Day Five. Tuesday 21 November 2006

16

The air still smouldered, the charred smell almost overpowering.

Siobhan Clarke held a handkerchief to her mouth and nose. Rebus stubbed out his breakfast underfoot.

'Bloody hell,' was all he could think to say.

Todd Goodyear had heard the news first and had phoned Clarke, who was halfway to the scene before she decided to call Rebus.

They now stood on a roadway in Joppa while the fire crew gathered up the spent coils of hose. Charles Riordan's house was a shell, the windowpanes gone, roof collapsed.

'Can we go in yet?' Clarke asked one of the firemen.

'What's the rush?'

'I'm just asking.'

'Talk to the boss…'

Some of the firemen were sweating, rubbing smudges of soot across their foreheads. They'd taken off their oxygen tanks and masks. They were talking among themselves, like a gang after a rumble, debating their roles in the action. A neighbour had brought them water and juice. More neighbours were standing in their doorways or gardens, while onlookers from further afield shuffled and whispered. It was a D Division call and two suits from Leith CID had already asked Clarke what Gayfield Square 's interest (.was.

Witness in a case,' was all she'd told them: no point giving away anything more. The suits hadn't been happy about it, and were now keeping their distance, phones held to their ears.

'Reckon he was at home?' Rebus asked Clarke.

She shrugged. 'Remember what we were talking about last t»ight?'

1.l;31

“You mean the argument we were having? Me reading way too much into Todorov's death?'

'Don't rub it in.'

Rebus decided to play devil's advocate. 'Could be an accident, of course. And hey, maybe we'll find him alive and well at his studio.'

'I've tried calling – no answer as yet.' She nodded towards a kerbside TVR. 'Woman two doors down says that's his car. He parked it last night – she knows it was him because of the noise it makes.'

The TVR's windscreen was shrouded in ash. Rebus watched two more firemen step gingerly over some timbers on their way into what was left of the house. Some of the shelves were still visible in the hallway, though most had been destroyed.

'Fire investigator on his way?' Rebus asked.

'On her way,' Clarke corrected him.

'The march of progress…' An ambulance crew had turned up, too, but were now checking their watches, unwilling to waste much more time. Todd Goodyear came bounding forward, dressed in a suit rather than a uniform. He nodded a greeting at Rebus and started leafing back through his notebook.

'How many of those do you get through a month?' Rebus couldn't help asking. Clarke gave him a warning look.

'I've talked to the neighbours either side of him,' Goodyear reported to Clarke. 'They're in a state of shock, of course – terrified their own houses might be about to explode. They want to get back in and save a few bits and pieces, but the brigade's not having it.

Seems Riordan came home at eleven thirty. After that, not a peep from him.'

'The way he'd soundproofed the house…'

Goodyear nodded enthusiastically. 'Unlikely they'd have heard anything. One of the fire officers says the acoustic baffling was probably part of the problem – it can be incredibly flammable.'

'Riordan didn't have any visitors in the night?' Clarke asked.

Goodyear shook his head. He couldn't help glancing towards Rebus, as if expecting some sort of praise or appraisal.

'You're in mufti,' was all Rebus said.

The constable's eyes swivelled between the two detectives. Clarke cleared her throat before speaking.

'If he's working with us, I thought he'd look less conspicuous…'

Rebus tried staring her out, then nodded slowly, though he knew she was lying. The suit had been Goodyear's idea, and now she was covering for him. Before he could say anything, a red car with flashing light roared into view, stuttering to a halt.


'The fire inspector,' Clarke announced. The woman who emerged from the car was elegant and businesslike, and seemed straight off to have the brigade's attention and respect. Officers started pointing at parts of the smoke-streaked building, obviously giving their side of the story, while the two detectives from Leith hovered nearby.

'Think we should introduce ourselves?' Clarke asked Rebus.

'Sooner or later,' he told her. But she'd already decided and was striding towards the cluster of bodies. Rebus followed, indicating for Goodyear to hang back. The constable seemed reluctant, hopping from pavement to roadway and back again. Rebus had attended plenty of house fires, including one he'd ended up being accused of starting. There'd been a fatality that time, too… Not much fun for the pathologists, when there were victims to be identified. He'd almost burned his own flat down once, as well, falling into a stupor on the sofa with the cigarette hanging from his mouth. He'd woken to smouldering fabric and a plume of sulphurous smoke.

Easily done…

Clarke was shaking hands with the FI. Not everyone looked happy: the firefighters reckoned CID should leave them to get on with it. Natural reaction, and one Rebus could sympathise with.

All the same, he started lighting another cigarette, reckoning it might get him noticed.

'Bloody menace,' one of the brigade dutifully muttered. Mission accomplished. The FFs name was Katie Glass, and she was telling Clarke what happened next: locating any victims; securing breached gas-sources; checking the obvious.

'Meaning anything from a chip pan left on the heat to an electrical fault.'

Clarke nodded along until Glass had finished, then explained about the homeowner's role in an ongoing investigation, aware of Leith CID listening in.

'And that makes you suspect something?' Glass guessed. 'So be it, but I always like to enter a scene with an open mind – preconceptions mean you can miss things.' She moved towards the garden I gate, flanked by firefighters and watched by Rebus and Clarke.

“There's a cafe back in Portobello,' Rebus said, giving a final glance towards the gutted house. 'Fancy a fry-up?'

Afterwards, they headed to Gayfield Square, where Hawes and Tibbet, feeling abandoned, welcomed them with frowns. They soon


perked up at news of the fire and asked if it meant they could put the HMF away. Goodyear asked what that was.

'Habitual Mugger File,' Hawes explained.

'Not an official term,' Tibbet added, slapping a hand against the pile of box files.

'Thought they'd all be on computer,' Goodyear commented.

'If you're applying for the job…?'

But Goodyear waved the offer aside. Clarke was seated at her desk, tapping it with a pen.

'What now, boss?' Rebus asked, receiving a glare for his efforts.

'I need to talk to Macrae again,' she said at last, though she could see his office was empty. 'Has he been in?'

Hawes shrugged. 'Not since we got here.'

'Travel in together?' Rebus asked, all innocence. It was Colin Tibbet's turn to glower at him.

'This changes everything,' Clarke was saying quietly.

'Unless it was an accident,' Rebus reminded her.

'First Todorov, now the man he spent his final evening with…'

It was Goodyear who had spoken, but Clarke was nodding her agreement.

'Could all be a horrible coincidence,' Rebus argued. Clarke stared at him.

'Christ, John, you were the one seeing conspiracies! Now it looks like we've got a connection, you're pouring cold water on it!'

'Isn't that what you do with a fire?' When he saw the blood shooting up Clarke's neck, he knew he'd gone too far. 'Okay, say you're right – you still need to run it past Macrae. And meantime, we wait to hear if they find a body. And supposing they do, we then wait to see what Gates and Curt make of it.' He paused. 'That's what's called “procedure” – you know it as well as I do.' Clarke knew he was right, and he watched as her shoulders relaxed a little and she dropped the pen on to the desk, where it rolled and settled.

'For once John's not wrong,' she told the room, 'much as it galls me to say it.' She smiled, and he smiled back with a little bow from the waist.

'Had to happen once in my career,' he said. 'Better late than never, I suppose.' There were more smiles, and Rebus felt it at that moment. The inquiry had been on the go for days, but only now had everything changed.

Despite the scowls and the sniping, they really were a team.

Which was how Macrae found them when he walked into the CID suite. Even he seemed to sense a change of atmosphere. Clarke


gave him her report, keeping everything simple. The phone rang on Hawes's desk and Rebus wondered if it was another response to their public appeal. He thought again of the prostitute, trying to do business on a no-through-road, and of Cath Mills, stoking up on Rioja. Todorov was attractive to women – and attracted by them, no doubt. Could a stranger have lured him to his doom with an offer of sex? It was straight out of Le Carre…

Hawes was off the phone and advancing towards Rebus's desk.

'They found the body,' was all she needed to say.

Rebus knocked on Macrae's door, relaying the message with a look and a nod. Clarke asked the boss if she could be excused. Back in the main body of the kirk, she asked Hawes for details.

'Male, they think. Under a collapsed section of ceiling in the living room.'

'Meaning the studio room,' Goodyear interrupted, reminding them all that he, too, had been to the producer's home.

'They've got their own team taking photographs and the like,'

Hawes went on. 'Body is on its way to the mortuary.'

To be placed in the Decomposing Room, Rebus didn't doubt. He wondered how Todd Goodyear would react to seeing a crispy one.

We should go there,' Clarke told him. But Rebus was shaking his head.

