a dustsheet, the other a well-stocked library. Rebus recognised the shelves – he'd bought the same ones from Ikea. The books were mostly dusty paperbacks, thrillers for the gentleman and romances for the lady. There were also some children's books which had probably belonged to Cafferty's son.

The house felt little used, the floorboards creaking underfoot. He reckoned the gangster seldom took the trouble to climb this final set of stairs.

Heading back down, Rebus returned to Cafferty's office. It was a good-sized room with a window looking on to the back garden.

Again, the curtains were closed, but Rebus risked easing them open so he could take a look at the coach-house. Two cars parked in front of it – the Bentley and an Audi – and no sign of the bodyguard. Rebus closed the curtains again and switched on the light. There was an old bureau in the centre of the room, covered with paperwork – domestic bills, by the look of it. Rebus sat in the leather chair and started opening drawers. The first thing he came across was a gun, a pistol of some kind with what looked like Russian lettering along the barrel.

'Little present from your pal?' Rebus guessed. There was, however, no ammo in the clip, and no sign of any bullets in the drawer.

It was a long time since Rebus had held a firearm. He tested it for weight and balance, then used his handkerchief to place it back where he'd found it. Financial statements in the next drawer down. Cafferty had sixteen grand in his current account and a further quarter of a million earning him interest on the money market. His portfolio of shares added another hundred thousand to the pot. Rebus saw no sign of any mortgage payments, meaning Cafferty probably owned the house outright. This part of town, it had to be worth a million and a half. Nor would this be the end of the gangster's wealth; Stone had hinted at various shell companies and offshore holdings. Cafferty owned bars, clubs, the lettings agency, and a snooker hall. He was rumoured to hold a stake in a cab company. Rebus suddenly noticed something in the corner: a venerable safe with a tumbler lock. It was the colour of verdigris and came from Kentucky. Walking over to it, he was unsurprised to find it locked. The only combination he could think of to try was Cafferty's birthday. Eighteen ten forty-six. Rebus pulled the handle and the heavy door swung open.

He allowed himself a smile. Couldn't think why he had memorised that number, but it hadn't been wasted.

Inside the safe: two boxes of nine-mil ammo, four thick wads of notes, twenties and fifties, some business ledgers, computer disks, a jewellery box containing the late wife's necklaces and earrings.

Rebus lifted out Cafferty's passport and flicked through it: no visits to Russia. Birth certificate for the man himself, birth and death for the wife and son. The wedding certificate showed that Cafferty had married in 1973 at the registry office in Edinburgh. He replaced each item and studied the disks – no labels, no writing. There wasn't even a computer in the office… point of fact, he hadn't seen one anywhere in the house. On the bottom shelf of the safe sat a small cardboard box. Rebus lifted it out and opened it. It contained two dozen shiny silver discs. CDs, he thought at first. But holding one up to the light, he saw that it was marked DVD-R, 4.7G. Rebus was no technophile, but he reckoned whatever this was, it would play on the system upstairs. There was no writing on any of the discs, but coloured dots had been added to each one – some green, some blue, some red, some yellow.

Rebus closed the safe and spun the dial, then switched off the light and padded back upstairs, the box of discs in his hand. The home cinema boasted shuttered windows and a row of leather recliners, behind which was a further row comprising two doubleseater sofas. He crouched down in front of the battery of machines and slotted the DVD home, then switched on the screen and retreated to one of the chairs. It took him three different remotes to get everything – screen, DVD player and loudspeakers – working.

Seated on the edge of the black leather chair, he began to watch what appeared to be surveillance footage…

A room. A living room. Untidy, and with bodies sprawled. Two of the bodies disentangled themselves and headed elsewhere, holding hands. There was a sudden cut to a bedroom, the same two figures appearing, peeling off their clothes as they started to kiss.

Teenagers. Rebus recognised neither of them; didn't recognise the setting either – somewhere a lot tattier than Cafferty's own house.

Okay, so the gangster got his jollies from amateur porn…

Rebus skipped ahead but the action stayed with the couple and their coupling. They were filmed from above and from the side.

Another skip and the girl was in a bathroom, seated on the pan and then stripping off again to take a shower. She was skinny, almost emaciated, and had bruises on her arms. He skipped again but there was nothing else on the disc.

Next one – with a blue dot rather than a green. Different yet similar location; different yet all-too-familiar action.

'Showing your pervy side, Cafferty,' Rebus muttered, ejecting the disc. He tried another green dot – back to the characters from the first disc. Pattern emerging, John… Red dot: another flat, some communal dope-smoking, a girl having a bath, a guy pleasuring himself in his bedroom.

Rebus wasn't looking for any surprises from the yellow dot.

Immediately, he was launched into the same set-ups as previously, but with one important difference – he knew both the flat and the actors.

Nancy Sievewright; Eddie Gentry. The flat on Blair Street. The flat which belonged to MGC Lettings.

'Well, well,' Rebus said to himself. There was footage of a party in the living room. Dancing and booze and what looked to Rebus like a few lines of coke to go with the dope. A blow-job in the bathroom, a punch-up in the hall. Next disc: Sol Goodyear had come to pay his respects, rewarded with a romp in Nancy's bedroom and some shared moments in the cramped shower cubicle. After he'd gone, she settled down with the hash he'd left and rolled herself a healthy joint. Living room, bathroom, her bedroom, the hallway.

'Everything but the kitchen.' Rebus paused. 'The kitchen,' he repeated to himself, 'and Eddie Gentry's bedroom…'

By the time he'd reached the final disc in the box he'd grown bored. It was like watching one of those TV reality shows, but with no adverts to break the monotony. This last disc was different, though: no little colour-coded sticker. And it had sound. Rebus found himself watching the same room he was sitting in. The chairs and sofas had been filled by men. Cigar-smoking men. Men slurping wine from crystal glasses. Voluble, slurred, happy men, who were being shown a DVD.

Wonderful meal that,' one of them told the host. There were grunts of agreement, smoke billowing. The camera was pointing at the men, meaning it had to be… Rebus got to his feet and approached the plasma screen. There was a small hole drilled into the wall just above one corner of the TV. You'd never see it, or else you might take it for a bit of botched DIY. Rebus peered into it, but couldn't see anything. He exited the room and entered the one next door – en suite bathroom. Cabinet attached to a mirrored wall. Inside the cabinet: nothing… no camera, no wires. He put his eye to the peephole and was looking into the screening room. Back in the home cinema, the men's comments left Rebus in no doubt that they were watching some of the same footage he'd just viewed.

