Exit Music

3

The Scottish Poetry Library was located down one of innumerable pends and wynds leading off the Canongate. Rebus and Clarke managed to miss it, and ended up at the Parliament and the Palace of Holyrood. Driving more slowly back uphill, they missed it again.

'There's nowhere to park anyway,' Clarke complained. They were in her car this morning, and therefore dependent on Rebus to spot Crighton's Close.

'I think it was back there,' he said, craning his neck. 'Pull up on to the pavement and we'll take a look.'

Clarke left the hazard lights on when she locked the car, and folded her wing mirror in so it wouldn't get side-swiped. 'If I get a ticket, you're paying,' she warned Rebus.

'Police business, Shiv. We'll appeal it.'

The Poetry Library was a modern building cleverly concealed amidst the tenements. A member of staff sat behind the counter and beamed a smile in their direction. The smile evaporated when Rebus showed her his warrant card.

'Poetry reading a couple of nights back – Alexander Todorov.'

'Oh yes,' she said, 'quite marvellous. We have some of his books I for sale.'

“Was he in Edinburgh on his own? Any family, that sort of thing…?'

The woman's eyes narrowed, and she clutched a hand to her iigan. 'Has something happened?'

It was Clarke who answered. 'I'm afraid Mr Todorov was attacked st night.'

'Gracious,' the librarian gasped, 'is he…?'

'As a doornail,' Rebus supplied. 'We need to speak to next of kin, or at the very least someone who can identify him.'

'Alexander was here as a guest of PEN and the university. He's been in the city a couple of months…' The librarian's voice was trembling, along with the rest of her.

TEN?'

'It's a writers' group… very big on human rights.'

'So where was he staying?'

'The university provided a flat in Buccleuch Place.'

'Family? A wife maybe…?'

But the woman shook her head. 'I think his wife died. I don't recall them having any children – a blessing, I suppose.'

Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. 'So who organised his event here? Was it the university, the consulate…?'

'It was Scarlett Colwell.'

'His translator?' Clarke asked, gaining a nod of confirmation.

'Scarlett works in the Russian department.' The librarian started sifting the slips of paper on her desk. 'I've got her number here somewhere… What a terrible thing to have happened. I can't tell you how upsetting it is.'

'No trouble at the reading itself?' Rebus asked, trying to make the question seem casual.

'Trouble?' When she saw he wasn't about to elucidate, she shook her head. 'It all went swimmingly. Terrific use of metaphor and rhythm… even when he recited in Russian, you could feel the passion.' She was lost for a moment in reminiscence. Then, with a sigh: 'Alexander was happy to sign books afterwards.'

Tou make it sound,' Clarke pointed out, 'as if that might not always have been the case.'

'Alexander Todorov was a poet, a very considerable poet.' As if this explained everything. 'Ah, here it is.' She held up the piece of paper but seemed unwilling to relinquish it. Instead, Clarke entered the number into her own mobile, before thanking the librarian for taking the trouble.

Rebus was looking around. 'Where exactly did the performance happen?'

'Upstairs. We had an audience of over seventy.'

'I don't suppose anyone filmed it, did they?'

'Filmed it?'

'For posterity.'

'Why do you ask?'

Rebus gave a shrug by way of reply.

'There was a sound recording,' the woman admitted. 'Someone from a music studio.'

Clarke had her notebook out. 'Name?' she asked.

'Abigail Thomas.' The librarian realised her mistake. 'Oh, you mean the name of the recordist? Charlie something…' Abigail Thomas screwed shut her eyes with the effort, then opened them wide. 'Charles Riordan. He has his own studio in Leith.'

'Thank you, Ms Thomas,' Rebus said. Then: 'Can you think of anyone we should contact?'

Tou could talk to PEN.'

'There wasn't anyone here that night from the consulate?'

'I wouldn't have thought so.'

'Oh?'

'Alexander was quite vocal in his opposition to the current situation in Russia. He was on the Question Time panel a few weeks back.'

'The TV show?' Clarke asked. 'I watch that sometimes.'

'So his English was pretty good then,' Rebus surmised.

'When he wanted it to be,' the librarian said with a wry smile.

'If he didn't like the point you were making, the ability seemed suddenly to desert him.'

'He sounds quite a character,' Rebus had to admit. He saw that a small pile of Todorov's books had been given their own display on a table near the stairs. 'Are these for sale?' he asked.

'Indeed they are. Would you like to buy one?'

'Would they happen to be signed?' He watched her nod. 'In that case, make it half a dozen.' He was reaching into his jacket for his wallet as the librarian rose from her seat to fetch them. Feeling Clarke's eyes on him, he mouthed something to her.

Something very like 'eBay”.

The car had not received a ticket, but there were dirty looks from the line of motorists attempting to squeeze past. Rebus threw the jjfoag of books on to the back seat. 'Should we warn her we're comig?'

'Might be wise,' Clarke agreed, punching the keys on her phone ad holding it to her ear. 'Tell me, do you even know how to sell lething on eBay?'

I can learn,' Rebus said. Then: 'Tell her we'll meet her at his flat, st in case he's lying in a stupor there and we've got a looky-likey the mortuary.' He stuck a fist to his mouth, stifling a yawn.

'Get any sleep?' Clarke asked.

'Probably the same as you,' he told her.

Clarke's call had connected her to the university switchboard.

She asked for Scarlett Colwell and was put through.

'Miss Colwell?' A pause. 'Sorry, Doctor Colwell.' She rolled her eyes for Rebus's benefit.

'Ask her if she can fix my gout,' he whispered. Clarke thumped his shoulder as she began to give Dr Scarlett Colwell the bad news.

Two minutes later, they were heading for Buccleuch Place, a six storey Georgian block which faced the more modern (and far uglier) university edifices. One tower in particular had been voted the building most people in Edinburgh wanted to see condemned. The tower, perhaps sensing this hostility, had begun to self-destruct, great chunks of cladding falling from it at irregular intervals.

