There was a funny smell in the CID office at Gayfield Square police station. You often noticed it at the height of summer, but this year it seemed determined to linger. It would disappear for a matter of days or weeks, then one morning would announce its creeping reappearance. There had been regular complaints and the Scottish Police Federation had threatened a walkout. Floors had been lifted and drains tested, traps set for vermin, but no answers.
'Smells like death,' the seasoned officers would comment. Rebus knew what they meant: every now and again, a body would be discovered decomposing in the armchair of a sixties semi, or a floater would be pulled from Leith docks. There was a special room set aside for them at the mortuary, and the attendants had placed a radio on the floor, which could be switched on when desired: 'Helps take our minds off the pong.'
At Gayfield Square, the answer was to open all available windows, which sent the temperature plummeting. The office of Detective Chief Inspector James Macrae – separated by a glass door from the CID suite – was like a walk-in fridge. This morning, Macrae had shown foresight by hauling an electric heater into work from his Blackhall home. Rebus had seen somewhere that Blackhall boasted the wealthiest residents in the city. It had sounded an unlikely setting – bungalows and more bungalows. Homes in Barnton and the New Town fetched millions. Then again, maybe that explained why the people who lived there weren't as rich as those in Bungalowland.
Macrae had plugged the heater in and switched it on, but it stayed his side of the desk, and radiated warmth only so far.
Phyllida Hawes had already shuffled so close to it that she was almost seated on Macrae's lap, something the DCI noted with a scowl.
'Right,' he barked, clenching his hands together as if in angry prayer, 'progress report.' But before Rebus could begin, Macrae sensed a problem. 'Colin, shut the door, will you? Let's keep what heat there is to ourselves.'
'Not much room, sir,' Tibbet commented. He was standing in the doorway, and what he said was true: with Macrae, Rebus, Clarke and Hawes inside, space in the DCI's den was limited.
'Then go back to your desk,' Macrae replied. 'I'm sure Phyllida can report on your behalf.'
But Tibbet didn't want that happening: if Clarke was promoted DI, there'd be a vacancy at detective sergeant, making Hawes and him rivals as well as partners. He sucked in his stomach and managed to get the door closed.
'Progress report,' Macrae repeated. But then his phone rang and he lifted it with a growl. Rebus wondered about his boss's blood pressure. His own was nothing to boast about, but Macrae's face was typically puce, and though a couple of years younger than Rebus, his hair had almost gone. As Rebus's own doctor had conceded during his last check-up, 'You've had a lucky run, John, but luck always runs out.'
Macrae made only a few grunts before putting the phone back down. His eyes were on Rebus. 'Someone from the Russian consulate at the front desk.'
'Wondered when they'd turn up,' Rebus said. 'Siobhan and I should take this, sir. Meantime, Phyl and Colin can tell you all you need to know – we had a pow-wow last night.'
Macrae nodded his agreement and Rebus turned to Clarke.
'One of the interview rooms?' she suggested.
'Just what I was thinking.' They moved out of the DCI's office and through the CID suite. The wall-boards were still blank. Later today, photos from the crime scene would go up, along with lists of names, jobs to be done, and schedules of hours. At some murder scenes, you would set up a temporary HQ, work from there. But Rebus didn't see the point this time round. They would put up posters at the car park exit, appealing for information, and maybe get Hawes and Tibbet or a few of the uniforms to stick leaflets on windscreens. But this large, cold room would be their base. Clarke was looking back over her shoulder towards Macrae's office. Hawes and Tibbet seemed to be in competition to see who could offer the best titbits to the boss.
'Anyone,' Rebus commented, 'would think there's a DS slot going begging. Who's your money on?'
Thyl's got more years in,' Clarke answered. 'She's got to be favourite. If Colin gets it, I think she'll walk.'
Rebus nodded his agreement. 'Which interview room?' he asked.
'I like Three.'
'Why so?'
'Table's all greasy and scabby, graffiti scratched on the walls…
It's the sort of place you go when you've done something.'
Rebus smiled at her thinking. Even for the pure at heart, IR3 was a troubling experience.
'Spot on,' he said.
The consular official was called Nikolai Stahov. He introduced himself with a self-effacing smile. He was young-looking and shiny faced with a parting in his light-brown hair which made him seem even more boyish. But he was six feet tall and broad-shouldered, and wore a three-quarter-length black woollen coat, complete with belt and the collar turned up. From one pocket peeked a pair of black leather gloves – mittens, actually, Rebus realised, smooth and rounded where there should have been fingers. Did your mum dress you? he wanted to ask. But he shook Stahov's hand instead.
“We're sorry about Mr Todorov,' Clarke said, reaching out her own hand towards the Russian. She got a little bow along with the shake.
'My consulate,' Stahov said, 'wishes to be assured that everything possible is being done to capture and prosecute the perpetrator.'
Rebus nodded slowly. 'We thought we'd be more comfortable in one of our interview rooms…'
They led the young Russian down the corridor, stopping at the third door. It was unlocked. Rebus pulled it open and gestured for Clarke and Stahov to go in. Then he slid the panel across the door, changing its message from Vacant to In Use.
'Take a seat,' he said. Stahov was studying his surroundings as he lowered himself on to the chair. He was about to place his hands on the tabletop, but thought better of it and rested them on his lap instead. Clarke had taken the seat opposite, Rebus content to lean against the wall, arms folded. 'So what can you tell us about Alexander Todorov?' he asked.
'Inspector, I came here for reassurances and from a sense of protocol. You must know that as a diplomat, I am not obliged to answer any of your questions.'
'Because you've got immunity,' Rebus acknowledged. 'We just assumed you'd want to assist us in any way possible. It is one of
your countrymen who's been killed, and rather a notable one at that.' He tried to sound aggrieved.
'Of course, of course, that's unquestionable.' Stahov kept turning his head, trying to talk to both of them at the same time.
'Good,' Clarke told him. 'Then you won't mind us asking how big a thorn Todorov was proving to be?'
'Thorn?' It was hard to tell if Stahov's English was really defeating him.
'How awkward was it for you,' Clarke rephrased the question, ¦having a noted dissident poet living in Edinburgh?'
'It wasn't awkward at all.'
Tou welcomed him?' Clarke pretended to guess. 'Was there any kind of party at the consulate? He'd been talked about for the Nobel… that must have given you great satisfaction?'
'In today's Russia, the Nobel Prize isn't such a big deal.'
'Mr Todorov had given a couple of public performances recently…
did you happen to go see him?'
'I had other engagements.'
'Did anyone from the consulate-'
But Stahov felt the need to interrupt. 'I don't see what bearing any of this could have on your inquiries. In fact, your questions could be construed as a smokescreen. Whether we wanted Alexander Todorov here or not is of no consequence. He was murdered in your city, your country. Edinburgh is not without its problems with race and creed – Polish workers have found themselves attacked.
Wearing the wrong football shirt can be provocation enough.'
Rebus looked towards Clarke. 'Talk about a smokescreen…'
'I am speaking the truth.' Stahov's voice was beginning to tremble, and he made an effort to calm himself. 'What my consulate requires, Inspector, is to be kept informed of developments. That way, we can reassure Moscow that your investigation has been rigorous and fair, and they in turn can advise your government of our satisfaction.'
Rebus and Clarke seemed to consider this. Rebus unfolded his arms and slipped his hands into his pockets.
'There's always the possibility,' he said quietly, 'that Mr Todorov was attacked by someone with a grudge. That person could be a member of the Russian community here in Edinburgh. I'm assuming the consulate keeps a list of nationals living and working here?'
'My understanding, Inspector, was that Alexander Todorov was just another victim of this city's street crime.'
'Foolish to rule anything out at this stage, sir.'
'And that list would come in handy,' Clarke stressed.
Stahov looked from one detective to the other. Rebus hoped he'd make up his mind soon. One error they'd made in opting for IR3 -it was bloody freezing. The Russian's overcoat looked toasty, but Rebus reckoned Siobhan was going to start shivering soon. He was surprised their breath wasn't visible in the air.
'I will see what I can do,' Stahov said at last. 'But quid pro quo -you will keep me informed of developments?'
'Give us your number,' Clarke told him. The young Russian seemed to take this as agreement.
Rebus knew it was anything but.
There was a package waiting for Siobhan Clarke at the front desk.
Rebus had gone outside for a cigarette and to see whether Stahov had a chauffeur. Clarke opened the padded envelope and found a CD inside, with the single word 'Riordan' written on it in thick black pen. It told her a lot about Charles Riordan that he used his own name, in place of Todorov's. She took the CD upstairs, but there was no machine to play it on. So instead she headed for the car park, passing Rebus as he came in.
'Big black Merc waiting for him,' Rebus confirmed. 'Guy wearing shades and gloves at the helm. Where are you off to?'
