Day Six. Wednesday 22 November 2006

21

The sound engineer was called Terry Grimm and the secretary was Hazel Harmison. They seemed shell-shocked, and with good reason.

'We've no idea what to do,' Grimm explained. 'I mean… do we get paid at month's end? What do we do about all the jobs we've got on our books?'

Siobhan Clarke nodded slowly. Grimm was seated at the mixing desk, swivelling nervily on his chair. Harmison was standing by her desk, arms folded. 'I'm sure Mr Riordan will have made some kind of provision…' But Clarke wasn't sure of that at all. Todd Goodyear was staring at all the machinery, the banks of knobs and dials, switches and slider controls. In the pub last night, Hawes had hinted that really it should be either her or Tibbet who accompanied Clarke today. It made Siobhan wonder again if she'd brought Goodyear into the team precisely because she didn't want to have to make that choice.

'Can neither of you sign company cheques?' Clarke asked now.

'Charlie wasn't that trusting,' Hazel Harmison piped up.

'The company accountant's the one to speak to.'

'Except he's on holiday.'

'Someone else at his firm, then?'

'One-man band,' Grimm stated.

'I'm sure it'll all work out,' Clarke remarked crisply. She'd had enough of their bellyaching. 'Reason we're here is, some of Mr Riordan's recordings have been salvaged from the house. Most, however, went up in smoke. I'm wondering if he kept copies.'

'Might be some in the storeroom,' Grimm conceded. 'I was always warning that he didn't back up enough…' He met her eyes. 'The hard disks didn't make it?'


'Mostly not. We've brought some stuff with us, wondered if maybe you'd have better luck than us.'

Grimm gave a shrug. 'I can take a look.' Clarke handed her car keys to Goodyear.

'Fetch up the bags,' she said. The phone had started ringing, and Harmison picked it up.

'CR Studios, how can I help you?' She listened for a moment. 'No, I'm sorry,' she began to apologise. 'We can't take on any new work at the moment, due to unforeseen circumstances.'

Clarke still had the engineer's attention. “You could go it alone,'

she told him quietly. 'I mean the two of you…' Glancing towards Harmison. He nodded and got up, walked over to the desk and gestured for the telephone. 'One moment, please,' Harmison said into the mouthpiece. 'I'm just going to hand you over to Mr Grimm.'

'How can I help?' Terry Grimm asked the caller. Harmison wandered over towards Clarke, her arms folded again, as if to form a shield against further blows.

'First time I was here,' Clarke said, 'Terry hinted that Mr Riordan recorded everything.'

The secretary nodded. 'One time, the three of us went out for dinner. They brought something we hadn't ordered. Charlie pulled this little recorder from his pocket and played it back to the staff, proving it was them to blame.' She was smiling at the memory.

There've been times I'd have done the same,' Clarke acknowledged.

The, too. Plumbers who promise to be there at eleven… people on the phone who say the cheque's in the post…'

Clarke was smiling now, too. But Harmison's face fell again.

'I feel so sorry for Terry. He's worked every bit as hard as Charlie, probably put in more hours, truth be told.'

'What sort of work have you got on just now?'

'Radio ads… couple of audio books… plus editing the Parliament project.'

'What Parliament project?'

“You know they have a Festival of Politics every year?'

'I didn't, actually.'

'Had to happen – we've got festivals for everything else. This coming year, there's an artist they've commissioned to put something together. He works in video and so on, and he wanted a sound collage to go with whatever it is he's doing.'

'So you've been taping stuff at the Parliament?'


'Hundreds of hours of it.' Harmison nodded towards the battery of machines. But Grimm was clicking his fingers, gaining her attention.

'I'll just put my assistant back on,' he was telling the caller. 'And she'll fix up a meeting.'

Harmison fairly trotted towards the desk and the appointments diary. Clarke reckoned it was his use of 'assistant' that had done it. No longer a mere secretary or receptionist…

Grimm was nodding in gratitude as he approached Clarke.

'Thanks for the tip,' he said.

'Hazel was just telling me about the Festival of Politics.'

Grimm turned his eyes heavenwards. What a nightmare. Artist hadn't a clue what he wanted. Bounces around between Geneva and New York and Madrid… We'd get the occasional e-mail or fax.

Get me some sounds of a debate, but make sure it's heated. All the meetings of one of the committees… some of the guided tours…

interviews with visitors… He'd be vague as hell, then tell us we hadn't done what he wanted. Luckily we kept all his e-mails.'

'And of course Charlie would have taped any meetings or phone calls?'

'How did you guess?'

'Hazel told me.'

'Well, our artist friend loved that. I mean, not everyone likes it when they find out they've been secretly taped…'

'I can imagine,' Clarke drawled.

'But he thought it was hysterical.'

'Sounds like a big project, though.'

'Nearly done. I put together two hours of collage, and so far he seems to like it. Plans to use it with some video installation at the Parliament building.' Grimm gave a shrug, which seemed to sum up his attitude to 'artists'.

“What's his name?'

'Roddy Denholm.'

'And he's not based in Scotland?'

'Has a flat in the New Town, but never seems to be there.'

The intercom buzzed, letting them know Goodyear was back with the spools of tape and the digital recorders.

'What is it you think we might get from them?' Grimm asked, staring at the polythene sacks as Goodyear placed them on the floor.

'To be honest, I'm not sure,' Clarke admitted. Hazel Harmison had finished making the appointment and was now staring in


morbid fascination at the sacks. She'd folded her arms once more, but it wasn't proving at all effective.

'Did you make the appointment for today or tomorrow?' Grimm asked her, hoping to divert her attention.

'Midday tomorrow.'

'This recording you've been doing at the Parliament…' Clarke asked Grimm. “You said you'd been taping one of the committees – mind if I ask which one?'

'Urban Regeneration,' he stated. 'Not exactly a cauldron of human drama, believe me.'

'I believe you,' Clarke told him. Interesting all the same. 'So was it you doing the actual recording rather than Mr Riordan?'

'Both of us.'

'That committee's chaired by Megan Macfarlane, isn't it?'

'How do you know that?'

“You might say I've got an interest in politics. Mind if I take a listen?'

'To the Urban Regeneration Committee?' He sounded nonplussed.

'You've gone beyond an “interest in politics”, Sergeant…'

She took the bait: 'And into what?'

'Masochism,' he stated, turning towards the mixing desk.

'Gill Morgan?' Rebus asked into the intercom. He was standing outside a door on Great Stuart Street. Cars rumbled across the setts, taking drivers and passengers to Queen Street and George Street. The morning rush hour wasn't quite over and Rebus had to lean down, ear pressed to the intercom's loudspeaker, to make out the eventual reply.

'What is it?' The voice sounded bleary.

'Sorry if I woke you,' Rebus pretended to apologise. 'I'm a police officer, a few follow-up questions regarding Miss Sievewright.'

“You've got to be joking.' Bleary and irritated.

'Wait till you hear the punchline.'

But she'd missed that: the setts sending tremors through a lorry.

Rather than repeat himself, Rebus just asked to be let in.

'I need to get dressed.'

He repeated the request and the buzzer sounded. He pushed open the door into the communal stairwell and climbed the two nights.

She'd left her door ajar for him, but he gave a knock anyway.

Wait in the living room!' she called, presumably from her bedroom.

Rebus could see the living room. It was at the end of a wide


hall, the sort that often got called a 'dining hallway', meaning you were supposed to have a table there and entertain your friends to supper rather than have them traipse all over your actual living room. It seemed to him a very Edinburgh thing. Welcoming, but not very. The living room itself boasted stark white walls to complement stark white furniture. It was like walking into an igloo. The floorboards had been stripped and varnished and he concentrated on them for a moment, trying to avoid becoming snow-blind. It was a big room with a high ceiling and two huge windows. He couldn't imagine that Gill Morgan shared with anyone, the place was too tidy. There was a flat-screen TV on the wall above the fireplace and no ornaments anywhere. It was like the rooms in the Sunday newspaper supplements, the ones designed to be photographed rather than lived in.

'Sorry about that,' a young woman said, walking into the room. 'I realised after I'd let you in that you could be anybody. The officers the other day carried ID – can I see yours?'

Rebus got out his warrant card, and as she studied it, so he studied her. She was tiny – almost elfin-like. Probably not even five feet tall, and with a pointy little face and almond-shaped eyes.

Brown hair tied into a ponytail, and arms the thickness of pipe cleaners. Hawes and Tibbet had said she was a model of some kind… Rebus found that hard to believe. Weren't models supposed to be tall? Satisfied with his credentials, Morgan had sunk into a white leather armchair, tucking her legs beneath her.

'So how can I help you, Detective Inspector?' she asked, hands clasped to her knees.

'My colleagues said you have a modelling career, Miss Morgan – must be going well for you?' He made show of admiring the living room's proportions.

'I'm moving into acting, actually.'

'Really?' Rebus tried to sound interested. Most people would have responded to his original question by asking what business it was of his, but not Gill Morgan. In her universe, talking about herself came naturally.

'I've been taking classes.'

Would I have seen you in anything?'

'Probably not yet,' she preened, 'but there's some screen work on the horizon.'

'Screen work? That's impressive…' Rebus lowered himself on to the chair opposite her.

'Just a small part in a television drama…' Morgan seemed to


feel the need to play down the significance, no doubt in the hope that he'd think she was being modest.

'Exciting, all the same,' he told her, playing along. 'And it probably helps explain something we've been wondering about.'

Now she looked puzzled. 'Oh?'

'When my colleagues spoke to you, they could see you were trying to feed them a line. Fact that you say you're an actor explains why you thought you'd get away with it.' He leaned forward, as if to take her into his confidence. 'But here's the thing, Miss Morgan, we're now investigating two murders, and that means we can't afford to get sidetracked. So before you get into serious trouble, maybe you should own up.'

Morgan's lips were the same pale colour as her cheeks. Her eyelids fluttered, and for a moment he thought she might faint.

'I don't know what you mean,' she said.

'I wouldn't give up those lessons just yet – looks to me like you've got a few things to learn about delivering a line. The blood's left your face, your voice is shaking, and you're blinking like you've been caught in someone's headlights.' Rebus sat back again. He'd been here five minutes, but he thought he could read the whole of Gill Morgan's life in what he'd seen of her so far: cushy upbringing, parents who poured money and love over her, schooled in the art of confidence and never having faced a challenge she couldn't sweet talk her way out of.

Until now.

'Let's take it slowly,' he said in a softening voice, 'ease you into it. How did you meet Nancy?'

'At a party, I think.'

Tou think?'

'I'd been to a few bars with some friends… we ended up at this party and I can't remember if Nancy was already there or if she'd somehow attached herself to the group along the way.'

Rebus nodded his understanding. 'How long ago was this?'

'Three or four months. Around Festival time.'

'I'm guessing the two of you come from different backgrounds.'

'Absolutely.'

'So what did you find in common?' She didn't seem to have a ready answer. 'I mean, something must have helped you bond?'

'She's just good fun.'

'Why do I get the feeling you're lying again? Is it the shaky voice or the fluttering eyelids?'

Morgan leapt to her feet. 'I don't have to answer any of your


questions! Do you know who my mother is?'

'Wondered how long it would take,' Rebus said with a satisfied smile. 'Go on then, impress me.' He clasped his hands behind his head.