'Take Todd,' he offered. 'Part of that CID learning curve…'

Hawes was on the phone to CR Studios, giving them the news while confirming that Riordan himself hadn't actually turned up so far that day. Colin Tibbet's task was to chase up Richard Browning at the Caledonian Hotel. How long did it take to go through an evening's worth of bar tabs? If Rebus didn't know better, he'd have said Browning was chancing his arm, hoping CID would forget all about it. When a face appeared around the door, Rebus was the only one not doing anything.

There's someone downstairs,' the desk sergeant said. 'Looking to hand in a list of Russians… could it be the Hearts first team for Saturday?'

But Rebus knew who and what it was: Nikolai Stahov from the consulate; Russian nationals based in Edinburgh. Again, Stahov had taken his time, and Rebus doubted they'd have much use for the list – the landscape had changed since they'd first asked for it. All the same, and for want of anything better to do, he nodded and said he'd be down straight away.


But when he opened the door to the reception area, the man studying the posters on the walls was not Stahov.

It was Stuart Janney.

'Mr Janney,' Rebus said, holding out a hand and trying not to show his surprise.

'It's Detective Inspector…?'

'Rebus,' he reminded the banker.

Janney nodded, as if in apology for not having remembered. 'I'm just handing in a message.' He'd lifted an envelope from his pocket.

'Didn't expect someone of your calibre to be on the receiving end.'

'Likewise, I didn't know you ran errands for the Russian consulate.'

Janney managed a smile. 'I ran into Nikolai at Gleneagles. He happened to find the envelope in his pocket… mentioned he was supposed to bring it in.'

Tou told him you'd save him the trouble?'

Janney gave a shrug. 'No big deal.'

'How was the golf?'

'I didn't play. FAB was giving a presentation, which happened to coincide with the visit by our Russian friends.'

'That is a coincidence. Anyone would think you were stalking them.'

Now Janney laughed, head back. 'Business is business, Inspector, and, lest we forget, good for Scotland.'

'True enough – that why you're keeping in with the SNP, too?

Reckon they'll be running the show next May?'

'As I said at our first encounter, the bank has to stay neutral.

On the other hand, the Nats are making a strong showing.

Independence may be a ways off, but it's probably inevitable.'

'And good for business?'

Janney gave a shrug. 'They're pledging to drop the rate of corporation tax.'

Rebus was examining the sealed envelope. 'Did Comrade Stahov happen to mention what's in here?'

'Russian nationals living locally. He said it's to do with the Todorov case. I can't really see the connection myself…' Janney let the sentence hang, as if ready for Rebus's explanation, but all Rebus did was tuck the envelope inside his jacket.

'How about Mr Todorov's bank statements?' he asked instead.

'Any further forward with them?'

'As I said, Inspector, there are procedures. Sometimes, without the benefit of an executor, the wheels grind slow…'


'So have you done any deals yet?'

'Deals?' Janney seemed not to understand.

'With these Russians I'm supposed to be tiptoeing around.'

'It's nothing to do with “tiptoeing” – we just don't want them getting the wrong idea.'

'About Scotland, you mean? A man's dead, Mr Janney – not much we can do to change that.'

The door next to the reception desk opened and DCI Macrae appeared. He was dressed in coat and scarf, ready to leave.

'Any news on the fire?' he asked Rebus.

'No, sir,' Rebus told him.

'Nothing from the post-mortem?'

'Not yet.'

'But you still think it ties to the poet fellow?'

'Sir, this is Mr Janney. He works for First Albannach Bank.'

The two men shook hands. Rebus hoped his boss would take the hint, but just in case, he added the information that Janney was going to provide details of Todorov's bank account.

'Am I to understand,' Janney said, 'that someone else has died?'

'House fire,' Macrae barked. 'Friend of Todorov's.'

'Gracious me.'

Rebus had extended his own hand towards the banker. 'Well,' he interrupted, 'thanks again for dropping by.'

“Yes,' Janney conceded, 'you must have a lot on your plate.'

'The whole help-yourself buffet,' Rebus acknowledged with a smile.

The two men shook hands. For a moment, it looked as if Macrae and the banker might leave the station together. Rebus didn't like the idea of Macrae spilling any more of the buffet, so told him he needed a word. Janney exited alone, and Rebus waited until the door had closed. But it was Macrae who spoke.

'What do you think of Goodyear?' he asked.

'Seems proficient.' Macrae seemed to be expecting some caveat, but Rebus shrugged his shoulders instead and left it at that.

'Siobhan appears to agree with you.' Macrae paused. 'There'll be a few changes to the team when you retire.'

Tes, sir.'

'I reckon Siobhan's about ready for a step-up to inspector.'

'She's been ready for years.'

Macrae nodded to himself. 'What was it you wanted to speak to me about?' he eventually asked..'It'll keep, sir,' Rebus assured him. He watched the boss head for


the exit and considered stepping into the car park for a smoke. But instead, he headed back upstairs, tearing open the envelope and studying the names. There were a couple of dozen, but no other details – nothing like addresses or a list of occupations. Stahov had been scrupulous to the point of adding his own name at the very bottom – maybe he'd done it for a laugh, knowing the sheet itself was of no possible use to the inquiry. But as Rebus pushed open the door to the CID suite, he saw that Hawes and Tibbet were on their feet, keen to tell him something.

'Spit it out,' he said.

Tibbet was holding out another sheet of paper. 'Fax from the Caledonian. Several of the hotel residents bought brandies at the bar that night.'

'Any of them Russian?' Rebus asked.

'Have a look.'

So Rebus took the fax from him and saw three names staring back at him. Two were complete strangers, but didn't sound foreign.

The third wasn't foreign either, but it sent the blood thrumming in his ears.

Mr M. Cafferty.

M for Morris. Morris Gerald Cafferty.

'Big Ger,' Hawes explained, with no necessity whatsoever.

17

Rebus had only the one question: bring him in, or question him at his house?

'My decision, not yours,' Siobhan Clarke reminded him. She'd been back from the mortuary half an hour and seemed to be nursing a headache. Tibbet had made her a coffee, and Rebus had watched her press two tablets from their foil enclosure into the palm of her hand. Todd Goodyear had thrown up only the once, in the mortuary car park, though there had been another crisis point on the way back to Gayfield Square when they passed some men laying tarmac.

'Something about the smell,' he'd explained.

He now looked pale and shaken, but kept telling everyone he was all right – whether they wanted to hear it or not. Clarke had gathered them round so she could tell them what Gates and Curt had told her: male, five ten, rings on two fingers of the right hand, gold watch on one wrist, and with a broken jaw.

'Maybe a roof beam fell on him,' she speculated. The victim hadn't been tied to any piece of furniture, and neither his hands nor his feet had been bound. 'Just lying in a heap on the living-room floor.

Probable cause of death: smoke inhalation. Gates did stress that these were preliminary findings…'

Rebus: 'Still makes it a suspicious death.'

Hawes: 'Which means it's ours.'

'And ID?' Tibbet asked.

'Dental records, if we're lucky.'

'Or the rings?' Goodyear guessed.

'Even if they belonged to Riordan,' Rebus told him, 'doesn't mean Riordan was the last man wearing them. I had a case ten or


twelve years back, guy being done for fraud tried faking his own death…'

Goodyear nodded slowly, beginning to see.

After which, Rebus divulged his own news, before asking his question.

Clarke sat with the fax in one hand, head resting in the other.

'This,' she said, 'just keeps getting better and better. Then, raising her eyes to meet Rebus's: 'Interview Room 3?'

'IR3 it is,' he said, 'and remember to wrap up warm.'

Cafferty, however, sat with his chair slid back from the table, one leg crossed over the over and hands behind his head, for all the world as if he were in the parlour back home.

'Siobhan,' he said as she walked into the room, 'always a great delight. Doesn't she look businesslike, Rebus? You've trained her to perfection.'

Rebus closed the door and took up position by the wall, Clarke easing herself on to the chair opposite Cafferty. He gave her a little bow, inclining the great dome of his head but keeping the hands where they were.

'I was wondering when you would pull me in,' he said.

'So you knew it was coming?' Clarke had placed a blank pad of paper on the table and was taking the top off her pen.

'With DI Rebus only days away from the scrapheap?' The gangster glanced in Rebus's direction. 'I knew you'd dream up some pretext for giving me grief.'

'Well, as it happens, we've got slightly more than a pretext-'

'Did you know, Siobhan,' Cafferty broke in, 'that John here sits outside my house of an evening, making sure I'm tucked up in bed?

I'd say that level of protection goes somewhat beyond the call of duty.'

Clarke was trying not to be deflected. She placed her pen on the table, but then had to stop it rolling towards the edge. 'Tell us about Alexander Todorov,' she began.

'Say again?'

'The man you bought a tenner's worth of cognac for last Wednesday night.'

'In the bar of the Caledonian Hotel,' Rebus added.

'What? The Polish guy?'

'Russian, actually,' Clarke corrected him.

