Ian Rankin - Exit Music

He didn't seem happy about it, but got up anyway, continuing the conversation as he moved away. Todd Goodyear was standing in front of her with more sheets of transcript from the Urban Regeneration Committee.

'Doesn't seem quite as busy in here,' Clarke commented, noting that Starr was in earnest conversation with Macrae in the DCI's office.

'We've requisitioned two of the interview rooms,' he explained. 'Numbers one and two – three's too cold, apparently.' Then, after a meaningful pause: 'What's this I hear about Cafferty?'

'Did your girlfriend tell you?' Clarke took a sip of cappuccino. Goodyear was nodding.

'She was summoned to the canal,' he confirmed.

'That must have put a damper on your evening.'

'Part and parcel of the job.' He paused. 'She saw you there, too.

How do you want to play it?'

She didn't get his meaning at first, then realised that Todd had been present outside the pub. He, too, knew that Rebus had been on his way to a rendezvous with Cafferty.

'Anyone asks,' she told him, 'you tell them just as much as you know. For what it's worth, DI Rebus has already talked to the inquiry team.'

Goodyear expelled some air. 'Is he a suspect?'

Clarke shook her head. But she knew damned well the possibility was being discussed in Macrae's room. As soon as Goodyear had retreated, she reached into her bag for the CD player and took the disc from the top drawer of her desk. Todorov's recital for the benefit of the Word Power bookshop. She plugged herself in, cranked up the volume and closed her eyes.

A cafe. The espresso machine was hissing somewhere in the distance. Charles Riordan had to be positioned near the front of the audience. She could hear Todorov clearing his throat. One of the booksellers gave the welcome and made some introductory remarks. Clarke knew the cafe. It was near the old Odeon cinema, popular with students. Big comfy sofas and mood music, the sort of place where you felt guilty ordering anything not Fairtrade or organic. Didn't sound like there was amplification for the poet.

Riordan's mic was good, though. When he changed its positioning, she could sense individuals in the audience: a cough here, a sniffle there. Murmurs and whispers. Riordan seemed almost as interested in these as in the main event. Figured: the man did like to eavesdrop.

When the poet started speaking, he covered almost identical ground to his recital at the Poetry Library – made the same ice-breaking jokes, said how welcoming he found Scottish people.

Clarke could imagine his eyes scanning the audience for any women who might like to take the welcome a little further. He veered a few times from the Poetry Library script, announcing at one point that he would next read a poem by Robert Burns. It was called 'Farewell to All Our Scottish Fame'. Todorov read it in heavily accented English, having apologised for 'anglicising' certain words:

Farewell to all our Scottish fame, Farewell our ancient glory.

Farewell even to the Scottish name,

So famed in martial story.

Now Sark runs over the Solway sands, And Tweed runs to the ocean, To mark where England's province stands Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.

There were two further verses, each ending with the same last line. Applause and a couple of whoops when the poet had finished.

Todorov then went back to poems from Astapovo Blues and ended by saying that copies were available for sale at the door. After the ovation had died down, Riordan's mic made another circuit of the room, catching reactions to the recital.

'Going to buy a copy, then?'

'Ten quid's a bit steep… anyway, we've heard most of them now.'

'Which pub you headed for?'

'Pear Tree probably.'

'What did you think?'

'Bit pompous.'

'We on for Saturday?'

'Depends on the kids.'

'Has it started raining?'

'I've got the dog in the car.'

And then the ringing of a mobile phone, silenced when the recipient answered…

Answered in what sounded to Clarke suspiciously like Russian.

Only a couple of words before the voice was muffled. Did the poet himself possess a mobile phone? Not as far as she knew. Meaning someone in the audience…? Yes, because now the mic was sweeping back round again, catching Todorov being thanked by the bookseller.

'And if you'd be happy to sign some stock afterwards…?' she was asking.

'Absolutely. My pleasure.'

'Then a drink on us at the Pear Tree… You're sure we can't tempt you to supper?'

'I try to avoid temptation, my dear. It's not good for a poet of my advancing years.' But then Todorov's attention was deflected. 'Ah, Mr Riordan, isn't it? How did the recording go?'

'It was great, thank you.'

Dead men talking, Clarke couldn't help thinking. The mic itself cut out after that. The timer on the player told her she'd been

listening for the best part of an hour. Macrae's office was empty, no sign of Starr anywhere nearby. Clarke removed her earphones and checked her mobile for messages. There were none. She tried Rebus's home number but got his machine. He wasn't answering his mobile either. She was tapping the phone against her pursed lips when Todd Goodyear reappeared.

'Girlfriend's just given me a tip-off,' he said.

'Remind me of her name.'

'Sonia.'

'And what does Sonia tell you?'

'When they were searching the canal, they came up with an overshoe. You know, the polythene sort with the elastic around the ankle?'

'Talk about contaminating the crime scene…'

He caught her meaning. 'No,' he clarified, 'it wasn't dropped by a SOCO. There were spots of blood on it. Well, that's what they think, anyway.'

'Meaning the assailant wore it?' Goodyear was nodding. Scene-of crime clothing – protective overalls, hats, overshoes and disposable gloves… the whole lot designed so as not to leave trace evidence.

Yes, but that worked both ways, didn't it? Meant the investigators didn't leave anything that could be misconstrued; meant anyone wearing the get-up could mount an attack without fear of getting the victim's blood or hair or fibres on them. Dump the overalls – or better still, burn them – and you had a good chance of getting away with it.

'Don't go thinking what you're thinking,' Clarke warned Goodyear, the same words Rebus had used on her. 'This had nothing to do with DI Rebus.'

'Not saying it did.' Goodyear seemed stung by the accusation.

'What else did Sonia say?'

He shrugged by way of an answer. Clarke made a flicking motion with her fingers, and he took the hint, turning and finding that the desk he'd been using had found a new owner in his absence. As he walked away, readying to remonstrate, Clarke picked up her bag and coat, headed downstairs and out into Gayfield Square. Rebus was parked by the kerb. She gave the briefest of smiles and opened the passenger-side door, climbing in.

Tour phone's off,' she told him.

'Haven't got round to switching it on.'

'Have you heard? They've found an overshoe.'

'Shug's already dragged me in for questioning,' Rebus admitted,

punching his PIN into his mobile. 'Stone was there, too, enjoying every bastard minute.'

'What did you tell them?'

'The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.'

'This is serious, John!'

'Who knows that better than me?' he muttered. 'But it only becomes problematic when they trace the overshoe to the boot of my car.'

She stared at him. 'When?' she echoed.

'Think about it, Shiv. Only reason to leave the shoe was to stick me more firmly in the frame. The Saab's boot hasn't shut properly for months, and there's nothing in there but crime-scene kit.'

'And that old pair of hiking boots,' she corrected him.

'Aye,' he agreed, 'and if a hiking boot would have served the purpose, you can bet they'd have taken that instead.'