'She's the wife of Sir Michael Addison.'

'Meaning he's not your actual father?'

'My father died when I was twelve.'

'And you kept his surname?' Colour had flooded back into the young woman's cheeks. She'd decided to sit down again, but keeping her feet on the floor this time. Rebus unclasped his hands and rested them on the chair arms. 'So who's Sir Michael Addison?' he asked.

'Chief executive of First Albannach Bank.'

'A useful sort to know, I'm guessing.'

'He rescued my mother from alcoholism,' Morgan stated, eyes boring into Rebus's. 'And he loves both of us very much.'

'Nice for you, but it doesn't help the poor sod who ended up dead on King's Stables Road. Your friend Nancy found the body, then lied to us about where she'd been heading home from. She gave your name, Gill, and your address. Meaning she must think you're one hell of a friend, the kind who'd go to jail on her behalf rather than tell the truth…'

He didn't realise his voice had risen, but when he stopped, there was a moment's reverberation from the walls.

“You think your stepdad would want you doing that, Gill?' he went on, voice softening again. 'You think your poor mum would want that?'

Gill Morgan had bowed her head and seemed to be analysing the backs of her hands. 'No,' she said quietly.

'No,' Rebus agreed. 'Now tell me, if I were to ask you right now where Nancy lives, could you give me an answer?'

A single tear dropped into the young woman's lap. She squeezed her eyes with thumb and forefinger, then blinked any further tears back. 'Somewhere off the Cowgate.'

'Doesn't sound to me,' Rebus said, 'as if you really know her all that well. So if the two of you aren't what you might call bosom buddies, why are you covering for her?'

Morgan said something he didn't catch. He asked her to repeat it. She glared at him, and this time the words were unmistakable.

'She was buying me drugs.' She let the words sink in. 'Buying us drugs, I should say – some for her, and some for me. Just a bit of pot, nothing to send civilisation crashing to its knees.'


'Is that how you became friends?'

'I dare say it's part of the reason.' But Morgan couldn't really see the point of lying. 'Maybe quite a lot of the reason.'

'The party you met her at, she brought dope with her?'

Tes.'

'Was she sharing or selling?'

We're not talking about some Medellin cartel here, Inspector…'

'Cocaine, too?' Rebus deduced. Morgan realised she'd said too much. 'And you had to protect her because otherwise she was going to – pardon the pun – grass you up?'

'Is that the punchline you were talking about?'

'I didn't think you'd heard that.'

'I heard.'

'So Nancy Sievewright wasn't here that night?'

'She was supposed to turn up at midnight with my share. It annoyed me at the time, because I'd had to rush home.'

'Where from?'

'I've been helping out one of my drama teachers. He has a sideline running one of those nighttime walking tours of the city.'

'Ghost tours, you mean?'

'I know they're preposterous, but the tourists like them and it's a bit of a giggle.'

'So you're one of the actors? Jumping out from the shadows and going “Boo!”?'

'I have to play several roles, actually.' She sounded hurt by his glibness. 'And between set-ups, I have to run like blazes to the next location, changing costume as I go.'

Rebus remembered Gary Walsh saying something about the ghost tours. 'Where does it happen?' he asked now.

'St Giles to the Canongate, same route each night.'

'Do you know of any tours that take in King's Stables Road?'

'No.'

Rebus nodded thoughtfully. 'So who exactly do you play?'

She gave a puzzled laugh. 'Why the interest?' 'Indulge me.'

She puckered her lips. 'Well,' she said at last, 'I'm the plague doctor… I have to wear a mask like a hawk's beak – the doctor would fill it with potpourri to ward off the stench from his patients.'

'Nice.'

'And then I'm a ghost… and sometimes even the Mad Monk.'

'Mad Monk? Bit of a challenge for a woman, isn't it?'

'I only have to do a bit of moaning and groaning.'


'Yes, but they can see you're not a bloke.'

'The hood covers most of my face,' she explained, smiling again.

'Hood?' Rebus echoed. 'I wouldn't mind having a look at that.'

'The costumes stay with the company, Inspector. That way, when one actor's off sick, they can use another as cover.'

Rebus nodded as if satisfied by the explanation. 'Tell me,' he asked, 'did Nancy ever come to see you perform?'

'A couple of weeks back.'

'Enjoy herself, did she?'

'Seemed to.' She gave another nervy little laugh. 'Am I walking into some trap here? I can't see what any of this has to do with your case.'

'Probably nothing,' Rebus assured her.

Morgan grew thoughtful. 'You're going to talk to Nancy now, aren't you? She'll know I've told you.'

'Afraid you may be in the market for another supplier, Miss Morgan. Shouldn't worry, though – there are plenty of them about.'

Rebus got to his feet. She followed suit, standing on tiptoe and still below the height of his chin.

'Is there…' She swallowed back the rest of the question but decided she had to know. 'Is there any reason why my mother might get to hear of this?'

'Depends, really,' Rebus said, after a moment's pretend thought.

'We catch the killer… it comes to trial… the time-line is gone through minute by minute. Defence is going to want some doubt in the jury's minds, and that means showing any witnesses to be less than trustworthy. They show Nancy 's original statement to be a pile of dung, and it all starts to smell from then on in…' He gazed down at her. 'That's the worst-case scenario,' he offered. 'Might never happen.'

'Which is another way of saying it might.'

Tou should have told the truth from the start, Gill. Lying is all very well for an actor, but out here in the real world we tend to call it perjury.'

22

'I'm not sure I can take all this in,' Siobhan Clarke admitted. They were gathered in the CID suite. Clarke was pacing up and down in front of the Murder Wall. She passed by photos of Alexander Todorov in life and in death, a photocopied pathology report, names and phone numbers. Rebus was polishing off a ham salad sandwich, washed down with polystyrene tea. Hawes and Tibbet sat at their desks, swaying gently in their chairs, as if in time to a piece of music only they could hear. Todd Goodyear was sipping milk from a half-litre carton.

'Want me to recap for you?' Rebus offered. 'Gill Morgan's stepdad runs First Albannach, she buys drugs from Nancy Sievewright, and she has ready access to a hooded cape.' He shrugged as if it was no big deal. 'Oh, and Sievewright knew about the cape, too.'

'We need to bring her in,' Clarke decided. ' Phyl, Col – go fetch.'

They managed a synchronised nod as they rose from their chairs.

'What if she's not there?' Tibbet asked.

'Find her,' Clarke demanded.

'Yes, boss,' he said, sliding his jacket back on. Clarke was glaring at him, but Rebus knew Tibbet hadn't been trying for sarcasm.

He'd called her 'boss' because that was what she was. She seemed to sense this, and glanced towards Rebus. He balled up the wrapper from his sandwich, and missed the waste-bin by about three feet.

'She doesn't seem like a dealer to me,' Clarke said.

'Maybe she's not,' Rebus responded. 'Maybe she's just a friend who likes to share.'

'But if she charges for that share,' Goodyear argued, 'doesn't


that make her a dealer?' He had walked over to the waste-bin and picked up Rebus's wrapper, making sure it found its target. Rebus wondered if the young man was even aware that he'd done it.

'So if she wasn't at Gill Morgan's flat that night, where was she?'

Clarke asked.

While we're adding ingredients to the broth,' Rebus interrupted, 'here's another for you. Barman at the hotel saw Andropov and Cafferty with another man, the night Todorov was murdered. The man in question is a Labour minister called Jim Bakewell.'

'He was on Question Time,' Clarke stated. Rebus nodded slowly.

He'd decided not to mention his own run-in with Andropov at the Caledonian.

'Did he talk to the poet?' Clarke asked.

'I don't think so. Cafferty bought Todorov a drink at the bar, then, when the poet hoofed it, he went and joined Andropov and Bakewell at their table. I sat where they'd been sitting – there's a blind spot, doubtful Andropov saw Todorov.'

'Coincidence?' Goodyear offered.

'We've not much room for that in CID,' Rebus told him.

'Doesn't that mean you often see connections where none exist?'

'Everything's connected, Todd. Six degrees of separation, they call it. I'd've thought a bible-thumper would concur.'

'I've never thumped a bible in my life.'

Tou should try it – good way of letting off steam.'

'When you two boys have quite finished,' Clarke chided them. Tfou want us to talk to this Bakewell character?' she asked Rebus.

'At this rate, we'd be as well precognosing the whole Parliament,'

Goodyear stated.

'How do you mean?' Rebus asked.

So then it was their turn to tell him about their morning: Roddy Denholm's project and the Urban Regeneration Committee recordings.

As if to prove the point, Goodyear held up a box of DAT tapes.

'Now if only we had a player,' he said.

'One's on its way from Howdenhall,' Clarke reminded him.

'Hours and hours of fun,' he muttered, laying the small cassettes out in a row across the desk in front of him. He stood them on their sides, as if attempting to build a run of dominoes.

'I think the allure of CID is beginning to wane,' Rebus suggested to Clarke.

Tou could be right,' she agreed, giving the desk a nudge so that the tape cases fell over.


'Think we need to talk to Megan Macfarlane again?' was Rebus's next question.

'On what grounds?'

'That she probably knew Riordan. Funny she has links to both the victims…'

Clarke was nodding, without looking entirely convinced. 'This case is a bloody minefield,' she eventually groaned, turning back to the Murder Wall. Rebus noticed for the first time that a photo of Charles Riordan had been added to the collection.

'A single killer?' he suggested.

'Let me just go ask the ouija board,' she shot back.

'Not in front of the children,' Rebus teased her. Goodyear had found a biscuit wrapper on the floor and was tidying it into the bin.

We've got cleaners to do that, Todd,' Rebus reminded him. Then, to Siobhan Clarke: 'One killer or two?'

'I really don't know.'

'Close enough – the correct answer should be “doesn't matter”.

All that's important at this stage is that we're treating the two deaths as connected.'

She nodded her agreement. 'Macrae's going to want the team enlarged.'

'The more the merrier.'

But when her eyes drilled into his, he could see she wasn't confident.

She'd never led a full-scale inquiry before. The death at the G8 last year had been kept low-key, so as not to grab headlines.

But once the media got to hear that they were dealing with a double murder, they'd be resetting their front pages and demanding plenty of action and a quick result.

'Macrae's going to want a DI heading it up,' Clarke stated. Rebus wished Goodyear wasn't there – the pair of them could talk properly.

He shook his head.

'Make your case,' he said. 'If you've anyone in mind for the team, tell him. That way you get the people you want.'

'I've already got the people I want.'

'Aww, isn't that sweet? But what the public needs to hear is that there's a twenty-strong force of detectives prowling the badlands, hot on the villain's scent. Five of us in a room in Gayfield Square doesn't have the same ring to it.'

'Five was enough for Enid Blyton,' Clarke said with a thin smile.

'Worked for Scooby Doo, too,' Goodyear added.


'Only if you include the dog,' Clarke corrected him. Then, to Rebus: 'So who do I start annoying first – Macrae, Macfarlane or Jim Bakewell?'

'Go for the hat-trick,' he told her. The phone on his desk started ringing and he picked it up.

'DI Rebus,' he announced to the caller. He pursed his lips, gave a couple of grunts in response to whatever was being said, and let the receiver clatter back into its cradle.

'The chiefs are demanding a sacrifice,' he explained, hauling himself to his feet.