'Wish my wife was that dirty.'

'Maybe if you plied her with Class A rather than Chardonnay…'

'Worth a shot, I suppose.'

'And they don't know you're watching them, Morris?'

Cafferty's voice, from the back of the room: 'Not a clue,' he growled happily.

'Didn't Chuck Berry get in trouble for something like this?'

'Getting a few ideas for the good lady, Roger?'

'Married twenty-odd years, Stuart.'

Til take that as a no…'

Rebus found himself on his knees in front of the screen. Roger and Stuart, with their wine and cigars, stuffed to the gills by Cafferty and now enjoying this very different form of corporate hospitality.

Roger Anderson.

Stuart Janney.

First Albannach's brightest and best…

'Michael will be gutted he missed this,' Janney added with a laugh. Meaning, no doubt, Sir Michael Addison. But Rebus reckoned Janney was dead wrong. He ejected the disc and went back to the one with the party on it. Bathroom blow-job, the donor bearing an uncanny resemblance to Gill Morgan, aspiring actress and Sir Michael's pampered stepdaughter. Same head had been bent over one of the coke trails in the living room. Rebus went back to the footage of the home cinema, tried to work out which DVD the group was watching. Kept his eyes glued to the two bankers, wondering if either of them would exhibit signs of clocking their boss's stepkid. Grounds for a revenge attack on Cafferty? Maybe so. But what were they doing there in the first place? Rebus could think of several reasons. From the bank statements, Rebus now knew that Cafferty kept his various onshore accounts with FAB. Added to which, he was going to introduce a new and wealthy client to the bank – Sergei Andropov. And maybe the pair of them would be looking to do a deal with FAB, a vast commercial loan to help them buy up hundreds of acres of Edinburgh.

Andropov was relocating, ducking out of Russia altogether to escape prosecution. Maybe he thought the Scottish Parliament could be persuaded not to extradite him. Maybe he was buying his way into a forthcoming independent Scotland. Small country; easy to become a very big fish…

Cafferty oiling the wheels.

Hosting a memorable party… and secretly taping it. For his own satisfaction? Or to be used against the men themselves?

Rebus couldn't see it having much effect on the likes of Janney

and Anderson. But now another man was rising to his feet from one of the sofas. Looked to Rebus as if only Cafferty and this man had been occupying the back row.

'Bathroom?' he enquired.

'Across the hall,' his host obliged. Yes, Cafferty wouldn't want him using the en suite through the wall; couldn't risk the camera being found.

'Won't ask why you need it, Jim,' Stuart Janney commented to a few rugby-club guffaws.

'Nothing sordid, Stuart,' the man called Jim responded, making his exit.

Jim Bakewell, Minister for Economic Development. Meaning Bakewell had lied at the Parliament, telling Siobhan he'd not met Cafferty until that night at the hotel.

'Try making a complaint to the Chief Constable now, Jimbo,'

Rebus muttered, stabbing a finger in Bakewell's direction.

There wasn't an awful lot more to the DVD. After half an hour, the spectators had wrung as much interest as possible from the show. There were three further members of the party who were new to Rebus. They looked like business types, ruddy-faced and big-bellied. Builders? Contractors? Maybe even councillors…

Rebus knew he could probably find out, but that would mean taking the recording. Which was fine, so long as no one noticed it was missing. If anyone found out Rebus had been here, Cafferty's defence team would have a field day.

'Oh aye, John? What defence team is that then?'

Yes, because where was the crime? Bugging flats you were renting?

Small beer – the magistrate would watch the DVDs with a good deal of interest, then stick the gangster with a pittance of a fine. Rebus made sure everything was switched off, no prints left behind, then headed downstairs and unlocked the safe again, replacing the box, keeping just the one disc for himself. Down the white marble hall and out into the sweet-smelling air, door secure behind him. He'd have to get Cafferty's keys back to him, but first he had some thinking to do. He took a left out of the gate and another left at the top of the road, heading for Bruntsfield Place and the first available taxi.

Eddie Gentry, replete with eyeliner and the red bandanna, opened the door to him.

'Nancy's out,' he said.

'Have you patched things up?'

'We had a frank exchange of views.'

Rebus smiled. 'Going to invite me in, Eddie? And by the way, I liked your CD.'

Gentry considered his options, then turned and pushed open the living-room door. Rebus followed him inside.

'Ever watch Big Brother, Eddie?' Rebus was making a circuit of the room, hands in pockets.

'Life's too short.'

'It is that,' Rebus seemed to agree. 'Tell you something I didn't spot when I was here before.'

'What?'

Rebus looked up. Your ceilings have been lowered.'

¦Yeah?'

Rebus nodded. 'Done before you moved in?'

'Suppose so.'

'There might be original features – cornices, ceiling roses… Why do you reckon the landlord would want them covered up?'

'Insulation?'

'How so?'

Gentry shrugged. 'Makes the rooms smaller, meaning easier to heat.'

'The rooms are all the same, then? Fake ceilings?'

'I'm not an architect.'

Rebus locked eyes with the young man, saw the slightest twitch at a corner of his mouth. Eddie Gentry was not feeling comfortable.

The detective gave a low, drawn-out whistle.

Tou know, don't you?' he asked. Tou've known all along?'

'Known what?'

'Cafferty's got you wired – cameras in the ceiling, in the walls…'

He pointed towards a corner of the room. 'See that hole? Looks like someone's botched a bit of drilling?' Gentry's face gave nothing away. 'There's a lens pointing at us. But you already know that.

For all I know, maybe it's even your job to set the camera rolling.'

Gentry had folded his arms across his chest. 'That session you did at CR Studios – I'm betting it didn't come cheap. Did Cafferty pay for it? Was that part of the deal? Bit of money in your pocket… cheap rent… no overcrowding… and all you had to do was throw a few parties.' Rebus was thinking it through. 'Dope provided by Sol Goodyear – and I'm betting it came cheap, too. Know why?'

'Why?'

'Because Sol works for Cafferty. He's the dealer, you're the pimp…'

'Fuck you.'

'Careful, son.' Rebus jabbed his forefinger towards the young man. 'Have you heard what happened to Cafferty?'

'I heard.'

'Maybe someone didn't like what he'd been doing. Remember that party with Gill Morgan?'

'What about it?'

'That the only footage of her you got?'

'I've no idea.' Rebus looked disbelieving. 'I never watched any of it.'