Tou live a mile and a half away,' Rebus pressed on. 'Makes me


wonder why you'd need a room.'

'To get away from you, maybe?' Cafferty made show of guessing.

II'Or just because I can afford one.'

'And then you sit in the bar, buying drinks for strangers,' Clarke added.

Cafferty unlinked his hands so he could raise a finger, as if to stress a point. 'Difference between Rebus and me – he'd sit in the bar all night and buy drinks for no bugger.' He gave a cold chuckle.

'This is the sum total of why you've dragged me here – because I bought some poor immigrant a drink?'

'How many “poor immigrants” do you reckon would wander into that bar?' Rebus asked.

Cafferty made show of thinking, closing his sunken eyes and then opening them again. They were like dark little pebbles in his huge pale face. Tou have a fair point,' he admitted. 'But the man was still a stranger to me. What's he gone and done?'

'He's gone and been murdered,' Rebus said, with as much restraint as he could muster. 'And as of right now, you're the last person who saw him alive.'

'Whoa there.' Cafferty looked from one detective to the other.

'The poet guy, the one I saw in the papers?'

'Attacked on King's Stables Road, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes after drinking with you. What was it the pair of you fell out about?'

Cafferty ignored Rebus and concentrated on Clarke. 'Do I need my solicitor here?'

'Not as yet,' she said levelly. Cafferty smiled again.

'Are you not wondering, Siobhan, why I'm asking you and not Rebus? He outranks you, after all.' Now he turned back to Rebus.

'But you're days from the scrapheap, just like I say, while Siobhan here's still on the way up. If the pair of you have got a case on the go, my guess is that Old Man Macrae will have seen sense and put Shiv in charge.'

'Only my friends get to call me Shiv.'

'My apologies, Siobhan.'

'Far as you're concerned, I'm Detective Sergeant Clarke.'

Cafferty whistled through his teeth and slapped one meaty thigh.

Trained her to perfection,' he repeated. 'And rare entertainment with it.'

“What were you doing at the Caledonian Hotel?' Clarke asked, as if he'd never spoken.

'Having a drink.'


'And staying in a room?'

'It can be murder, finding a taxi home.'

'So how did you meet Alexander Todorov?'

'I was in the bar…'

'Alone?'

'But only because I wanted to be – unlike DI Rebus there, I have plenty of friends I can drink and have a laugh with. I'm betting you'd be fun to drink with, too, DS Clarke, so long as misery-guts was elsewhere.'

'And Todorov just happened to sit next to you?' Clarke was guessing.

'I was on a stool at the bar. He was standing, waiting to get served. Barman was crafting a cocktail, so we had a minute or two to talk. I liked him well enough to put his drink on my tab.'

Cafferty offered an exaggerated shrug. 'He slugged it, said thanks, and buggered off.'

'He didn't offer to buy one back?' Rebus asked. He took the poet to be a drinker of the old school; etiquette would have demanded no less.

'Actually he did,' Cafferty admitted. 'I told him I was fine.'

'Here's hoping the CCTV backs you up,' Rebus commented.

For the first time, Cafferty's mask slipped a little, though the unease was momentary at best. 'It will,' he stated.

Rebus just nodded slowly while Clarke suppressed a smile. Good to know they could still rattle Cafferty.

“Victim was beaten without mercy,' Rebus went on. 'If I'd thought about it, I'd've had you in the frame from the word go.'

Tou always did like framing people.' Cafferty turned his gaze on Clarke. So far all she'd added to the top sheet of paper was a sequence of doodles. 'Three, four times a week, he's in that old banger of his, parked on the street outside my house. Some people would cry “harassment” – what do you think, DS Clarke? Should I apply for one of those restraining orders?'

'What did the two of you talk about?'

'Back to the Russian guy again?' Cafferty sounded disappointed.

'Far as I can recollect, he said something about Edinburgh being a cold city. I probably said he was dead right.'

'Maybe he meant the people rather than the climate.'

'And he'd still have been right. I don't mean you, of course, DS Clarke – you're a little ray of sunshine. But those of us who've lived here all our lives, well, we can be on the morose side, wouldn't you agree, DI Rebus? A pal of mine told me once it's because we've


never stopped being invaded – a silent invasion, to be sure, quite a pleasant invasion, and sometimes more a trickle than an onslaught, but it's made us… prickly – some more than most.' Giving a sly glance towards Rebus.

'You've still not explained why you were paying for a room at the hotel,' Rebus stated.

'I thought I had,' Cafferty countered.

'Only if you mistake us for half-wits.'

'I agree, “halfwits” would be stretching it.' Cafferty gave another chuckle. Rebus had slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, the better to curl them into unseen fists. 'Look,' Cafferty went on, seeming suddenly to tire of the game, 'I bought a drink for a stranger, somebody mugged him, end of story.'

'Not until we know the who and the why,' Rebus corrected him.

'What else did you talk about?' Clarke added.

Cafferty rolled his eyes. 'He said Edinburgh was cold, I said yes.

He said Glasgow was warmer, I said maybe. His drink arrived and we both said “cheers”… Come to think of it, he had something with him. What was it? A compact disc, I think.'

Yes, the one Charles Riordan had given him. Two dead men sharing a curry. Rebus clenching and unclenching his hands.

Clenching and unclenching. Cafferty, he realised, stood for everything that had ever gone sour – every bungled chance and botched case, suspects missed and crimes unsolved. The man wasn't just the grit in the oyster, he was the pollutant poisoning everything within reach.

And there's no way I can take him down, is there?

Unless God really was up there, handing Rebus this last slim chance.

'The disc wasn't on the body,' Clarke was saying.

'He took it with him,' Cafferty stated. 'Slipped it into one of his pockets.' He patted his right-hand side.

'Meet any other Russians in the bar that night?' Rebus asked.

'Now you mention it, there were some rum accents – I thought they must be Gaels or something. Soon as they started with the ceilidh songs, I swore I'd be heading for bed.'

'Did Todorov speak to any of them?'

'How should I know?'

'Because you were with him.'

Cafferty slapped both hands against the greasy tabletop. 'One drink I had with him!'

'So you say.' Got you rattled again, you bastard!


'Meaning you were the last person he spoke with before he died,'

Clarke reinforced.

You're saying I followed him? Put the boot in him? Fine, let's take a look at this CCTV of yours… let's get the barman in here to say how late I stayed at the bar. You've obviously seen my tab – what time was it signed for? I didn't move from that place until gone midnight. Room full of witnesses… signed bar tab… CCTV.'

He held up three fingers triumphantly. There was silence in IR3.

Rebus eased himself from the wall and took the couple of steps which left him standing beside Cafferty's chair.

'Something happened in that bar, didn't it?' he said, his voice not much above a whisper.

'Sometimes I wish I had your fantasy life, Rebus, I really do.'

There was a sudden knock at the door. Clarke released the breath she'd been holding and called out for whoever it was to come in.

Todd Goodyear edged nervously around the door.

'What do you want?' Rebus snapped. Goodyear's eyes were on the gangster, but the message was for Clarke.

'Fire investigator's got some news.'

'Is she here?' Clarke asked.

'In the suite,' he confirmed.

'Fresh blood,' Cafferty drawled, measuring Goodyear from head to toe. 'What's your name, son?'

'PC Goodyear.'

'A police constable out of uniform?' Cafferty smiled. 'CID must be desperate. Is he your replacement, Rebus?'

“Thanks, Goodyear,' was all Rebus said, nodding to let the young man know he was dismissed. Cafferty, however, had other ideas.

'Used to know a heid-the-ba' called Goodyear…'

'Which one?' Todd Goodyear decided to ask. Cafferty's smile turned into a laugh.

'You're right – there was old Harry, used to run a pub on Rose Street. But I was thinking of more recent times.'

'Solomon Goodyear,' Todd stated.

'That's the one.' Cafferty's eyes gleamed. 'Sol, everyone calls him.'

'My brother.'

Cafferty nodded slowly. Rebus was gesturing for Goodyear to hoof it, but Cafferty's stare held the young man captive. 'Now I think of it, Sol did have a brother… never seemed to want to talk about him, though. Does that make you the black sheep, PC Goodyear?' He was laughing again.


'Tell the FI we'll be there in a minute,' Clarke interrupted, but still Goodyear didn't move.

Todd?' Rebus's use of his first name seemed to break the spell.

Goodyear nodded and disappeared around the door again.

'Nice kid,' Cafferty mused. 'He'll be your pet project then, DS Clarke, for when Rebus slopes off into the sunset, just like you used to be Rebus's.' When neither detective spoke, Cafferty decided to quit while he was ahead. He stretched his spine, arms extended to either side, and started getting to his feet. 'We done here?'

'For the moment,' Clarke conceded.