James Corbyn, Chief Constable of Lothian and Borders Police, was waiting for Rebus in his office on the second floor of the Fettes Avenue HQ. Corbyn was in his early forties, a parting in his black hair and a face that shone as though freshly shaved and cologned.

People usually paid too much attention to the Chief Constable's grooming, as a way of not staring at the oversized mole on his right cheek. Officers had noticed that, when interviewed on TV, he always stayed right-of-screen, so that the other side of his face would be in profile. There had even been discussion as to whether the blemish most resembled the coastline of Fife or a terrier's head.

His initial nickname of Trouser Press had soon been supplanted by the more telling Mole Man, which Rebus seemed to think was also the name of a cartoon villain. He'd met Corbyn only three or four times, never (so far) for a pat on the back or a congratulatory handshake. Nothing he'd heard over the phone had suggested a change of script this time round.

'In you come then,' Corbyn himself snapped, having opened his door just wide enough to stick his head around. By the time Rebus rose from the corridor's only chair and pushed the door all the way open, Corbyn was back behind his large and unfeasibly tidy desk. There was a man seated across from the Chief Constable.

He was bulky and balding, with an overfed face tinged pink by hypertension. He rose up just long enough to shake Rebus's hand, introducing himself as Sir Michael Addison.

'She works fast, your stepdaughter,' Rebus told the banker. And Addison was no slouch himself; no more than ninety minutes since Rebus had left Gill Morgan's flat, and here they all were. 'Nice to have friends, isn't it?'

'Gill's explained everything,' Addison was saying. 'Seems she's fallen in with a bad lot, but her mother and I will deal with that.'


'Her mother knows, does she?' Rebus decided to probe.

'We're hoping that may not be necessary…'

'Wouldn't want her falling off the wagon,' Rebus agreed.

The banker seemed stunned by this; Corbyn took the silence as his cue. 'Look, John, I can't see what you've got to gain from pressing the point.' His use of Rebus's first name was a message that they were all on the same side here.

'What point might that be, sir?' Rebus asked, refusing to play along.

'You know what I mean. Young girls are susceptible… maybe Gill was scared to tell the truth.'

'Because she'd be losing her supplier?' Rebus pretended to guess.

He turned towards Addison. 'The friend's called Nancy Sievewright, by the way – mean anything to you?'

'I've never met her.'

'One of your colleagues has, though – name of Roger Anderson.

Seems he can't keep away from her.'

'I know Roger,' Addison admitted. 'He was there when that poet's body was found.'

'Found by Nancy Sievewright,' Rebus stressed.

'And does any of this,' Corbyn broke in, 'really concern Gill?'

'She lied to a murder inquiry.'

'And now she's told you the truth,' Corbyn pressed. 'Surely that's good enough?'

'Not really, sir.' He turned to Addison. 'Here's another name for you – Stuart Janney.'

“Yes?'

'He works for you, too.'

'He works for the bank rather than for me personally.'

'And spends his days hanging out with MSPs and trying to protect dodgy Russians.'

'Now wait a minute.' Addison 's fleshy face had gone from pink to red, highlighting razor-rash at the neck.

'I've just been talking with my colleagues,' Rebus ploughed on, 'about how everything's connected. Country the size of Scotland, city as small as Edinburgh, you start to see the truth of it. Your bank's hoping to do some big deals with the Russians, isn't it?

Maybe you took some time out of your busy schedule for a round of golf with them at Gleneagles? Stuart Janney making sure everything went smoothly…?'

'I really don't see what any of this has to do with my stepdaughter.'


'Might be a bit embarrassing if it turns out she's linked to the Todorov murder… doesn't matter how many degrees of separation you try to make out there are. She leads straight to you, straight to the top of FAB. Don't suppose Andropov and his pals will be too thrilled with that.'

Corbyn banged his fists against the table, eyes like burning coals. Addison was shaking, levering himself to his feet. 'This was a mistake,' he was saying. 'I blame myself for not wanting to see her hurt.'

'Michael,' Corbyn started to say, but then broke off, having nothing with which to finish the sentence.

'I notice your stepdaughter hasn't taken your surname, sir,'

Rebus said. 'Doesn't stop her asking for favours, though, does it?

And that lovely apartment of hers – owned by the bank, is it?'

Addison 's overcoat and scarf were hanging on a peg behind the door, and that was his destination.

'An appeal to common decency, that's all,' the banker was saying, more to himself than anyone else. He'd managed to get one arm into a sleeve but was struggling with the other. Nevertheless, his need to get out was too great, and the coat was hanging off him as he left. The door stayed open. Corbyn and Rebus were on their feet, facing one another.

'That seemed to go well,' Rebus commented.

“You're a bloody fool, Rebus.'

'What happened to “John”? Reckon he'll hike your mortgage, just out of spite?'

'He's a good man – and a personal friend,' Corbyn spat.

'And his stepdaughter is a lying drug-user.' Rebus offered a shrug. 'Like they say, you can't choose your family. You can, however, choose your friends… but FAB's friends seem to be a fairly rum bunch, too.'

'First Albannach is one of the few bloody success stories this country has!' Corbyn erupted again.

'Doesn't make them the good guys.'

'I suppose you opt to see yourself as the “good guy”?' Corbyn let out a jagged laugh. 'Christ, you've got a nerve.'

Was there anything else, sir? Maybe a neighbour who wants CID to focus its scant resources on the theft of a garden gnome?'

'Just one last thing.' Corbyn had seated himself again. His next three words were spaced evenly. “You… are… history.'

“Thanks for the reminder.'

'I mean it. I know you've got three days left till retirement, but


you're going to spend them on suspension.'

Rebus stared hard at the man. 'Isn't that just a tiny bit petty and pathetic, sir?'

'In which case, you're going to love the rest of it.' Corbyn took a deep breath. 'If I hear you've so much as crossed the threshold at Gayfield Square, I'll demote each and every officer within your compass. What I want you to do, Rebus, is crawl away from here and tick off the days on the calendar. You're no longer a serving detective, and never will be.' He held out the palm of one hand.

'Warrant card, please.'

Want to fight me for it?'

– 'Only if you're ready to spend time in the cells. I think we could hold you for three days without too much trouble.' The hand twitched, inviting Rebus's cooperation. 'I can think of at least three chief constables before me who would love to be here right now,'

Corbyn cooed.

The, too,' Rebus agreed. 'We'd get a barbershop quartet going and sing about the fuckwit sitting in front of us.'

'And that,' Corbyn added triumphantly, 'is the reason you're being suspended.'

Rebus couldn't believe the hand was still there. 'You want my warrant card,' he said quietly, 'send the boys round for it.' He turned and headed for the door. There was a secretary standing there, clutching a file to her chest, eyes and mouth gawping. Rebus confirmed with a nod that her ears had not deceived her, and mouthed the word 'fuckwit', just to be on the safe side.

Outside in the car park he unlocked his Saab, but then stood there, hand on the door handle, staring into space. For a while now, he'd known the truth – that it wasn't so much the underworld you had to fear as the overworld. Maybe that explained why Cafferty had, to all purposes and appearances, gone legit. A few friends in the right places and deals got done, fates decided. Never in his life had Rebus felt like an insider. From time to time he'd tried -during his years in the army and his first few months as a cop.

But the less he felt he belonged, the more he came to mistrust the others around him with their games of golf and their 'quiet words', their stitch-ups and handshakes, palm-greasing and scratching of backs. Stood to reason someone like Addison would go straight to the top; he'd done it because he could, because in his world it felt entirely justified and correct. Rebus had to admit, though, he'd underestimated Corbyn, hadn't expected him to pull that particular trick. Kicked into touch until gold-watch day.


'Fuckwit,' he said out loud, this time aiming the word at no one but himself.

That was that, then. End of the line, end of the job. These past weeks, he'd been trying so hard not to think about it – throwing himself into other work, any work. Dusting off all those old unsolveds, trying to get Siobhan interested, as if she didn't have more than enough on her plate in the here and now – a situation unlikely to change in the future. The alternative was to take the whole lot home with him… call it his retirement gift; something to keep his brain active when the idea of the pub didn't appeal.

For three decades now this job of his had sustained him, and all it had cost him was his marriage and a slew of friendships and shattered relationships. No way he was ever going to feel like a civilian again; too late for that; too late for him to change. He would become invisible to the world, not just to revelling teenagers.

'Fuck,' he said, drawing the word out way past its natural length.

It was the casual arrogance that had flipped his switch, Addison sitting there in the full confidence of his power – and the stepdaughter's arrogance, too, in thinking one weepy phone call would make everything better. It was, Rebus realised, how things worked in the overworld. Addison had never woken from a beating in a piss-stained tenement stairwell. His stepdaughter had never worked the streets for money for her next fix and the kids' dinner.

They lived in another place entirely – no doubt part of the buzz Gill Morgan got from mixing with the likes of Nancy Sievewright.

The same buzz Corbyn got from having one of the most powerful men in Europe come to him with a favour.

The same buzz Cafferty got, buying drinks for businessmen and politicians… Cafferty: unfinished business, and likely to remain that way if Rebus heeded Corbyn's orders. Cafferty unfettered, free to commute between underworld and overworld. Unless Rebus went back indoors right now and apologised to the Chief Constable, promising to toe the line.

The scrapheap's hurtling towards me as it is… give me this one last chance… please, sir… please…

'Aye, right,' Rebus said, yanking open the car door and stabbing the key into the ignition.

23

' Nancy, we're going to record this, okay?'

Sievewright's mouth twitched. 'Do I need a lawyer?'

'Do you want a lawyer?'

'Dunno.'

Clarke nodded for Goodyear to switch on the deck. She'd slotted home both tapes herself – one for them and one for Sievewright.

But Goodyear was hesitating and Clarke had to remind herself that he'd not done this sort of thing before. Interview Room 1 felt stuffy and sweltering, as if it was sucking all the heat from the rooms around it. The central heating pipes hissed and gurgled and couldn't be turned down. Even Goodyear had taken off his jacket, and there were damp patches beneath his arms. Yet IR3, two doors along, was freezing, maybe because IR1 was keeping all the heat to itself.

'That one and that one,' she explained, pointing to the relevant buttons. He pressed them, the red light came on, and both tapes started running. Clarke identified herself and Goodyear, her final few words drowned by the scrape of his chair as he drew it in towards the desk. He gave a little grimace of apology, and she repeated herself, then asked Sievewright to state her name, before adding date and time to the recording. Formalities done with, she sat back a little in her chair. The Todorov file was in front of her, autopsy photo uppermost. She had padded the file itself with blank sheets of copy paper, to make it seem more impressive and, perhaps, more threatening. Goodyear had nodded admiringly.

Same went for the post-mortem photo, plucked from the Murder Wall to remind Sievewright of the grim seriousness of the case.

The young woman certainly looked unnerved. Hawes and Tibbet


had explained nothing of their appearance at her door, and had kept tight-lipped during the drive to Gayfield Square. Sievewright had then been left in IR1 for the best part of forty minutes, without any offer of tea or water. And when Clarke and Goodyear had come in, they'd both been carrying a fresh brew – even though Goodyear himself had insisted he wasn't thirsty.

'For effect,' Clarke had told him.

Next to the file on the table sat Clarke's mobile phone, and next to that a pad of paper and a pen. Goodyear, too, was bringing out a notebook.

