Ian Rankin - Exit Music

But Rebus knew who and what it was: Nikolai Stahov from the consulate; Russian nationals based in Edinburgh. Again, Stahov had taken his time, and Rebus doubted they'd have much use for the list – the landscape had changed since they'd first asked for it. All the same, and for want of anything better to do, he nodded and said he'd be down straight away.

But when he opened the door to the reception area, the man studying the posters on the walls was not Stahov.

It was Stuart Janney.

'Mr Janney,' Rebus said, holding out a hand and trying not to show his surprise.

'It's Detective Inspector…?'

'Rebus,' he reminded the banker.

Janney nodded, as if in apology for not having remembered. 'I'm just handing in a message.' He'd lifted an envelope from his pocket.

'Didn't expect someone of your calibre to be on the receiving end.'

'Likewise, I didn't know you ran errands for the Russian consulate.'

Janney managed a smile. 'I ran into Nikolai at Gleneagles. He happened to find the envelope in his pocket… mentioned he was supposed to bring it in.'

Tou told him you'd save him the trouble?'

Janney gave a shrug. 'No big deal.'

'How was the golf?'

'I didn't play. FAB was giving a presentation, which happened to coincide with the visit by our Russian friends.'

'That is a coincidence. Anyone would think you were stalking them.'

Now Janney laughed, head back. 'Business is business, Inspector, and, lest we forget, good for Scotland.'

'True enough – that why you're keeping in with the SNP, too?

Reckon they'll be running the show next May?'

'As I said at our first encounter, the bank has to stay neutral.

On the other hand, the Nats are making a strong showing.

Independence may be a ways off, but it's probably inevitable.'

'And good for business?'

Janney gave a shrug. 'They're pledging to drop the rate of corporation tax.'

Rebus was examining the sealed envelope. 'Did Comrade Stahov happen to mention what's in here?'

'Russian nationals living locally. He said it's to do with the Todorov case. I can't really see the connection myself…' Janney let the sentence hang, as if ready for Rebus's explanation, but all Rebus did was tuck the envelope inside his jacket.

'How about Mr Todorov's bank statements?' he asked instead.

'Any further forward with them?'

'As I said, Inspector, there are procedures. Sometimes, without the benefit of an executor, the wheels grind slow…'

'So have you done any deals yet?'

'Deals?' Janney seemed not to understand.

'With these Russians I'm supposed to be tiptoeing around.'

'It's nothing to do with “tiptoeing” – we just don't want them getting the wrong idea.'

'About Scotland, you mean? A man's dead, Mr Janney – not much we can do to change that.'

The door next to the reception desk opened and DCI Macrae appeared. He was dressed in coat and scarf, ready to leave.

'Any news on the fire?' he asked Rebus.

'No, sir,' Rebus told him.

'Nothing from the post-mortem?'

'Not yet.'

'But you still think it ties to the poet fellow?'

'Sir, this is Mr Janney. He works for First Albannach Bank.'

The two men shook hands. Rebus hoped his boss would take the hint, but just in case, he added the information that Janney was going to provide details of Todorov's bank account.

'Am I to understand,' Janney said, 'that someone else has died?'

'House fire,' Macrae barked. 'Friend of Todorov's.'

'Gracious me.'

Rebus had extended his own hand towards the banker. 'Well,' he interrupted, 'thanks again for dropping by.'

“Yes,' Janney conceded, 'you must have a lot on your plate.'

'The whole help-yourself buffet,' Rebus acknowledged with a smile.

The two men shook hands. For a moment, it looked as if Macrae and the banker might leave the station together. Rebus didn't like the idea of Macrae spilling any more of the buffet, so told him he needed a word. Janney exited alone, and Rebus waited until the door had closed. But it was Macrae who spoke.

'What do you think of Goodyear?' he asked.

'Seems proficient.' Macrae seemed to be expecting some caveat, but Rebus shrugged his shoulders instead and left it at that.

'Siobhan appears to agree with you.' Macrae paused. 'There'll be a few changes to the team when you retire.'

Tes, sir.'

'I reckon Siobhan's about ready for a step-up to inspector.'

'She's been ready for years.'

Macrae nodded to himself. 'What was it you wanted to speak to me about?' he eventually asked..'It'll keep, sir,' Rebus assured him. He watched the boss head for

the exit and considered stepping into the car park for a smoke. But instead, he headed back upstairs, tearing open the envelope and studying the names. There were a couple of dozen, but no other details – nothing like addresses or a list of occupations. Stahov had been scrupulous to the point of adding his own name at the very bottom – maybe he'd done it for a laugh, knowing the sheet itself was of no possible use to the inquiry. But as Rebus pushed open the door to the CID suite, he saw that Hawes and Tibbet were on their feet, keen to tell him something.

'Spit it out,' he said.

Tibbet was holding out another sheet of paper. 'Fax from the Caledonian. Several of the hotel residents bought brandies at the bar that night.'

'Any of them Russian?' Rebus asked.

'Have a look.'

So Rebus took the fax from him and saw three names staring back at him. Two were complete strangers, but didn't sound foreign.

The third wasn't foreign either, but it sent the blood thrumming in his ears.

Mr M. Cafferty.

M for Morris. Morris Gerald Cafferty.

'Big Ger,' Hawes explained, with no necessity whatsoever.

Rebus had only the one question: bring him in, or question him at his house?

'My decision, not yours,' Siobhan Clarke reminded him. She'd been back from the mortuary half an hour and seemed to be nursing a headache. Tibbet had made her a coffee, and Rebus had watched her press two tablets from their foil enclosure into the palm of her hand. Todd Goodyear had thrown up only the once, in the mortuary car park, though there had been another crisis point on the way back to Gayfield Square when they passed some men laying tarmac.

'Something about the smell,' he'd explained.

He now looked pale and shaken, but kept telling everyone he was all right – whether they wanted to hear it or not. Clarke had gathered them round so she could tell them what Gates and Curt had told her: male, five ten, rings on two fingers of the right hand, gold watch on one wrist, and with a broken jaw.

'Maybe a roof beam fell on him,' she speculated. The victim hadn't been tied to any piece of furniture, and neither his hands nor his feet had been bound. 'Just lying in a heap on the living-room floor.

Probable cause of death: smoke inhalation. Gates did stress that these were preliminary findings…'

Rebus: 'Still makes it a suspicious death.'

Hawes: 'Which means it's ours.'

'And ID?' Tibbet asked.

'Dental records, if we're lucky.'

'Or the rings?' Goodyear guessed.

'Even if they belonged to Riordan,' Rebus told him, 'doesn't mean Riordan was the last man wearing them. I had a case ten or

twelve years back, guy being done for fraud tried faking his own death…'

Goodyear nodded slowly, beginning to see.

After which, Rebus divulged his own news, before asking his question.

Clarke sat with the fax in one hand, head resting in the other.

'This,' she said, 'just keeps getting better and better. Then, raising her eyes to meet Rebus's: 'Interview Room 3?'

'IR3 it is,' he said, 'and remember to wrap up warm.'

Cafferty, however, sat with his chair slid back from the table, one leg crossed over the over and hands behind his head, for all the world as if he were in the parlour back home.