Day Seven. Thursday 23 November 2006

27

Rebus was parked on the other side of Gayfield Square from the police station. He had a pretty good view of the news crews. TV cameras were being erected or dismantled, depending on how early the teams had arrived. Journalists paced the pavement, mobile phones pressed to their ears, keeping a respectful distance from each other so as not to be tempted into a bit of eavesdropping.

Photographers were wondering how to get anything usable from the dismal cop-shop frontage. Rebus had watched a trickle of suits climb the steps and enter the building. He recognised some – Ray Reynolds, for example. Others were new to him, but they all looked like CID, meaning they'd been seconded to the team. Rebus bit into the remains of his breakfast roll and chewed slowly. When buying the roll, he'd added a coffee, newspaper and orange juice to the order. Skimming through the paper, he'd found more news of the ailing Litvinenko – the poisoning still a mystery – but no mention of Todorov and only a paragraph on Charles Riordan, at the foot of which he was directed to the obituary columns further back. He learned that Riordan had worked on various rock tours in the 1980s, including Big Country and Deacon Blue. One of the musicians was quoted as saying that 'Charlie could mix a sweet sound in an aircraft hangar.' Further back in time, he'd been a session musician, appearing on albums by Nazareth, Frankie Miller and the Sutherland Brothers, which meant Rebus probably owned stuff he'd played on.

'Wish I'd known,' he'd said to himself.

Staring out at the media scrum, he wondered who had leaked the information that the Todorov and Riordan deaths were being linked. Didn't really matter; bound to come out sooner or later.


But it did mean he'd lost an opportunity for leverage. There was a favour he was after, and it would have been nice to offer the titbit in return…

Still no sign of his quarry, however. But an official-looking car had drawn up, Corbyn stepping out, pausing for photos in his smart uniform, shiny cap, and black leather gloves. A morale booster for the troops would be the excuse, but Rebus knew Corbyn would have been alerted to the media. Nothing warmed a chief constable more than a hungry news gathering. He'd have them eating out of his hand. Rebus punched Siobhan's number into his phone.

'High Hiedyin alert,' he warned her.

'Who and where?'

'Corbyn himself, posing for the press. Give him two minutes and he'll be in your face.'

'Meaning you're nearby…'

'Don't worry, he can't see me. How's it all going?'

'We're going to have to speak to Nancy Sievewright yet again.'

'Has she had any more grief from the banker?'

'Not that I know of.' Clarke paused. 'So what else are you up to, apart from this morning's stakeout?'

'To tell you the truth, I'm just relieved I don't have to come in… not with officers of the calibre of Rat-Arse Reynolds to contend with.'

'Don't.'

'Thought I saw young Todd heading inside, too, clean suit and everything…'

Tes.'

'I was thinking you might've dropped him, now his brother's part of the deal.'

'Phyl shares your interest, but Todd's busy reviewing about two hundred hours of committee tapes made by Charles Riordan.

Should keep him out of harm's way.'

'And you've kept the Chief informed?'

'That's my call, not yours.'

Rebus tutted, and watched as Corbyn gave a final wave to the reporters before entering the reception area. 'He's inside,' he said into the mouthpiece.

'Suppose I'd better get ready to look surprised.'

'Pleasantly surprised, Shiv. Might get you an extra brownie point.'

'I'm going to talk to him about your suspension.'


'You'll be on a hiding to nothing.'

'Even so…' She drew in some breath. 'And talk of the devil…'

The phone went dead in Rebus's hand. He nipped it shut and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel.

'Where are you, Mairie?' he muttered. But just as he uttered these words, Mairie Henderson appeared around the corner from East London Street, moving briskly uphill towards the police station.

She had a notebook in one hand, pen and Dictaphone in the other, and a large black satchel slung over one shoulder. Rebus sounded his horn, but she paid no heed. He tried again with the same lack of effect, and didn't want to attract any attention other than hers.

So he gave up and got out of the car, taking up position next to it with hands in pockets. Henderson was in conversation with one of her colleagues. Then she collared a photographer and asked him what shots he'd been taking. Rebus recognised him, thought his name was Mungo or something, knew he'd worked with Mairie in the past. A text arrived on her phone and she checked it while still talking to the snapper, before punching some buttons and making a call. Phone to her ear, she moved away from the melee towards the patch of grass which sat in the middle of Gayfield Square.

There was some litter there – empty wine bottles and fast-food wrappers – which she frowned at as she spoke. Then she lifted her eyes and saw Rebus. He was smiling. She kept her gaze on him as she spoke. Conversation over, she skirted the patch of grass. Rebus was back in the car; no point letting anyone else see him. Mairie Henderson climbed into the passenger seat, holding her satchel on her lap.

°What's up?' she said.

'And hello to you, Mairie. How's the newspaper business?'

'Crumbling at the seams,' she admitted. 'Between the freesheets and the Internet, readers willing to pay for their news are rapidly disappearing.'

'And ad revenue with them?' Rebus guessed.

'Meaning cutbacks,' she sighed.

'Not so much work for a freelancer like yourself?'

'There are still plenty of stories, John, it's just that the editors are loath to pay for them. Haven't you noticed the tabloids – they advertise for readers to send in news and pics…' She rested her head against the back of the seat, closing her eyes for a moment.

Rebus felt an unexpected jab of sympathy. He'd known Mairie for years, during which time they'd traded tips and information. He'd never before known her to sound so beaten.


'Maybe I can help,' he offered.

Todorov and Riordan?' she guessed, opening her eyes and turning to face him.

'The very same.'

'How come you're out here rather than in there?' She gestured towards the police station.

'Because I'm after a favour.'

'Meaning you want me to do some digging?'

Tou know me too well, Mairie.'

'I know I've done you plenty of favours in the past, John, and the scales never seem to balance.'

'Might be different this time.'

She laughed tiredly. 'Another line you always use.'

'All right then, call it your retirement gift to me.'

She studied him more closely. 'I'd forgotten you were on your way out.'

'I'm already out. Corbyn's suspended me.'

'Why did he do that?'

'I badmouthed a pal of his called Sir Michael Addison.'

'The banker?' Her intonation lifted along with her spirits.

'There's a tie – a loose tie – between him and Todorov.'

'How loose?'

'The whole six degrees.'

'Intriguing nevertheless.'

'Knew you'd think so.'

'And you'll tell me the story?'

'I'll tell you what I can,' Rebus corrected her.

'In return for what exactly?'

'A man called Andropov.'

'He's the Russian industrialist.'

'That's right.'

'Recently in town as part of a trade delegation.'

'They all went home; Andropov stayed.'

'I didn't know that.' She pursed her lips. 'So what is it you want to know?'

'Who he is and how he got his money. Again, there's a hook-up to Todorov.'

'In that they're both Russian?'

'I've heard they knew one another, back in the mists of time.'

'And?'

'And the night Todorov died, he was drinking in the same bar as his old classmate.'


Mairie Henderson let out a low, sustained whistle. 'No one else has this?'

Rebus shook his head. 'And there's plenty more.'

'If I run a story, your bosses are bound to guess the source.'

'The source is back to being a civilian in a couple of days.'

'Meaning no comebacks?'

'No comebacks,' he agreed.

Her eyes narrowed. 'I'm betting there's plenty more dirt you could be dishing.'

'Saving it for my memoirs, Mairie.'

She studied him again. 'You'll be needing a ghost-writer,' she informed him. Didn't sound like she was joking.

The Scotsman newspaper was based in an up-to-date facility at the bottom of Holyrood Road, opposite the BBC and the Parliament building. Although Mairie Henderson had left her full-time job there several years back, she was still a known face and carried her own security pass.

'How did you wangle that?' Rebus asked as he signed himself in at reception. Henderson tapped the side of her nose as Rebus pinned on his visitor badge. The office behind the reception desk was large and open-plan and seemed to be staffed by a skeleton crew of only nine or ten bodies. Rebus said as much, and Henderson told him that he was living in the past.

'Doesn't take many hands to produce a paper these days.'

Tou don't sound too enthusiastic'

'The old building had a bit of character to it. And so did the old newsroom, everyone scuttling around like mad trying to put a story together. Editor with his sleeves rolled up, effing and blinding.

Subs smoking like chimneys and trying to sneak puns into the copy… cutting and pasting by hand. Everything's just gotten so…“

She sought the right word. 'Efficient,' she eventually said.

'Being a cop was more fun in the old days, too,' Rebus assured her, 'but we also made more mistakes.'

'At your age, you're allowed to be nostalgic'

'But you're not?'

She just shrugged and sat herself at a vacant computer, gesturing for him to pull up a chair. A middle-aged man with a scraggy beard and wearing half-moon glasses walked past and said hello.

'Hiya, Gordon,' Henderson replied. 'Remind me of the password, will you?'


'Connery,' he said.

She thanked him and then, watching him leave, gave a little smile. 'Half the people in here,' she told Rebus, her voice lowered, 'think I'm still on the payroll.'

'Handy to be able to waltz in.' He watched her tap in the password and start to search the computer for the name Andropov.

'First name?' she asked.

'Sergei.'

She searched again, halving the initial results.

'We could have logged on to the Internet anywhere,' Rebus told her.

'This isn't the Internet as such; it's a database of news stories.'

'From the Scotsman?'

'And every other paper you can think of.' She tapped the screen.

'Just over five hundred hits,' she stated.

'Seems a lot.'

She gave him a look. 'It's minuscule. Want me to print the pages, or are you happy to scroll?'

'Let's see how I get on.'

She rose from her chair and slid it aside so Rebus could roll his own chair closer to the screen. 'I'm going to do the rounds, see what the gossip is.'

'What do I say if anyone asks me what I'm up to?'

She thought for a moment. 'Tell them you're the economics editor.'

'Fair enough.'

She left him to it, climbing the stairs to the next level. Rebus started clicking and reading. The first few stories concerned Andropov's business dealings. With perestroika had come a loosening of state controls on industry, allowing men like Andropov to buy into base metals, mining and the rest. Andropov had specialised in zinc, copper and aluminium, before branching out into coal and steel. Ventures into gas and oil had stalled, but in other areas he'd made a killing. Too big a killing, perhaps, leading the authorities to investigate him for corruption. Depending on which investigative journalist you turned to, Andropov was either a martyr or a crook. After twenty minutes, Rebus tried refining the search by adding 'background' to the keywords. He was rewarded with a potted biography of Andropov. Born 1960, the same year as Alexander Todorov, in the Zhdanov suburb of Moscow, also the same as Todorov.

'Well, well,' Rebus muttered to himself. There was no information


as to which schools or colleges Andropov had attended. His early life, it seemed, hadn't been investigated at all. Rebus tried cross referencing Andropov's name with Todorov but drew a blank. But while he was looking at the entries for Todorov – seventeen thousand of them worldwide; Mairie had been right about Andropov's five hundred being small beer – he tried finding information on the poet's university career. Some of his lectures could be downloaded, but there was no mention of improprieties with students. Maybe Andropov had been spinning him a line.

'Hello.' The bearded man was back.

'Morning,' Rebus said. He seemed to remember that the man's name was Gordon, and Gordon was now peering over his shoulder at the screen.

'I thought Sandy was covering the Todorov story,' he commented.

Tes,'

Rebus said. 'I'm just adding background.'

'Ah.' Gordon nodded slowly, as though this made sense. 'So Sandy 's still stuck outside Gayfield Square?'

'Last I heard,' Rebus agreed.

'What's the betting the cops screw it up, as per?'

'I wouldn't risk my shirt on it,' Rebus said, voice hardening.

'Well, shoulder to the grindstone, nose to the mill…' Gordon was laughing as he moved away.