'Now then, Nancy,' Clarke began. 'Want to tell us what you were really up to the night you found the victim?'

'What?' Sievewright's mouth stayed open long after the question had left it.

'The night you were out at your friend's flat…' Clarke made show of consulting the file. 'Gill Morgan.' Her eyes met Sievewright's.

Tour good friend Gill.'

Tes?'

Your story was that you'd been round to her flat and were on your way home. But that was a lie, wasn't it?'

'No.'

'Well, somebody's lying to us, Nancy.'

'What's she been saying?' The voice taking on a harder edge.

We're led to believe, Nancy, that you were on your way to her flat, not from it. Did you have the drugs on you when you tripped over the body?'

'What drugs?'

'The ones you were going to share with Gill.'

'She's a lying cow!'

'I thought she was your friend? Enough of a friend to stick to the story you gave her.'

'She's lying,' Sievewright repeated, eyes reduced to slits.

'Why would she do that, Nancy? Why would a friend do that?'

Tou'd have to ask her.'

'We already have. Thing is, her story fits with other facts in the case. A woman was seen hanging around outside the car park…'

'I already told you, I never saw her.'

'Maybe because you were her?'

'I look nothing like that picture you showed me!'

'See, she was offering herself for sex, and we know why some women will do that, don't we?'

'Do we?'


'Money for drugs, Nancy.'

'What?'

'You needed the money to buy drugs you could sell on to Gill.'

'She'd already given me the money, you dozy cow!'

Clarke didn't bother replying; just waited for Nancy 's outburst to sink in. The teenager's face crumpled and she knew she'd said more than she should.

'What I mean is…' she stumbled, but the lie wouldn't come.

'Gill Morgan gave you money to buy her some dope,' Clarke stated.

'To be honest with you – and this is for the record – I couldn't give a monkey's. Doesn't sound to me like you're some big-shot dealer.

If you had been, you'd have scarpered that night rather than sticking around to wait for us. But that makes me think you didn't have anything on you at the time, which means you were either waiting to score or on your way to score.'

'Yes?'

'I wouldn't mind knowing which it was.'

'The second one.'

'On your way to meet your dealer?'

Sievewright just nodded. 'Nancy Sievewright nods,' Clarke said for the benefit of the slowly spooling tapes. 'So you weren't hanging around outside the car park?'

'I already said, didn't I?'

'Just want to make sure.' Clarke made show of turning to another page in the file. 'Ms Morgan has ambitions to be an actress,'

she stated.

Teah.'

'Ever seen her in anything?'

'Don't think she's been in anything.'

Tou sound sceptical.'

'First she was going to write for the papers, then it was TV presenting, then modelling…'

'What we might call a gadfly,' Clarke agreed.

Tou call it what you want.'

'Must be fun, though, hanging out with her?'

'She gets good invites,' Sievewright admitted.

'But she doesn't always take you with her?' Clarke guessed.

'Not often.' Sievewright shifted in her chair.

'I forget, how did you two meet?'

'At a party in the New Town… got talking to one of her pals in a pub, and he said I could tag along with them.'

'You know who Gill's father is?'


'I know he must have a few quid.'

'He runs a bank.'

'Figures.'

Clarke turned to another sheet of paper. Really, she wanted Rebus there, so she could bounce ideas off him, and let him do some of the running while she collected her thoughts between rounds.

Todd Goodyear looked stiff and uncertain and was gnawing away at his pen like a beaver with a particularly juicy length of timber.

'She works on one of the city's ghost tours, did you know that?'

Clarke asked eventually.

'Can I get a drink or something?'

'We're nearly done.'

Sievewright scowled, like a kid on the verge of a major sulk.

Clarke repeated her question.

'She took me along with her one time,' the teenager admitted.

'How was it?'

Sievewright shrugged. 'Okay, I suppose. Bit boring really.'

Tou weren't scared?' The question received a snorted response.

Clarke closed the file slowly, as if winding up. But she had a few more questions. She waited until Sievewright was readying to get up before asking the first of them. 'Remember the cloak Gill wears?'

'What cloak?'

'When she's being the Mad Monk.'

'What about it?'

'Ever seen it at her flat?'

'No.'

'Has she ever been to your flat?'

'Came to a party once.'

Clarke pretended to spend a few moments considering this. “You know I'm not going to be chasing you for drugs offences, Nancy, but I wouldn't mind knowing your dealer's address.'

'No chance.' The teenager sounded adamant. She was still poised to get up; in her mind, she was already leaving, meaning she'd want to give quick answers to any further questions. Clarke rapped her fingernails against the closed file.

'But you know him pretty well?'

'Says who?'

'I'm guessing you had some dope on you at that first party; explains how you made friends so quickly.'

'So?'

'So you're not going to give me a name?'


'Bloody right I'm not.'

'How did you meet him?'

'Through a friend.'

Tour flatmate? The one with the eyeliner?'

'None of your business.'

'The day I was there, quite an aroma was wafting from the living room…' Sievewright stayed tight-lipped. Tou in touch with your parents, Nancy?'

The question seemed to throw the young woman. 'Dad did a runner when I was ten.'

'And your mum?'

'Lives in Wardieburn.'

Not the city's most salubrious neighbourhood. 'See her much?'

'Is this turning into a social work interview?'

Clarke smiled indulgently. 'Had any more trouble from Mr Anderson?'

'Not yet.'

Tou think he'll be back?'

'He better think twice.'

'Funny thing is, he works for Gill's dad's bank.'

'So what?'

'Gill's never taken you to any of their parties? No possibility Mr Anderson could have met you there?'

'No,' Sievewright stated. Clarke let the silence linger, then leaned back in her chair and placed her palms on the tabletop.

'Again, just to be clear, you're not a prostitute and he's not one of your clients?' Sievewright glared at her, forming some sort of comeback. Clarke didn't give her the chance. 'I think that's us, then,' she said. 'I want to thank you for coming in.'

'Didn't have much choice,' Sievewright complained.

'Interview ends at…' Clarke checked the time, announced it for the benefit of the recorder, then switched the machine off and ejected both tapes, sealing them in separate polythene bags. She handed one to Sievewright. 'Thanks again.' The young woman snatched the bag. 'PC Goodyear will see you out.'

'Do I get a lift home?'

'What are we, a taxi service?'

Sievewright gave a curl of the lip, letting Clarke know what she thought of that. Goodyear led her outside, while Clarke gave a twitch of her head to let him know she'd see him upstairs. Once the door was closed, Clarke lifted her phone to her ear.

Tou caught all of that?'


'Pretty much,' Rebus's voice said. She could hear him lighting up.

'This is going to cost us both a fortune in phone bills.'

'That depends on where you do the interviews,' he told her.

'Anywhere outside the station, I can sit in. It's only Gayfield itself Corbyn told me to avoid.'

Clarke slipped the cassette tape into the file and tucked it under her arm. 'Do you think I got everything I could out of her?' she asked.

Tou did fine. It was good to leave some of the big questions till the end… had me wondering if you were going to remember to ask them.'

'Did I leave anything out?'

'Not that I can think of.'

She was out in the corridor now, glad to find it about eight degrees cooler.

'One thing, though,' Rebus was adding. 'Why did you ask about her parents?'

'Not sure really. Maybe it's because we see so many like her – single-parent household, mum probably holding down a job, giving the daughter time to be led astray…'

'Are you going to go all liberal on me?'

'Growing up in Wardieburn… and then suddenly you're going to parties in the New Town.'

'And pushing drugs,' Rebus reminded her. Clarke shouldered open the door to the car park. He was there in his Saab, phone to his ear and a cigarette in his other hand. She folded her phone shut as she opened the passenger-side door and slid in, closing it after her. Rebus had put his own phone back in his pocket.

'That everything?' he asked, holding out a hand for the file.

'As much as I could photocopy without the troops suspecting.'

He removed the inch-deep block of unsullied copy paper. “You learned all the right tricks, Kwai Chang Caine.'

'Does that make you Master Po?'

'Didn't think you were old enough for Rung Fu.'

'Old enough for the reruns.' She watched him place the file on the back seat. 'All through the interview, I was praying you wouldn't cough or sneeze.'

'Couldn't risk lighting a ciggie either,' Rebus replied. She stared at him, but he was avoiding eye contact.

'How come,' she asked eventually, 'you couldn't play nice, just this once?'


'People like Corbyn seem to push my buttons,' he explained.

'Making them part of the majority,' she chided him.

'Maybe so,' he admitted. 'Are you going to interview Bakewell at the Parliament?' She nodded slowly. 'Am I invited?'

'Remind me, what does it mean to be “on suspension”?'

'Last time I looked, Shiv, the public were allowed into the Parliament building. Buy the man a coffee, and I could be seated at the next table over.'

'Or you could go home and let me talk to Corbyn, see if I can change his mind.'

'Won't happen,' he stated.

'Which – you going home or him changing his mind?'

'Both.'

'God give me strength,' she sighed.

'Amen to that… and speaking of the Almighty, I didn't hear much from young Todd during the interview.'

'He was there to observe.'

'It's all right, you know… you can admit that you missed me.'

'Weren't you just saying that I covered all the bases?'

She watched Rebus shrug. 'Maybe there were bases she kept hidden from us.'

'You're telling me you'd have teased the dealer's name out of her?'

'Twenty quid says I'll have it by day's end.'

'If Corbyn gets wind that you're still on the case…'

'But I won't be, DS Clarke. I'll be a civilian. Not much he can do about that, is there?'

'John…' she began to caution, but broke off, knowing she'd be wasting her breath. 'Keep me posted,' she muttered at last, opening the car door and easing herself out.

'Notice something?' he asked. She leaned back down into the car.

'What?'

He waved his arm, taking in the car park. 'The smell's gone…

Wonder if that's an omen.' He was smiling as he turned the key in the ignition, leaving Clarke with an unasked question: Good omen or bad?

24

' Nancy at home?' Rebus asked Sievewright's flatmate when the young man answered the door.

'No.'

No, because she'd been walking up Leith Street when Rebus had passed her in his Saab. Meaning he had maybe a twenty-minute start on her, always supposing she'd head straight for her flat.

'It's Eddie, right?' Rebus said. 'I was here a few days ago.'

'I remember.'

'Didn't catch your surname, though.'

'Gentry.'

'As in Bobbie Gentry.'

'Not many people know her these days.'

'I'm older than most people – got a couple of her albums at home.

Mind if I come in?' Rebus noted that Gentry had lost his bandanna but still wore the smudgy eyeliner. 'She told me to be here at three,'

he lied blithely.

'Someone was at the door for her a while back…' Gentry was reluctant, but Rebus's stare told him resistance was futile. He opened the door a little wider and Rebus gave a little bow of the head as he walked in. The living room smelt of stale tobacco and something that could have been patchouli oil – been a while since Rebus had come across that particular scent. He wandered over to the window and peered down on to Blair Street.

'Tell you a funny story,' he said, back still to Eddie Gentry.

'There's a warren of basements across the way where bands used to practise. Owner was thinking of redeveloping, so he got some builders in. They were working in these tunnels – miles and miles of them – and they started to hear unearthly groans…'


'The massage parlour next door,' Gentry said, cutting to the punchline.

