Ian Rankin - Exit Music

'Nice to stay busy,' Rebus consoled her. 'Do you have a time for Jim Bakewell yet?'

'Haven't been able to track him down.'

'And Macrae?'

'Wants to add another twenty or so bodies to the team.'

'As long as they're warm ones…'

'He's even thinking of bringing Derek Starr back from Fettes.'

'Which would mean relegating you to vice-captain?'

'If only I had some vices…'

'Should have listened to me, Shiv. I could've given you a few tips.

Will I see you later at the pub?'

'Might have an early night actually… no offence.'

'None taken, but don't think I'll forget about that twenty.' Rebus ended the call and turned the music up a little. Gentry was humming along to the melody, and Rebus wasn't sure if it was meant to be picked up by the mic. It was still the first track, 'Meg's Mons '.

He wondered if Meg was a real woman. Peering at the slip of paper in the clear plastic sleeve, he thought he could make out writing on the other side. He pulled out the track listing and unfolded it. Sure enough, on the back was written the name of the studio where Gentry had recorded his demo.

CR Studios.

Rebus sat in front of his own personal video monitor. Graeme MacLeod had placed him in a corner of the room, and had piled the videotapes next to him. Edinburgh city centre's west end, the night of the Todorov killing.

“You're going to get me shot,' MacLeod had complained, fetching the tapes from their locked cupboard.

Rebus had been sitting for an hour in the Central Monitoring Facility, sometimes hitting 'search' and sometimes 'pause'. There were cameras on Shandwick Place, Princes Street and Lothian Road. Rebus was looking for evidence of Sergei Andropov or his driver, or maybe Cafferty. Or anyone else attached to the case, come to that. So far he had nothing at all to show for his efforts.

The hotel would have its own surveillance, of course, but he doubted the manager would hand it over without a fight, and couldn't see himself persuading Siobhan to put in the request.

There was something soothing about the unhurried voyeurism going on around him. One act of vandalism reported, and one known shoplifter tracked along George Street. The camera operators seemed as passive as any daytime TV viewers, and Rebus wondered if there might be some reality show to be made from it. He liked the way the staff could control the remote cameras using a joystick, zooming in on anything suspicious. It didn't feel like the police state the media were always predicting. All the same, if he worked here every day, he'd be careful of himself on the street, for fear of being caught picking his nose or scratching his backside.

Careful in shops and restaurants, too.

And probably with no interest in the TV at home.

MacLeod was back at Rebus's shoulder. 'Anything?' he asked.

'I know you've been over this footage more than once, Graeme, but there are a few faces I may know that you don't.'

'I'm not having a moan.'

'If I were in your shoes, I'd be thinking the same.'

'Just a pity we didn't have a camera in King's Stables Road.'

'Hardly anyone uses it at night, I've noticed that. Plenty of people turning into Castle Terrace, but almost no one into King's Stables.'

'And no woman in a hood?'

'Not yet.'

MacLeod consoled Rebus with a pat on the shoulder, then went back to work. It didn't make sense to Rebus: why would some woman be hanging around there, doling out offers of sex? They only had the one witness's word for it. Could it have been some fantasy he'd been harbouring? Rebus felt his vertebrae snap back into place as he stretched his spine. He wanted a break, but knew if he took one he might not be tempted back. He could always go home – it was what everybody wanted. But then his phone rang and he scooped it from his pocket. Caller ID: Siobhan.

“What's up?' he asked, cupping the phone to his mouth so he wouldn't be overheard.

'Megan Macfarlane's just called DCI Macrae. She's not happy you've been harassing Sergei Andropov.' She paused. 'Want to tell me about it?'

'Happened to run into him last night.'

'Whereabouts?'

'Caledonian Hotel.'

“Your regular watering-hole?'

'No need for sarcasm, young lady.'

'And you didn't think to let me in on it?'

'I really did just bump into him, Shiv. No big deal.'

'To you maybe, but Andropov seems to think it is, and now Megan Macfarlane thinks so, too.'

'Andropov's Russian, probably used to politicians controlling the police…' Rebus was thinking out loud.

'Macrae wants to see you.'

'Tell him I'm banned from Gayfield.'

'I've told him. He was furious about that, too.'

'Corbyn's fault for not alerting him.'

'That's what I said.'

'Any word from Jim Bakewell's office?'

'No.'

'So what are you up to?'

'Trying to make space for the new recruits. Four have arrived from Torphichen and two from Leith.'

'Anyone we know?'

'Ray Reynolds.'

'He's not even a good imitation of a detective,' Rebus stated. Then he asked her if she was going to do anything about Sol Goodyear.

'Soon as I've worked out what to say to Todd,' she decided.

'Good luck with that.'

One of the CCTV operators suddenly called to her colleague that she had the shoplifter on Camera 10, entering the bus station.

Clarke's groan was almost audible.

“You're at the City Chambers,' she stated.

'We'll make a detective of you yet.'

“You're on suspension, John.'

'It keeps slipping my mind.'

'Studying the tapes from that night?'

'Correct.'

'Trying to place who at the scene exactly?'

'Who do you think?'

'Why in God's name would Cafferty want a Russian poet killed?'

'Maybe he gets annoyed when verses don't rhyme. By the by, here's a strange one for you – that CD Sievewright's flatmate gave me was recorded at Riordan's studio.'

“Yet another coincidence.' But she was silent for a moment.

'Think it's worth talking to the engineer about?'

Tou're mob-handed, Shiv – it's worth chasing every single lead, no matter how brittle.'

'I'm not great at delegating.'

The neither. Still headed straight home from work?'

'That's the plan.'

'I'll be thinking of you, then.'

'John, just promise me one thing – no more drinks at the Caledonian Hotel.'

Tes, boss. Talk to you later.' He ended the call but sat there staring at the phone. Macrae, Macfarlane and Andropov – all annoyed as hell with him.

'Good,' he said quietly, reaching for the next videotape.

'Can I ask you about your brother?'

Clarke had led Todd Goodyear into the corridor for a bit of privacy. She'd already set the new recruits to work. Some were studying the 'bible' – the collating of everything pertaining to the case – while others had been assigned the Riordan tapes. It wasn't exactly a collection of the brightest and the best – no CID unit wanted to give up its star players to a rival team. A detective from Goodyear's own station had recognised him and asked what he thought he was up to, 'masquerading as a proper cop'.

'Sol?' Goodyear was asking now, looking puzzled. 'What about him?'

'He was in a fight – what night was that?'

'Last Wednesday.'

Clarke nodded. Same night Todorov was attacked. 'Can you give me an address for him?'

'What's going on?'

'Turns out he might know Nancy Sievewright.'

'You're kidding me.' He'd started laughing.

'No joke,' she assured him. 'We think he was her dealer. Did you know he was still in the game?'

'No.' The blood was rising up Goodyear's neck.

'So I need his address.'

'I don't know it. I mean, it's somewhere around the Grass market…'

'I thought he lived in Dalkeith.'