“You never studied here, did you?' Rebus asked, as Clarke's car rumbled across the setts.

'No,' she said, nosing into a parking space. 'Did you?'

Rebus gave a snort. 'I'm a dinosaur, Shiv – back in the Bronze Age they let you become a detective without a diploma and a mortarboard.'

'Weren't the dinosaurs extinct by the Bronze Age?'

'Not having been to college, that's just the sort of thing I wouldn't know. Reckon there's any chance of grabbing ourselves a coffee while we're here?'

“You mean in the flat?' Clarke watched him nod. Tou'd drink a dead man's coffee?'

'I've drunk a damn sight worse.'

“You know, I actually believe that.' Clarke was out of the car now, Rebus following. 'Must be her over there.'

She was standing at the top of some steps, and had already unlocked the front door. She gave a little wave, which Rebus and Clarke acknowledged – Clarke because it was the right thing to do, and Rebus because Scarlett Colwell was a looker. Her hair fell in long auburn waves, her eyes were dark, her figure curvy. She wore a hugging green miniskirt, black tights and brown calf-length boots. Her Little Red Riding Hood coat reached only as far as her waist. A gust of wind caused her to push the hair back from her eyes, and Rebus felt as if he were walking into a Cadbury's Flake advert. He saw that her mascara was a bit blurry, evidence that she'd shed a few tears since receiving the news, but she was businesslike as the introductions were made.

They followed her up four flights of tenement stairs to the top floor landing, where she produced another key, unlocking the door to Alexander Todorov's flat, Rebus arriving, having paused for breath on the landing below, just as the door swung open. There wasn't much to the apartment: a short, narrow hallway led to the living room with a kitchenette off it. There was a cramped shower room and separate toilet, and a single bedroom with views towards the Meadows. Being in the eaves of the building, the ceilings angled sharply downwards. Rebus wondered if the poet had ever sat up sharply in bed and thumped the crown of his head. The whole flat felt not so much empty as utterly desolate, as though marked by the departure of its most recent resident.

'We're really sorry about this,' Siobhan Clarke was saying as the three of them stood in the living room. Rebus was looking around him: a waste-paper bin full of crumpled poems, an empty cognac bottle lying next to the battered sofa, an Edinburgh bus map pinned to one wall above a foldaway dining table on which sat an electric typewriter. No sign of a computer or a TV or a music system, just a portable radio whose aerial had been snapped off. Books scattered everywhere, some English, some Russian, plus a few other languages.

A Greek dictionary sat on the arm of the sofa. There were empty lager cans on a shelf meant for knick-knacks. Invitations on the mantelpiece to parties from the previous month. They had passed a telephone on the floor in the hallway. Rebus asked if the poet had owned such a thing as a mobile. When Colwell shook her head, hair bouncing and swaying, Rebus knew he wanted to ask another question she could answer in the same way. Clarke's clearing of the throat warned him against it.

'And no computer either?' he asked anyway.

'He was welcome to use the one in my office,' Colwell said. 'But Alexander mistrusted technology.'

Tfou knew him fairly well?'

'I was his translator. When the scholarship was announced, I petitioned hard on his behalf.'

'So where was he before Edinburgh?'

' Paris for a time… Cologne before that… Stanford, Melbourne, Ottawa…' She managed a smile. 'He was very proud of the stamps in his passport.'

'Speaking of which,' Clarke interrupted, “his pockets had been emptied – any idea what he would usually carry around with him?'

'Anotebook and pen… some money, I suppose…”

'Any credit cards?'

'He had a cash card. I think he'd opened an account with First Albannach. Should be some statements around here somewhere.'

She looked about her. “You say he was mugged?'

'Some sort of attack, certainly.'

'What kind of man was he, Dr Colwell?' Rebus asked. 'If someone confronted him in the street, would he put up a struggle, fight them back?'

'Oh, I'd think so. He was physically robust. Liked good wine and a good argument.'

'Did he have a temper?'

'Not especially.'

'But you said he liked to argue.'

'In the sense that he enjoyed debate,' Colwell corrected herself.

'When did you last see him?'

'At the Poetry Library. He was headed to the pub afterwards, but I wanted to get home – essays to mark before we break for Christmas.'

'So who did he go to the pub with?'

'There were a few local poets in the audience: Ron Butlin, Andrew Greig… I'd guess Abigail Thomas would be there, too, if only to pay for the drinks – Alexander wasn't brilliant with money.'

Rebus and Clarke shared a look: they'd have to talk to the librarian again. Rebus gave a little cough, playing for time before asking his next question. 'Would you be willing to identify the body, Dr Colwell?'

The blood drained from Scarlett Colwell's face.

'You seem to have known him better than most,' Rebus argued, 'unless there's a next of kin we can approach.'

But she had already made up her mind. 'It's all right, I'll do it.'

'We can take you there now,' Clarke told her, 'if that's okay with you.'

Colwell nodded slowly, eyes staring into space. Rebus caught Clarke's attention. 'Get on to the station,' he said, 'see if Hawes and Tibbet can come give this place a look-see – passport, cash card, notebook… If they're not here, someone's either got them or dumped them.'

'Not forgetting his set of keys,' Clarke added.

'Good point.' Rebus's eyes scanned the room again. 'Hard to say if this place has been turned over or not – unless you know better, Dr Colwell?'

Colwell shook her head again, and had to remove a strand of hair from over one eye. 'It was always pretty much like this.'

'So no need for forensics,' Rebus told Clarke. 'Just Hawes and Tibbet.' Clarke was nodding as she reached for her phone. Rebus had missed something Colwell had said.

'I've a tutorial in an hour,' she repeated.

'We'll have you back in plenty of time,' he assured her, not particularly caring one way or the other. He held out a hand towards Clarke. 'Keys.'

