Exit Music

11

Siobhan Clarke was ten minutes early, but Goodyear was already there. He was in his uniform, but with the same bomber jacket as Friday night covering it and zipped to the neck.

'Embarrassed to be seen in it?' Clarke asked.

'Well, you know what it's like…'

She did indeed. Long time since she'd worn a constabulary uniform, but the job was still something you didn't always readily own up to. Parties she'd been to, people always seemed a bit less comfortable once they knew what she did for a living. It was the same on a night out, guys either losing interest or else making too many jokes: going to cuff me to your bedposts? Wait till you see my truncheon.

Don't worry about the neighbours, I'll come quietly, officer…

Goodyear was back on his feet, asking what she'd like. 'They're on the case,' she assured him. Her regular cappuccino was being prepared, so all Goodyear had to do was pay for it and fetch it over.

They were seated on stools at a table by the window. It was a basement, so all they could see was a passing parade of legs at street level. Gusts of rain were blowing in from the North Sea; everyone was hurrying to be somewhere else. Clarke turned down his offer of sugar and told him to relax.

You're not at a job interview,' she said.

'I thought I was,' he replied with a nervy little laugh, showing a line of slightly crooked teeth. His ears stuck out a little bit, too, and his eyelashes were very fair. He was drinking a mug of filter coffee and the crumbs on his plate were evidence of an earlier croissant. 'Good weekend?' he asked.

'Great weekend,' she corrected him. 'Hibs won six-one, and Hearts lost to Rangers.'

'You're a Hibs fan.' He nodded slowly to himself, filing the information away. 'Were you at the game?'

She shook her head. 'It was at Motherwell. I had to content myself with a film.'

'Casino RoyaleT She shook her head. 'The Departed.' They lapsed into silence, until a thought struck Clarke. 'How long were you waiting before I got here?'

'Not too long. Woke up early and thought I might as well…' He took a deep breath. 'To be honest, I wasn't sure I'd find this place, so I left plenty of time. I always err on the side of caution.'

'Duly noted, PC Goodyear. So tell me a bit about yourself.'

'Like what?'

'Anything.'

'Well, I'm guessing you know who my grandad was…' He looked up at her, and she nodded. 'Most people seem to, whether they say as much to my face.'

Tou were young when he died,' Clarke said.

'I was four. But I hadn't seen him for the best part of a year.

Mum and Dad wouldn't take me with them.'

'To the prison, you mean?' It was Goodyear's turn to nod.

'Mum fell apart a bit… She was always highly strung, and her parents thought her a class above my dad. So when his dad ended up in jail, that seemed all the proof they needed. Added to which, my dad always liked drowning his own sorrows.' He offered a rueful smile. 'Maybe some people would be better off never marrying.'

'But then there'd be no Todd Goodyear.'

'God must have had his reasons.'

'Does any of it explain why you joined the police?'

'Maybe – but thanks for not making a straight assumption. So many people have tried spelling it out to me like that. “You're atoning, Todd” or “You're showing not all Goodyears are cut from the same cloth.”'

'Lazy thinking?' Clarke guessed.

'How about you, DS Clarke? What made you become a cop?'

She considered a moment before deciding to tell him the truth. 'I think I was reacting against my parents. They were typical liberal lefties, growing up in the sixties.'

'The only way to rebel was to become the Establishment?'

Goodyear smiled and nodded his understanding.

'Not a bad way of putting it,' Clarke agreed, lifting her cup to her lips. 'What does your brother think of it all?'

Tou know he's been in trouble a few times?'

'I know his name's on our books,' Clarke admitted.

Tou've been checking up on me?' But Clarke wasn't about to answer that. 'I never see him.' Goodyear paused. 'Actually, that's not strictly true – he's been in hospital, and I went to visit him.'

'Nothing serious?'

'He got himself into some stupid argument in a pub. That's just the way Sol is.'

'Is he older than you or younger?'

'Two years older. Not that you'd ever have known it – when we were kids, neighbours used to say how much more mature than him I seemed. They just meant I was better behaved – plus I used to do the shopping and stuff…' He seemed lost in the past for a moment, then shook his head clear. 'DI Rebus,' he said, 'has a bit of history with Big Ger Cafferty, doesn't he?'

Clarke was surprised by the change of subject. 'Depends what you mean,' she said warily.

'It's just gossip among the uniforms. The pair of them are supposed to be close.'

'They detest one another,' Clarke heard herself say.

'Really?'

She nodded. 'I sometimes wonder how it'll pan out…' She was almost talking to herself, because it had crossed her mind often these past few weeks. 'Any particular reason why you're asking?'

'When Sol started dealing, I think he was talked into it by Cafferty.'

'You think or you know?'

'He's never admitted it.'

'Then what makes you so sure?'

'Are cops still allowed to have hunches?'

Clarke smiled, thinking of Rebus again. 'It's frowned upon.'

'But that doesn't stop it happening.' He studied what little was left in his mug. 'I'm glad you've put my mind at rest about DI Rebus. You didn't sound surprised when I mentioned Cafferty.'

'Like you said, I did some checking.'

He gave a smile and a nod, then asked if she wanted a refill.

'One's enough for now.' Clarke drained her cup, taking only a few seconds to make up her mind. “You're based at Torphichen, right?'

'Right.'

'And can they spare you for a morning?' Goodyear's face brightened like a kid at Christmas. 'I'll give them a call,' Clarke went on,

'and tell them I've snaffled you for a few hours.' She wagged a finger in his face. 'Just a few hours, mind. Let's see how we get on.'

“You won't regret it,' Todd Goodyear said.

'That's what you said on Friday – better make sure I don't.'

My case, Clarke was thinking, and my team… and here was her first little bit of recruiting. Maybe it was his naked enthusiasm, reminding her of the cop she'd been, too, once upon a time. Or the notion of rescuing him from his time-serving partner. Then again, with Rebus on the cusp of retirement, a buffer between herself and her remaining colleagues might prove handy…

Being selfish or being kind? she asked herself.

Was it possible for an action to be both?

Roger Anderson had reversed halfway down his drive when he spotted the car blocking the gates. The gates themselves were electric, and had swung open at the push of a button, but there was a Saab on the roadway, stopping him getting out.

'Of all the inconsiderate bloody…' He was wondering which neighbour was responsible. The Archibalds two doors down always seemed to have workmen in or visitors staying. The Graysons across the road had a couple of sons home for the winter from their gap years. Then there were the cold callers and the people dropping leaflets and cards through the door… He sounded the Bentley's horn, which brought his wife to the dining-room window.

Was there someone in the Saab's passenger seat? No… they were in the bloody driving seat! Anderson thumped on the horn a couple more times, then undid his seatbelt and got out, stomping towards the offending vehicle. The window on the driver's side was sliding down, a face peering out at him.

'Oh, it's you.' One of the detectives from last night… Inspector something.

'DI Rebus,' Rebus reminded the banker. 'And how are you this morning, Mr Anderson?'

'Look, Inspector, I do intend coming to your station sometime today…'

'Whenever suits you, sir, but that's not the reason I'm here.'

'Oh?'

'After we left you on Friday, we paid a call to the other witness – Miss Sievewright.'

'Oh yes?'

'She told us you'd been to see her.'

'That's right.' Anderson glanced over his shoulder, as if checking his wife was out of earshot.

'Any particular reason, sir?'

'Just wanted to make sure she hadn't suffered any… well, she'd had a nasty shock, hadn't she?'

'Seems you gave her another one, sir.'

Anderson 's cheeks had flushed. 'I only went round there to-'

'So you've said,' Rebus interrupted. 'But what I'm wondering is, how did you know her name and address? She's not in the phone book.'

'The officer told me.'

'DS Clarke?' Rebus was frowning. But Anderson shook his head.

'When our statements were being taken. Or rather, just after.

I'd offered to run her home, you see. He happened to mention her name and Blair Street both.'

'And you wandered up and down Blair Street looking for a buzzer with her name on?'

'I don't see that I've done anything wrong.'

'In which case, I'm sure you'll have told Mrs Anderson all about it.'

'Now look here…'

But Rebus was starting his ignition. 'We'll see you at the station later… and your good lady wife, too, of course.'

