Day Nine. Saturday 25 November 2006

43

Bright and early that morning, Rebus took his ticket from the machine and watched the barrier shudder upwards. He had entered by the car park's top level on Castle Terrace, but followed the signs to the next level down. There were plenty of empty bays near the guardroom. Rebus walked over to the door and gave a knock before pushing it open.

'What's up?' Joe Wills asked, hands cupped around a mug of black tea. His eyes narrowed as he placed Rebus.

'Hello again, Mr Wills – rough night, was it?' Wills hadn't shaved, his eyes were red-rimmed and bleary, and he hadn't got round to putting his tie on yet.

'Few drinks I was having,' the man started to explain, 'and the Reaper catches me on the mobile – Bill Prentice has gone and pulled a sickie and can I do his morning shift?'

'And despite everything, you were happy to oblige – that's what I call loyalty.' Rebus saw the newspaper on the worktop. Polonium210 was being blamed for Litvinenko's death; Rebus had never heard of it.

'What do you want anyway?' Joe Wills was asking. 'Thought you lot had finished.' Rebus noticed that Wills's mug was emblazoned with the name of a local radio station, Talk 107. 'Don't suppose you've any milk on you?' the man asked. But Rebus's attention was on the CCTV screens.

'Do you drive to work, Mr Wills?'

'Sometimes.'

'I remember you saying you'd had a “prang”.'

'Car still runs.'

'Is it here just now?'


'No.'

'Why's that then?' But Rebus held up a finger. Tou'd still not pass a breathalyser, am I right?' He watched Wills nod. 'Very sensible of you, sir. But the times you do drive to work, I'm betting you keep the car where you can see it?'

'Sure.' Wills took a sip of tea, squirming at its bitterness.

'Covered by one of the cameras, in other words?' Rebus nodded towards the bank of screens. 'Always park in the same spot?'

'Depends.'

'How about your colleague? Would I be right in thinking Mr Walsh prefers the ground floor?'

'How do you know that?'

Again, Rebus ignored the question. 'When I was here the first time,' he said instead, 'day after the murder, if you remember…'

Tes?'

'… the cameras downstairs weren't covering the spot where the attack took place.' He gestured towards one of the screens. 'You told me one camera used to, but it got moved around. But now I see it's been shifted again, so it's covering… here's another wild guess coming up – the bay where Mr Walsh parks?'

'Is this going anywhere?'

Rebus managed a smile. 'Just wondering this, Mr Wills: when exactly did that camera get moved?' He was leaning over the figure of the guard. 'Last shift you did before the murder, I'm betting it was pointing where it is now. Between times, someone tampered with it.'

'I told you – it gets moved around.'

Rebus wasn't six inches from Wills when he next spoke. Tfou know, don't you? You're not the sharpest tack in the carpet, but you worked it out before any of us. Have you told anyone, Mr Wills? Or are you good at keeping secrets? Maybe you just want the quiet life, a few drinks at night and some milk to go with your tea. You're not about to grass up a mate, are you? But here's my advice, Mr Wills, and it really would be in your interest to take it.' Rebus paused, ensuring he had the man's undivided attention.

'Don't say a fucking word to your workmate. Because if you do, and I get to hear about it, I'll have you in the cells rather than him, understood?'

Wills had stopped moving, the mug trembling slightly in his hands.

'Do we have an understanding?' Rebus persisted. The guard did no more than nod, but Rebus hadn't quite finished with him.


'An address,' he said, placing his notebook on the worktop. 'Write it down for me.' He watched Joe Wills put down the mug and start to comply. Walsh's batch of CDs was in its usual place; Rebus doubted Wills would have much use for them. 'And one last thing,'

he said, taking the notebook back. 'When my Saab reaches the exit, I want you to override the barrier for me. Money you charge in this place is absolutely criminal.'

Shandon was on the west side of the city, tucked in between the canal and Slateford Road. Not much more than a fifteen-minute drive, especially at the weekend. Rebus had switched on his CD player, only to find himself listening to Eddie Gentry. He ejected the disc and tossed it on to the back seat, replacing it with Tom Waits. But the patented gravel of Waits's voice was too obtrusive, so he settled for silence instead. Gary Walsh lived at number 28, a terraced house in a narrow street. There was a space next to Walsh's car, so Rebus parked the Saab and locked it. The upstairs window at number 28 was curtained. Stood to reason: when a man worked the late shift, he slept late, too. Rebus decided to leave the doorbell alone and knocked instead. When the door opened, a woman in full make-up stood there. Her hair was immaculate, and she was dressed for work, minus her shoes.

'Mrs Walsh?' Rebus said.

'Yes.'

'I'm Detective Inspector Rebus.' As she studied his warrant card, he studied her. Late-thirties or early forties, meaning maybe ten years older than her partner. Gary Walsh, it seemed, was a toyboy.

But when Joe Wills had called Mrs Walsh a 'stoater' he hadn't been kidding. She was well preserved and glowing with life. 'Ripe' was the word Rebus found himself thinking. On the other hand, those looks wouldn't last much longer – nothing stayed ripe for ever.

'Mind if I come in?' he asked.

'What's it about?'

'The murder, Mrs Walsh.' Her green eyes widened. 'The one at your husband's place of work.'

'Gary didn't say anything.'

“The Russian poet? Found dead at the bottom of Raeburn Wynd?'

It was in the papers…'

“The attack started in the car park.' Her eyes were losing some of their focus. 'It was last Wednesday night, just before your husband


finished work…' He paused for a moment. 'You really don't know, do you?'