'Prick,' Rebus said, just loud enough to be overheard. Gordon stopped in his tracks, but didn't turn round, and started walking again after a moment. Either thought he'd misheard or didn't want to start something. Rebus got back to his reading, switching from Todorov to Andropov again, and almost immediately came across a name he recognised: Roddy Denholm. Seemed that Russia 's New Rich liked to buy art. The prices paid at auction were hitting record highs. A plutocrat wasn't a plutocrat without the obligatory Picasso or Matisse. Rebus put some of the news stories on to the screen. They were accompanied by photos taken at sales in Moscow, New York and London. Five million there, ten million here… Andropov was mentioned only tangentially, as someone with a taste for up-to-the-minute art, predominantly British. As such, he bought judiciously from galleries and shows rather than the likes of Sotheby's or Christie's. Recent purchases included two Alison Watts and work by Callum Innes, David Mach, Douglas Gordon and Roddy Denholm. Siobhan had mentioned Denholm to Rebus – the guy doing the art show at the Parliament, Riordan working for him. The journalist writing the piece had added that


'as all these artists are Scottish, Mr Andropov may be starting to specialise'. Rebus jotted down the names and started some new searches. A further fifteen minutes passed before Mairie Henderson returned with two coffees.

'Milk, no sugar.'

'It'll do, I suppose,' Rebus said by way of thanks.

'What did you say to Gordon?' She had pulled her chair in next to his.

'Why?'

'Seemed to think you'd taken against him.'

'Some people are touchy.'

'Whatever you said, he's come to the conclusion you must be management.'

'I always thought I had it in me…' Rebus glanced away from the screen long enough to give her a wink. 'If I hit the print button, where do the pages appear?'

'That machine over there.' She pointed towards a corner of the room.

'So I'd have to walk all the way over there to collect them?'

'You're management, John. Get someone to do it for you…'

28

The reporters had drifted away from Gayfield Square. Maybe because it was approaching lunchtime, or some other story had broken. Siobhan Clarke had been in a meeting with DCI Macrae and the Chief Constable. Corbyn wasn't enthusiastic about leaving her in charge, despite Macrae's spirited defence.

'Let's get DI Starr back from Fettes,' Corbyn had insisted.

“Yes, sir,' Macrae had said, capitulating at the last.

Afterwards, he'd sighed and told Clarke the Chief Constable was right. Clarke had just shrugged and watched him pick up the phone, asking to be connected to Derek Starr. Within half an hour, Starr himself, coiffeured and cufflinked, was in the CID suite and gathering the team together for what he termed 'a pep talk'.

'Isn't a PEP a pension scheme?' Hawes asked beneath her breath, her way of telling Clarke she was on her side. Clarke smiled back to let her know she appreciated it.

Having had only the briefest of briefings in Macrae's office, Starr focused on the 'tenuous links' between the two deaths, and insisted that they not read too much into them 'at this early stage'. He I wanted the team divided in two, with one group concentrating on Todorov and the other on Riordan. Then, turning his attention to Siobhan Clarke: 'You'll be the nexus, DS Clarke. Meaning if there points of connection between the two cases, you'll collate them.'

aking around the room, he asked if everyone understood how he ranted things to work. The murmurs of assent were drowned out ¦ a sustained belch from Ray Reynolds.

'Chilli con carne,' he stated, by way of apology, as officers nearby notebooks and sheets of paper. The phone on Clarke's desk and she picked it up, pressing a finger in her other ear to le the rest of Starr's oration.


'DS Clarke,' she announced.

'Is DI Rebus there?'

'Not at the moment. Can I help at all?'

'It's Stuart Janney.'

'Ah yes, Mr Janney. This is DS Clarke, we met at the Parliament.'

'Well, DS Clarke, your man Rebus asked for details of Alexander Todorov's bank account…'

“You've got them?'

'I know it's taken a while, but there were protocols…'

Clarke caught Hawes's eye. 'Where are you just now, Mr Janney?'

'Bank HQ.'

'Could a couple of my colleagues come and collect them?'

'Don't see why not; save me a trip.' Janney sniffed as he spoke.

'Thank you, sir. Will you be there for the next hour?'

'If I'm not, I'll leave the envelope with my assistant.'

'Very kind of you.'

'How's the investigation going?'

'We're making progress.'

'Glad to hear it. Papers this morning seem to think you're connecting Todorov's death to that house fire.'

'Don't believe everything you read.'

'Extraordinary, nevertheless.'

'If you say so, Mr Janney. Thanks again.' Clarke put the phone down and turned back to Phyllida Hawes. 'I'm getting you and Col out of here. Go to First Albannach's HQ and pick up Todorov's bank details from a man called Stuart Janney.'

'Thank you,' Hawes mouthed.

'And while you're gone, I might make myself scarce, too. Nancy Sievewright's going to be sick of the sight of me…'

Starr was clapping his hands, signalling that the meeting was at an end, 'unless anyone's got a really stupid question'. His eyes raked the room, daring any hand to be raised. 'Right then,' he barked, let's go to work!'

Hawes rolled her eyes and squeezed through the throng to where Colin Tibbet was standing, seemingly in thrall to Derek Starr.

Siobhan Clarke found Todd Goodyear sidling up next to her.

'You think DI Starr's going to want me kept on?' he asked quietly.

'Just keep your head down and hope he doesn't notice you.'

'And how do I do that?'

Tou're going through all those committee tapes, right?' She


watched Goodyear nod. 'Just keep doing that, and if he asks who you are, explain that you're the only sod willing to take on such a thankless task.'

'I'm still not sure what it is you think I might find.'

'Search me,' Clarke confessed. 'But you never know your luck.'

'Okay then.' Goodyear sounded far from convinced. 'And you're going to be liaison between the two halves of the inquiry?'

'Always supposing that's what a “nexus” is.'

'Does that mean you'll be giving the press conferences?'

Clarke responded with a snort. 'Derek Starr's not going to let anyone hog the cameras except him.'

'He looks more like a salesman than a detective,' Goodyear commented.

'That's because he is,' Clarke agreed. 'And the thing he's selling is himself. Problem is, he's bloody good at it.'

“You're not jealous?' They were being jostled by other detectives, as everyone tried to find a patch of office they could claim as their own.

'DI Starr will go far,' she said, leaving it at that. Goodyear watched as she slung her bag over one shoulder.

Tou're going somewhere,' he stated.

'Well spotted.'

'Anything I can help with?'

Tou've got all those tapes to listen to, Todd.'

'What's happened to DI Rebus?'

'He's in the field,' Clarke explained, reckoning the fewer people who knew about the suspension, the better.

Especially when Rebus, despite – or more accurately because of – the suspension, was most definitely still on the case.

Nancy Sievewright hadn't been at all happy when Clarke had announced herself at the intercom. But at last she'd come downstairs and told the detective that she wanted hot chocolate.

'There's a place near the top of the street.'

Inside the cafe, they ordered their drinks and settled on opposing leather couches. Sievewright looked like she'd not had enough sleep. She was still wearing a short skirt, threads trailing from it, and a thin denim jacket, but her legs were wrapped in thick black tights and there were knitted fingerless gloves on her hands. She'd asked for whipped cream and marshmallows in her drink, and cupped the mug between her palms as she sipped and chewed.


'Any more grief from Mr Anderson?' Clarke asked. Sievewright just shook her head. 'We spoke to Sol Goodyear,' Clarke continued.

Tou didn't tell us he lived in the same street the body was found.'

'Why should I?'

Clarke just shrugged. 'He doesn't seem to see himself as your boyfriend.'

'He's protecting me,' Sievewright snapped back.

'From what?' Clarke asked, but the young woman wasn't about to answer that. There was music playing quite loudly, and a speaker in the ceiling directly overhead. It was some sort of dance track with a pulsing rhythm and it was giving Clarke a headache. She went to the counter and asked for it to be turned down. The assistant obliged, albeit grudgingly and with minimal effect.

'Why I like this place,' Sievewright said.

'The surly staff?'

'The music' Sievewright peered at Clarke over the rim of her mug. 'So what did Sol say about me?'

'Just that you're not his girlfriend. Speaking to him got me wondering, though…'

'What about?'

'About the night of the attack.'

'It was some nutter in a pub…'

'I don't mean the attack on Sol; I'm talking about the poet. You were on your way to buy stuff from Sol. So you either stumbled across the body on your way up the lane, or on your way back down…'

'What's the difference?' Sievewright was shuffling her feet, looking down at them as if they were no longer under her control.

'Quite a big difference, actually. Remember when I came to your flat that first time?'

Sievewright nodded.

'There was something you said… the way you said something.

And I was thinking about it yesterday after I'd been talking to Sol.'

The young woman took the bait. 'What?' she asked, trying not to sound too interested.

'You told us: “I didn't see anything.” But you put the stress on “see” when I'm guessing most people would have emphasised the “anything”. Made me wonder if you were doing that thing of not quite telling the truth but at the same time managing not to tell an outright lie.'

“You've lost me.' Sievewright's knees were bouncing like pistons.


'I think maybe you'd gone to Sol's door, rung the bell and waited.

You knew he was expecting you. Maybe you stood there for a while, thinking he'd be back soon. Maybe you tried his mobile, but he wasn't answering.'

'Because he was getting himself stabbed.'

Clarke nodded slowly. 'So you're outside his flat, and suddenly you hear something at the bottom of the lane. You go to the corner and take a look.'

But Sievewright was shaking her head emphatically.

'Okay then,' Clarke conceded, 'you don't see anything, but you do hear something, don't you, Nancy?'

The young woman looked at her for a long time, then broke off eye contact and took another slurp of hot chocolate. When she spoke, the music covered whatever it was she said.

'I didn't catch that,' Clarke apologised.

'I said yes.'

You heard something?'

'A car. It pulled up and…' She paused, lifting her eyes to the ceiling in thought. Eventually, she looked at Clarke again. 'First off, there was this groaning. I thought maybe a drunk was about to be sick. His words seemed all slurred. Could have been saying something in Russian, though. That would make sense, wouldn't it?' She seemed keen for Clarke to agree, so Clarke nodded again.

'And then a car?' she prompted.

'It pulled up. Door opened, and I heard this noise, just a dull sort of thump and no more groans.'

'How can you be sure it was a car?'

'Didn't sound like a van or a lorry.'

Tou didn't look?'

'By the time I turned the corner, it was gone. There was just a body slumped next to the wall.'

'I think I know why you screamed,' Clarke stated. You thought jit was Sol?'

'At first, yes. But when I got close, I saw it wasn't.'

Why didn't you run?'

“That couple arrived. I did try to leave, but the man told me I lould stay. If I'd scarpered, it'd have looked bad for me, wouldn't t? And he could've given you my description.'

, True enough,' Clarke admitted. 'What made you think it might Sol?'

“When you deal drugs, you make enemies.'

Such as?'


'The bastard who knifed him outside the pub.'

Clarke was nodding thoughtfully. 'Any others?'

Sievewright saw what she was getting at. “You think maybe they killed the poet by mistake?'

'I'm not sure.' How much sense did it make? The trail of blood led back to the multistorey, meaning whoever had attacked Todorov must've known he wasn't Sol Goodyear. But as for the coup de grace… Well, it could have been the same person, but not necessarily.

And Sievewright was spot on – dealers made enemies. Maybe she would put that point to Sol himself, see if he had any names for her.

Likelihood was, of course, that he'd keep them to himself, maybe intent on exacting his own revenge. She imagined Sol rubbing at the ragged line of stitches, as if trying to erase them. Imagined the two boys growing up, Sol and his wee brother Todd, grandad dead in jail and parents going to pieces. At what point had Todd decided to cut his brother adrift? And had Sol suffered as a result?

'Can I get another?' Sievewright was asking, lifting her empty mug.

'Your turn to pay,' Clarke reminded her.

'I've got no money.'

Clarke sighed and handed her a fiver. 'And get me another cappuccino,'

she said.

29

'He's a hard man to pin down,' Terence Blackman said, fluttering his hands.

Blackman ran a gallery of contemporary art on William Street in the city's west end. The gallery consisted of two rooms with white walls and sanded wooden flooring. Blackman himself was barely five feet tall, skinny with a slight paunch, and was probably thirty or forty years older than he dressed. The thatch of brown hair looked dyed, and might even have been an expensive weave-job. An assortment of nips and tucks had stretched the skin tight over the face, so that Blackman's range of expressions was limited. According to the web, he acted as Roddy Denholm's agent.

'So where is he now?' Rebus asked, stepping around a sculpture which looked like a mass brawl of wire coat hangers.

'Melbourne, I think. Could be Hong Kong.'

'Any of his stuff here today?'

There's actually a waiting list. Half a dozen buyers, money no object.'