Tou don't want me to make a statement or anything?'

'Wouldn't be worth the paper it was written on,' Rebus growled.

'Get all the digs in while you can,' Cafferty advised. He was at eye level with his old adversary. 'See you tonight maybe – same time, same place. I'll be thinking of you, freezing in your car. Speaking of which, it was a nice touch turning off the heating in here – it'll make my room at the hotel feel all the cosier.'

'Speaking of the Caledonian,' Clarke decided to add, 'you bought a lot of drinks that night – eleven, according to your tab.'

'Maybe I was thirsty – or just generous.' His gaze settled on her.

'I can be the generous sort, Siobhan, when the circumstances are right. But then you know that already, don't you?'

'I know a lot of things, Cafferty.'

'Oh, I'm sure of that. Maybe we can talk about them while you give me a lift back into town.'

'Bus stop's across the road,' Rebus said.

18

'Something happened in that bar,' Rebus repeated as he walked with Clarke back to the CID suite.

'So you said.'

'Cafferty was there for a reason. He's never squandered so much as a quid in his life, so what's he doing booked into one of the dearest hotels in town?'

'I doubt he'll tell us.'

'But his stay happens to coincide with the oligarchs.' She looked at him and he gave a shrug. 'Looked it up in the dictionary. Thought maybe it had to do with oil.'

'It means a small group of powerful people, right?' Clarke checked.

'Right,' Rebus confirmed.

'Thing is, John, we've also got this woman at the car park…'

'Cafferty could have put her there. He's owned a fair few brothels in his time.'

'Or she could be nothing to do with it. I'm going to have Hawes and Tibbet talk to the witnesses, see if the e-fit jogs any memories.

But meantime, there's a more pressing question – namely, what the hell are you doing running a one-man stakeout on Big Ger Cafferty?'

'I prefer “vendetta” to “stakeout”.' She seemed ready to say something but he held up his hand. 'I was outside his place last night, as it happens, and he was at home.'

'So?'

'So he's keeping a room at the Caledonian, but not spending much time there.' They had arrived at the door to CID. 'And that means he's up to something.' Rebus opened the door and went in.


Katie Glass had been given a mug of strong-looking tea and was studying it warily.

'DC Tibbet always does that,' Rebus warned her. 'If you want tannin poisoning, feel free to drink up.'

'I might pass,' she said, placing the mug on the corner of a desk.

Rebus introduced himself and shook her hand. Clarke thanked her for coming in and asked if she'd found something.

'Early days,' Glass hedged.

'But…?' Rebus nudged, knowing there was more.

'We may have a source for the fire: small glass bottles filled with a chemical of some kind.'

'What kind of chemical?' Clarke asked, folding her arms. All three were standing, while Hawes and Tibbet listened in from behind their desks. Todd Goodyear was standing by one of the windows, staring out. Rebus wondered if he'd been tracking Cafferty's departure.

'Gone for analysis,' the fire inspector was saying. 'If I had to guess, I'd say maybe it was cleaning fluid of some kind.'

'Household cleaner?'

Glass shook her head. 'Bottles were too small. But this was a man who had a lot of tapes in his house…'

'Cassette cleaner,' Rebus stated. 'For wiping oxidation off the heads of the cassette decks.'

'Impressive,' Glass said.

'I used to have a thing about hi-fi.'

'Well, at least one of the bottles looks like someone had wadded some tissue into its neck. It was sitting in the midst of a pile of melted tape casings.'

'In the living room?'

Glass nodded.

'So you think it was deliberate?'

Now she shrugged. 'Thing is, if you wanted to kill someone in a fire, usually you'd go to town – slosh petrol around the place, that sort of thing. This was a couple of sheets of loo roll and a small bottle of something flammable.'

'I think I see what you're getting at,' Rebus told her. 'Maybe Riordan wasn't the target.' He paused to see if anyone would beat him to it. 'The tapes were,' he eventually explained.

The tapes?' Hawes asked, forehead creasing.

'Piled around the little home-made pyre.'

'Meaning what exactly?'

That Riordan had something somebody wanted.'


'Or something they didn't want anyone else to have,' Clarke added, running a finger beneath her chin. 'Is there anything at all left of those tapes, Katie?'

Glass gave another shrug. 'Most of the tape itself is done to a crisp. Some of the casings fared a little better.'

'So there could still be writing on them?'

'It's possible,' Glass conceded. 'We've got a slew of stuff that the fire didn't quite get to – dunno how playable any of it will be. Heat, smoke and water may have done their bit. We've also got some of the deceased's recording equipment – again, the stuff on the hard disks might be salvageable.' She didn't sound optimistic.

Rebus caught Siobhan Clarke's eye. 'Right up Ray Duffs street,'

he said.

Goodyear had turned away from the window and was trying to catch up. 'Who's Ray Duff?'

'Forensics,' Clarke explained. But she was focusing on Rebus.

'How about the engineer at Riordan's studio? He might be able to help.'

'Could have kept back-ups,' Tibbet piped up.

'So,' Glass said, folding her arms, 'do I send the stuff here, or to forensics, or the dead man's studio? Whatever the answer, I'll have to keep your D Division colleagues in the loop.'

Rebus thought for a moment, then puffed out his cheeks, exhaled noisily, and said: 'DS Clarke's in charge.'

Freddie the barman was on duty again. Rebus had spent a few minutes outside the Caledonian Hotel, smoking a cigarette and watching the choreography of passing traffic. Two taxis were parked in the cab rank, the drivers chatting to one another. The Caledonian's liveried doorman was giving directions to a couple of tourists. The elaborate clock at the corner of Fraser's department store was being photographed, presumably by another tourist.

There never seemed to be enough rooms in Edinburgh for these visitors; new hotels were always being proposed, considered and constructed. He could think of five or six off the top of his head, all opening within the past ten years, and with more to come. It gave the impression of Edinburgh as a boomtown. More people than ever seemed to want to work there, or visit, or do business.

The Parliament had brought plenty of opportunities. Some argued that independence would spoil things, others that it would build on the success while dealing with devolution's failings. It interested


him that a hard-nosed executive like Stuart Janney would cosy up to a nationalist like Megan Macfarlane. But not as much as these Russian visitors interested him. Big place, Russia, and rich in all manner of resources. You could drop Scotland into it dozens of times over. So why were these men here? Rebus was more than curious.

He finished the cigarette and headed indoors, sliding on to one of the bar stools and offering Freddie a reasonably hearty 'good afternoon'. For a couple of seconds, Freddie mistook him for a guest -he knew the face, after all. He placed a coaster in front of Rebus and asked what he was having.

'The usual,' Rebus teased, enjoying the barman's confusion. Then he shook his head. 'I'm the cop from Friday. But I'll take a dram with a spot of water in it, so long as it's on the house.'

The young man hesitated, but eventually turned to the array of spirits bottles.

'A malt, mind,' Rebus warned him. There was no one else in the bar, no one at all. 'Bit of a graveyard, this time of day.'

'I'm on a double shift – the quiet suits me fine.'

The, too. Means we can talk that bit more freely.'

'Talk?'

'We've got the bar tabs from the night that Russian came in.

Remember? He sat right here, and one of your guests bought him a cognac. Guest's name is Morris Gerald Cafferty.'

Freddie placed the whisky in front of Rebus, and filled a small glass jug with tap water. Rebus dribbled some into the malt and thanked the barman.

Tou'll know Mr Cafferty?' he persisted. 'Last time we spoke, you pretended you didn't. Might explain why you tried pulling a flanker, telling me Todorov could've been talking Russian to the man who bought him the drink. Can't say I blame you, Freddie -Cafferty's not a man you'd want to get on the wrong side of.' He paused. 'Problem is, same goes for me.'

'I was confused, that's all – it was a busy night. Joseph Bonner was in with a party of five… Lady Helen Wood at another table with half a dozen friends…'

'No problem remembering names now, eh, Freddie?' Rebus gave a smile. 'But it's Cafferty I'm interested in.'

'I know the gentleman,' the barman eventually conceded.

Rebus's smile widened. 'Maybe it's because he gets called “gentleman”

that he stays here. Wouldn't happen everywhere in the city, believe me.'


'I know he's been in trouble down the years.'

'No secret,' Rebus agreed. 'Maybe he mentioned it himself and told you to get a copy of that book about him, the one that came out last year?'

Freddie couldn't help smiling back. 'Gave me a copy, actually – signed and everything.'

'He's generous that way. Comes in here most days, would you say?'

'He checked in a week ago; due to leave us in a couple of days.'

'Funny,' Rebus said, pretending to concentrate on the contents of his glass, 'that just about coincides with all these Russians.'

'Does it?' The way Freddie said it, he knew damned well what Rebus was up to.

