Ian Rankin - Exit Music

'I'm older than most people – got a couple of her albums at home.

Mind if I come in?' Rebus noted that Gentry had lost his bandanna but still wore the smudgy eyeliner. 'She told me to be here at three,'

he lied blithely.

'Someone was at the door for her a while back…' Gentry was reluctant, but Rebus's stare told him resistance was futile. He opened the door a little wider and Rebus gave a little bow of the head as he walked in. The living room smelt of stale tobacco and something that could have been patchouli oil – been a while since Rebus had come across that particular scent. He wandered over to the window and peered down on to Blair Street.

'Tell you a funny story,' he said, back still to Eddie Gentry.

'There's a warren of basements across the way where bands used to practise. Owner was thinking of redeveloping, so he got some builders in. They were working in these tunnels – miles and miles of them – and they started to hear unearthly groans…'

'The massage parlour next door,' Gentry said, cutting to the punchline.

“You've heard it.' Rebus turned from the window and studied some of the album sleeves – actual LPs rather than CDs. 'Caravan,'

he commented. ' Canterbury 's finest… didn't know people still listened to them.' There were other sleeves he recognised: the Fairports and Davey Graham and Pentangle.

'Somebody studying archaeology?' he guessed.

'I like a lot of the old stuff,' Gentry explained. He nodded towards the corner of the room. 'I play guitar.'

'So you do,' Rebus agreed, seeing a six-string acoustic nestling on its stand, a twelve-string lying on the floor behind it. 'Any good?'

In answer, Gentry picked up the six-string and settled on the sofa, legs crossed beneath him. He started to play, and Rebus realised that he'd grown the fingernails long on his right hand, each one a ready-made plectrum. Rebus knew the tune, even if he couldn't place it.

'Bert Jansch?' he guessed over the closing chord.

'From that album he did with John Renbourn.'

'Haven't listened to it in years.' Rebus nodded his appreciation.

Tfou're pretty good, son. Shame you can't make a living from it, eh?

Might have stopped you from dealing drugs.'

What?

' Nancy 's told us all about it.'

'Whoa, wait a minute.' Gentry put his guitar aside and rose to his feet. 'What's that you're saying?'

'A deaf musician?' Rebus sounded impressed.

'I heard the words, I just don't know why she would say that.'

'Night the poet was killed, she was picking up a delivery from the guy you introduced her to.'

'She didn't say that.' Gentry was trying to sound confident, but his eyes told Rebus a different story. 'I didn't introduce her to anybody V Rebus shrugged with his hands in his pockets. 'No skin off my nose,' he commented. 'She says you're dealing, you say you're not… We all know there's stuff being smoked here.'

'Stuff she gets from her boyfriend,' Gentry burst out. But then he corrected himself. 'He's not even her boyfriend… she just thinks he is.'

'Who's this?'

'I don't know. I mean, he's been here a couple of times, but he

just calls himself Sol – says it's Latin for “the sun”. Not that he strikes me as that bright.'

Rebus laughed as if this were the best joke he'd heard in a while, but Gentry wasn't smiling.

'I can't believe she'd try dropping me in it,' he muttered to himself.

'She dropped a pal of hers in it, too,' Rebus revealed. 'Got her to provide an alibi.' Rebus let his final word hang in the air.

'Alibi?' Gentry echoed. 'Christ, you think she killed that guy?'

Rebus offered another shrug. 'Tell me,' he said, 'does Nancy own anything like a cape or a cloak? Sort of thing a monk might wear?'

'No.' Gentry sounded bewildered by the question.

'Have you ever met her friend Gill?'

'Hooray Henrietta from the New Town?' Gentry screwed up his face.

Tou know her, then?'

'She came to a party a while back.'

'I hear that she throws a good party, too. You could offer to play a set.'

'I'd rather stick pins in my eyes.'

“You're probably right, same as I'd rather listen to Dick Gaughan than James Blunt.' Rebus sniffed loudly, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket. 'This Sol character… got an address for him?'

'Afraid not.'

'Not to worry.' Rebus was over at the window again, putting the handkerchief back as he gazed down on the street. Not long now till Nancy Sievewright returned. Top of Leith Street, then North Bridge and Hunter Square… 'Do you sing as well as play?'

'A little bit.'

'But not in a band?'

'No.'

Tou should get yourself up to Fife. Friend of mine says there's some sort of acoustic scene up there.'

Gentry was nodding. 'I've played Anstruther.'

'Funny to think of the East Neuk as the centre of anything…

used to be it was shut winter and weekends.'

Gentry smiled. 'Wait there, will you?' He was gone from the living room less than a minute. When he came back, he was holding something out towards Rebus – a CD in a clear plastic pocket.

There was a folded square of white paper with the titles of three tracks listed. 'My demo,' Gentry announced proudly.

'That's great,' Rebus said. 'After I've played it, do you want it back?'

'I can burn another one,' Gentry said with a shake of the head.

Rebus patted the disc against the palm of his left hand. 'I really appreciate that, Eddie. As long as you appreciate that it's not a bung of some kind.'

Gentry looked horrified. 'No, I just thought…'

But Rebus touched him on the shoulder, and assured him he was only joking. 'I'd best be off,' he said. 'Thanks again.' He gave a little wave with the CD and made for the hallway and the front door.

With the door closed behind him, he started down the stairs, just as Nancy Sievewright was making her way up, still holding the sealed polythene bag with the interview tape inside. Rebus offered her a nod and a smile, but said nothing. All the same, he could feel her watching his descent. At the bottom, he looked up – sure enough, she hadn't moved.

'Just told him,' Rebus called to her.

'Told who what?' she called back.

Tour flatmate Eddie,' he answered. 'The one you tried fobbing us off with…'

He exited the tenement and unlocked his car. It was parked illegally but had managed to avoid a ticket.

'My lucky day,' he told himself. He'd finally got round to installing a CD player in the Saab. He drew Gentry's offering from its sleeve and slotted it home, then studied the titles of the songs.

Meg's Mons.

Minstrel in Pain.

Reverend Walker Blues.

He liked them already. With the volume low, he took out his phone and called Siobhan Clarke.

'Tell me you're in the pub,' was her opening line.

' Blair Street, actually – and you owe me twenty notes.'

'I don't believe you.'

'You won't when I tell you.' He paused for dramatic effect.

'Sievewright gets her stuff from someone called Sol. Her flatmate thinks he's named himself after the sun, but we know differently, don't we?'

'Sol Goodyear?'

'I take it Todd's not within earshot?'

'Making me a coffee.'

'Isn't that sweet of him?'

'Sol Goodyear?' she repeated, as if she still couldn't take it in.

Eventually, she asked him what he was listening to.

' Nancy 's flatmate plays guitar.'

'I'm assuming he's not in the car with you.'

'Probably shouting the odds at Sievewright as we speak. But he did give me a demo he made.'

'That was good of him. Bet you can't remember the last time you listened to anything made after 1975.'

Tou gave me that Elbow album…'

'True.' The tangent had run its course. 'So now we need to add Todd's brother to the list?'