'Russians?' Rebus guessed.

Blackman stared at him. 'I'm sorry, Inspector, why was it you wanted to see Roddy?'

'He's been working on a project at the Parliament.'

'An albatross around all our necks,' Blackman sighed.

'Mr Denholm needed bits and pieces of recording done, and the responsible has turned up dead.'

'What?'

TUb name's Charles Riordan.'

'Dead?'


'I'm afraid so. There was a fire…'

Blackman slapped his palms to his cheeks. 'Are the tapes all right?'

Rebus stared at him. 'Nice of you to show concern, sir.'

'Oh, well, yes, of course it's a terrible tragedy for the family and… um…'

'I think the recordings are fine.'

Blackman gave silent thanks and then asked what this had to do with the artist.

'Mr Riordan was murdered, sir. We're wondering if he'd recorded something he shouldn't have.'

'At the Parliament, you mean?'

'Any reason why Mr Denholm chose the Urban Regeneration Committee for his project?'

'I've not the faintest idea.'

'Then you see why I need to talk to him. Maybe you've got a number for his mobile?'

'He doesn't always answer.'

'Nevertheless, a message could be left.'

'I suppose so.' Blackman didn't sound keen.

'So if you could give me the number,' Rebus pressed. The dealer sighed again and gestured for Rebus to follow him, unlocking a door at the back of the room. It was a cramped office, the size of a box room and with unframed canvases and uncanvased frames everywhere.

Blackman's own phone was charging, but he unplugged it and pressed the keys until the artist's number showed on the screen. Rebus punched it into his own phone, while asking how much Denholm's work tended to fetch.

'Depends on size, materials, man-hours…'

'A ballpark figure.'

'Between thirty and fifty…'

'Thousand pounds?' Rebus awaited the dealer's nodded confirmation.

'And how many does he knock out each year?'

Blackman scowled. 'As I told you, there's a waiting list.'

'So which one did Andropov buy?'

'Sergei Andropov has a good eye. I'd happened to acquire an early example of Roddy's work in oils, probably painted the year he left Glasgow School of Art.' Blackman lifted a postcard from the desk.

It was a reproduction of the painting. 'It's called Hopeless.'

To Rebus, it looked as if a child had taken a line for a walk.

Hopeless just about summed it up.


'Fetched a record price for one of Roddy's pre-video works,' the dealer added.

'And how much did you pocket, Mr Blackman?'

'A percentage, Inspector. Now if you'll excuse me…'

But Rebus wasn't about to let go. 'Nice to see my taxes going into your pocket.'

'If you mean the Parliament commission, you've no need to worry -First Albannach Bank is underwriting the whole thing.'

'As in paying for it?'

Blackman nodded abruptly. 'Now you really must excuse me…'

'Generous of them,' Rebus commented.

'FAB is a tremendous patron of the arts.'

It was Rebus's turn to nod. 'Just a couple more questions, sir -any idea why Andropov is moving into Scottish art?'

'Because he likes it.'

'Is the same true of all these other Russian millionaires and billionaires?'

'I've no doubt some are buying for investment, others for pleasure.'

'And some as a way of letting everyone else know how rich they are?'

Blackman offered the thinnest of smiles. 'There may be an element of that.'

'Same as with their Caribbean yachts – mine's bigger than yours.

And the mansions in London, the jewellery for the trophy wife…'

'I'm sure you're right.'

'Still doesn't explain the interest in Scotland.' They'd moved back out of the office into the gallery space.

'There are old ties, Inspector. Russians revere Robert Burns, for example, perhaps seeing him as an ideal of Communism. I forget which leader it was – Lenin, maybe – who said that if there was to be a revolt in Europe, it would most likely start in Scotland.'

'But that's all changed, hasn't it? We're talking capitalists, not Communists.'

'Old ties,' Blackman repeated. 'Maybe they still think there's a revolution on the cards.' And he smiled wistfully, making Rebus think the man had at one time been a card-carrier. Hell, why -not? Rebus had grown up in Fife, solidly working class and full coal mines. Fife had elected Britain's first – maybe even the 9nly – Communist MP. In the 1950s and 60s there'd been plenty of smmunist councillors. Rebus wasn't old enough for the General pStrike, but he remembered an aunt telling him about it – barricades


erected, towns and villages cut off – UDI, basically. The People's Kingdom of Fife. He had a little smile to himself, nodding at Terence Blackman.

'By revolution you mean independence?'

'Could hardly make a worse fist of it than the current lot…'

Blackman's mobile was ringing, and he pulled it from his pocket, walking away from Rebus and giving a little flick of the hand, hinting at dismissal.

'Thanks for your time,' Rebus muttered, heading for the door.

On the pavement outside he tried the artist's number. It rang and rang until an automated voice told him to leave a message. He did so, then tried another number. Siobhan Clarke picked up.

'Enjoying your leisure time?' she asked.

Tou're one to talk – is that an espresso machine I hear?'

'Had to get out of the station. Corbyn's brought Derek Starr back.'

'We knew it would happen.'

'We did,' she conceded. 'So I'm having a bit of a blether with Nancy Sievewright. She tells me that the night of the Todorov killing, she was at Sol's house trying to get some stuff. Only Sol was otherwise occupied, as we now know. But Nancy heard a car draw up and someone jump out and whack our poet across the back of the head.'

'So he was attacked twice?'

'It would seem so.'

'Same person each time?'

'Don't know. I was beginning to wonder if Sol himself might have been the intended target second time around.'

'It's a possibility.'

Tou sound sceptical.'

'Is Nancy in earshot?'

'Popped to the loo.'

'Well, for what it's worth, how about this: Todorov's jumped in the car park, that much we know. He staggers into the night, but the attacker calmly gets into his or her car and follows, decides to finish the job.'

'Meaning the car was in the multistorey?'

'Not necessarily… could've been parked on the street. Is it worth another trip to the City Chambers? Go back through the video. Up till now, we were looking at pedestrians…'

'Ask your friend at Central Monitoring to bring us numberplates for any cars going in or out of King's Stables Road?' She seemed


to be considering it. 'Thing is, Starr's busily rewinding to the mugging scenario.'

'You've not told him about the car?'

'Not yet.'

'Are you going to?' he asked teasingly.

'The alternative being, keep it to myself, just like you would?

Then if I'm right and he's wrong, I get the applause?'

“You're learning.'

'I'll have to mull it over.' But he could tell she was already half convinced. 'So what are you up to? I hear traffic'

'Bit of window-shopping.'

'Pull the other one.' She paused again. 'Nancy's coming back. I better hang up…'

'Tell me, did Starr make one of his “into the breach” speeches?'

'What do you think?'

'I'll bet Goodyear lapped it up.'

'I'm not so sure. Col liked it, though… I've sent him and Phyl to First Albannach. Janney's got Todorov's account details.'

'Took him long enough.'

'Well, he's had a lot on his plate – wining and dining the Russians at Gleneagles…'

Not to mention, Rebus could have added, hanging around the Granton seafront with Cafferty and Andropov… Instead, he said his goodbyes and hung up. Looked around him at the small shops: women's boutiques mostly. Realised he was a two-minute walk from the Caledonian Hotel.

Why the hell not?' he asked himself. Answer: no reason at all.

At reception, he asked for 'Mr Andropov's room'. But no one was answering. The clerk asked if he wanted to leave a message, but he shook his head and sauntered into the bar. It wasn't Freddie serving. This bartender was young and blonde and had an East European accent. To her opening question, Rebus replied that he'd have a Highland Park. She offered him ice, and he sensed she was new either to the job or to Scotland. He shook his head and asked where she was from.

'Cracow,' she said. 'In Poland.'

Rebus just nodded. His ancestors had come from Poland, but that was as much as he knew about the place. He slid on to a stool and scooped up some nuts from a bowl.

'Here we are,' she said, placing the drink in front of him.

'And some water, please.'

'Of course.' She sounded flustered, annoyed to have made the


mistake. About a pint of tap water arrived in a jug. Rebus added the merest dribble to the glass and swirled it in his hand.

'Meeting someone?' she asked.

'He's here to see me, I think.' Rebus turned towards the speaker.

Andropov must have been sitting in the same booth, the one with the blind spot. He managed a smile, but his eyes were cold.

'Henchman not with you?' Rebus asked.

Andropov ignored this. 'Another bottle of water,' he told the barkeeper. 'And no ice this time.'

She nodded and took the bottle from a fridge, unscrewing it and pouring.

'So, Inspector,' Andropov was saying, 'is it really me you're looking for?'

'Just happened to be in the area. I was visiting Terence Blackman's gallery.'

“You like art?' Andropov's eyebrows had gone up.

'I'm very keen on Roddy Denholm. Especially those early ones where he got the pre-school kids to do some doodles.'

'I think you are being mocking.' Andropov had picked up his drink. 'On my room,' he instructed the bartender. Then, to Rebus: 'Join me, please.'

'This is the same booth?' Rebus asked as they got settled.

'I'm not sure I understand.'

'The booth you were in, the night Alexander Todorov was here.'

'I didn't even know he was in the bar.'

'Cafferty paid for his drink. After the poet had gone, Cafferty then came over here and joined you.' Rebus paused. “You and the Minister for Economic Development.'

'I'm impressed,' Andropov seemed to admit. 'Really I am. I can see you are not a man to cut corners.'

'Can't be bought off, either.'

'I'm sure of that, too.' The Russian gave another smile; again, it didn't reach his eyes.

'So what were you chatting about with Jim Bakewell?'

'Strange as it may seem, we were discussing economic development.'

Tou're thinking of investing in Scotland?'

'I find it such a welcoming country.'

'But we've none of the stuff you're interested in – no gas or coal or steel…'

“You do have gas and coal actually. And oil, of course.'

'About twenty years' worth.'

'In the North Sea, yes – but you're forgetting the waters to the west. Plenty of oil in the Atlantic, Inspector, and eventually we will master the technology, allowing us to extract it. Then there are the alternative energies – wind and wave.'

'Don't forget all that hot air in the Parliament.' Rebus took a sip of his drink, savouring it. 'Doesn't explain why you're eyeing up derelict land in Edinburgh.'

Tou do keep a watchful eye, don't you?'

'Comes with the territory.'

'Is it because of Mr Cafferty?'

'Could be. How did you two get to know one another?'

'Through business, Inspector. All of it above board, I assure you.'

'That why the authorities back in Moscow are preparing to take you down?'

'Politics,' Andropov explained with a pained expression. 'And a refusal to grease the necessary palms.'

'So you're being made an example of?'

'Events will run their course…' He lifted his glass to his lips.

'A lot of rich men are in jail in Russia. You're not scared of joining them?' Andropov just shrugged. 'Lucky you've made plenty of friends here – not just Labour, but the SNP, too. Must be nice to feel so wanted.' Still the Russian said nothing, so Rebus decided on a change of topic. 'Tell me about Alexander Todorov.'

'What would you like to know?'

“You mentioned that he got kicked out of his teaching post for being too friendly with the students.'

Tea?

'I'm not finding anything about it in the records.'

'It was hushed up, but plenty of people in Moscow knew.'

'Funny, though, that you'd tell me that and forget to mention that the two of you grew up together – same age, same neighbourhood…'

Andropov looked at him. 'Once again, I admit I'm impressed.'

'How well did you know him?'

'Hardly at all. I'm afraid I came to represent everything Alexander detested. He would probably use words like “greed” and “ruthlessness”, while I prefer “self-reliance” and “dynamism”.'

'He was an old-fashioned Communist?'

Tou know the English word “bolshie”? It has its roots in “bolshe' vism”, a Russian word. The Bolsheviks were fairly ruthless them- ¦elves, but these days bolshie just means awkward or stubborn… that's what Alexander was.'


'You knew he was living in Edinburgh?'

'I think I saw it mentioned in a newspaper.'

'Did the two of you meet?'

'No.'

'Funny he started drinking here…'

'Is it?' Andropov shrugged again and took another sip of water.

'So here you both are in Edinburgh, two men who grew up together, famous in your separate ways, and you didn't think to get in touch?'

'We would have had nothing to say to one another,' Andropov declared. Then: 'Would you like another drink, Inspector?'