'Pardon?'

“You're staying here to let Hawes and Tibbet in. I'll drive Dr Colwell to the mortuary.'

Clarke tried staring him out, but eventually relented.

'Get one of them to bring you to the Cowgate afterwards,' Rebus said, hoping to sugar the pill.

4

The identification was immediate, even though most of the body was kept in its shroud, concealing the work done by the pathologists.

Colwell laid her forehead against Rebus's shoulder for a moment, and allowed a single tear to escape from either eye. Rebus regretted not having a clean handkerchief on him, but she reached into her shoulder bag for one, dabbing her eyes and then blowing her nose. Professor Gates was in the room with them, dressed in a three-piece suit which had fitted him beautifully four or five years back. He held his hands in front of him, head bowed, respecting the formalities.

'It's Alexander,' Colwell was eventually able to say.

“You're sure of that?' Rebus felt obliged to press.

'Positive.'

'Perhaps,' Gates piped up, raising his head, 'Dr Colwell would like a cup of tea before the paperwork?'

'Just a couple of forms,' Rebus explained quietly. Colwell nodded slowly, and the three of them went to the pathologist's private office. It was a claustrophobic space with no natural light and the smell of damp wafting in from the shower cubicle next door. The day shift was on, and Rebus didn't recognise the man who brought the tea. Gates called him Kevin, told him to close the door again on his way out, then opened the folder on his desk.

'By the way,' he said, 'was Mr Todorov any sort of car enthusiast?'

'I don't think he'd have known the engine from the boot,' Colwell said with a hint of a smile. 'He once got me to change the bulb in his desk lamp.'

Gates smiled back at her, then turned his attention to Rebus.

'Forensics asked if he maybe worked as a mechanic. There was some oil on the hem of the jacket and the trouser knees.'

Rebus thought back to the crime scene. 'Could have been some on the ground,' he admitted.

'King's Stables Road,' the pathologist added. 'A lot of the stables were turned into garages, weren't they?'

Rebus nodded and glanced towards Colwell, gauging her reaction.

'It's all right,' she told him. 'I'm not going to start blubbing again.'

'Who was it spoke to you?' Rebus asked Gates.

'Ray Duff.'

'Ray's no slouch,' Rebus said. In fact, Rebus knew damned well that Ray Duff was the best forensic scientist they had.

'What's the betting he's at the locus right now,' Gates said, 'checking for oil?'

Rebus nodded and lifted the mug of tea to his lips.

'Now that we know the victim really is Alexander,' Colwell said into the silence, 'do I need to keep quiet about it? I mean, is it something you want to keep from the media?'

Gates gave a loud snort. 'Dr Colwell, we wouldn't stand a chance of keeping it from the Fourth Estate. Lothian and Borders Police leaks like the proverbial sieve – as does this very building.' He lifted his head towards the door. 'Isn't that right, Kevin?' he called.

They could hear feet beginning to shuffle back down the corridor.

Gates gave a satisfied smile and picked up his ringing telephone.

Rebus knew it would be Siobhan Clarke, waiting in reception…

After dropping Colwell back at the university, Rebus treated Clarke to lunch. When he'd made the offer, she'd stared at him and asked if anything was wrong. He'd shaken his head and she'd said he must be after a favour then.

fWho knows how often we'll get the chance, once I'm retired,'

he'd explained.

They went to an upstairs bistro on West Nicolson Street, where the dish of the day was venison pie. It came with chips and garden peas, over all of which Rebus dumped quarter of a bottle of HP sauce. He was limiting himself to a half-pint of Deuchar's, and had managed four drags on a cigarette before stepping over the threshold. Between mouthfuls of pie crust, he told her about Ray Duff, and asked if everything was okay at Todorov's flat.

'Reckon young Colin has a thing going for Phyllida?' Clarke mused. Detective Constables Phyllida Hawes and Colin Tibbet shared the CID suite at Gayfield Square with Rebus and Clarke.

Until recently, all four had worked under the baleful gaze of Detective Inspector Derek Starr, but Starr, seeking the further advancement which he saw as his right, was on secondment to police headquarters on Fettes Avenue. The rumour was that once Rebus walked into the sunset, Clarke would take his place, promoted inspector. It was a rumour Clarke herself was trying not to listen to.

'Why do you ask?' Rebus lifted his glass, noting that it was already almost empty.

'They just seem very comfortable with one another.'

Rebus stared at her, trying for a look of pained surprise. 'And we're not?'

'We're fine,' she answered with a smile. 'But I think they've been on a couple of dates – not that they want anyone to know.'

Tou reckon they're snuggling up just now in the dead man's bed?'

Clarke wrinkled her nose at the suggestion. Then, half a minute later: 'I'm just wondering how to handle it.'

'You mean once I'm out of the way and you're in charge?' Rebus put down his fork and gave her a glare.

'You're the one who wants all the loose ends tied up,' she complained.

'Maybe so, but I've never thought of myself as an agony aunt.' He lifted his glass again, only to find that he'd finished it.

'Do you want coffee?' she asked, making it sound like a peace offering. He shook his head and started patting his pockets.

'What I need is a proper smoke.' He found the packet and rose to his feet. Tfou get yourself a coffee while I'm outside.'

'What about this afternoon?'

He thought for a moment. 'We'll get more done if we diwy it up – you go see the librarian again, I'll hit King's Stables Road.'

'Fine,' she said, not bothering to disguise the fact that it wasn't really fine at all. Rebus stood his ground for a moment, as if about to muster some words, then waved the cigarette in her direction and headed for the door.

'And thanks for the lunch,' she said, as soon as he was out of earshot.

Rebus thought he knew why they could barely hold a five-minute conversation without starting to snipe at one another. It was bound to be a tense time, him leaving the field of battle, her on the cusp of promotion. They'd worked together so long – been friends almost as long… Bound to be a tense time.

