Ian Rankin - Exit Music

'Part of Todd's learning curve,' he argued.

Tfou're forgetting one thing, John – I'm in charge.'

'Only trying to be helpful.' Rebus had stretched his arms, all innocence.

'Thanks, but I'd rather hear what GaveriU's got so say.'

'I get the feeling he'll be easily intimidated. He trusts me now, but when he comes up against three of us…' He started to shake his head. 'Don't want him clamming up again.'

'Let's wait and see,' was all Clarke said. Rebus gave another shrug and wandered over to the window.

'Meantime,' he said, 'want to hear my theory?'

Tour theory of what?'

“Why he's so sweaty about his wife finding out.'

'Because,' Goodyear piped up, 'she'll think he accepted the offer.'

But Rebus was shaking his head. 'Quite the reverse, young Todd.

Would DS Clarke like to hazard a guess?'

'Slay us with an insight,' she said instead, folding her arms.

“What else is there on King's Stables Road?' Rebus asked.

'Castle Rock,' Goodyear offered.

'And?'

'A churchyard,' Clarke added.

'Exactly,' Rebus said. 'And on the corner of that churchyard you'll find an old lookout tower. It was used a couple of centuries back to keep watch for body-snatchers – and to my mind they should put it back into use. Dodgy place at night, that churchyard…' He let his words hang in the air.

'Gaverill's gay,' Clarke speculated, 'and his wife doesn't know it?'

Rebus shrugged but seemed pleased that she'd reached the same conclusion as him.

'So he was hardly going to take up the woman's offer,' Goodyear continued, nodding to himself.

At which point the phone buzzed. It was the front desk, letting them know George Gaverill was waiting for them.

They'd already decided that he should be brought to the CID suite – just that little bit more welcoming than an interview room.

But first Rebus shook him warmly by the hand and led him along the corridor to IR2, where he asked him to put his eye to the peephole.

'See the young woman?' Rebus asked quietly.

“Yes,' Gaverill whispered back.

'She the one?'

Gaverill turned towards him. 'No,' he stated. Rebus stared at the man. Gaverill was about five and a half feet tall, thin-boned and pale-faced with mousy brown hair and some sort of rash on his face. He was probably in his early forties, and Rebus got the feeling the rash could have been with him since his teens.

'Sure?' Rebus asked.

'Fairly sure. This woman was a bit taller, I'd say. Not as young and not as skinny.'

Rebus nodded and led him back the way they'd come, before climbing the stairs to CID. He shook his head when Clarke made eye contact – no identification. She gave a twitch of the mouth and held up the latest Evening News. There was a photo of the man called Litvinenko; he was attached to wires in his hospital bed and the poison had made him lose his hair.

'Coincidence,' was all Rebus said as Clarke introduced herself to Gaverill.

'Can't thank you enough for coming, sir.'

Goodyear meantime was busy on the phone, taking notes from someone who'd called the hotline and looking less than thrilled.

Clarke had gestured for Gaverill to sit down.

'Can we get you anything?' she asked.

'I just want this over and done with.'

'Well then,' Rebus intervened, 'we'll get straight to business.

Maybe you can tell us in your own words exactly what happened?'

'Like I told you, Inspector, I was on King's Stables Road, around quarter past ten, and there was this woman loitering there, close

to the car park exit. I reckoned she was waiting for someone, but when I was making to pass her, she spoke to me.'

'And what did she say?'

'She asked if I wanted…' Gaverill swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bouncing.

'A fuck?' Rebus offered.

'Exact words,' Gaverill agreed.

'Was any sort of a price mentioned?'

'She told me it was… I think she said “no strings”, something like that. No strings, no comebacks. Said she just wanted a…' But he still couldn't bring himself to say it.

'And this was going to happen right where you stood?' Rebus sounded disbelieving.

'Maybe in the car park…'

'Did she say as much?'

'I don't really remember. I'd started walking away. To be honest with you, I was a bit shocked.'

'I can imagine,' Clarke sympathised. 'What a hellish thing to happen. So can you tell us what she looked like?'

'Well, she was… I'm not sure exactly. About the same height as me… a bit older than the lass downstairs, though I'm not very good at ages – women's ages, I mean.'

'Lots of make-up?'

'Some make-up… and perfume, but I couldn't tell you what kind.'

'Would you say she looked like a prostitute, Mr Gaverill?' Rebus asked.

'Not the kind you see on TV, no. She wasn't dressed provocatively.

She had a coat on with a hood. It was cold that night, don't forget.'

'A coat with a hood?'

'Like a duffel coat maybe… or a bit longer than a duffel…, I'm not terribly sure.' He gave a nervous little laugh. 'I wish I could be more help.'

Tou're doing fine,' Rebus assured him.

'Better than fine,' Clarke added.

To be honest with you,' Gaverill went on, 'when I played it back in my mind, I decided she was probably a wee bit bonkers. I remember one time, there was a woman on the steps of a church by Bruntsfield Links, and she was lying there with her legs in the air, skirt hiked up, and it turned out she'd escaped from the Royal Ed…' He seemed to think some explanation was needed. 'That's where they keep the-'

'Psychiatric patients,' Clarke interrupted him with a nod.

'Well, I was only a bairn when that happened, but I still remember it.'

'Not the sort of thing you'd forget,' Rebus agreed. 'Surprised it didn't put you off women for life.' He gave a laugh so Gaverill would take it as a joke, but Clarke's eyes warned him to go easy.

'Irene's a special woman, Inspector,' Gaverill stated.

'I'm sure she is, sir. Been married a while?'

'Nineteen years – she was the first real girlfriend I ever had.'

'First and last, eh?' Rebus offered.

'Mr Gaverill,' Clarke interrupted, 'would you be willing to do us one further favour? I'd like an identification officer to work with you on a composite of the woman's face. Do you think that might be possible?'

'Right now?' Gaverill checked his watch.

'Soon as possible, while the memory's still fresh. We could have someone here in ten or fifteen minutes…' Meaning half an hour.

'Meant to ask, Mr Gaverill,' Rebus butted in, 'what's your line of work?'

'Auctions,' Gaverill told him. 'I pick stuff up and sell it on.'

'Flexible hours,' Rebus argued. “You can always explain to Irene that you were with a punter.'

Clarke gave a little cough, but Gaverill hadn't read anything into Rebus's words. 'Ten minutes?' he asked.

'Ten or fifteen,' Clarke assured him.

Lunchtime sandwiches: they'd given their orders to Goodyear, Rebus stressing that it was all part and parcel of the training. Roger and Elizabeth Anderson had gone home; so had Nancy Sievewright.

Hawes and Tibbet had gleaned nothing new from either interview.

Rebus was studying the computer image of a woman's face. Gaverill had insisted that most of it be left in shadow, the hood pulled low over the forehead.

'Nobody we know,' Clarke said, not for the first time. Gaverill had just left, and not in the best of moods – it had taken almost an hour for the ID expert, with the help of his laptop, printer and software, to put together the e-fit.

'Could be anybody,' Rebus said in response to Clarke's statement.

'Still… let's say she was there, whoever she is.'

Tou buy Gaverill's story?'

Tou mean you don't?'

'He seemed genuine to me,' Goodyear piped up, before quickly adding: 'for what it's worth.'