Ian Rankin - Exit Music

' Edinburgh, mostly – the way it used to be… how things have changed…“

'Sounds riveting. Nothing about the Russians?'

Freddie shook his head. 'Said the best moment of his life was the day he went “legit”.'

'He's about as legit as a twenty-quid Rolex.'

'I've been offered a few of those in my time,' the barman mused.

'Something I noticed about all the Russian gentlemen – nice watches. Tailored suits, too. But their shoes look cheap; I can never understand that. People should take better care of their feet.' He decided Rebus merited an explanation. 'My girlfriend's a chiropodist.'

'The pillow talk must be scintillating,' Rebus muttered, staring at the empty room and imagining it full of Russian tycoons and their translators.

And Big Ger Cafferty.

'Night the poet was in here,' he said, 'he just had the one drink with Cafferty and then left…'

'That's right.'

'But what did Cafferty do?' Rebus was remembering that bar tab: eleven drinks in total.

Freddie thought for a moment. 'I think he stayed for a bit… yes, he was here till I closed up, more or less.'

'More or less?'

'Well, he may have nipped to the toilet. Actually, he went over to Mr Andropov's booth. There was another gentleman there, a politician, I think.'

Tou think?'

'Whenever they come on the telly, I turn the sound down.'

'But you recognised this man?'

'Like I say, I think he's something to do with the Parliament.'

'Which booth was this?' The barman pointed, and Rebus slid from his stool and headed over to it. 'And Andropov was where?'

he called.

'Move in a bit further… yes, there.'

From where Rebus was now sitting, he could only see the nearest end of the bar. The stool he'd just risen from, the one Todorov had taken, was hidden from view. Rebus got to his feet again and walked back to Freddie.

“You sure you've not got cameras in here?'

'We don't need them.'

Rebus thought for a moment. 'Do me a favour, will you?' he said.

'Next time you get a break, find a computer.'

'There's one in the Business Centre.'

'Log on to the Scottish Parliament website. There'll be about a hundred and twenty-nine faces there… see if you can match one of them.'

'My breaks tend to be twenty minutes.'

Rebus ignored this. He gave Freddie his card. 'Call me as soon as you've got a name.' Perfect timing: the door was swinging open, a couple of suits coming in. They looked as though some deal had done them a few favours.

'Bottle of Krug!' one of them barked, ignoring the fact that Freddie was busy with another customer. The barman's eyes met Rebus's and the detective nodded to let him know he could go back to his job.

'Bet they're not even tippers,' Rebus said under his breath.

'Maybe not,' Freddie acknowledged, 'but at least they'll pay for their drinks…'

Clarke decided to take the call outside, so Goodyear wouldn't hear her asking Rebus if he was going senile.

'We've already been warned off,' she said into the phone, her voice just above a whisper. 'What grounds have we got for pulling him in?'

'Anyone willing to drink with Cafferty has got to be dodgy,' she heard Rebus explain.

She gave a sigh she hoped he'd hear. 'I don't want you going within a hundred yards of the Russian delegation until we have something a bit more concrete.'

“You always spoil my fun.'

'When you grow up, you'll understand.' She ended the call and went back into the CID suite, where Todd Goodyear had plugged in a tape deck borrowed from one of the interview rooms. Turned out Katie Glass had been toting a couple of evidence sacks' worth of stuff from Riordan's house. Goodyear had carried them up from the boot of her car.

'Drives a Prius,' he'd commented.

When the bags were opened, the smell of burnt plastic filled the room. But some of the tapes were intact, as were a couple of digital recorders. Goodyear had slotted a cassette tape home, and as Clarke walked in through the door he pressed the play button.

The machine didn't have much of a loudspeaker, and they leant down either side of it, the better to listen. Clarke could hear chinks and clinks and distant, indistinguishable voices.

'A pub or a cafe or something,' Goodyear commented. The hubbub continued for a few more minutes, interrupted only by a cough much closer to the microphone.

'Riordan, presumably,' Clarke offered.

Getting bored, she told Goodyear to fast forward. Same location, same clutter of the overheard everyday.

Tfou couldn't dance to it,' Goodyear admitted. Clarke got him to eject the tape and turn it over. They appeared to be in a railway station. There was the platform master's loud whistle, followed by the sound of a train moving off. The microphone then headed back to the station concourse, where people mingled and waited, probably watching the arrivals or departures board. Someone sneezed and Riordan himself said, 'Bless you.' A couple of women were caught in the middle of a conversation about their partners, and the mic seemed to follow them as they headed for a food kiosk, discussing which filled baguettes took their fancy. Purchases made, it was back to gossiping about their partners again as they queued for coffee at a separate kiosk. Clarke heard the espresso machine at work, a sudden announcement over the station tannoy masking the dialogue. She heard the towns Inverkeithing and Dunfermline being mentioned.

'Must be Waverley,' she said.

'Could be Haymarket,' Goodyear hedged.

'Haymarket doesn't have a sandwich bar as such.'

'I bow to your superior knowledge.'

'Even when I'm wrong, you should bow anyway.'

He did so, giving a courtier-style flourish of the hand, and she smiled.

'He was obsessive,' Clarke stated, Goodyear nodding his agreement.

You really think his death is linked to Todorov?' he asked.

'As of this moment, it's a coincidence… but there are precious few murders in Edinburgh – now we get two in a matter of days, and the victims just happen to know one another.'

'Meaning you don't really think it's coincidence at all.'

'Thing is, Joppa is a D Division call, and we're B Division. If we don't argue our corner, Leith CID will take it.'

'Then we should claim it.'

'Which means persuading DCI Macrae that there's a connection.'

She stopped the tape and ejected it. 'Reckon they're all going to be like that?'

'Only one way to find out.'

'There'll be hundreds of hours of the stuff.'

We don't know that; fire could have made a lot of it unlistenable.

Best for one of us to check it first, then pass anything difficult on

to Forensics or the engineer at Riordan's studio.'

'True.' Clarke still didn't share Goodyear's enthusiasm. She was thinking back to her own days in uniform… not that long ago, really, in the span of things. She'd been every bit as keen as Goodyear, confident that she would make a difference to each and every case – and maybe, just now and then, a telling difference.

It had happened sometimes, but the glory had been grabbed by someone more senior – not Rebus, she was thinking back to before their pairing. Her at St Leonard 's, being told that it was all about teamwork, no room for egos and prima donnas. Then Rebus had arrived, his old station having burned to the ground – wiring gone bad. She had to have a little smile to herself at that.

Wiring gone bad: a fair description of Rebus himself at times.

Bringing with him to St Leonard 's his mistrust of 'teamwork', his two-decades-plus of bets hedged, lines crossed and rules broken.

And at least one very personal vendetta.

Goodyear was suggesting they give one of the little digital recorders a listen. There was no external speaker, but the headphones from Goodyear's iPod fitted one of the sockets. Clarke didn't really fancy pushing the little buds into her own ears, so told him he could do the listening. But after about half a minute and the pressing of buttons in various configurations, he gave up.