'Just handed it over, eh?'

'No harm done, was there?'

'I don't think you're qualified to judge that, Eddie. Does Nancy know?'

Gentry shook his head.

'Just you, eh? Did he tell you he was doing the selfsame thing in some of his other flats?'

“You mentioned Big Brother earlier – what's the difference?'

Rebus was standing close to the young man when he answered.

'Difference is, they know they're being watched. I can't really decide who's the sleazier, you or Cafferty. He was watching complete strangers, but you, Eddie, were filming your mates.'

'Is there a law against it?'

'Oh, I'm fairly sure there is. How often does the taping happen?'

'Three or four times – tops.'

Because by then Cafferty was bored, and moved on to a new flat, new tenants, new faces and bodies… Rebus walked into the hallway, looked for the hole and found it. Nancy's bedroom: again, the false ceiling; again, the neatly drilled hole. The bathroom was the same. When Rebus emerged into the hallway, Gentry was leaning against the wall, arms still folded, jaw jutting defiantly.

'Where's the hardware?' Rebus asked.

'Mr C took it.'

When?'

'Few weeks back. Like I told you, it was only three or four times…'

'Doesn't make it any less sordid. Let's take a look at your room.' Rebus didn't wait for an invitation, opened the door to Gentry's bedroom and asked where the cables were.

They used to come down from the ceiling. Had them hooked up

to a DVD recorder. If anything interesting was happening, I only had to press the record button.'

'And now the whole lot's been installed in some other flat so your landlord can show a fresh slice of grainy porn to his sweaty pals.'

Rebus was shaking his head slowly. 'Wouldn't want to be in your shoes when Nancy finds out…'

Gentry didn't so much as flinch. 'I think it's time you were leaving,'

he stated. 'Show's over.'

Rebus responded by getting right into the young man's face. Tou couldn't be more wrong, Eddie – this particular show's only just getting started.' He squeezed past, out into the hallway, pausing by the front door. 'I lied by the way – that music of yours is going nowhere. You've just not got the talent, pal.'

Closed the door after him and stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes.

Job done.

40

The CID suite at Gayfield Square might as well have been a swimming pool – all they were doing was treading water. Derek Starr knew it, and was having trouble motivating the group. There wasn't enough for them to do. No exciting new leads on either Todorov or Riordan. Forensics had produced a partial fingerprint from the small bottle of cleaning fluid, but all they knew so far was that it belonged neither to Riordan nor to anyone on the database. Terry Grimm had supplied information that Riordan's house was visited weekly by a team of cleaners from an agency, though they were usually told not to bother with the living-room-cum-studio. But any one of them could have left the print. No one was about to claim for certain that it belonged to the arsonist. It looked like another dead end. Same went for the e-fit of the hooded woman outside the multistorey: officers had taken copies door-to-door, returning to the station with nothing but sore feet.

Having gone through the proper channels, Starr had at last secured CCTV footage from the few cameras in and around Portobello, but no one was very hopeful – all they showed was early-morning traffic. Again, without knowing how the attacker had reached Riordan's house, it was needle-in-a-haystack stuff. The way Starr himself kept looking at Siobhan Clarke, he knew she was holding back on him. Twice in the space of half an hour he'd asked her what she was working on.

'Going through the Riordan tapes,' she'd explained. Not a word of truth in it – Todd Goodyear was typing up the last batch of transcripts, looking worn down by the whole experience. He kept staring into space, as if thinking himself into a better place. Clarke, meantime, was waiting for Stone to get back to her, having left

a message on his mobile. She was still wondering if it was such a good idea. Stone and Starr seemed pretty pally; chances were, anything she said to the one would get back to the other. She had yet to mention to Starr the appearance of Sergei Andropov and his driver in the Poetry Library audience.

There were no longer any members of the media hanging about outside the station. The last mention of either death had been an inch-long paragraph on one of the Evening News's inside pages.

Starr was currently in another meeting with DCI Macrae. Maybe later today, they would announce that the inquiry was being split into two, since no evidence had come to light connecting the Todorov murder to Riordan's fate. The team would be broken up; the Riordan case would go back to Leith CID.

Unless Clarke did something about it.

It took her a further ten minutes to decide. Starr was still in his meeting, so she grabbed her coat and wandered over to the desk where Goodyear was working.

'Going somewhere?' he asked, somewhat forlornly.

'We both are,' she said, brightening his day.

The drive across town to the consulate took only ten minutes.

It was housed on a grand Georgian terrace within sight of the Episcopalian Cathedral. The street was wide enough to accommodate a row of parking bays in the middle of the road, and a car was pulling out of one bay as they arrived. While Goodyear put money in the meter, Clarke studied the car next to hers – it looked very much like the one Andropov had been using at the City Chambers and Nikolai Stahov at the mortuary – an old black Merc with darkened rear windows. The licence plate, however, wasn't the diplomatic kind, so Clarke called the station and asked for a check. The car was registered to Mr Boris Aksanov, with an address in Cramond. Clarke jotted down the details and ended the call.

“You reckon they'll let us question him?' Goodyear asked on his return.

She gave a shrug. 'Let's see, shall we?' She crossed to the consulate, climbed its three stone steps, and pressed the buzzer. The door was opened by a young woman with the fixed smile of the professional greeter. Clarke already had her warrant card open.

'I'm here to see Mr Aksanov,' she stated.

'Mr Aksanov?' The smile stayed fixed.

Tour driver.' Clarke turned her head. 'His car's over there.'

'Well, he's not here.'

Clarke stared at the woman. “You sure about that?'

'Of course.'

'What about Mr Stahov?'

'He's also not here at present.'

'When's he due back?'

'Later today, I think.'

Clarke was looking over the woman's shoulder. The entrance hall was large but barren, with peeling paintwork and faded wallpaper.

A curving staircase led upwards, but she had no view of the landing.

'And Mr Aksanov?'

'I don't know.'

'He's not driving Mr Stahov, then?'

The smile was having a bit of trouble. 'I'm afraid I can't help…'

'Aksanov's driving Sergei Andropov, is he?'

The young woman's hand was gripping the edge of the door.

Clarke could tell she wanted to close it in their faces.

'I can't help,' she repeated instead.

'Is Mr Aksanov a consular employee?' But now the door really was being closed, slowly but determinedly. 'We'll come back later,'

Clarke stressed. The door clicked shut but she continued to stare at it.

'She had frightened eyes,' Goodyear commented.