“You've heard it.' Rebus turned from the window and studied some of the album sleeves – actual LPs rather than CDs. 'Caravan,'

he commented. ' Canterbury 's finest… didn't know people still listened to them.' There were other sleeves he recognised: the Fairports and Davey Graham and Pentangle.

'Somebody studying archaeology?' he guessed.

'I like a lot of the old stuff,' Gentry explained. He nodded towards the corner of the room. 'I play guitar.'

'So you do,' Rebus agreed, seeing a six-string acoustic nestling on its stand, a twelve-string lying on the floor behind it. 'Any good?'

In answer, Gentry picked up the six-string and settled on the sofa, legs crossed beneath him. He started to play, and Rebus realised that he'd grown the fingernails long on his right hand, each one a ready-made plectrum. Rebus knew the tune, even if he couldn't place it.

'Bert Jansch?' he guessed over the closing chord.

'From that album he did with John Renbourn.'

'Haven't listened to it in years.' Rebus nodded his appreciation.

Tfou're pretty good, son. Shame you can't make a living from it, eh?

Might have stopped you from dealing drugs.'

What?

' Nancy 's told us all about it.'

'Whoa, wait a minute.' Gentry put his guitar aside and rose to his feet. 'What's that you're saying?'

'A deaf musician?' Rebus sounded impressed.

'I heard the words, I just don't know why she would say that.'

'Night the poet was killed, she was picking up a delivery from the guy you introduced her to.'

'She didn't say that.' Gentry was trying to sound confident, but his eyes told Rebus a different story. 'I didn't introduce her to anybody V Rebus shrugged with his hands in his pockets. 'No skin off my nose,' he commented. 'She says you're dealing, you say you're not… We all know there's stuff being smoked here.'

'Stuff she gets from her boyfriend,' Gentry burst out. But then he corrected himself. 'He's not even her boyfriend… she just thinks he is.'

'Who's this?'

'I don't know. I mean, he's been here a couple of times, but he


just calls himself Sol – says it's Latin for “the sun”. Not that he strikes me as that bright.'

Rebus laughed as if this were the best joke he'd heard in a while, but Gentry wasn't smiling.

'I can't believe she'd try dropping me in it,' he muttered to himself.

'She dropped a pal of hers in it, too,' Rebus revealed. 'Got her to provide an alibi.' Rebus let his final word hang in the air.

'Alibi?' Gentry echoed. 'Christ, you think she killed that guy?'

Rebus offered another shrug. 'Tell me,' he said, 'does Nancy own anything like a cape or a cloak? Sort of thing a monk might wear?'

'No.' Gentry sounded bewildered by the question.

'Have you ever met her friend Gill?'

'Hooray Henrietta from the New Town?' Gentry screwed up his face.

Tou know her, then?'

'She came to a party a while back.'

'I hear that she throws a good party, too. You could offer to play a set.'

'I'd rather stick pins in my eyes.'

“You're probably right, same as I'd rather listen to Dick Gaughan than James Blunt.' Rebus sniffed loudly, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket. 'This Sol character… got an address for him?'

'Afraid not.'

'Not to worry.' Rebus was over at the window again, putting the handkerchief back as he gazed down on the street. Not long now till Nancy Sievewright returned. Top of Leith Street, then North Bridge and Hunter Square… 'Do you sing as well as play?'

'A little bit.'

'But not in a band?'

'No.'

Tou should get yourself up to Fife. Friend of mine says there's some sort of acoustic scene up there.'

Gentry was nodding. 'I've played Anstruther.'

'Funny to think of the East Neuk as the centre of anything…

used to be it was shut winter and weekends.'

Gentry smiled. 'Wait there, will you?' He was gone from the living room less than a minute. When he came back, he was holding something out towards Rebus – a CD in a clear plastic pocket.

There was a folded square of white paper with the titles of three tracks listed. 'My demo,' Gentry announced proudly.


'That's great,' Rebus said. 'After I've played it, do you want it back?'

'I can burn another one,' Gentry said with a shake of the head.

Rebus patted the disc against the palm of his left hand. 'I really appreciate that, Eddie. As long as you appreciate that it's not a bung of some kind.'

Gentry looked horrified. 'No, I just thought…'

But Rebus touched him on the shoulder, and assured him he was only joking. 'I'd best be off,' he said. 'Thanks again.' He gave a little wave with the CD and made for the hallway and the front door.

With the door closed behind him, he started down the stairs, just as Nancy Sievewright was making her way up, still holding the sealed polythene bag with the interview tape inside. Rebus offered her a nod and a smile, but said nothing. All the same, he could feel her watching his descent. At the bottom, he looked up – sure enough, she hadn't moved.

'Just told him,' Rebus called to her.

'Told who what?' she called back.

Tour flatmate Eddie,' he answered. 'The one you tried fobbing us off with…'

He exited the tenement and unlocked his car. It was parked illegally but had managed to avoid a ticket.

'My lucky day,' he told himself. He'd finally got round to installing a CD player in the Saab. He drew Gentry's offering from its sleeve and slotted it home, then studied the titles of the songs.

Meg's Mons.

Minstrel in Pain.

Reverend Walker Blues.

He liked them already. With the volume low, he took out his phone and called Siobhan Clarke.

'Tell me you're in the pub,' was her opening line.

' Blair Street, actually – and you owe me twenty notes.'

'I don't believe you.'

'You won't when I tell you.' He paused for dramatic effect.

'Sievewright gets her stuff from someone called Sol. Her flatmate thinks he's named himself after the sun, but we know differently, don't we?'

'Sol Goodyear?'

'I take it Todd's not within earshot?'

'Making me a coffee.'

'Isn't that sweet of him?'

'Sol Goodyear?' she repeated, as if she still couldn't take it in.


Eventually, she asked him what he was listening to.

' Nancy 's flatmate plays guitar.'

'I'm assuming he's not in the car with you.'

'Probably shouting the odds at Sievewright as we speak. But he did give me a demo he made.'

'That was good of him. Bet you can't remember the last time you listened to anything made after 1975.'

Tou gave me that Elbow album…'

'True.' The tangent had run its course. 'So now we need to add Todd's brother to the list?'

'Nice to stay busy,' Rebus consoled her. 'Do you have a time for Jim Bakewell yet?'

'Haven't been able to track him down.'

'And Macrae?'

'Wants to add another twenty or so bodies to the team.'

'As long as they're warm ones…'

'He's even thinking of bringing Derek Starr back from Fettes.'

'Which would mean relegating you to vice-captain?'

'If only I had some vices…'

'Should have listened to me, Shiv. I could've given you a few tips.

Will I see you later at the pub?'

'Might have an early night actually… no offence.'

'None taken, but don't think I'll forget about that twenty.' Rebus ended the call and turned the music up a little. Gentry was humming along to the melody, and Rebus wasn't sure if it was meant to be picked up by the mic. It was still the first track, 'Meg's Mons '.

He wondered if Meg was a real woman. Peering at the slip of paper in the clear plastic sleeve, he thought he could make out writing on the other side. He pulled out the track listing and unfolded it. Sure enough, on the back was written the name of the studio where Gentry had recorded his demo.

CR Studios.

25

Rebus sat in front of his own personal video monitor. Graeme MacLeod had placed him in a corner of the room, and had piled the videotapes next to him. Edinburgh city centre's west end, the night of the Todorov killing.

“You're going to get me shot,' MacLeod had complained, fetching the tapes from their locked cupboard.

Rebus had been sitting for an hour in the Central Monitoring Facility, sometimes hitting 'search' and sometimes 'pause'. There were cameras on Shandwick Place, Princes Street and Lothian Road. Rebus was looking for evidence of Sergei Andropov or his driver, or maybe Cafferty. Or anyone else attached to the case, come to that. So far he had nothing at all to show for his efforts.

The hotel would have its own surveillance, of course, but he doubted the manager would hand it over without a fight, and couldn't see himself persuading Siobhan to put in the request.

There was something soothing about the unhurried voyeurism going on around him. One act of vandalism reported, and one known shoplifter tracked along George Street. The camera operators seemed as passive as any daytime TV viewers, and Rebus wondered if there might be some reality show to be made from it. He liked the way the staff could control the remote cameras using a joystick, zooming in on anything suspicious. It didn't feel like the police state the media were always predicting. All the same, if he worked here every day, he'd be careful of himself on the street, for fear of being caught picking his nose or scratching his backside.

Careful in shops and restaurants, too.

And probably with no interest in the TV at home.

MacLeod was back at Rebus's shoulder. 'Anything?' he asked.


'I know you've been over this footage more than once, Graeme, but there are a few faces I may know that you don't.'

'I'm not having a moan.'

'If I were in your shoes, I'd be thinking the same.'

'Just a pity we didn't have a camera in King's Stables Road.'

'Hardly anyone uses it at night, I've noticed that. Plenty of people turning into Castle Terrace, but almost no one into King's Stables.'

'And no woman in a hood?'

'Not yet.'

MacLeod consoled Rebus with a pat on the shoulder, then went back to work. It didn't make sense to Rebus: why would some woman be hanging around there, doling out offers of sex? They only had the one witness's word for it. Could it have been some fantasy he'd been harbouring? Rebus felt his vertebrae snap back into place as he stretched his spine. He wanted a break, but knew if he took one he might not be tempted back. He could always go home – it was what everybody wanted. But then his phone rang and he scooped it from his pocket. Caller ID: Siobhan.

“What's up?' he asked, cupping the phone to his mouth so he wouldn't be overheard.

'Megan Macfarlane's just called DCI Macrae. She's not happy you've been harassing Sergei Andropov.' She paused. 'Want to tell me about it?'

'Happened to run into him last night.'

'Whereabouts?'

'Caledonian Hotel.'

“Your regular watering-hole?'

'No need for sarcasm, young lady.'

'And you didn't think to let me in on it?'

'I really did just bump into him, Shiv. No big deal.'

'To you maybe, but Andropov seems to think it is, and now Megan Macfarlane thinks so, too.'

'Andropov's Russian, probably used to politicians controlling the police…' Rebus was thinking out loud.

'Macrae wants to see you.'

'Tell him I'm banned from Gayfield.'

'I've told him. He was furious about that, too.'

'Corbyn's fault for not alerting him.'

'That's what I said.'

'Any word from Jim Bakewell's office?'

'No.'


'So what are you up to?'

'Trying to make space for the new recruits. Four have arrived from Torphichen and two from Leith.'

'Anyone we know?'

'Ray Reynolds.'

'He's not even a good imitation of a detective,' Rebus stated. Then he asked her if she was going to do anything about Sol Goodyear.

'Soon as I've worked out what to say to Todd,' she decided.

'Good luck with that.'

One of the CCTV operators suddenly called to her colleague that she had the shoplifter on Camera 10, entering the bus station.

Clarke's groan was almost audible.

“You're at the City Chambers,' she stated.

'We'll make a detective of you yet.'

“You're on suspension, John.'

'It keeps slipping my mind.'

'Studying the tapes from that night?'

'Correct.'

'Trying to place who at the scene exactly?'

'Who do you think?'

'Why in God's name would Cafferty want a Russian poet killed?'

'Maybe he gets annoyed when verses don't rhyme. By the by, here's a strange one for you – that CD Sievewright's flatmate gave me was recorded at Riordan's studio.'

“Yet another coincidence.' But she was silent for a moment.

'Think it's worth talking to the engineer about?'