She told him and he said he wouldn't mind joining her, though warning that he 'might not last the pace'. In the end, though, the pair of them sat in Clarke's car for a solid hour and a quarter, engine running so the heater stayed on. Riordan had recorded everything: some chat between audience members, then the introduction by Abigail Thomas, Todorov's half-hour and the Q and A session after, most of the questions steering clear of politics. As the applause died and the audience dispersed, Riordan's mike was still picking up chatter.
'He's an obsessive,' Clarke commented.
'I hear you,' Rebus agreed. Almost the last thing they heard was a muttered snatch of Russian. 'Probably,' Rebus speculated, 'saying “Thank Khrushchev that's over”.'
'Who's Khrushchev?' Clarke asked. 'Some friend of Jack Palance?'
The recital itself had been riveting, the poet's voice by turns sonorous, gruff, elegiac and booming. He performed some of his work in English, some in Russian, but the majority in both – usually Russian first, English after.
'Sounds like Scots, doesn't it?' Clarke had asked at one point.
'Maybe to someone from England,' Rebus had retorted. Okay, so she'd walked into that one, as so often before – her 'southern'
accent had been easy prey for Rebus since the moment they'd met.
This time, she'd refused to rise to him.
'This one,' she'd said at another point, 'is called “Raskolnikov”
– I remember it from the book. Raskolnikov's a character in Crime and Punishment.'
'A book I'd probably read before you were even born.'
'You've read Dostoevsky?'
“You think I'd lie about something like that?'
'What's it about then?'
'It's about guilt. One of the great Russian novels, in my opinion.'
'How many others have you read?'
'That's neither here nor there.'
Now, as she turned the CD off, he swivelled towards her. 'You've listened to the show, you've been through Todorov's book – have you found anything resembling a motive for his killing?'
'No,' she conceded. 'And I know what you're thinking – Macrae's going to treat it as a mugging gone wrong.'
'Which is pretty well how the consulate wants to see it handled, too.'
She gave a slow, thoughtful nod. 'So who did he have sex with?'
she eventually asked.
'Is it relevant?'
We won't know till we know. Most likely candidate is Scarlett ColwelL'
'Because she's a stunner?' Rebus sounded dubious.
'Can't bear to think of her with anyone else?' Clarke teased.
'What about Miss Thomas at the Poetry Library?' But this time Clarke gave a snort.
'I don't see her as a contender,' she explained.
'Dr Colwell didn't seem so sure.'
'Which probably says more about Dr Colwell than Ms Thomas.'
'Maybe young Colin had a point,' Rebus ploughed on. 'Or it's just as likely our red-blooded poet picked up a tart in Glasgow.' He saw Clarke's look. 'Sorry, I should have said “sex worker” – or has the terminology changed again since I last got my knuckles rapped?'
'Keep going and I'll rap them again.' She paused for a moment, eyes still fixed on him. 'Funny to think of you reading Crime and Punishment.' She took a deep breath. 'I did a search on Harry Goodyear.'
'Thought you might.' He turned his attention to the windscreen and the bleak car park beyond. Clarke could see that he wanted to wind down the window so he could smoke. But the smell was out there, lying in wait just above the level of the tarmac.
'He was a pub landlord in Rose Street, mid-eighties,' she said.
'You were a detective sergeant. You helped put him away.'
'He was dealing drugs from the premises.'
'He died in jail, didn't he? Just a year or two after… bad heart or something. Todd Goodyear wouldn't long have been out of nappies.'
She paused in case he had anything to add, then went on. Todd's got a brother, did you know that? Name's Sol, been on our radar a few times. I say that, but actually he lives in Dalkeith, making him E Division's problem. Guess what he's been in trouble for.'
'Drugs?'
'So you know about him?'
Rebus shook his head. 'Educated guess.'
'And you didn't know Todd Goodyear was in the police?'
'Believe it or not, Shiv, I don't keep tabs on the grandkids of villains I locked up two decades back.'
'Thing is, we didn't just get Sol for possession – we tried to have him for dealing, too. Court gave him the benefit of the doubt.'
Rebus turned towards her. 'How do you know all this?'
'I was in the office before you this morning. Few minutes on the computer and one phone call to Dalkeith CID. Rumour at the time was, Sol Goodyear was dealing on behalf of Big Ger Cafferty.'
She could see straight away that she'd struck a nerve: Cafferty was unfinished business – big unfinished business – his name top of Rebus's 'to do' list. Cafferty had made a decent fist of looking like a retired villain, but Rebus and Clarke knew better.
Cafferty still ran Edinburgh.
And had found himself a place at the top of her list, too.
'Is any of this leading somewhere?' Rebus asked, turning his attention back to the windscreen.
'Not really.' She ejected the CD from its slot. The radio blasted into life – Forth 1, the DJ talking twenty to the dozen. She switched it off. Rebus had noticed something.
'Didn't know there was a camera there,' he said. He meant at the corner of the building, between the first and second storeys. The camera was pointing into the car park.
'They reckon it stops vandalism. Reminds me actually – think there's any point looking at city-centre footage from the night Todorov was killed? Bound to be cameras at the west end of Princes
Street, maybe on Lothian Road, too. If someone was shadowing him…' She let the sentence drift.
'It's an idea,' he admitted.
'Needle in a haystack,' she added. His silence seemed to confirm it and she rested her head against the back of the seat, neither of them in any hurry to go back inside. 'I remember reading in a paper that we've got the most surveillance of any country in the world; more CCTV in London than the whole of the USA… can that be right?'
'Can't say I've noticed it reducing the crime stats.' Rebus's eyes narrowed. 'What's that noise?'
Clarke saw that Tibbet was gesturing from an upstairs window.
'I think we're wanted.'
'Maybe guilt got the better of our killer and he's come to hand himself in.'
'Maybe,' Clarke said, not believing it for one moment.
'Been here before?' Rebus asked, once they'd passed through the metal-detector. He was scooping loose change back into his pocket.
'Got the guided tour soon after it opened,' Clarke admitted.
There were indented shapes in the ceiling; Rebus couldn't tell if they were supposed to be Crusader-style crosses. Plenty of activity in the main entrance hall. Tables had been set up for the tour parties, ID badges lying on them and placards to say which groups were expected. Staff were everywhere, ready to direct visitors to the reception desk. At the far end of the hall, some schoolkids in uniform were settling down for an early lunch.
'First time for me,' Rebus told Clarke. 'Always wondered what four hundred million pounds looks like…'
The Scottish Parliament had divided public opinion from the moment its plans were revealed in the media. Some thought it bold and revolutionary, others wondered at its quirks and its price tag.
The architect had died before completing the project, as had the man who'd commissioned it. But it was built now and working, and Rebus had to admit that the debating chamber, whenever he'd seen it on the TV news, looked a bit special.
When they told the woman on the reception desk that they were here to see Megan Macfarlane, she printed out a couple of visitor passes. A call to the MSP's office confirmed that they were expected, and another member of staff stepped forward and asked them to follow him. He was a tall, brisk-stepping figure and, like the receptionist, probably not a day under sixty-five. They followed him down corridors and up in a lift and down more corridors.
'Plenty of concrete and wood,' Rebus commented.
'And glass,' Clarke added.
'The special, expensive kind, of course,' Rebus speculated.
Their guide said nothing until they turned yet another corner and found a young man waiting for them.
'Thanks, Sandy,' the man said, 'I'll take it from here.'
As the guide headed back the way they'd just come, Clarke thanked him, and received a little grunt of acknowledgement.
Maybe he was just out of breath.
'My name's Roddy Liddle,' the young man was telling them. 'I work for Megan.'
'And who exactly is Megan?' Rebus asked. Liddle stared at him as if he were maybe making a joke. 'All our boss told us,' Rebus explained, 'was to come down here and talk to someone with that name. Apparently she phoned him.'
'It was me who did the phoning,' Liddle said, making it sound like yet another arduous task that he'd taken in his stride.
'Good for you, son,' Rebus told him. The 'son' obviously rankled.
Liddle was in his early twenties and reckoned he was already well on his way in politics. He looked Rebus up and down before deciding to dismiss him as irrelevant.
'I'm sure Megan will explain.' Having said which, Liddle turned and led them to the end of the corridor.
The MSPs private offices were well proportioned, with desks for staff as well as the politicians themselves. It was Rebus's first sighting of one of the infamous 'think-pods' – little alcoves with curved windows and a cushioned seat. This was where the MSPs were supposed to come up with blue-sky ideas. It was also where they found Megan Macfarlane. She rose to greet them.
'Glad you could come at such short notice,' she said. 'I know you're busy on the inquiry, so I won't keep you long.' She was short and slim and impeccably groomed, not a hair out of place and with just the right amount of make-up. She wore half-moon glasses which rested most of the way down her nose, so that she peered over them at the two detectives. 'I'm Megan Macfarlane,' she said, inviting them to make introductions of their own. Liddle was back behind his desk, staring at messages on his computer. Rebus and Clarke gave their names, and the MSP looked around for places to sit, before having a better idea.
'We'll go downstairs and get a coffee. Roddy, can I bring you one back?'