Rebus noticed that he'd finished the whisky. He shook his head and started to rise from the booth.

'I'll be sure to mention to Mr Bakewell that you dropped by,'

Andropov was saying.

'Mention it to Cafferty, too, if you like,' Rebus retorted. 'He'll tell you, once I get my teeth into something, I don't let go.'

'And yet the pair of you seem very similar… A pleasure talking to you, Inspector.'

Outside, Rebus tried to get a cigarette lit in the swirling breeze.

He had his head tucked into his jacket when the taxi pulled up, which meant he escaped the attention of Megan Macfarlane and Roddy Liddle, the MSP and her assistant marching into the hotel lobby, eyes fixed ahead of them. Rebus, blowing smoke skywards, wondered if Sergei Andropov would hesitate to tell them, too, about his recent visitor…

30

As Siobhan Clarke walked into the narrow CID room at West End police station, there was applause. Only two of the six desks were occupied, but both men wanted to show their appreciation.

'Feel free to keep Ray Reynolds as long as you like,' DI Shug Davidson added with a grin, before introducing her to a detective constable called Adam Bruce. Davidson had his feet up on the desk, chair tilted back.

'Nice to see you hard at it,' Clarke commented. “Where's everyone else?'

'Probably getting some Christmas shopping done. Can I expect a little something from you this year, Shiv?'

'I was thinking of sticking some gift-wrap on Ray and posting him back.'

'Don't you dare. Any joy with Sol Goodyear?'

'I'm not sure “joy” is quite the right word.'

'He's a sod, isn't he? Couldn't be more different from his brother.

You know Todd goes to church on a Sunday?'

'So he said.'

Talk about chalk and cheese…' Davidson was shaking his head slowly.

'Can we talk about Larry Fintry instead?'

'What about him?'

'Is he on remand?'

Davidson gave a snort. 'Cells are bursting at the seams, Shiv – you know that as well as I do.'

'So he's out on bail?'

'Anything short of genocide and cannibalism these days, bail's a npp.'


'So where can I find him?'

'He's in a hostel up in Bruntsfield.'

'What sort of hostel?'

'Addiction problems. Doubt he'd be there this time of day, though.'

Davidson checked his watch. 'Hunter Square or the Meadows, maybe.'

'I was just in a cafe off Hunter Square.'

'See any nutters hanging around?'

'I saw a few street people,' Clarke corrected him. She'd noticed that although Bruce was glued to a computer screen, he was actually playing Minesweeper.

'The benches behind the old hospital,' Davidson was saying, 'he likes to hang out there sometimes. Might be a bit chilly, though.

Drop-in centres on the Grassmarket and Cowgate are another possibility… What is it you want him for?'

'I'm starting to wonder if there might be a price on Sol Goodyear's head.'

Davidson gave a hoot. 'Little turd's not worth it.'

'All the same…'

'And no one in their right mind would give Crazy Larry the job.

All this comes down to, Shiv, is Sol hassling Larry for money owed.

It was probably when Sol said there'd be no more dope coming that Larry blew one of his last remaining fuses.'

'Rewiring, that's what the guy needs,' DC Bruce added, eyes still fixed on the game in front of him.

'If you want to go traipsing after Crazy Larry,' Davidson said, 'that's fine, but don't expect to get anything out of him. And I still don't see Sol Goodyear as the target of a hit.'

'He must have enemies.'

'But he's got friends, too.'

Clarke narrowed her eyes. 'Meaning?'

'Word is, he's back in Big Ger's employ. Well, not “employ”

exactly, but selling with Cafferty's blessing.'

'Any proof of that?'

Davidson shook his head. 'After we spoke on the phone, I made a few calls, and that's what I started to hear. Tell you something else, though…'

'What?'

'Birdies are saying Derek Starr's been brought back from Fettes to head your inquiry.' At the next desk, Bruce started to make a little clucking sound. 'Bit of a kick in the teeth, isn't it?' Davidson added.


'Stands to reason Derek would take over – he's a rank above me.'

'Didn't seem to bother the bosses when it was you and a certain DI called Rebus…'

'I really am going to send Reynolds back here,' Clarke warned him.

'You'll have to ask Derek Starr's permission.'

She stared him out and he burst into a laugh. 'Have your fun while you can,' she told him, heading for the door.

Back in her car, she wondered what else she could do to keep away from Gayfield Square. Answer: not much. Rebus had mentioned CCTV. Maybe she could make a detour by way of the City Chambers and put in that request. Or she could call Megan Macfarlane and arrange another meeting, this time to talk about Charles Riordan and his taping of her committee. Then there was Jim Bakewell – Rebus wanted her to ask about the drink he'd had with Sergei Andropov and Big Ger Cafferty.

Cafferty…

He seemed to loom over the city, and yet very few of Edinburgh's citizens would even know of his existence. Rebus had spent half his career trying to bring the gangster down. With Rebus retired, the problem would become hers, not because she wanted it but because she doubted Rebus would let it go. He'd want her to finish what he couldn't. She thought again of the nights they'd been staying late at the office, Rebus running his most galling unsolveds past her. What was she supposed to do with them, these legacies? They felt to her like unwanted baggage. She had a pair of ugly pewter candlesticks at home, gifted to her in an aunt's will. Couldn't bring herself to throw them out, so they lay tucked away at the back of a drawer – also, she felt, the best place for Rebus's old case-notes.

Her phone rang, 556 prefix: someone was calling from Gayfield Square. She thought she could guess who.

'Hello?'

Sure enough, it was Derek Starr. 'You've snuck out on me,' he said, trying to inject some surface levity into the accusation.

'Had to go talk to West End.'

'What about?'

'Sol Goodyear.'

There was a momentary silence. 'Remind me,' he said.

'Lives close to where Todorov was found. It was a friend of his who discovered the body.'

'And?'


'Just wanted to confirm a few details.'

He would know damned well she was holding something back, just as she knew there was nothing he could do about it.

'So when can we expect to see you back in the body of the kirk, DS Clarke?'

'I've got one more stop to make at the City Chambers.'

'CCTV?' he guessed.

'That's right. I should only be half an hour or so.'

'Heard anything from Rebus?'

'Not a dicky-bird.'

'DCI Macrae tells me he's been suspended.'

'That's about the size of it.'

'Not much of a swansong, is it?'

'Was there anything else, Derek?'

Tou're my number two, Siobhan. That's how it stays unless I think you're playing away.'

'Meaning what exactly?'

'Don't want you picking up any more bad habits from Rebus.'

Unable to take any more, she ended the call. 'Pompous git,' she muttered, turning the ignition.

'So what did you get up to last night, then?' Hawes asked. She was in the passenger seat, Colin Tibbet driving.

'Couple of drinks with some mates.' He glanced in her direction.

Tou jealous, Phyl?'

'Jealous of you and your beery pals? Sure am, Col.'

'Thought so,' he said with a grin. They were heading for the south-east corner of the city, towards the bypass and the green belt. It hadn't surprised too many of the locals when FAB had been granted permission to construct their new HQ on what had previously been designated as protected land. A badger's sett had been relocated and a nine-hole golf course purchased for the exclusive use of employees. The huge glass building was just under a mile from the new Royal Infirmary, which Hawes guessed was handy for any bank employees suffering paper cuts from counting all those notes. On the other hand, it wouldn't surprise her if the FAB compound turned out to have its own BUPA sickbay.

'I stayed in, since you ask,' she said now, watching Col slow to a halt as the lights ahead turned red. He did that thing they taught you in driving schools – not braking hard but changing back down through the gears. Up till now, everyone she'd met had started


ignoring the manoeuvre as soon as they passed their test, but not Colin. She bet he ironed his underpants, too.

It was really starting to rile her that despite each deep-seated fault she located, she still fancied him. Maybe it was a case of any port in a storm. She hated the idea that she couldn't live her life perfectly adequately without a bloke in tow, but it was beginning to look that way.

'Anything good on the box?' he asked her.

'A documentary about how men are becoming women.' He looked at her, trying to work out whether she was lying. 'It's true,' she insisted. 'All that oestrogen in the tap water. You lot gulp it down and then start growing breasts.'

He concentrated for a moment. 'How does oestrogen get into the tap water?'

'Do I have to spell it out?' She mimed the action of flushing a toilet. 'Then there's all the additives in meat. It's changing your chemical balance.'

'I don't want my chemical balance changed.'

She had to laugh at that. 'Might explain something, though,' she teased him.

'What?'

'Why you've started fancying Derek Starr.' He scowled, and she laughed again. 'Way you were watching him give that speech… Might've been Russell Crowe in Gladiator or Mel Gibson in Braveheart.'

'I saw Braveheart in the cinema,' Tibbet told her. 'The audience were on their feet, cheering and punching the air. Never seen anything like it.'

'That's because Scots don't often get to feel good about themselves.'

Tou think we need independence?'

'Maybe,' she conceded. 'Just so long as people like First Albannach don't go scuttling south.'

'What was their profit last year?'

'Eight billion, something like that.'

Tou mean eight million?'

'Eight billion,' she repeated.

'That can't be right.'

You calling me a liar?' She was wondering how he'd managed to turn the conversation around without her noticing.

'Makes you wonder, doesn't it?' he asked now.

'Wonder what?'


'Where the real power is.' He took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at her. 'Want to do something later?'

'With you, you mean?'

He offered a shrug. 'Christmas fair opens tonight. We could go take a look.'

'We could.'

'And a bite of supper after.'

'I'll think about it.'

They were signalling to turn in at the gates of First Albannach Bank's HQ. Ahead of them lay a glass and steel structure four storeys high and as long as a street. A guard emerged from the gatehouse to take their names and the car's registration.

'Parking bay six-oh-eight,' he told them. And though there were plenty of spaces closer to their destination, Hawes watched her colleague head obediently towards 608.

'Don't worry,' she told him as he pulled on the handbrake, 'I can walk from here.'

And walk they did, passing serried ranks of sports cars, family saloons and 4x4s. The grounds were still being landscaped, and just behind one corner of the main complex could be glimpsed gorse bushes and one of the golf course's fairways. When the doors slid open, they were in a triple-height atrium. There was an arcade of shops behind the reception desk: pharmacy, supermarket, cafe, newsagent. A noticeboard provided information about the creche, gym and swimming pool. Escalators led to the next level up, with glass-fronted lifts serving the floors above that. The receptionist beamed a smile at them.

'Welcome to FAB,' she said. 'If you'll just sign in and show me some photo ID…'

They did so, and she announced that Mr Janney was in a meeting but his secretary was expecting them.

'Third floor. She'll meet you at the lift.' They were handed laminated passes and another smile. A security guard processed them through a metal-detector, after which they scooped up keys, phones and loose change.

'Expecting trouble?' Hawes asked the man.

'Code green,' he intoned solemnly.

'A relief to us all.'

The lift took them to the third floor, where a young woman in a black trousersuit was waiting. The A4-sized manila envelope was held out in front of her. As Hawes took it, the woman nodded once, then turned and marched back down a seemingly endless corridor.


Tibbet hadn't even had a chance to exit the lift, and as Hawes stepped back into it the doors slid shut and they were on their way back down again. No more than three minutes after entering the building, they were out in the cold and wondering what had just happened.

'That's not a building,' Hawes stated. 'It's a machine.'

Tibbet signalled his agreement by whistling through his teeth, then scanned the car park.

'Which bay are we in again?'

'The one at the end of the universe,' Hawes told him, starting to cross the tarmac.

Back in the passenger seat, she pulled open the envelope and xbrought out a dozen sheets: photocopied bank statements. There Was a yellow Post-it stuck to the front. The handwritten message speculated that Todorov had funds elsewhere, as indicated by the client when he opened his account. There was a single transfer involving a bank in Moscow. The note was signed 'Stuart Janney'.

'He was comfortable enough,' Hawes announced. 'Six grand in the current account and eighteen in savings.' She checked the transaction dates: no significant deposits or withdrawals in the days leading up to his death, and no transactions at all thereafter.

'Whoever took his cash card, they don't seem to be using it.'

'They could have cleaned him out,' Tibbet acknowledged. 'Twenty four K… so much for the starving artist.'