Clarke nodded her agreement.

'Waste of money, too – I put half an hour on the meter.'

'Claim it back from the inquiry.' Clarke turned and started towards the car, but paused at the Merc and checked her watch.

When she got in behind the steering wheel, Goodyear asked if they were headed back to Gayfield Square. Clarke shook her head.

'Parking wardens round here are vicious,' she said. 'And that Merc goes into the red in exactly seven minutes.'

'Meaning someone's going to have to feed the meter?' he guessed.

But Clarke shook her head again. 'It's illegal to do that, Todd. If they don't want a ticket, they're going to have to move the car.' She turned her key in the ignition.

'I thought embassies never paid their fines anyway.'

True enough… if they have diplomatic plates.' Clarke put the car into gear and moved out of the parking bay, but only to stop again kerbside a few dozen yards further along. 'Worth a bit of a; wait, wouldn't you say?' she asked.

'If it keeps me away from those transcripts,' Goodyear agreed.

'Detective work losing its allure, Todd?'

'I think I'm ready to go back into uniform.' He drew back his shoulders, working the muscles. 'Any news of DI Rebus?'

'They pulled him in again.'

'Are they thinking of charging him?'

'Reason they pulled him in was to tell him there's no evidence.'

'They didn't get a match from that overshoe?'

'No.'

'Do they have anyone else in mind?'

'Christ, Todd, I don't know!' The silence in the car lasted half a dozen beats before Clarke expelled air noisily. 'Look, I'm sorry…'

'I'm the one who should be apologising,' he assured her. 'Couldn't help sticking my nose in.'

'No, it's me… I could be in trouble.'

'How?'

'SCDEA were watching Cafferty. John got me to send them elsewhere.'

The young man's eyes had widened. 'Bloody hell,' he said.

'Language,' she warned him.

'They had surveillance on Cafferty… That has to look bad for DI Rebus.'

Clarke gave a shrug.

'Surveillance on Cafferty…' Goodyear repeated to himself, shaking his head slowly. Clarke's attention had been diverted by movement along the street. A man was exiting the consulate.

'This looks promising,' she said. Same man who'd been with Stahov at the mortuary; same man who'd been photographed at the Word Power event. Aksanov unlocked the car and got in.

Clarke decided to let her engine idle, until she knew what he was going to do – move to a different bay, or head elsewhere. When he passed his third vacant bay, she had her answer.

'We're going to follow him?' Goodyear asked, fastening his seat belt.

'Well spotted.'

'And then what?'

'I was thinking of pulling him over on some trumped-up charge…'

'Is that wise?'

'Dunno yet. Let's see what happens.' The Merc had signalled left into Queensferry Street.

'Heading out of town?' Goodyear guessed.

'Aksanov lives in Cramond; maybe he's going home.'

Queensferry Street became Queensferry Road. Looking at her

speedometer, Clarke saw that he was staying within the limit.

When the traffic lights ahead turned red, she watched his brake lights, but they were both in good working order. If Cramond was his destination, he'd probably keep going till the Barnton roundabout, then take a right. Question was, did she want him getting that far? Every few hundred yards on Queensferry Road, there seemed to be another set of lights. As the Merc stopped at the next red, Clarke brought her own car up close behind it.

'Reach over into the back seat, will you, Todd?' she asked. 'On the floor there…' He had to undo his seatbelt in order to twist his body around sufficiently.

'This what you want?' he asked.

'Plug it into the socket there,' she told him. 'Then put your window down.'

'There's a magnet on the base?' he guessed.

'That's right.'

The moment the flashing blue light was plugged in, it began working. Goodyear reached out of the window and attached it to the roof. The light ahead was still red. Clarke sounded her horn and watched the driver examine her in his rearview mirror. She signalled with her hand for him to pull over. When the light turned green, that was exactly what he did, crossing the junction and bumping his passenger-side tyres up on to the pavement.

Clarke passed him and then did the same with her car. Traffic slowed to watch, but kept moving. The driver was out of the Merc.

He wore sunglasses and a suit and tie. He was standing on the pavement when Clarke reached him. She had her ID open for inspection.

'Is there a problem?' he asked, his English heavily accented.

'Mr Aksanov? We met at the mortuary…'

'I asked what the problem was.'

Tou're going to have to come to the station.'

“What have I done wrong?' He had lifted a mobile phone from his pocket. 'I will speak to the consulate.'

'Won't do you any good,' she warned him. 'That's not an official car, which makes me think you're self-employed. No immunity, Mr Aksanov.'

'I am a driver for the consulate.'

'But not just the consulate. Now get in the car.' There was steel in her voice. He was still holding the phone, but had yet to do anything with it.

'And if I refuse?'

'You'll be charged with obstruction… and anything else I can think of.'

'I've done nothing wrong.'

'That's all we need to hear – but we need to hear it at the station.'

'My car,' he complained.

'It'll still be here. We'll bring you back afterwards.' She managed a nice friendly smile. 'Promise.'

'How come you started driving Sergei Andropov around?' Clarke asked.

'I drive people for a living.'

They were in an interview room at West End police station, Clarke not wanting to take the Russian to Gayfield Square. She'd sent Goodyear off to fetch coffee. There was a tape deck on the table, but she wasn't using it. No notebook either. Aksanov had asked to smoke and she was letting him.

Your English is good – there's even a trace of local accent.'

'I'm married to a girl from Edinburgh. I've been here almost five years.' He inhaled some smoke and blew it ceilingwards.

'Is she a poetry fan, too?' Aksanov stared at Clarke. 'Well?' she prompted.

'She reads books… mostly novels.'

'So it's just you that likes poetry?' He shrugged but said nothing.

'Read any Seamus Heaney lately? Or how about Robert Burns?'

'Why are you asking me this?'

'Just that you were spotted at poetry readings twice in as many weeks. Or maybe it's just that you really like Alexander Todorov?'

'People say he is Russia's greatest poet.'

'Do you agree?' Aksanov gave another shrug and examined the tip of his cigarette. 'Did you buy a copy of his latest book?'

'I don't see why this is any of your business.'

'Can you remember what it's called?'

'I don't have to talk to you.'

'I'm investigating two murders, Mr Aksanov…'

'And what is that to me?' The Russian was growing angry. But then the door opened and Goodyear came in with two drinks.

'Black, two sugars,' he said, placing one in front of Aksanov.

'White with none.' The second Styrofoam cup was handed to Clarke.