'Can I remind you,' Rebus said, voice hardening, 'I'm looking into a murder… two murders actually. The night the poet came in here, he'd just had a meal and a drink with a man who's now turned up dead. It's getting serious, Freddie – something you need to bear in mind. You don't want to say anything, fine by me, I'll just arrange to have a patrol car come and pick you up. We'll put you in cuffs and make you comfortable in one of our excellent cells while we get the interrogation room ready…' He paused, letting it sink in. 'I'm trying to be nice here, Freddie, doing my best to be things like “understated” and “people-centred”. That can all change.' He tipped the last of the whisky down his throat.

'Get you another?' the barman asked, his way of saying he was going to cooperate. Rebus shook his head.

'Tell me about Cafferty,' he said instead.

'Comes in most evenings. You're right about the Russians – if it looks like none of them are coming in, he doesn't linger. I know he tries the restaurant, too – has a look around and if they're not there, he won't stay.'

'What about if they are there?'

'Takes a table nearby. Same thing in here. I get the feeling he didn't know them before, but he knows some of them now.'

'So they're all friendly and chatty?'

'Not exactly – they've not got much English. But each of them has a translator – usually some good-looking blonde…'

Rebus thought back to the day he'd seen Andropov outside the hotel and the City Chambers: no glamorous assistant. 'They don't all need a translator,' he said.

Freddie was nodding. 'Mr Andropov speaks English fairly fluently.'


'Which means he probably speaks it better than Cafferty.'

'I do sometimes get that impression. Other thing I felt was that maybe they weren't strangers when they met…'

'What do you mean?'

'First time they ran into one another in here, it was like they didn't need introductions. Mr Andropov, when he shook hands with Mr Cafferty, he sort of gripped his arm at the same time… I dunno.' Freddie shrugged. 'Just seemed like they knew one another.'

'How much do you know about Andropov?' Rebus asked. Freddie shrugged again.

'He tips well, never seems to drink very much – usually bottles of water, he insists on Scottish.'

'I meant what do you know of his background?'

'Nothing at all'

The neither,' Rebus admitted. 'So how many times have Cafferty and Andropov met?'

'I've seen them in here a couple of times… the other barman, Jimmy, says he saw them having a chinwag one time, too.'

'What do they talk about?'

'Not a clue.'

Tou better not be holding back on me, Freddie.'

'I'm not.'

Tou said Andropov's English was better than Cafferty's.'

'But not from hearing them in conversation.'

Rebus was gnawing away at his bottom lip. 'So what does Cafferty talk to you about?'

' Edinburgh, mostly – the way it used to be… how things have changed…“

'Sounds riveting. Nothing about the Russians?'

Freddie shook his head. 'Said the best moment of his life was the day he went “legit”.'

'He's about as legit as a twenty-quid Rolex.'

'I've been offered a few of those in my time,' the barman mused.

'Something I noticed about all the Russian gentlemen – nice watches. Tailored suits, too. But their shoes look cheap; I can never understand that. People should take better care of their feet.' He decided Rebus merited an explanation. 'My girlfriend's a chiropodist.'

'The pillow talk must be scintillating,' Rebus muttered, staring at the empty room and imagining it full of Russian tycoons and their translators.


And Big Ger Cafferty.

'Night the poet was in here,' he said, 'he just had the one drink with Cafferty and then left…'

'That's right.'

'But what did Cafferty do?' Rebus was remembering that bar tab: eleven drinks in total.

Freddie thought for a moment. 'I think he stayed for a bit… yes, he was here till I closed up, more or less.'

'More or less?'

'Well, he may have nipped to the toilet. Actually, he went over to Mr Andropov's booth. There was another gentleman there, a politician, I think.'

Tou think?'

'Whenever they come on the telly, I turn the sound down.'

'But you recognised this man?'

'Like I say, I think he's something to do with the Parliament.'

'Which booth was this?' The barman pointed, and Rebus slid from his stool and headed over to it. 'And Andropov was where?'

he called.

'Move in a bit further… yes, there.'

From where Rebus was now sitting, he could only see the nearest end of the bar. The stool he'd just risen from, the one Todorov had taken, was hidden from view. Rebus got to his feet again and walked back to Freddie.

“You sure you've not got cameras in here?'

'We don't need them.'

Rebus thought for a moment. 'Do me a favour, will you?' he said.

'Next time you get a break, find a computer.'

'There's one in the Business Centre.'

'Log on to the Scottish Parliament website. There'll be about a hundred and twenty-nine faces there… see if you can match one of them.'

'My breaks tend to be twenty minutes.'

Rebus ignored this. He gave Freddie his card. 'Call me as soon as you've got a name.' Perfect timing: the door was swinging open, a couple of suits coming in. They looked as though some deal had done them a few favours.

'Bottle of Krug!' one of them barked, ignoring the fact that Freddie was busy with another customer. The barman's eyes met Rebus's and the detective nodded to let him know he could go back to his job.


'Bet they're not even tippers,' Rebus said under his breath.

'Maybe not,' Freddie acknowledged, 'but at least they'll pay for their drinks…'

19

Clarke decided to take the call outside, so Goodyear wouldn't hear her asking Rebus if he was going senile.

'We've already been warned off,' she said into the phone, her voice just above a whisper. 'What grounds have we got for pulling him in?'

'Anyone willing to drink with Cafferty has got to be dodgy,' she heard Rebus explain.

She gave a sigh she hoped he'd hear. 'I don't want you going within a hundred yards of the Russian delegation until we have something a bit more concrete.'

“You always spoil my fun.'

'When you grow up, you'll understand.' She ended the call and went back into the CID suite, where Todd Goodyear had plugged in a tape deck borrowed from one of the interview rooms. Turned out Katie Glass had been toting a couple of evidence sacks' worth of stuff from Riordan's house. Goodyear had carried them up from the boot of her car.

'Drives a Prius,' he'd commented.

When the bags were opened, the smell of burnt plastic filled the room. But some of the tapes were intact, as were a couple of digital recorders. Goodyear had slotted a cassette tape home, and as Clarke walked in through the door he pressed the play button.

The machine didn't have much of a loudspeaker, and they leant down either side of it, the better to listen. Clarke could hear chinks and clinks and distant, indistinguishable voices.

'A pub or a cafe or something,' Goodyear commented. The hubbub continued for a few more minutes, interrupted only by a cough much closer to the microphone.


'Riordan, presumably,' Clarke offered.

Getting bored, she told Goodyear to fast forward. Same location, same clutter of the overheard everyday.

Tfou couldn't dance to it,' Goodyear admitted. Clarke got him to eject the tape and turn it over. They appeared to be in a railway station. There was the platform master's loud whistle, followed by the sound of a train moving off. The microphone then headed back to the station concourse, where people mingled and waited, probably watching the arrivals or departures board. Someone sneezed and Riordan himself said, 'Bless you.' A couple of women were caught in the middle of a conversation about their partners, and the mic seemed to follow them as they headed for a food kiosk, discussing which filled baguettes took their fancy. Purchases made, it was back to gossiping about their partners again as they queued for coffee at a separate kiosk. Clarke heard the espresso machine at work, a sudden announcement over the station tannoy masking the dialogue. She heard the towns Inverkeithing and Dunfermline being mentioned.

'Must be Waverley,' she said.

'Could be Haymarket,' Goodyear hedged.

'Haymarket doesn't have a sandwich bar as such.'

'I bow to your superior knowledge.'

'Even when I'm wrong, you should bow anyway.'

He did so, giving a courtier-style flourish of the hand, and she smiled.

'He was obsessive,' Clarke stated, Goodyear nodding his agreement.

You really think his death is linked to Todorov?' he asked.

'As of this moment, it's a coincidence… but there are precious few murders in Edinburgh – now we get two in a matter of days, and the victims just happen to know one another.'

'Meaning you don't really think it's coincidence at all.'

'Thing is, Joppa is a D Division call, and we're B Division. If we don't argue our corner, Leith CID will take it.'

'Then we should claim it.'

'Which means persuading DCI Macrae that there's a connection.'

She stopped the tape and ejected it. 'Reckon they're all going to be like that?'

'Only one way to find out.'

'There'll be hundreds of hours of the stuff.'

We don't know that; fire could have made a lot of it unlistenable.

Best for one of us to check it first, then pass anything difficult on


to Forensics or the engineer at Riordan's studio.'

'True.' Clarke still didn't share Goodyear's enthusiasm. She was thinking back to her own days in uniform… not that long ago, really, in the span of things. She'd been every bit as keen as Goodyear, confident that she would make a difference to each and every case – and maybe, just now and then, a telling difference.

It had happened sometimes, but the glory had been grabbed by someone more senior – not Rebus, she was thinking back to before their pairing. Her at St Leonard 's, being told that it was all about teamwork, no room for egos and prima donnas. Then Rebus had arrived, his old station having burned to the ground – wiring gone bad. She had to have a little smile to herself at that.