'Garrets mustn't be as fashionable these days,' Hawes agreed.

She was punching a number into her phone. Clarke picked up and Hawes relayed the highlights to her. 'Took out a hundred the day he was killed.'

'Where from?'

'Machine at Waverley Station.' Hawes frowned suddenly. 'Why did he leave Edinburgh from one station but come back to the other?'

'He was meeting Charles Riordan. I think Riordan frequented some curry house nearby.'

'Can't really check with him, though, can we?'

'Not really,' Clarke admitted. Hawes could hear voices in the background; all the same, it sounded a lot calmer than Gayfield Square.

'Where are you, Shiv?' she asked.

'City Chambers, asking about CCTV.'

'How long till you're back at base?'

'An hour maybe.'


'You sound inconsolable. Any word from our favourite DI?'

'Assuming you mean Rebus rather than Starr, the answer's no.'

'Tell her,' Tibbet said, 'about the bank.'

'Colin says to tell you we enjoyed our visit to First Albannach.'

'Plush, was it?'

'I've stayed at worse resorts; they had everything in there but flumes.'

'Did you see Stuart Janney?'

'He was in a meeting. To tell the truth, it was a real production line number. In and out and thank you very much.'

'They've got shareholders to protect. When your profits are hitting ten billion, you don't want any bad publicity.'

Hawes turned to Colin Tibbet. 'Siobhan,' she told him, 'says the profit last year was ten billion.'

'Give or take,' Clarke added.

'Give or take,' Hawes repeated for Tibbet's benefit.

'Makes you wonder,' Tibbet repeated quietly, with a slow shake of the head.

Hawes stared at him. Kissable lips, she was thinking. Younger than her and less experienced. There was material there she could work with, maybe starting tonight.

'Talk to you later,' she told Clarke, ending the call.

31

Dr Scarlett Colwell was waiting for Rebus at her office in George Square. She was on one of the upper floors, meaning the view would have been great if not for the build-up of condensation between the layers of double-glazing.

'Depressing, isn't it?' she apologised. 'Constructed forty years ago and fit for nothing but demolition.'

Rebus turned his attention instead to the shelves of Russian textbooks. Plaster busts of Marx and Lenin were being used as bookends. On the wall opposite, posters and cards had been pinned up, including a photograph of President Yeltsin dancing. Colwell's desk was next to the window, but facing into the room. Two tables had been pushed together, leaving just enough room for eight chairs to be arranged around them. There was a kettle on the floor, and she crouched down next to it, spooning coffee granules into two mugs.

'Milk?' she asked.

'Thanks,' Rebus said, glancing towards her shock of hair. Her skirt was stretched tight, delineating the line of a hip.

'Sugar?'

'Just milk.'

The kettle finished boiling and she poured, handing him his cup before getting back to her feet. They stood very close to one another until she apologised again for the lack of space and retreated behind her desk, Rebus content to rest his backside against the table.

Thanks for seeing me.'

She blew on her coffee. 'Not at all. I was devastated to hear about Mr Riordan.'

“You met him at the Poetry Library?' Rebus guessed.


She nodded, then had to push the hair away from her face. 'And at Word Power.'

It was Rebus's turn to nod. 'That's the bookshop where Mr Todorov did a reading?'

Colwell pointed towards the wall. This time when Rebus looked, he picked out the photograph of Alexander Todorov in full poetic flow, one arm dramatically raised, mouth agape.

'Doesn't look like a bookshop,' Rebus declared.

'They moved it to a bigger venue – cafe on Nicolson Street. Even so, it was packed.'

'He's in his element, isn't he?' Rebus was studying the picture more closely. 'Did you take this, Dr Colwell?'

'I'm not very good,' she started to apologise.

'I'm the last one to judge.' He turned and gave her a smile. 'So Charles Riordan taped this session, too?'

'That's right.' She paused. 'In fact, it's a happy coincidence that you called me, Inspector…'

'Oh?'

'Because I was on the verge of phoning you, to ask a favour.'

'What is it I can do for you, Dr Colwell?'

'There's a magazine called the London Review of Books. They saw the obituary I wrote in the Scotsman and they want to publish one of Alexander's poems.'

'With you so far.' Rebus lifted the cup to his lips.

'It's a new poem in Russian, one he recited at the Poetry Library.'

She gave a little laugh. 'In fact, I think he'd only just finished it that day. Point being, I don't have a copy of it. I'm not sure anyone does.'

'Have you had a look through his waste-paper bin?'

'Would it sound heartless if I said yes?'

'Not at all. But you didn't find it?'

'No… which is why I spoke to a nice man at Mr Riordan's studio.'

'That'll be Terry Grimm.'

She nodded again, pushed her hair back again. 'He said there was a recording.'

Rebus thought of the hour he'd spent in Siobhan's car, the pair of them listening to a dead man. Tou want to borrow it?' he guessed, remembering that Todorov had indeed recited some of the poems in Russian.

'Just long enough to write a translation. It would be my memorial to him, I suppose.'


'I can't see a problem with that.'

She beamed, and he got the feeling that if the desk hadn't been there, she might even have reached over and hugged him. Instead, she asked if she would have to listen to the CD at the station or would it be possible to take it away with her. The station… one place Rebus couldn't be seen.

'I can bring it to you,' he said, and her smile widened before melting away.

'Deadline's next week,' she suddenly realised.

'No problem,' Rebus assured her. 'And I'm sorry we haven't tracked down Mr Todorov's killer yet.'

Her face fell further. 'I'm sure you're doing your utmost.'

'Thanks for the vote of confidence.' He paused. Tou've still not asked me why I'm here.'

'I was thinking you'd get round to telling me.'

'I've been researching Mr Todorov's life, looking for enemies.'

'Alexander made an enemy of the state, Inspector.'

'That much I believe. But one story I've been hearing is that he was dismissed from a lectureship for getting too friendly with his students. Thing is, I think the person who told me that was trying to sell me a pup.'

But she was shaking her head. 'Actually, it's true – Alexander told me about it himself. The charges were trumped up, of course – they just wanted him out, by fair means or foul.' She sounded aggrieved on the poet's behalf.

'Do you mind if I ask… did he ever try anything with you, Dr Colwell?'

'I have a partner, Inspector.'

'With respect, Dr Colwell, you're a beautiful woman, and I get the impression Alexander Todorov liked women. I'm not sure the existence of any partner short of a Ninja assassin would have deterred him.'

She gave another perfect smile, lowering her lashes in feigned modesty.

'Well,' she admitted, 'you're right, of course. After a few drinks, Alexander's libido seemed always to be refreshed.'

'A nice way of putting it. Are the words his?'

'All my own work, Inspector.'

'He seems to have thought of you as a friend, though, or he wouldn't have taken you into his confidence.'

'I'm not sure he had any real friends. Writers are like that sometimes – they see the rest of us as source material. Can you


imagine being in bed with someone and knowing they're going to write about it afterwards? Knowing the whole world will be reading about that most intimate of moments?'

'I take your point.' Rebus paused to clear his throat. 'But he must have had some way of… 'quenching1 that libido you mentioned?'

'Oh, he had women, Inspector.'

'Students? Here in Edinburgh?'

'I couldn't say.'

'Or how about Abigail Thomas at the Poetry Library? You seemed to think she had a crush on him.'

'Probably not reciprocated,' Colwell said dismissively. Then, after a moment's thought: Tou really think Alexander was killed by a woman?'

Rebus shrugged. He was thinking of Todorov, more than a few drinks under his belt, weaving his way down King's Stables Road, a woman suddenly offering him no-strings sex. Would he have gone with a stranger? Probably. But even more likely with someone he'd known…

'Did Mr Todorov ever mention a man called Andropov?' he asked.

She mouthed the name several times, deep in thought, then gave up. 'Sorry,' she said.I 'Another long shot: how about someone called Cafferty?'

'I'm not really helping, am I?' she said as she shook her head.

'Sometimes the things we rule out are as important as the ones we rule in,' he reassured her.

'Like in Sherlock Holmes?' she said. 'When you've eliminated the-' She broke off with a frown. 'I can never remember that quote, but you must know it?'

He nodded, not wanting her to think him ill-read. Every day on his way to work, he passed a statue of Sherlock Holmes by the roundabout on Leith Street. Turned out it was marking the spot where they'd knocked down Conan Doyle's childhood home.

'What is it then?' she was asking.

He gave a shrug. 'I'm like you, never seem to get it right…'

She rose from her chair and came around the desk, her skirt brushing against his legs as she squeezed past. She lifted a book from one of the shelves. From the spine, Rebus could tell it was a collection of quotations. She found the Doyle section and ran a finger down it, finding what she was looking for.

'”When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.“' She frowned again. 'That's


not how I remember it. I thought it was to do with eliminating the possible rather than its opposite.'

'Mmm,' Rebus said, hoping she'd think he was agreeing with her.

He placed his empty mug on the table. 'Well, Dr Colwell, seeing how I've done you a favour…'

'Quid pro quo?' She clapped the book shut. Dust rose from its pages.

'I was just wondering if I could have the key to Todorov's flat.'

'As it happens, you're in luck. Someone from Building Services was supposed to stop by and get it, but so far no sign.'

'What will they do with all his stuff?'

'The consulate said they'd take it. He must have some family back in Russia.' She'd gone behind the desk again and opened a drawer, bringing out the key-chain. Rebus took it from her with a nod of thanks. 'There's a servitor on the ground floor here,' she explained. 'If I'm not around, you can always leave it with him.'

She paused. 'And you won't forget that recording?'

'Trust me.'

'It's just that the studio seemed pretty sure it's the only copy left. Poor Mr Riordan – what a terrible way to die…'

Back outside again, Rebus descended the steps from George Square to Buccleuch Place. There were a few students around.

They looked… the only word for it was studious. He stopped at the bottom of the steps to light a cigarette, but the temperature was sinking, and he decided he might as well smoke it indoors.

Todorov's flat seemed unchanged from his first visit, except that the scraps of paper from the bin had been laid flat on the desk – Scarlett Colwell most probably, seeking the elusive poem. Rebus had forgotten about those six copies of Astapovo Blues. Had to find someone with an eBay account so he could shift them. Looking more closely at the room, he decided someone had removed some of the poet's book collection. Colwell again? Or some other member of staff? Rebus wondered if he'd been beaten to it – a glut of Todorov memorabilia bringing prices down. He realised his phone was ringing and took it out. Didn't recognise the number, but it had the international code on the front.

'Detective Inspector Rebus speaking,' he said.

'Hello, it's Roddy Denholm, returning your mysterious call.' The voice was an educated Anglo-Scots drawl.

'Not too much of a mystery, Mr Denholm, and I do appreciate you taking the trouble.'

You're lucky I'm a night owl, Inspector.'


'It's the middle of the day here…'

'But not in Singapore.'

'Mr Blackman thought either Melbourne or Hong Kong.'

Denholm laughed a smoker's throaty laugh. 'I suppose I could be anywhere, actually, couldn't I? I could be around the next corner for all you know. Bloody wonderful things, mobile phones…'

'If you are around the next corner, sir, be cheaper to do this in person.'

Tou could always hop on a jet to Singapore.'

'Trying to lower my carbon footprint, sir.' Rebus blew cigarette smoke towards the living-room ceiling.

'So where are you right now, Inspector?'

'Buccleuch Place.'

'Ah yes, the university district.'

'Standing in a dead man's flat.'

'Not a sentence I think I've ever heard.' The artist sounded duly impressed.

'He wasn't quite in your line of work, sir – poet called Alexander Todorov.'

'I've heard of him.'

'He was killed just over a week ago and your name has cropped up in the inquiry.'

'Do tell.' It sounded as though Denholm was getting himself comfortable on a hotel bed. Rebus, likewise, sat down on the sofa, an elbow on one knee.

“You've been doing a project at the Parliament. There was a man making some sound recordings for you…'

'Charlie Riordan?'

'I'm afraid he's dead, too.' Rebus heard low whistling on the line.

'Someone torched his house.'

'Are the tapes okay?'

'As far as we know, sir.'

Denholm caught Rebus's tone. 'I must sound an insensitive bastard,'

he admitted.

'Don't fret – it was the first thing your dealer asked, too.'