He pulled away with the window still open and left it that way for the first few minutes. This time of the morning, he knew the traffic would be sluggish heading back into town. He'd only had the three pints last night, but his head felt gummy. Saturday he'd watched a bit of TV, rueing another obituary – the footballer Ferenc Puskas.

Rebus had been in his teens when the European Cup Final had come to Hampden. Real Madrid against Eintracht Frankfurt, Real winning 7-3. One of the great games, and Puskas one of the greatest players. The young Rebus had found Hungary, the footballer's home country, in an atlas, and had wanted to go there.

Jack Palance, and now Puskas, both gone for ever. That was what happened with heroes.

So: Saturday night at the Oxford Bar, sorrows drowned, any and all conversations forgotten by the next morning. Sunday: laundry and the supermarket, and news that a Russian journalist called Litvinenko had been poisoned in London. That had made Rebus sit up in his chair, increasing the volume on the TV. Gates and Curt had joked about poisoned umbrella tips, but here was

the real-life equivalent. One theory was that a meal in a sushi restaurant had contained the poison, the Russian mafia to blame.

Litvinenko was in hospital under armed guard. Rebus had decided against calling Siobhan; it was just a coincidence after all. He'd been agitated, waking each morning to dread. His last weekend as a serving officer; his last week now beginning. Siobhan had done all right on Friday night, and had even looked a little bit sheepish when explaining that Macrae wanted her spearheading the case.

'Makes sense to me,' was all Rebus had said, getting in the drinks. He thought he knew the way Macrae would be thinking.

Less to this than meets the eye… That was the way Siobhan said he had put it. But it would keep Rebus occupied until retirement day, after which Siobhan would be persuaded to return to route one: a mugging gone wrong.

'Makes sense to me,' he repeated now, heading down a rat run.

Ten minutes later, he was parking at Gayfield Square. No sign of Siobhan's car. He went upstairs and found Hawes and Tibbet seated together at the same desk, staring at the mute telephone.

'No joy?' Rebus guessed.

'Eleven calls so far,' Hawes said, tapping the notepad in front of her. 'One driver who exited the car park at nine fifteen on the night in question and therefore had nothing at all to tell us but wanted to chat anyway.' She glanced up at Rebus. 'He enjoys hill-walking and jogging, if you're interested.' Without bothering to look, she could sense Tibbet grinning beside her, and gave him an elbow in the ribs.

'He was on the phone to Phyl for half an hour,' Tibbet added after stifling a grunt.

'Who else have we got?' Rebus asked.

'Anonymous cranks and practical jokers,' Hawes replied. 'And one guy we're hoping will call back. He started talking about a woman hanging around on the street, but the line went dead before I could get any details.'

'Probably just saw Nancy Sievewright,' Rebus cautioned. But he was thinking: why would Nancy be 'hanging around'? 'I've got a job for the pair of you,' he said, reaching for Hawes's notepad and finding a clean sheet. He jotted down the details of Nancy 's 'friend'

Gill Morgan. 'Go see if this checks out. Sievewright reckons she was on her way home from Great Stuart Street. Even if there's someone by that name living at the address, give them a bit of a grilling.'

Hawes stared at the page. 'You think she's lying?'

'Seemed to have trouble remembering. But she'll probably have primed this pal of hers.'

'I can usually tell when someone's spinning me a line,' Tibbet stated.

'That's because you're a good cop, Colin,' Rebus told him. Tibbet puffed out his chest a little, which Hawes noticed with a laugh.

Tou've just been spun a line,' she pointed out to her partner.

Then, rising to her feet: 'Let's go.' Tibbet followed her sheepishly, pausing in the doorway.

Tfou okay manning the phones?' he asked Rebus.

'It rings, and I pick it up… does that about cover it?'

Tibbet was trying not to scowl as Hawes returned to fetch him.

'By the way,' she said to Rebus, 'if you get bored you can watch the telly – we got hold of that video Siobhan wanted.'

Rebus noticed it lying on the desk. It was marked with the words 'Question Time'.

Tou might learn something,' was the parting shot from the doorway, made by Tibbet rather than Hawes. Rebus was quietly impressed.

'We'll make a man of you yet, Colin,' he muttered under his breath, reaching out to pick up the tape.

12

Charles Riordan wasn't at the studio. The receptionist told them he was spending the morning at home and, when asked, provided them with an address in Joppa. It was a fifteen-minute drive away, and took them past the flat grey waters of the Firth of Forth. At one point, Goodyear tapped the side window.

'Cat and dog home back there,' he said. 'I went once, thinking I'd get a pet. In the end, I couldn't choose… told myself I'd go back some day.'

'I've never had a pet,' Clarke said. 'Find it hard enough taking care of myself.'

He laughed at that. 'Any boyfriends?'

'One or two down the years.'

He laughed again. 'I meant just now.'

She took her eyes off the road long enough to give him a look.

Tfou're trying too hard, Todd.'

'Just nervous.'

'That why you're asking so many questions?'

'No, not at all. I'm just… well, I suppose I'm interested.'

'In me?'

'In everybody.' He paused. 'I think we're put here for a purpose.

Never find out what it is if you don't ask questions.'

'And your “purpose” is to pry into my love life?'

He gave a little cough, face reddening. 'I didn't mean it like that.'

'Back in the cafe, you talked about God's purpose – is this where you tell me you're religious?'

'Well, as a matter of fact, I am. Is there anything wrong with that?'

'Nothing at all. DI Rebus used to be, too, and I've managed to cope with him all these years.'

'Used to be?'

'In that he went to church…' She thought for a moment. 'Actually, he went to dozens of them, a different one every week.'

'Looking for something he couldn't find,' Goodyear guessed.

'He'd probably kill me for telling you,' Clarke warned.

'But you're not religious yourself, DS Clarke?'

'Lord, no,' she said with a smile. 'Hard to be, in this line of work.'

Tou reckon?'

'All the stuff we deal with… people gone bad, hurting themselves and others.' She gave him another glance. 'Isn't God supposed to have made us in his or her image?'

'An argument that might take us the rest of the day.'

'Instead of which, I'll ask if you've got a girlfriend.'

He nodded. 'Her name's Sonia, works as a SOCO.'

'And what did the two of you get up to at the weekend – apart from church, obviously?'

'She had a hen party Saturday, I didn't see much of her. Sonia's not a churchgoer…'

'And how's your brother doing?'

'Okay, I think.'

Tou mean you don't know?'

'He's out of hospital.'

'I thought you said it was a punch-up?'

'There was a knife…'

'His or the other guy's?'

'The other guy's, hence Sol's stitches.'

Clarke was thoughtful for a moment. Tou said your mum and dad fell apart when your grandad went to jail…'

Goodyear leaned back into his seat. 'Mum started on medication.

Dad walked out soon after and hit the bottle harder than ever. There were days I'd bump into him outside the shops and he wouldn't even recognise me.'

'Tough on a young kid.'

'Sol and me mostly stayed with our Aunt Susan, Mum's sister.

House wasn't really big enough, but she never complained. I started going with her to church on Sundays. Sometimes she was so tired, she nodded off in the pew. Used to have a bag of sweets with her, and this one time they slid from her lap and started rolling across the floor.' He smiled at the memory. 'Anyway, that's about all there is to it.'

'Just as well – we're nearly there.' They were heading down Portobello High Street and – a first for Clarke – without being held up by roadworks. Two more minutes and they were turning off Joppa Road and cruising a street of terraced Victorian houses.

'Number eighteen,' Goodyear said, spotting it first. Plenty of kerbside parking – Clarke reckoned most people had taken their cars to work. She pulled on the handbrake and turned off the ignition.

Goodyear was already striding down the path.

'All I need,' she muttered to herself, undoing her seatbelt, 'is a bloody holy-roller…' Not that she meant it: as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew where she'd got them – or at least their sentiment.

John Rebus.

She'd only just reached Goodyear as the door opened, Charles Riordan looking surprised to be face-to-face with a police uniform.

He recognised Clarke however and ushered the two officers inside.

The hallway was lined with bookshelves but no books. Instead, all the available space was taken up with old-fashioned reels of tape and boxes of cassettes.