Wiring gone bad: a fair description of Rebus himself at times.

Bringing with him to St Leonard 's his mistrust of 'teamwork', his two-decades-plus of bets hedged, lines crossed and rules broken.

And at least one very personal vendetta.

Goodyear was suggesting they give one of the little digital recorders a listen. There was no external speaker, but the headphones from Goodyear's iPod fitted one of the sockets. Clarke didn't really fancy pushing the little buds into her own ears, so told him he could do the listening. But after about half a minute and the pressing of buttons in various configurations, he gave up.

'That's one for our friendly specialist,' he said, moving to the next machine.

'I meant to ask,' Clarke said, 'how you felt meeting Cafferty.'

Goodyear considered his answer. 'Just looking at him,' he said eventually, 'you can see he's full of sin. It's in his eyes, the way he looks at you, the way he carries himself…'

You judge people by the way they look?'

'Not all the time.' He did a bit more button-pushing, earphones still in place, and then held up a finger to let her know he was getting something. After a moment's listening he made eye contact. 'You're not going to believe this.' He unplugged himself and offered her the earphones. Reluctantly, she held them either side of her head, close to her ears but not touching. He'd rewound a little, and now she heard voices. Tinny little voices, but words she recognised:

'After you split up, Mr Todorov headed straight for the bar at the Caledonian. He got talking to someone there…

'That's me,' she said. 'He told us he wasn't recording!'

'He lied. People do sometimes.'

Clarke gave him a scowl and listened to a bit more, then told Goodyear to fast forward. He did, but there was silence.


'Go back again,' she ordered.

What was she hoping for? Riordan's last moments, captured for posterity? His attacker's voice? Riordan gaining some measure of justice from beyond the grave?

Only silence.

'Further back.'

Clarke and Goodyear himself, winding up their questioning of Riordan in his living room.

'We're the last thing on it,' she stated.

'Does that make us suspects?'

'Any more wisecracks, you're back in the woolly suit,' she warned him.

Goodyear looked contrite. 'Woolly suit,' he repeated. 'I've not heard that one before.'

'Picked it up from Rebus,' Clarke admitted.

So many things he'd given her… not all of them useful.

'I don't think he likes me,' Goodyear was telling her.

'He doesn't like anyone.'

'He likes you,' Goodyear argued.

'He tolerates me,' Clarke corrected him. 'Different thing entirely.'

She was staring at the machine. 'I can't believe he recorded us.'

'If you ask me, not being recorded by Mr Riordan would have put us in the minority.'

'True enough.'

Goodyear picked up another of the clear plastic sacks and gave it a shake. 'Plenty more for us to listen to.'

She nodded, then leaned across and patted his shoulder. 'Plenty for you to listen to, Todd,' she corrected him.

'Learning curve?' he guessed.

'Learning curve,' she agreed.

'Want to do something tonight?' Phyllida Hawes asked. She was driving, Colin Tibbet her passenger. It annoyed her that he would sit with one hand gripping the door handle, as if ready to eject should her skills suddenly desert her. Sometimes she would put the wind up him on purpose, accelerating towards the vehicle in front or taking a turn at the last possible and unsignalled second.

Serve him right for doubting her. One time, he'd told her she drove as though they'd just nicked the car from a forecourt.

'Could go for a drink,' he offered.

'Now there's a novelty.'


'Or we could not go for a drink.' He thought for a moment.

'Chinese? Indian?'

'With ideas as radical as these, Col, you should be running a brains trust.'

Tou're in a mood,' he stated.

'Am I?' she replied icily.

'Sorry,' he said.

Another thing that was starting to annoy her: rather than argue his corner, he'd concede on just about any and every point.

Until eight weeks back, Hawes had had a lover – a live-in lover at that. Colin had managed a few single-nighters and one girl who'd actually stuck with him for the best part of a month. Somehow, three weeks ago, they'd fallen into bed together after a night on the piss. Neither had really recovered from it since waking up, faces an inch apart, horror dawning.

It was an accident.

Best put behind us.

And never mentioned.

Forget it ever happened…

But how could they? It had happened, and despite herself she'd quite like for it to happen again. She had transferred her annoyance with herself on to Colin, in the hope he might do something about it, but he was like some sort of sponge, just soaking it all up.

'Wouldn't surprise me,' he said now, 'if Shiv takes us all for a drink tonight. Keep the team together – it's what good managers do.'

'What you mean is, better that than having John Rebus to herself.'

Tou may have a point.'

'On the other hand,' Hawes added, 'could be she'll want young Todd all to herself…'

He turned towards her. Tou don't really think so?'

'Women work in mysterious ways, Colin.'

'So I've noticed. Why do you think she brought him on to the team?'

'Maybe she just fell for his charms.'

'Seriously, though.'

'The DCFs put her in charge. Means she can recruit who she likes, and young Todd wasn't backwards at coming forwards.'

'She was easy to persuade?' Tibbet's forehead was creased in thought.


'Doesn't mean you can persuade her to put your name forward for promotion.'

'That's not what I was thinking,' Tibbet assured her. He looked through the windscreen. 'It's next right, isn't it?'

Hawes refused to signal, and only crossed the traffic when there was a bus bearing down on them.

'I wish you wouldn't do that,' Tibbet said.

'I know,' Phyllida replied with a thin-lipped smile. 'But when you're driving a car you've just nicked from a forecourt…'

They were headed – Shiv's orders – to Nancy Sievewright's flat.

Had to ask her about the woman in the cowl. Very word Shiv had used – 'cowl' – Hawes checking afterwards that she hadn't meant 'hood'.

'Hood or cowl, Phyl, what's the difference exactly?' Shiv having grown prickly these past couple of weeks.

'Just here on the left,' Colin Tibbet was saying. 'There's a space further down.'

'Which I couldn't possibly have spotted without you, DC Tibbet.'

To which he gave no reaction whatsoever.

The door to the communal stairwell had been wedged open, so they decided not to bother with the intercom. Once you crossed the threshold you were in a cold, shadowy place. The white wall-tiles had been damaged and now sported graffiti tags. Voices echoed from somewhere above. A woman, by far the louder of the two. The deeper male bass was softer, entreating.

'Just get the fuck away from me! Why can't you take a telling?'

'I think you know why.'

'I don't fucking well care!'

The couple seemed unaware of the two new arrivals who were climbing towards them.

The man: 'Look, if you'll only talk to me for a moment.'

Interrupted by Colin Tibbet: 'Is there a problem here?' His ID open, letting them know who – and more importantly what – he was.

'Christ, what now?' the man uttered in exasperation.

'Pretty much what I was asking myself thirty seconds ago, sir,'

Hawes told him. 'It's Mr Anderson, isn't it? My partner and I took the statements from you and your wife.'

'Oh, yes.' Anderson had the good grace to look embarrassed.

Hawes saw that one of the doors on the next landing up was wide open. That would be Nancy Sievewright's flat. Hawes met the eyes of the underfed, underdressed girl.


'We interviewed you, too, Nancy,' she said.

Sievewright nodded her agreement. 'Two birds with one stone,'

Colin Tibbet stated.

'I didn't realise,' Hawes said, 'y°u two knew one another.'

'We don'tV Nancy Sievewright exploded. 'He just keeps coming here!'

'Grossly unfair,' Anderson snarled. Hawes shared a look with Tibbet. They knew what they had to do.

'Let's get you inside,' Hawes told Sievewright.

'And if you'll come downstairs with me, sir,' Tibbet said to Anderson. 'There's a question we were hoping to ask you…'

Sievewright stomped back into her flat and made straight for the narrow kitchen, where she picked up the kettle and filled it. 'The other two, I thought they were going to deal with it.'

Meaning, Hawes guessed, Rebus and Clarke. 'Why does he keep coming round?' she asked.

Sievewright tugged at a straggle of hair above one ear. 'No idea.

Says he wants to check I'm all right. But when I tell him I am, he conies back again! I think he hangs around until he knows I'm in the flat on my own…' She twisted the hair into a tighter skein.

'Fuck him,' she said defiantly, hunting among the mugs on the drainer for the one least likely to poison her.

'You could make a formal complaint,' Hawes told her, 'explain he's harassing you…'

'Reckon that would stop him?'

'It might,' Hawes said, believing it about as much as the girl herself did. Sievewright had rinsed her chosen mug and now dumped a tea bag into it. She patted the kettle, willing it to boil.

'Social call, was it?' she asked at last.

Hawes rewarded her with a friendly smile. 'Not exactly. Some new information's come to light.'

'Meaning you've not arrested anybody.'

'No,' Hawes admitted.

'So what's this information?'

'A woman in a hood, seen hanging around the exit to the multistorey.'

