Ian Rankin - Exit Music

'Anything short of genocide and cannibalism these days, bail's a npp.'

'So where can I find him?'

'He's in a hostel up in Bruntsfield.'

'What sort of hostel?'

'Addiction problems. Doubt he'd be there this time of day, though.'

Davidson checked his watch. 'Hunter Square or the Meadows, maybe.'

'I was just in a cafe off Hunter Square.'

'See any nutters hanging around?'

'I saw a few street people,' Clarke corrected him. She'd noticed that although Bruce was glued to a computer screen, he was actually playing Minesweeper.

'The benches behind the old hospital,' Davidson was saying, 'he likes to hang out there sometimes. Might be a bit chilly, though.

Drop-in centres on the Grassmarket and Cowgate are another possibility… What is it you want him for?'

'I'm starting to wonder if there might be a price on Sol Goodyear's head.'

Davidson gave a hoot. 'Little turd's not worth it.'

'All the same…'

'And no one in their right mind would give Crazy Larry the job.

All this comes down to, Shiv, is Sol hassling Larry for money owed.

It was probably when Sol said there'd be no more dope coming that Larry blew one of his last remaining fuses.'

'Rewiring, that's what the guy needs,' DC Bruce added, eyes still fixed on the game in front of him.

'If you want to go traipsing after Crazy Larry,' Davidson said, 'that's fine, but don't expect to get anything out of him. And I still don't see Sol Goodyear as the target of a hit.'

'He must have enemies.'

'But he's got friends, too.'

Clarke narrowed her eyes. 'Meaning?'

'Word is, he's back in Big Ger's employ. Well, not “employ”

exactly, but selling with Cafferty's blessing.'

'Any proof of that?'

Davidson shook his head. 'After we spoke on the phone, I made a few calls, and that's what I started to hear. Tell you something else, though…'

'What?'

'Birdies are saying Derek Starr's been brought back from Fettes to head your inquiry.' At the next desk, Bruce started to make a little clucking sound. 'Bit of a kick in the teeth, isn't it?' Davidson added.

'Stands to reason Derek would take over – he's a rank above me.'

'Didn't seem to bother the bosses when it was you and a certain DI called Rebus…'

'I really am going to send Reynolds back here,' Clarke warned him.

'You'll have to ask Derek Starr's permission.'

She stared him out and he burst into a laugh. 'Have your fun while you can,' she told him, heading for the door.

Back in her car, she wondered what else she could do to keep away from Gayfield Square. Answer: not much. Rebus had mentioned CCTV. Maybe she could make a detour by way of the City Chambers and put in that request. Or she could call Megan Macfarlane and arrange another meeting, this time to talk about Charles Riordan and his taping of her committee. Then there was Jim Bakewell – Rebus wanted her to ask about the drink he'd had with Sergei Andropov and Big Ger Cafferty.

Cafferty…

He seemed to loom over the city, and yet very few of Edinburgh's citizens would even know of his existence. Rebus had spent half his career trying to bring the gangster down. With Rebus retired, the problem would become hers, not because she wanted it but because she doubted Rebus would let it go. He'd want her to finish what he couldn't. She thought again of the nights they'd been staying late at the office, Rebus running his most galling unsolveds past her. What was she supposed to do with them, these legacies? They felt to her like unwanted baggage. She had a pair of ugly pewter candlesticks at home, gifted to her in an aunt's will. Couldn't bring herself to throw them out, so they lay tucked away at the back of a drawer – also, she felt, the best place for Rebus's old case-notes.

Her phone rang, 556 prefix: someone was calling from Gayfield Square. She thought she could guess who.

'Hello?'

Sure enough, it was Derek Starr. 'You've snuck out on me,' he said, trying to inject some surface levity into the accusation.

'Had to go talk to West End.'

'What about?'

'Sol Goodyear.'

There was a momentary silence. 'Remind me,' he said.

'Lives close to where Todorov was found. It was a friend of his who discovered the body.'

'And?'

'Just wanted to confirm a few details.'

He would know damned well she was holding something back, just as she knew there was nothing he could do about it.

'So when can we expect to see you back in the body of the kirk, DS Clarke?'

'I've got one more stop to make at the City Chambers.'

'CCTV?' he guessed.

'That's right. I should only be half an hour or so.'

'Heard anything from Rebus?'

'Not a dicky-bird.'

'DCI Macrae tells me he's been suspended.'

'That's about the size of it.'

'Not much of a swansong, is it?'

'Was there anything else, Derek?'

Tou're my number two, Siobhan. That's how it stays unless I think you're playing away.'

'Meaning what exactly?'

'Don't want you picking up any more bad habits from Rebus.'

Unable to take any more, she ended the call. 'Pompous git,' she muttered, turning the ignition.

'So what did you get up to last night, then?' Hawes asked. She was in the passenger seat, Colin Tibbet driving.

'Couple of drinks with some mates.' He glanced in her direction.

Tou jealous, Phyl?'

'Jealous of you and your beery pals? Sure am, Col.'

'Thought so,' he said with a grin. They were heading for the south-east corner of the city, towards the bypass and the green belt. It hadn't surprised too many of the locals when FAB had been granted permission to construct their new HQ on what had previously been designated as protected land. A badger's sett had been relocated and a nine-hole golf course purchased for the exclusive use of employees. The huge glass building was just under a mile from the new Royal Infirmary, which Hawes guessed was handy for any bank employees suffering paper cuts from counting all those notes. On the other hand, it wouldn't surprise her if the FAB compound turned out to have its own BUPA sickbay.

'I stayed in, since you ask,' she said now, watching Col slow to a halt as the lights ahead turned red. He did that thing they taught you in driving schools – not braking hard but changing back down through the gears. Up till now, everyone she'd met had started

ignoring the manoeuvre as soon as they passed their test, but not Colin. She bet he ironed his underpants, too.

It was really starting to rile her that despite each deep-seated fault she located, she still fancied him. Maybe it was a case of any port in a storm. She hated the idea that she couldn't live her life perfectly adequately without a bloke in tow, but it was beginning to look that way.

'Anything good on the box?' he asked her.

'A documentary about how men are becoming women.' He looked at her, trying to work out whether she was lying. 'It's true,' she insisted. 'All that oestrogen in the tap water. You lot gulp it down and then start growing breasts.'

He concentrated for a moment. 'How does oestrogen get into the tap water?'

'Do I have to spell it out?' She mimed the action of flushing a toilet. 'Then there's all the additives in meat. It's changing your chemical balance.'

'I don't want my chemical balance changed.'

She had to laugh at that. 'Might explain something, though,' she teased him.

'What?'

'Why you've started fancying Derek Starr.' He scowled, and she laughed again. 'Way you were watching him give that speech… Might've been Russell Crowe in Gladiator or Mel Gibson in Braveheart.'

'I saw Braveheart in the cinema,' Tibbet told her. 'The audience were on their feet, cheering and punching the air. Never seen anything like it.'

'That's because Scots don't often get to feel good about themselves.'