Ian Rankin - Exit Music

The, too. Plumbers who promise to be there at eleven… people on the phone who say the cheque's in the post…'

Clarke was smiling now, too. But Harmison's face fell again.

'I feel so sorry for Terry. He's worked every bit as hard as Charlie, probably put in more hours, truth be told.'

'What sort of work have you got on just now?'

'Radio ads… couple of audio books… plus editing the Parliament project.'

'What Parliament project?'

“You know they have a Festival of Politics every year?'

'I didn't, actually.'

'Had to happen – we've got festivals for everything else. This coming year, there's an artist they've commissioned to put something together. He works in video and so on, and he wanted a sound collage to go with whatever it is he's doing.'

'So you've been taping stuff at the Parliament?'

'Hundreds of hours of it.' Harmison nodded towards the battery of machines. But Grimm was clicking his fingers, gaining her attention.

'I'll just put my assistant back on,' he was telling the caller. 'And she'll fix up a meeting.'

Harmison fairly trotted towards the desk and the appointments diary. Clarke reckoned it was his use of 'assistant' that had done it. No longer a mere secretary or receptionist…

Grimm was nodding in gratitude as he approached Clarke.

'Thanks for the tip,' he said.

'Hazel was just telling me about the Festival of Politics.'

Grimm turned his eyes heavenwards. What a nightmare. Artist hadn't a clue what he wanted. Bounces around between Geneva and New York and Madrid… We'd get the occasional e-mail or fax.

Get me some sounds of a debate, but make sure it's heated. All the meetings of one of the committees… some of the guided tours…

interviews with visitors… He'd be vague as hell, then tell us we hadn't done what he wanted. Luckily we kept all his e-mails.'

'And of course Charlie would have taped any meetings or phone calls?'

'How did you guess?'

'Hazel told me.'

'Well, our artist friend loved that. I mean, not everyone likes it when they find out they've been secretly taped…'

'I can imagine,' Clarke drawled.

'But he thought it was hysterical.'

'Sounds like a big project, though.'

'Nearly done. I put together two hours of collage, and so far he seems to like it. Plans to use it with some video installation at the Parliament building.' Grimm gave a shrug, which seemed to sum up his attitude to 'artists'.

“What's his name?'

'Roddy Denholm.'

'And he's not based in Scotland?'

'Has a flat in the New Town, but never seems to be there.'

The intercom buzzed, letting them know Goodyear was back with the spools of tape and the digital recorders.

'What is it you think we might get from them?' Grimm asked, staring at the polythene sacks as Goodyear placed them on the floor.

'To be honest, I'm not sure,' Clarke admitted. Hazel Harmison had finished making the appointment and was now staring in

morbid fascination at the sacks. She'd folded her arms once more, but it wasn't proving at all effective.

'Did you make the appointment for today or tomorrow?' Grimm asked her, hoping to divert her attention.

'Midday tomorrow.'

'This recording you've been doing at the Parliament…' Clarke asked Grimm. “You said you'd been taping one of the committees – mind if I ask which one?'

'Urban Regeneration,' he stated. 'Not exactly a cauldron of human drama, believe me.'

'I believe you,' Clarke told him. Interesting all the same. 'So was it you doing the actual recording rather than Mr Riordan?'

'Both of us.'

'That committee's chaired by Megan Macfarlane, isn't it?'

'How do you know that?'

“You might say I've got an interest in politics. Mind if I take a listen?'

'To the Urban Regeneration Committee?' He sounded nonplussed.

'You've gone beyond an “interest in politics”, Sergeant…'

She took the bait: 'And into what?'

'Masochism,' he stated, turning towards the mixing desk.

'Gill Morgan?' Rebus asked into the intercom. He was standing outside a door on Great Stuart Street. Cars rumbled across the setts, taking drivers and passengers to Queen Street and George Street. The morning rush hour wasn't quite over and Rebus had to lean down, ear pressed to the intercom's loudspeaker, to make out the eventual reply.

'What is it?' The voice sounded bleary.

'Sorry if I woke you,' Rebus pretended to apologise. 'I'm a police officer, a few follow-up questions regarding Miss Sievewright.'

“You've got to be joking.' Bleary and irritated.

'Wait till you hear the punchline.'

But she'd missed that: the setts sending tremors through a lorry.

Rather than repeat himself, Rebus just asked to be let in.

'I need to get dressed.'

He repeated the request and the buzzer sounded. He pushed open the door into the communal stairwell and climbed the two nights.

She'd left her door ajar for him, but he gave a knock anyway.

Wait in the living room!' she called, presumably from her bedroom.

Rebus could see the living room. It was at the end of a wide

hall, the sort that often got called a 'dining hallway', meaning you were supposed to have a table there and entertain your friends to supper rather than have them traipse all over your actual living room. It seemed to him a very Edinburgh thing. Welcoming, but not very. The living room itself boasted stark white walls to complement stark white furniture. It was like walking into an igloo. The floorboards had been stripped and varnished and he concentrated on them for a moment, trying to avoid becoming snow-blind. It was a big room with a high ceiling and two huge windows. He couldn't imagine that Gill Morgan shared with anyone, the place was too tidy. There was a flat-screen TV on the wall above the fireplace and no ornaments anywhere. It was like the rooms in the Sunday newspaper supplements, the ones designed to be photographed rather than lived in.

'Sorry about that,' a young woman said, walking into the room. 'I realised after I'd let you in that you could be anybody. The officers the other day carried ID – can I see yours?'

Rebus got out his warrant card, and as she studied it, so he studied her. She was tiny – almost elfin-like. Probably not even five feet tall, and with a pointy little face and almond-shaped eyes.

Brown hair tied into a ponytail, and arms the thickness of pipe cleaners. Hawes and Tibbet had said she was a model of some kind… Rebus found that hard to believe. Weren't models supposed to be tall? Satisfied with his credentials, Morgan had sunk into a white leather armchair, tucking her legs beneath her.

'So how can I help you, Detective Inspector?' she asked, hands clasped to her knees.

'My colleagues said you have a modelling career, Miss Morgan – must be going well for you?' He made show of admiring the living room's proportions.

'I'm moving into acting, actually.'

'Really?' Rebus tried to sound interested. Most people would have responded to his original question by asking what business it was of his, but not Gill Morgan. In her universe, talking about herself came naturally.

'I've been taking classes.'

Would I have seen you in anything?'

'Probably not yet,' she preened, 'but there's some screen work on the horizon.'

'Screen work? That's impressive…' Rebus lowered himself on to the chair opposite her.

'Just a small part in a television drama…' Morgan seemed to

feel the need to play down the significance, no doubt in the hope that he'd think she was being modest.

'Exciting, all the same,' he told her, playing along. 'And it probably helps explain something we've been wondering about.'

Now she looked puzzled. 'Oh?'

'When my colleagues spoke to you, they could see you were trying to feed them a line. Fact that you say you're an actor explains why you thought you'd get away with it.' He leaned forward, as if to take her into his confidence. 'But here's the thing, Miss Morgan, we're now investigating two murders, and that means we can't afford to get sidetracked. So before you get into serious trouble, maybe you should own up.'