'No thanks, Megan. One cup a day's plenty for me.'
'Good point – I don't need to be in the chamber later on?' She waited till he'd shaken his head, then focused her gaze on Clarke.
'Diuretic effects, you know, doesn't do to be caught short when you're halfway through a point of order…'
They went back the way they'd come and found themselves descending an impressive staircase, Macfarlane announcing that the 'Scot Nats' had high hopes for May's elections.
'Latest polls put us five points clear of Labour. Blair's unpopular, and so is Gordon Brown. The Iraq war, cash for peerages – it was one of my colleagues who started that investigation. Labour's panicking because Scotland Yard say they've uncovered “significant and valuable material”.' She gave a satisfied smile. 'Scandal seems to be our opponents' middle name.'
'So it's the protest vote you're after?' Rebus asked.
Macfarlane didn't seem to feel this merited any sort of reply.
'If you win in May,' Rebus went on, 'do we get a referendum on independence?'
'Absolutely.'
'And we suddenly become a Celtic tiger?'
'The Labour Party has been failing the people of Scotland for fifty years, Inspector. It's time for a change.'
Queuing at the counter, she announced that this would be her 'treat'. Rebus ordered an espresso, Clarke a small cappuccino.
Macfarlane herself opted for a black coffee into which she poured three sachets of sugar. There were tables nearby, and they chose an empty one, pushing aside the leftover crockery.
'We're still in the dark,' Rebus said, lifting his cup. 'I hope you don't mind me getting straight to the point, but as you said yourself, we've got a murder inquiry waiting for us back at base.'
'Absolutely,' Macfarlane agreed. Then she paused for a moment, as if to marshal her thoughts. 'How much do you know about me?'
she began by asking.
Rebus and Clarke shared a look. 'Until we were told to come see you,' Rebus obliged, 'neither of us had ever heard of you.'
The MSP, trying not to show any pain, blew across the surface of her coffee before taking a sip.
'I'm a Scottish Nationalist,' she said.
'That much we'd guessed.'
'And that means I'm passionate about my country. If Scotland is to flourish in this new century – and flourish outwith the confines of the UK – we need enterprise, initiative and investment.' She counted these three off on her fingers. 'That's why I'm an active member of the URC – the Urban Regeneration Committee. Not that our remit is purely urban, you understand; in fact, I've already
proposed a name-change in order to make that clear.'
'Forgive me for interrupting,' Clarke said, having noted Rebus's agitation, 'but can I ask what any of this has to do with us?'
Macfarlane lowered her eyes and gave a little smile of apology.
'I'm afraid when I'm passionate about something, I do tend to rabbit on.'
Rebus's glance towards Clarke said it all.
'This unfortunate incident,' Macfarlane was saying, 'involving the Russian poet…'
'What about it?' Rebus prompted.
'Right now, a group of businessmen is in Scotland – a very prosperous group, and all of them Russian. They represent oil, gas and steel, and other industries besides. They are looking to the future, Inspector – Scotland 's future. We need to ensure nothing jeopardises the links and relationships that we've painstakingly fostered over the past several years. What we certainly don't want is anyone thinking we're not a welcoming country, a country that embraces cultures and nationalities. Look at what happened to that young Sikh lad…'
Tou're asking us,' Clarke summarised, 'if this was a racial attack?'
'One of the group has voiced that concern,' Macfarlane admitted.
She looked towards Rebus but he was staring at the ceiling again, still not sure about it. He'd heard that its concave sections were supposed to look like boats. When he turned his attention back to the MSP, her worried face demanded some reassurance.
'We can't rule anything out,' he decided to tell her instead.
'Could have been racially motivated. The Russian consulate told us as much this morning – there've been attacks on some of the migrant workers from Eastern Europe. So it's certainly a line we'll be following.'
She looked shocked by these words, just as he'd intended. Clarke was hiding her smile behind a raised cup. Rebus decided there was more fun to be had. 'Would any of these businessmen have met with Mr Todorov recently? If so, it would be helpful to talk to them.'
Macfarlane was saved from answering by the appearance of a new arrival. Like Rebus and Clarke, he wore a badge which proclaimed him a visitor.
'Megan,' he drawled, 'I saw you from the reception desk. Hope I'm not interrupting?'
'Not at all.' The MSP could hardly disguise her relief. 'Let me get
you a coffee, Stuart.' Then, to Rebus and Clarke: 'This is Stuart Janney, from First Albannach Bank. Stuart, these are the officers in charge of the Todorov case.' Janney shook hands before pulling over a chair.
'I hope you're both clients,' he said with a smile.
'State of my finances,' Rebus informed him, 'you should be happy I'm with the competition.'
Janney made a show of wincing. He'd been carrying his trench coat over one arm, and now folded it across his lap. 'Grim news about that murder,' he said, while Macfarlane rejoined the queue at the counter.
'Grim,' Rebus echoed.
'From what Ms Macfarlane just said,' Clarke added, 'I'm guessing she's already spoken with you about it.'
'Happened to come up in conversation this morning,' Janney acknowledged, running a hand through his blond hair. His face was freckled, the skin pink, reminding Rebus of a younger Colin Montgomerie, and his eyes were the same dark blue as his tie.
Janney seemed to have decided that further explanation was needed. 'We were on the phone to one another.'
'Are you something to do with these Russian visitors?' Rebus asked. Janney nodded.
'FAB never turns away prospective customers, Inspector.'
FAB: it was how most people referred to the First Albannach Bank. It was a term of affection, but behind it lay one of the biggest employers – and probably the most profitable company – in Scotland. The TV adverts showed FAB as an extended family, and were filmed almost as mini-soaps, while the bank's brand-new corporate HQ – built on green-belt land, despite the protests – was a city in miniature, complete with shopping arcade and cafes. Staff could get their hair done there, or buy food for the evening meal.
They could use the gym or play a round of golf on the company's own nine-hole course.
'So if you're looking for someone to manage that overdraft…'
Janney handed out business cards. Macfarlane laughed when she saw it, before passing him his black coffee. Interesting, Rebus thought: he takes it the same way she does. But he'd bet that if Janney was out with an important customer, whatever the customer ordered would be Janney's drink of choice, too. The Police College at Tulliallan had run a course on it a year or two back: Empathic Interviewing Techniques. When questioning a witness or a suspect, you tried to find things you had in common, even if
that meant lying. Rebus had never really got round to trying it, but he could tell that someone like Janney would be a natural.
'Stuart's incorrigible,' the MSP was saying. 'What have I told you about touting for business? It's unethical.' But she was smiling as she spoke, and Janney gave a quiet chuckle, while sliding his business cards closer to Rebus and Clarke.
'Mr Janney,' Clarke began, 'tells us the pair of you were discussing Alexander Todorov.'
Megan Macfarlane nodded slowly. 'Stuart has an advisory role in URC 'I didn't think FAB would be pro-Nationalist, Mr Janney,' Rebus said.
'Completely neutral,' Janney stressed. 'There are twelve members of the Urban Regeneration Committee, Inspector, representing five political parties.'
'And how many of them did you speak to on the phone today?'
'So far, only Megan,' the banker admitted, 'but then it's not quite lunchtime.' He made show of checking his watch.
'Stuart is our three-I consultant,' Macfarlane was saying. 'Inward Investment Initiatives.'
Rebus ignored this. 'Did Ms Macfarlane ask you to drop by, Mr Janney?' he asked. When the banker looked to the MSP, Rebus had his answer. He turned his attention to Macfarlane herself. 'Which businessman was it?'
She blinked. 'Sorry?'
'Which one was it who seemed so concerned about Alexander Todorov?'
'Why do you want to know?'
'Is there any reason I shouldn't know?' Rebus raised an eyebrow for effect.
'The Inspector's got you cornered, Megan,' Janney was saying with a lopsided smile. He got a baleful look in return, which had gone by the time Macfarlane turned towards Rebus.
'It was Sergei Andropov,' she stated.
'There was a Russian president called Andropov,' Clarke commented.
'No relation,' Janney told her, taking a sip of coffee. 'At HQ, they've taken to calling him Svengali.'
'Why's that, sir?' Clarke sounded genuinely curious.
'The number of takeovers he's finessed, the way he built up his own company into a global player, the boards he's won round, the strategies and gamesmanship…' Janney sounded like he could
go on all day. I'm pretty sure,' he said, 'it's meant as a term of endearment.'
'Sounds like he's endeared himself to you, at any rate,' Rebus commented. 'I'm guessing First Albannach would love to do business with these big shots.'
'We already do.'
Rebus decided to wipe the smile off the banker's face. 'Well, Alexander Todorov happened to bank with you, too, sir, and look what happened to him.'
'DI Rebus has a point, sir,' Clarke interrupted. 'Any chance you could get us details of Mr Todorov's accounts and most recent transactions?'
'There are protocols…'
'I understand, sir, but they might help us find his killer, which in turn would put your clients' minds at rest.'
Janney gave a thoughtful pout. 'Is there an executor?'
