Ian Rankin - Exit Music

'They moved it to a bigger venue – cafe on Nicolson Street. Even so, it was packed.'

'He's in his element, isn't he?' Rebus was studying the picture more closely. 'Did you take this, Dr Colwell?'

'I'm not very good,' she started to apologise.

'I'm the last one to judge.' He turned and gave her a smile. 'So Charles Riordan taped this session, too?'

'That's right.' She paused. 'In fact, it's a happy coincidence that you called me, Inspector…'

'Oh?'

'Because I was on the verge of phoning you, to ask a favour.'

'What is it I can do for you, Dr Colwell?'

'There's a magazine called the London Review of Books. They saw the obituary I wrote in the Scotsman and they want to publish one of Alexander's poems.'

'With you so far.' Rebus lifted the cup to his lips.

'It's a new poem in Russian, one he recited at the Poetry Library.'

She gave a little laugh. 'In fact, I think he'd only just finished it that day. Point being, I don't have a copy of it. I'm not sure anyone does.'

'Have you had a look through his waste-paper bin?'

'Would it sound heartless if I said yes?'

'Not at all. But you didn't find it?'

'No… which is why I spoke to a nice man at Mr Riordan's studio.'

'That'll be Terry Grimm.'

She nodded again, pushed her hair back again. 'He said there was a recording.'

Rebus thought of the hour he'd spent in Siobhan's car, the pair of them listening to a dead man. Tou want to borrow it?' he guessed, remembering that Todorov had indeed recited some of the poems in Russian.

'Just long enough to write a translation. It would be my memorial to him, I suppose.'

'I can't see a problem with that.'

She beamed, and he got the feeling that if the desk hadn't been there, she might even have reached over and hugged him. Instead, she asked if she would have to listen to the CD at the station or would it be possible to take it away with her. The station… one place Rebus couldn't be seen.

'I can bring it to you,' he said, and her smile widened before melting away.

'Deadline's next week,' she suddenly realised.

'No problem,' Rebus assured her. 'And I'm sorry we haven't tracked down Mr Todorov's killer yet.'

Her face fell further. 'I'm sure you're doing your utmost.'

'Thanks for the vote of confidence.' He paused. Tou've still not asked me why I'm here.'

'I was thinking you'd get round to telling me.'

'I've been researching Mr Todorov's life, looking for enemies.'

'Alexander made an enemy of the state, Inspector.'

'That much I believe. But one story I've been hearing is that he was dismissed from a lectureship for getting too friendly with his students. Thing is, I think the person who told me that was trying to sell me a pup.'

But she was shaking her head. 'Actually, it's true – Alexander told me about it himself. The charges were trumped up, of course – they just wanted him out, by fair means or foul.' She sounded aggrieved on the poet's behalf.

'Do you mind if I ask… did he ever try anything with you, Dr Colwell?'

'I have a partner, Inspector.'

'With respect, Dr Colwell, you're a beautiful woman, and I get the impression Alexander Todorov liked women. I'm not sure the existence of any partner short of a Ninja assassin would have deterred him.'

She gave another perfect smile, lowering her lashes in feigned modesty.

'Well,' she admitted, 'you're right, of course. After a few drinks, Alexander's libido seemed always to be refreshed.'

'A nice way of putting it. Are the words his?'

'All my own work, Inspector.'

'He seems to have thought of you as a friend, though, or he wouldn't have taken you into his confidence.'

'I'm not sure he had any real friends. Writers are like that sometimes – they see the rest of us as source material. Can you

imagine being in bed with someone and knowing they're going to write about it afterwards? Knowing the whole world will be reading about that most intimate of moments?'

'I take your point.' Rebus paused to clear his throat. 'But he must have had some way of… 'quenching1 that libido you mentioned?'

'Oh, he had women, Inspector.'

'Students? Here in Edinburgh?'

'I couldn't say.'

'Or how about Abigail Thomas at the Poetry Library? You seemed to think she had a crush on him.'

'Probably not reciprocated,' Colwell said dismissively. Then, after a moment's thought: Tou really think Alexander was killed by a woman?'

Rebus shrugged. He was thinking of Todorov, more than a few drinks under his belt, weaving his way down King's Stables Road, a woman suddenly offering him no-strings sex. Would he have gone with a stranger? Probably. But even more likely with someone he'd known…

'Did Mr Todorov ever mention a man called Andropov?' he asked.

She mouthed the name several times, deep in thought, then gave up. 'Sorry,' she said.I 'Another long shot: how about someone called Cafferty?'

'I'm not really helping, am I?' she said as she shook her head.

'Sometimes the things we rule out are as important as the ones we rule in,' he reassured her.

'Like in Sherlock Holmes?' she said. 'When you've eliminated the-' She broke off with a frown. 'I can never remember that quote, but you must know it?'

He nodded, not wanting her to think him ill-read. Every day on his way to work, he passed a statue of Sherlock Holmes by the roundabout on Leith Street. Turned out it was marking the spot where they'd knocked down Conan Doyle's childhood home.

'What is it then?' she was asking.

He gave a shrug. 'I'm like you, never seem to get it right…'

She rose from her chair and came around the desk, her skirt brushing against his legs as she squeezed past. She lifted a book from one of the shelves. From the spine, Rebus could tell it was a collection of quotations. She found the Doyle section and ran a finger down it, finding what she was looking for.

'”When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.“' She frowned again. 'That's

not how I remember it. I thought it was to do with eliminating the possible rather than its opposite.'

'Mmm,' Rebus said, hoping she'd think he was agreeing with her.

He placed his empty mug on the table. 'Well, Dr Colwell, seeing how I've done you a favour…'

'Quid pro quo?' She clapped the book shut. Dust rose from its pages.

'I was just wondering if I could have the key to Todorov's flat.'

'As it happens, you're in luck. Someone from Building Services was supposed to stop by and get it, but so far no sign.'

'What will they do with all his stuff?'

'The consulate said they'd take it. He must have some family back in Russia.' She'd gone behind the desk again and opened a drawer, bringing out the key-chain. Rebus took it from her with a nod of thanks. 'There's a servitor on the ground floor here,' she explained. 'If I'm not around, you can always leave it with him.'

She paused. 'And you won't forget that recording?'

'Trust me.'

'It's just that the studio seemed pretty sure it's the only copy left. Poor Mr Riordan – what a terrible way to die…'

Back outside again, Rebus descended the steps from George Square to Buccleuch Place. There were a few students around.

They looked… the only word for it was studious. He stopped at the bottom of the steps to light a cigarette, but the temperature was sinking, and he decided he might as well smoke it indoors.

Todorov's flat seemed unchanged from his first visit, except that the scraps of paper from the bin had been laid flat on the desk – Scarlett Colwell most probably, seeking the elusive poem. Rebus had forgotten about those six copies of Astapovo Blues. Had to find someone with an eBay account so he could shift them. Looking more closely at the room, he decided someone had removed some of the poet's book collection. Colwell again? Or some other member of staff? Rebus wondered if he'd been beaten to it – a glut of Todorov memorabilia bringing prices down. He realised his phone was ringing and took it out. Didn't recognise the number, but it had the international code on the front.