Ian Rankin - Exit Music

She marched downstairs to the car park and got into her car.

Started the ignition and drove. She wanted to ask Starr why he hadn't said anything… why he hadn't asked her. Giving the job to one of his boys instead – Ray Reynolds, at that! Was it because she'd gone off without telling him? Was it so she'd know her place in future?

She had plenty of questions for DI Derek Starr.

She turned right at the top of Leith Street, then hard left on to North Bridge. Straight across at the Tron and a right-hand turn, crossing oncoming traffic and on to Blair Street, passing Nancy Sievewright's flat again. If Talking Heads really did reckon London a 'small city', they should try Edinburgh. No more than eight minutes after leaving Gayfield Square, she was pulling into the mortuary car park, stopping alongside Reynolds's car and wondering if she'd beaten his time. There was another car, a big old Mercedes Benz, parked between two of the mortuary's anonymous white transit vans. Clarke stalked past it to the door marked Staff Only, turned the handle and went in. There was no onen the corridor, and no one in the staff room, though steam was rising from the spout of a recently boiled kettle. She moved through! the holding area and opened another door into a further corridor), up some stairs to the next level. This was where the public entrance was. It was where relatives waited to identify their loved ones and where the subsequent paperwork was taken care of. Usually it was a place of low sobbing, quiet reflection, utter and ghastly silence.

But not today.

She recognised Nikolai Stahov straight off. He wore the same long black coat as when they'd first met. Alongside him stood a man who also looked Russian, maybe five years younger but almost as many inches taller and broader. Stahov was remonstrating in English with Derek Starr, who stood with arms folded, legs apart, as if ready for a ruck. Next to him was Reynolds, and behind them the four mortuary staff.

'We have right,' Stahov was saying. 'Constitutional right…

moral right.'

'A murder inquiry is ongoing,' Starr explained. 'The body has to stay here in case further tests are required.'

Stahov, glancing to his left, had noticed Clarke. 'Help us, please,'

he implored her. She took a few steps forward.

'What seems to be the problem?'

Starr glared at her. 'The consulate wants to repatriate Mr Todorov's remains,' he explained.

'Alexander needs to be buried in his homeland,' Stahov stated.

'Is there anything in his will to that effect?' Clarke asked.

'Will or no will, his wife is buried in Moscow-'

'Something I've been meaning to ask,' Clarke interrupted. Stahov had turned completely towards her, which seemed to annoy Starr.

'What actually happened to his wife?'

'Cancer,' Stahov told her. 'They could have operated, but she would have lost the baby she was carrying. So she continued with the pregnancy.' Stahov offered a shrug. 'The baby was stillborn, and by then the mother only had a few days to live.'

The story seemed to have calmed the whole room. Clarke nodded slowly. 'Why the sudden urgency, Mr Stahov? Alexander died eight days ago… why wait till now?'

'All we want is to return him home, with due respect to his international stature.'

'I wasn't sure he had that much stature in Russia. Didn't you say that the Nobel Prize isn't such a big deal in Moscow these days?'

'Governments can have changes of heart.'

'What you're saying is, you're under orders from the Kremlin?'

Stahov's eyes gave nothing away. 'There being no next of kin, the state becomes responsible. I have the authority to request his body.'

'But we have no authority to release it,' Starr countered, having shuffled around towards Clarke, the better to meet Stahov's eye-line. 'You're a diplomat; you must be aware that there are protocols'

'Meaning what, exactly?'

'Meaning,' Clarke explained, 'we'll be hanging on to the body until instructed otherwise by judgment or decree.'

'It is scandalous.' Stahov busied himself tugging at the cuffs of his coat. 'I'm not sure how such a situation can be kept from public view.'

'Go crying to the papers,' Starr taunted him. 'See where it gets.you…'

'Start the process,' Clarke counselled the Russian. 'That's all you lean do.'

Stahov met her eyes again and nodded slowly, then turned on

his heels and headed for the exit, followed by his driver. As soon as both men had left, Starr grabbed Clarke by the arm.

'What are you doing here?' he hissed.

She twisted out of his grip. I'm where I should have been all along, Derek.'

'I left you in charge at Gayfield.'

“You left without so much as a word.'

Perhaps Starr sensed that this was not an argument he could win. He glanced around at the onlookers – Reynolds; the mortuary staff – and allowed his face to soften. 'A discussion for another time, perhaps,' he offered.

Clarke, though she'd already decided not to push it, let him sweat for a moment as she pretended to think it over. 'Fine,' she said at last.

He nodded and turned to the mortuary attendants. 'You did the right thing, calling us. If they try anything else, you know where we are.'

“Think they'll sneak him out in the middle of the night?' one of the men speculated.

One of his colleagues gave a chuckle. 'Been a while since we've had one of those, Davie,' he commented.

Siobhan Clarke decided not to ask.

They gathered around a table in the back room of the Oxford Bar.

Word had gone out that John Rebus needed a bit of privacy, meaning they had the space to themselves. Nevertheless, they kept their voices low. First thing Rebus had done was explain his suspension and admit that it was dangerous for them to be seen with him.

Clarke had sipped her tonic water – no gin tonight. Colin Tibbet had looked to Phyllida Hawes for a lead.

'If I have to choose between Derek Starr and yourself… no contest,' Hawes had decided.

'No contest,' Tibbet had echoed, without sounding completely convinced.

'What's the worst they can do to me?' Todd Goodyear had added.

'Send me back to uniform at West End? It's going to happen anyway.'

And he'd raised his half-pint of beer in Rebus's direction.

After which, they'd started detailing the day's events, Rebus careful to edit his own version – since he was supposed to be on suspension.

“You've still not talked to Megan Macfarlane or Jim Bakewell?'

he asked Clarke.

'I've been a bit busy, John.'

'Sorry,' Goodyear said, almost choking on a mouthful of ale, 'that reminds me – while you were at the mortuary, Bakewell's office called. There's a meeting with him pencilled in for tomorrow.'

'Thanks for the heads-up, Todd.'

He winced visibly. Hawes was saying something about being thankful for any excuse to get out of the office.

'Isn't space to swing a cat,' Tibbet concurred. 'I opened my desk drawer this afternoon, somebody had left half a sandwich in it.'

'Did they treat you to lunch at the bank?' Rebus asked.

'Just a couple of foie gras baps,' Hawes informed him. 'To be honest, the place reminded me of a very slick and upmarket production line, but a production line nonetheless.'

'Ten billion in profits.' Tibbet still couldn't take it in.

'More than some countries' GDPs,' Goodyear added.

'Here's hoping they stick around if we get independence,' Rebus said. 'Put them and their nearest competitor together, well, it's not a bad start for a wee country.'

Clarke was looking at him. 'You think that's why Stuart Janney's staying close to Megan Macfarlane?'

Rebus shrugged. 'Nationalists wouldn't want the likes of FAB packing up and shipping out. That gives the bank a bit of leverage.'