Everyone assumed that they'd slept together at some point down the line, but no way either of them would have let it happen. How could they have worked as partners afterwards? It would have been all or nothing, and they both loved the job too much to let anything else get in the way. The one thing he'd made her promise was that there'd be no surprise parties his last week at work. Their boss at Gayfield Square had even offered to host something, but Rebus had thanked him with a shake of the head.

'You're the longest-serving officer in CID,' DCI Macrae had persisted.

'Then it's the folk who've put up with me who deserve the medal,'

Rebus had retorted.

The cordon was still in place at the bottom of Raeburn Wynd, but one of the locals ducked beneath the blue-and-white-striped tape, resistant to the idea that anywhere in Edinburgh could be off limits to him. Or so Rebus surmised by the hand gesture the man made when warned by Ray Duff that he was contaminating a crime scene. Duff was shaking his head, more in sorrow than anything else, when Rebus approached.

'Gates reckoned this is where I'd find you,' Rebus said. Duff rolled his eyes.

'And now you're walking all over my locus.'

Rebus answered with a twitch of the mouth. Duff was crouching beside his forensic kit, a toughened red plastic toolbox bought from B amp;Q. Its myriad drawers opened concertina-style, but Duff was in the process of closing them.

'Thought you'd be putting your feet up,' Duff commented.

'No you didn't.'

Duff laughed.'True enough.'

'Any joy?' Rebus asked.

Duff snapped shut the box and lifted it with him as he got to his feet. 'I wandered as far as the top of the lane, checking all the garages along the way. Thing is, if he'd been attacked up there, we'd have traces of blood on the roadway.' He stamped his foot to reinforce the point.

'And?'

“The blood's elsewhere, John.' He gestured for Rebus to follow

and took a left along King's Stables Road. 'See anything?'

Rebus looked hard at the pavement and noticed the trail of splashes. There were intervals between them. The blood had lost most of its colour but was still recognisable. 'How come we didn't spot this last night?'

Duff shrugged. His car was parked kerbside, and he unlocked it long enough to stow his box of tricks.

'How far have you followed it?' Rebus asked.

'I was just about to get started when you arrived.'

'Then let's go.'

They began walking, eyes on the sporadic series of drips. Tou going to join SCRU?' Duff asked.

'Think they'd want me?' SCRU was the Serious Crime Review Unit. It consisted of three retired detectives, whose job was to look at unsolveds.

'Did you hear about that result we got last week?' Duff said.

'DNA from a sweated fingerprint. Sort of thing that can be useful on cold cases. DNA boost means we can decipher DNA multiples.'

'Shame I can't decipher what you're saying.'

Duff chuckled. 'World's changing, John. Faster than most of us can keep up with.'

'You're saying I should embrace the scrapheap?'

Duff just shrugged. They'd covered a hundred yards or so and were standing at the exit to a multistorey car park. There were two barriers; drivers could choose either one. Once you'd paid for your ticket, you slid it into a slot and the barrier would rise.

'Have you ID'd the victim?' Duff asked, looking around as he tried to pick up the trail again.

'A Russian poet.'

'Did he drive a car?'

'He couldn't change his own lightbulbs, Ray.'

'Thing about car parks, John… there's always a bit of oil left lying around.'

Rebus had noticed that there were intercoms fixed alongside either barrier. He pressed a button and waited. After a few moments, a voice crackled from the loudspeaker.

What is it?'

'Wonder if you can help me…'

“You after directions or something? Look, chief, this is a car park.

All we do here is park cars.' It took Rebus only a second to work things out.

Tou can see me,' he said. Yes: a CCTV camera high up in one

corner, pointing at the exit. Rebus gave it a wave.

'Have you got a problem with your car?' the voice was asking.

'I'm a cop,' Rebus answered. 'Want to have a word with you.'

'What about?'

'Where are you?'

'Next floor up,' the voice admitted eventually. 'Is this to do with that prang I had?'

'That depends – did you happen to hit a guy and kill him?'

'Christ, no.'

'Might be okay then. We'll be there in a minute.' Rebus moved away from the barrier towards where Ray Duff was down on all fours, peering beneath a parked BMW.

'Not keen on these new Beamers,' Duff said, sensing Rebus behind him.

'Found something?'

'I think there's blood under here… quite a bit of it. If you were asking me, I'd say this is trail's end.'

Rebus walked around the vehicle. There was a ticket on the dashboard, showing that it had entered the car park at eleven that morning.

'Next car along,' Duff was saying, 'is there something underneath it?'

Rebus did a circuit of the big Lexus but couldn't see anything.

Nothing else for it but to get down on hands and knees himself. A bit of string or wire. He reached a hand beneath the car, fingertips scrabbling at it, eventually drawing it out. Hauled himself back to his feet and held it dangling by thumb and forefinger.

A plain silver neck-chain.

'Ray,' he said, 'better go fetch your kit.'

5

Clarke decided it wasn't worth visiting the librarian, so called her from Todorov's flat while Hawes and Tibbet started the search.

Clarke had barely punched in the number for the Poetry Library when Hawes arrived back from the bedroom, waving the dead man's passport.

'Under a corner of the mattress,' Hawes said. 'First place I looked.'

Clarke just nodded, and moved into the hallway for a bit more privacy.

'Miss Thomas?' she said into her phone. 'It's Detective Sergeant Clarke here, sorry to trouble you again so soon…'

Three minutes later she was back in the living room with just a couple of names: yes, Abigail Thomas had accompanied Todorov to the pub after his recital, but she'd only stayed for the one, and knew that the poet wouldn't be satisfied until he'd sampled another four or five watering-holes.

'I reckoned he was in safe hands with Mr Riordan,' she'd told Clarke.

'The sound engineer?'

Tes.'

'No one else was there? None of the other poets?'

