Ian Rankin - Exit Music

He was bulky and balding, with an overfed face tinged pink by hypertension. He rose up just long enough to shake Rebus's hand, introducing himself as Sir Michael Addison.

'She works fast, your stepdaughter,' Rebus told the banker. And Addison was no slouch himself; no more than ninety minutes since Rebus had left Gill Morgan's flat, and here they all were. 'Nice to have friends, isn't it?'

'Gill's explained everything,' Addison was saying. 'Seems she's fallen in with a bad lot, but her mother and I will deal with that.'

'Her mother knows, does she?' Rebus decided to probe.

'We're hoping that may not be necessary…'

'Wouldn't want her falling off the wagon,' Rebus agreed.

The banker seemed stunned by this; Corbyn took the silence as his cue. 'Look, John, I can't see what you've got to gain from pressing the point.' His use of Rebus's first name was a message that they were all on the same side here.

'What point might that be, sir?' Rebus asked, refusing to play along.

'You know what I mean. Young girls are susceptible… maybe Gill was scared to tell the truth.'

'Because she'd be losing her supplier?' Rebus pretended to guess.

He turned towards Addison. 'The friend's called Nancy Sievewright, by the way – mean anything to you?'

'I've never met her.'

'One of your colleagues has, though – name of Roger Anderson.

Seems he can't keep away from her.'

'I know Roger,' Addison admitted. 'He was there when that poet's body was found.'

'Found by Nancy Sievewright,' Rebus stressed.

'And does any of this,' Corbyn broke in, 'really concern Gill?'

'She lied to a murder inquiry.'

'And now she's told you the truth,' Corbyn pressed. 'Surely that's good enough?'

'Not really, sir.' He turned to Addison. 'Here's another name for you – Stuart Janney.'

“Yes?'

'He works for you, too.'

'He works for the bank rather than for me personally.'

'And spends his days hanging out with MSPs and trying to protect dodgy Russians.'

'Now wait a minute.' Addison 's fleshy face had gone from pink to red, highlighting razor-rash at the neck.

'I've just been talking with my colleagues,' Rebus ploughed on, 'about how everything's connected. Country the size of Scotland, city as small as Edinburgh, you start to see the truth of it. Your bank's hoping to do some big deals with the Russians, isn't it?

Maybe you took some time out of your busy schedule for a round of golf with them at Gleneagles? Stuart Janney making sure everything went smoothly…?'

'I really don't see what any of this has to do with my stepdaughter.'

'Might be a bit embarrassing if it turns out she's linked to the Todorov murder… doesn't matter how many degrees of separation you try to make out there are. She leads straight to you, straight to the top of FAB. Don't suppose Andropov and his pals will be too thrilled with that.'

Corbyn banged his fists against the table, eyes like burning coals. Addison was shaking, levering himself to his feet. 'This was a mistake,' he was saying. 'I blame myself for not wanting to see her hurt.'

'Michael,' Corbyn started to say, but then broke off, having nothing with which to finish the sentence.

'I notice your stepdaughter hasn't taken your surname, sir,'

Rebus said. 'Doesn't stop her asking for favours, though, does it?

And that lovely apartment of hers – owned by the bank, is it?'

Addison 's overcoat and scarf were hanging on a peg behind the door, and that was his destination.

'An appeal to common decency, that's all,' the banker was saying, more to himself than anyone else. He'd managed to get one arm into a sleeve but was struggling with the other. Nevertheless, his need to get out was too great, and the coat was hanging off him as he left. The door stayed open. Corbyn and Rebus were on their feet, facing one another.

'That seemed to go well,' Rebus commented.

“You're a bloody fool, Rebus.'

'What happened to “John”? Reckon he'll hike your mortgage, just out of spite?'

'He's a good man – and a personal friend,' Corbyn spat.

'And his stepdaughter is a lying drug-user.' Rebus offered a shrug. 'Like they say, you can't choose your family. You can, however, choose your friends… but FAB's friends seem to be a fairly rum bunch, too.'

'First Albannach is one of the few bloody success stories this country has!' Corbyn erupted again.

'Doesn't make them the good guys.'

'I suppose you opt to see yourself as the “good guy”?' Corbyn let out a jagged laugh. 'Christ, you've got a nerve.'

Was there anything else, sir? Maybe a neighbour who wants CID to focus its scant resources on the theft of a garden gnome?'

'Just one last thing.' Corbyn had seated himself again. His next three words were spaced evenly. “You… are… history.'

“Thanks for the reminder.'

'I mean it. I know you've got three days left till retirement, but

you're going to spend them on suspension.'

Rebus stared hard at the man. 'Isn't that just a tiny bit petty and pathetic, sir?'

'In which case, you're going to love the rest of it.' Corbyn took a deep breath. 'If I hear you've so much as crossed the threshold at Gayfield Square, I'll demote each and every officer within your compass. What I want you to do, Rebus, is crawl away from here and tick off the days on the calendar. You're no longer a serving detective, and never will be.' He held out the palm of one hand.

'Warrant card, please.'

Want to fight me for it?'

– 'Only if you're ready to spend time in the cells. I think we could hold you for three days without too much trouble.' The hand twitched, inviting Rebus's cooperation. 'I can think of at least three chief constables before me who would love to be here right now,'

Corbyn cooed.

The, too,' Rebus agreed. 'We'd get a barbershop quartet going and sing about the fuckwit sitting in front of us.'

'And that,' Corbyn added triumphantly, 'is the reason you're being suspended.'

Rebus couldn't believe the hand was still there. 'You want my warrant card,' he said quietly, 'send the boys round for it.' He turned and headed for the door. There was a secretary standing there, clutching a file to her chest, eyes and mouth gawping. Rebus confirmed with a nod that her ears had not deceived her, and mouthed the word 'fuckwit', just to be on the safe side.

Outside in the car park he unlocked his Saab, but then stood there, hand on the door handle, staring into space. For a while now, he'd known the truth – that it wasn't so much the underworld you had to fear as the overworld. Maybe that explained why Cafferty had, to all purposes and appearances, gone legit. A few friends in the right places and deals got done, fates decided. Never in his life had Rebus felt like an insider. From time to time he'd tried -during his years in the army and his first few months as a cop.

But the less he felt he belonged, the more he came to mistrust the others around him with their games of golf and their 'quiet words', their stitch-ups and handshakes, palm-greasing and scratching of backs. Stood to reason someone like Addison would go straight to the top; he'd done it because he could, because in his world it felt entirely justified and correct. Rebus had to admit, though, he'd underestimated Corbyn, hadn't expected him to pull that particular trick. Kicked into touch until gold-watch day.

'Fuckwit,' he said out loud, this time aiming the word at no one but himself.

That was that, then. End of the line, end of the job. These past weeks, he'd been trying so hard not to think about it – throwing himself into other work, any work. Dusting off all those old unsolveds, trying to get Siobhan interested, as if she didn't have more than enough on her plate in the here and now – a situation unlikely to change in the future. The alternative was to take the whole lot home with him… call it his retirement gift; something to keep his brain active when the idea of the pub didn't appeal.