'Not that we know of.'
'Which branch was his account with?'
Clarke stretched out her arms and gave a shrug and a hopeful smile.
'I'll see what I can do.'
'We appreciate it, sir,' Rebus told him. 'We're based at Gayfield Square.' He made show of studying his surroundings. 'Not quite as grand as this, but then it didn't bankrupt the taxpayer either…'
It was a quick run from the Parliament to the City Chambers.
Rebus told the staff on reception that they had a 2 p.m. appointment with the Lord Provost and were hellish early, but could they leave their car parked outside anyway? Everyone seemed to think that was fine, which caused Rebus to beam a smile and ask if they could fill in the time by saying hello to Graeme MacLeod. More passes, another security check, and they were in. As they waited for the lift, Clarke turned to Rebus.
'I meant to say, you handled Macfarlane and Janney pretty well.'
'I guessed as much from the way you let me do most of the work.'
'Is it too late for me to withdraw the compliment?' But they were both smiling. 'How long till they find out we've nicked a parking space under false pretences?'
'Depends whether they bother to ask the Lord Prov's secretary.'
The lift arrived and they got in, descending two storeys below ground level to where a man was waiting. Rebus introduced him to Clarke as Graeme MacLeod, and MacLeod led them into the CMF Room, explaining that CMF stood for Central Monitoring Facility. Rebus had been there before but Clarke hadn't, and her eyes widened a little as she saw the array of closed-circuit monitors, dozens of them, three deep and with staff manning desks of computers in front of them.
MacLeod liked it when visitors were impressed, and needed no prompting to give his little speech.
'Ten years the city's had CCTV,' he began. 'Started with a dozen cameras in the centre, now we've got over a hundred and thirty,
with more due to be introduced shortly. We maintain a direct link to the Police Control Centre at Bilston, and about twelve hundred arrests a year are down to things we spot in this stuffy wee room.'
The room was certainly warm – heat from all the monitors – and Clarke was shrugging off her coat.
'We're open 247 MacLeod went on, 'and can track a suspect while telling the police where to find them.' The monitors had numbers above them, and MacLeod pointed to one. 'That's the Grassmarket. And if Jenny here' – meaning the woman seated at the desk – 'uses the little keypad in front of her we can swivel the camera, and zoom in on anyone parking their car or coming out of a shop or pub.'
Jenny showed how it was done, and Clarke nodded slowly.
'The picture's very clear,' she commented. 'And in colour – I was expecting black and white. Don't suppose you've any cameras on King's Stables Road?'
MacLeod gave a dry chuckle. 'I knew that's what you'd be after.'
He reached for a logbook and flicked back a couple of pages. 'Martin was manning the decks that night. He tracked the police cars and ambulance.' MacLeod ran a finger along the relevant entry. 'Even had a look back at what footage there was but didn't spot anything conclusive.'
'Doesn't mean there's nothing there.'
'Absolutely.'
'Siobhan here,' Rebus said, 'was telling me there's more CCTV in the UK than any other country.'
'Twenty per cent of all the closed-circuit cameras in the world, one for each and every dozen of us.'
'So quite a lot then?' Rebus muttered.
Tou save all the footage?' Clarke asked.
We do what we can. It goes on to hard disk and video, but there are guidelines we have to follow…'
“What Graeme means,' Rebus explained for Clarke's benefit, 'is that he can't just go handing material to us – Data Protection Act 1997.'
MacLeod was nodding. 'Ninety-eight actually, John. We can give you what we've got, but there are hoops to be gone through first.'
'Which is why I've learned to trust Graeme's judgement.' Rebus turned to MacLeod. 'And I'm guessing you've been through the recordings with whatever the digital equivalent is of a fine-toothed comb?'
MacLeod smiled and nodded. 'Jenny gave me a hand. We had
the photos of the victim from the various news agencies. I think we've picked him up on Shandwick Place. He was on foot and unaccompanied.
That's at just gone ten. Next time we see him is half an hour later on Lothian Road. But as you've guessed, we've no cameras on King's Stables Road itself.'
'Did you get the sense anyone was following him?' Rebus asked.
MacLeod shook his head. 'And neither did Jenny.'
Clarke was studying the screens again. 'A few more years of this and I'll be out of a job.'
MacLeod laughed. 'I doubt that. Surveillance is a tricky balancing act. Invasion of privacy is always an issue, and the civil rights people oppose us every step of the way.'
'Now there's a surprise,' Rebus muttered.
'Don't tell me you'd want one of our cameras peering in through your own window?' MacLeod teased.
Clarke had been thinking. 'Charles Riordan picked up the tab at the curry house at nine forty-eight. Todorov left there and headed into town along Shandwick Place. How come it took him half an hour to travel quarter of a mile to Lothian Road?'
'He stopped for a drink?' Rebus guessed.
'Riordan mentioned Mather's or the Caledonian Hotel. Wherever he went, Todorov was back on the street at ten forty, meaning he'd have been outside the car park five minutes later.' She waited for Rebus to nod his agreement.
'Shutters go down on the car park at eleven,' he added. The attack must've been quick.' Then, to MacLeod: 'What about afterwards, Graeme?'
MacLeod was ready for this. 'The passer-by who found the body called it in at twelve minutes past eleven. We took a look at the footage from the Grassmarket and Lothian Road ten minutes either side of that time.' He gave a shrug. 'Just the usual pub-goers, office parties, late-night shoppers… no crazed muggers legging it with a hammer swinging from their hand.'
'Be handy if we could take a look at that,' Rebus stated. 'We might know faces you don't.'
'Fair enough.'
'But you'd want us to jump through the hoops?'
MacLeod had folded his arms, the gesture providing an answer in itself.
They were heading back through the reception area, Rebus breaking
open a fresh packet of cigarettes, when an attendant in some sort of official garb stopped them. It took a moment for Rebus to register that the Lord Provost herself was there, too, her gold chain of office hanging around her neck. She didn't look particularly happy.
'I believe we have an appointment?' she was asking. 'Though nobody seems to know about it except you two.'
'Bit of a cock-up there,' Rebus apologised.
'So not just a ploy to grab yourselves a precious parking bay?'
'Perish the thought.'
She glared at him. 'Just as well you're going – we need that space for more important visitors.'
Rebus could feel his grip tightening on the cigarettes. 'What could be more urgent than a murder inquiry?' he asked.
She caught his meaning. 'The Russian poet? We need that one cleared fast.'
'To appease the money-men of the Volga?' Rebus guessed. Then, after a moment's thought: 'How much does the council have to do with them? Megan Macfarlane tells us her Urban Regeneration Committee is involved.'
The Lord Provost was nodding. 'But there's council input, too.'
'So you're glad-handing the fat cats? Good to see my council tax being put to such good use.'
The Lord Provost had taken a step forwards, glare intensifying.
She was readying a fresh salvo when her attendant cleared his throat. Through the window, a long black car could be seen trying to manoeuvre itself through the arch in front of the building. The Lord Provost said nothing, just turned from Rebus and was gone.
He gave her five seconds, then made his own exit, Clarke at his shoulder.
'Nice to make friends,' she said.
'I'm a week from retirement, Shiv, what the hell do I care?'
They walked a few yards down the pavement, then stopped while Rebus got his cigarette lit.
'Did you see the paper this morning?' Clarke asked. 'Andy Kerr won Politician of the Year last night.'
'And who's he when he's at home?'
'Man who brought in the smoking ban.'
Rebus just snorted. Pedestrians were watching the official-looking car draw to a halt in front of the waiting Lord Provost. Her liveried attendant stepped forward to open the back door. Tinted windows had shielded the passenger from view, but as he stepped out Rebus immediately guessed he was one of the Russians. Big coat, black
gloves, and a chiselled, unsmiling face. Maybe forty years old, hair short and well groomed with some greying at the temples. Steely grey eyes which took in everything, Rebus and Clarke included, even as he was shaking the Lord Provost's hand and answering some remark she'd made. Rebus sucked smoke deep into his lungs and watched as the party disappeared back inside.
'Looks like the Russian consulate's going into the taxi business,'
Rebus stated, studying the black Mercedes.
'Same car Stahov had?' Clarke guessed.
'Could be.'
'What about the driver?'
'Hard to tell.'
Another official had appeared and was gesturing for them to move their car so the chauffeur could park. Rebus held up a single digit, meaning one minute. Then he noticed that Clarke was still wearing her visitor's badge.
'Better hand them back,' he said. Tou take this.' He held out the half-smoked cigarette towards her, but she was reluctant, so instead he balanced it on a windowsill nearby. 'Watch it doesn't blow away,' he warned, taking her badge and unclipping his own.
'I'm sure they don't need them,' she commented. Rebus just smiled and headed for reception.
'Thought we better give you these,' he told the woman behind the desk. Tou can always recycle them, eh? We've all got to do our bit.' He was still smiling, so the receptionist smiled back.
'By the way,' he added, leaning over the desk, 'that bloke with the Lord Provost – was it who I think it was?'
