Ian Rankin - Exit Music

'My treat,' she'd insisted. Then had asked at the till for a receipt, just in case she could finesse it as an expense. They sat at a table near the window, with a view of the darkening Canongate. 'Daft place to put a parliament,' she commented.

'Out of sight, out of mind,' Goodyear offered.

She smiled at that, and asked him what he thought of CID so far. He considered for a moment before answering.

'I like that you've kept me on.'

'So far,' she warned.

'And you seem to click as a team -1 like that, too. The case itself…'

His voice drifted off.

'Spit it out.'

'I think maybe all of you – and this isn't a criticism – are a little bit in thrall to DI Rebus.'

'Can you be a “little bit” in thrall?'

'You know what I mean, though… he's old, experienced, seen a lot of action down the years. So when he has hunches, you tend to follow them.'

'It's just the way some cases go, Todd – you drop a pebble in water, and the ripples start to spread.'

'But it's not like that at all, is it?' He pulled his chair closer to the table, warming to his argument. 'It's actually linear. The crime is committed by a person, and the job of CID is to find them. Most of the time, that's pretty straightforward – they feel guilty and hand themselves in, or someone witnesses the crime, or they're already known to us and their prints or DNA give them away.' He paused. 'I get the feeling DI Rebus hates those sorts of case, the ones where the motive's too easy to spot.'

'You barely know DI Rebus Clarke prickled.

Goodyear seemed to sense he'd gone too far. 'All I mean is, he likes things to be complex, gives him more of a challenge.'

'Less to this than meets the eye – that's what you're saying?'

'I'm saying we should keep an open mind.'

'Thanks for the advice.' Clarke's voice was as chilled as the carrot cake. Goodyear stared into his mug and looked relieved when the door opened and Megan Macfarlane approached the table. She was toting about three kilos of ring-binder, which she let clatter to the floor. Roddy Liddle had gone to the counter to order their drinks.

'The hoops we have to go through,' Macfarlane complained. She gave Todd Goodyear a questioning smile and Clarke made the introductions.

'I'm a great fan,' Goodyear told the MSP. 'I admired the stand you took on the tram system.'

Tou wouldn't happen to have a few thousand friends who think the same way?' Macfarlane had collapsed into her chair, eyes staring ceilingwards.

'And I've always supported independence,' Goodyear went on.

She angled her head towards him before turning to Clarke.

'I like this one better,' she commented.

'Speaking of DI Rebus,' Clarke said, 'he's sorry he can't make it along this afternoon. But he was the one who happened to spot your Question Time appearance – we're wondering why you didn't mention it.'

'Is that all?' Macfarlane sounded irritated. 'I thought maybe you'd arrested someone.'

'Did you just meet Mr Todorov that one time?' Clarke persisted.

Tea.'

'So you met at the studio?'

'The Hub,' Macfarlane corrected. 'Yes, we were all due to rendezvous there an hour before recording.'

'I thought it went out live,' Goodyear interrupted.

'Not quite,' the MSP insisted. 'Of course, Jim Bakewell, being a Labour minister, had to turn up fashionably late – floor staff didn't like that, which might explain why he got so little screen time.'

She perked up again at the memory, and gave Liddle a blessing as he arrived with her black coffee and a single espresso for himself.

He dragged a chair over so he could be part of the company, and shook hands with Goodyear.

'Think we'll start to hear rumours, Roddy?' Macfarlane asked, pouring a first sachet of sugar into her drink. The being seen with a uniformed police officer?'

“Very likely,' Liddle drawled, lifting the tiny cup to his mouth.

Tou were saying about Mr Todorov,' Clarke prompted.

'She wants to know about Question Time,' Macfarlane explained to her assistant. 'Thinks I must be hiding something.'

'Just wondering,' Clarke interrupted, 'why you didn't think to mention it.'

'Tell me, Sergeant, have any of the other politicos who shared the stage with the victim come forward with their reminiscences?'

The question didn't seem to require an answer. 'No, because they'd have said much the same as me – our Russian friend necked some wine, crammed a few sandwiches into his face, and said nary a word to us. I rather got the impression he wasn't a great fan of politicians as an overall species.'

'What about after the show?'

'Taxis were waiting… he grunted his goodbyes and left, tucking a spare bottle of wine under his jacket.' She paused. 'How any of this aids your inquiry is a mystery to me.'

“That was the only time you met him?'

'Didn't I just say so?' She looked to her assistant for confirmation. Clarke decided to look at him, too.

'What about you, Mr Liddle?' she asked. 'Did you talk to him at The Hub?'

'I introduced myself – “surly”, I'd have called him. There's usually a non-politician on the show, and there's always a rigorous pre-interview. The researcher who'd talked with Todorov didn't sound too thrilled – you could tell by her notes that he hadn't been forthcoming. To this day, I don't know why they had him on.'

Clarke thought for a moment. Charles Riordan had said that Todorov liked to chat to people, yet the drinker in Mather's had said he hardly uttered a word. And now Macfarlane and Liddle were saying much the same. Did Todorov have two sides to his personality? 'Whose idea would it have been to book him on the show?' she asked Liddle.

'Producer, presenter, one of the crew… I dare say anyone can propose a guest.'

'Could it have been,' Goodyear interrupted, 'a case of sending a message to Moscow?'

'I suppose so,' Macfarlane conceded, sounding impressed.

'How do you mean?' Clarke asked Goodyear.

'There was a journalist killed there a while back. Maybe the BBC wanted people to know you can't stifle free speech so easily.'

'Someone stifled it eventually, though, didn't they?' Liddle added.

'Or we wouldn't be having this conversation. And look at what happened to that poor bloody Russian in London…'

Macfarlane was scowling at him. 'That's exactly the kind of rumour we want to clamp down on!'

'Of course, of course,' he mumbled, busying himself with his already empty cup.

'So, just to recap,' Clarke announced into the silence, 'the two of you saw Mr Todorov at the Question Time recording, but didn't get much of a conversation going. You hadn't met him before, and you didn't see him again afterwards – is that the way you'd like me to phrase it in my report?'

'Report?' Macfarlane fairly barked the word.

'Not for public consumption,' Clarke reassured her. Then, after a moment's beat, she delivered her coup de grace: 'Until the trial, of course.'

'I've already stressed, Sergeant, that we have some influential investors in town, and it might not take much to spook them.'

'But you'd agree, wouldn't you,' Clarke countered, 'that we need to show them how scrupulous and thorough our police force is?'

Macfarlane seemed about to say something to that, but her phone was trilling. She turned away from the table as she answered.

'Stuart, how are things?'

Clarke guessed 'Stuart' might be the banker, Stuart Janney.

'I hope you got them all a booking at Andrew Fairlie?' Macfarlane had got to her feet and was on the move. She headed outside, glancing through the window as she continued her conversation.

'It's the restaurant at Gleneagles,' Liddle was explaining.

'I know,' Clarke told him. Then, for Goodyear's benefit: 'Our economic saviours are staying the night there – nice big dinner and a round of golf after breakfast.' She asked Liddle who would be picking up the tab. 'The hard-pressed taxpayer?' she guessed.