Ian Rankin - Exit Music

Rebus turned towards her. 'How do you know all this?'

'I was in the office before you this morning. Few minutes on the computer and one phone call to Dalkeith CID. Rumour at the time was, Sol Goodyear was dealing on behalf of Big Ger Cafferty.'

She could see straight away that she'd struck a nerve: Cafferty was unfinished business – big unfinished business – his name top of Rebus's 'to do' list. Cafferty had made a decent fist of looking like a retired villain, but Rebus and Clarke knew better.

Cafferty still ran Edinburgh.

And had found himself a place at the top of her list, too.

'Is any of this leading somewhere?' Rebus asked, turning his attention back to the windscreen.

'Not really.' She ejected the CD from its slot. The radio blasted into life – Forth 1, the DJ talking twenty to the dozen. She switched it off. Rebus had noticed something.

'Didn't know there was a camera there,' he said. He meant at the corner of the building, between the first and second storeys. The camera was pointing into the car park.

'They reckon it stops vandalism. Reminds me actually – think there's any point looking at city-centre footage from the night Todorov was killed? Bound to be cameras at the west end of Princes

Street, maybe on Lothian Road, too. If someone was shadowing him…' She let the sentence drift.

'It's an idea,' he admitted.

'Needle in a haystack,' she added. His silence seemed to confirm it and she rested her head against the back of the seat, neither of them in any hurry to go back inside. 'I remember reading in a paper that we've got the most surveillance of any country in the world; more CCTV in London than the whole of the USA… can that be right?'

'Can't say I've noticed it reducing the crime stats.' Rebus's eyes narrowed. 'What's that noise?'

Clarke saw that Tibbet was gesturing from an upstairs window.

'I think we're wanted.'

'Maybe guilt got the better of our killer and he's come to hand himself in.'

'Maybe,' Clarke said, not believing it for one moment.

'Been here before?' Rebus asked, once they'd passed through the metal-detector. He was scooping loose change back into his pocket.

'Got the guided tour soon after it opened,' Clarke admitted.

There were indented shapes in the ceiling; Rebus couldn't tell if they were supposed to be Crusader-style crosses. Plenty of activity in the main entrance hall. Tables had been set up for the tour parties, ID badges lying on them and placards to say which groups were expected. Staff were everywhere, ready to direct visitors to the reception desk. At the far end of the hall, some schoolkids in uniform were settling down for an early lunch.

'First time for me,' Rebus told Clarke. 'Always wondered what four hundred million pounds looks like…'

The Scottish Parliament had divided public opinion from the moment its plans were revealed in the media. Some thought it bold and revolutionary, others wondered at its quirks and its price tag.

The architect had died before completing the project, as had the man who'd commissioned it. But it was built now and working, and Rebus had to admit that the debating chamber, whenever he'd seen it on the TV news, looked a bit special.

When they told the woman on the reception desk that they were here to see Megan Macfarlane, she printed out a couple of visitor passes. A call to the MSP's office confirmed that they were expected, and another member of staff stepped forward and asked them to follow him. He was a tall, brisk-stepping figure and, like the receptionist, probably not a day under sixty-five. They followed him down corridors and up in a lift and down more corridors.

'Plenty of concrete and wood,' Rebus commented.

'And glass,' Clarke added.

'The special, expensive kind, of course,' Rebus speculated.

Their guide said nothing until they turned yet another corner and found a young man waiting for them.

'Thanks, Sandy,' the man said, 'I'll take it from here.'

As the guide headed back the way they'd just come, Clarke thanked him, and received a little grunt of acknowledgement.

Maybe he was just out of breath.

'My name's Roddy Liddle,' the young man was telling them. 'I work for Megan.'

'And who exactly is Megan?' Rebus asked. Liddle stared at him as if he were maybe making a joke. 'All our boss told us,' Rebus explained, 'was to come down here and talk to someone with that name. Apparently she phoned him.'

'It was me who did the phoning,' Liddle said, making it sound like yet another arduous task that he'd taken in his stride.

'Good for you, son,' Rebus told him. The 'son' obviously rankled.

Liddle was in his early twenties and reckoned he was already well on his way in politics. He looked Rebus up and down before deciding to dismiss him as irrelevant.

'I'm sure Megan will explain.' Having said which, Liddle turned and led them to the end of the corridor.

The MSPs private offices were well proportioned, with desks for staff as well as the politicians themselves. It was Rebus's first sighting of one of the infamous 'think-pods' – little alcoves with curved windows and a cushioned seat. This was where the MSPs were supposed to come up with blue-sky ideas. It was also where they found Megan Macfarlane. She rose to greet them.

'Glad you could come at such short notice,' she said. 'I know you're busy on the inquiry, so I won't keep you long.' She was short and slim and impeccably groomed, not a hair out of place and with just the right amount of make-up. She wore half-moon glasses which rested most of the way down her nose, so that she peered over them at the two detectives. 'I'm Megan Macfarlane,' she said, inviting them to make introductions of their own. Liddle was back behind his desk, staring at messages on his computer. Rebus and Clarke gave their names, and the MSP looked around for places to sit, before having a better idea.

'We'll go downstairs and get a coffee. Roddy, can I bring you one back?'

'No thanks, Megan. One cup a day's plenty for me.'

'Good point – I don't need to be in the chamber later on?' She waited till he'd shaken his head, then focused her gaze on Clarke.

'Diuretic effects, you know, doesn't do to be caught short when you're halfway through a point of order…'

They went back the way they'd come and found themselves descending an impressive staircase, Macfarlane announcing that the 'Scot Nats' had high hopes for May's elections.

'Latest polls put us five points clear of Labour. Blair's unpopular, and so is Gordon Brown. The Iraq war, cash for peerages – it was one of my colleagues who started that investigation. Labour's panicking because Scotland Yard say they've uncovered “significant and valuable material”.' She gave a satisfied smile. 'Scandal seems to be our opponents' middle name.'

'So it's the protest vote you're after?' Rebus asked.

Macfarlane didn't seem to feel this merited any sort of reply.

'If you win in May,' Rebus went on, 'do we get a referendum on independence?'

'Absolutely.'

'And we suddenly become a Celtic tiger?'

'The Labour Party has been failing the people of Scotland for fifty years, Inspector. It's time for a change.'

Queuing at the counter, she announced that this would be her 'treat'. Rebus ordered an espresso, Clarke a small cappuccino.

Macfarlane herself opted for a black coffee into which she poured three sachets of sugar. There were tables nearby, and they chose an empty one, pushing aside the leftover crockery.

'We're still in the dark,' Rebus said, lifting his cup. 'I hope you don't mind me getting straight to the point, but as you said yourself, we've got a murder inquiry waiting for us back at base.'

'Absolutely,' Macfarlane agreed. Then she paused for a moment, as if to marshal her thoughts. 'How much do you know about me?'