'Some sort of business tycoon,' the woman said. Yes, because the visitors' log was sitting there in front of them, and the last name to be entered – entered with what looked like thick blue ink from a fountain pen – was the same one she uttered now.
'Sergei Andropov.'
'Where to?' Clarke asked.
'The pub.'
'Do you have one in mind?'
'Mather's, of course.'
But as Clarke drove them down Johnston Terrace, Rebus told her to take a detour, a series of left turns bringing them into King's Stables Road from the Grassmarket end. They drew to a halt outside the multistorey, and saw that Hawes and Tibbet
were busy. Clarke sounded the horn as she turned off the ignition.
Tibbet turned and waved. He'd been sticking flyers on windscreens – POLICE INCIDENT: INFORMATION REQUIRED. Hawes was setting up a sandwich board on the pavement next to the exit barriers – a larger version of the flyer, exact same wording. There was a grainy photograph of Todorov: 'Around 11 p.m. on Wednesday 15 November a man was attacked within the confines of this car park, dying from his injuries. Did you see anything? Was anyone you know parked here on that evening? Please call the incident room…'
The number given was a police switchboard.
'Just as well,' Rebus pointed out, 'seeing as there's no one currently home at CID.'
'Macrae was saying much the same thing,' Hawes agreed, studying her handiwork. 'Wanted to know how many more officers we'd be needing.'
'I like my teams small and perfectly formed,' Rebus replied.
'Obviously not a Hearts fan,' Tibbet added in an undertone.
Tou a Hibs fan then, Colin, same as Siobhan here?'
' Livingston,' Tibbet corrected him.
'Hearts have got a Russian owner, haven't they?'
It was Clarke who answered. 'He's Lithuanian actually.'
Hawes interrupted to ask where Rebus and Clarke were headed.
'The pub,' Clarke announced.
'Lucky you.'
'Business rather than pleasure.'
'So what do Colin and me do after this?' Hawes's eyes were on Rebus.
'Back to base,' he told her, 'to await the torrent of phone calls.'
'And,' Clarke suddenly remembered, 'I need someone to call the BBC for me. See if they'll send us a copy of Todorov on Question Time. I want to see just how much of a stirrer he really was.'
'They ran a bit of it on the news last night,' Colin Tibbet announced.
'There was a package about the case, and that was all the footage of him they seemed to have.'
'Thanks for sharing,' Clarke told him. 'Maybe you could get on to the Beeb for me?'
He gave a shrug, indicating willingness. Clarke's attention was drawn to the stack of flyers he still held. Though they were printed on various colours of paper, most seemed to be a particularly lurid pink.
'We wanted them in a hurry,' Tibbet explained. 'This was what was on offer.'
'Let's go,' Rebus told Clarke, making for the car, but Hawes had other ideas.
'We should be doing the follow-up interviews with the witnesses,'
she called. The and Colin could do it.'
Rebus pretended to think for all of five seconds before turning down the offer.
Back in the car, he stared at the No Entry sign which was denying them direct access to Lothian Road.
'Think I should chance it?' Clarke asked.
'Up to you, Shiv.'
She gnawed at her bottom lip, then executed a three-point turn.
Ten minutes later, they were on Lothian Road, passing the other end of King's Stables Road. 'Should've chanced it,' Rebus commented.
Two further minutes and they were parking on the yellow lines outside Mather's, having disregarded a road sign warning them they could only turn into Queensferry Street if they were a bus or a taxi. The white van in front had done the selfsame thing and the estate car behind them was following suit.
'A regular little law-breaking convoy,' was Rebus's comment.
'I despair of this town,' Clarke said, teeth bared. 'Who thinks up the traffic management?'
“You need a drink,' Rebus informed her. He didn't get into Mather's much, but he liked the place. It was old-fashioned, with few chairs, most of them occupied by serious-looking men. Early afternoon, and Sky Sports was on the television. Clarke had brought a few of the flyers with her – yellow in preference to pink – and went around the tables with them, while Rebus held one up in front of the barman's face.
'Two nights ago,' he said, 'around ten o'clock, maybe a little after.'
'Wasn't my shift,' the barman answered.
'Then whose was it?'
'Terry's.'
'And where's Terry?'
'In his kip, most likely.'
'Is he on again tonight?' When the barman nodded, Rebus pressed the flyer on him. 'I want a phone call from him, whether he served this guy or not. No phone call, it's you I'll blame.'
The barman just gave a twitch of the mouth. Clarke was standing next to Rebus. 'Guy over in the corner seems to know you,'
she said. Rebus looked and nodded, then walked over to the table, Clarke following.
'All right, Big?' Rebus said by way of greeting.
The man drinking alone – half of heavy and an inch of whisky -seemed to be enjoying his berth, one foot up on the chair next to him, a hand scratching his chest. He was wearing a faded denim shirt, undone to below the breastbone. Rebus hadn't seen him in maybe seven or eight years. He called himself Podeen – Big Podeen.
Ex-Navy, ex-bouncer, looking his age now, his huge, weatherbeaten face caving in on itself, most of the teeth having disappeared from the fleshy-lipped mouth.
'Not bad, Mr Rebus.' There were no handshakes, just slight tilts of the head and occasional eye contact.
'This your local then?' Rebus asked.
'Depends how you mean.'
'Thought you were living down the coast.'
'That was years back. People change, move on.' There was a pouch of tobacco on the table, next to a lighter and cigarette papers.
Podeen picked it up and began to play with it.
'Got something for us?'
Podeen puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. 'I was here two nights back, and your man there wasn't.' He nodded towards the flyer.
'Know who he is, though, used to see him in here round about closing time. Bit of a nighthawk, if you ask me.'
'Like yourself, Big?'
'And your good self, too, I seem to remember.'
'Pipe and slippers these days, Big,' Rebus told him. 'Cocoa and in bed by ten.'
'Can't see it somehow. Guess who I bumped into the other day -our old friend Cafferty. How come you never managed to put him away?'
'We got him a couple of times, Big.'
Podeen wrinkled his nose. 'A few years here and there. He always seemed to get back off the canvas, though, didn't he?' Podeen's eyes met Rebus again. 'Word is, you're for the gold watch. Not a bad heavyweight career, Mr Rebus, but that's what they'll always say about you…'
'What?'
'That you lacked the knockout punch.' Podeen lifted his whisky glass. 'Anyway, here's to the twilight years. Maybe we'll start seeing you in here more often. Then again, most of the pubs in this city, you'd have to keep your back to the wall – plenty of grudges, Mr Rebus, and once you're not the law any more…' Podeen gave a theatrical shrug.
'Thanks for cheering me up, Big.' Rebus glanced towards the flyer. 'Did you ever talk to him?' Podeen made a face and shook his head. 'Anyone else in here we should be asking?'
'He used to stand at the bar, as near the door as possible. It was the drink he liked, not the company.' He paused for a moment.
“You've not asked me about Cafferty.'
'Okay, what about him?'
'He said to say hello.'
Rebus stared him out. 'Is that it?'
'That's it.'
'And where did this earth-shattering exchange take place?'
'Funnily enough, just across the road. I bumped into him as he was coming out of the Caledonian Hotel.'
Which was their next destination. The vast pink-hued edifice had two doors. One led into the hotel's reception area and boasted a doorman. The other took you directly into the bar, which was open to residents and waifs alike. Rebus decided he was thirsty and ordered a pint. Clarke said she'd stick to tomato juice.
'Been cheaper across the road,' she commented.
'Which is why you're paying.' But when the bill came, he slapped a five-pound note on it, hoping for change.
Tfour chum in Mather's was right, wasn't he?' Clarke ventured.
'When I go out for the night, I always keep watch on who's coming and going, just in case I see a face I know.'
Rebus nodded. 'Number of villains we've put away, stands to reason some of them are back on the street. Just make sure you frequent a better class of watering-hole.'
'Like this place, for instance?' Clarke looked around her. 'What do you think Todorov would see in it?'
Rebus thought for a moment. 'Not sure,' he conceded. 'Maybe just a different sort of vibe.'
“Vibe?' Clarke echoed with a smile.
'Must've picked that up from you.'
'I don't think so.'
'Tibbet then. Anyway, what's wrong with it? It's a perfectly decent word.'
'It just doesn't sound right, coming from you.'
'Should have heard me in the sixties.'
'I wasn't born in the sixties.'
'Don't keep reminding me.' He'd downed half his drink, and
signalled for the barman, flyer at the ready. The barman was short and stick-thin with a shaved head. He wore a tartan waistcoat and tie, and only looked at Todorov's photo for a few seconds before starting to nod, bald pate gleaming.
'He's been in a few times recently.'
'Was he in two nights ago?' Clarke asked.
'I think so.' The barman was concentrating, brow furrowed.
Rebus knew that sometimes the reason people concentrated was to think up a convincing lie. The badge on the barman's waistcoat identified him only as Freddie.
'Just after ten,' Rebus prompted. 'He'd already had a few drinks.'