'Come in if you can get in,' was Riordan's comment. He led them into what should have been the living room but had been fitted out as a studio, complete with acoustic baffling stapled to the walls and a mixing-desk surrounded by more cartons of cassettes, minidiscs and reel-to-reels. Cables snaked underfoot, microphones lay in the dust, and the curtains covering the only window looked half an inch thick.

'Riordan Mansions,' Charles Riordan announced.

'Can I take it you're not married?' Clarke asked.

'Was once, but she couldn't hack it.'

“The equipment, you mean?'

But Riordan shook his head. 'I like to make recordings.' He paused meaningfully. 'Of everything. After a while, it started to get to Audrey.' He slipped his hands into his pockets. 'So what can I do for you today, officers?'

Clarke was looking around the room. 'Are we being taped, Mr Riordan?'

Riordan gave a chuckle and, by way of answer, pointed to a slender black microphone.

'And the other day at your studio?'

He nodded. 'I used DAT. Though these days I'm more into digital.'

'I thought DAT was digital?' Goodyear asked.

'But it's tape – I'm talking about straight to the hard drive.'

'Would you mind turning it off?' Clarke asked, making it sound like the demand it really was. Riordan shrugged and hit a switch on the mixing desk.

'More questions about Alexander?' he asked.

'One or two, yes.'

'You got the CD?'

Clarke nodded. 'Thanks for that.'

'He was a great performer, wasn't he?'

'He was,' Clarke acknowledged. 'But what I really wanted to ask you about was the night he died.'

Tes?'

'After the curry, you said you parted company. You were heading home, and Mr Todorov was going to find a drink?'

'That's right.'

'And you added that it was a toss-up whether he went to Mather's or the Caledonian Hotel – why those two in particular, Mr Riordan?'

Riordan gave a shrug. 'He was going to have to walk past both of them.'

'And a dozen more besides,' Clarke countered.

'Maybe he'd mentioned them to me.'

'You don't remember?'

'Is it important?'

'It could be.' Clarke glanced towards Goodyear. He was playing the game: shoulders back, legs slightly parted, hands clasped in front of him… and saying nothing. He looked official. Clarke doubted Riordan would pay any attention to the prominent ears or the crooked teeth or the eyelashes… all he'd be seeing was a uniform, focusing his mind on the gravity of the situation.

Riordan had been rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 'Well, I suppose he must have mentioned them,' he said.

'But not on the night you met?' Clarke watched Riordan shake his head. 'So he didn't have a rendezvous planned?'

'How do you mean?'

'After you split up, Mr Todorov headed straight for the bar at the Caledonian. He got talking to someone there. Just wondered if it was a regular thing.'

'Alexander liked people: people who'd buy him drinks and listen to his stories and then tell him a few of their own.'

'Never thought of the Caledonian as a place for story-telling.'

'You're wrong – hotel bars are perfect. You meet strangers there, and you spill your life out for the twenty or thirty minutes that you're with them. It's quite incredible what people will tell complete strangers.'

'Maybe because they are strangers,' Goodyear interrupted.

'The constable has a good point,' Riordan said.

'But how do you know this, Mr Riordan?' Clarke asked. 'Can I assume you've done some covert taping in places like the Caledonian?'

'Plenty of times,' Riordan admitted. 'And on trains and buses – people snoring or talking to themselves or plotting the overthrow of the government. Tramps on park benches and MPs at the hustings; ice-skaters and picnickers and love rats on the phone to their mistresses.' He turned to Goodyear. 'My little hobby,' he explained.

'And when did it turn to an obsession, sir?' Goodyear asked politely.

'Some time before your wife left you, I'd imagine.'

The smile fell from Riordan's face. Realising he'd slipped up, Goodyear risked a glance towards Clarke. She was shaking her head slowly.

'Are there any other questions?' Riordan asked coldly.

Tou can't think of anyone Alexander Todorov could have been drinking with at the hotel?' Clarke persisted.

'No.' Riordan was moving towards the door. Goodyear mouthed the word 'sorry' at Clarke as the pair of them followed their host into the hallway.

Back in the car, Clarke told Goodyear not to worry. 'I think we'd had about all we were going to get.'

'All the same, I should have left the talking to you.'

'A lesson learned,' Clarke said, turning the ignition.

13

'What's Sonny Jim doing here?' Rebus asked. He was leaning back in his chair, feet up on the desk, the remote for the video recorder in his hand, having just frozen the TV picture.

'He's on secondment from Torphichen,' Clarke stated. Rebus stared at her, but she refused to make eye contact. Todd Goodyear had his hand stretched out for shaking. Rebus turned his attention to it, but ignored the offer. Goodyear let his arm fall back to his side and Clarke gave a vexed sigh.

'Anything good on the box?' she eventually asked.

'That video you wanted.' Rebus seemed already to have dismissed the new arrival from his mind. 'Come and take a look.' He let the programme run again, but turned the sound most of the way down.

A panel of politicians and pundits was being asked questions by a sawy-looking audience. Large letters on the floor between the two groups spelt out the word EDINBURGH.

'Filmed at The Hub,' Rebus explained. 'I went to a jazz concert there, recognised it straight off.'

You like jazz?' Goodyear asked, only to be ignored.

'Do you see who I see?' Rebus was asking Clarke.

'Megan Macfarlane.'

'Funny she didn't mention it,' Rebus mused. 'When the presenter was doing the introductions, he said she's number two in the SNP and likely to take over when her leader jacks it in. Making her, in the presenter's words, “candidate for president of an independent Scottish state”.'

'And the rest of the panel?'

'Labour, Tories, and Lib Dems.'

'Plus Todorov.' The poet was seated next to the presenter at the

semicircular desk. He seemed relaxed, doodling with his pen on some paper. 'How's he doing?'

'Knows more about politics than I do,' Rebus admitted, 'and seems to have an opinion on everything.'

Goodyear had folded his arms and was concentrating on the screen. Rebus gave Clarke another look, this time achieving eye contact. She shrugged, then narrowed her eyes slightly, warning him off. Rebus turned towards Goodyear.

'You know I helped put your grandad away?'

'Ancient history,' the young man said.

'Maybe so, but if it's going to be an issue, best tell me now.'

'It's not an issue.' Goodyear was still staring at the screen.

'What's the deal with this woman Macfarlane?'

'She's a Scot Nat MSP,' Clarke explained. 'Has a vested interest in us not shaking things up.'

'Because of all the Russian tycoons in town?' Goodyear saw that Clarke was impressed. 'I read the papers,' he explained. 'So Macfarlane had a little chat, but neglected to say that she knew the victim?'

'That's the size of it.' Rebus was showing more interest in the new recruit.

'Well, she's a politician. Last thing she wants is bad PR – and being linked to a murder inquiry probably counts as a negative.'

Goodyear offered a shrug, analysis complete.

The TV show was coming to an end, the dapper presenter announcing that the following week's episode would be coming from Hull. Rebus turned off the tape and stretched his spine.

'Anyway,' he asked, 'where've you two been?'

'Riordan,' Clarke stated, starting to fill him in on the meeting.

Halfway through, Hawes and Tibbet returned and had to be introduced to Todd Goodyear. Hawes had brought cakes for the office, and apologised to Goodyear that there wasn't one left over.

'I don't have a sweet tooth,' he replied with a shake of the head. Tibbet had spent a few months in uniform at Torphichen, just before his promotion to CID, and asked about old colleagues.

Rebus got stuck into his slice of caramel shortbread while Clarke boiled the kettle. She checked, but there was no sign of Macrae.

'Meeting at HQ,' Rebus explained as she placed a mug on his desk. Then, in an undertone: 'Have you cleared the Sundance Kid with him?'

'Not yet.' She glanced over to where Goodyear was chatting

easily with Tibbet and Hawes, and even managing to make them both laugh.

'Bringing a uniform in on a murder case?' He kept his voice low.

'Sure you know what you're doing?'

'DCI Macrae put me in charge.'

'Meaning you're responsible for any and all fuck-ups.'

'Thanks for reminding me.'

'How much do you know about him?'

