Ian Rankin - Exit Music

'So you're glad-handing the fat cats? Good to see my council tax being put to such good use.'

The Lord Provost had taken a step forwards, glare intensifying.

She was readying a fresh salvo when her attendant cleared his throat. Through the window, a long black car could be seen trying to manoeuvre itself through the arch in front of the building. The Lord Provost said nothing, just turned from Rebus and was gone.

He gave her five seconds, then made his own exit, Clarke at his shoulder.

'Nice to make friends,' she said.

'I'm a week from retirement, Shiv, what the hell do I care?'

They walked a few yards down the pavement, then stopped while Rebus got his cigarette lit.

'Did you see the paper this morning?' Clarke asked. 'Andy Kerr won Politician of the Year last night.'

'And who's he when he's at home?'

'Man who brought in the smoking ban.'

Rebus just snorted. Pedestrians were watching the official-looking car draw to a halt in front of the waiting Lord Provost. Her liveried attendant stepped forward to open the back door. Tinted windows had shielded the passenger from view, but as he stepped out Rebus immediately guessed he was one of the Russians. Big coat, black

gloves, and a chiselled, unsmiling face. Maybe forty years old, hair short and well groomed with some greying at the temples. Steely grey eyes which took in everything, Rebus and Clarke included, even as he was shaking the Lord Provost's hand and answering some remark she'd made. Rebus sucked smoke deep into his lungs and watched as the party disappeared back inside.

'Looks like the Russian consulate's going into the taxi business,'

Rebus stated, studying the black Mercedes.

'Same car Stahov had?' Clarke guessed.

'Could be.'

'What about the driver?'

'Hard to tell.'

Another official had appeared and was gesturing for them to move their car so the chauffeur could park. Rebus held up a single digit, meaning one minute. Then he noticed that Clarke was still wearing her visitor's badge.

'Better hand them back,' he said. Tou take this.' He held out the half-smoked cigarette towards her, but she was reluctant, so instead he balanced it on a windowsill nearby. 'Watch it doesn't blow away,' he warned, taking her badge and unclipping his own.

'I'm sure they don't need them,' she commented. Rebus just smiled and headed for reception.

'Thought we better give you these,' he told the woman behind the desk. Tou can always recycle them, eh? We've all got to do our bit.' He was still smiling, so the receptionist smiled back.

'By the way,' he added, leaning over the desk, 'that bloke with the Lord Provost – was it who I think it was?'

'Some sort of business tycoon,' the woman said. Yes, because the visitors' log was sitting there in front of them, and the last name to be entered – entered with what looked like thick blue ink from a fountain pen – was the same one she uttered now.

'Sergei Andropov.'

'Where to?' Clarke asked.

'The pub.'

'Do you have one in mind?'

'Mather's, of course.'

But as Clarke drove them down Johnston Terrace, Rebus told her to take a detour, a series of left turns bringing them into King's Stables Road from the Grassmarket end. They drew to a halt outside the multistorey, and saw that Hawes and Tibbet

were busy. Clarke sounded the horn as she turned off the ignition.

Tibbet turned and waved. He'd been sticking flyers on windscreens – POLICE INCIDENT: INFORMATION REQUIRED. Hawes was setting up a sandwich board on the pavement next to the exit barriers – a larger version of the flyer, exact same wording. There was a grainy photograph of Todorov: 'Around 11 p.m. on Wednesday 15 November a man was attacked within the confines of this car park, dying from his injuries. Did you see anything? Was anyone you know parked here on that evening? Please call the incident room…'

The number given was a police switchboard.

'Just as well,' Rebus pointed out, 'seeing as there's no one currently home at CID.'

'Macrae was saying much the same thing,' Hawes agreed, studying her handiwork. 'Wanted to know how many more officers we'd be needing.'

'I like my teams small and perfectly formed,' Rebus replied.

'Obviously not a Hearts fan,' Tibbet added in an undertone.

Tou a Hibs fan then, Colin, same as Siobhan here?'

' Livingston,' Tibbet corrected him.

'Hearts have got a Russian owner, haven't they?'

It was Clarke who answered. 'He's Lithuanian actually.'

Hawes interrupted to ask where Rebus and Clarke were headed.

'The pub,' Clarke announced.

'Lucky you.'

'Business rather than pleasure.'

'So what do Colin and me do after this?' Hawes's eyes were on Rebus.

'Back to base,' he told her, 'to await the torrent of phone calls.'

'And,' Clarke suddenly remembered, 'I need someone to call the BBC for me. See if they'll send us a copy of Todorov on Question Time. I want to see just how much of a stirrer he really was.'

'They ran a bit of it on the news last night,' Colin Tibbet announced.

'There was a package about the case, and that was all the footage of him they seemed to have.'

'Thanks for sharing,' Clarke told him. 'Maybe you could get on to the Beeb for me?'

He gave a shrug, indicating willingness. Clarke's attention was drawn to the stack of flyers he still held. Though they were printed on various colours of paper, most seemed to be a particularly lurid pink.

'We wanted them in a hurry,' Tibbet explained. 'This was what was on offer.'

'Let's go,' Rebus told Clarke, making for the car, but Hawes had other ideas.

'We should be doing the follow-up interviews with the witnesses,'

she called. The and Colin could do it.'

Rebus pretended to think for all of five seconds before turning down the offer.

Back in the car, he stared at the No Entry sign which was denying them direct access to Lothian Road.

'Think I should chance it?' Clarke asked.

'Up to you, Shiv.'

She gnawed at her bottom lip, then executed a three-point turn.

Ten minutes later, they were on Lothian Road, passing the other end of King's Stables Road. 'Should've chanced it,' Rebus commented.

Two further minutes and they were parking on the yellow lines outside Mather's, having disregarded a road sign warning them they could only turn into Queensferry Street if they were a bus or a taxi. The white van in front had done the selfsame thing and the estate car behind them was following suit.

'A regular little law-breaking convoy,' was Rebus's comment.

'I despair of this town,' Clarke said, teeth bared. 'Who thinks up the traffic management?'

“You need a drink,' Rebus informed her. He didn't get into Mather's much, but he liked the place. It was old-fashioned, with few chairs, most of them occupied by serious-looking men. Early afternoon, and Sky Sports was on the television. Clarke had brought a few of the flyers with her – yellow in preference to pink – and went around the tables with them, while Rebus held one up in front of the barman's face.

'Two nights ago,' he said, 'around ten o'clock, maybe a little after.'

'Wasn't my shift,' the barman answered.

'Then whose was it?'

'Terry's.'

'And where's Terry?'

'In his kip, most likely.'

'Is he on again tonight?' When the barman nodded, Rebus pressed the flyer on him. 'I want a phone call from him, whether he served this guy or not. No phone call, it's you I'll blame.'

The barman just gave a twitch of the mouth. Clarke was standing next to Rebus. 'Guy over in the corner seems to know you,'

she said. Rebus looked and nodded, then walked over to the table, Clarke following.

'All right, Big?' Rebus said by way of greeting.

The man drinking alone – half of heavy and an inch of whisky -seemed to be enjoying his berth, one foot up on the chair next to him, a hand scratching his chest. He was wearing a faded denim shirt, undone to below the breastbone. Rebus hadn't seen him in maybe seven or eight years. He called himself Podeen – Big Podeen.