'He didn't tell me.' Some of the colour had drained from her face.

Rebus went into his notebook and pulled out a newspaper cutting.

It showed a photo of the poet, taken from one of his book jackets.

'His name was Alexander Todorov, Mrs Walsh.' But she had dashed back into the house, not quite closing the door behind her.

Rebus paused for a moment, then pushed it open again and followed her inside. The hallway was small, with half a dozen coats hanging on hooks, next to the staircase. Two doors off: kitchen and living room. She was in the latter, seated on the edge of the settee as she tied a pair of high-heeled shoes around her ankles.

'I'm going to be late,' she muttered.

'Where do you work?' Rebus was scanning the room. Big TV, big hi-fi, and shelves filled to the brim with CDs and tapes.

'Perfume counter,' she was saying.

'I don't suppose five minutes will hurt…'

'Gary's sleeping – you can come back later. He's got to take the car to the garage, though, get the player fixed…' Her voice trailed off.

'What is it, Mrs Walsh?'

She was rubbing her hands together as she got to her feet. Rebus doubted that her unsteadiness was due to the heels.

'Nice duffel coat, by the way,' he told her. She looked at him as though he'd started using a foreign language. 'In the hall,' he explained. 'The black one with the hood… looks right cosy.' He smiled without humour. 'Ready to tell me about it, Mrs Walsh?'

'There's nothing to tell.' She was looking around the room as if for an escape hatch. We have to get the car fixed…'

'So you keep saying.' Rebus narrowed his eyes and peered out of the window towards the Ford Escort. 'What is it you've remembered, Mrs Walsh? Maybe we should wake Gary, eh?'

'I have to get to work.'

'There are some questions that need answering first.' Less than meets the eye: those words kept bouncing around the inside of Rebus's skull. Todorov had led him to Cafferty and Andropov, and he'd latched on to both because they were the ones who interested him – because they were the ones he wanted to be guilty. Seeing conspiracies and cover-ups where none existed. Andropov had panicked because of that single outburst – didn't mean he'd killed the poet…

'How did you find out about Gary and Cath Mills?' Rebus asked


quietly. Cath Mills… admitting to Rebus that night in the bar that she'd almost given up on one-night stands.

Walsh's wife gave a look of horror and slumped on to the sofa again, face in hands, smearing the perfect make-up. Started muttering the words 'Oh God' over and over. Then, eventually: 'He kept telling me it had just been that one time… just the once, and a mistake at that. A huge mistake.'

'But you thought you knew better,' Rebus added. Yes, Gary Walsh would be tempted again, would stray again. He was young and chiselled and rock-star handsome, whereas his wife was getting older by the day, make-up doing only so much to cover the working of time… 'A pretty desperate measure,' Rebus stated quietly.

'Wearing that hood so he'd get the message. Hanging around the street, offering yourself to strangers…'

Smudgy tears were coursing down both cheeks, her shoulders heaving.

Alexander Todorov: wrong place, wrong time. A voluptuous woman offering no-strings sex, leading him into the car park where they'd be in full view of the camera. Gary Walsh's car their destination – not that Todorov was to know that. Screwing a man she'd only just met, so that her watching husband would know the price of further infidelity.

'Did you do it against the car?' he asked. 'On the bonnet maybe?'

He was still peering out at the Escort, thinking: fingerprints, blood, maybe even semen.

'Inside.' Her voice wasn't much more than a whisper.

'Inside?'

'I had a set of keys.'

'Is that where…?' He didn't need to finish the sentence. She was nodding, meaning Walsh and the Reaper had enjoyed their tryst in the same place.

'Not my idea,' she said, and Rebus had to strain to make out the words.

'The man you'd picked up,' he realised. 'He wanted to do it inside the car?'

She nodded again.

'Bit more comfortable, I suppose,' he offered. But then a thought hit him. The missing CD… Todorov's final performance, as recorded by Charles Riordan… Car to the garage… get the player fixed… 'What's wrong with the CD player, Mrs Walsh?' Rebus asked, keeping his voice level. 'It's his CD, isn't it? He wanted to hear it while you were…?'


She stared at him through a mess of mascara and eyeliner. 'It's stuck in the machine. But I didn't know, I didn't know…'

'Didn't know he was dead?'

She shook her head wildly from side to side, and Rebus believed her. All she'd needed was a man, any man, and when it was over she'd pushed it from her mind. Hadn't asked his name or nationality, probably hadn't looked at his face. Maybe she'd taken a couple of strong drinks for courage.

And her husband hadn't wanted to talk about it afterwards…

hadn't told her anything.

Rebus stood by the window, deep in thought. So many domestics down the years, partners abusing partners, lies and deceit, fury and festering resentment. There's a fury here… Sudden or protracted violence, mind games, power struggles. Love turning sour or stale as the years passed…

And now here came sleepy-faced Gary Walsh, descending the staircase, calling out to his wife. Tou still here?' Through the hall and into the living room, barefoot in faded denims and with his torso naked, rubbing one hand up and down his hairless chest as he wiped at his eyes with the other. Blinking as he realised there was a stranger in the room… looking to his wife for an explanation… her face creased in pain, tears dripping from her chin… then back to Rebus, placing him now, eyes turning towards the door in contemplation of flight.

With no shoes on, Gary?' Rebus chided him.

'I could outrun you in diving boots, you fat bastard,' Walsh sneered.

'And there's that sudden rage we've been looking forward to,'

Rebus said with just a hint of a smile. 'Care to tell your wife what happened to Alexander Todorov when you got hold of him?'