'I know he's young and he's keen, and he's spent too long hanging around with a dead weight.'

'I hope you're not drawing parallels, DS Clarke.' Rebus slurped from the mug.

'Perish the thought, DI Rebus.' She looked towards Goodyear again. 'I'm just giving him a taster, that's all – couple of days and he'll be back to West End. Besides, Macrae wanted a few more recruits to the cause…'

Rebus nodded slowly, slid from his chair and wandered over, his hand landing on Goodyear's shoulder.

'It was you who took the statement from Nancy Sievewright?' he checked. Goodyear nodded. 'When she said she'd just been passing by, did you get any sort of an inkling?'

The young man thought for a moment, holding his bottom lip between his teeth. 'Not really,' he said at last.

Tfou either did or you didn't.'

'In which case, I didn't.'

Rebus nodded, turning to Hawes and Tibbet. 'What did you get in Great Stuart Street?'

'Gill Morgan does live there, and she knows Nancy Sievewright.'

Rebus stared at Hawes. 'But?'

Tibbet didn't want to be left out. 'But,' he said, 'we got the feeling she was parroting something she'd been told to say.'

Rebus turned back to Goodyear. 'And DC Tibbet can tell when someone's spinning him a line… What does that tell you?'

Goodyear gave his lip another gnaw. 'She's asked a friend to cover for her, because she was lying to us that night.'

'Lying to you,' Rebus corrected him, 'and you didn't even know it.'

Having made his point, he seemed to dismiss the constable again, turning to Hawes and Tibbet. 'What's Morgan like?'

Hawes: 'Lives in a nice flat… doesn't seem to be sharing with anyone.'

'Just her name on the door,' Tibbet added.

'Works as a model, so she says. But no jobs today. If you're asking me, though, she's got credit at the Bank of Mum and Dad.'

'Different league from Sievewright,' Rebus commented, waiting for Clarke to nod agreement. 'So how do they know one another?'

Hawes and Tibbet seemed at a loss. Rebus made a tutting sound, a teacher whose star pupils had eventually slipped up.

'I think they just know each other socially,' Tibbet blurted out.

Rebus glared at him. 'Attend the same regattas, you mean?'

Hawes felt compelled to come to her partner's defence. 'She wasn't that posh.'

'Just making a point, Phyl,' Rebus told her.

'Maybe we should bring her in,' Clarke suggested.

“Your call, Shiv,' Rebus reminded her. “You're the one Macrae's put in charge.'

This was news to Hawes and Tibbet; news to Goodyear, too, by the look of it. He was studying Rebus as though wondering how a sergeant could suddenly outrank an inspector. The ringing phone broke the silence. Rebus, being closest, picked it up.

'Todorov inquiry, DI Rebus speaking.'

'Oh… hello.' The voice was male and tremulous. 'I called earlier…'

Rebus caught Hawes's eye. 'About a woman, sir? We appreciate you taking the trouble to phone back.'

Tes, well…'

'So what is it I can do for you, Mr…?'

'Do I have to give my name?'

'This can be as confidential as you like, sir, but a name would be nice.'

'By “confidential” you mean…?'

7 mean spit it out! Rebus wanted to yell into the receiver. But instead he kept his voice level and pleasant, thinking of something he'd once been told: sincerity is everything – when you can fake that, the sky's the limit.

'Well, all right then,' the caller was saying, 'my name's-' He broke off again. 'I mean, you can call me George.'

'Thank you, George.'

'George Gaverill.'

'George Gaverill,' Rebus repeated, watching Hawes add the name to her notepad. 'Now what is it you'd like to say, George? My colleague mentioned something about a woman…'

¦Yes.'

'And you're calling because you saw our flyers at the car park?'

'On the sandwich board outside the car park,' the man corrected Rebus. I'm sure it's nothing. I mean, I saw it on the news… the poor guy was mugged, wasn't he? I don't think she could have done it.'

“You're probably right, sir. All the same, we try to gather up as much information as we can, helps us build a picture.' Rebus was rolling his eyes. Clarke made a circular motion with her finger: keep him talking.

'I wouldn't want my wife to think it was anything other than what it actually was,' Gaverill was saying.

'Absolutely. So this woman, sir…?'

'The night that man was murdered-' The voice broke off abruptly and Rebus thought he'd lost him. But then he heard breathing on the line. 'I was walking along King's Stables Road…'

'What time was this?'

'Ten… maybe ten fifteen.'

'And there was a woman?'

Tea.'

'I'm with you so far, sir.' Rebus rolled his eyes again.

'She propositioned me.'

It was Rebus's turn to pause. 'By which you mean…?'

'Just what I say: she wanted to have sex, though she put it rather more crudely.'

'And this was on King's Stables Road?'

Yes.'

'Near the car park?'

'Outside the car park, yes.'

'A prostitute?'

. 'I suppose so. I mean, it's not every day something like that happens – not to me, at any rate.'

'And what did you say to her, sir?'

'I turned her down, naturally.'

'And this was around ten or quarter past?'

'Something like that, yes.'

Rebus shrugged, letting the others know he wasn't sure what he was getting. He really wanted a description, but it would be easier face to face. Moreover, Gaverill's eyes would tell Rebus whether he i was dealing with just another crank.

'Is there any way,' he began quietly, 'I could persuade you to come to the station? I can't stress how vital your information might be.'

'Really?' Gaverill perked up for a moment, but only a moment.

'My wife, though… I couldn't possibly…'

“You could make some excuse, I'm sure.'

'Why do you say that?' the man barked suddenly.

'I just thought…' But the line had gone dead. Rebus cursed under his breath and dropped the phone back on to the desk. 'In the movies, someone would have traced the call.'

'I've never heard of a sex worker operating from that street or anywhere near,' Clarke commented sceptically.

'Sounded genuine enough,' Rebus felt bound to counter.

'Reckon Gaverill's his real name?'

'I'd put money on it.'

'Then we look him up in the phone book.' Clarke turned to Hawes and Tibbet. 'Get on to it.'

They got on to it, while Rebus tapped the phone, willing it to ring again. When it did, he snatched the receiver up.

'I shouldn't have done that,' Gaverill was saying. 'It was rude of me.'

'Don't blame you for being a little cautious, sir,' Rebus assured him. 'We were just hoping you'd phone again. This is one of those cases where we're desperate for a break of some kind.'

'But she wasn't a mugger or anything.'

'Doesn't mean she didn't see something. We reckon the victim was attacked just before eleven. If she was in the area…'

Tes, I see what you mean.'

Hawes and Tibbet had done the deed. A piece of paper was waved under Rebus's nose: phone number and address for George Gaverill.

'Tell you what,' Rebus said into the phone, 'this call must be costing you money. Let me ring you back – are you on the 229 number?'

“Yes, but I don't want…' The rest of the sentence died with a gurgle in Gaverill's throat.

'Now then,' Rebus said, a little more steel in his voice, 'we either come round to question you at your home, Mr Gaverill, or you come and see us here at Gayfield Square – which is it to be?'

Sounding like a chastened child, Gaverill told Rebus to give him half an hour.

But before Gaverill arrived, there were three other visitors. Roger and Elizabeth Anderson were first. And after Hawes and Tibbet

had taken them to an interview room, Nancy Sievewright turned up. Rebus asked the front desk to put her in one of the spare rooms – 'but not IR3' – and give her a cup of tea.

'Don't want her seeing Anderson,' he explained to Clarke.

She nodded. 'We need to talk to Anderson anyway, see what he says to Nancy 's story.'

'Already done,' Rebus admitted. Her gaze hardened, but all he did was shrug. 'Happened to be out that way this morning, thought I might as well ask him about it.'

'What did he say?'

'He was worried about her. Got her name and address from…'

Rebus turned towards Todd Goodyear. 'Wasn't you, was it?'

'Must've been Dyson,' Goodyear said.

'That's what I thought. Anyway, I've warned him off.' He seemed to think for a moment, then asked Clarke if she wanted to take Goodyear with her and get Sievewright's formal statement.

'Part of Todd's learning curve,' he argued.

Tfou're forgetting one thing, John – I'm in charge.'

'Only trying to be helpful.' Rebus had stretched his arms, all innocence.

