Ian Rankin - Exit Music

'He looks more like a salesman than a detective,' Goodyear commented.

'That's because he is,' Clarke agreed. 'And the thing he's selling is himself. Problem is, he's bloody good at it.'

“You're not jealous?' They were being jostled by other detectives, as everyone tried to find a patch of office they could claim as their own.

'DI Starr will go far,' she said, leaving it at that. Goodyear watched as she slung her bag over one shoulder.

Tou're going somewhere,' he stated.

'Well spotted.'

'Anything I can help with?'

Tou've got all those tapes to listen to, Todd.'

'What's happened to DI Rebus?'

'He's in the field,' Clarke explained, reckoning the fewer people who knew about the suspension, the better.

Especially when Rebus, despite – or more accurately because of – the suspension, was most definitely still on the case.

Nancy Sievewright hadn't been at all happy when Clarke had announced herself at the intercom. But at last she'd come downstairs and told the detective that she wanted hot chocolate.

'There's a place near the top of the street.'

Inside the cafe, they ordered their drinks and settled on opposing leather couches. Sievewright looked like she'd not had enough sleep. She was still wearing a short skirt, threads trailing from it, and a thin denim jacket, but her legs were wrapped in thick black tights and there were knitted fingerless gloves on her hands. She'd asked for whipped cream and marshmallows in her drink, and cupped the mug between her palms as she sipped and chewed.

'Any more grief from Mr Anderson?' Clarke asked. Sievewright just shook her head. 'We spoke to Sol Goodyear,' Clarke continued.

Tou didn't tell us he lived in the same street the body was found.'

'Why should I?'

Clarke just shrugged. 'He doesn't seem to see himself as your boyfriend.'

'He's protecting me,' Sievewright snapped back.

'From what?' Clarke asked, but the young woman wasn't about to answer that. There was music playing quite loudly, and a speaker in the ceiling directly overhead. It was some sort of dance track with a pulsing rhythm and it was giving Clarke a headache. She went to the counter and asked for it to be turned down. The assistant obliged, albeit grudgingly and with minimal effect.

'Why I like this place,' Sievewright said.

'The surly staff?'

'The music' Sievewright peered at Clarke over the rim of her mug. 'So what did Sol say about me?'

'Just that you're not his girlfriend. Speaking to him got me wondering, though…'

'What about?'

'About the night of the attack.'

'It was some nutter in a pub…'

'I don't mean the attack on Sol; I'm talking about the poet. You were on your way to buy stuff from Sol. So you either stumbled across the body on your way up the lane, or on your way back down…'

'What's the difference?' Sievewright was shuffling her feet, looking down at them as if they were no longer under her control.

'Quite a big difference, actually. Remember when I came to your flat that first time?'

Sievewright nodded.

'There was something you said… the way you said something.

And I was thinking about it yesterday after I'd been talking to Sol.'

The young woman took the bait. 'What?' she asked, trying not to sound too interested.

'You told us: “I didn't see anything.” But you put the stress on “see” when I'm guessing most people would have emphasised the “anything”. Made me wonder if you were doing that thing of not quite telling the truth but at the same time managing not to tell an outright lie.'

“You've lost me.' Sievewright's knees were bouncing like pistons.

'I think maybe you'd gone to Sol's door, rung the bell and waited.

You knew he was expecting you. Maybe you stood there for a while, thinking he'd be back soon. Maybe you tried his mobile, but he wasn't answering.'

'Because he was getting himself stabbed.'

Clarke nodded slowly. 'So you're outside his flat, and suddenly you hear something at the bottom of the lane. You go to the corner and take a look.'

But Sievewright was shaking her head emphatically.

'Okay then,' Clarke conceded, 'you don't see anything, but you do hear something, don't you, Nancy?'

The young woman looked at her for a long time, then broke off eye contact and took another slurp of hot chocolate. When she spoke, the music covered whatever it was she said.

'I didn't catch that,' Clarke apologised.

'I said yes.'

You heard something?'

'A car. It pulled up and…' She paused, lifting her eyes to the ceiling in thought. Eventually, she looked at Clarke again. 'First off, there was this groaning. I thought maybe a drunk was about to be sick. His words seemed all slurred. Could have been saying something in Russian, though. That would make sense, wouldn't it?' She seemed keen for Clarke to agree, so Clarke nodded again.

'And then a car?' she prompted.

'It pulled up. Door opened, and I heard this noise, just a dull sort of thump and no more groans.'

'How can you be sure it was a car?'

'Didn't sound like a van or a lorry.'

Tou didn't look?'

'By the time I turned the corner, it was gone. There was just a body slumped next to the wall.'

'I think I know why you screamed,' Clarke stated. You thought jit was Sol?'

'At first, yes. But when I got close, I saw it wasn't.'

Why didn't you run?'

“That couple arrived. I did try to leave, but the man told me I lould stay. If I'd scarpered, it'd have looked bad for me, wouldn't t? And he could've given you my description.'

, True enough,' Clarke admitted. 'What made you think it might Sol?'

“When you deal drugs, you make enemies.'

Such as?'

'The bastard who knifed him outside the pub.'

Clarke was nodding thoughtfully. 'Any others?'

Sievewright saw what she was getting at. “You think maybe they killed the poet by mistake?'

'I'm not sure.' How much sense did it make? The trail of blood led back to the multistorey, meaning whoever had attacked Todorov must've known he wasn't Sol Goodyear. But as for the coup de grace… Well, it could have been the same person, but not necessarily.

And Sievewright was spot on – dealers made enemies. Maybe she would put that point to Sol himself, see if he had any names for her.

Likelihood was, of course, that he'd keep them to himself, maybe intent on exacting his own revenge. She imagined Sol rubbing at the ragged line of stitches, as if trying to erase them. Imagined the two boys growing up, Sol and his wee brother Todd, grandad dead in jail and parents going to pieces. At what point had Todd decided to cut his brother adrift? And had Sol suffered as a result?

'Can I get another?' Sievewright was asking, lifting her empty mug.

'Your turn to pay,' Clarke reminded her.

'I've got no money.'

Clarke sighed and handed her a fiver. 'And get me another cappuccino,'

she said.

'He's a hard man to pin down,' Terence Blackman said, fluttering his hands.

Blackman ran a gallery of contemporary art on William Street in the city's west end. The gallery consisted of two rooms with white walls and sanded wooden flooring. Blackman himself was barely five feet tall, skinny with a slight paunch, and was probably thirty or forty years older than he dressed. The thatch of brown hair looked dyed, and might even have been an expensive weave-job. An assortment of nips and tucks had stretched the skin tight over the face, so that Blackman's range of expressions was limited. According to the web, he acted as Roddy Denholm's agent.

'So where is he now?' Rebus asked, stepping around a sculpture which looked like a mass brawl of wire coat hangers.

'Melbourne, I think. Could be Hong Kong.'

'Any of his stuff here today?'