'He fell asleep in the car,' Mrs Walsh was saying, playing the scene back in her mind, eyes stinging and red but fixed on her young husband. 'I realised he was drunk, couldn't rouse him… so I left him.' Gary had leant his head against the door frame, arms behind him, hands pressed to the jamb.

'I don't know what she's talking about,' he eventually drawled.

'Really I don't.'

Rebus had his mobile in his hand, punching in the necessary number. He kept his eyes on Walsh, Walsh staring back at him, still thinking about doing a runner. Rebus pressed the phone to his ear.

'Siobhan?' he said. 'Bit of news to brighten your morning.' He'd


started giving the address when Gary Walsh spun round, hand snaking ahead of him, readying to unlock the front door. It was a few inches open, freedom shining in, when Rebus's weight smashed into him from behind, expelling all the air from Walsh's chest and the power from his legs. The door slammed shut again and he slid on to his knees, coughing and spluttering and with blood dripping from his crumpled nose. His wife appeared not to have noticed, wrapped up in her own drama as she sat, head in hands, on the sofa's edge. Rebus picked his mobile up from the carpet, aware of the adrenalin pounding through him, his heart racing. One perk of the job he really was going to miss…

'Sorry about that,' he told Clarke. 'Just ran into someone…'

44

The forensics team had come for the Ford Escort, their mechanic taking only a few minutes to extract the stuck CD. It played perfectly on the machine at Gayfield Square. There was nothing written on it but the single word Riordan – same as on the copy Riordan himself had made for Siobhan Clarke. More good news: looked like the toolbox in the boot would be helpful. Walsh had rinsed the blood from the claw hammer but there were spots elsewhere. The rest of the car – in and out – would be dusted, tested, and checked by Ray Duff and his lab boys back at their Howdenhall HQ. It was, as even Derek Starr admitted, 'a result'. Starr hadn't been expecting much of anything from the day except overtime. Instead of which, he was bouncing on his toes, and had called the Chief Constable at home before anyone else had a chance – much to the annoyance of DCI Macrae (Starr's very next call).

Gary Walsh was in IR1 and Louisa Walsh in IR2, telling their separate stories. The husband's resistance crumbled only by degrees, as he was presented with one piece of evidence after another: the hammer, the blood, the moving of the camera afterwards to make it seem as though he could not have witnessed the attack. A search warrant was being issued. The detectives asked Walsh if they might conceivably find the items stolen from Alexander Todorov hidden somewhere in or around his home or place of work, but he'd shaken his head.

didn't mean to murder him, just wanted him out of my car…

Sleeping like a baby after shagging my wife… stinking of booze and sweat and her perfume… Smacked him around a bit and he staggered off into the night… I got in the car and started driving, then noticed he'd done something to the CD player, it wasn't working any


more… The final fucking straw… Saw him at the bottom of that alley and I just lost it… I lost it, that's all, and it's all her fault…

Thought if I took a few things away with me, it'd look like a mugging… They're at the foot of Castle Rock, I chucked them over the wall…

'So,' Siobhan Clarke said, 'after everything we've gone through, it boils down to a domestic?' She sounded dazed and devastated, unwilling to believe. Rebus shrugged in sympathy. He was back inside Gayfield Square, DI Derek Starr himself having granted permission, saying he'd 'deal with any and all repercussions'.

'Big of you,' Rebus had muttered.

'He has a fling,' Clarke continued, for herself more than Rebus, 'admits it to the wife, who acts out her revenge. Husband sees red and the poor drunken sap she's cajoled into having sex with her ends up on a slab?' She started shaking her head slowly.

'A cold, cleansed death,' Rebus commented.

'That's a line of Todorov's,' Clarke told him. 'And there was nothing “cleansed” about it.'

Rebus gave a slow shrug. 'Andropov told me, “cherchez la femme” – he was trying to muddy the water, but turns out he was right.'

'The drink with Cafferty… Riordan recording the recital…

Andropov, Stahov, Macfarlane and Bakewell…?' She counted the names off on her fingers 'Nothing to do with it,' Rebus admitted. 'In the end, it came down to a jammed CD and a man brought to the boil.' They were standing in the corridor outside the interview rooms, keeping their voices low, aware of the presence behind the nearest doors of Walsh and his wife. Clarke was having a desolate little laugh to herself as one of the uniforms appeared around the corner. Rebus recognised Todd Goodyear.

'Back in the old woolly suit?' Rebus asked him.

Goodyear brushed his hands down the front of his uniform. 'I'm pulling a weekend shift at West End – but when I heard, I had to make a detour. Is it true?'

'Seems to be,' Clarke sighed.

'The car park attendant?' He watched her nod. 'So all those hours I spent on the Riordan tapes…?'

'Were part of the process,' Rebus assured him, slapping a hand on the young man's shoulder. Goodyear stared at him.

Tou're back from suspension,' he realised.

'Not much escapes you, lad.'

Goodyear held out a hand for Rebus to shake. 'I'm glad they're looking elsewhere for whoever attacked Cafferty.'


'Not sure I'm totally off the hook, but thanks anyway.'

'Need to get the boot of your car fixed.'

Rebus chuckled. Tou're right about that, Todd. Soon as I get a minute…'

Goodyear had turned towards Clarke. Another handshake, and a thank you for her help.

Tou did okay, kid,' she told him, affecting an American accent.

The blood was creeping up his neck as he bowed his head a final time and headed back the way he'd come.

