Ian Rankin - Exit Music

'What's up?' she asked.

'Just wondered where we go from here.'

'I was thinking of going to the fridge for a can of something.'

'Time was, that would have been my line.'

“The times are a-changing.'

'And that's one of mine, too!'

He could hear her laughing. Then she asked how his interview with Cath Mills had gone.

'Another dead end.'

'Took long enough to drive down it.'

'Didn't see the point of coming back to base.' He paused. 'Thinking of reporting me for bad time-keeping?'

'I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. What's the music you're playing?'

'It's called Little Criminals. There's a track on it called “Jolly Coppers on Parade”.'

'Not someone au fait with the police then…'

'It's Randy Newman. There's another title of his I like: “You Can't Fool the Fat Man”.'

'And would the fat man be yourself, by any chance?' 'Maybe I'll keep you guessing.' He let the silence linger for a moment. You're starting to side with Macrae, aren't you? You think we should be concentrating on the mugger file?'

'I've put Phyl and Colin on it,' Clarke conceded.

'You're losing your bottle?'

'I'm not losing anything.'

'Okay, I put that badly… It's good to be cautious, Shiv. I'm not about to blame you for it.'

'Think about it for a second, John. Was Todorov followed from the Caledonian Hotel? Not according to your CCTV wizard. Did a prostitute proposition him? Maybe, and maybe her pimp jumped in with a length of lead pipe. Whatever happened, the poet was in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

'That much we agree on.'

'And getting up the noses of MSPs, Russian tycoons and First Albannach Bank isn't going to get us anywhere.'

'But it's fun, isn't it? What's the point of a job if you're not having fun?'

'It's fun for you, John… it's always been fun for you.'

'So humour me, my last week at work.'

'I thought that's what I was doing.'

'No, Shiv, what you're doing is writing me off. That's what Todd Goodyear is about – he's your number two, same way you used to be mine. You're already starting to train him up, and probably enjoying it, too.'

'Now hang on a sec…'

'And I'm guessing he's also a means to an end – as long as you've got him with you, you don't have to choose between Phyl and Col. '

'With insights like that, it's a wonder you never got further up the ladder.'

'Thing about that ladder, Shiv, each rung you climb there's another arse waiting to be licked.'

'What a lovely image.'

'We all need some poetry in our lives.' He told her he'd see her tomorrow – 'always supposing I'm needed' – and ended the call. Sat there another five minutes wondering if she'd call back, but she didn't. There was something too cheery about Randy Newman's delivery, so Rebus turned off the album. Plenty of darker stuff he

could play – early King Crimson or Peter Hammill, for example – but instead he walked around the silent flat, going from room to room, and ended up in the hallway with the keys to the Saab in his hand.

'Why the hell not?' he told himself. It wasn't as if it would be the first time, and he doubted it would be the last. Wasn't drunk enough for it to be a problem. He locked the flat and headed down the stairwell, out into the night. Unlocked the Saab and got in. It was only a five-minute drive, and took him past Montpelier 's again.

A right-hand turn off Bruntsfield Place, then one more right and he was parking in a quiet street of detached Victorian-era houses.

He'd been here so often, he'd started to notice changes: new lampposts or new pavements. Signs had gone up warning that come March the parking would be zoned. It had already happened in Marchmont; hadn't made it any easier to find a space. A few rubbish skips had come and gone. He'd heard the Polish accents of the workmen. Extensions had been added to some homes, and the garages dismantled in two separate gardens. Plenty of comings and goings during the day, but much quieter in the evening. Practically every house had its own driveway, but cars from neighbouring streets would park up overnight. No one had ever paid attention to Rebus. In fact, one dog-walker had started to mistake him for a local, and would nod and smile or offer a hello. The dog itself was small and wiry and looked less trusting, turning away from him the one time he'd tried crouching down to pat it.

That had been a rare occurrence: mostly he stayed in the car, hands on the steering wheel, window rolled down and a cigarette between his lips. The radio could be playing. He wouldn't even be watching the house necessarily, but he knew who lived there.

Knew, too, that there was a coach-house in the back garden, which was where the bodyguard lived. One time, a car had stopped when it was halfway through the driveway gates. The bodyguard was in the front, but it was the back window which had slid soundlessly down, the better for the passenger to make eye contact with the watching Rebus. The look was a mixture of contempt, frustration, and maybe even pity – though this last would have been imitation.

Rebus doubted Big Ger Cafferty had ever in his adult life felt an emotion like pity for another human being.

The air still smouldered, the charred smell almost overpowering.

Siobhan Clarke held a handkerchief to her mouth and nose. Rebus stubbed out his breakfast underfoot.

'Bloody hell,' was all he could think to say.

Todd Goodyear had heard the news first and had phoned Clarke, who was halfway to the scene before she decided to call Rebus.

They now stood on a roadway in Joppa while the fire crew gathered up the spent coils of hose. Charles Riordan's house was a shell, the windowpanes gone, roof collapsed.

'Can we go in yet?' Clarke asked one of the firemen.

'What's the rush?'

'I'm just asking.'

'Talk to the boss…'

Some of the firemen were sweating, rubbing smudges of soot across their foreheads. They'd taken off their oxygen tanks and masks. They were talking among themselves, like a gang after a rumble, debating their roles in the action. A neighbour had brought them water and juice. More neighbours were standing in their doorways or gardens, while onlookers from further afield shuffled and whispered. It was a D Division call and two suits from Leith CID had already asked Clarke what Gayfield Square 's interest (.was.

Witness in a case,' was all she'd told them: no point giving away anything more. The suits hadn't been happy about it, and were now keeping their distance, phones held to their ears.

'Reckon he was at home?' Rebus asked Clarke.

She shrugged. 'Remember what we were talking about last t»ight?'

1.l;31

“You mean the argument we were having? Me reading way too much into Todorov's death?'

'Don't rub it in.'

Rebus decided to play devil's advocate. 'Could be an accident, of course. And hey, maybe we'll find him alive and well at his studio.'

'I've tried calling – no answer as yet.' She nodded towards a kerbside TVR. 'Woman two doors down says that's his car. He parked it last night – she knows it was him because of the noise it makes.'

The TVR's windscreen was shrouded in ash. Rebus watched two more firemen step gingerly over some timbers on their way into what was left of the house. Some of the shelves were still visible in the hallway, though most had been destroyed.

'Fire investigator on his way?' Rebus asked.

'On her way,' Clarke corrected him.

'The march of progress…' An ambulance crew had turned up, too, but were now checking their watches, unwilling to waste much more time. Todd Goodyear came bounding forward, dressed in a suit rather than a uniform. He nodded a greeting at Rebus and started leafing back through his notebook.