'Thanks, but I'd rather hear what GaveriU's got so say.'

'I get the feeling he'll be easily intimidated. He trusts me now, but when he comes up against three of us…' He started to shake his head. 'Don't want him clamming up again.'

'Let's wait and see,' was all Clarke said. Rebus gave another shrug and wandered over to the window.

'Meantime,' he said, 'want to hear my theory?'

Tour theory of what?'

“Why he's so sweaty about his wife finding out.'

'Because,' Goodyear piped up, 'she'll think he accepted the offer.'

But Rebus was shaking his head. 'Quite the reverse, young Todd.

Would DS Clarke like to hazard a guess?'

'Slay us with an insight,' she said instead, folding her arms.

“What else is there on King's Stables Road?' Rebus asked.

'Castle Rock,' Goodyear offered.

'And?'

'A churchyard,' Clarke added.

'Exactly,' Rebus said. 'And on the corner of that churchyard you'll find an old lookout tower. It was used a couple of centuries back to keep watch for body-snatchers – and to my mind they should put it back into use. Dodgy place at night, that churchyard…' He let his words hang in the air.

'Gaverill's gay,' Clarke speculated, 'and his wife doesn't know it?'

Rebus shrugged but seemed pleased that she'd reached the same conclusion as him.

'So he was hardly going to take up the woman's offer,' Goodyear continued, nodding to himself.

At which point the phone buzzed. It was the front desk, letting them know George Gaverill was waiting for them.

They'd already decided that he should be brought to the CID suite – just that little bit more welcoming than an interview room.

But first Rebus shook him warmly by the hand and led him along the corridor to IR2, where he asked him to put his eye to the peephole.

'See the young woman?' Rebus asked quietly.

“Yes,' Gaverill whispered back.

'She the one?'

Gaverill turned towards him. 'No,' he stated. Rebus stared at the man. Gaverill was about five and a half feet tall, thin-boned and pale-faced with mousy brown hair and some sort of rash on his face. He was probably in his early forties, and Rebus got the feeling the rash could have been with him since his teens.

'Sure?' Rebus asked.

'Fairly sure. This woman was a bit taller, I'd say. Not as young and not as skinny.'

Rebus nodded and led him back the way they'd come, before climbing the stairs to CID. He shook his head when Clarke made eye contact – no identification. She gave a twitch of the mouth and held up the latest Evening News. There was a photo of the man called Litvinenko; he was attached to wires in his hospital bed and the poison had made him lose his hair.

'Coincidence,' was all Rebus said as Clarke introduced herself to Gaverill.

'Can't thank you enough for coming, sir.'

Goodyear meantime was busy on the phone, taking notes from someone who'd called the hotline and looking less than thrilled.

Clarke had gestured for Gaverill to sit down.

'Can we get you anything?' she asked.

'I just want this over and done with.'

'Well then,' Rebus intervened, 'we'll get straight to business.

Maybe you can tell us in your own words exactly what happened?'

'Like I told you, Inspector, I was on King's Stables Road, around quarter past ten, and there was this woman loitering there, close

to the car park exit. I reckoned she was waiting for someone, but when I was making to pass her, she spoke to me.'

'And what did she say?'

'She asked if I wanted…' Gaverill swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bouncing.

'A fuck?' Rebus offered.

'Exact words,' Gaverill agreed.

'Was any sort of a price mentioned?'

'She told me it was… I think she said “no strings”, something like that. No strings, no comebacks. Said she just wanted a…' But he still couldn't bring himself to say it.

'And this was going to happen right where you stood?' Rebus sounded disbelieving.

'Maybe in the car park…'

'Did she say as much?'

'I don't really remember. I'd started walking away. To be honest with you, I was a bit shocked.'

'I can imagine,' Clarke sympathised. 'What a hellish thing to happen. So can you tell us what she looked like?'

'Well, she was… I'm not sure exactly. About the same height as me… a bit older than the lass downstairs, though I'm not very good at ages – women's ages, I mean.'

'Lots of make-up?'

'Some make-up… and perfume, but I couldn't tell you what kind.'

'Would you say she looked like a prostitute, Mr Gaverill?' Rebus asked.

'Not the kind you see on TV, no. She wasn't dressed provocatively.

She had a coat on with a hood. It was cold that night, don't forget.'

'A coat with a hood?'

'Like a duffel coat maybe… or a bit longer than a duffel…, I'm not terribly sure.' He gave a nervous little laugh. 'I wish I could be more help.'

Tou're doing fine,' Rebus assured him.

'Better than fine,' Clarke added.

To be honest with you,' Gaverill went on, 'when I played it back in my mind, I decided she was probably a wee bit bonkers. I remember one time, there was a woman on the steps of a church by Bruntsfield Links, and she was lying there with her legs in the air, skirt hiked up, and it turned out she'd escaped from the Royal Ed…' He seemed to think some explanation was needed. 'That's where they keep the-'

'Psychiatric patients,' Clarke interrupted him with a nod.

'Well, I was only a bairn when that happened, but I still remember it.'

'Not the sort of thing you'd forget,' Rebus agreed. 'Surprised it didn't put you off women for life.' He gave a laugh so Gaverill would take it as a joke, but Clarke's eyes warned him to go easy.

'Irene's a special woman, Inspector,' Gaverill stated.

'I'm sure she is, sir. Been married a while?'

'Nineteen years – she was the first real girlfriend I ever had.'

'First and last, eh?' Rebus offered.

'Mr Gaverill,' Clarke interrupted, 'would you be willing to do us one further favour? I'd like an identification officer to work with you on a composite of the woman's face. Do you think that might be possible?'

'Right now?' Gaverill checked his watch.

'Soon as possible, while the memory's still fresh. We could have someone here in ten or fifteen minutes…' Meaning half an hour.

'Meant to ask, Mr Gaverill,' Rebus butted in, 'what's your line of work?'

'Auctions,' Gaverill told him. 'I pick stuff up and sell it on.'

'Flexible hours,' Rebus argued. “You can always explain to Irene that you were with a punter.'

Clarke gave a little cough, but Gaverill hadn't read anything into Rebus's words. 'Ten minutes?' he asked.

'Ten or fifteen,' Clarke assured him.

Lunchtime sandwiches: they'd given their orders to Goodyear, Rebus stressing that it was all part and parcel of the training. Roger and Elizabeth Anderson had gone home; so had Nancy Sievewright.

Hawes and Tibbet had gleaned nothing new from either interview.

Rebus was studying the computer image of a woman's face. Gaverill had insisted that most of it be left in shadow, the hood pulled low over the forehead.

'Nobody we know,' Clarke said, not for the first time. Gaverill had just left, and not in the best of moods – it had taken almost an hour for the ID expert, with the help of his laptop, printer and software, to put together the e-fit.

'Could be anybody,' Rebus said in response to Clarke's statement.

'Still… let's say she was there, whoever she is.'

Tou buy Gaverill's story?'

Tou mean you don't?'

'He seemed genuine to me,' Goodyear piped up, before quickly adding: 'for what it's worth.'

Rebus gave a snort and dumped the remains of his filled roll into the bin, brushing his shirt free of crumbs.

'So now,' Hawes added, 'we've got a woman trying to lure men into the car park to have quick, meaningless sex with her?' She paused. 'I can see where Siobhan has a problem.'

'Tends not to happen too often,' Clarke agreed, 'unless the boys know different?'

Rebus looked to Tibbet and Tibbet looked to Goodyear; none of them said anything.

'A hooker, then,' Tibbet decided to offer.

'Sex worker,' Rebus corrected him.

'But the Andersons and Nancy Sievewright walked right past the car park and didn't see a woman in a hood.'

'Doesn't mean she wasn't there, Colin,' Rebus pointed out.

'There's a term for it, isn't there?' Goodyear asked. 'When a woman sets a man up…'

'Honey trap,' Rebus told him. 'So are we back to the mugging theory again? It's not an MO I've come across – not in Edinburgh.

And here's another thing – forensics say Todorov had had sex that day.'

The room was quiet for a moment as they tried to untangle the various threads. Clarke sat with her elbows on the desk, face in her hands. Eventually she looked up.