'God knows how much work he put into those Parliament tapes,'

Clarke said under her breath. 'All of it redundant.'

'Part of life's rich tapestry, Shiv.'

'You really should get that car of yours fixed.'

He made show of checking his watch. 'Hardly matters, does it? Few hours from now I'll be binning the crime kit along with everything else.'

'Well, before you do that…'

He looked at her. Tes?'

Tou've shown me yours, so I'm presuming you'll want to see mine.'

He folded his arms, rocking on the balls of his feet. 'Explain,' he said.

'Last night, we said we wanted everything wrapped up by end of play today.'

'Indeed we did.'

'So let's go to the CID suite and see what that clever DCI Macrae has done.'

Rebus, intrigued, was happy to follow. The empty room looked as if a bomb had hit it. The TodorovRiordan team had left their mark.

'Not even anyone to crack a beer with,' Rebus complained.

'Bit early,' Clarke chided him. 'Besides, I thought you didn't want a party.'

'But to celebrate our success with the Todorov case…'

'Call that “success”?'

'It's a result.'

'And what do they add up to, all these results?'

He wagged a finger at her. 'I'm leaving just in time – a few more weeks and you'd be jaundiced beyond saving.'

'Be nice to think we made a difference, though, wouldn't it?' she answered with another sigh.

'I thought that was what you were about to prove to me.'


She gave a smile – eventually – and sat down at her computer.

'I did it by the book – asked DCI Macrae to see if his pal would put in a word for us at Gleneagles. They promised they'd e-mail me the details first thing this morning.'

'Details of what exactly?'

'Guests who left the hotel late at night or early morning, just before Riordan was killed. Ones who checked out, and Ones who came back.' She was making rapid clicks with her mouse. Rebus moved around the desk to stand behind her, so he could see what she was seeing.

'Who's your money on, Andropov or his driver?'

'Got to be one or the other.' But then she opened the e-mail and her mouth fell open.

Well, well,' was all Rebus said.

It took them the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon to put everything together. They had the information from Gleneagles, and had pushed their luck still further by asking for the guest's licence plate. Armed with this, Graeme MacLeod at Central Monitoring – pulled from a golf game at Rebus's request – had gone back to the CCTV tapes from Joppa and Portobello, seeking a particular vehicle now, which made the task a whole lot easier.

Meantime, Gary Walsh had been charged, his wife released. Rebus had studied both parties' statements while Clarke showed more interest in some rugby match on the radio – Scotland being tanked by Australia at Murrayfield.

It was 5 p.m. by the time they entered IR1, thanking the uniformed officer and telling him he could go. Rebus had stepped outside half an hour earlier for a cigarette, surprised to find it already dark – the day had sped past unnoticed. Just one more thing he'd miss about the job… But there was still time for a bit of fun.

As the door to IR1 started to close, Rebus whispered in Clarke's ear, asking for two minutes alone with the suspect, adding that he wasn't about to do anything daft. She hesitated, but then relented.

Rebus made sure the door was closed, then walked over to the table and pulled out the metal-legged chair, making sure its feet scraped the floor with maximum discord.

'I've been trying to work out,' he began, What your connection with Sergei Andropov is, and I've decided it comes down to this – you want his money. Doesn't matter to you or your bank how he made it…'


'We're not in the business of dealing with crooks, Inspector,'

Stuart Janney stated. He was wearing a blue cashmere poloneck and pea-green twilled trousers with brown leather slip-on shoes, yet this weekend attire was too studied and self-conscious to be truly casual.

'Feather in your cap, though,' Rebus said, 'bringing in a multimillionaire and all his chattels. Business has never been better at FAB, eh, Mr Janney? Profits in the billions, but it's still a cutthroat world – dog eat dog and all that. You always have to make sure your name's up there in lights…'

'I'm not exactly sure where all this is headed,' Janney admitted, folding his arms impatiently.

'Sir Michael Addison probably thinks you're one of his golden boys. But not for much longer, Stuart – want to know why?'

Janney leaned back in his chair, seemingly unconcerned and not about to take the bait.

'I've seen the film,' Rebus told him in a voice just above a whisper.

'What film?' Janney's eyes met Rebus's and stayed fixed on them.

'The film of you watching another film. Cafferty bugged his own screening room, if you can believe that. And there you are, getting your jollies watching amateur-hour porn.' Rebus had lifted the DVD from his pocket.

'An indiscretion,' Janney conceded.

'For most people, maybe, but not for you.' Rebus gave the coldest of smiles, making sure the glint from the silver disc played across Janney's face, causing him to blink. 'See, what you did, Stuart, goes way beyond “indiscretion”.' Rebus pushed his elbows against the table, leaning further across it. 'That party? The scene in the bathroom? Know who the gobbler was, the drugged-up gobbler?

Her name's Gill Morgan – ring any bells? You watched your chief's beloved stepdaughter snorting coke and doling out blow-jobs. How's that going to play, next time you bump into Sir Mike at a corporate beanfeast?'

The blood was draining so rapidly from Janney's face, he might have had a tap attached to either foot. Rebus got up, tucking the disc back into his jacket, and walked to the door, opening it for Siobhan Clarke. She gave him a stare, but saw she wasn't going to be enlightened. Instead, she replaced Rebus in the chair, placing a folder and some photographs on the table in front of her.

Rebus watched as she took a moment to compose herself. She gave


another look in his direction and offered a smile. He nodded his reply. Your turn now, he was telling her.