'Just the three of us, and as I say, I didn't stay long…'

Colin Tibbet meantime had finished rummaging through desk drawers and kitchen cupboards and was tilting the sofa to see if anything other than dust might be hidden there. Clarke lifted a book from the floor. It was another copy ofAstapovo Blues. She'd managed a couple of minutes' research on Count Tolstoy, so knew that he'd died in a railway siding, shunning the wife who

had refused to join his pared-to-the-bone lifestyle. This helped her make more sense of the collection's final poem, 'Codex Coda', with its refrain of 'a cold, cleansed death'. Todorov, she saw, had not quite finished with any of the poems in the book – there were pencilled amendments throughout. She reached into his waste-bin and uncrumpled one of the discarded sheets.

City noise invisible Havoc-crying air Congested as a

The rest of the sheet consisted of doodled punctuation marks.

There was a folder on his desk, but nothing inside it. A book of Killer Sudokus, all of them finished. Pens and pencils and an unused calligraphy set, complete with instructions. She walked over to the wall and stood in front of the Edinburgh bus map, traced a line from King's Stables Road to Buccleuch Place. There were a dozen routes he could have chosen. Maybe he was on a pub crawl, or a little bit lost. No reason to assume he'd been heading home.

He could have left his flat and crossed George Square, made for Candlemaker Row and wandered down its steep brae into the Grassmarket. Plenty of pubs there, and King's Stables Road only a right-hand fork away… Her phone rang. Caller ID: Rebus. 'Phyl found his passport,' she told him.

'And I just found his neck-chain, lying on the floor of the multistorey.'

'So he was killed there and dumped in the lane?'

'Trail of blood says so.'

'Or he staggered that far and then keeled over.'

'Another possibility,' Rebus seemed to concede. 'Thing is, though, what was he doing in the car park in the first place? Are you at his flat?'

'I was just about to leave.'

'Before you do, add car keys or a driving licence to the search list. And ask Scarlett Colwell if Todorov had access to a vehicle.

I'm pretty sure she'll say no, but all the same…'

'No sign of any abandoned cars in the multistorey?'

'Good point, Shiv, I'll have someone check. Talk to you later.' The phone went dead, and she managed a little smile, hadn't heard Rebus so fired up in several months. Not for the first time, she wondered what the hell he would do with himself when the work was done.

Answer: bug her, most likely – phone calls daily, wanting to know everything about her case load.

Clarke got through to Dr Colwell on the mobile, Colwell having forgotten to turn her own off.

'Sorry,' Clarke apologised, 'are you in the middle of your tutorial?'

'I had to send them away.'

'I can understand. Maybe you should shut up shop for the day.

You've had quite a shock.'

'And do what exactly? My boyfriend's in London, I've got the whole flat to myself.'

'There must be a friend you could call.' Clarke looked up as Hawes walked back into the room, but this time all Hawes did was offer a shrug: no notebook, keys or cash card. Tibbet had done no better and was sitting on the chair, frowning over one of the poems in Astapovo Blues. 'Anyway,' Clarke rattled on, 'reason I'm phoning is to ask if Alexander owned a car.'

'He didn't.'

'Could he drive?'

'I've no idea. I certainly wouldn't have ventured into any vehicle with him behind the wheel.'

Clarke was nodding towards the route map – stood to reason Todorov would take buses. 'Thanks anyway,' she said.

'Did you talk to Abi Thomas?' Colwell asked abruptly.

'She went to the pub with him.'

'I'll bet she did.'

'But only stayed for one.'

'Oh yes?'

Tou sound as if you don't believe her, Dr Colwell.'

'Abi Thomas got hot flushes just reading Alexander's poems…

imagine how she felt squeezed in next to him at a corner table in some seedy bar.'

'Well, thanks for your help…” But Clarke was talking into a dead phone. She stared at it, then became aware of two pairs of eyes on her: Hawes and Tibbet.

'I don't think we're going to find anything else here, Siobhan,'

Hawes piped up, while her partner clucked his agreement. He was an inch shorter than her and several inches less smart, but knew enough to let her argue their case.

'Back to base?' Clarke suggested, to enthusiastic nods. 'Okay,'

she agreed, 'but take one more recce first – and this time we're after car keys or anything else that might suggest the deceased

would have need of a car-parking space.' Having said which, she relieved Tibbet of his book and swapped places with him, settling back to see if there was anything she'd missed in 'Codex Coda'.

The SOCOs tried pushing the BMW aside, with no success at all.

They then debated jacking it up, or maneuvering a hoist in so they could lift it. The rest of the parking level had become a buzz of activity, as a line of cops in white overalls shuffled along in formation on their knees, checking that the ground held no further clues.

Todd Goodyear was among them, and greeted Rebus with a nod.

Photos and video were being taken, and another team was outside, tracing the route from car park to lane. The SOCOs were trying not to look too shamefaced, knowing they should have spotted the blood trail on the night itself. They gave Ray Duff dirty looks whenever his back was turned.

Such was the scene which greeted the BMW's owner when she returned, briefcase and shopping bags in hand. Todd Goodyear was told to get to his feet and take a brief statement from her.

'Bloody brief,' Tam Banks stressed, keen for his team to start work on the evidence beneath her car.

Rebus was standing alongside the car park's security guard.

The man had just returned from a check of the other levels. His name was Joe Wills and the uniform he was wearing had probably been tailored with someone else in mind. He'd already explained that it would be hard to tell an abandoned car from any of the others.

Tou're open twenty-four hours?' Rebus had asked.

Wills had shaken his head. 'Close at eleven.'

'And you don't look to see if any cars are left?'

Wills had offered a shrug which went beyond the casual. Not much job satisfaction, Rebus had guessed.

Now Wills was explaining that he still couldn't say whether any of the current bays had been occupied overnight.