Tou're mob-handed, Shiv – it's worth chasing every single lead, no matter how brittle.'

'I'm not great at delegating.'

The neither. Still headed straight home from work?'

'That's the plan.'

'I'll be thinking of you, then.'

'John, just promise me one thing – no more drinks at the Caledonian Hotel.'

Tes, boss. Talk to you later.' He ended the call but sat there staring at the phone. Macrae, Macfarlane and Andropov – all annoyed as hell with him.

'Good,' he said quietly, reaching for the next videotape.


'Can I ask you about your brother?'

Clarke had led Todd Goodyear into the corridor for a bit of privacy. She'd already set the new recruits to work. Some were studying the 'bible' – the collating of everything pertaining to the case – while others had been assigned the Riordan tapes. It wasn't exactly a collection of the brightest and the best – no CID unit wanted to give up its star players to a rival team. A detective from Goodyear's own station had recognised him and asked what he thought he was up to, 'masquerading as a proper cop'.

'Sol?' Goodyear was asking now, looking puzzled. 'What about him?'

'He was in a fight – what night was that?'

'Last Wednesday.'

Clarke nodded. Same night Todorov was attacked. 'Can you give me an address for him?'

'What's going on?'

'Turns out he might know Nancy Sievewright.'

'You're kidding me.' He'd started laughing.

'No joke,' she assured him. 'We think he was her dealer. Did you know he was still in the game?'

'No.' The blood was rising up Goodyear's neck.

'So I need his address.'

'I don't know it. I mean, it's somewhere around the Grass market…'

'I thought he lived in Dalkeith.'

'Sol's always on the move.'

'How did you know he'd been in a fight?'

'He called me.'

'So you're still in touch?'

'He has my mobile number.'

'Meaning you've got his?'

Goodyear shook his head. 'He keeps changing it.'

'This fight he had… any idea where it happened?'

'A pub in Haymarket.'

Clarke nodded to herself. The SOCO, Tarn Banks, had got a message about the incident, hadn't he? Mentioned it at the Todorov scene. A stabbing… 'So you don't keep in touch, but he phones you I when he's been stabbed?'

Goodyear ignored this. 'What does it matter if he knows Nancy ievewright?'

'Just another loose end that needs tying.'

We've got more of those than a frayed rug.' Clarke offered up a


tired smile and Goodyear sighed, shoulders slumping. 'When you find Sol's address, do you want me along?'

'Can't happen,' she said. 'You're his brother.'

He nodded his understanding.

'I'm assuming West End took an interest in the stabbing?' she asked. Meaning the police station on Torphichen Place. Goodyear nodded again.

'They asked him a few questions at A amp;E. By the time I saw him, he'd been transferred to a ward. Just the one night, for observation.'

'Do you think he told the officers anything?'

Goodyear shrugged. 'All he said was, he was having a drink and this guy took against him. It moved outside and Sol came off worst.'

'And the other guy?'

'Didn't say anything about him.' Goodyear bit his bottom lip. 'If Sol's connected… does that mean a conflict of interest? Back to my old station and uniform?'

'I'll have to ask DCI Macrae.'

He nodded again, but dolefully this time. 'I didn't know he was still dealing,' he stressed. 'Maybe Sievewright's lying…'

Clarke imagined herself placing a hand on his arm, offering comfort. But in the real world, she just moved past him and back into the already overcrowded CID suite. Chairs had been borrowed from the interview rooms, and she had to weave between them as she made for her desk. There was another officer stationed there.

He apologised but didn't move. Three more detectives were huddled around Rebus's desk. Clarke picked up her phone and called Torphichen. She was patched through to CID and found herself talking to Detective Inspector Shug Davidson.

'Want to thank you,' he chuckled, 'for taking Ray Reynolds off our hands.' She looked across the room towards Reynolds, a detective constable these past nine years, promotion never on the cards. He was standing in front of the Murder Wall and rubbing his stomach as if preparing for another of his infamous belches.

'That's good,' she told Davidson, 'because I'm after a favour in return.'

'What's this I hear about John getting booted into touch?' 'News travels…'

'Age has not softened him – that's a quote from somewhere.'

'Listen, Shug, do you remember last Wednesday night, a fight outside a pub at Haymarket?'


'Sol Goodyear, you mean?'

'That's right.'

Tou've got his brother on secondment, I'm told. Seems like a decent bloke. I think he's embarrassed about Sol – and rightly so.

Sol's got a fair bit of form.'

'So this fight he got into…?'

'If you ask me, there was money owed by one of his punters.

Guy didn't fancy paying up, so decided to have a go at Sol. We're considering making it attempted murder.'

Todd says he was only in hospital the one night.'

'With eight stitches in his side. More of a slice than a proper stabbing, meaning he got lucky.'

Tou caught the attacker?'

'He's pleading self-defence, naturally. Name's Larry Fintry – Crazy Larry, he gets called. Should be in the nut-house, if you ask me.'

'Care in the community, Shug.'

'Aye, with the pharmaceuticals dispensed by Sol Goodyear.'

'I need to speak to Sol,' Clarke said.

'Why's that?'

'The Todorov murder. We think the girl who found the body was on her way to Sol's.'

'More than likely,' Davidson agreed. 'Last address I have for him is Raeburn Wynd.'

Clarke's whole body froze for a moment. 'That's where we found the body.'

'I know.' Davidson was laughing. 'And if Sol hadn't been getting himself stabbed at Haymarket around the exact same time, I might have thought to mention it earlier.'

In the end, she took Phyllida Hawes with her. Tibbet had looked distraught, as if fearing Siobhan had already made up her mind who should replace her at sergeant level when she was promoted. She hadn't bothered reminding him that she would have little or no say over anyone's fate. Instead, she had simply told him that he was in charge until her return, which perked him up a little.

They'd taken Clarke's car, sticking to shop talk interrupted only occasionally by awkward silences – Hawes wanting to know about life post-Rebus (but not daring to ask), while Clarke didn't quite get round to bringing up Hawes's relationship with Tibbet. It was a mercy when the car finally stopped at the foot of Raeburn Wynd.


The lane was L-shaped. From the main road, all you could see were garages and lock-ups, but around the corner, buildings which at one time would have housed horses and their coaches had been turned into mews flats.

'None of the neighbours heard anything?' Hawes asked.

'Might send the team out to ask them again and flash that e-fit,'

Clarke considered.

'Can Ray Reynolds be one of them, please?'

Clarke managed a smile. 'Didn't take long.'

'I'd heard the stories,' Hawes said, 'but nothing quite prepares you…'

They'd turned the corner into the mews proper. Clarke stopped at one of the doors, checked the address she'd copied into her notebook, and pressed the bell. After twenty seconds, she tried again.

'I'm coming!' someone yelled from within. There was the sound of feet thumping down a flight of stairs, and the door was opened by Sol Goodyear. Had to be him: same eyelashes and ears as his brother.

'Solomon Goodyear?' Clarke checked.

'Christ, what do you lot want?'

'Well spotted. I'm DS Clarke, this is DC Hawes.'

'Got a warrant?'

'Want to ask you a couple of questions about the murder.'

'What murder?'

'The one at the bottom of your street.'

'I was in hospital at the time.'

'How's the wound?'

He lifted his shirt to show a large white compress, just above the waistband of his underpants. 'Itches like buggery,' he admitted.

Then, catching on: 'How did you know about it?'

'DI Davidson at Torphichen filled me in. Mentioned Crazy Larry, too. Bit of a tip for you, actually – before you square up to someone, always check their nickname.'

Sol Goodyear snorted at that, but still didn't show any great desire to let them in. 'My brother's a cop,' he said instead.

'Oh, yes?' Clarke tried to sound surprised. She reckoned Sol would try this line on any police officer he met.

'He's still in uniform, but not for much longer. Todd's always been a fast-track kind of guy. He was the white sheep of the family.'

He gave a little laugh at what Clarke reckoned was another of his well-rehearsed lines.

'That's a good one,' Hawes obliged, managing to sound as though


she meant the opposite. The laugh died in Sol Goodyear's throat.

'Well, anyway,' he sniffed, 'I wasn't here that night. They didn't discharge me till the evening after.'

'Did Nancy come to see you at the hospital?'

' Nancy who?'

Your girlfriend Nancy. She was on her way here when she tripped over the body. You were going to sell her some stuff for a friend of hers.'

'She's not my girlfriend,' he stated, having decided in the blinking of an eye that there was no point lying about things they already knew.

'She seems to think she is.'

'She's mistaken.'

Tou're just her dealer, then?'

He scowled as though pained by this turn in the conversation.

'What I am, officer, is the victim of a stabbing. The painkillers I'm on make it highly unlikely that anything I say could be used in a court of law.'

'Clever boy,' Clarke said, sounding admiring, 'you know your loopholes.'

'Learned the hard way.'

She nodded slowly. 'I've heard it was Big Ger Cafferty got you started on the selling – do you still see him?'

'Don't know who you're talking about.'

'Funny, I've never heard of a stabbing affecting someone's memory before…' Clarke looked to Hawes for confirmation of this.

'Think you've got the patter, don't you?' Sol Goodyear was saying.

'Well try this for a pay-off.'

And with that, he slammed the door in their faces. From behind it, as he started climbing the stairs again, could be heard a stream of invective. Hawes raised an eyebrow.

'Bitches and lesbians,' she repeated. 'Always nice to learn something new about yourself 'Isn't it?'

'So now we've got one brother involved, I suppose that means the other has to be taken off the case?'

That's a decision for DCI Macrae.'

'How come you didn't tell Sol we've got Todd working with us?'

'Need-to-know basis, Phyl.' Clarke stared at Hawes. You in a hurry to see the back of PC Goodyear?'

'Just so long as he remembers he is a PC. Now that the suite's filling up, he's looking too comfortable in that suit of his.'


'Meaning what exactly?'

'Some of us have worked our way out of uniform, Siobhan.'

'CID's a closed shop, is it?' Clarke turned away from Hawes and started moving, but stopped abruptly at the corner. From where she stood, it was about sixty feet to the spot where Alexander Todorov was murdered.

'What are you thinking?' Hawes asked.

'I'm wondering about Nancy. We're assuming she was on her way to Sol's when she found the body. But she could've walked up here, rung his bell a few times, maybe thumped on his door…'

'Not knowing he's been injured in a brawl?'

'Exactly.'

'And meantime Todorov's managed to stagger from the car park…'

Clarke was nodding.

Tou think she saw something?' Hawes added.

'Saw or heard. Maybe hid around this corner, while Todorov's attacker followed him and delivered the final blow.'

'And her reason for not telling us any of this…?'

'Fear, I suppose.'

'Fear'll do it every time,' Hawes concurred. 'What was that line from Todorov's poem…?'

'”He averted his eyesEnsuring he would not have to testify.“'

'The sort of lesson Nancy might have learned from Sol Goodyear.'

'Yes,' Clarke agreed. Tfes, she might.'