Denholm chuckled. 'Poor guy, though…'

“You knew him?'

'Not until the Parliament project. Seemed likeable, capable…

didn't really talk to him that much.'

'Well, Mr Riordan had also been doing some work with Alexander Todorov.'

'Christ, does that mean I'm next?'


Rebus couldn't tell if he was joking or not. 'I wouldn't have thought so, sir.'

'You're not phoning to warn me?'

'I just thought it an interesting coincidence.'

'Except that I didn't know Alexander Todorov from Adam.'

'Maybe not, but one of your fans did – Sergei Andropov.'

'I know the name…'

'He collects your work. Russian businessman, grew up with Mr Todorov.' Rebus heard another whistle. You've never met him?'

'Not that I know of.' There was silence for a moment. TTou think this Andropov guy killed the poet?'

'We're keeping an open mind.'

'Was it some obscure isotope like that guy in London?'

'He was beaten to a pulp before someone caved his skull in.'

'Not exactly subtle then.'

'Not exactly. Tell me something, Mr Denholm – how did you come to choose the Urban Regeneration Committee for your project?'

'They chose me, Inspector – we asked if anyone would be interested in taking part, and their chairman said she was up for it.'

'Megan Macfarlane?'

'No shortage of ego there, Inspector – I speak as one who knows.'

'I'm sure you do, sir.' Rebus heard something like a doorbell.

'That'll be room service,' Denholm explained.

'I'll let you go then,' Rebus said. 'Thanks for calling, Mr Denholm.'

'No problem.'

'One last thing, though…' Rebus paused just long enough to ensure he had the artist's full attention. 'Before you let them in, best check that it really is room service.'

He snapped shut his phone and allowed himself a little smile.

32

'Can't be that much of it, if it fits on to one of these,' Siobhan Clarke commented. She was back in the CID suite and, DCI Macrae being elsewhere, had commandeered his room, the better to accommodate Terry Grimm. Seated at her boss's desk, she held the clear plastic memory stick between thumb and forefinger, angling it in the light.

TTou'd be surprised,' Grimm said. 'I'm guessing there's about sixteen hours on there. Could have squeezed more in if there had been anything usable. Unfortunately, the heat of the fire had done for most of it.' He'd brought the evidence sacks with him. They were tied shut, but still carried the faintest aroma of charcoal.

'Did anything catch your eye?' Clarke paused. 'Or ear, I suppose I should say.'

Grimm shook his head. 'Tell you what I did do, though…' He reached into his inside pocket and drew out a CD in a plastic wallet.

'Charlie taped the Russian poet at another event, few weeks back. Happened to come across it at the studio, so I burned you a copy.' He handed it over.

'Thanks,' she said.

'Some lecturer at the university was after the other show Charlie taped, but as far as I know you've got the only existing copy.'

'NameofColwell?'

'That's it.' He stared at the backs of his hands. 'Any nearer to finding out who killed him?'

She gestured in the direction of the main office. You can see we're not exactly resting on our laurels.'

He nodded, but his eyes never left hers. 'Good way of avoiding an answer,' he stated.


'It's a case of finding the “why”, Mr Grimm. If you can help shed some light, we'd be incredibly grateful.'

'I've been turning it over in my head. Hazel and me have bounced it around, too. Still doesn't make any sense.'

'Well, if you do think of anything…' She was rising to her feet, signalling that the meeting was over. Through the glass partition, she could see that there was a hubbub in the outer office. Out of it emerged Todd Goodyear. He knocked once and entered, closing the door after him.

'If I'm going to manage to actually hear what's on those committee recordings, I'm going to need to shift my stuff,' he complained.

'It's like the monkey house out there.' He recognised Terry Grimm and gave a little nod of greeting.

'The Parliament tapes?' Grimm guessed. Tou're still trawling through them?'

'Still trawling.' Goodyear had a sheaf of paper under one arm.

He held the sheets out for Clarke to take. She saw that he had typed up his detailed notes on the contents of each tape. There was screeds of the stuff. In her early days as a detective, she, too, would have been this meticulous… back before Rebus showed her how to cut corners.

'Thanks,' she said. 'And this is for you…' Handing him the memory stick. 'Mr Grimm reckons there's about sixteen hours'

worth.'

Goodyear gave a protracted sigh, and asked Terry Grimm how things were at the studio.

'Just about coping, thanks.'

Clarke was sifting the typed sheets. 'Did anything here jump out at you?' she asked Goodyear.

'Not one single thing,' he informed her.

'Imagine how we felt,' Grimm added, 'sitting there for days on end, listening to politician after politician drone on…'

Goodyear just shook his head, unwilling to imagine himself in that role.

'What you got was the good stuff,' Grimm assured him.

Clarke noticed that it had quietened down in the main office.

What was the noise about?' she asked Goodyear.

'Bit of a free-for-all at the mortuary,' he explained casually, tossing the memory stick into the air and catching it. 'Someone's trying to claim Todorov's body. DI Starr wanted to know who was the fastest driver.' Another toss, another catch. 'DC Reynolds claimed he was. Not everyone agreed…' He had been slow to notice that


Clarke was glaring at him, but now his voice trailed off. 'I should have told you straight off?' he guessed.

'That's right,' she answered in a voice of quiet menace. And then, to Terry Grimm: 'PC Goodyear will see you out. Thanks again for coming.'

She marched downstairs to the car park and got into her car.

Started the ignition and drove. She wanted to ask Starr why he hadn't said anything… why he hadn't asked her. Giving the job to one of his boys instead – Ray Reynolds, at that! Was it because she'd gone off without telling him? Was it so she'd know her place in future?

She had plenty of questions for DI Derek Starr.

She turned right at the top of Leith Street, then hard left on to North Bridge. Straight across at the Tron and a right-hand turn, crossing oncoming traffic and on to Blair Street, passing Nancy Sievewright's flat again. If Talking Heads really did reckon London a 'small city', they should try Edinburgh. No more than eight minutes after leaving Gayfield Square, she was pulling into the mortuary car park, stopping alongside Reynolds's car and wondering if she'd beaten his time. There was another car, a big old Mercedes Benz, parked between two of the mortuary's anonymous white transit vans. Clarke stalked past it to the door marked Staff Only, turned the handle and went in. There was no onen the corridor, and no one in the staff room, though steam was rising from the spout of a recently boiled kettle. She moved through! the holding area and opened another door into a further corridor), up some stairs to the next level. This was where the public entrance was. It was where relatives waited to identify their loved ones and where the subsequent paperwork was taken care of. Usually it was a place of low sobbing, quiet reflection, utter and ghastly silence.

But not today.

She recognised Nikolai Stahov straight off. He wore the same long black coat as when they'd first met. Alongside him stood a man who also looked Russian, maybe five years younger but almost as many inches taller and broader. Stahov was remonstrating in English with Derek Starr, who stood with arms folded, legs apart, as if ready for a ruck. Next to him was Reynolds, and behind them the four mortuary staff.

'We have right,' Stahov was saying. 'Constitutional right…

moral right.'

'A murder inquiry is ongoing,' Starr explained. 'The body has to stay here in case further tests are required.'


Stahov, glancing to his left, had noticed Clarke. 'Help us, please,'

he implored her. She took a few steps forward.

'What seems to be the problem?'

Starr glared at her. 'The consulate wants to repatriate Mr Todorov's remains,' he explained.

'Alexander needs to be buried in his homeland,' Stahov stated.

'Is there anything in his will to that effect?' Clarke asked.

'Will or no will, his wife is buried in Moscow-'

'Something I've been meaning to ask,' Clarke interrupted. Stahov had turned completely towards her, which seemed to annoy Starr.

'What actually happened to his wife?'

'Cancer,' Stahov told her. 'They could have operated, but she would have lost the baby she was carrying. So she continued with the pregnancy.' Stahov offered a shrug. 'The baby was stillborn, and by then the mother only had a few days to live.'

The story seemed to have calmed the whole room. Clarke nodded slowly. 'Why the sudden urgency, Mr Stahov? Alexander died eight days ago… why wait till now?'

'All we want is to return him home, with due respect to his international stature.'

'I wasn't sure he had that much stature in Russia. Didn't you say that the Nobel Prize isn't such a big deal in Moscow these days?'

'Governments can have changes of heart.'

'What you're saying is, you're under orders from the Kremlin?'

Stahov's eyes gave nothing away. 'There being no next of kin, the state becomes responsible. I have the authority to request his body.'

'But we have no authority to release it,' Starr countered, having shuffled around towards Clarke, the better to meet Stahov's eye-line. 'You're a diplomat; you must be aware that there are protocols'

'Meaning what, exactly?'

'Meaning,' Clarke explained, 'we'll be hanging on to the body until instructed otherwise by judgment or decree.'

'It is scandalous.' Stahov busied himself tugging at the cuffs of his coat. 'I'm not sure how such a situation can be kept from public view.'

'Go crying to the papers,' Starr taunted him. 'See where it gets.you…'

'Start the process,' Clarke counselled the Russian. 'That's all you lean do.'

Stahov met her eyes again and nodded slowly, then turned on


his heels and headed for the exit, followed by his driver. As soon as both men had left, Starr grabbed Clarke by the arm.

'What are you doing here?' he hissed.

She twisted out of his grip. I'm where I should have been all along, Derek.'

'I left you in charge at Gayfield.'

“You left without so much as a word.'

Perhaps Starr sensed that this was not an argument he could win. He glanced around at the onlookers – Reynolds; the mortuary staff – and allowed his face to soften. 'A discussion for another time, perhaps,' he offered.

Clarke, though she'd already decided not to push it, let him sweat for a moment as she pretended to think it over. 'Fine,' she said at last.

He nodded and turned to the mortuary attendants. 'You did the right thing, calling us. If they try anything else, you know where we are.'

“Think they'll sneak him out in the middle of the night?' one of the men speculated.

One of his colleagues gave a chuckle. 'Been a while since we've had one of those, Davie,' he commented.

Siobhan Clarke decided not to ask.

33

They gathered around a table in the back room of the Oxford Bar.

Word had gone out that John Rebus needed a bit of privacy, meaning they had the space to themselves. Nevertheless, they kept their voices low. First thing Rebus had done was explain his suspension and admit that it was dangerous for them to be seen with him.

Clarke had sipped her tonic water – no gin tonight. Colin Tibbet had looked to Phyllida Hawes for a lead.

'If I have to choose between Derek Starr and yourself… no contest,' Hawes had decided.

'No contest,' Tibbet had echoed, without sounding completely convinced.

'What's the worst they can do to me?' Todd Goodyear had added.

'Send me back to uniform at West End? It's going to happen anyway.'

And he'd raised his half-pint of beer in Rebus's direction.

After which, they'd started detailing the day's events, Rebus careful to edit his own version – since he was supposed to be on suspension.

“You've still not talked to Megan Macfarlane or Jim Bakewell?'

he asked Clarke.

'I've been a bit busy, John.'

'Sorry,' Goodyear said, almost choking on a mouthful of ale, 'that reminds me – while you were at the mortuary, Bakewell's office called. There's a meeting with him pencilled in for tomorrow.'

'Thanks for the heads-up, Todd.'

He winced visibly. Hawes was saying something about being thankful for any excuse to get out of the office.

'Isn't space to swing a cat,' Tibbet concurred. 'I opened my desk drawer this afternoon, somebody had left half a sandwich in it.'


'Did they treat you to lunch at the bank?' Rebus asked.

'Just a couple of foie gras baps,' Hawes informed him. 'To be honest, the place reminded me of a very slick and upmarket production line, but a production line nonetheless.'

'Ten billion in profits.' Tibbet still couldn't take it in.

'More than some countries' GDPs,' Goodyear added.

'Here's hoping they stick around if we get independence,' Rebus said. 'Put them and their nearest competitor together, well, it's not a bad start for a wee country.'

Clarke was looking at him. 'You think that's why Stuart Janney's staying close to Megan Macfarlane?'

Rebus shrugged. 'Nationalists wouldn't want the likes of FAB packing up and shipping out. That gives the bank a bit of leverage.'

'I didn't see any levers sticking out of Ms Macfarlane.'