'On the night of Monday November the twentieth,' Clarke began, 'you were staying at Gleneagles Hotel in Perthshire. But you decided to leave early… why was that, Mr Janney?'

'I wanted to get back to Edinburgh.'

'And that's why you packed your things at three a.m. and asked for your bill to be made up?'

'There was a pile of work waiting for me in the office.'

'But not so much,' Rebus reminded him, 'that you didn't have time to drop off Mr Stahov's list of Russians to us.'

'That's right,' Janney said, still trying to take in some news Rebus had given him. Clarke could see that the banker had been shaken by whatever Rebus had said. Good, she thought, knocks him off balance…

'I think,' she said, 'you brought us that list precisely because you wanted to know what was happening about Charles Riordan.'

'What?'

'Ever heard of the dog returning to its vomit?'

'It's Shakespeare, isn't it?'

'The Bible, actually,' Rebus corrected him. 'Book of Proverbs.'

'Not quite the scene of the crime,' Clarke continued, 'but a chance for you to ask a few questions, see how things were going…'

'I'm still not sure what you're getting at.'

Clarke gave a four-beat pause, then checked the contents of the folder. 'You live in Barnton, Mr Janney?'

'That's right.'

'Handy for the Forth Road Bridge.'

'I suppose so.'

'And that's the way you came back from Gleneagles, is it?'

'I think so.'

'Alternative would be Stirling and the M9,' Clarke informed him.

'Or,' Rebus added, 'at a pinch you could do the Kincardine Bridge…'

'But whatever route you might happen to take,' Clarke continued, “would bring you into town from the west or the north and leave you close to home.' She paused again. 'Which is why we're scratching our heads to comprehend what your silver Porsche Carrera


might have been doing in Portobello High Street an hour and a half after you checked out of Gleneagles.' She slid the CCTV image towards Janney. “You'll see that it's time-stamped and dated. Yours is pretty much the only car on the road, Mr Janney. Care to tell us what you were up to?'

'There must be some mistake…' Janney was staring off to one side, concentrating on the floor rather than the evidence in front of his eyes.

'That's what you'll say in court, is it?' Rebus teased him. 'That's what your ruinously expensive defence lawyer will stand up and tell judge and jury?'

'Maybe I just didn't feel like going home,' Janney offered, causing Rebus to clap his hands together.

'That's more like it!' he said. 'Car like that, you just wanted to keep on driving down the coast. Maybe you wouldn't stop till the border-'

'But here's what we actually think happened, Mr Janney,' Clarke interrupted. 'Sergei Andropov was fretting about a recording…” At the mention of'recording1, Janney's eyes darted to Rebus and Rebus offered a slow, exaggerated wink back. 'Maybe he mentioned it to you,' Clarke continued, 'or it could have been his driver. The problem was, he'd made a remark about wanting Alexander Todorov dead – and now Todorov was dead. If the tape came to light, Mr Andropov would be in the frame – might have to leave the country or end up being deported. Scotland's supposed to be his refuge, his safe haven. Only thing waiting for him in Moscow is a show trial.

And if he leaves, all those potentially lucrative deals go with him.

All his tens of millions go with him. That's why you decided to go have a word with Charles Riordan. The chat didn't work, and he ended up unconscious-'

'I didn't even know Charles Riordan!'

'Funny,' Rebus said, mock-casually, 'your bank's the main sponsor of an art installation he was doing at the Parliament. I reckon if we ask around, we'll find that you'd met him at some point…'

'I don't think you meant to kill him,' Clarke added, trying to add some empathy to her voice. Tou just wanted that recording destroyed. You knocked him out and looked for the tape, but it was needle-in-a-haystack stuff… thousands upon thousands of tapes and CDs in that house of his. So then you set that little fire – not the kind that would consume a building and turn anyone inside into crispy strips. It was just the tapes you wanted – too many for you to cart them away, and not enough time to go through them


all. So you stuck some paper into a bottle of cleaner, lit it, and walked away.'

'This is nonsense,' Janney said in a voice cracking with emotion.

'Problem was,' Clarke went on, ignoring him, 'all that acoustic baffling proved to be a fire hazard… With Riordan dead, we were looking for a suspect in both killings – and Andropov still seemed to fit the bill. So all your hard work was in vain, Mr Janney. Charles Riordan died – and died for nothing.'

'I didn't do it.'

'Is that the truth?'

Janney nodded, eyes everywhere but on either detective.

'Okay, then,' Clarke told him. “You've nothing to worry about.'

She closed the folder and gathered together the photos. Janney could hardly believe it. Clarke was getting to her feet. 'That pretty much takes care of it,' she confirmed. 'We'll just head along to processing and then you'll be on your way.'

Janney was standing, but with his hands pressing against the tabletop, helping him stay upright. 'Processing?' he queried.

'Just a formality, sir,' Rebus assured him. 'We need to take your fingerprints.'

Janney had made no attempt to move. 'Whatever for?'

Clarke supplied the answer. 'There was a print left on the bottle of solvent. It has to belong to whoever started the fire.'

'But it can't be yours, Stuart, can it?' Rebus asked. You were out enjoying a drive down our beautiful coastline in the crisp pre-dawn air…'

'Fingerprint.' The word slid out of Janney's mouth like a small, scuttling creature.

'I like to do a bit of motoring myself,' Rebus was saying. 'Today's my retirement – means I can do a lot more of it in the future.

Maybe you'll show me the route you took… Why are you sitting down again, Stuart?'

'Is there anything we can get you, Mr Janney?' Clarke asked solicitously.

