Ian Rankin - Exit Music

A patrol car was suddenly behind them, its lights flashing.

'Christ, what now?' Rebus complained to no one in particular. He pulled over just short of the next roundabout and got out.

The patrolman took a bit of time adjusting the cap he'd just fixed to his head. He wasn't anyone Rebus knew.

'DI Rebus?' the officer checked. Rebus nodded his confirmation.

'Got orders to bring you in.'

'Bring me where?'

'West End.'

'Shug Davidson's throwing me a surprise party?'

'I wouldn't know about that.'

Maybe not, but Rebus did: they had something to pin on him, and the bookies were giving a million to one on it being a medal.

Rebus turned towards Clarke. She was out of the car now, resting her hands against its roof. Pedestrians had paused for a moment to watch the drama.

'Take the Saab,' Rebus told her. 'See that Dr Colwell gets the CD.'

'What about the chauffeur?'

'Some things you're going to have to decide for yourself.'

He got into the back of the patrol car. 'Blues and twos, lads,' he said. 'Can't keep Shug Davidson waiting.'

But it wasn't Davidson waiting for him at Torphichen Place, it was DI Calum Stone, seated behind the interview room's only table while DS Prosser stood in the corner, hands in pockets.

'Seems I've got a fan club,' Rebus commented, sitting down opposite Stone.

'Got a bit of news for you,' Stone responded. 'It was Cafferty's blood on that overshoe.'

'DNA usually takes longer than that.'

'All right, then – Cafferty's blood type.'

'I sense a “but”…'

'No usable prints,' Stone admitted.

'Meaning you can't prove it came from the boot of my car?' Rebus clapped his hands together once and began getting to his feet.

Well, nice of you to let me know…'

'Sit down, Rebus.'

Rebus considered for a few seconds, then sat.

'Cafferty's still unconscious,' Stone explained. 'They're not talking coma yet, but I know they're thinking it. Doctor says he could end his days a vegetable.' His eyes narrowed. 'So it looks like we might not get to steal your glory after all.'

You still think I did it?'

'I bloody well know you did.'

'And I told DS Clarke all about it because I needed her to phone

you and get you away from the stakeout?' Rebus watched Stone's slow, sustained nod.

'You used your crime-scene kit so you wouldn't get any blood on you,' Prosser snapped from the corner. 'Shoe blew into the canal and you couldn't risk going in after it…'

'We've been through this!' Rebus spat back.

'No doubt we'll go over it again,' Stone warned. 'Soon as we've completed our inquiries.'

'I can hardly wait.' This time Rebus did rise to his feet. 'That all you wanted me for?'

Stone just nodded again, then waited until Rebus reached the door before firing another question at him. 'Officers who brought you in say there was a woman in the car with you – DS Clarke, I presume?'

'Of course not.'

'Liar,' Prosser shot back at him.

'You're still on suspension, Rebus,' Stone was saying. 'Do you really want to take her down with you?'

'Funny, she asked me much the same thing not half an hour ago…' Rebus pushed open the door and made good his escape.

Dr Scarlett Colwell was at her computer when Siobhan Clarke arrived. To Clarke's mind, the woman used a touch too much make-up and would look better without it. Nice hair, though, even if she suspected there might be a bit of dye in it.

'I've brought the CD of the poetry reading,' Clarke said, placing it on the desk.

'Thank you so much.' Colwell picked it up and studied it.

'Can I ask you to take a look at something?'

'Of course.'

'I'll need to use your computer…' The academic gestured for Clarke to sit at the desk. Clarke squeezed past her, Colwell standing at her shoulder as she accessed the Word Power site and clicked the photo gallery option, bringing up the pictures from the cafe.

'That picture,' she said, nodding towards the wall and the shot of Todorov. 'Did you happen to take any others?'

'They were so bad, I deleted them. I'm not great with cameras.'

Clarke nodded and pressed a finger against the screen. 'Remember him?' she asked.

Colwell peered at the chauffeur's face. 'He was there, yes.'

'But you don't know who he is?'

'Should I?'

'Did Todorov speak to him?'

'I couldn't say. Who is he?'

'A Russian… he works at the consulate.'

Colwell stared more intently at the face. Tou know,' she said, 'I think he was at the Poetry Library, too.'

Clarke turned towards her. 'Are you sure?'

'Him and another man…' But she started to shake her head.

'Actually, I'm not certain.'

'Take your time,' Clarke invited, so Colwell ran both hands through her tresses and did some more thinking.

'I'm really not sure,' she confessed after a pause, letting the hair fall around her face again. 'I could be conflating the two readings – do you see what I mean?'

'Imagining the man into the one because you know he was at the other?'

'Exactly so… Do you have any other photos of him?'

'No.' But Clarke started typing again, entering the name Nikolai Stahov into the search engine. She drew a blank, so described the consular official to Colwell instead.

'Doesn't ring any bells,' the academic apologised, so Clarke tried again, this time with a description of Andropov. When Colwell gave another shrug, Clarke tried the website for the Evening News. Skipping back through the days until she'd found the story about the Russians and their blowout meal. Tapping one of the faces in the onscreen photograph.

'He does look familiar,' Colwell admitted.

'From the Poetry Library?'

The academic shrugged and gave a long sigh. Clarke told her not to worry and called the Poetry Library on her mobile.

'Ms Thomas?' she asked when her call was answered.

'Not in today,' another female voice reported. 'Can I help?'

'My name's Detective Sergeant Clarke. I'm investigating Alexander Todorov's murder and I need to ask her something.'

'She's at home today… do you have her number?'

Clarke jotted the number down, then made the call. She asked Abigail Thomas if she had easy access to the Web, then talked her through the links to Word Power and the newspaper.

'Mm, yes,' Thomas eventually said, 'both of them, I think. Seated near the front, second row maybe.'

You're sure of that?'

'Fairly sure.'

'Just to check, Ms Thomas… no one took photos that night?'

'The odd person could have used their camera-phone, I suppose.'

'And you've no CCTV in the library?'

'It's a library,' Abigail Thomas stressed.

'Just a thought… Thanks for your help.' Clarke ended the call.

'Why is it so important?' Colwell asked, breaking Clarke's reverie.

'Might not be,' the detective admitted. 'But Todorov and Andropov had a drink in the same bar, the night the poet was killed.'

'Judging by the news story, Mr Andropov is some sort of businessman?'

'They grew up in the same part of Moscow. DI Rebus says they knew one another…'

'Oh.'

Clarke saw that she'd struck a nerve. 'What is it?' she asked.

'Might help to explain something,' Colwell mused.

'And what's that, Dr Colwell?'

The academic picked up the CD. 'Alexander's extempore poem.'

She walked over to a set of shelves and crouched down in front of it. There was a portable hi-fi there, and she slotted home the recording, then pressed 'play'. The room was filled with the sounds of the audience finding their seats and clearing their throats. 'About halfway through,' Colwell added, holding down the skip button.

But this took her directly to the end of the recording. 'Forgot,' she said, 'there's only the one continuous track.' So she went back to the start and this time used the fast-forward facility.