Ian Rankin - Exit Music

'So who's the “they”? You still think Andropov?'

He dragged his palms down his face, accentuating the bloodshot and dark-ringed eyes, the day's worth of grey stubble. 'Proving it is going to be the killer,' he replied at last.

Clarke nodded her agreement and they sat in silence for a while, until Rebus asked how everything else was shaping up.

'Starr and Macrae started the day with a good old chinwag.'

'No doubt my name featured on the agenda.'

'All I've been doing is listening to that other recording of Todorov.'

'Nice to see you breaking a sweat.'

'Riordan's mic picked up some of the audience. I think I heard a Russian voice.'

'Oh?'

'Thought I might nip over to Word Power and ask them.'

'Need a lift?'

'Sure.'

'Do me a favour first, will you? I need the CD of Todorov's other performance.'

Why?' He explained about Scarlett Colwell and the new poem.

'So you're keeping in her good books, eh?'

'Just go fetch it.'

She opened the car door but then paused. 'The show Todorov did for Word Power, he read out a poem by Burns – “Farewell to All Our Scottish Fame”.'

Rebus nodded. 'I know that one. It's about the English buying us off. Scotland lost all its money in a Panama land-grab. England

suggested a union of the two countries.'

'What was so bad about that?'

'I keep forgetting you're English… We ceased to be a nation, Siobhan.'

'And became a parcel of rogues instead?'

'According to Burns, yes.'

'Sounds to me as if Todorov was a bit of a Scot Nat.'

'Maybe he just looked at this country and saw a version of his own… bought and sold for gold, tin, zinc, gas…'

'Andropov again?'

Rebus offered a shrug. 'Go get that CD,' he told her.

The bookshop was small and cramped. Rebus feared that if he so much as turned around he would topple a display. The woman behind the till had her nose in a copy of something called Labyrinth. She only worked there part-time and hadn't been to the Todorov reading.

“We've got some of his books, though.'

Rebus looked in the direction she was pointing. 'Are they signed?'

he asked. For his troubles, Clarke poked him in the ribs before asking the assistant if any photos had been taken on the night.

She nodded and muttered something about the shop's website.

Clarke looked to Rebus.

'Should've thought of that first,' she told him. So they drove back to her flat, Rebus deciding to double-park rather than seek a space further afield.

'A while since I've been here,' he said as she led him down the narrow hallway. It was much the same layout as his own flat, but with meaner proportions.

'It's nothing personal,' she apologised. 'Just that I don't entertain much.'

They were in the living room by now. Chocolate wrappers on the rug next to the sofa, alongside an empty wine glass. On the sofa itself sat a large, venerable-looking teddy bear. Rebus picked it up.

'It's a Steiff,' Clarke told him. 'Had him since I was a kid.'

'Has he got a name?'

Tea.'

'Going to tell me what it is?'

'No.' She'd gone over to the computer desk by the window and

switched on the laptop which rested there. She had one of those S-shaped stools that were supposed to be good for your back, but sat with her feet on the bit that was meant for her knees. Within a matter of moments, she had found the Word Power website.

Clicked on 'recent events' and then 'photo gallery' and started a slow scroll. And there was Todorov, being introduced to the crowd.

They were seated on the floor and standing at the back, and all had about them the aura of the converted.

'How are we supposed to spot the Russians?' Rebus asked, leaning his hands against the edge of the desk. 'Cossack hats? Ice picks in their ears?'

'We never did take a proper look at that list,' Clarke said.

'What list?'

“The one Stahov brought – Russian residents in Edinburgh. He even had his own name on it, remember? Wonder if his driver's on it, too.' She was tapping the screen. Only his face was visible.

He was seated on a brown leather sofa but with people crouched and seated on the floor in front of him. The photographer was no professional; everyone had been given red eyes. 'Remember that stooshie at the mortuary? Stahov wanted Todorov's remains repatriated.

I'm pretty sure our friend here was with him.' She tapped the screen again. Rebus leaned in further for a better look.

'He's Andropov's driver,' he said. 'We went eyeball-to-eyeball in the lobby of the Caledonian Hotel.'

'Must be working for two masters, then, because Stahov got into the back of his old Merc and this guy got behind the wheel.' She turned her head and looked up at him. 'Reckon he'll talk to us?'

Rebus shrugged. 'Maybe he'll claim diplomatic immunity.'

'Was he with Andropov that night in the bar?'

'No one's mentioned him.'

'Might have been waiting outside with the car.' She glanced at her watch.

'What now?' Rebus asked.

'I've got that appointment with Jim Bakewell MSP.'

'Where are you meeting him?'

'The Parliament building.'

'Tell him you need a coffee – I'll be at the next table over.'

'Haven't you got anything better to do?'

'Like what?'

'Finding out who's behind the attack on Cafferty.'

You don't think there's a link?'

'We don't know.'

'I could really use a shot of that parliamentary espresso,' Rebus told her.

She couldn't help smiling. 'All right then,' she said. 'And I really will have you over to supper one night – promise.'

'Best give me plenty of warning… diary's going to be bursting at the seams.'

'Retirement's a whole new beginning for some people,' she agreed.

'I don't plan on twiddling my thumbs,' he assured her.

Clarke had risen from the stool. She stood in front of him, arms by her sides, eyes fixed on his. The silence lasted fifteen or twenty seconds, Rebus smiling at the end, feeling they'd shared a long conversation without the need for words.

'Let's go,' he said, breaking the spell.

They called the Western General from the car, checking on Cafferty's progress.

'He's not woken up,' Rebus said, relaying the message for Clarke's benefit. 'Due another scan later today and they've got him on drugs to prevent a blood clot.'

'Think we should send him flowers?'

'Bit early for a wreath…'

They'd taken a short cut down Calton Road, parked in one of the residential streets at Abbeyhill. Clarke told him to give her a five-minute start, which gave Rebus enough time for a cigarette.

Tourists were milling around, a few interested in the Parliament building but the majority keener on the Palace of Holyrood across the street. One or two seemed to be puzzling over the vertical bamboo bars across some of the Parliament's windows.

'Join the club,' Rebus muttered, stubbing the cigarette and heading inside. As he emptied his pockets and prepared for the metal detector at security, he asked one of the guards about the bamboo.

'Search me,' the man said.

'Isn't that supposed to be my line?' Rebus replied. On the other side of the detector, he scooped up his stuff and made for the coffee bar. Clarke was in the queue and he took his place directly behind her. 'Where's Bakewell?' he asked.

'On his way down. He's not a “coffee person” apparently, but I said it was for my benefit rather than his.' She ordered her cappuccino and got out some money.

'Might as well add mine to the order,' Rebus said. 'And make it a double.'

'Want me to drink it for you, too?'

'Could be the last espresso you ever buy me,' he chided her.

They found two adjacent tables and settled at them. Rebus still wasn't sure about this vast, echoing interior. If someone had told him he was in an airport, he might have believed them. He couldn't tell what sort of statement it was supposed to be making. One newspaper report from a few years back had stuck in his mind, the journalist speculating that the building was too elaborate for its actual purpose and was, in fact, 'an independent parliament in waiting5. Made sense when you remembered that the architect was Catalan.