'Is there anything at all stopping me from coming to the obvious conclusion, and taking that conclusion to DCI Macrae? Victim was robbed, beaten, left for dead.' She nodded towards the e-fit. 'And here's the only suspect we have.'

'So far,' Rebus cautioned. 'But Macrae said we've got a few days to keep digging, so why not use them?'

'And dig where exactly?'

Rebus tried to think of an answer, but gave up. He gestured for Clarke to follow him into the corridor, Hawes and Tibbet looking hurt by the snub. Rebus paused at the top of the stairs. Clarke was approaching, arms folded.

'Are you sure,' Rebus asked her, 'that Phyl and Col are okay with Goodyear suddenly appearing on the team?'

'How do you mean?'

'I mean he's not one of us.'

She stared at him. 'I don't think they're the ones with the

problem.' She paused before continuing. 'Do you remember your first day in CID?'

“Vaguely.'

'I remember mine like it was yesterday. The way everybody kept saying I was “fresh meat”, I thought they were vampires.' She unfolded her arms, rested her hands on her hips. Todd wants that taste of CID, John.'

'Sounds like he's got his teeth into you at any rate.'

Her smile became a scowl, but the thought of vampires had given Rebus a notion. 'Might be a long shot,' he said, 'but the guard at the car park said something about one of the bosses, the only one that ever went near the place. He called her the Reaper. Want to know why?'

'Okay then, why?' Clarke was determined not to be placated.

'On account,' Rebus told her, 'of the hood she always wears.'

14

Gary Walsh was in the car park's security shack, having relieved Joe Wills about an hour before. With the jacket of his uniform undone and his shirt tieless, he looked fairly relaxed.

'Money for old rope, this,' Rebus teased him as he knocked on the half-open door. Walsh slid his feet from the tabletop and pulled out his earphones, turning off the CD player. 'What're you listening to?'

'Primal Scream.'

'And what would you have done if I'd been one of the bosses?'

'Reaper's the only one we ever see.'

'So you said… Anyone told her about the murder?'

'She got it from a reporter.'

'And?' Rebus was studying a newspaper next to the radio: that afternoon's Evening News with the crossword already done.

Walsh just shrugged. 'Wanted to see the blood.'

'She sounds lovely.'

'She's all right.'

'Got a name for her?'

Walsh was studying him. Tou nicked anybody yet?'

'Not yet.'

What do you want to talk to Cath for?'

'That's her name – Cath?'

'Cath Mills.'

'Does she look anything like this?'

Walsh took the picture of the hooded woman from Rebus and stared at it unblinkingly, then shook his head.

'Sure?' Rebus said.

'Nothing like her.' Walsh handed the picture back. Who's it supposed to be?'

'Witness saw a woman hanging around outside on the night Todorov was murdered. It's a question of ruling people out.'

'Well, you can rule the Reaper out straight away – Cath wasn't here that night.'

'All the same, I'll take her phone number.'

Walsh pointed to a corkboard behind the door. 'It's up there.'

Rebus started jotting down the mobile number. 'How often does she drop by?'

'Maybe a couple of times a week – once on Joe's shift, once on mine.'

'Ever had trouble with the local prossies?'

'Didn't know there were any.'

Rebus was closing his notebook when the buzzer sounded. Walsh was looking at one of the monitors: a driver was out of his car and standing at the exit barrier.

'Is there a problem?' Walsh asked into the microphone.

'Bloody thing's just chewed up my ticket.'

Walsh rolled his eyes for Rebus's benefit. 'Been doing that a lot,'

he told him. He pushed a button and the barrier started to rise, the driver getting back behind his steering wheel without so much as a 'thanks' or 'goodbye'.

'Going to have to close that exit,' Walsh muttered, 'till they come and fix it.'

'Never a dull moment, eh?'

Walsh gave a snort. 'This woman,' he said, rising to his feet, 'reckon she had anything to do with it?'

'Why do you ask?'

Walsh was buttoning his uniform. Tou don't get many women muggers, do you?'

'Not many,' Rebus conceded.

'And it was a mugging? I mean, papers say the guy's pockets were emptied.'

'Looks that way.' Rebus paused for a moment. Tou lock up at eleven, right?'

'Right.'

'That's pretty much when the body was found.'

'Oh aye?'

'But you didn't see anything?'

'Nothing.'

'You'd have driven right past Raeburn Wynd.'

Walsh just shrugged. 'I didn't see anything and I didn't hear anything. I certainly didn't see a woman in a cloak. Probably have

scared the life out of me, with that graveyard across the road…'

He broke off, brow furrowing.

'What is it?' Rebus asked.

'Probably nothing – just thinking about those ghost tours they do… dressing up in costumes, putting a fright on the tourists…'

'I don't think our mystery woman was in that sort of game.' But Rebus knew what he meant. You saw them at night, wandering up and down the Royal Mile: guides dressed as vampires or Godknew-what.

'Besides, I've never heard of them doing walking tours down here.'

'Cemetery's not safe enough,' Walsh agreed, ready to leave the kiosk. He'd picked up a glossy plastic sign with the words OUT OF ORDER on it. Rebus preceded him out.

'Ever get any hassle from that quarter?' Rebus asked.

'Couple of junkies wanting a handout… If you ask me, they beat that poor bugger up in the stairwell last year.'

Tour colleague told me about that – never solved?'

Walsh gave a snort, which was all the answer Rebus needed.

'Any idea which station did the investigating?'

'It was before I started here.' Walsh's eyes narrowed. 'Is it because this guy's foreign, or because he's a bigwig?'

'Not sure I get you.' They were heading down the ramp towards the exit level.

'Is that why you're spending so much time on it?'

'It's because he was murdered, Mr Walsh,' Rebus stated, getting out his mobile.

Megan Macfarlane had been to some meeting in Leith. Roddy Liddle said she could probably manage ten minutes at the Starbucks just uphill from the Parliament, so that was where Clarke and Todd Goodyear were waiting. Goodyear was drinking tea, while Clarke's own Americano had come with the requested extra shot of espresso. She'd also splashed out on two slices of carrot cake, though Goodyear had tried paying.

'My treat,' she'd insisted. Then had asked at the till for a receipt, just in case she could finesse it as an expense. They sat at a table near the window, with a view of the darkening Canongate. 'Daft place to put a parliament,' she commented.

'Out of sight, out of mind,' Goodyear offered.

She smiled at that, and asked him what he thought of CID so far. He considered for a moment before answering.

'I like that you've kept me on.'

'So far,' she warned.

'And you seem to click as a team -1 like that, too. The case itself…'

His voice drifted off.

'Spit it out.'

'I think maybe all of you – and this isn't a criticism – are a little bit in thrall to DI Rebus.'

'Can you be a “little bit” in thrall?'

'You know what I mean, though… he's old, experienced, seen a lot of action down the years. So when he has hunches, you tend to follow them.'

'It's just the way some cases go, Todd – you drop a pebble in water, and the ripples start to spread.'

'But it's not like that at all, is it?' He pulled his chair closer to the table, warming to his argument. 'It's actually linear. The crime is committed by a person, and the job of CID is to find them. Most of the time, that's pretty straightforward – they feel guilty and hand themselves in, or someone witnesses the crime, or they're already known to us and their prints or DNA give them away.' He paused. 'I get the feeling DI Rebus hates those sorts of case, the ones where the motive's too easy to spot.'

'You barely know DI Rebus Clarke prickled.

Goodyear seemed to sense he'd gone too far. 'All I mean is, he likes things to be complex, gives him more of a challenge.'

'Less to this than meets the eye – that's what you're saying?'

'I'm saying we should keep an open mind.'

'Thanks for the advice.' Clarke's voice was as chilled as the carrot cake. Goodyear stared into his mug and looked relieved when the door opened and Megan Macfarlane approached the table. She was toting about three kilos of ring-binder, which she let clatter to the floor. Roddy Liddle had gone to the counter to order their drinks.

'The hoops we have to go through,' Macfarlane complained. She gave Todd Goodyear a questioning smile and Clarke made the introductions.

'I'm a great fan,' Goodyear told the MSP. 'I admired the stand you took on the tram system.'