She nodded her thanks, then gave the slightest flick of the head.

Goodyear took the hint and walked to the far wall, resting his back against it, hands clasped in front of him. Aksanov had stubbed out

the cigarette and was readying to light another.

'Second time you went,' she told him, 'you took Sergei Andropov with you.'

'Did I?'

'According to witnesses.' Another mighty shrug, this time accompanied by downturned mouth. 'Are you saying you didn't?' Clarke asked.

'I'm saying nothing.'

'Makes me wonder what it is you're trying to hide. Were you on duty the night Mr Todorov died?'

'I don't remember.'

'I'm only asking you to think back a little over a week.'

'Sometimes I work at night, sometimes not.'

'Andropov was at his hotel. He had a meeting in the bar…'

'There's nothing I can tell you.'

'Why did you go to those poetry readings, Mr Aksanov?' Clarke asked quietly. 'Did Andropov ask you to go? Did he ask you to take him?'

'If I have done anything wrong, go ahead and charge me!'

'Is that what you want?'

'I want to get away from here.' The fingers which gripped the fresh cigarette were starting to shake a little.

'Do you remember the recital at the Poetry Library?' Clarke asked, keeping her voice low and level. 'The man who was recording it? He's been murdered, too.'

'I was at the hotel all night.'

She hadn't quite understood. 'The Caledonian?' she guessed.

'Gleneagles,' he corrected her. 'The night of that fire.'

'It was early morning actually.'

'Night… morning… I was at Gleneagles.'

'All right,' she said, wondering at his sudden increase in agitation.

'Who was it you were driving – Andropov or Stahov?'

'Both. They travelled together. I was there all the time.'

'So you keep saying.'

'Because it is the truth.'

'But the night Mr Todorov died, you don't recall if you were working or not?'

'No.'

'It's quite important, Mr Aksanov. We think whoever killed Todorov was driving a car…'

'I had nothing to do with it! I find these questions totally unacceptable!'

'Do you?'

'Unacceptable and unreasonable.'

'Finished already?' she asked, after fifteen seconds of silence. His brow furrowed. Tour cigarette,' she pointed out. You'd only just started it.'

The Russian stared at the ashtray, where most of an entire cigarette smouldered, having just been stubbed out…

Having arranged for a patrol car to drop Aksanov at Queensferry Road, Clarke wandered back down the corridor towards where Goodyear was sharing gossip with two other constables. Before she could reach him, however, her mobile rang. She didn't recognise the caller's number.

'Hello?' she asked, turning so her back was to Goodyear and his colleagues.

'Detective Sergeant Clarke?'

'Hello, Dr Colwell. I had half a mind to call you myself.'

'Oh?'

'Thought I might need a translator; false alarm as it turned out.

What can I do for you?'

'I've just been listening to that CD.'

'Still wrestling with the new poem?'

To start with, yes… but I ended up listening to the whole thing.'

'Had the same effect on me,' Clarke admitted, remembering back to when Rebus and she had spent the hour in her car…

'Right at the end,' Colwell was saying. 'In fact, after the recital and the Q and A have finished…'

Yes?'

'The mic picks up some bits of conversation.'

'I remember – doesn't the poet start muttering to himself?'

'That's just what thought, and it was difficult to make out. But it's not Alexander's voice.'

'Then whose is it?'

'No idea.'

'But it's in Russian, right?'

'Oh, it's definitely Russian. And after a few plays, I think I've worked out what he's saying.'

Clarke was thinking of Charles Riordan, pointing his all-hearing microphone towards various audience members, picking up their comments. 'So what is he saying?' she asked.

'Something along the lines of- “I wish he was dead.”'

Clarke froze. 'Would you mind repeating that, please?'

41

Rebus rendezvoused with her at Colwell's office and they listened to the CD together.

'Doesn't sound like Aksanov,' Clarke stated. Her phone started to ring and she gave a little growl as she answered. The voice in her ear identified the caller as DI Calum Stone.

Tou wanted to speak to me?' he said.

'I'll have to phone you back later.' She cut the connection and shook her head slowly, letting Rebus know it was nothing important.

He'd asked for the relevant section of the recording to be played again.

'I'd lay money on it being Andropov,' he muttered afterwards. He was leaning forward in his chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped, completely focused on the recording and seemingly immune to Scarlett Colwell, who was crouched not three feet away next to the CD player, face hidden by the curtain of hair.

'And you're sure you've got the words right?' Clarke asked the academic.

'Positive,' Colwell said. She repeated the Russian. It was written on a pad which Clarke was now holding – the same pad which had once held the translated poem.

'“I wish he was dead”?' Rebus checked. 'Not “I want him killed”

or “I'm going to kill him”?'

'Slightly less inflammatory,' Colwell said.

'Pity.' Rebus turned towards Clarke. 'Plenty to be going on with, though.'

'Plenty,' she agreed. 'Say it is Andropov… who's he talking to?

Has to be Aksanov, hasn't it?'

'And you've just let him go.'

She nodded slowly. 'We can always pick him up again… he's pretty well settled here.'

'Doesn't mean the consulate won't kick him on to a plane bound for Moscow.' Rebus stared at her. 'Know what I reckon? Andropov would love to have someone on the inside at the consulate. That way, he'd know how the land lies back home. If they planned to put him on trial, consulate would be among the first to know.'

'Aksanov as his eyes and ears?' Clarke nodded her agreement.

'Fair enough, but is he anything else?'

'Executioner, you mean?' Rebus pondered this for a moment, then realised that a tear was running down Scarlett Colwell's face.

'Sorry,' he apologised to her. 'I know this can't be easy.'

'Just catch whoever did this to Alexander.' She dabbed at her face with the back of her hand. 'Just do that, please.'

'Thanks to you,' he assured her, 'we've come a step closer.' He picked up her translation of the poem. 'Andropov would have been furious about this. Calling him greedy and a “blight” and part of the whole “parcel of rogues”.'

'Furious enough to want the poet dead,' Clarke agreed. 'But does that mean he did it?'

Rebus stared up at her again. 'Maybe we should ask him,' he said.

It had taken well over an hour for Siobhan Clarke to lead DI Derek Starr through the story. Even then, he'd complained for a further fifteen minutes about being kept 'out of the loop' before agreeing that Sergei Andropov should be brought in for questioning. They had to shoo three detectives out of the interview room. The men had set up base there, and complained at having to move their stuff.

'Smells like a prop-forward's jockstrap in here,' Starr commented.

