Ian Rankin - Exit Music

'Detective Sergeant Clarke?' Jim Bakewell shook Clarke's hand and she asked him if he wanted anything. 'We could take your drink to my office,' was all he said.

Yes, but now that we're here…'

Bakewell sighed and sat down, adjusting his glasses. He wore a tweed jacket and what looked like a tweed tie over a check shirt.

'Won't take long, sir,' Clarke was telling him. 'Wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Alexander Todorov.'

'I was sorry to hear about him,' Bakewell declared, but he was adjusting the creases in his trousers as he spoke.

“You shared a platform with him on Question Time?'

'That's correct.'

'Can I ask for your general impression of him?'

Bakewell's eyes were milky-blue. He nodded a greeting to a passing flunky before addressing the question. 'I was late arriving, got held up in traffic. Barely had time to shake hands with him before we were ushered into the hall. He wouldn't wear any make-up, I remember that much.' He removed his glasses and started polishing them with a handkerchief. 'Seemed quite brusque with everybody, but he was fine in front of the cameras.' He put his glasses back on and tucked the handkerchief into a trouser pocket.

'And afterwards?' Clarke asked.

'I seem to think he shot off. Nobody really hangs around. It would mean making small talk with each other.'

'Fraternising with the enemy?' Clarke offered.

'Along those lines, yes.'

'So is that how you see Megan Macfarlane?'

'Megan's a lovely woman…'

'But you're not dropping round one another's houses for a chin wag?'

'Not exactly,' Bakewell said with a thin smile.

'Ms Macfarlane seems to think the SNP will win May's election.'

'Nonsense.'

You don't think Scotland's going to want to give Blair a bloody nose over Iraq?'

'There's no appetite for independence,' Bakewell stated gruffly.

'No appetite for Trident either.'

'Labour will do just fine come May, Sergeant. Please don't lose any sleep on our behalf.'

Clarke seemed to be collecting her thoughts. 'And what about the last time you saw him?'

'I don't think I understand.'

'The night Mr Todorov was killed, he'd just been having a drink in the Caledonian Hotel. You were there, too, Mr Bakewell.'

'Was I?' Bakewell furrowed his brow, as if trying to remember.

Tfou were seated in one of the booths with a businessman called Sergei Andropov.'

'Was that the same night?' He watched Clarke nod slowly. 'Well, I'll take your word for it.'

'Mr Andropov and Mr Todorov grew up together.'

'That's news to me.'

'You didn't see Todorov in the bar?'

'I did not.'

'He was bought a drink by a local gangster called Morris Gerald Cafferty.'

'Mr Cafferty did join us at the table, but he didn't have anyone with him.'

'Had you met him before?'

'No.'

'But you knew his reputation?'

'I knew he was… well, “gangster” is maybe a bit strong, Sergeant.

But he's a reformed character now.' The politician paused. 'Unless you have evidence to the contrary.'

“What were the three of you talking about?'

“Trade… the commercial climate.' Bakewell shrugged. 'Nothing very riveting.'

'And when Cafferty joined you, he didn't happen to mention Alexander Todorov?'

'Not that I remember.'

'What time did you leave the bar, sir?'

Bakewell puffed out his cheeks with the effort of remembering. 'Quarter past eleven… some time around then.'

'Andropov and Cafferty were still there?'

Yes.'

Clarke paused for a moment's thought. 'How well did Cafferty seem to know Mr Andropov?'

'I couldn't say.'

'But it wasn't the first time they'd met?'

'Mr Cafferty's company is representing Mr Andropov in some development projects.'

'Why did he choose Cafferty?'

Bakewell gave an irritated laugh. 'Go ask him yourself.'

'I'm asking you, sir.'

'I get the feeling you're fishing, Sergeant, and none too subtly at that. As development minister it's my job to discuss future planning potential with businesspersons of good standing.'

'So you had your advisers with you?' Clarke watched Bakewell try to form an answer. 'If you were there in your official capacity,'

she pressed, 'I'm assuming you'd have a team backing you up…?'

'It was an informal meeting,' the politician snapped.

'Is that a regular occurrence, sir, in your line of work?' Bakewell was about to remonstrate, either that or retreat. He had his hands pressed to his knees, readying to rise to his feet. But there was a woman approaching, and she was already addressing him.

'Jim, where have you been hiding yourself?' Megan Macfarlane turned towards Clarke and her face fell. 'Oh, it's you.'

'I'm being grilled about Alexander Todorov,' Bakewell explained. 'And Sergei Andropov.'

Macfarlane glowered at Clarke and seemed ready to attack, but Clarke didn't give her the chance. 'I'm glad I caught you, Ms Macfarlane,' she said. 'I wanted to ask about Charles Riordan.'

'Who?'

'He was recording your committee for an art installation.'

'Roddy Denholm's project, you mean?' Macfarlane sounded interested.

“What about it?'

'Mr Riordan was friends with Alexander Todorov, and now both men are dead.'

But if Clarke had hoped to divert Macfarlane's attention, she'd failed. The MSP stabbed a finger in Rebus's direction. 'What's he doing skulking there?'

Bakewell turned towards Rebus but had no idea who he was.

'I'm at a loss,' he admitted.

'That's her boss,' Macfarlane explained. 'Looks to me like your private chat wasn't so private, Jim.'

Bakewell stopped looking puzzled and started to look furious instead. 'Is this true?' he asked Clarke. But Macfarlane, clearly enjoying every moment, was speaking again.

'What's more, I hear he's been suspended from duty, pending retirement.'

'And how did you hear that, Ms Macfarlane?' Rebus asked.

'I had a meeting with your Chief Constable yesterday and happened to mention your name.' She made a tutting sound. 'He's not going to be pleased about this, is he?'

'It's an outrage,' Bakewell spluttered, finally rising to his feet.

'I've James Corbyn's number if you need it,' Macfarlane was telling her colleague as she waved her phone at him. Her assistant, Roddy Liddle, had arrived by her side, laden with files and folders.

'An outrage!' Bakewell repeated, causing heads to turn. Two security guards were looking particularly interested.

'Shall we?' Clarke suggested to Rebus. He still had half a shot of espresso left, but thought it only good manners to accompany her as she stalked towards the exit.

'What now?' Rebus asked as he drove her back towards Gayfield Square.

'Talk to Stahov's driver, I suppose.'

'Think the consulate will let you?'

'Have you got a better idea?'

He shrugged. 'Just that it might be easier to grab him on the street.'

'What if he doesn't speak English?'

'I think he does,' Rebus stated, remembering the cars parked by the canal, Cafferty's bodyguard in conversation with Andropov's driver. 'And if he doesn't, we both know a friendly translator.'

Rebus gestured towards the back seat, where he'd slung the CD.

'And she's about to owe us a favour.'

'So I just grab the driver off the street and interrogate him?' She was staring at Rebus. 'How much more trouble do you want me to be in?'

The Saab crossed at the Regent Road lights and headed into Royal Terrace. 'How much can you take?' he eventually asked.

'Not much more,' she admitted. You think Bakewell will talk to the Chief Constable?'

'He might.'

'Then I'll probably be sharing that suspension with you.'

He glanced at her. 'Won't that be fun?'

'I think you're getting demob-happy, John.'