'We do a numberplate check once a fortnight,' he said.

'So a stolen car, to give an example, could sit here fourteen days before you'd have an inkling?'

'That's the policy.' The man looked to Rebus like a drinker: grey stubble, hair in need of a wash, eyes red-rimmed. There was probably a bottle of something hidden away in his control room, to be added to the daily round of teas and coffees.

'What sort of shifts do you work?'

'Seven till three or three till eleven. I seem to prefer the mornings.

Five days on, two off; there's other guys usually do the weekends.'

Rebus checked his watch: twenty minutes till the changeover.

Tour colleague will be starting soon – is that the same one who'd have been here last night?'

Wills nodded. 'Name's Gary.'

Tou haven't spoken to him since yesterday?'

Wills shrugged. 'Here's what I know about Gary: lives in Shandon, supports Hearts and has a stoater of a missus.'

'That's a start,' Rebus muttered. Then: 'Let's go look at your CCTV.'

'What for?' The man's eyes were glassy as he met Rebus's glare.

'To see if the tapes caught anything.' From the look on Wills's face, Rebus knew what was coming next, a single word forming echo and question both.

'Tapes…?'

They walked back up the exit slope anyway. Wills's lair was a small booth with greasy windows and a radio playing. Five flickering black-and-white screens, plus a sixth which was blank.

'Top storey,' Wills explained. 'It's playing up.'

Rebus studied the remaining five. The pictures were blurry; he couldn't pick out any individual licence plates. The figures from the floor below were indistinct, too. 'What the hell use is this?' he couldn't help asking.

'Bosses seem to think it gives the clients a sense of security.'

'Bloody false at best, as the poor sod in the mortuary can testify.'

Rebus turned away from the screens.

'One of the cameras used to point pretty much at that spot,' Wills said. 'But they get moved around…'

'And you don't keep any recordings?'

'Machine packed in a month back.' Wills nodded towards a dusty space below the monitors. 'Not that we bothered much. All the bosses were interested in was when anyone tried conning their way out without paying. System's pretty foolproof, didn't happen often.' Wills thought of something. 'There's a set of stairs between the top storey and the pavement, we had a punter attacked there last year.'

'Oh?'

'I said at the time they should get CCTV into the stairwell, but nothing ever happened.'

'At least you tried.'

'Don't know why I bother… job's on the way out anyway. They're replacing us with just the one guy on a motorbike, scooting between half a dozen car parks.'

Rebus was looking around the cramped space. Kettle and mugs, a few tattered paperbacks and magazines, plus the radio – these were all on the work surface opposite the monitors. He guessed that for most of the time, the guards would be facing away from the screens. Why the hell not? Minimum wage, bosses only a distant threat, no job security. One or two buzzes on the intercom per day, people who'd lost their tickets or didn't have change. There was a rack of CDs, bands whose names Rebus vaguely recognised: Kaiser Chiefs, Razorlight, Killers, Strokes, White Stripes…

'No CD player,' he commented.

'They're Gary 's,' Wills explained. 'He brings one of those little machines with him.'

'With headphones?' Rebus guessed, watching as Wills nodded.

'Just wonderful,' he muttered. “You were working here last year, Mr Wills?'

'Been here three years next month.'

'And your colleague?'

'Eight, maybe nine months. I tried his shift but couldn't hack it.

I like my afternoons and evenings free.'

'The better to do some drinking?' Rebus cajoled. Wills's face hardened, encouraging Rebus to press on. 'Ever been in trouble, Mr Wills?'

'How do you mean?'

'Police trouble.'

Wills made show of scratching dandruff from his scalp. 'Long time ago,' he eventually said. 'The bosses know about it.'

'Fighting, was it?'

'Thieving,' Wills corrected him. 'But that was twenty years back.'

'What about your car? You said you'd had a prang?'

But Wills was peering through the window. 'Here's Gary now.' A pale-coloured car had drawn to a halt outside the cabin, its driver locking it after him.

The door burst open. 'Hell's going on downstairs, Joe?' The guard called Gary wasn't yet quite in uniform. Rebus guessed the jacket was in his carrier bag, along with a sandwich box. He was a few years younger than Wills, a lot leaner, and half a foot taller. He dumped two newspapers on to the worktop but couldn't get any further into the room – with Rebus there, space was at a

premium. The man was shrugging out of his coat: crisp white shirt beneath, but no tie – probably a clip-on tucked into a pocket somewhere.

'I'm Detective Inspector Rebus,' Rebus told him. 'Last night, a man was severely beaten.'

'On Level Zero,' Wills added.

'Is he dead?' the new arrival asked, wide-eyed. Wills made a cutthroat gesture with accompanying sound effect. 'Bloody hell. Does the Reaper know?'

Wills shook his head and saw that Rebus needed an explanation.

'It's what we call one of the bosses,' he said. 'She's the only one we ever see. Wears a long black coat with a pointy hood.'

Hence the name. Rebus nodded his understanding. 'I'll need to take a statement,' he told the new arrival. Wills seemed suddenly keen to leave, gathering up his bits and pieces and stuffing them into his own supermarket carrier.

'Happened on your watch, Gary,' he said with a tut. 'The Reaper won't be happy.'

'Now there's a turn-up for the books.' Gary had moved out of the cabin, giving Wills room to make his exit. Rebus came out, too, needing the oxygen.

'We'll talk again,' he warned the departing figure. Wills waved without looking back. Rebus turned his attention to Gary. Lanky, he'd have called him, and round-shouldered as if awkwardly aware of his height. A long face with a square jaw and well-defined cheekbones, plus a mop of dark hair. Rebus almost said it out loud: you should be on a stage in a band, not stuck in a dead-end job. But maybe Gary didn't see it that way. Good-looking, though, which explained the 'stoater of a missus'. Then again, Rebus couldn't tell just how high or low Joe Wills's standards might be…

Twenty minutes got him nothing except a retread: full name, Gary Walsh; maisonette in Shandon; nine months on the job; tried taxi-driving before that but didn't like the night shift; had seen and heard nothing unusual the previous evening.