Hawes showed her the e-fit. 'If she was still there, you'd have walked right past her.'

'I didn't see anyone… I've already told you this!'

'Easy, Nancy,' Hawes said quietly. 'Calm yourself down.

'I'm calm.'

'The tea's a good idea.'

'I think the kettle's knackered.' Sievewright was resting the


palm of her hand against it.

'No, it's fine,' Hawes reassured her. 'I can hear it.'

Sievewright was staring at the kettle's reflective surface.

'Sometimes we try to see how long we can stay touching it while it boils.'

'We?'

The and Eddie.' She gave a sad little smile. 'I always win.'

'Eddie being…?'

'My flatmate.' She looked at the detective. 'We're not a couple.'

The front door creaked and they turned to look down the passageway.

It was Colin Tibbet.

'He's gone,' Tibbet told them.

'Good riddance,' Sievewright muttered.

'Did he tell you anything?' Hawes asked her partner.

'Seemed adamant neither he nor his wife saw any woman in a hood. He asked if maybe it was a ghost of some kind.'

'I meant,' Hawes said, voice toneless, 'did he say why he was giving Nancy here such a hard time?'

Tibbet shrugged. 'Told me she'd had this great shock and he wanted to be sure she wasn't bottling it up. “Storing up trouble for later” I think his exact words were.'

Sievewright, one hand still pressed to the kettle, gave a hoot of derision.

'Very noble of him,' Hawes said. 'And the fact that his act of charity isn't at all what Nancy wants…?'

'He promised to stay away.'

'Fat chance,' Sievewright sneered.

'That kettle's nearly boiled,' Tibbet felt it necessary to warn her, having just noticed what she was doing with her hand. He was rewarded with something that was between a grimace and a smile.

'Anyone care to join me?' Nancy Sievewright offered.

20

The headline on page five of the Evening News was DAS KAPITALISTS. The story below it recounted a dinner at one of Edinburgh 's Michelin-rated restaurants. The party of Russians had booked the whole place. Fourteen sat down to a dinner of foie gras, scallops, lobster, veal, sirloin, cheese and dessert, washed down with several thousand pounds' worth of champagne, white Burgundy and venerable red Bordeaux, finishing with port from before the Cold War. Six grand in total. The reporter liked the fact that the champagne – Roederer Cristal – had been a favourite with the tsars of pre-revolutionary Russia. None of the diners was identified by name. Rebus couldn't help wondering if Cafferty had slimed his way on to the guest list. Another story on the page opposite stated that the murder rate was down – there had been ten in the past year, twelve the year before that.

They were seated around a large corner table in a Rose Street pub. The place was about to get noisy: Celtic were readying to kick off against Manchester United in the Champions' League and the big-screen TV was the focus of most drinkers' attentions. Rebus closed the paper and tossed it back towards Goodyear, who was seated across from him. He realised he'd missed the last bit of Phyllida Hawes's story, so got her to repeat Anderson 's words: storing up trouble for later.

'I'll give him “trouble”,' he muttered. 'And he can't say I didn't give him fair warning…'

'So far,' Colin Tibbet said, 'we've only got one sighting of the mystery woman.' Having noticed that Todd Goodyear had taken off his tie, he was now in the process of removing his own.

'Doesn't mean she wasn't there,' Clarke told him. 'Even if she


played no part, she might have seen something. There's a line in one of Todorov's poems about averting your eyes so you'll never have to testify.'

'And what's that supposed to mean?' Rebus asked her.

'She could be lying low for a reason – people don't always want to get involved.'

'Sometimes,' Hawes agreed, 'they have good reason not to get involved.'

'Do we still think Nancy Sievewright's holding something back?'

Clarke asked.

'That friend of hers was definitely spinning us a yarn,' Tibbet said.

'So maybe we need to go over her story again.'

'Anything so far from those tapes?' Hawes was asking. Clarke shook her head and gestured towards Goodyear.

'Just that the deceased liked to listen into people's conversations,'

he obliged, 'even if it meant following them around.'

'Bit of a weirdo, then?'

'One way of looking at it,' Clarke conceded.

'Christ's sake,' Rebus butted in, 'there's a bigger picture you're not looking at – Todorov's last stop before ending up dead… a drink with Big Ger Cafferty, and some of the Russians not ten yards away!' He rubbed a hand across his forehead.

'Can I just ask one thing?'

Rebus stared at Goodyear. 'And what's that, young Todd?'

'Don't take the Lord's name in vain.'

Tou taking the piss?'

But Goodyear was shaking his head. 'I'd look on it as a great favour…'

“Which church do you go to, Todd?' Tibbet asked.

'St Fothad's in Saughtonhall.'

'That where you live?'

'Where I grew up,' Goodyear corrected Tibbet.

'I used to go to the kirk,' Tibbet went on. 'Stopped when I was fourteen. My mum died from cancer, couldn't see the point after that.'

'”God is the place that always heals over,“' Goodyear recited, '”however often we tear it“.' He smiled. 'That's from a poem, though not one of Todorov's. Seems to make sense of it all – to me, at any rate.'

'Hell's teeth,' Rebus said. 'Poems and quotations and the Church of Scotland. I don't come to pubs for a sermon.'


Tou're not alone,' Goodyear told him. 'Plenty of Scots try to hide their cleverness. We don't trust clever people.'

Tibbet was nodding. 'We're supposed to be “all Jock Tamson's bairns” – meaning we're all the same.'

'And not allowed to be different.' Goodyear was nodding back at him.

'See what you're going to miss when you retire?' Clarke said, her eyes on Rebus. 'Intellectual debate.'

'I'm getting out just in time, then.' He started to rise to his feet. 'Now if you eggheads will excuse me, I've got a tutorial with Professor Nicotine…'

Rose Street was busy: a hen-night pub crawl, the women dressed in identical T-shirts marked with the words 'Four Weddings and a Piss-Up'. They blew kisses at Rebus as they passed him, but were then stopped by a crowd of young men heading in the opposite direction. A stag do by the look of it, the groom-to-be spattered with shaving foam, eggs and flour. Office workers eased past, on their way home after a couple of bevvies. There were tourist families, too, not sure what to make of the hens and stags, and men hurrying to catch the match.

The door opened behind Rebus and Todd Goodyear stepped out.

'Wouldn't have taken you for a smoker,' Rebus told him.

'I'm headed home.' Goodyear was shrugging himself back into his suit jacket. 'I left cash on the table for the next round.'

'Prior engagement, is it?'

'Girlfriend.'

'What's her name?'

Goodyear hesitated, but couldn't seem to think of a valid excuse not to tell Rebus. 'Sonia,' he said. 'She's one of the SOCOs.'

'Was she there last Wednesday?'

Goodyear nodded. 'Short blonde hair, mid-twenties…'

'Can't place her,' Rebus admitted. Goodyear looked tempted to take this as an insult, but changed his mind.

Tou used to be a churchgoer, didn't you?' he asked instead.

'Who told you that?'

'Just something I heard.'

'Best not to believe rumours.'

'Even so, I get the feeling I'm right.'

'Maybe you are,' Rebus conceded, blowing smoke into the air.

“Years back, I tried a few different churches. Didn't find any answers.'

Goodyear nodded slowly. 'What Colin said sums up a lot of


people's experience, doesn't it? A loved one dies and we blame God.

Is that what happened with you?'

'Nothing happened with me,' Rebus stated stonily, watching the hen party move off in search of its next watering-hole. The stags were watching, too, one or two debating whether to follow.

'Sorry,' Goodyear was apologising, 'just nosy…'

'Well, don't be.'

'Are you going to miss the job?'

Rebus rolled his eyes. 'Here he goes again,' he complained to the sky above. 'All I want is a peaceful smoke and now it's Question Time.'

Goodyear smiled a further apology. 'I better get going while I still can.'

'Before you do…'

Tes?'

Rebus studied the tip of his cigarette. 'Cafferty in the interview room… was that the first time you'd met him?' Goodyear nodded.

'He knew your brother, and your grandad, too, if it comes to that.'

Rebus looked up and down the street. 'Your grandad's pub was the next block, wasn't it? Forget what it was called…'

'Breezer's.'

Rebus nodded slowly. 'When he went to court, I was the one in the witness box.'

'I didn't know that.'

'Three of us made the bust, but I was the one who gave evidence.'

'Have you ever been in that position with Cafferty?'

'He got put away both times.' Rebus spat on to the pavement.

'Shiv tells me your brother was in a fight. Is he all right?'

'I think so.' Goodyear was looking uncomfortable. 'Look, I'd better get going.'

¦You do that. I'll see you tomorrow.'

'Night, then.'

'Night,' Rebus said, watching him leave. Didn't seem a bad kid.