Tou wouldn't happen to have a few thousand friends who think the same way?' Macfarlane had collapsed into her chair, eyes staring ceilingwards.

'And I've always supported independence,' Goodyear went on.

She angled her head towards him before turning to Clarke.

'I like this one better,' she commented.

'Speaking of DI Rebus,' Clarke said, 'he's sorry he can't make it along this afternoon. But he was the one who happened to spot your Question Time appearance – we're wondering why you didn't mention it.'

'Is that all?' Macfarlane sounded irritated. 'I thought maybe you'd arrested someone.'

'Did you just meet Mr Todorov that one time?' Clarke persisted.

Tea.'

'So you met at the studio?'

'The Hub,' Macfarlane corrected. 'Yes, we were all due to rendezvous there an hour before recording.'

'I thought it went out live,' Goodyear interrupted.

'Not quite,' the MSP insisted. 'Of course, Jim Bakewell, being a Labour minister, had to turn up fashionably late – floor staff didn't like that, which might explain why he got so little screen time.'

She perked up again at the memory, and gave Liddle a blessing as he arrived with her black coffee and a single espresso for himself.

He dragged a chair over so he could be part of the company, and shook hands with Goodyear.

'Think we'll start to hear rumours, Roddy?' Macfarlane asked, pouring a first sachet of sugar into her drink. The being seen with a uniformed police officer?'

“Very likely,' Liddle drawled, lifting the tiny cup to his mouth.

Tou were saying about Mr Todorov,' Clarke prompted.

'She wants to know about Question Time,' Macfarlane explained to her assistant. 'Thinks I must be hiding something.'

'Just wondering,' Clarke interrupted, 'why you didn't think to mention it.'

'Tell me, Sergeant, have any of the other politicos who shared the stage with the victim come forward with their reminiscences?'

The question didn't seem to require an answer. 'No, because they'd have said much the same as me – our Russian friend necked some wine, crammed a few sandwiches into his face, and said nary a word to us. I rather got the impression he wasn't a great fan of politicians as an overall species.'

'What about after the show?'

'Taxis were waiting… he grunted his goodbyes and left, tucking a spare bottle of wine under his jacket.' She paused. 'How any of this aids your inquiry is a mystery to me.'

“That was the only time you met him?'

'Didn't I just say so?' She looked to her assistant for confirmation. Clarke decided to look at him, too.

'What about you, Mr Liddle?' she asked. 'Did you talk to him at The Hub?'

'I introduced myself – “surly”, I'd have called him. There's usually a non-politician on the show, and there's always a rigorous pre-interview. The researcher who'd talked with Todorov didn't sound too thrilled – you could tell by her notes that he hadn't been forthcoming. To this day, I don't know why they had him on.'

Clarke thought for a moment. Charles Riordan had said that Todorov liked to chat to people, yet the drinker in Mather's had said he hardly uttered a word. And now Macfarlane and Liddle were saying much the same. Did Todorov have two sides to his personality? 'Whose idea would it have been to book him on the show?' she asked Liddle.

'Producer, presenter, one of the crew… I dare say anyone can propose a guest.'

'Could it have been,' Goodyear interrupted, 'a case of sending a message to Moscow?'

'I suppose so,' Macfarlane conceded, sounding impressed.

'How do you mean?' Clarke asked Goodyear.

'There was a journalist killed there a while back. Maybe the BBC wanted people to know you can't stifle free speech so easily.'

'Someone stifled it eventually, though, didn't they?' Liddle added.

'Or we wouldn't be having this conversation. And look at what happened to that poor bloody Russian in London…'

Macfarlane was scowling at him. 'That's exactly the kind of rumour we want to clamp down on!'

'Of course, of course,' he mumbled, busying himself with his already empty cup.

'So, just to recap,' Clarke announced into the silence, 'the two of you saw Mr Todorov at the Question Time recording, but didn't get much of a conversation going. You hadn't met him before, and you didn't see him again afterwards – is that the way you'd like me to phrase it in my report?'

'Report?' Macfarlane fairly barked the word.

'Not for public consumption,' Clarke reassured her. Then, after a moment's beat, she delivered her coup de grace: 'Until the trial, of course.'

'I've already stressed, Sergeant, that we have some influential investors in town, and it might not take much to spook them.'

'But you'd agree, wouldn't you,' Clarke countered, 'that we need to show them how scrupulous and thorough our police force is?'

Macfarlane seemed about to say something to that, but her phone was trilling. She turned away from the table as she answered.

'Stuart, how are things?'

Clarke guessed 'Stuart' might be the banker, Stuart Janney.

'I hope you got them all a booking at Andrew Fairlie?' Macfarlane had got to her feet and was on the move. She headed outside, glancing through the window as she continued her conversation.

'It's the restaurant at Gleneagles,' Liddle was explaining.

'I know,' Clarke told him. Then, for Goodyear's benefit: 'Our economic saviours are staying the night there – nice big dinner and a round of golf after breakfast.' She asked Liddle who would be picking up the tab. 'The hard-pressed taxpayer?' she guessed.

He gave a shrug and she turned back to Goodyear. 'Still reckon the meek will inherit the earth, Todd?'

'Psalm 37, Verse 11,' Goodyear intoned. But now Clarke's own phone was ringing. She picked it up and held it to her ear. John Rebus wanted a progress report.

'Just getting a bit of scripture from PC Goodyear,' she told him.

'The meek inheriting the earth and all of that.'

15

Rebus had only called because he was bored. But within a minute of Clarke answering his call, a black VW Golf was roaring to a kerbside stop outside the car park. The woman who emerged had to be Cath Mills, so Rebus cut the call short.

'Miss Mills?' he said, taking a step towards her. With late afternoon darkness had come biting gusts of wind, scudding in from the North Sea. He didn't know what he'd been expecting 'the Reaper' to be wearing – a full-length cape maybe. But in fact her coat was more like a parka with fur-trimmed hood. She was in her late thirties, tall, with red hair in a pageboy cut and black-rimmed spectacles. Her face was pale and rounded, lips reddened with lipstick. She looked nothing like the picture in his pocket.

'Inspector Rebus?' she assumed, giving a short-lived shake of the hand. She wore black leather driving gloves which she plunged into her pockets afterwards. 'I hate this time of year,' she muttered, checking the sky. 'Dark when you get up, dark when you go home.'

'You keep regular hours?' Rebus asked.

'Job like this, there's always something needs dealing with.' She glowered at the OUT OF ORDER sign next to the nearest exit barrier.

'So were you out and about on Wednesday night?'

She was still looking at the barrier. 'Home by nine, I seem to think. Problem at our facility in Canning Street – shift hadn't turned up. I got the attendant to pull a double, so that was that.'

Slowly, she turned her attention to Rebus. “You're asking about the night the man was killed.'

'That's right. Pity your CCTVs worse than useless… might've given us something to work with.'

'We didn't install it with slaughter in mind.'

Rebus ignored this. 'So you didn't happen to pass here around ten o'clock on the night it happened?'

'Who says I did?'

'No one, but we've a woman matching your description…' Okay, so he was stretching it, but he wanted to see how she would react.

All she did was raise an eyebrow and fold her arms.

'And how,' she asked, 'did you happen to get my description in the first place?' She glanced towards the car park. 'Boys been telling tales out of school? I'll have to see to it they're disciplined.'

'Actually, all they said was that you sometimes wear a hood. A pedestrian happened to spot a woman hanging around, and she was wearing a hood, too…'

'A woman with her hood up? At ten o'clock on a winter's night?

And this is your idea of narrowing the field?'

All of a sudden, Rebus wanted the day to be over. He wanted to be seated on a bar stool with a drink before him and everything else left far behind. 'If you weren't here,' he sighed, 'just say so.'

She thought this over for a moment. 'I'm not sure,' she said at last, drawing the words out.

'What do you mean?'

'Might liven things up, being a suspect in a police case…'

'Thanks, but we get quite enough time-wasters as it is. The worst offenders,' he added, 'we might even prosecute.'

Her face opened into a smile. 'Sorry,' she apologised. 'Been a long, gruelling day; I probably picked the wrong person to tease.'