'What happens at eleven?' Rebus had asked.

'We shut up shop – metal shutters come down at the entrance and exit.'

'Nobody can get in or out?' Walsh had shaken his head. 'You check no one's locked in?' A nod. 'Were any cars left on Level Zero?'

'Not that I remember.'

Tou always park next to the cabin?'

'That's right.'

'But when you drive out, you exit on Level Zero?' A nod from the guard. 'And you didn't see anything?'

'Didn't hear anything either.'

'There would have been blood on the ground.'

A shrug.

'You like your music, Mr Walsh.'

'Love it.'

'Lie back in your chair, feet up, headphones on, eyes shut…

Some security guard you make.'

Rebus had stared at the monitors again, ignoring Walsh's glower.

There were two covering Level Zero. One was fixed on the exit barriers, the other trained on the far corner. You'd have had better luck with a camera-phone.

'Sorry I can't be more help,' Walsh had said, not bothering to sound sympathetic. 'Who was he anyway?'

'A Russian poet called Todorov.'

Walsh had thought for a moment. 'I never read poetry.'

'Join the club,' Rebus had told him. 'Bit of a waiting list, mind…'

6

CR Studios took up the top floor of a converted warehouse just off Constitution Street. Charles Riordan's hand, when Clarke shook it, was pudgy and moist, seeming to leave a residue on her palm which rubbing couldn't remove. There were rings on his right hand, but not the left, and a chunky gold watch loose around his wrist. Clarke noted sweat stains at the armpits of Riordan's mauve shirt. He'd rolled his sleeves up, showing arms matted with curled black hairs. The way he moved, she could tell he always wanted to appear busy. There was a receptionist at a desk just inside the door, and some sort of engineer pushing buttons at a control desk, eyes fixed to a screen showing what Clarke guessed were sound waves.

'The Kingdom of Noise,' Riordan announced.

'Impressive,' Clarke allowed. Through a window, she could see two separate booths, but no sign of anyone in them. 'Bit tight for a band, though.'

'We can accommodate singer-songwriters,' Riordan said. 'One man and his guitar – that sort of thing. But really we're for the spoken word – radio commercials, audio books, TV voiceovers…'

A pretty specialised kingdom, Clarke couldn't help thinking. She asked if there was an office where they could talk, but Riordan just stretched out his arms.

A specialised small kingdom.

'Well,' she began, 'as I said on the phone-'

'I know!' Riordan burst out. 'I can't believe he's dead!'

Neither receptionist nor engineer batted an eyelid; Riordan had obviously told them the minute he'd come off the phone.

'We're trying to account for Mr Todorov's last movements.' Clarke had opened her notebook for effect. 'I believe you had a few drinks with him, the night before last.'

'I saw him more recently than that, sweetheart.' Riordan couldn't help making it sound like a boast. He'd been wearing sunglasses, but now slipped them off, showing large, dark-rimmed eyes. 'I treated him to a curry.'

'Yesterday evening?' Clarke watched the man nod. 'Where was this?'

' West Maitland Street. We'd had a couple of beers near Haymarket. He'd been through to Glasgow for the day.'

'Any idea why?'

'Just wanted to see the place. He was trying to figure out the difference between the two cities, in case it helped explain the country – and bloody good luck to him! I've been here most of my life and still can't make sense of it.' Riordan shook his head slowly.

'He did try explaining it to me – his theory about us – but it went in one ear and out the other.'

Clarke noticed the receptionist and engineer share a look, and assumed this was nothing new as far as they were concerned.

'So he spent the day in Glasgow,' she recapped. 'What time did you meet up?'

'Around eight. He'd been waiting till rush hour was past, meant he got a cheap ticket. Met him off the train and we hit a couple of pubs. Weren't the first drinks he'd had that day.'

'He was drunk?'

'He was voluble. Thing about Alex was, when he drank he got more intellectual. Which was a bugger, because if you were drinking with him you soon started to lose the plot.'

“What happened after the curry?'

'Not much. I had to be heading home, he said he was getting thirstier. If I know him, he would have gone on to Mather's.'

'On Queensferry Street?'

'But he's just as likely to have wandered into the Caledonian Hotel.'

Leaving Todorov at the west end of Princes Street, not a stone's throw from King's Stables Road.

'What time was this?'

'Must've been around ten.'

'I'm told by the Scottish Poetry Library that you recorded Mr Todorov's recital the previous night.'

'That's right. I've done a lot of poets.'

'Charlie's done a lot of everything,' the engineer added. Riordan laughed nervously.

'He means my little project… I'm putting together a sort of soundscape of Edinburgh. From poetry readings to pub chatter, street noise, the Water of Leith at sunrise, football crowds, traffic on Princes Street, the beach at Portobello, dogs being walked in the Hermitage… hundreds of hours of the stuff.'

'Thousands more like,' the engineer corrected him.

Clarke tried not to be deflected. 'Had you met Mr Todorov before?'

'I taped another performance of his at a cafe.'

'Which one?'

Riordan shrugged. 'It was for a bookshop called Word Power.'

Clarke had seen it that very afternoon, opposite the pub where she'd had lunch with Rebus. She remembered a line in one of Todorov's poems – Nothing connects – and thought again how wrong he was.

'How long ago was that?'

'Three weeks back. We had a drink that night, too.'

Clarke tapped her pen against her notebook. 'Do you have a receipt for the restaurant?'

'Probably.' Riordan reached into his pocket and brought out a wallet.

'First sighting this year,' the engineer said, eliciting a laugh from the receptionist. She'd clamped a pen between her teeth and was playing with it. Clarke decided the two of them were an item, whether their employer knew it or not. Riordan had pulled out a mass of receipts.