Decent enough cop. Maybe Shiv could do something with him…

Rebus remembered Harry Goodyear pretty well. Guy's pub had been notorious – speed, coke and a bit of blow, all being shifted from the place, Harry himself a small-timer, in and out of trouble.

Rebus had wondered at the time, how did he get a pub licence?

Reckoned money had changed hands, someone on the council pitching for him. Friends could always be bought. Time was, Cafferty himself had owned a number of councillors. That way, he stayed


one step ahead; cheap at whatever the price. He'd tried buying Rebus, too, but that was never going to run – Rebus had learned his lesson by then.

'Not my fault Grandpa Goodyear died in the clink…'

He stubbed out the cigarette and turned towards the door, but then paused. What was waiting for him inside? Another drink, plus a table of youngsters – Shiv, Phyl and Col would be discussing the case, bouncing ideas around. And what exactly could Rebus add to the mix? He took out another cigarette and lit it, then started walking.

He took a left on to Frederick Street and a right into Princes Street. The castle was being illuminated from below, its shape picked out against the night sky. The funfair was under construction in Princes Street Gardens, along with the market stalls and booths parked at the foot of The Mound. It would be a magnet for shoppers in the run-up to Christmas. He thought he could hear music: maybe the open-air ice rink was being tested out. Groups of kids were weaving their way past the shopfronts, paying him not the slightest heed. When did I become the invisible man? Rebus asked himself. Catching his reflection in a window he saw heft and bulk. Yet these kids teemed past as if he had no place in their version of the world.

Is this how ghosts feel? he wondered.

He crossed at the traffic lights and pushed open the door to the bar of the Caledonian Hotel. The place was busy. Jazz was playing on the hi-fi and Freddie was busy with a cocktail shaker. A waitress was waiting to take her tray of drinks over to a table filled with laughter. Everyone looked prosperous and confident. Some of them held mobile phones to their ears, even as they spoke to the person next to them. Rebus felt a moment's irritation that someone had taken his stool. In fact, all the stools were taken. He bided his time until the barman had finished pouring. The waitress moved off, balancing the tray on her hand, and Freddie saw Rebus. The frown he gave told Rebus that the situation had changed. The bar was no longer empty, and Freddie would be unwilling to talk.

'Usual, please,' Rebus said anyway. And then: You weren't exaggerating about the double shift…'

This time, when the whisky arrived, the bill came with it. Rebus smiled to let Freddie know this was fine with him. He trickled a few drops of water into the glass and swirled it in his hand, sniffing the contents as he scanned the room.

'They've gone, in case you're wondering,' Freddie told him.

'Who?'

'The Russians. Checked out this afternoon, apparently. Winging their way back to Moscow.'

Rebus tried not to look too deflated by this news. 'What I was wondering,' he said, 'is whether you've got that name for me.'

The barman nodded slowly. 'I was going to phone you tomorrow.'

The waitress had arrived with another order and he went to fill it. Two large helpings of red wine and a glass of the house champagne.

Rebus started listening in on the conversation next to him.

Two businessmen with Irish accents, eyes glued to the football on the soundless TV. Some property deal had failed to come off and they were drowning their sorrows.

'And God grant them a lingering death,' seemed to be the toast of choice. One of the things Rebus liked best about bars was the chance to eavesdrop on other people's lives. Did that make him a voyeur, not so very different from Charles Riordan?

'Any chance we get to screw them over…' one of the Irishmen was saying. Freddie had returned the champagne bottle to the ice bucket and was coming back to Rebus's end of the bar.

'He's Minister for Economic Development,' the barman explained.

'Ministers are listed first on the Parliament's website. Might've taken a while otherwise…'

'What's he called?'

'James Bakewell.'

Rebus wondered why he knew the name.

'Saw him on the TV a few weeks back,' Freddie was saying.

'On Question Time?' Rebus guessed. The barman was nodding.

Yes, because Rebus had seen Bakewell there, too, arguing the toss with Megan Macfarlane while Alexander Todorov sat between them. Jim, everyone seemed to call him… 'And he was in here with Sergei Andropov, same night as the poet?' Freddie kept nodding.

And the same night, too, as Morris Gerald Cafferty. Rebus rested his hands against the bar, letting them take his weight. His head was swirling. Freddie had moved to take another order. Rebus thought back to the tape of Question Time. Jim Bakewell had been New Labour with some of the rough edges left untreated. Either he wouldn't let the image consultants near him, or that was his image. Late forties with a mop of dark brown hair and wire-framed spectacles. Square-jawed and blue-eyed and self-deprecating. He'd got a lot of respect north of the border for the way he'd resigned a safe seat at Westminster to stand for the Scottish Parliament.


This made him a rare beast indeed. Seemed to Rebus that a lot of the political talent was still drawn to London. Freddie hadn't mentioned any minders, which Rebus also found interesting. If Bakewell had been meeting the Russians in an official capacity, surely there'd have been assistants and advisers on hand. The Minister for Economic Development… late-night drinks with a foreign businessman… Big Ger Cafferty crashing the party…

Too many questions were hammering away at the inside of Rebus's skull. It was as if his brain had developed a pulse. Finishing the drink, he left some money on the bar and decided it was time to head home. His phone alerted him to a text message. Siobhan was wondering where he'd got to.

'Took you long enough,' he muttered to himself. As he passed the Irishmen, one of them was leaning in towards the other.

'If he dies on Christmas morning,' he was confiding in a booming voice, 'that'll be tinsel enough for me…'

Two ways to leave the hotel: the bar's own door, or through reception.

Rebus wasn't sure why he chose the latter. As he crossed the lobby, two men had just emerged through the revolving door. The one in front he recognised: the man who'd been driving Andropov.

The other was Andropov himself. He had seen Rebus and his eyes were narrowing, wondering where he knew him from. Rebus gave a little bow of the head as they approached one another.

'Thought you'd all gone home,' he said, trying to sound casual.

'I'm staying a few more days.' There wasn't much of an accent at all. Rebus could tell Andropov was still trying to place him.

'Friend of Cafferty's,' he pretended to explain.

'Ah yes.' The chauffeur was standing just the other side of Rebus, hands clasped in front of him, feet splayed. Chauffeur and bodyguard.

'The few extra days,' Rebus enquired of Andropov, 'business or pleasure?'

'Usually I find business a distinct pleasure.' It sounded like a line he'd used dozens of times before, always expecting a laugh or a smile. Rebus obliged as best he could.

'Seen Mr Cafferty today?' he asked eventually.

'I'm sorry, I seem to have forgotten your name…'

'I'm John,' Rebus told him.

'And your connection to Cafferty…?'

'I was wondering the same about you, Mr Andropov.' Rebus decided he'd already been rumbled. 'It's fine to hobnob with the great and the good, being fawned over by politicians of all creeds


and colours… but when you start cosying up to a career criminal like Cafferty, alarm bells are bound to start ringing.'

Tfou were at the City Chambers,' Andropov announced with a wag of one gloved finger. 'And then you were outside the hotel here.'

'I'm a detective, Mr Andropov.' Rebus held up his warrant card and Andropov examined it.

'Have I done something wrong, Inspector?'

'A week back, you were having a little chat with Jim Bakewell and Morris Gerald Cafferty.'

'What if I was?'

'There was another man in the bar – a poet called Todorov. Less than twenty minutes after walking out of here, he was murdered.'

Andropov was nodding. 'A great tragedy. The world has an apparent need of poets, Inspector. They are, so they tell us, its “unacknowledged legislators”.'

'I'd say they've got a bit of competition in that department.'

Andropov decided to ignore this. 'Several people,' he said instead, 'inform me that your police force may not be investigating Alexander's death as a simple street attack. Tell me, Inspector, what do you think happened?'

'A story best told at my police station. Would you be willing to drop in for an interview, Mr Andropov?'

'I can't see that anything would be gained from that, Inspector.'

'I'll assume that's a no.'

'Let me offer my own theory.' Andropov took a step closer, mimicked by his driver. 'Cherchez la femme, Inspector.'

'Meaning what exactly?'

Tou don't speak French?'

'I know what it means; I'm just not sure what you're getting at.'

'In Moscow, Alexander Todorov had something of a reputation.

He was forced to leave his teaching post after accusations of improper conduct. Female students, you know, and apparently the younger the better. Now, if you'll excuse me…' Andropov was obviously heading for the bar.

'Hooking up with your gangster friend again?' Rebus guessed.

Andropov ignored him and kept walking. The driver, however, decided that Rebus merited a final baleful look, the kind that said you, me and a dark alley…

The look Rebus gave him back carried another message, no less threatening. You're on my list, pal, you and your boss both.

Outside once again in the crisp night air, he decided he might try


walking home. His heart was pounding, mouth dry, blood coursing through him. He gave it a few hundred yards, then hailed the first taxi he saw.

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