Freddie was nodding again. 'Wanted a large cognac'
'He just stayed for one?'
'I think so.'
'Did you speak to him?'
Freddie shook his head. 'But I know who he is now – I saw about it on the news. What a hellish thing to happen.'
'Hellish,' Rebus agreed.
'Did he sit at the bar?' Clarke asked. 'Or was he at a table?'
'The bar – always the bar. I knew he was foreign, but he didn't act like a poet.'
'And how do poets act, in your experience?'
'What I mean is, he just sat there with a scowl on his face. Mind you, I did see him writing stuff down.'
'The last time he was in?'
'No, before that. Had a wee notebook he kept taking from his pocket. One of the waitresses thought maybe he was an undercover inspector or doing a review for a magazine. I told her I didn't think so.'
'The last time he was here, you didn't see the notebook?'
'He was talking to somebody.'
'Who?' Rebus asked.
Freddie just shrugged. 'Another drinker. They sat pretty much where you two are.' Rebus and Clarke shared a look. 'What were they talking about?'
'Pays not to eavesdrop.'
'It's a rare bartender who doesn't like to listen in on other people's conversations.'
“They might not have been talking in English.'
What then – Russian?' Rebus's eyes narrowed.
'Could be,' Freddie seemed to concede.
'Got any cameras in here?' Rebus was looking around him.
Freddie shook his head.
'Was this other drinker male or female?' Clarke asked.
Freddie paused before answering. 'Male.'
'Description.'
Another pause. 'Bit older than him… stockier. We dim the lights at night, and it was a busy session…' He shrugged an apology.
“You're being a great help,' Clarke assured him. 'Did they talk for long?' Freddie just shrugged again. 'They didn't leave together?'
'The poet left on his own.' Freddie sounded confident about this at least.
'Don't suppose cognac comes cheap in here,' Rebus commented, taking in his surroundings.
'Sky's the limit,' the barman admitted. 'But when you've a tab running, you tend not to notice.'
'Not until your bill's handed to you at checkout,' Rebus agreed.
'Thing is, though, Freddie, our Russian friend wasn't a resident here.' He paused for effect. 'So whose tab are we talking about?'
The barman seemed to realise his mistake. 'Look,' he said, 'I don't want to get into trouble…'
Tou certainly don't want to get into trouble with me,' Rebus confirmed. 'The other man was a guest?'
Freddie looked from one detective to the other. 'I suppose so,' he said, seeming to deflate. Rebus and Clarke locked eyes.
'If you were here from Moscow on a business trip,' she said quietly, 'maybe some kind of delegation… which hotel would you stay at?'
There was only one way to answer that, but through in reception the staff said they couldn't help. Instead, they called for the duty manager, and Rebus repeated his question.
'Any Russian businessmen bunking here?'
The duty manager was studying Rebus's warrant card. When he handed it back, he asked if there was a problem.
'Only if your hotel continues to obstruct me in a murder inquiry,'
Rebus drawled.
'Murder?' The duty manager had introduced himself as Richard Browning. He wore a crisp charcoal suit with a checked shirt and lavender tie. Colour flooded his cheeks as he repeated Rebus's word.
'A man left the bar here a couple of nights back, got as far as King's Stables Road, and was beaten to death. Means the last people who saw him were the ones knocking back cocktails in
your hotel.' Rebus had taken a step closer to Richard Browning.
'Now, I can get my hands on your registration list and make sure I interview every single guest – maybe set up a big table next to the concierge desk so that it's nice and public…' Rebus paused. 'I can do that, but it'll take time and it'll be messy. Or…' Another pause.
Tfou can tell me what Russians you have staying here.'
Tou could also,' Clarke added, 'go through the bar receipts and find the names of anyone who paid for a large cognac some time after ten on the night before last.'
'Our guests have the right to their privacy,' Browning argued. 'We only want names,' Rebus told him, 'not a list of whatever porn they've been watching on the film channel.'
Browning stiffened his spine.
'Okay,' Rebus apologised, 'this isn't that sort of hotel. But you do have some Russians staying here?'
Browning admitted as much with a nod. Tou know there's a delegation in town?' Rebus assured him he did. 'To be honest, we only have three or four of them. The rest are spread around the city – the Balmoral, George, Sheraton, Prestonfield…'
'Don't they get along?' Clarke asked.
'Just not enough presidential suites to go round,' Browning sniffed.
'How much longer are they here?'
'A few days – there's a trip to Gleneagles planned, but they're keeping their rooms, saves checking out and checking in again.'
'Nice to have the option,' Rebus commented. 'How soon can we have the names?'
'I'm going to have to talk to the general manager first.'
'How soon?' Rebus repeated.
'I really can't say,' Browning spluttered. Clarke handed him a card with her mobile number.
'Sooner the better,' she nudged him.
'Else it'll be a table by the concierge,' Rebus added.
They left Browning nodding to himself and staring at the floor.
The doorman saw them coming and held open the door. Rebus handed him one of the lurid flyers by way of a tip. As they crossed to Clarke's car – which she'd parked in an empty cab rank – Rebus saw a limo drawing to a halt, the black Merc from the City Chambers and the same figure emerging from the back: Sergei Andropov.
Again, he seemed to sense eyes on him, and returned Rebus's stare for a moment before entering the hotel. The car cruised around the corner and entered the hotel's car park.
'Same driver Stahov had?' Clarke asked.
'Still didn't get a good enough look,' Rebus told her. 'But that reminds me of something meant to ask when we were inside – namely, what the hell is a respectable hotel like the Caledonian doing letting Big Ger Cafferty over its threshold?'
They waited until 6 p.m. to do the witness interviews, reckoning there'd be a better chance of finding people at home. Roger and Elizabeth Anderson lived in a detached 1930s house on the southern edge of the city with views to the Pentland Hills. The path leading through the garden to the front door was lit, allowing them to take in the impressive rockeries and an expanse of lawn which could well have been trimmed with nail scissors.
'A little hobby for Mrs Anderson?' Clarke guessed.
'Who knows – maybe she's the high-flyer and he stays at home.'
But when Roger Anderson opened the door he was dressed in his work suit, the tie loosened and top shirt-button undone. He held the evening paper in one hand, and had pushed his reading glasses to the top of his head.
'Oh, it's you,' he said. 'Wondered when you'd get round to us.' He headed back indoors, expecting them to follow. 'It's the police,' he called to his wife. Rebus gave her a smile when she arrived from the kitchen.
'See you've not put the wreath up yet,' he said, gesturing towards the front door.
'She had me throw it in the bin,' Roger Anderson said, using the remote to turn off the TV.
'We're about to sit down to dinner,' his wife pointed out.
This won't take long,' Clarke assured her. She'd brought a folder with her. PCs Todd Goodyear and Bill Dyson had typed up their initial notes. Goodyear's were immaculate, Dyson's riddled with spelling mistakes. 'It wasn't you who actually found the body, was it?' Clarke asked.
Elizabeth Anderson had taken a few more steps into the room,
standing just behind her husband's chair, the chair Roger Anderson was sinking back into without bothering to ask if either detective would like to sit. Rebus, however, was happier standing – it meant he could cruise the room, taking it all in. Mr Anderson had laid his newspaper down on the coffee table next to a crystal tumbler of what smelled like three parts gin to one of tonic.
'We heard the girl screaming,' the man was saying, 'went over to see what was happening. Thought she'd been attacked or something.'
'You were parked…' Clarke pretended to be scouring the notes.
'In the Grassmarket,' Mr Anderson stated.
'Why there, sir?' Rebus broke in.
'Why not there?'
'Just seems a fair walk from the church. You were at a carol service, yes?'
'That's right.'
'Bit early in the year for it?'
'The Christmas lights go on next week.'
'It finished pretty late, didn't it?'
'We had a spot of supper afterwards.' Anderson sounded indignant that any questions at all needed to be asked of him.
'You didn't think to use the multistorey?'
'Closes at eleven – wasn't sure we'd be back at the car by then.'
Rebus nodded. “You know the place then? Know its opening hours?'
'I've used it in the past. Thing is, the Grassmarket doesn't cost anything after six thirty.'
'Got to be careful with the pennies, sir,' Rebus agreed, looking around the large, well-furnished room. 'It says in the notes you work in…?'
'I'm on the staff at First Albannach.'
Rebus nodded again, pretending not to be surprised. Dyson hadn't actually bothered to make a note of Anderson 's profession.
'You're bloody lucky to find me home so early,' Anderson went on. 'Been hellish busy recently.'
'Do you happen to know someone called Stuart Janney?'
'Met him many times… Look, what's any of this got to do with the poor sod who died?'
'Probably nothing at all, sir,' Rebus admitted. 'We just like to build up as full a picture as possible.'
'Another reason we park in the Grassmarket,' Elizabeth Anderson said, voice not much above a whisper, 'is that it's well lit, and there
are always people about. We're very careful that way.'