Stuart Janney looked at her and then at Rebus before deciding that the ceiling merited his full attention. When he spoke, his throat was so stretched neither detective could quite make out the words.

'Mind repeating that?' Clarke asked politely.

You can get me a lawyer,' Janney duly obliged.

45

'Whenever anyone retires or resigns in the movies,' Siobhan Clarke said, 'they always seem to carry a box out of the building.'

'That's true,' Rebus agreed. He'd been through his desk and found precisely nothing of a personal nature. Turned out he didn't even have a mug of his own, just drank from whichever one was available at the time. In the end, he pocketed a couple of cheap ballpoint pens and a sachet of Lemsip a full year past its sell-by.

“You had the flu last December,' Clarke reminded him.

'Still dragged my sorry carcass into work, though.'

'And sneezed and groaned for a full week,' Phyllida Hawes added, hands on hips.

'Passing the germs to me,' Colin Tibbet stated.

'Ah, the fun we've had,' Rebus said with an affected sigh. There was no sign of DCI Macrae, though he'd left a note telling Rebus to leave his warrant card on the desk in his office. Derek Starr was absent, too. Gone six o'clock, meaning he'd be in a club or wine bar, celebrating the day's results and trying the usual chat-up lines. Rebus looked around the CID suite. 'You really didn't buy me anything, you miserable shower of bastards?'

'Have you seen the price of gold watches?' Clarke said with a smile. 'On the other hand, the back room of the Ox has been reserved for the night, and there's a hundred quid's worth of a tab – what we don't get through tonight is yours for afterwards.'

Rebus considered this. 'So that's what it comes down to after all these years – you want me drinking myself to death?'

'And we've booked the Cafe St Honore for nine o'clock – staggering distance from the Ox.'

'And staggering distance back again,' Hawes added.


'Just the four of us?' Rebus asked.

'A few more faces might drop by – Macrae's promised to look in.

Tarn Banks and Ray Duff… Professor Gates and Dr Curt… Todd and his girlfriend…'

'I hardly know them,' Rebus complained.

Clarke folded her arms. 'He needed a bit of persuading, so don't think I'm suddenly going to uninvite them!'

'My party, but your rules, eh?'

'And Shug Davidson's coming, too,' Hawes reminded Clarke.

Rebus rolled his eyes. I'm still a bloody suspect for the assault on Cafferty!'

'Shug doesn't seem to think so,' Clarke said.

'What about Calum Stone?'

'Didn't think he'd want to come.'

You know full well what I mean.'

'Are we ready for the off?' Hawes asked. They all looked at Rebus and he nodded. Really, he wanted five minutes on his own, to say a proper goodbye to the place. But he didn't suppose it mattered. Gayfield Square was just another cop-shop. This old priest Rebus had known, dead several years back, had said that cops were like the priesthood, the world their confessional. Stuart Janney had yet to confess. He would have a night in the cells to consider his options. Tomorrow or Monday, with a lawyer present and Siobhan Clarke seated opposite, he would lay out his version of the story. Rebus didn't suppose Siobhan saw herself as any kind of a priest. He watched her now as she slipped her arms into her coat and made sure everything she needed was in her shoulder bag. Their eyes met for a moment and they shared a smile. Rebus walked into Macrae's office and placed his warrant card on the corner of the desk. He thought back to all the police stations he'd known: Great London Road, St Leonard's, Craigmillar, Gayfield Square. Men and women he'd worked with, most retired, some of them long dead. Cases solved and left unresolved, days in court, hours spent waiting to give testimony. Paperwork and legal wrangling and cock-ups. Tear-stained evidence from victims and their families. Sneers and denials from the accused. Human folly exposed, all those biblical deadly sins laid bare, with a few more besides.

Monday morning, his alarm clock would be redundant. He could spend all day over breakfast, stick his suit back in the wardrobe, to be pulled out again only for funerals. He knew all the scare stories – people who left work one week and were in a wooden box by the


next, loss of work equalling loss of purpose in the great scheme of things. He'd wondered often if the only thing for it was to clear out of the city altogether. His flat would buy him a fair-sized house elsewhere – the Fife coastline, or west to one of the distillery-strewn islands, or south into reiver country. But he couldn't see himself ever leaving Edinburgh. It was the oxygen in his bloodstream, but still with mysteries to be explored. He'd lived there for as long as he'd been a cop, the two – job and city – becoming intertwined.

Each new crime had added to his understanding, without that understanding ever coming near to completion. Bloodstained past mingling with bloodstained present; Covenanters and commerce; a city of banking and brothels, virtue and vitriol…

Underworld meeting overworld…

'Penny for them.' It was Siobhan, standing in the doorway.

“You'd be wasting your money,' he told her.

'Somehow I very much doubt that. Are you ready?' Hoisting her bag on to her shoulder.

'As I'll ever be.'

He decided this much was true.

There were just the four of them at the Oxford Bar to start with.

The back room had indeed been set aside for their use – with the help of strips of crime-scene tape.

'Nice touch,' Rebus admitted, hoisting his first pint of the evening.

After the best part of an hour, they headed to the restaurant. A bag of gifts was waiting there. From Siobhan, an iPod. Rebus protested that he would never master the technology.

'I've already loaded it,' she told him. 'The Stones, Who, Wishbone Ash… you name it.'

'John Martyn? Jackie Leven?'

'Even a bit of Hawkwind.'

'My exit music,' Rebus commented with a look close to contentment.