'Reminds me,' he muttered, 'need to get some stuff to the accountant… Ah, here it is.' He handed it over. 'Mind if I ask why you want it?'

'Shows the time you got the bill, sir. Nine forty-eight – much as you said.' Clarke slipped the piece of paper into the back of her notebook.

'One question you haven't asked,' Riordan said teasingly. 'Why did we meet up at all?'

'All right then…why did you?'

'Alex wanted a copy of his gig. Seemed to him it had gone well.'

Clarke thought back to Todorov's flat. 'Did he ask for any particular format?'

'I burned it on to a CD.'

'He didn't have a CD player.'

Riordan gave a shrug. 'Plenty of people do.'

True enough, but the CD itself hadn't turned up, most likely taken with the other stuff…

'Could you make another copy for me, Mr Riordan?' Clarke asked.

'How would that help?'

'I'm not sure, but I'd like to hear him in full flow, as it were.'

'The master's back at my home studio. I could get it burnt by tomorrow.'

'I'm based at Gayfield Square – any chance someone could pop it in?'

'I'll have one of the children do it,' Riordan agreed, eyes taking in the engineer and receptionist.

'Thanks for your help,' Clarke said.

When smoking had been banned, back in March, Rebus had foreseen disaster for places like the Oxford Bar – traditional pubs catering to basic needs: a pint, a cigarette, horse-racing on TV and a hotline to the local turf accountant. Yet most of his haunts had survived, albeit with reduced takings. True to form, however, the smokers had formed a stubborn little gang that would congregate outside, trading stories and gossip. Tonight, the talk was the usual mix: someone was giving his views on a recently opened tapas bar, while the woman alongside wanted to know what the quietest time was to visit Ikea; a pipe-smoker was arguing for full-scale independence, while his English-sounding neighbour teased that the south would be glad of the break-up – 'and no bloody alimony!'

' North Sea oil's the only alimony we'll need,' the pipe-smoker said.

'It's already running out. Twenty years and you'll be back with the begging-bowl.'

'In twenty years we'll be Norway.'

'Either that or Albania.'

'Thing is,' another smoker interrupted, 'if Labour lost its Scottish seats at Westminster, it'd never get elected again south of the border.'

'Fair point,' the Englishman said.

'Just after opening or just before closing?' the woman was asking.

'Bits of squid and tomato,' her neighbour stated. 'Not bad once you got the taste…'

Rebus stubbed out his cigarette and headed indoors. The round of drinks was waiting for him, along with his change. Colin Tibbet had emerged from the back room to help out.

“You can take your tie off, you know,' Rebus teased him. 'We're not in the office.'

Tibbet smiled but said nothing. Rebus pocketed the change and hefted the two glasses. He liked that Phyllida Hawes drank pints.

Tibbet was on orange juice, Clarke sticking to white wine. They'd taken the table at the far end. Clarke had her notebook out. Hawes raised her fresh glass in a silent toast to Rebus. He scraped himself back into the chair.

'Drinks took longer than I thought,' he offered by way of apology.

'Managed a quick smoke, though,' Clarke chided him. He decided to ignore her.

'So what have we got?' he asked instead.

Well, they had a time-line for Todorov's last two or three hours of life. They had a growing list of items missing – presumed removed – from the deceased. They had a new locus, the car park.

'Is there anything,' Colin Tibbet piped up, 'to suggest that we're dealing with something other than a particularly brutal mugging?'

'Not really,' Clarke offered, but she met John Rebus's eyes and he gave a slow blink of acknowledgement. It didn't feel right; Clarke could sense it, too. It just didn't feel right. His phone, which he'd laid on the tabletop, started to vibrate, sending tremors across the surface of the pint glass next to it. He picked it up and moved away, either for a better signal or to escape the hubbub. They weren't alone in the back room: a group of three tourists sat bewildered in one corner, showing too much interest in the various artefacts and adverts on the walls. Two men in business suits were hunched over another table, arguing near-silently about something. The TV was on, tuned to a quiz show.

'We should enter a team of four,' Tibbet said. Hawes asked what he meant. 'HQ is having a pub quiz, week before Christmas,' he explained.

'By then,' Clarke reminded him, 'we'll be a team of three.'

'Heard anything about the promotion?' Hawes asked her. Clarke just shook her head. 'Taking their time,' Hawes added, twisting the knife. Rebus was coming back.

'Curiouser and curiouser,' he said, sitting down again. 'That was Howdenhall with a bit of news. Tests show our Russian poet had ejaculated at some point during the day. Stained underpants, apparently.'

'Maybe he got lucky in Glasgow,' Clarke speculated.

'Maybe,' Rebus agreed.

'Him and this sound recordist?' Hawes offered.

Todorov had a wife,' Clarke said.

Tou can never tell with poets, though,' Rebus added. 'Could've been some time after the curry, of course.'

'Any time up until the minute he was attacked.' Clarke and Rebus shared another look.

Tibbet was shifting in his chair. 'Or it could have been… you know.' He cleared his throat, cheeks reddening.

'What?' Clarke asked.

“You know,' Tibbet repeated.

'I think Colin means masturbation,' Hawes interjected. Tibbet's look was a study in gratitude.

'John?' It was the barman. Rebus turned towards him. 'Thought you'd want to see this.' He held up a newspaper. It was the day's final printing of the Evening News. The headline was DEATH OF A POET and beneath it, in bold lettering, 'The maverick who dared to say nyet!' There was an archive photo of Alexander Todorov. He stood in Princes Street Gardens, the Castle louring behind him. A tartan scarf was wrapped around his neck; probably his first day in Scotland. A man with only two months to live.

'Cat's out of the bag,' Rebus said, taking the proffered newspaper.

Then, to anyone around the table who might know: 'Does that count as metaphor?'