'Didn't stop you taking a scary route to get there,' Clarke pointed out. 'That time of night, King's Stables Road 's pretty well deserted.'
Rebus was peering at a selection of framed photographs in a cabinet. Tou on your wedding day,' he mused.
'Twenty-seven years ago,' Mrs Anderson confirmed.
'And is this your daughter?' He knew the answer already: half a dozen photos time-lined the girl's life.
'Deborah. She'll be home from college next week.'
Rebus nodded slowly. Seemed to him that the most recent pictures were half hidden behind framed memories of a gap-toothed infant and schoolgirl. 'I see she's been going through a Goth stage.'
Meaning the hair suddenly turning jet black, the heavily kohled eyes.
'Again, Inspector,' Roger Anderson interceded, 'I don't see what possible bearing any of this…”
Rebus waved the objection aside. Clarke looked up from the notes she'd been pretending to read.
'I know it's a stupid question,' she said with a smile, 'but you've had time to think back over everything, so is there anything you can add? You didn't see anyone else, or hear anything?'
'Nothing,' Mr Anderson stated.
'Nothing,' his wife echoed. Then, after a moment: 'He's quite a famous poet, isn't he? We've had reporters on the phone.'
'Best not to say anything to them,' Rebus advised.
'I'd love to know how the hell they got to hear about us in the first place,' her husband growled. 'Is this the end of it, do you think?'
'I'm not sure I understand.'
'Will you lot keep coming back, even though we've nothing to tell you?'
'Actually, you need to come to Gayfield Square to make a formal statement,' Clarke told them. She pulled another of her business cards out of the folder. Tou can call this number first, and ask for DC Hawes or DC Tibbet.'
'What's the bloody point?' Roger Anderson asked.
'It's a murder inquiry, sir,' Rebus responded crisply. 'A man was beaten to a pulp, and the killer's still out there. Our job is to find him… sorry if that inconveniences you in any way.'
Tou don't sound too sorry, I must say,' Anderson grumbled.
'Actually, Mr Anderson, my heart bleeds – apologies if that doesn't always come across.' Rebus turned as if readying to leave,
but then paused. 'What sort of car is it, by the way, the one you need to keep parked where there's plenty of light?'
'A Bentley – the Continental GT.'
'From which I take it you don't work in the mailroom at FAB?'
'Doesn't mean I didn't start there, Inspector. Now if you'll excuse us, I think I can hear our dinner shrivelling on the hob.'
Mrs Anderson put a hand to her mouth in horror, and darted back into the kitchen.
'If it's burnt,' Rebus said, 'you can always console yourself with a couple more gins.'
Anderson decided not to grace this with an answer, and rose to his feet instead, the better to usher the two detectives off the property.
'Did you have a good supper?' Clarke asked casually, slipping the notes back into her folder. 'After the carols, I mean.'
'Pretty good, yes.'
'I'm always on the lookout for a new restaurant.'
'I'm sure you can afford it,' Anderson said, with a smile which suggested the opposite. 'It's called the Pompadour.'
'I'll make sure he's paying.' Clarke nodded towards Rebus.
Tou do that,' Anderson told her with a laugh. He was still chuckling when he closed the door on them.
'No wonder his wife likes the garden,' Rebus muttered. 'Chance for some time away from that pompous prick.' He started down the path, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette.
'If I tell you something interesting,' Clarke teased, 'will you buy me dinner at the Pompadour?'
Rebus busied himself with his lighter, nodding a reply.
'There was a copy of its menu sitting on the concierge's desk.'
Rebus exhaled a plume of smoke into the night sky. 'Why's that then?'
'Because,' Clarke told him, 'the Pompadour is the restaurant at the Caledonian Hotel.'
He stared at her for a moment, then turned back to the door and gave it a couple of thumps with his fist. Roger Anderson looked less than delighted, but Rebus wasn't about to give him the chance to complain.
'Before he was attacked,' he stated, 'Alexander Todorov was drinking in the bar at the Caledonian.'
'So?'
'So you were in the restaurant – you didn't happen to see him?'
'Elizabeth and I didn't go near the bar. It's a big hotel, Inspector…'
Anderson was closing the door again. Rebus thought about wedging a foot in to stop him; probably been years since he'd done anything like that. But he couldn't think of any other questions, so he just kept his gaze on Roger Anderson until the solid wooden door was between them. Even then, he focused on it for a few seconds more, willing the man to open up again. But Anderson was gone. Rebus headed back down the path.
'What do you think?' Clarke asked.
'Let's go talk to the other witness. After that, I'll give you my best guess.'
Nancy Sievewright's flat was on the third storey of a Blair Street tenement. There was an illuminated sign across the street, advertising a basement sauna. Further up the steep incline, smokers were huddled outside a bar and there were a few yips and yells from Hunter Square, where the city's homeless often held court until moved on by the police.
There wasn't much light in the tenement's doorway, so Rebus held his cigarette lighter under the intercom, while Clarke made out the various names. Rented flats and a shifting population, meaning some of the buzzers boasted half a dozen names alongside, with scrawled amendments on peeling bits of gummed paper.
Sievewright's name was just about legible, and when Clarke pressed the button the door clicked open without anyone bothering to check who wanted in. The stairwell was well enough lit, with some bags of rubbish at the bottom and a stack of several years'
worth of unwanted telephone directories.
'Someone's got a cat,' Rebus said, sniffing the air.
'Or an incontinence problem,' Clarke agreed. They climbed the stone steps, Rebus pausing at each level as though studying the various names on the doors, but really just catching his breath.
By the time he reached the third floor, Clarke had already rung the bell. The door was opened by a young man with tousled hair and a week's growth of dark beard. He wore eyeliner and a red bandanna.
You're not Kelly,' he said.
'Sorry to disappoint you.' Clarke was holding up her warrant card. 'We're here to see Nancy.'
'She's not in.' He sounded instantly defensive.
'Did she tell you about finding the body?'
'What?' The young man's mouth fell open and stayed that way.
'You a friend of hers?'
'Flatmate.'
'She didn't tell you?' Clarke waited for a response that didn't come. 'Well, anyway, this is just a back-up call. She's not done anything wrong-'
'So if you'll kindly let us in,' Rebus interrupted, 'we'll try to ignore the smell of Bob Hope wafting into our faces.' He gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile.
'Sure.' The young man held the door open a little wider. Nancy Sievewright's head appeared around her bedroom door.
'Hello, Nancy,' Clarke said, stepping into the hall. There were boxes everywhere – stuff for recycling, stuff to be thrown out, stuff that hadn't made it into the flat's limited cupboard space. 'Just need to check a few things with you.'
Nancy was in the hallway, closing her bedroom door after her.
She wore a short tight skirt with black leggings and a crop top which showed off her midriff and a studded belly button.
'I'm just on my way out,' she said.
Td put another layer on,' Rebus suggested. 'It's perishing.'
'Won't take a moment,' Clarke was reassuring the teenager.
'Where's the best place to talk?'
'Kitchen,' Nancy stated. Yes, because the sweet smell of dope was coming from behind another closed door, probably the living room. There was music, too, something rambling and electronic.
Rebus couldn't place it, but it reminded him a bit of Tangerine Dream.
The kitchen was narrow and cluttered, seemed the flatmates existed on takeaways. The window had been left open a couple of inches, which did little to lessen the smell from the sink.
'Someone's missed their turn to do the washing-up,' Rebus commented.
Nancy ignored him. She had folded her arms and was waiting for a question. Clarke went back into her folder again, bringing out Todd Goodyear's impeccable report and another business card.
'We'd like you to come down to Gayfield Square some time soon,'
Clarke began, 'and give a proper signed statement. Ask for either of these officers.' She handed over the card. 'Meantime, we just want to check a couple of things. You were on your way back here when you found the victim?'
'That's right.'
'You'd been to a friend's in…' Clarke pretended to look at the report. She was expecting Nancy to finish the sentence, but the
teenager seemed to be having trouble remembering. ' Great Stuart Street,' Clarke reminded her. Nancy nodded in agreement. 'What's your friend's name, Nancy?'
'What do you need that for?'
'It's just the way we are, we like as much detail as we can get.'
'Her name's Gill.'
Clarke wrote the name down. 'Surname?' she asked.
'Morgan.'
'And what number does she live at?'
'Sixteen.'
'Great.' Clarke wrote this down, too. 'Thanks for that.'
The living-room door opened and a female face peered out, disappearing again after meeting Rebus's glare.
'Who's your landlord?' Rebus decided to ask Nancy. She gave a shrug.
'I give the rent to Eddie.'
'Is Eddie the one who answered the door?'
She nodded, and Rebus took a couple of steps back into the hall.
On top of one of the cardboard boxes sat a pile of mail. As Clarke asked another question, he sifted through it, stopping at one envelope in particular. In place of a stamp, there was a business frank, and alongside it the name of the company: MGC Lettings. Rebus dropped the letter and listened to Nancy 's answer.
'I don't know if the car park was locked up – what difference does it make?'