'I wouldn't know,' Clarke replied with a thin smile. She'd bumped into Goodyear in the CID suite and he, too, had voiced a complaint – about being abandoned at the West End cop-shop. True enough, Colwell's phone call had led Clarke straight out to her car, Goodyear still chatting to his pals in the corridor. Even so, she'd studied the young man's scowl and offered him four evenly spaced words: get used to it. To which he'd replied that he really was ready to go back to Torphichen and his constable's uniform both.

They had dispatched a patrol car to the Caledonian Hotel. Forty minutes later it was back and discharging its unhappy human

cargo. It was almost eight o'clock, the sky black and the temperature falling.

'Do I have the right to a lawyer?' was Sergei Andropov's first question.

'Think you need one?' Starr shot back. He'd borrowed a CD player and was tapping it with one finger.

Andropov considered Starr's question, then took off his coat, placed it over the back of the chair, and sat down. Clarke was seated next to Starr, notebook and mobile phone in front of her.

She was hoping Rebus – stationed outside in his car – would manage to keep quiet.

'When you're ready, DS Clarke,' Starr said, pressing his hands together.

'Mr Andropov,' she began, 'I spoke to Boris Aksanov earlier today.'

Tes?'

'We were talking about the recital at the Scottish Poetry Library… I believe you were there?'

'Did he tell you that?'

'There are plenty of witnesses, sir.' She paused for a moment.

'We already know that you knew Alexander Todorov in Moscow, and that the pair of you weren't exactly friends…'

'Again, who told you this?'

Clarke ignored the question. Tou went to the reading with Mr Aksanov and then had to sit and listen as the poet extemporised a new piece.' Clarke unfolded the translation. 'Heartless appetite…

The gut's greed knows no fullness… such a parcel of rogues… Not exactly a love letter, is it?'

'It's only a poem.'

'But directed at you, Mr Andropov. Aren't you one of the “children of Zhdanov”?'

'Like many thousands of others.' Andropov gave a little laugh.

His eyes were shining.

'By the way,' Clarke said, 'I should have offered commiserations at the start…'

'For what?' The eyes had narrowed and darkened.

“Your friend's injuries. Have you visited him in hospital?'

Tou mean Cafferty?' He seemed dismissive of the tactic. 'He'll survive.'

'A cause for celebration, I'm sure.'

'What the hell is she getting at?' Andropov directed the question at Starr, but it was Clarke who answered.

f

'Would you mind taking a listen to this?' On cue, Starr hit the play button. The noise of the Todorov recital's conclusion filled the room. People rising from their seats, commenting on the evening, planning drinks and supper… and then the burst of Russian.

'Recognise it, Mr Andropov?' Clarke asked as Starr paused the recording.

'No.'

'Sure about that? Maybe if DI Starr plays it back…?'

'Look, what are you getting at?'

'We have a forensics facility here in the city, Mr Andropov. They have a pretty good track record when it comes to voice-pattern recognition…'

'What do I care?'

Tou care because that's you on the recording, expressing to Boris Aksanov your desire to see the poet Alexander Todorov dead – the poet who had just humiliated you, the poet who opposed everything you stand for.' She paused again. 'And the very next night, that same man was dead.'

'Meaning I killed him?' Andropov's laughter this time was louder and more sustained. 'And when exactly did I do this? Did I spirit myself away from the hotel bar? Did I hypnotise your development minister so that he would not notice my disappearance?'

'Others could have acted on your behalf,' Starr stated icily.

'Well, that's something you're going to have a great deal of trouble proving, since it happens to be untrue.'

'Why did you go to the recital?' Clarke asked. Andropov stared at her, and decided he had nothing to lose from answering.

'Boris told me he'd been to one a few weeks before. I was intrigued.

I had never seen Alexander read in public'

'Mr Aksanov didn't strike me as a poetry buff.'

Andropov shrugged. 'Maybe the consulate asked him to go.'

'Why would they do that?'

'To ascertain how much of an irritant Alexander intended to be during his stay in the city.' Andropov shifted in his seat. 'Alexander Todorov was a professional dissident – it's how he made his living, picking the pockets of bleeding-heart liberals all over the Western world.'

Clarke waited to see if Andropov had anything more to add. 'And when you heard his latest poem?' she asked into the silence.

The shrug this time was conciliatory. Tou're right, I was angry with him. What do poets give to the world? Do they provide jobs, energy, raw material? No… merely words. And often well

remunerated in the process – certainly lionised above their due.

Alexander Todorov had been suckled by the West precisely because he pandered to its need to see Russia as corrupt and corrosive.'

Andropov had made a fist of his right hand, but then decided against thumping the desk. Instead, he took a deep breath and exhaled noisily through his nostrils. 1 did say that I wished he was dead, but those, too, were merely words.'

'Nevertheless, could Boris Aksanov have acted on them?'

'Have you met Boris? He is no killer; he's a teddy bear.'

'Bears have claws,' Starr felt it necessary to comment. Andropov glowered at him.

'Thank you for that information – being a Russian, of course, I would not have known that.'

Starr had started blushing. To deflect attention from the fact, he hit the play button again and they eavesdropped once more.

Pausing the recording, Starr tapped the machine again. 'I'd say we've got grounds to charge you,' he stated.

'Really? Well, let us see what one of your famed Edinburgh barristers will say about that.'

'We don't have barristers in Scotland,' Starr spat back.

'They're called advocates,' Clarke explained. 'But actually, at this point it's a solicitor you'd want – if we were charging you.' Her words were aimed at Starr, appealing for him not to take it any further – not just yet.

'Well?' Andropov, taking her meaning, was asking the question of Derek Starr. Starr's mouth twitched but he said nothing. 'In other words, I am free to leave?' Andropov had moved his attention to Clarke, but it was Starr who barked out a response.

'Just don't leave the country!'

There was more laughter from the Russian. 'I have no intention of departing your splendid country, Inspector.'

'Nice warm gulag waiting for you back home?' Clarke couldn't help adding.

'That comment cheapens you.' Andropov sounded disappointed in her.

'Going to drop by the hospital sometime?' she added. 'Funny, isn't it, how people around you seem to end up either dead or in a coma?'

Andropov was rising to his feet, lifting his coat from the chair.

Starr and Clarke shared a look, but neither could think of any tactic to delay his departure. Goodyear was just outside the door, ready to show the Russian out.

'We'll talk again,' Starr assured Andropov.

'I look forward to it, Inspector.'