'But she is the future, isn't she? Banks don't make profits without playing a long game – sometimes a very long game.' He grew thoughtful. 'Maybe they're not the only ones at that…'

His phone started to vibrate, so he checked the number. Another mobile, one he didn't know. He flipped the phone open.

'Hello?'

'Strawman…' Cafferty's pet name for Rebus, its origins all but lost down the years. Rebus was on his feet, making for the front bar, down the couple of steps and then out into the night.

'You've changed your number,' Rebus told the gangster.

'Every few weeks. But I don't mind friends knowing it.'

'That's nice.' Since he was outside, Rebus took the opportunity to get a cigarette going.

'They'll be the death of you, you know.'

'We all have to go sometime.' Rebus was remembering what Stone had said about taps on Cafferty's phones… could they listen in on a mobile? Maybe another reason Cafferty kept changing numbers.

'I want to see you,' the gangster was saying.

'When?'

'Now, of course.'

'Any particular reason?'

'Just come to the canal.'

'Whereabouts on the canal?'

“You know,' Cafferty drawled, ending the conversation. Rebus stared at the phone before snapping it shut. He had wandered out into the lane. No problem this time of night – no traffic. And if any cars did venture along Young Street, the noise they made was a giveaway. So he stood there in the middle of the road, smoking


his cigarette and facing Charlotte Square. One of the regulars had told him a while back that the Georgian building facing him at the far end of the street was the residence of the First Minister. He wondered what the country's leader made of the occasional motley crews to be found smoking outside the Oxford Bar…

The door opened and Siobhan Clarke emerged, sliding her arms into the sleeves of her coat. Todd Goodyear was right behind her, a single half-pint having provided ample sufficiency.

'That was Cafferty,' Rebus told them. 'He wants to see me. You two headed somewhere?'

'Got to meet my girlfriend,' Goodyear explained. 'Going to see the Christmas lights.'

'It's still November,' Rebus complained.

'They were switched on at six tonight.'

'And I thought I'd start heading home,' Clarke added.

Rebus wagged a finger. 'Should never leave a pub together – people will talk.'

'Why does Cafferty want to see you?' Clarke asked.

'He didn't say.'

'Are you going to go?'

'Don't see why not.'

'Where's the meeting – somewhere well lit, I hope?'

'The canal, near that bar at the Fountainbridge basin… What are Phyl and Col up to?'

'Thinking about Princes Street Gardens,' Goodyear said. 'Ferris wheel and the ice rink are open for business.'

Clarke's eyes were fixed on Rebus. You after some back-up?'

The look on his face was answer enough.

'Well…' Goodyear was turning up his collar as he examined the weather. 'See you in the morning, eh?'

'Keep your nose clean, Todd,' Rebus advised him, watching as the young man headed towards Castle Street.

'He's all right, isn't he?' he offered. Clarke, however, was not to be deflected.

You can't just go meeting Cafferty by yourself.'

'It's not like it's the first time.'

'But any one of them could be the last.'

'If I'm found floating, at least you'll know who to pull in.'

'Don't you dare joke about this!'

He rested the palm of his hand against her shoulder. 'Siobhan, it's fine,' he assured her. 'But there is a fly of sorts in the ointment… SCD could be watching Cafferty.'


'What?'

'I had a run-in with them last night.' Seeing the look on her face, he withdrew his hand and held it up in a show of appeasement.

'I'll explain later, but the thing is, they want me keeping my distance.'

'Then that's what you should do.'

'Absolutely,' he said, making to hand her Stone's business card.

'And what I want you to do is ring this guy Stone and tell him DI Rebus needs an urgent word.'

'What?'

'Use the phone in the Ox – don't want him tracing your mobile.

You stay anonymous, say Rebus wants a meet at the petrol station.

Then hang up.'

'Christ's sake, John…' She was staring at the card.

'Hey, another forty-eight hours and I'll be out of your hair.'

“You're suspended from duty and you're still in my hair.'

'Like a brush through the tangles, eh?' Rebus said with a smile.

'More like malfunctioning curling tongs,' Clarke told him, but she headed back into the bar anyway to make the call.

'Took your time,' was Cafferty's opening line. He was on the same footbridge across the canal, hands in the pockets of his long camel hair coat.

'Where's your car?' Rebus asked, glancing back towards the deserted patch of wasteland.

'I walked. Only takes ten minutes.'

'And no bodyguard?'

'No need,' Cafferty stated.

Rebus lit another cigarette. 'So you knew I was here the other night?'

'It was Sergei's driver who recognised you.' The one who'd stared daggers at Rebus, that night at the hotel. 'Were you with us all the way to Granton?'

'It was a nice night for a drive.' Rebus tried blowing smoke towards Cafferty's face, but the breeze whipped it away.

'It's all legit, you know. Follow us all you like.'

“Thanks, I will.'

'Sergei loves Scotland, that's what it comes down to. His dad used to read him Treasure Island. I had to take him to Queen Street Gardens. Pond there's supposed to be what gave Robert Louis Stevenson the idea.'


'Fascinating.' Rebus was staring at the canal's glassy surface.

Might only be three or four feet deep, but he'd known men drown in it.

'He's thinking of bringing his businesses here,' Cafferty said 'Didn't know we had a lot of tin and zinc mines.'

'Well, maybe not all his businesses.'

'I can't see the point really – it's not as if we don't have an extradition treaty with Russia.'

'You sure about that?' Cafferty said with a teasing smile. 'Anyway, we do have a policy on political asylum, don't we?'

'Not sure your pal fits the bill.'

Cafferty just smiled again.

'That night in the hotel,' Rebus pushed on, 'you and Todorov, then you and Andropov, plus a government minister called Bakewell…

what was that really all about?'

'I thought I'd already explained – I'd no idea who it was I bought a drink for.'

Tfou didn't know that Todorov and Andropov grew up together?'

'No.'

Rebus nicked ash into the air. 'So what was it you were discussing with the Minister for Economic Development?'

'I'm betting you've asked Sergei the same question.'

'How do you think he answered?'

'He probably told you they were talking about economic development – it happens to be true.'

'You seem to be in the market for a lot of land, Cafferty. Andropov puts up the money, you act as his factor?'

'All above board.'

'Does he know about your history as a landlord? Flats stuffed with tenants, fire risks ignored, dole cheques lifted and cashed…'

“You really are clutching at straws, aren't you? Anyone would think you were in there.' Cafferty jabbed a finger towards the canal.

You own a flat on Blair Street, it's let to Nancy Sievewright and Eddie Gentry.' Just the two tenants, now Rebus thought of it; unusual for one of Cafferty's fire traps. 'Nancy's friendly with Sol Goodyear,' he went on, 'so friendly, in fact, that she gets her gear from him. Same night Sol gets himself stabbed in Haymarket, I'Nancy trips over Todorov's body at the foot of Sol's lane.' Rebus I had brought his face close to the gangster's. 'See what I'm getting f #t?' he hissed.

'Not really.'


'And now the consulate want to spirit Todorov's body away.'

'Those straws I mentioned, Rebus, I'm losing count of them.'

'They're not straws, Cafferty, they're chains, and guess who it is they seem to be winding themselves around?'

'Steady,' Cafferty cautioned. 'With language like that, you might want to start writing a bit of poetry yourself.'

'Problem with that is, the only words I can find to rhyme with “Cafferty” are “evil” and “bastard”.'

The gangster grinned, showing off expensive dental work. Then he sniffed the air and strolled to the far side of the bridge. 'I grew up not too far from here, did you know that?'

'I thought it was Craigmillar.'

'But I'd an aunt and uncle in Gorgie, they looked after me when my mum was working. Dad legged it a month before I was due.' He turned towards Rebus. “You didn't grow up in the city, did you?'

'Fife,' Rebus stated.

Tou won't remember the abattoir then. Occasionally, you'd get a bull making a break for it. The alarm would sound and us kids would be kept indoors until the sharpshooter arrived. I remember one time, I watched from the window. Bloody great beast it was, with snot and steam belching from it, kicking up its legs at the thought of all that bloody freedom.' He paused. 'Right up until the moment the gunman went down on one knee, got his aim right, and shot it in the head. Those legs buckled and the gleam left its eyes. For a time there, I used to think that was me – the last free bull.'

Tou're full of bull all right,' Rebus retorted.

'Thing is,' Cafferty said with a smile that was almost ru0ful, 'nowadays, I think maybe it's you, Rebus. You're bucking and kicking and snorting, because you can't deal with the idea of me being legit.'

'That's because “idea” is as far as it gets.' He paused, nicking the remains of his cigarette into the water. 'Why the hell did you bring me here, Cafferty?'

The gangster shrugged. 'Not too many chances left for these little tete-a-tetes. And when Sergei told me you'd followed us that night… well, maybe I was just looking for the opportunity.'

'I'm touched.'

'I heard on the news that DI Starr's been shipped in to head up the inquiry. They've already put you out to pasture, haven't they?

Just as well the pension's healthy…'

'And all of it clean.'


'Siobhan's got her chance to shine now.'

'She's a match for you, Cafferty.'

'Let's wait and see.'

'Just so long as I've got a ringside seat.'

Cafferty's attention had shifted to the high brick wall, beyond which lay the development site. 'Nice talking to you, Rebus. Enjoy that walk into the sunset.'

But Rebus didn't budge. 'Have you heard about the Russian guy in London? Got to be careful who you play with, Cafferty.'

'No one's about to poison me, Rebus. Sergei and me, we see things the same way. Few years from now, Scotland's going to be independent – not a shred of doubt about that. Sitting on thirty years' worth of North Sea oil and God alone knows how much more in the Atlantic. Worst-case scenario, we do a deal with Westminster and end up with eighty or ninety per cent of the cut.' Cafferty gave a slow shrug. 'And then we'll go and spend the money on our usual leisure pursuits – booze, drugs and gambling. Put a supercasino in every city, and watch the profits stack up…'

'Another of your silent invasions, eh?'

'Soviets always did think there'd be revolution in Scotland. Won't matter to you, though, will it? You'll be out of the game for good.'

Cafferty gave a little wave of the hand and turned his back.

Rebus stood his ground a bit longer but knew there was little to be gained from sticking around. All the same, he hesitated. The Cafferty of the other evening had been an actor on a stage, with props including the car and the driver. Tonight's Cafferty was different, more reflective. Lots of faces in Cafferty's wardrobe… a mask for every occasion. Rebus considered offering him a lift home, but why the hell would he want to do that? Instead he turned and headed back to his car, lighting another cigarette on the way. The gangster's story about the bull stayed with him. Was that how retirement would feel, all that strange and disconcerting freedom, but brutally short?

'No Leonard Cohen for you when we get home,' he chided himself.

You're morbid enough as it is.'

I Instead, he played Rory Gallagher: 'Big Guns' and 'Bad Penny', 'Kickback City' and 'Sinnerboy1. The whisky slipped down, just the three large ones with about as much water again. And after Rory came Jackie Leven, and Page and Plant after that. He thought about calling Siobhan, then decided against it. Let her have a bit


of a break from John Rebus's worries. He hadn't eaten anything but didn't feel hungry.

When his phone rang, he'd probably been asleep for the best part of an hour. The whisky glass was still there on the arm of the chair, his hand gripped around it.

'Didn't spill a drop, John,' he congratulated himself, hoisting his phone in his free hand.

'Hiya, Shiv,' he said, having recognised her number. 'Checking up on me?'

'John…' Her tone of voice said it all: something had happened, something bad.

'Spit it out,' he told her, rising from the chair.

'Cafferty's in intensive care.' She left it at that for a moment.

Rebus clawed his free hand through his hair, then realised he shouldn't have a free hand. The glass had dropped to the carpet, meaning he now had splashes of whisky on his shoes.

'What happened?' he asked.

'Precisely the question I was about to ask you,' she blurted out.

'What the hell happened at the canal?'

'We just talked.'

'Talked?'

'Cross my heart.'

'Must've been a pretty robust exchange, then, seeing how he's got a fractured skull. Plus broken bones, contusions…'

Rebus's eyes narrowed. 'He was found by the canal?'

'Too right he was.'

'Is that where you are now?'

'Shug Davidson took the trouble to call me.'