26

Rebus was eating a bag of crisps and listening again to Eddie Gentry's CD on his car stereo. Except that it wasn't stereo exactly, one of the speakers having packed in. Didn't really matter when it was just one man and his guitar. He'd already finished the first packet of crisps, plus a curried-vegetable samosa bought from a corner shop in Polwarth and washed down with a bottle of still water, which he tried to persuade himself made it a balanced meal. He was parked at the bottom end of Cafferty's street and as far as possible from any of the streetlamps. For once, he didn't want the gangster spotting him. Then again, he couldn't even be sure Cafferty was at home: the man's car was in the driveway, but that didn't mean much in itself. Some of the house lights were on, but maybe just to deter intruders. Rebus couldn't see any sign of the bodyguard who lived in the coach-house to the rear of the property. Cafferty never seemed to use him much, leading Rebus to believe he was on the payroll for reasons of vanity rather than necessity. Siobhan had texted a couple of times, ostensibly to ask if he fancied supper one night. He knew she'd be wondering what he was up to.

Two hours he'd been parked there, for no good reason. The fifteen-minute break spent at the corner shop had given Cafferty ample time to head out without Rebus being any the wiser. Maybe for once the gangster would be using his room at the Caledonian.

As a surveillance, it was laughable, but then he wasn't even sure it was a surveillance. Might be it was just a pretext for not going home, where the only thing waiting was a reissue of Johnny Cash's Live at San Quentin that he hadn't got round to playing. Kept forgetting to put it in the car, and wondered how it would sound on


a single speaker. First stereo he'd ever owned, one of the speakers had packed in after only a month. There was a track on a Velvet Underground album, all the instruments on one channel, vocals on the other, so that he couldn't listen to both together. It had taken him ages to buy his first CD player, and even now he preferred vinyl. Siobhan said it was because he was 'wilful'.

'Either that or I've just not got the herd mentality,' he'd argued back. These days, she had an MP3 player and bought stuff online.

He would tease her by asking if he could take a look at the album cover or lyric sheet.

Tou're missing the big picture,' he'd told her. 'A good album should be more than the sum of its parts.'

'Like police work?' she'd guessed, smiling. He hadn't bothered admitting that he was just coming to that…

He'd finished the crisps and folded the bag into a narrow strip so he could tie it into a knot. Didn't know why he did that, just seemed neater somehow. A mate back in army days had done it, and Rebus had followed suit. It made a change from putting a match under the empty packet and watching it shrivel to a miniature version of itself, like something from a doll's house. Simple pleasures, same as sitting in a car on a quiet nighttime street, music playing and belly full. He would give it another hour. He had The Who's Endless Wire for when he got fed up of Gentry. Hadn't yet worked out what the title meant, but because he'd bought the CD at least he had the lyrics.

A car was reversing out of some gates up the road. Looked to Rebus very much like Cafferty's gates, Cafferty's car. Being driven by the bodyguard, because there was a reading light on in the back seat, illuminating Cafferty's dome of a head. He seemed to be peering at some papers. Rebus waited. The car was turning downhill, meaning it would drive straight past him. He ducked down, waiting until its lights had passed. It signalled right, and Rebus turned the ignition, doing a three-point turn and following. At the Granville Terrace junction, Cafferty's car jumped out in front of a double-decker bus. Rebus had to wait for traffic to clear, but knew there was nothing Cafferty could do now until Leven Street. He stayed behind the bus until it signalled to pick up passengers, then moved out and past it. There was a gap of a hundred yards between him and the car in front. Eventually its brake lights glowed as it reached the traffic lights at the King's Theatre. As Rebus crawled nearer, he saw that something was wrong.

It wasn't Cafferty's car.


He drew up behind it. The car in front of it, stopped on red, wasn't Cafferty either. No way the bodyguard could have passed both cars and got through the lights while they were still on green.

Rebus had been behind the bus for maybe a couple of minutes.

There had been the Viewforth crossroads, but he'd looked both ways and seen no sign of Cafferty. Had to have turned sharpish down one of the narrow side streets, but which one? He did another three-point turn, a taxi sounding a complaint as it waited to follow him back along Gilmore Place. There were a few boarding houses whose front gardens had been paved and turned into car parking, but none of the vehicles matched Cafferty's Bentley.

“You wait two solid hours and then you lose him at the first hurdle,' Rebus muttered to himself. There was a convent, its gates open, but Rebus doubted he'd find the gangster there. Roads off to left and right, but none looked promising. At the Viewforth traffic lights he turned the car again. This time he signalled left and headed down a narrow one-way street towards the canal. It wasn't well lit and wouldn't be used much this time of night, meaning he'd stick out like a sore thumb, so when a kerbside parking space appeared, he reversed into it. There was a bridge across the canal, but it was blocked to everything except bikes and pedestrians. As Rebus headed that way on foot, he finally saw the Bentley. It was parked up next to some wasteland. A couple of canal boats were moored for the night, smoke billowing from the chimney of one of them. Rebus hadn't been down this way in ages. New blocks of flats had appeared from somewhere, but it didn't look as though many of them were occupied. Then he saw a sign stating that they were 'serviced apartments'. The Leamington Lift Bridge was a construction of wrought iron with a wooden roadway. It could be raised to let barges and pleasure boats through, but otherwise lay level with either bank of the canal. Two men were standing in the middle of it, their shadows thrown on to the water by a near-as dammit full moon. Cafferty was doing the talking, throwing out his arms to illustrate each point. The focus of his interest seemed to be the canal's far bank. There was a walkway stretching from Fountainbridge to the city limits and beyond. At one time it had been a treacherous spot, but a new footpath had been built and the canal seemed a lot cleaner than Rebus remembered it. Beyond the footpath stood a high wall, behind which, Rebus knew, was one of Edinburgh 's redundant industrial sites. Until about a year back, it had been a brewery, but now most of the buildings were in the process of being dismantled, the steel mash tuns removed.


Time was, the city had boasted thirty or forty breweries. Now, Rebus seemed to think there was just the one, not too far away on Slateford Road.

When the other man half turned to concentrate on what Cafferty was saying, Rebus recognised the silhouette of Sergei Andropov's distinctive face. The door to Cafferty's car opened, but only so his driver could get out to light a cigarette. Rebus heard another door, almost like an echo of the first. He decided to pretend he was on his way home, tucked his hands into his jacket, hunched his shoulders and started walking. Risking just the one glance back over his shoulder, he saw that there was another car parked alongside Cafferty's. Andropov's driver had decided on a cigarette break, too.

Cafferty and the Russian, meantime, had crossed the bridge and were still deep in conversation. Rebus wished he'd thought to bring a microphone of some kind – the engineer at Riordan's studio would have obliged. As it was, he couldn't make out anything. What was more, he was headed away from the scene, and it would raise suspicions were he suddenly to turn and retrace his steps. He passed a car workshop, locked up tight for the night. Past it were some tenement flats. He thought about going inside, climbing a flight and peering from the stairwell window. Instead, he stopped and lit a cigarette, then pretended to take a phone call, holding the mobile close to his face. He started walking again, but slowly, aware of the two men on the opposite bank. Andropov gave a whistle, and gestured to the drivers to stay put. Rebus saw that the canal was coming to an end at a recently completed basin, complete with a couple of more permanent-looking barges, one of which had a For Sale sign taped to its only window. New buildings had been thrown up here, too: office blocks, restaurants, and a bar with plenty of glass frontage and outside tables, which were being used tonight only by hardened smokers. One of the units was still to let, and Rebus couldn't see much action in the restaurants. The bar had a cash machine to one side of it, and he paused to use it, risking another glance towards the approaching figures.

But they weren't there any more.

He looked in through the windows of the bar and saw that they were removing their coats. Even from here, Rebus could hear pounding music. Several TV sets were also on the go, and the clientele was predominantly young and studenty. The only person who paid attention to the new arrivals was their waitress, who bounded over with a smile and took their order. No way Rebus could go in – the place wasn't so busy that he'd be able to hide in


the throng. And even supposing he did go in, he'd never get close enough to hear anything. Cafferty had chosen wisely: not even Riordan would have stood a chance. The two men could have a chat without fear of eavesdroppers. What to do next…? Plenty of dark corners out here, meaning he could bide his time and freeze his backside. Or he could retreat to his car. The two men would have to return to their own cars eventually. With a hundred quid extracted from the machine, Rebus made his choice. He walked back along the other side of the canal, crossed at the Leamington Bridge, and hummed to himself as he passed the piece of wasteground.

Not that the two drivers paid any attention, they were too busy talking to one another. Rebus doubted Cafferty's man spoke any Russian, meaning Andropov's driver must have a decent grasp of English.

Once installed in the Saab, Rebus considered switching the engine on, so he could have some heat. But an idling motor might make the guards curious, so he rubbed his hands together and drew his coat more tightly around him. It was a further twenty minutes before anything happened. He hadn't caught sight of Andropov and Cafferty, but both cars were on the move. He followed them back to Gilmore Place. They signalled to turn right at the Viewforth junction, and then right again at Dundee Street. Two minutes later they were pulling to a halt outside the bar. While one of its sides faced the canal, the other fronted Fountainbridge. Traffic here was busier, with plenty of parked cars. Rebus found a space near the old Co-op Funeral Home. Major works were in progress, and one building had lost everything but its facade, while a new construction rose up to fill the space behind. It was all insurance companies and banks around here, Rebus seemed to think, which made him think also of Sir Michael Addison, Stuart Janney and Roger Anderson – First Albannach men all. In his wing mirror, he could see that the two cars were idling but hadn't bothered to switch off their lights or engines. Give it a couple of years, he'd probably be empowered to arrest them under some CO2 injunction.

Except that he wouldn't be here in a couple of years…

'Bingo,' he said to himself as Andropov and Cafferty emerged.

They got into their separate cars and headed off, passing Rebus and making towards Lothian Road. Again, Rebus followed: harder to lose them this time. As they passed the end of King's Stables Road, Rebus felt his stomach tighten at the prospect that they might end up at the car park, but they stayed on the main drag and turned into Princes Street, Charlotte Square and Queen Street.


When passing Young Street, Rebus glanced down it towards the Oxford Bar.

'Not tonight, my love,' he cooed, blowing it a kiss.

At the end of Queen Street, they forked left on to Leith Walk, passing Gayfield Square. Great Junction Street, North Junction Street and they were on the waterfront to the west of Leith itself.

More redevelopment was happening here, blocks of apartments rising from what had been dockland and industrial estates.

'Hardly the tourist trail, Sergei,' Rebus muttered as the cars pulled over again. There was another car already sitting there, hazard lights on. Rebus drove past – no way he could park, the streets were deserted. Instead, he took the first turning he came to, did another of the three-pointers he was becoming so expert in, and crawled back to the junction. He signalled right and passed the three cars. Same deal: Cafferty and Andropov standing on the pavement, Cafferty with his arms stretched wide as if to encompass everything. But this time with two new attendants: Stuart Janney and Nikolai Stahov. The consular official stood with his gloved hands behind his back, a Cossack hat on his head. Janney looked thoughtful, arms folded, nodding to himself.

'Gang's all here,' Rebus commented.

There was a petrol station with its lights still on, so he pulled into the forecourt and dribbled some unleaded into the tank. Bought chewing gum from the cashier when he paid, and stood beside the pump, unwrapping a piece slowly and making as if to check messages on his phone. The cashier kept staring out at him, and he knew this wasn't an act he could keep up for long. He looked back along the street, but couldn't make out much. Cafferty still seemed to be holding the floor. A car had pulled up at the pump behind him. Two men got out. One busied himself with the nozzle while the other gave a few stretches and started walking towards the kiosk, but then seemed to change his mind and headed towards Rebus instead.