From Hawes and Tibbet, a bottle of 25-year-old malt, and a book of historical walks through Edinburgh. Rebus kissed the bottle and patted the book, then insisted on wearing headphones for the first part of the meal.

'Listening to Jack Bruce beats you lot any day,' he explained.

Just the two bottles of wine with dinner, then back to the Ox, where Gates, Curt and Macrae had arrived, the bar providing a couple of bottles of champagne. Todd Goodyear and his girlfriend


Sonia were the last to arrive. It was almost eleven and Rebus was on his fourth pint. Colin Tibbet was outside, taking gulps of fresh air while Phyllida Hawes rubbed his back encouragingly.

'Looks in a bad way,' Goodyear commented.

'Seven double brandies will do that to a man.'

There was no music, but then it wasn't needed. The various conversations were unforced and full of laughter. Anecdotes were recounted, with the two pathologists telling the best of them. Macrae shook Rebus's hand warmly and told him he had to get home.

'Remember to drop by and see us,' were his parting words.

Derek Starr was standing in a corner, discussing work with a bored-looking Shug Davidson. The fact he'd come at all meant his wine bar chat-ups had failed yet again. Each time Davidson glanced over, Rebus offered him a winced commiseration. When a tray appeared with the next round of drinks, Rebus found himself next to Sonia.

'Todd tells me you work scene-of-crimes,' he said.

'That's right.'

'Sorry I don't recognise the face.'

'I've usually got a hood over my head,' she said with a shy smile.

She was short, maybe five feet, with cropped blonde hair and green eyes. The dress she was wearing looked Japanese, and suited her slight, thin-boned figure.

'How long have you and Todd been an item?'

'A year and a bit.'

Rebus looked over to where Goodyear was handing out drinks.

'Must be doing something right,' he commented.

'He's quite brilliant, you know. CID's got to be the next step.'

'Might be a vacancy,' Rebus conceded. 'So how do you like sceneof-crimes?'

'It's all right.'

'I heard you were at Raeburn Wynd, the night Todorov was killed.'

She nodded. 'And at the canal, too. I was on call-out.'

'Mucked up your plans with Todd,' Rebus sympathised.

'How do you mean?' Her eyes had narrowed.

'Nothing,' Rebus said, wondering if maybe he'd started slurring his words.

'It was me who found the overshoe,' she added. Then her eyes widened and she put her free hand to her mouth.

'Don't worry about it,' Rebus assured her. 'I'm no longer in the frame, apparently.'


She relaxed and gave a little laugh. 'But it says a lot about Todd's skills, don't you think?'

'Absolutely,' Rebus agreed.

'Anything floating in that part of the canal, chances are it would end up getting stuck under the bridge – that's what he said.'

'And he was right,' Rebus admitted.

'Which is why CID would be mad not to take him.'

'Our sanity's often been questioned,' Rebus warned her.

'But you got a result on Todorov,' she stated.

'Yes, we did,' Rebus agreed with a tired smile. Goodyear was chatting to Siobhan Clarke now. Whatever he said made her laugh.

Rebus decided it was time for a cigarette break and reached out to take Sonia's hand, planting a kiss on the back of it.

'The perfect gentleman,' she was saying as he moved towards the door.

'If only you knew, kid…'

Hawes and Tibbet were at the far end of the street, Tibbet with his back to the wall, Hawes in front of him, stroking the hair back from his forehead. A couple of other smokers were watching the show.

'A while since that happened to me,' one said.

“Which?' his neighbour asked. 'Feeling like spewing or having a woman run her fingers through your hair?'

Rebus joined in the laughter and then busied himself with the cigarette. At the other end of the street, the lights were on in the First Minister's residence. A Labour enclave since devolution, it was now under threat from the Nationalists. In fact, Rebus couldn't think of a time when Scotland hadn't returned a Labour majority.

He had voted only three times in his life, each time for a different party. By the time of the devolution referendum, he'd lost all interest.

He'd met plenty of politicians since – Megan Macfarlane and Jim Bakewell were merely the latest examples – but reckoned half the regulars in the Ox would make better legislators. The likes of Bakewell and Macfarlane were a constant, and though Stuart Janney would go to prison, Rebus doubted it would have any real effect on First Albannach. They would continue to work with people like Sergei Andropov and Morris Gerald Cafferty, continue to rake in the bad money with the good. Jobs and prosperity: the majority didn't care how they came into being or were sustained.

Edinburgh had been built on the invisible industries of banking and insurance. Who cared if a few bribes oiled the wheels? What did it matter if some men got together to watch secretly filmed videos?


Andropov had said something about poets seeing themselves as unacknowledged legislators, but surely that title belonged to the men in the pinstripe suits?

'Reckon she's trying to kiss it better?' one of the smokers asked.

Hawes and Tibbet were now in an embrace of sorts, faces pressed together. Good luck to them, Rebus thought to himself. Police work had wedged itself into his own marriage, cracking it wide open, but that didn't have to be the case – he knew plenty of cops who were still married, some of them even wedded to other cops. They seemed to make it work.

'She's doing a good job of it,' the other smoker was answering his neighbour. The door was pulled open behind them and Siobhan Clarke appeared.

'There you are,' she said.

'Here I am,' Rebus agreed.

'We were worried you'd sloped off.'

'I'll just be a minute,' he said, showing her the remaining inch of cigarette.

She had wrapped her arms around herself, protection against the cold. 'Don't worry,' she said, 'we're not having speeches or anything.'

Tou've judged it just right, Shiv,' he assured her. 'Thanks.'

She accepted the praise with a twitch of her mouth. 'How's Colin doing?'