'I'll be there in five minutes.'

'No, you won't… you've been drinking, John. Your voice goes nasal after the first four or five.'

'So send a car for me.'

'John…'

'Just send a fucking car, SiobhanP He ran the hand through his hair again, pulling at it. I'm being set up here, he told himself.

'John, how can Shug let you near? Far as he's concerned, you're going to be a suspect. If he lets a suspect walk into a crime scene…'

Tfes, fine, absolutely.' Rebus was looking at his watch. 'It's about three hours since I left him. When was the body found?'

'Two and a half hours ago.'

'That's not good.' His mind was whirling. He started towards the


kitchen, thinking maybe a gallon of tap water would help. 'Did you send Calum Stone on that wild goose chase?'

'Yes.'

'Shit.'

'He's here right now, along with his partner.'

Rebus squeezed his eyes shut. 'Don't speak to them.'

'Bit late for that. I was talking to Shug when they arrived. Stone introduced himself, and guess what his first words to me were?'

'Something along the lines of, “Gosh, you sound just like the woman who sent me on a wild goose chase to a petrol station in Granton”?'

'That's about the size of it.'

'All you can do is tell the truth, Shiv – I ordered you to make that call.'

'And you were on suspension at the time – something knew fine well.'

'Christ, I'm sorry, Siobhan…' The tap was still running, the sink almost full. Maybe eight inches deep. He'd known men drown in far, far less.

34

When the taxi dropped him at the Leamington Lift Bridge, she was waiting, arms folded, for all the world like the bouncer outside some exclusive club.

“You can't be here,' she reiterated through gritted teeth.

'I know,' he said. Plenty of onlookers: people who'd been heading home from a night out; locals from the neighbouring tenements; even a couple from one of the canal boats. They stood on deck, holding mugs of steaming liquid.

'Why's your hair wet?' Clarke asked.

'Didn't have time to dry it,' he answered. He could see everything; no need to get closer. SOCOs shining their torches against the surface of the opposite footpath. Arc lamps being plugged into some sort of mooring point – probably how the boats hooked up to electricity during their stay. Lots of quietly busy people. There was a huddle around one particular area of walkway.

'That where they found him?' he asked. Clarke nodded. 'Pretty much where he was when I left him.'

'Couple on their way home stumbled across him. One of the medics recognised the face. West End came running and Shug thought maybe I'd want to know.'

There were SOCOs up to their waists in the canal. They wore the same sort of protection as anglers, complete with braces holding up their oilskin trousers.

'They'll find one of my cigarette butts,' Rebus told Clarke. 'Unless it's floated away or been eaten by a duck.'

'That'll be nice when they trace the DNA.'

He turned towards her, gripping one of her arms. 'I'm not saying I wasn't here – I'm saying he was right as rain when I left him.'


She couldn't meet his eyes, and he let her go. 'Don't think what you're thinking,' he said quietly.

Tou don't know what I'm thinking!'

He turned away again and saw DI Shug Davidson giving orders to some of the uniforms from West End. Stone and Prosser were just behind him, deep in a discussion of their own.

'Any second now they'll see you,' Clarke warned. Rebus nodded.

He'd already taken a couple of steps back into the crowd of onlookers.

She followed him until they were standing to the rear.

This was where he'd parked his car the time he'd followed Cafferty.

His head was thumping.

'Got any aspirin?' he asked.

'No.'

'Never mind, I know where I can find some.'

She caught his meaning. 'You've got to be joking.'

'Never more serious in my life.'

She fixed her eyes on him, then glanced back towards the canal and made her mind up. 'I'll drive you,' she said. 'My car's on Gilmore Place.'

They didn't say much on the way to the Western General.

Cafferty had been taken there not only because it was closer than the Infirmary but also because it specialised in head injuries.

'Did you see him?' Rebus asked as they reached the hospital car park.

Clarke shook her head. 'When Shug called me, he thought he was the bearer of glad tidings.'

'He knows there's history between us and Cafferty,' Rebus agreed.

'But he could tell straight away something was up.'

Tou told him I'd gone to meet Cafferty?'

She shook her head again. 'I haven't told anyone.'

'Well, you better had – only way to keep your head above the shit. Stone's going to work it out before long.'

'Wait till they find out I've done a runner…' She pulled into a parking bay and turned off the ignition, then slid around to face him. 'Okay,' she said, 'tell me.'

He met her eyes. 'I didn't touch him.'

'So what did you talk about?'

'Andropov and Bakewell… Sievewright and Sol Goodyear…'

He shrugged, deciding to omit the abattoir bull. 'Funny thing is, I almost offered him a lift home.'

'I wish you had.' She sounded slightly more mollified.


'Does that mean you believe me?'

'I've got to, haven't I? All we've been through… if I can't believe you, what the hell else is there?'

'Thanks,' he said quietly, squeezing her hand.

TTou still owe me the story of your run-in with the SCDEA.' She removed her hand from beneath his.

'They've had Cafferty under surveillance. Heard I'd been watching him and warned me off.' He shrugged again. 'That's about the size of it.'

'And being bull-headed, you did exactly the opposite?'

Rebus had a sudden image: the bull with its legs buckling, a bullet between its eyes… He shook himself free of it. 'Let's go see what the damage is,' he said.

Inside the hospital, the first question they were asked was: 'Are you family?'

'He's my brother,' Rebus stated. This seemed to oil the wheels, and they were shown to a waiting area, deserted this time of night.

Rebus picked up a magazine. It was page after page of celebrity gossip, but as it was also six months out of date, chances were the celebrities had already been returned to obscurity. He offerecl it to Clarke, but she shook her head.

Tour brother?' she said.

Rebus just shrugged. His real brother had died a year and a half back. Over the past couple of decades, Rebus had paid him a lot less attention than Cafferty… probably spent less time with him, too.

You can't choose your family, he thought to himself, but you can choose your enemies.

'What if he dies?' Clarke asked, folding her arms. She had her legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, and was slumped low in the chair.

'I'm not that lucky,' Rebus told her. She glowered at him.

'So who do you reckon is behind it?'

'Can we make that a multiple-choice question?' he asked.

'How many names have you got?'

'Depends if he's gone upsetting his Russian friends.'

'Andropov?'

'For starters. SCD reckoned they were close to having Cafferty in the bag. Might be a lot of people out there who couldn't let that happen.' He broke off as an unfeasibly young doctor in the


traditional white coat pushed through the swinging doors at the end of the corridor and, notes in one hand, pen between his teeth, marched up to them. He removed the pen and popped it into his top pocket.

Tou're the patient's brother?' he asked. Rebus nodded. 'Well, Mr Cafferty, I don't have to tell you that Morris seems blessed with an unusually resistant skull.'

'We call him Ger,' Rebus said. 'Sometimes Big Ger.'

The young doctor nodded, consulting his notes.

'But is he okay?' Clarke asked.

'Far from it. We'll do another scan in the morning. He's still unconscious, but there's enough brain activity to be going on with.'

He paused, as if deciding how much more they needed to know.

'When the skull is hit with tremendous force, the brain shuts down automatically so as to protect itself, or at least limit and assess the damage. The problem we sometimes have is getting it to restart.'

'Like rebooting a computer?' Clarke offered. The doctor seemed to agree.

'And it's too early yet to say whether there's any damage to your uncle,' he told her. 'No blood clots that we could see, but we'll know more tomorrow.'

'He's not my uncle,' she said sternly. Rebus patted her arm.

'She's upset,' he explained to the doctor. And then, as Clarke pulled her arm away: 'So he was hit hard with something?'

'Two or three times probably,' the doctor agreed.

'Attacked from behind?' The doctor was growing less comfortable with each new question.

'The blows were to the back of the skull, yes.'

Rebus was looking at Siobhan Clarke. Alexander Todorov, too, had been hit hard from behind, hard enough to kill. 'Can we see him, Doc?' Rebus asked.

'As I say, he's not awake at present.'

'But all the same…' The doctor was looking worried now. 'Is there a problem with that?' Rebus persisted.

'Look, I've been told who Mr Cafferty is… I know he has a certain reputation in Edinburgh.'

'And?' Rebus asked.

The doctor moistened his dry lips. 'Well, you're his brother… asking all these questions. Please tell me you're not going to go after whoever did this.' He decided some levity might help. 'Wards are crowded enough as it is,' he said with a weak smile.


'We'd just like to see him, that's all,' Rebus assured him, patting the youngster's arm to reinforce the point.

'Then I'll see what I can do. You can wait here if you like.'

Rebus answered by sitting down again. They watched the doctor depart through the swing doors. But as the doors came to rest, a face appeared at one of their porthole-shaped windows.

'Oh, Christ,' Rebus said, alerting Clarke to the new arrivals – DI Calum Stone and DS Andy Prosser. 'This is where you tell them the whole story, Shiv. And if you don't, I will.' She nodded her understanding.

'Well, well,' Stone said, sauntering forward, hands in pockets.

'What brings you here, DI Rebus?'

'Same as you, I reckon,' Rebus replied, standing up again.

'So here we all are,' Stone continued, rocking back on his heels.

Tou to check if the victim still has a pulse, and us to start figuring out if we've just watched several thousand man-hours get flushed down the pan.'

'Shame you pulled the surveillance,' Rebus commented.

Stone's face grew red with rage. 'Because you wanted a meet!' He pointed towards Clarke. 'Got your girlfriend here to send us down to Granton.'

'I'm not denying it,' Rebus said quietly. 'I ordered DS Clarke to make that call.'

'And why would you do that?' Stone's eyes were drilling into Rebus's.

'Cafferty wanted to see me. Didn't say why, but I wasn't keen on having you lot in the vicinity.'

'Why not?'

'Because I'd have been on the lookout for you, wondering where you were hiding – Cafferty might have noticed; he's got pretty good antennae.'

'Not good enough to stop him getting whacked,' Prosser added.

Rebus couldn't disagree. 'I'm going to tell you what I told DS Clarke here,' he continued. 'If I was going to thump Cafferty, why would I tell anyone about the meeting? Either someone's setting me up, or we're talking about a coincidence.'

'A coincidence?'

Rebus shrugged. 'Someone planned to hit him anyway, just happened to coincide…'

Stone had turned to his partner. Tou buying any of this, Andy?'

Prosser shook his head slowly, and Stone turned back to Rebus.

'Andy doesn't buy it, and neither do I. You wanted Cafferty for


yourself, didn't like the thought of us nabbing him. Your gold watch is on the horizon, so you're pretty desperate. You go there to talk to him, and something happens… you lose it. Next thing he's sparked out and you're in trouble.'

'Except it didn't happen like that.'

'So what did happen?'

'We talked and I left him, went home and stayed there.'

'What was so urgent that he needed to see you?'

'Not a lot really.'

Prosser gave a little snort of disbelief, while Stone had a chuckle to himself. “You know, Rebus, that canal's not really a canal at all – not where you're concerned.'

'So what is it?'

'Shit creek,' Stone said triumphantly. Rebus turned his head towards Clarke.

'And they say vaudeville is dead.'

'It's not dead,' she replied, as he'd known she would. 'Just smells funny.'

Stone stabbed a finger in her direction. 'Don't go thinking you're not in the swill, too, DS Clarke!'

'I've already told you,' Rebus interrupted, 'I take full responsibility-'

'Listen to yourself,' Stone hissed. 'Bailing out your girlfriend here is the last thing you should be focusing on right now.'

'I'm not his girlfriend.' The blood had risen up Clarke's neck.

'Then you're his patsy, which is almost as bad.'

'Stone,' Rebus growled, 'I swear to God I'm going to…” Instead of finishing the sentence, he started balling both hands into fists.

'The only thing you're going to do, Rebus, is make a statement and pray there's a lawyer out there desperate enough to want to represent you.'

'Calum,' Prosser offered as warning to his colleague, 'the bastard's going to have a pop at you…' Prosser edged forward, eager to get his retaliation in first. All four of them froze for a moment as they watched the doors swinging closed. A nurse was standing there, looking bemused. Rebus willed her not to say anything, but she said it anyway.

'Mr Cafferty?' Aiming the words at Rebus and no one else. 'If you're quite finished here, we can let you see your brother now…'

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