'And we want you to surrender your passport,' was Clarke's final salvo. Andropov gave a little bow of the head and was gone.

Starr, who had risen to his feet, closed the door, walked around the desk and sat down again, facing Clarke. Pretending to check for messages on her phone, she'd just broken the connection to Rebus.

'If it's anyone,' Starr was telling her, 'it's the driver. Even then, a bit of hard evidence might be useful.'

Clarke had placed her notebook and mobile back in her bag.

'Andropov's right about Aksanov – I don't see him as an assassin.'

'Then we need to look at the hotel angle again, see if there's any way Andropov could have followed the poet.'

'Cafferty was there, too, don't forget.'

'One or the other, then.'

'The problem,' she sighed, 'is that we've got a third man – Jim Bakewell's already said the three of them were in that booth till gone eleven… by which time Todorov was dead.'

'So we're back to square one?' Starr didn't bother masking his exasperation.

'We're rattling the cage,' Clarke corrected him. Then, after a moment's thought: 'Thanks for sticking with it, Derek.'

Starr thawed perceptibly. Tou should have come to me sooner, Siobhan. I want a break on this as much as you do.'

'I know. But you're going to split the two investigations, aren't you?'

'DCI Macrae thinks it would help.'

She nodded, as if agreeing with the analysis. 'Do we work tomorrow?'

she asked.

“Weekend overtime has been approved.'

'John Rebus's last day,' she stated quietly.

'Incidentally,' Starr added, ignoring her, 'the officer who showed Andropov out… is he new to the team?'

“West End sent him,' she blithely lied.

Starr was shaking his head. 'CID,' he stated, 'gets younger- looking every year.'

'How did I do?' Clarke asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Three out often.' She stared at him. 'Gee, thanks.' Slammed shut the door. Rebus's

car was parked directly outside the station. He was thrumming his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead.

'I nearly came running in there,' he went on. 'How could you have missed it?'

'Missed what?'

Only now did he deign to turn his head towards her. 'That night in the Poetry Library, Andropov was only a couple of rows from the front. No way he couldn't have seen the mic'

'So?'

'So you were asking the wrong questions. Todorov got him riled, he blurted out that he wanted him dead – no harm done at the time, the only other Russian-speaker was his driver. But then Todorov does end up dead, and suddenly our friend Andropov has a problem…”

'The recording?'

Rebus nodded. 'Because if we ever heard it and got it translated…'

'Hang on a second.' Clarke pinched the skin either side of her nose and screwed shut her eyes. 'Got any aspirin?'

'Glovebox maybe.'

She looked, and found a strip with two tablets left. Rebus handed her a bottle of water, its seal broken. 'If you don't mind a few germs,' he said.

Her shake of the head told him she didn't. She swallowed the tablets and gave her neck a few rotations.

'I can hear the gristle from here,' he commiserated.

'Never mind that – are you saying Andropov didn't kill Todorov?'

'Suppose he didn't – what would he be most afraid of?' He gave her a moment to answer, then ploughed on. 'He'd be afraid of us thinking he had.'

'And we'd have his own words as evidence?'

'Bringing us to Charles Riordan.'

Clarke's mind was moving now. 'Aksanov got agitated about that when I questioned him – kept going on about how he'd been at Gleneagles all the time.'

'Maybe afraid that we'd be putting him in the frame.'

Tou think Andropov…?'

Rebus shrugged. 'Rather depends on whether we can prove he left Gleneagles that night or early morning.'

'Wouldn't he just have phoned Cafferty instead, got him to do something about it?'

'Possible,' Rebus admitted, still tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel. They were silent for the best part of a minute, collecting their thoughts. 'Remember the trouble we had getting the Caledonian Hotel to cough up details of their guests? Don't suppose Gleneagles will be any easier.'

'But we've got a secret weapon,' Clarke said. 'Remember during the G8? DCI Macrae's pal was in charge of security at the hotel.

Macrae even got a tour of the premises.'

'Meaning he may have met the manager? Got to be worth a try.'

They fell back into silence.

You know what this means?' Clarke finally asked.

Rebus nodded again. 'We still don't know who killed Todorov.'

'Whichever way you look at it, Andropov said he wanted him dead…'

'Doesn't mean he turned words into deeds. If I topped someone every time I cursed them, there'd be precious few students and cyclists left in Edinburgh – or anyone else for that matter.'

'Would I still be here?' she asked.

'Probably,' he allowed.

'Despite the three out of ten?'

'Don't push your luck, DS Clarke.'

42

Todd Goodyear not joining us?' Rebus asked.

'Has he grown on you?'

They were in Kay's Bar – a compromise. It did decent grub, but the beer was good, too. Slightly larger than the Oxford Bar, but managing to be cosy at the same time – the predominant colour was red, extending to the pillars which separated the tables from the actual bar. Clarke had ordered chilli, Rebus declaring that salted peanuts would be enough for him.

“You've managed to keep him below Derek Starr's radar?' Rebus asked, in place of an answer to her question.

'DI Starr thinks Todd is CID.' She stole another of Rebus's peanuts.

'Do I get to dunk my fingers in your chilli when it comes?'

'I'll buy you another packet.'

He swallowed a mouthful of IPA. She was drinking a toxic looking mix of lime juice and soda water.

'Anything planned for tomorrow?' he asked.

'The team's on duty all day.'

'So no surprise party for the old guy?'

Tou didn't want one.'

'So you've just chipped in and bought me something nice?'

'Meant digging deep into the overdraft… What time does your suspension end?'

'Around lunchtime, I suppose.' Rebus thought back to the scene in Corbyn's office… Sir Michael Addison storming out. Sir Michael was Gill Morgan's stepfather. Gill knew Nancy Sievewright. Nancy and Gill and Eddie Gentry had been spied on, the recording watched by Roger Anderson, Stuart Janney and Jim Bakewell. Everything

in Edinburgh seemed connected. As a detective, Rebus had noticed time and again how true this was. Everything and everyone.

Todorov and Andropov, Andropov and Cafferty, the overworld and the underworld. Sol Goodyear knew Nancy and her crew, too. Sol was Todd Goodyear's brother, and Todd led back to Siobhan and to Rebus himself. Shifting partners in one of those endurance dances.

What was the film? Something about shooting horses. Dance and keep on dancing because nothing else matters.

Problem was, Rebus was about to bow out. Siobhan's chilli had arrived and he watched her unfold a paper napkin on to her lap.