'Evening,' he said. He was big, bigger than Rebus. His belt was on its last notch and looked ready to snap. His head was shaved, some grey showing through. Pudgy face like an overfed baby who still objected every time the breast was taken away. Rebus just nodded a reply, flicking the gum wrapper into a bin.

The new arrival was studying Rebus's car. 'Bit of a clunker,' he offered, 'even as Saabs go.'

Rebus looked back at the man's own car. Vauxhall Vectra with a black paint job.


'Least I own mine,' he said.

The man gave a smile and a nod, as if to admit that, yes indeed, his belonged to the company. 'He wants a word,' he said, giving a flick of the head in the Vectra's direction.

'Oh aye?' Rebus seemed more interested in the packet of gum.

'Maybe you should talk to him, DI Rebus,' the man continued, a gleam in his eye as he clocked the effect: an emergency stop on the gum-chewing.

'Who are you?' Rebus asked.

'He'll tell you. I've got to pay for the petrol.' The man moved off.

Rebus stood his ground a moment. The cashier was looking interested.

The man at the Vectra was concentrating on the pump's meter. Rebus decided to go see him.

'You wanted me,' he said.

'Believe me, Rebus, you're the last thing I want.' The man was neither tall nor short, fat nor thin. His hair was brown, eyes somewhere between brown and green and set in the blandest of faces. Always blending in, and instantly forgettable – perfect for surveillance work.

'I'm assuming you're CID,' Rebus went on. 'Don't know you, though, which means you're from out of town.'

The man released his grip on the pump as the meter hit thirty pounds dead. He seemed satisfied with this outcome and replaced the nozzle in its holster. Only then, as he replaced the cap and wiped his hands on his handkerchief, did he deign to focus his attention on the man standing before him.

Tou're Detective Inspector John Rebus,' he stated. 'Based at Gayfield Square police station, B Division, Edinburgh.'

'Let me write this down in case I forget.' Rebus made show of reaching into a pocket for his notebook.

Tou have a problem with authority,' the man went on, 'which is why everyone's so relieved you're about to retire. They've only just stopped short of putting up bunting at Fettes HQ.'

'Seems you know all there is to know about me,' Rebus conceded. 'And so far all I know about you is that you drive the sort of overpowered cock-mobile favoured by a certain type of cop… usually the kind who's happiest investigating other cops.'

“You think we're The Complaints?'

'Maybe not, but you seem to know who they are.'

'I've been on their receiving end a couple of times myself,' the jfman confided. “You're not a proper cop otherwise.'

'Makes me a proper cop, then,' Rebus added.


'I know,' the man said quietly. 'Now get in and let's do some proper talking.'

'My car's…' But as Rebus looked over his shoulder, he saw that the baby-faced giant had somehow squeezed in behind the Saab's steering wheel and was turning the ignition.

'Don't worry,' Rebus's new friend assured him, 'Andy knows a thing or two about cars.' He was getting back into the Vectra's driving seat. Rebus walked around to the passenger side and climbed in. The big man – Andy – had left a dent in the seat. Rebus looked around for clues as to the men's identity.

'I like your thinking,' the driver admitted. 'But when you're undercover, you try not to give the game away.'

'I can't be much good, then, seeing how you had no trouble spotting me.'

'Not much good, no.'

'While your pal Andy couldn't look more like a copper if he had the word tattooed on his forehead.'

'Some people think he looks like a bouncer.'

'Bouncers tend to have that bit more refinement.'

The man had lifted a mobile phone for Rebus to see. 'Want me to relay that to him while he's in charge of your vehicle?'

'Maybe later,' Rebus said. 'So who are you then?'

'We're SCD,' the stranger said. Short for SCDEA, the Scottish Crime and Drugs Enforcement Agency. 'I'm DI Stone.'

'And Andy?'

'DS Prosser.'

'What can I do to help you, DI Stone?'

Tou can start by calling me Calum, and I hope it's all right to call you John?'

'Nice and friendly, eh, Calum?'

'Let's just aim for civil and see how it goes.'

The Saab was already signalling to turn off the main road. They entered the car park of a casino, not far from Ocean Terminal, where the Saab pulled to a stop, Stone drawing up alongside.

'Andy seems to know his way around,' Rebus commented.

'Football routes only. Andy's a Dunfermline fan, comes through here to watch his team play Hibs and Hearts.'

'Not for much longer, the way the Pars are struggling.'

'A sore point.'

'I'll bear that in mind…'

Stone had turned in his seat, the better to meet Rebus face to face. 'I'm being straight with you, because I think any other


approach might see your hackles rise. I hope you'll offer me the same courtesy.' He paused for a moment. 'Why are you so interested in Cafferty and the Russian?'

'A case I'm working.'

'The Todorov killing?'

Rebus nodded. 'Last drink he had before he died happened to be with Cafferty. Andropov was in the bar at the same time.'

'You think the pair of them are in cahoots?'

'I just wasn't sure how.'

'And now…?'

'Andropov's looking to buy a huge swathe of Edinburgh,' Rebus guessed. 'With Cafferty as his middleman.'

'Could be,' Stone conceded. Rebus was looking out of the passenger-side window towards his own car. Prosser seemed to be thumping the dodgy speaker with his foot.

'Not sure Andy shares my taste in music,' Rebus commented.

'Depends on whether you listen to nothing but Strathspey reels…'

'We may have a problem.'

Stone pretended to laugh. 'Bit unusual, isn't it?' he asked. 'A one-man stakeout? Is CID around these parts really that short of bodies?'

'Not everyone wants to work nights.'

'Tell me about it – wife's sometimes so surprised to see me, I keep thinking she must have the milkman hidden in the wardrobe.'

'You don't wear a wedding ring.'

'No, I don't. While you, John, are divorced with a grown-up daughter.'

'Anyone would think it was me you were interested in rather than Andropov.'

'I couldn't care less about Andropov. Authorities in Moscow are a gnat's bollock away from charging him with God-knows-what – fraud and deception and bribery…'

'He seems pretty relaxed about it. Is that because he's thinking of relocating?'

“Wait and see. But for what it's worth, whatever the reason for him being here, it seems legit.'

'Even with Cafferty in tow?'

'Thing about crooks, John, ninety per cent of everything they do is completely kosher.'

Rebus considered for a moment, the word overworld reverberating in his head. 'So if it's not Andropov you're after…'


'We've got your friend Cafferty in our sights, John, and this time he's going down. Reason your name flashed on the radar – all those run-ins down the years. But he's ours, John. Six of us have been slaving over him these past seven months. We've got phone taps and forensic accountants and a lot more besides, and we aim to have him in jail shortly with his ill-got gains reverting to the Exchequer.' Stone looked pleased with himself, but his eyes were cold, bright marbles. 'Only thing that could mess it up is someone blundering in, hellbent on their own half-baked theories and stoked by long-held prejudice.' Stone was shaking his head slowly. 'Can't let that happen, John.'

'Or in other words – butt out.'

'If I told you to do that,' Stone continued quietly, 'I have the suspicion you'd do exactly the opposite, just for the hell of it.' In the Saab, Prosser's head had disappeared from view as he wrestled with the door panel.

'What are you going to charge Cafferty with?'

'Maybe drugs, maybe money-laundering… tax evasion's always a good one. He doesn't think we know about his various offshore accounts…'

'Those forensic accountants you were mentioning?'

'They're so good, they have to stay anonymous – there'd be a price on their heads otherwise.'

'I can imagine.' Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. 'Anything tying Cafferty and Andropov to Alexander Todorov?'

'Only that Andropov knew him in Moscow.'

'Knew Todorov?'

'From years back… same school or college or something.'

'So you know a bit about Andropov… tell me, what's his connection to Cafferty? I mean, he's a different league, isn't he?'

'Listen to yourself, John… pushing sixty and frisky as a pup.'

Stone laughed again, but this time it sounded genuine. “You want Cafferty put away – that much is clear. But the best chance we have of giving you that little retirement gift is if you leave us to get on with it. Cafferty's not going to go to jail because you've been busy tailing him. He's going to be brought down by a paper trail: shell companies, VAT dodges, banks in Bermuda and Lithuania, sweeteners and pay-offs and doctored balance sheets.'

'That why you're busy tailing him?'

'We heard Cafferty on the phone to his lawyer, saying you'd pulled him in. Lawyer wanted to make an official complaint – called it “harassment”; Cafferty wouldn't have it, said it was actually “a bit


flattering”. That's what got us worried, John – don't want a loose cannon out there, not when we're readying to attack. We know you've been watching Cafferty's house – we've seen you do it. But I'm betting you've never seen us.'

'That's because you're so much better at it than I am,' Rebus said.

'You better believe it.' Stone leaned back in his seat, a gesture which seemed to have some significance for Prosser. The Saab's door opened and the fat man got out, tugging at the handle on the Vectra's passenger side.

'How's my hi-fi?' Rebus asked him.

'Good as new.'

Rebus turned his attention back to Stone. The detective handed him his business card.

'Be good,' Stone said. 'Leave the stakeouts to the professionals.'

'I'll sleep on it,' was all Rebus said. He got into his Saab and tried the stereo. The wonky speaker was working again, no sign of damage to the grille or door panel. Had to admit, he was impressed with that, but he managed not to let it show. Reversed out of the car park and made his way back to the main road. His options: a left turn into the city, or a right towards where he'd last seen Cafferty and Andropov. He signalled left and waited for the traffic to clear.

Then took the right turn.

But all three cars had gone. Rebus cursed under his breath. He could keep cruising, or maybe try the Caledonian Hotel. He could head to Cafferty's house and check if he was back.

'Just go home, John,' he told himself.

So that was what he did, working his way through Canonmills and the New Town and the Old Town, along the Meadows and then left into Marchmont itself and Arden Street. Where a parking space – the universe's small reward for his labours – awaited him.

As did two flights of stairs. He wasn't breathing too hard at the top.

Got a glass of water from the kitchen and gulped it, then poured in a fresh inch to carry through to the living room. Added the same amount of whisky and stuck Johnny Cash on the hi-fi before collapsing into his chair. But the Man in Black wasn't right. Rebus; felt a bit guilty, ejecting the CD. Cash had Fife roots, he seemed to i recall. Photos of him in some old newspaper visiting his hereditary home in Falkland. Rebus stuck John Martyn on instead, Grace and I Danger, one of the great break-up albums. Dark and brooding and I feeling just about perfect.


'Fuck,' Rebus announced, the single word summing up the day's adventures. He didn't know how to feel about the SCD men. Yes, he wanted Cafferty taken out of the game. But suddenly it was important that it be him making the bone-crunching tackle. So it couldn't just be about Cafferty; it was about the means and method, too. Years he'd been fighting the bastard, and now technology and some bespectacled penpusher might end up finishing the job. No mess, no fuss, no blood.

There should be mess.

There should be fuss.

John Martyn was singing about some people being crazy. A little later, he would move on to 'Grace and Danger' itself, followed by 'Johnny Too Bad'.

'Singing my whole life story,' John Rebus told his whisky glass.

What the hell was he going to do with himself if Cafferty was out of bounds? If Stone and his men did actually manage to put the gangster away, cleanly and coldly?

There should be mess.

There should be fuss.

There should be blood…

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