'Not much,' Clarke seemed to concede.
'We think the victim was attacked there,' Rebus added. 'He either staggered along to the lane where you found him, or else he was carried there.'
'I didn't see anything!' the teenager wailed. Tears were welling in her eyes, and she had wrapped her arms more tightly around her. The living-room door opened again and Eddie emerged into the hall.
'Stop hassling her,' he said.
'We're not hassling her, Eddie,' Rebus told him. The young man blanched when he realised Rebus now had his name. He held his ground a further moment or two for pride's sake, then retreated.
Why didn't you tell him what had happened?' Rebus asked Nancy.
She was shaking her head slowly, having blinked back the tears.
'Just want to forget all about it.'
'Can't blame you for that,' Clarke sympathised. 'But if you do
remember anything…' She was pointing towards the business card.
'I'll call you,' Nancy agreed.
'And you'll come to the station, too,' Clarke reminded her, 'any time Monday.' Nancy Sievewright nodded, looking utterly dejected.
Clarke threw a glance towards Rebus, wondering if he had any other questions. He decided to oblige.
' Nancy,' he asked quietly, 'have you ever been to the Caledonian Hotel?'
The teenager gave a snort. 'Oh yeah, I'm in there all the time.'
'Seriously, though.'
'What do you think?'
'I'll take that as a no.' Rebus gave a little jerk of his head, signalling to Clarke that it was time to go. But before they did, he shoved open the living-room door. The place was a haze of smoke.
There was no ceiling light, just a couple of lamps fitted with purple bulbs and a row of thick white candles on the mantelpiece. The coffee table was covered with cigarette papers, torn bits of card, and shreds of tobacco. Apart from Eddie, there were three figures sprawled on the sofas and the floor. Rebus just nodded at them, then retreated. 'Do you do anything yourself?' he asked Nancy. 'A bit of blaw maybe?' She was opening the front door.
'Sometimes,' she admitted.
'Thanks for not lying,' Rebus said. There was a girl on the doorstep: Kelly, presumably. She was probably the same age as Nancy, but the make-up would get her into most over-21s nightspots.
'Bye then,' Nancy told the two detectives. As the door closed, they could hear Kelly asking Nancy who they were, along with Nancy 's muffled reply that they worked for the landlord. Rebus gave a snort.
'And guess who that landlord would be?' He watched Clarke give a shrug. 'Morris Gerald Cafferty – as in MGC Lettings.'
'I knew he had a few flats,' Clarke commented.
'Hard to turn a corner in this city and not find Cafferty's pawprints nearby.' Rebus was thoughtful for a moment.
'She was lying,' Clarke stated.
'About the friend she was visiting?' Rebus nodded his agreement.
'Why would she lie?'
'Probably a hundred good reasons.'
'Her stoner buddies, for example.' Clarke was starting back down
the stairs. 'Is it worth trying to talk to someone called Gill Morgan at 16 Great Stuart Street?'
'Up to you,' Rebus said. He was looking over his shoulder towards the door of Nancy Sievewright's flat. 'She's an anomaly, though.'
'How so?'
'Every other bugger in this case seems to use the Caledonian like a home from home.'
Clarke was smiling a little smile as the door opened behind them. It stayed open as Nancy Sievewright padded down the stairs towards them.
'There's something you can do for me,' she said, voice lowered.
'What's that, Nancy?'
'Keep that creep away from me.'
The two detectives shared a look. 'Which creep is that?' Clarke asked.
'The one with the wife, the one who phoned 999…'
'Roger Anderson?' Rebus's eyes had narrowed.
Nancy gave a nervous nod. 'He was round here yesterday. I wasn't in, but he must have waited. He was parked outside when I got back.'
'What did he want?'
'Said he was worried about me, wanted to make sure I was all right.' She was heading back up the steps again. 'I'm done with that.'
'Done with what?' Rebus called, but she didn't answer, just closed the door softly after her.
'Bloody hell,' Clarke whispered. 'What was all that about?'
'Something to ask Mr Anderson. Funny, I was just thinking to myself that Nancy looks a bit like his daughter.'
'How did he get her address?'
Rebus just shrugged. 'It'll keep,' he stated, after a moment's thought. 'I've another little mission for you tonight…'
Another little mission: meaning she was on her own when she met with Macrae in his office. He'd been out to some function or other and was dressed in a dinner jacket and black bowtie. There was a driver waiting outside to take him home. As he sat behind his desk, he removed the tie and undid his top button. He'd fetched himself a glass of water from the cooler and was waiting for Clarke to say something. She cleared her throat, cursing Rebus. His reasoning: Macrae would listen to her. That was the whole of it.
'Well, sir,' she began, 'it's about Alexander Todorov.'
'You've got someone in the frame?' Macrae had brightened, but only until she shook her head.
'It's just that we think there may be more to it than a mugging gone wrong.'
'Oh yes?'
'We've not got much in the way of evidence as yet, but there are a lot of…' A lot of what? She couldn't think of a convincing way of putting it. 'There are a lot of leads we need to follow, and mostly they point away from a random attack.'
Macrae leaned back in his chair. 'This sounds like Rebus,' he stated. 'He's got you in here arguing his corner.'
'Doesn't mean I don't agree with him, sir.'
'Sooner you're free of him the better.' Clarke prickled visibly, and Macrae gave a little wave of apology. 'You know what I mean, Siobhan. How long till he goes? A week… and what happens then?
Will the case be closed by the time he packs his bags?'
'Doubtful,' Clarke conceded.
'Meaning you'II be left with it, Siobhan.'
'I don't mind that, sir.'
Macrae stared at her. 'Reckon it's worth a few more days, this hunch of his?'
'It's more than a hunch,' Clarke stressed. 'Todorov connects to a number of people, and it's a matter of ruling them out rather than ruling anything in.'
'And what if there's less to this than meets the eye? We've been here before with John after all.'
'He's solved a lot of cases in his time,' Clarke stated.
You make a good character witness, Siobhan.' Macrae was smiling tiredly. 'I know John outranks you,' he said eventually, 'but I want you in charge of the Todorov murder. Makes things easier, as he himself would admit.'
Clarke nodded slowly, but said nothing.
'Two or three days – see what you can come up with. You've got Hawes and Tibbet – who else are you going to bring aboard?'
'I'll let you know.'
Macrae grew thoughtful again. 'Someone from the Russian embassy spoke to Scotland Yard… and they spoke to our dear Chief Constable.' He sighed. 'If he knew I was letting John Rebus anywhere near this, he'd have kittens.'
'They make nice pets, sir,' Clarke offered, but Macrae just glowered.
'It's why you're in charge, Siobhan, not John. Is that clear?'
“Yes, sir.'
I'm guessing he's skulking nearby, waiting for you to report back to him?'
Tou know him too well, sir.'
Macrae made a little gesture with his hand, telling her she was dismissed. She wandered back through the CID suite and down to the lobby, where she saw a face she recognised. Todd Goodyear had either finished a shift or was working undercover, dressed as he was in black straight-leg denims and a black padded bomber jacket. Clarke made show of trying to place him.
'The Todorov crime scene? PC Goodyear?'
He nodded, and glanced towards the folder she was still carrying.
“You got my notes?'
'As you can see…' She was playing for time, wondering why he was there.
'Were they all right?'
'They were fine.' He looked keen for a bit more than that, but she just repeated the word 'fine', then asked what he was doing.
Waiting for you,' he owned up. 'I'd heard tell you worked late.'
'Actually, I just got here twenty minutes ago.'
He was nodding. 'I was outside in the car.' He glanced over her shoulder. 'DI Rebus isn't with you?'
'Look, Todd, what the hell is it you want?'
Goodyear licked his lips. 'I thought PC Dyson told you – I'm after a stint with CID.'
'Good for you.'
'And I wondered if you maybe needed someone…” He let the sentence drift off.
With Todorov, you mean?'
'It'd be a chance for me to learn. That was my first murder scene… I'd love to know what happens next.'
'What happens next is a lot of slogging, most of it with nothing to show at the end.'
'Sounds great.' He offered her a grin. 'I write a good report, DS Clarke… I don't miss too many tricks. I just feel I could be doing more.'
'Persistent little sod, aren't you?'
'Let me try to convince you over a drink.' 'I'm meeting someone.'
'Tomorrow, then? I could buy you a coffee.'
'Tomorrow's Saturday, and DCI Macrae hasn't put together a budget.'
'Meaning no overtime?' Goodyear nodded his understanding.
Clarke thought for a moment. 'Why me rather than Rebus? He's the ranking officer.'
'Maybe I thought you'd be a better listener.'
'Meaning more gullible?'
'Meaning just what I said.'
Clarke took another moment to make up her mind. 'Actually, it's me in charge of this case, so let's meet for that coffee first thing Monday morning. There's a place on Broughton Street I sometimes use.' She named it, and a time.
'Thanks, DS Clarke,' Goodyear said. Tou won't regret it.' He held out his hand and they shook on it.