Day after tomorrow, he'd be seated at the edge of the dancefloor.

Give it a few weeks and he'd be yet further back, merging with the other spectators, no longer a participant. He'd seen it with other cops: they retired and promised to keep in touch, but each visit to the old gang merely underlined how far apart they'd grown. There would be an arrangement to share drinks and gossip one night a month. Then it'd be once every few months. Then not at all.

Clean break was the best thing, so he'd been told. Siobhan was asking if he wanted some of her food. 'Grab a fork and tuck in.'

'I'm fine,' he assured her.

Tou were in a world of your own there.'

'It's the age I'm at.'

'So you'll come to the station tomorrow lunchtime?'

'No parties, right?'

She shook her head in agreement. 'And by end of play, we'll have closed all the cases.'

'Of course we will.' He gave a wry smile.

'I'll miss you, you know.' She kept her eyes on the food as she scooped it up.

'For a little while maybe,' he conceded, waving his empty glass at her. 'Time for a refill.'

Tou're driving, remember.'

'Thought you could give me a lift.'

'In your car?'

Til get you a taxi home after.'

'That's mighty generous.'

'Didn't say I'd pay for it,' Rebus told her, heading for the bar.

He did, though, pressing a ten-pound note into her hand and saying he'd see her tomorrow. She'd found a parking space for his Saab near the top of Arden Street. He'd been about to invite her in when

a black cab rumbled into view, its roof light on. Siobhan Clarke had given the driver a wave, then handed Rebus his car keys.

'Bit of luck,' she'd said, referring to the taxi. Rebus had held out the tenner and she'd eventually taken it.

'Straight home, mind,' he'd warned her. Watching the cab pull away, he wondered if he was going to take his own advice. It was almost ten, the temperature well above zero. He walked down the hill towards his door, staring up at the bay window of his living room. Darkness up there. No one waiting to welcome him. He thought about Cafferty, wondered what dreams the gangster would be having. Did you dream in a coma? Did you do anything else?

Rebus knew he could visit him, sit with him. Maybe one of the nurses would bring a cup of tea. Maybe she'd be a good listener.

Alexander Todorov's skull had been smashed from behind. Cafferty had been attacked from behind – but attacked cleanly while the poet had been roughed up first. Rebus kept trying to see the connection – Andropov was the obvious one. Andropov, with his friends in high places – Megan Macfarlane, Jim Bakewell. Cafferty hosting parties, wining and dining Bakewell and the bankers, all lads together… Andropov readying to bring his business to Scotland, where his new friends would cosset him, protect him. Business was business, after all: what did it matter if Andropov faced corruption charges back home? Rebus realised that he was still staring at his flat's unlit and unwelcoming windows.

'Nice night for a walk,' he told himself, continuing downhill with hands in pockets. Marchmont itself was quiet, Melville Drive devoid of vehicles. Jawbone Walk, the path leading through The Meadows, boasted only a handful of pedestrians, students heading home from nights out. Rebus walked beneath the arches created from an actual whale's jawbone, and wondered – not for the first time – at its purpose. When his daughter was a kid, he would pretend they were being swallowed by the whale, like Jonah or Pinocchio… There was some drunken singing in the distance from a couple of tramps on a bench, worldly goods stacked in bags by the side of them. The old infirmary compound was being transformed into new apartment blocks, changing the skyline. He kept walking, reaching Forrest Road. Instead of heading straight on in the direction of The Mound, he took a fork at Greyfriars Bobby and descended into the Grassmarket. Plenty of pubs still open, and people loitering outside the homeless hostels. When he'd first moved to Edinburgh, the Grassmarket had been a dump – much of the Old Town, in fact, had been in dire need of a facelift. Hard now

to remember just how bad it had all been. There were people who said that Edinburgh never changed, but this was patently untrue – it was changing all the time. Smokers were standing in clusters outside the Beehive and Last Drop pubs. The fish 'n' chip shop had a queue. A gust of fat-frying hit Rebus as he walked past and he breathed deeply, savouring it. At one time, the Grassmarket had boasted a gallows, dozens upon dozens of Covenanters dying there.

Maybe Todorov's ghost would bump into them. Another fork in the road was approaching. He took the right-hand option, into King's Stables Road. Passing the car park, he stopped for a moment.

There was just the one vehicle on Level Zero, the ground floor.

Driver would have to get a move on, the place was due to close in the next ten or so minutes. The car was parked in the bay next to where Todorov had been attacked. There was no sign of any hooded woman begging for sex. Rebus lit a cigarette and kept moving.

He didn't know what his plan was. King's Stables Road would join Lothian Road in a minute, and he'd be facing the Caledonian Hotel. Was Sergei Andropov still there? Did Rebus really intend a further confrontation?

'Nice night for it,' he repeated to himself.

But then he thought of those Grassmarket pubs. It would make more sense to retrace his steps, have a nightcap, and take a taxi home. He turned on his heels and started back. As he approached the car park again, he saw the last car leaving. It stopped kerbside, and its driver got out, retreating to the exit. He unlocked some metal shutters which started to creep downwards with an electric hum. The driver didn't wait to watch them drop. He was in the car and heading towards the Grassmarket.

The good-looking security guard, Gary Walsh. Parked on Level Zero… Hadn't he told Rebus he always parked next to the security cabin on the next floor up? The shutters were closed now, but there was a little viewing window at chest height. Rebus crouched a little so he could peer inside. The lights were still on; maybe they stayed that way all night. Up in the corner, he could see the security camera. He remembered what Walsh's colleague had said: camera used to point pretty much at that spot… but it gets moved around… Made sense to Rebus – if you worked in a multistorey you'd want your car where the cameras could keep an eye on it. Sod anyone else, just so long as your car was safe…

Macrae's words: less to this than meets the eye. All those connections… Cath Mills, aka the Reaper, asking Rebus about one-night stands and flings with workmates… Alexander Todorov, on his

way back from a day in Glasgow: a curry with Charles Riordan, one drink on Cafferty's tab, and semen on his underpants.

The woman in the hood.

Less to this than meets the eye…

Cherchez la femme…

The poet and his libido. There was a Leonard Cohen album called Death of a Ladies' Man. One of its tracks: 'Don't Go Home With Your Hard-On'. Another: 'True Love Leaves No Traces'.

Trace evidence: blood on the car park floor; oil on the dead man's clothes; semen stains…

Cherchez la femme.

The answer was so close, Rebus could almost taste it.