Ian Rankin - Exit Music

Tou think we need independence?'

'Maybe,' she conceded. 'Just so long as people like First Albannach don't go scuttling south.'

'What was their profit last year?'

'Eight billion, something like that.'

Tou mean eight million?'

'Eight billion,' she repeated.

'That can't be right.'

You calling me a liar?' She was wondering how he'd managed to turn the conversation around without her noticing.

'Makes you wonder, doesn't it?' he asked now.

'Wonder what?'

'Where the real power is.' He took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at her. 'Want to do something later?'

'With you, you mean?'

He offered a shrug. 'Christmas fair opens tonight. We could go take a look.'

'We could.'

'And a bite of supper after.'

'I'll think about it.'

They were signalling to turn in at the gates of First Albannach Bank's HQ. Ahead of them lay a glass and steel structure four storeys high and as long as a street. A guard emerged from the gatehouse to take their names and the car's registration.

'Parking bay six-oh-eight,' he told them. And though there were plenty of spaces closer to their destination, Hawes watched her colleague head obediently towards 608.

'Don't worry,' she told him as he pulled on the handbrake, 'I can walk from here.'

And walk they did, passing serried ranks of sports cars, family saloons and 4x4s. The grounds were still being landscaped, and just behind one corner of the main complex could be glimpsed gorse bushes and one of the golf course's fairways. When the doors slid open, they were in a triple-height atrium. There was an arcade of shops behind the reception desk: pharmacy, supermarket, cafe, newsagent. A noticeboard provided information about the creche, gym and swimming pool. Escalators led to the next level up, with glass-fronted lifts serving the floors above that. The receptionist beamed a smile at them.

'Welcome to FAB,' she said. 'If you'll just sign in and show me some photo ID…'

They did so, and she announced that Mr Janney was in a meeting but his secretary was expecting them.

'Third floor. She'll meet you at the lift.' They were handed laminated passes and another smile. A security guard processed them through a metal-detector, after which they scooped up keys, phones and loose change.

'Expecting trouble?' Hawes asked the man.

'Code green,' he intoned solemnly.

'A relief to us all.'

The lift took them to the third floor, where a young woman in a black trousersuit was waiting. The A4-sized manila envelope was held out in front of her. As Hawes took it, the woman nodded once, then turned and marched back down a seemingly endless corridor.

Tibbet hadn't even had a chance to exit the lift, and as Hawes stepped back into it the doors slid shut and they were on their way back down again. No more than three minutes after entering the building, they were out in the cold and wondering what had just happened.

'That's not a building,' Hawes stated. 'It's a machine.'

Tibbet signalled his agreement by whistling through his teeth, then scanned the car park.

'Which bay are we in again?'

'The one at the end of the universe,' Hawes told him, starting to cross the tarmac.

Back in the passenger seat, she pulled open the envelope and xbrought out a dozen sheets: photocopied bank statements. There Was a yellow Post-it stuck to the front. The handwritten message speculated that Todorov had funds elsewhere, as indicated by the client when he opened his account. There was a single transfer involving a bank in Moscow. The note was signed 'Stuart Janney'.

'He was comfortable enough,' Hawes announced. 'Six grand in the current account and eighteen in savings.' She checked the transaction dates: no significant deposits or withdrawals in the days leading up to his death, and no transactions at all thereafter.

'Whoever took his cash card, they don't seem to be using it.'

'They could have cleaned him out,' Tibbet acknowledged. 'Twenty four K… so much for the starving artist.'

'Garrets mustn't be as fashionable these days,' Hawes agreed.

She was punching a number into her phone. Clarke picked up and Hawes relayed the highlights to her. 'Took out a hundred the day he was killed.'

'Where from?'

'Machine at Waverley Station.' Hawes frowned suddenly. 'Why did he leave Edinburgh from one station but come back to the other?'

'He was meeting Charles Riordan. I think Riordan frequented some curry house nearby.'

'Can't really check with him, though, can we?'

'Not really,' Clarke admitted. Hawes could hear voices in the background; all the same, it sounded a lot calmer than Gayfield Square.

'Where are you, Shiv?' she asked.

'City Chambers, asking about CCTV.'

'How long till you're back at base?'

'An hour maybe.'

'You sound inconsolable. Any word from our favourite DI?'

'Assuming you mean Rebus rather than Starr, the answer's no.'

'Tell her,' Tibbet said, 'about the bank.'

'Colin says to tell you we enjoyed our visit to First Albannach.'

'Plush, was it?'

'I've stayed at worse resorts; they had everything in there but flumes.'

'Did you see Stuart Janney?'

'He was in a meeting. To tell the truth, it was a real production line number. In and out and thank you very much.'

'They've got shareholders to protect. When your profits are hitting ten billion, you don't want any bad publicity.'

Hawes turned to Colin Tibbet. 'Siobhan,' she told him, 'says the profit last year was ten billion.'

'Give or take,' Clarke added.

'Give or take,' Hawes repeated for Tibbet's benefit.

'Makes you wonder,' Tibbet repeated quietly, with a slow shake of the head.

Hawes stared at him. Kissable lips, she was thinking. Younger than her and less experienced. There was material there she could work with, maybe starting tonight.

'Talk to you later,' she told Clarke, ending the call.

Dr Scarlett Colwell was waiting for Rebus at her office in George Square. She was on one of the upper floors, meaning the view would have been great if not for the build-up of condensation between the layers of double-glazing.

'Depressing, isn't it?' she apologised. 'Constructed forty years ago and fit for nothing but demolition.'

Rebus turned his attention instead to the shelves of Russian textbooks. Plaster busts of Marx and Lenin were being used as bookends. On the wall opposite, posters and cards had been pinned up, including a photograph of President Yeltsin dancing. Colwell's desk was next to the window, but facing into the room. Two tables had been pushed together, leaving just enough room for eight chairs to be arranged around them. There was a kettle on the floor, and she crouched down next to it, spooning coffee granules into two mugs.

'Milk?' she asked.

'Thanks,' Rebus said, glancing towards her shock of hair. Her skirt was stretched tight, delineating the line of a hip.

'Sugar?'

'Just milk.'

The kettle finished boiling and she poured, handing him his cup before getting back to her feet. They stood very close to one another until she apologised again for the lack of space and retreated behind her desk, Rebus content to rest his backside against the table.

Thanks for seeing me.'

She blew on her coffee. 'Not at all. I was devastated to hear about Mr Riordan.'

“You met him at the Poetry Library?' Rebus guessed.

She nodded, then had to push the hair away from her face. 'And at Word Power.'

It was Rebus's turn to nod. 'That's the bookshop where Mr Todorov did a reading?'

Colwell pointed towards the wall. This time when Rebus looked, he picked out the photograph of Alexander Todorov in full poetic flow, one arm dramatically raised, mouth agape.

'Doesn't look like a bookshop,' Rebus declared.