Ian Rankin - Exit Music

Small beer – the magistrate would watch the DVDs with a good deal of interest, then stick the gangster with a pittance of a fine. Rebus made sure everything was switched off, no prints left behind, then headed downstairs and unlocked the safe again, replacing the box, keeping just the one disc for himself. Down the white marble hall and out into the sweet-smelling air, door secure behind him. He'd have to get Cafferty's keys back to him, but first he had some thinking to do. He took a left out of the gate and another left at the top of the road, heading for Bruntsfield Place and the first available taxi.

Eddie Gentry, replete with eyeliner and the red bandanna, opened the door to him.

'Nancy's out,' he said.

'Have you patched things up?'

'We had a frank exchange of views.'

Rebus smiled. 'Going to invite me in, Eddie? And by the way, I liked your CD.'

Gentry considered his options, then turned and pushed open the living-room door. Rebus followed him inside.

'Ever watch Big Brother, Eddie?' Rebus was making a circuit of the room, hands in pockets.

'Life's too short.'

'It is that,' Rebus seemed to agree. 'Tell you something I didn't spot when I was here before.'

'What?'

Rebus looked up. Your ceilings have been lowered.'

¦Yeah?'

Rebus nodded. 'Done before you moved in?'

'Suppose so.'

'There might be original features – cornices, ceiling roses… Why do you reckon the landlord would want them covered up?'

'Insulation?'

'How so?'

Gentry shrugged. 'Makes the rooms smaller, meaning easier to heat.'

'The rooms are all the same, then? Fake ceilings?'

'I'm not an architect.'

Rebus locked eyes with the young man, saw the slightest twitch at a corner of his mouth. Eddie Gentry was not feeling comfortable.

The detective gave a low, drawn-out whistle.

Tou know, don't you?' he asked. Tou've known all along?'

'Known what?'

'Cafferty's got you wired – cameras in the ceiling, in the walls…'

He pointed towards a corner of the room. 'See that hole? Looks like someone's botched a bit of drilling?' Gentry's face gave nothing away. 'There's a lens pointing at us. But you already know that.

For all I know, maybe it's even your job to set the camera rolling.'

Gentry had folded his arms across his chest. 'That session you did at CR Studios – I'm betting it didn't come cheap. Did Cafferty pay for it? Was that part of the deal? Bit of money in your pocket… cheap rent… no overcrowding… and all you had to do was throw a few parties.' Rebus was thinking it through. 'Dope provided by Sol Goodyear – and I'm betting it came cheap, too. Know why?'

'Why?'

'Because Sol works for Cafferty. He's the dealer, you're the pimp…'

'Fuck you.'

'Careful, son.' Rebus jabbed his forefinger towards the young man. 'Have you heard what happened to Cafferty?'

'I heard.'

'Maybe someone didn't like what he'd been doing. Remember that party with Gill Morgan?'

'What about it?'

'That the only footage of her you got?'

'I've no idea.' Rebus looked disbelieving. 'I never watched any of it.'

'Just handed it over, eh?'

'No harm done, was there?'

'I don't think you're qualified to judge that, Eddie. Does Nancy know?'

Gentry shook his head.

'Just you, eh? Did he tell you he was doing the selfsame thing in some of his other flats?'

“You mentioned Big Brother earlier – what's the difference?'

Rebus was standing close to the young man when he answered.

'Difference is, they know they're being watched. I can't really decide who's the sleazier, you or Cafferty. He was watching complete strangers, but you, Eddie, were filming your mates.'

'Is there a law against it?'

'Oh, I'm fairly sure there is. How often does the taping happen?'

'Three or four times – tops.'

Because by then Cafferty was bored, and moved on to a new flat, new tenants, new faces and bodies… Rebus walked into the hallway, looked for the hole and found it. Nancy's bedroom: again, the false ceiling; again, the neatly drilled hole. The bathroom was the same. When Rebus emerged into the hallway, Gentry was leaning against the wall, arms still folded, jaw jutting defiantly.

'Where's the hardware?' Rebus asked.

'Mr C took it.'

When?'

'Few weeks back. Like I told you, it was only three or four times…'

'Doesn't make it any less sordid. Let's take a look at your room.' Rebus didn't wait for an invitation, opened the door to Gentry's bedroom and asked where the cables were.

They used to come down from the ceiling. Had them hooked up

to a DVD recorder. If anything interesting was happening, I only had to press the record button.'

'And now the whole lot's been installed in some other flat so your landlord can show a fresh slice of grainy porn to his sweaty pals.'

Rebus was shaking his head slowly. 'Wouldn't want to be in your shoes when Nancy finds out…'

Gentry didn't so much as flinch. 'I think it's time you were leaving,'

he stated. 'Show's over.'

Rebus responded by getting right into the young man's face. Tou couldn't be more wrong, Eddie – this particular show's only just getting started.' He squeezed past, out into the hallway, pausing by the front door. 'I lied by the way – that music of yours is going nowhere. You've just not got the talent, pal.'

Closed the door after him and stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes.

Job done.

The CID suite at Gayfield Square might as well have been a swimming pool – all they were doing was treading water. Derek Starr knew it, and was having trouble motivating the group. There wasn't enough for them to do. No exciting new leads on either Todorov or Riordan. Forensics had produced a partial fingerprint from the small bottle of cleaning fluid, but all they knew so far was that it belonged neither to Riordan nor to anyone on the database. Terry Grimm had supplied information that Riordan's house was visited weekly by a team of cleaners from an agency, though they were usually told not to bother with the living-room-cum-studio. But any one of them could have left the print. No one was about to claim for certain that it belonged to the arsonist. It looked like another dead end. Same went for the e-fit of the hooded woman outside the multistorey: officers had taken copies door-to-door, returning to the station with nothing but sore feet.

Having gone through the proper channels, Starr had at last secured CCTV footage from the few cameras in and around Portobello, but no one was very hopeful – all they showed was early-morning traffic. Again, without knowing how the attacker had reached Riordan's house, it was needle-in-a-haystack stuff. The way Starr himself kept looking at Siobhan Clarke, he knew she was holding back on him. Twice in the space of half an hour he'd asked her what she was working on.

'Going through the Riordan tapes,' she'd explained. Not a word of truth in it – Todd Goodyear was typing up the last batch of transcripts, looking worn down by the whole experience. He kept staring into space, as if thinking himself into a better place. Clarke, meantime, was waiting for Stone to get back to her, having left

a message on his mobile. She was still wondering if it was such a good idea. Stone and Starr seemed pretty pally; chances were, anything she said to the one would get back to the other. She had yet to mention to Starr the appearance of Sergei Andropov and his driver in the Poetry Library audience.

There were no longer any members of the media hanging about outside the station. The last mention of either death had been an inch-long paragraph on one of the Evening News's inside pages.

Starr was currently in another meeting with DCI Macrae. Maybe later today, they would announce that the inquiry was being split into two, since no evidence had come to light connecting the Todorov murder to Riordan's fate. The team would be broken up; the Riordan case would go back to Leith CID.