Her attention was back on the barrier. 'I suppose I should talk to Gary, make sure he's reported that.' She peeled back a glove to look at her wristwatch. 'Just about see me through to the end of play…' She brought her eyes back to Rebus's. 'After which I dare say I can be located in Montpelier 's.'

'Wine bar in Bruntsfield?' It had taken Rebus only a couple of seconds to place it.

Her smile widened. 'Thought you looked the kind who'd know,'

she said.

In the end, he stayed for three drinks – blame the “Third Glass Free' promotion. Not that he was drinking glasses of anything: three small bottles of imported lager, keeping his wits about him. Cath Mills was a pro, her own three drinks adding up to a whole bottle of Rioja. She'd parked her car around the corner,

since she lived in some flats nearby and could leave it there overnight.

'So don't think you can have me for drunk-driving,' she'd said with a wag of the finger.

'I'm walking, too,' he'd answered, explaining that his own flat was in Marchmont.

When he'd entered the bar, assailed by loudspeaker music and office chatter, she'd been waiting in a booth at the back.

'Hoping I wouldn't find you?' he'd speculated.

'Don't want to seem too easy, do I?'

The conversation had mostly been about his job, plus the usual Edinburgh rants: the traffic, the roadworks, the council, the cold.

She'd warned him that there wasn't much of a story to her own life.

'Married at eighteen, divorced by twenty; tried again at thirty four and it lasted all of six months. Should have known better by then, shouldn't I?'

“You can't always have been a parking supervisor, though?'

Indeed not: office job after office job, then her own little consulting business which had plummeted to earth after two and a half years, not helped by Husband Two hoofing it with the savings.

'I was a PA after that but couldn't hack it… bit of time on the dole and trying to retrain, then this came along.'

'My line of work,' Rebus had said, 'I hear people's stories all the time – they always hold back the interesting stuff.'

'Then take me in for questioning,' she'd replied, stretching her arms wide.

Eventually, he'd got her to say a little about Gary Walsh and Joe Wills. She, too, suspected Wills of drinking on the job, but had yet to catch him.

'Being a detective, you could find out for me.'

'It's a private eye you need. Or set up a few more CCTV cameras without him knowing about it.'

She'd laughed at that, before telling the waitress she was ready for her free drink.

After an hour, they were checking their watches and giving little smiles across the table to one another. 'What about you?' she'd asked. 'Found anyone who'll put up with you?'

'Not for a while. I was married, one daughter – in her thirties now.'

'No office romances? High-pressure job, working in a team… I know how it is.'

'Hasn't happened to me,' he'd confirmed.

'Bully for you.' She sniffed and gave a twitch of the mouth. 'I've given up on one-night stands… more or less.' The twitch becoming another smile.

'This has been nice,' he'd said, aware of how awkward it sounded.

“You won't get into trouble for consorting with a suspect?'

'Who's going to tell?'

'Nobody needs to.' And she'd pointed towards the bar's own CCTV camera, trained on them from a corner of the ceiling. They'd both laughed at that, and as she shrugged back into her parka he'd asked again: 'Were you there that night? Be honest now…' And she'd shaken her head, as much of an answer as he was going to get.

Outside, he'd handed her a business card with the number of his mobile on it. No peck on the cheek or squeeze of the hand: they were two scarred veterans, each respectful of the other. On his way home, Rebus had stopped for fish and chips, eating them out of the little cardboard box. They didn't come wrapped in newspaper any more, something to do with public health. Didn't taste the same either, and the portions of haddock had been whittled away. Blame overfishing in the North Sea. Haddock would soon be a delicacy; either that or extinct. He'd finished by the time he arrived at his tenement, pulling himself up the two flights of stairs. There was no mail waiting, not even a utility bill. He switched on the lights in the living room and selected some music, then called Siobhan.

'What's up?' she asked.

'Just wondered where we go from here.'

'I was thinking of going to the fridge for a can of something.'

'Time was, that would have been my line.'

“The times are a-changing.'

'And that's one of mine, too!'

He could hear her laughing. Then she asked how his interview with Cath Mills had gone.

'Another dead end.'

'Took long enough to drive down it.'

'Didn't see the point of coming back to base.' He paused. 'Thinking of reporting me for bad time-keeping?'

'I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. What's the music you're playing?'

'It's called Little Criminals. There's a track on it called “Jolly Coppers on Parade”.'

'Not someone au fait with the police then…'

'It's Randy Newman. There's another title of his I like: “You Can't Fool the Fat Man”.'

'And would the fat man be yourself, by any chance?' 'Maybe I'll keep you guessing.' He let the silence linger for a moment. You're starting to side with Macrae, aren't you? You think we should be concentrating on the mugger file?'

'I've put Phyl and Colin on it,' Clarke conceded.

'You're losing your bottle?'

'I'm not losing anything.'

'Okay, I put that badly… It's good to be cautious, Shiv. I'm not about to blame you for it.'

'Think about it for a second, John. Was Todorov followed from the Caledonian Hotel? Not according to your CCTV wizard. Did a prostitute proposition him? Maybe, and maybe her pimp jumped in with a length of lead pipe. Whatever happened, the poet was in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

'That much we agree on.'

'And getting up the noses of MSPs, Russian tycoons and First Albannach Bank isn't going to get us anywhere.'

'But it's fun, isn't it? What's the point of a job if you're not having fun?'

'It's fun for you, John… it's always been fun for you.'

'So humour me, my last week at work.'

'I thought that's what I was doing.'

'No, Shiv, what you're doing is writing me off. That's what Todd Goodyear is about – he's your number two, same way you used to be mine. You're already starting to train him up, and probably enjoying it, too.'

'Now hang on a sec…'

'And I'm guessing he's also a means to an end – as long as you've got him with you, you don't have to choose between Phyl and Col. '

'With insights like that, it's a wonder you never got further up the ladder.'

'Thing about that ladder, Shiv, each rung you climb there's another arse waiting to be licked.'

'What a lovely image.'

'We all need some poetry in our lives.' He told her he'd see her tomorrow – 'always supposing I'm needed' – and ended the call. Sat there another five minutes wondering if she'd call back, but she didn't. There was something too cheery about Randy Newman's delivery, so Rebus turned off the album. Plenty of darker stuff he

could play – early King Crimson or Peter Hammill, for example – but instead he walked around the silent flat, going from room to room, and ended up in the hallway with the keys to the Saab in his hand.

'Why the hell not?' he told himself. It wasn't as if it would be the first time, and he doubted it would be the last. Wasn't drunk enough for it to be a problem. He locked the flat and headed down the stairwell, out into the night. Unlocked the Saab and got in. It was only a five-minute drive, and took him past Montpelier 's again.

A right-hand turn off Bruntsfield Place, then one more right and he was parking in a quiet street of detached Victorian-era houses.

He'd been here so often, he'd started to notice changes: new lampposts or new pavements. Signs had gone up warning that come March the parking would be zoned. It had already happened in Marchmont; hadn't made it any easier to find a space. A few rubbish skips had come and gone. He'd heard the Polish accents of the workmen. Extensions had been added to some homes, and the garages dismantled in two separate gardens. Plenty of comings and goings during the day, but much quieter in the evening. Practically every house had its own driveway, but cars from neighbouring streets would park up overnight. No one had ever paid attention to Rebus. In fact, one dog-walker had started to mistake him for a local, and would nod and smile or offer a hello. The dog itself was small and wiry and looked less trusting, turning away from him the one time he'd tried crouching down to pat it.

That had been a rare occurrence: mostly he stayed in the car, hands on the steering wheel, window rolled down and a cigarette between his lips. The radio could be playing. He wouldn't even be watching the house necessarily, but he knew who lived there.

Knew, too, that there was a coach-house in the back garden, which was where the bodyguard lived. One time, a car had stopped when it was halfway through the driveway gates. The bodyguard was in the front, but it was the back window which had slid soundlessly down, the better for the passenger to make eye contact with the watching Rebus. The look was a mixture of contempt, frustration, and maybe even pity – though this last would have been imitation.

Rebus doubted Big Ger Cafferty had ever in his adult life felt an emotion like pity for another human being.