'I think Phyl's resuscitating him.' Rebus nodded in the direction of the two figures, who had now more or less merged into one.

'I hope they don't regret it in the morning,' she muttered.

“What's life without a few regrets?' one of the smokers challenged her.

'They'll put that on my headstone,' his companion stated.

Rebus and Clarke locked eyes again for a few silent moments.

'Come back into the warm,' she told him. He gave her a slow nod, stubbed out the remains of his cigarette and did as he was told.

It was gone midnight when his taxi pulled up outside the Western General Hospital. He got as far as the corridor to Cafferty's ward before one of the nurses stopped him.

Tou've been drinking,' she scolded him.

'Since when did nurses start making diagnoses?'

'I'll have to call security.'

What for?'

W7… j.


Tou can't go visiting a patient in the middle of the night. Not in that state.'

'Why not?'

'Because people are sleeping.'

'I'm not going to start playing the drums,' he protested.

She pointed to the ceiling. Rebus looked, too, and saw that a camera was trained on them. You're being monitored,' she warned him. 'A guard will be here any moment.'

'Christ's sake…'

The doors behind her – the doors to Cafferty's ward – swung open. A man was standing there.

'I'll handle this,' he said.

'Who are you?' she asked, turning to him. 'Who gave you permission to…?' But his warrant card silenced her.

'DI Stone,' he explained. 'This man's known to me. I'll see he doesn't cause further disturbance.' Stone nodded towards a row of chairs, meant for visitors. Rebus decided he could do with a sit down, so didn't argue. When he was seated, Stone nodded, letting the nurse know everything was under control. As she headed off, he sat beside Rebus, leaving one of the chairs empty between them.

He started to tuck his ID back into his pocket.

'I used to have one of those,' Rebus told him.

“What's in the bag?' Stone asked.

'My retirement.'

'That explains a lot.'

Rebus tried focusing on him. 'Such as?'

'The amount you've put away, for one thing.'

'Six pints, three shorts, and half a bottle of wine.'

'And the man's still standing.' Stone shook his head in disbelief.

'So what brings you here? Bit of unfinished business still niggling you?'

Rebus had started opening his cigarettes, until he remembered where he was. 'How do you mean?' he asked.

'Planning to unhook a few of Cafferty's plugs and tubes?'

'It wasn't me at the canal.'

'A blood-spattered overshoe says otherwise.'

'Didn't know inanimate objects could talk.' Rebus was thinking back to his chat with Sonia.

'They've got a language all of their own, Rebus,' Stone clarified, 'and Forensics to do the translating.'

Yes, Rebus thought, his mind clearing a little, and SOCOs to pick them up in the first place… SOCOs like little Sonia. 'Can I


assume,' he said, 'that you've been visiting the patient yourself?'

'Trying to change the subject?'

'Just wondering.'

Stone nodded eventually. 'The whole surveillance is in cold storage till he wakes up. Means I'm headed back home in the morning. DI Davidson will keep me informed of developments.'

'I wouldn't try asking him any difficult questions tomorrow,'

Rebus gave warning. 'He was last seen dancing his way down Young Street.'

'I'll bear that in mind.' Stone was rising to his feet. 'Now come on, I'll give you a lift.'

'My flat's the other end of town,' Rebus stated. 'I'll phone for a taxi.'

'Then I'll wait with you till it comes.'

'Not that you don't trust me, DI Stone.'

Stone didn't bother answering. Rebus had taken a couple of steps towards the ward, but only to peer through one of the porthole-style windows. He couldn't figure out which bed was Cafferty's. Some of them had screens around them anyway.

'What if you've pulled the plug on him?' Rebus asked. 'You've got yourself the perfect fall-guy.'

But Stone shook his head, and, like the nurse before him, gestured towards the security camera. 'CCTV would prove you never crossed the threshold. Haven't you heard that old saying, “The camera never lies”?'

'I've heard it,' Rebus stated, 'but I know better than to believe it.'

Having said which, he picked up his bag and preceded Stone back along the corridor towards the exit.

Tou've known Cafferty a long time,' Stone said.

'Nigh on twenty years.'

Tou first gave evidence against him in Glasgow High Court.'

'That's right. Bloody lawyer got me mixed up with the previous witness, called me “Mr Stroman”. After that, Cafferty's nickname for me was Strawman.'

'Like in The Wizard ofOzT 'Have I managed to tell you something that wasn't in your files?'

You have, as a matter of fact.'

'Nice to know I still have the odd trick up my sleeve.'

'I get the feeling you're not going to let him go.'

'Cafferty?' Rebus watched as Stone nodded.

'Or maybe you've readied DS Clarke to enter the fray on your


behalf.' Stone waited for a response, but Rebus didn't seem to have one. 'Now you're leaving the force, you reckon that leaves a gap that'll never be filled?'

'I'm not quite that conceited.'

'Maybe the same's true of Cafferty – when he pegs it, the vacancy won't stay open for long. Plenty small-timers out there, young and lean and hungry…'

'Not my problem,' Rebus said.

'Then the only thing spoiling your party is Cafferty himself.'

They had reached the main doors of the hospital. Rebus had his phone in his hand, readying to call for a cab.

Tou really going to wait with me?' he asked.

'Nothing better to do,' Stone answered. 'But that offer of a lift still stands. This time of night, taxis are bound to be thin on the ground.'

It took Rebus half a minute to decide. Having nodded his agreement, he reached into the bag, pulling out the bottle of Speyside…


Monday 27 November 2006

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