Ian Rankin - Exit Music

Unless Clarke did something about it.

It took her a further ten minutes to decide. Starr was still in his meeting, so she grabbed her coat and wandered over to the desk where Goodyear was working.

'Going somewhere?' he asked, somewhat forlornly.

'We both are,' she said, brightening his day.

The drive across town to the consulate took only ten minutes.

It was housed on a grand Georgian terrace within sight of the Episcopalian Cathedral. The street was wide enough to accommodate a row of parking bays in the middle of the road, and a car was pulling out of one bay as they arrived. While Goodyear put money in the meter, Clarke studied the car next to hers – it looked very much like the one Andropov had been using at the City Chambers and Nikolai Stahov at the mortuary – an old black Merc with darkened rear windows. The licence plate, however, wasn't the diplomatic kind, so Clarke called the station and asked for a check. The car was registered to Mr Boris Aksanov, with an address in Cramond. Clarke jotted down the details and ended the call.

“You reckon they'll let us question him?' Goodyear asked on his return.

She gave a shrug. 'Let's see, shall we?' She crossed to the consulate, climbed its three stone steps, and pressed the buzzer. The door was opened by a young woman with the fixed smile of the professional greeter. Clarke already had her warrant card open.

'I'm here to see Mr Aksanov,' she stated.

'Mr Aksanov?' The smile stayed fixed.

Tour driver.' Clarke turned her head. 'His car's over there.'

'Well, he's not here.'

Clarke stared at the woman. “You sure about that?'

'Of course.'

'What about Mr Stahov?'

'He's also not here at present.'

'When's he due back?'

'Later today, I think.'

Clarke was looking over the woman's shoulder. The entrance hall was large but barren, with peeling paintwork and faded wallpaper.

A curving staircase led upwards, but she had no view of the landing.

'And Mr Aksanov?'

'I don't know.'

'He's not driving Mr Stahov, then?'

The smile was having a bit of trouble. 'I'm afraid I can't help…'

'Aksanov's driving Sergei Andropov, is he?'

The young woman's hand was gripping the edge of the door.

Clarke could tell she wanted to close it in their faces.

'I can't help,' she repeated instead.

'Is Mr Aksanov a consular employee?' But now the door really was being closed, slowly but determinedly. 'We'll come back later,'

Clarke stressed. The door clicked shut but she continued to stare at it.

'She had frightened eyes,' Goodyear commented.

Clarke nodded her agreement.

'Waste of money, too – I put half an hour on the meter.'

'Claim it back from the inquiry.' Clarke turned and started towards the car, but paused at the Merc and checked her watch.

When she got in behind the steering wheel, Goodyear asked if they were headed back to Gayfield Square. Clarke shook her head.

'Parking wardens round here are vicious,' she said. 'And that Merc goes into the red in exactly seven minutes.'

'Meaning someone's going to have to feed the meter?' he guessed.

But Clarke shook her head again. 'It's illegal to do that, Todd. If they don't want a ticket, they're going to have to move the car.' She turned her key in the ignition.

'I thought embassies never paid their fines anyway.'

True enough… if they have diplomatic plates.' Clarke put the car into gear and moved out of the parking bay, but only to stop again kerbside a few dozen yards further along. 'Worth a bit of a; wait, wouldn't you say?' she asked.

'If it keeps me away from those transcripts,' Goodyear agreed.

'Detective work losing its allure, Todd?'

'I think I'm ready to go back into uniform.' He drew back his shoulders, working the muscles. 'Any news of DI Rebus?'

'They pulled him in again.'

'Are they thinking of charging him?'

'Reason they pulled him in was to tell him there's no evidence.'

'They didn't get a match from that overshoe?'

'No.'

'Do they have anyone else in mind?'

'Christ, Todd, I don't know!' The silence in the car lasted half a dozen beats before Clarke expelled air noisily. 'Look, I'm sorry…'

'I'm the one who should be apologising,' he assured her. 'Couldn't help sticking my nose in.'

'No, it's me… I could be in trouble.'

'How?'

'SCDEA were watching Cafferty. John got me to send them elsewhere.'

The young man's eyes had widened. 'Bloody hell,' he said.

'Language,' she warned him.

'They had surveillance on Cafferty… That has to look bad for DI Rebus.'

Clarke gave a shrug.

'Surveillance on Cafferty…' Goodyear repeated to himself, shaking his head slowly. Clarke's attention had been diverted by movement along the street. A man was exiting the consulate.

'This looks promising,' she said. Same man who'd been with Stahov at the mortuary; same man who'd been photographed at the Word Power event. Aksanov unlocked the car and got in.

Clarke decided to let her engine idle, until she knew what he was going to do – move to a different bay, or head elsewhere. When he passed his third vacant bay, she had her answer.

'We're going to follow him?' Goodyear asked, fastening his seat belt.

'Well spotted.'

'And then what?'

'I was thinking of pulling him over on some trumped-up charge…'

'Is that wise?'

'Dunno yet. Let's see what happens.' The Merc had signalled left into Queensferry Street.

'Heading out of town?' Goodyear guessed.

'Aksanov lives in Cramond; maybe he's going home.'

Queensferry Street became Queensferry Road. Looking at her

speedometer, Clarke saw that he was staying within the limit.

When the traffic lights ahead turned red, she watched his brake lights, but they were both in good working order. If Cramond was his destination, he'd probably keep going till the Barnton roundabout, then take a right. Question was, did she want him getting that far? Every few hundred yards on Queensferry Road, there seemed to be another set of lights. As the Merc stopped at the next red, Clarke brought her own car up close behind it.

'Reach over into the back seat, will you, Todd?' she asked. 'On the floor there…' He had to undo his seatbelt in order to twist his body around sufficiently.

'This what you want?' he asked.

'Plug it into the socket there,' she told him. 'Then put your window down.'

'There's a magnet on the base?' he guessed.

'That's right.'

The moment the flashing blue light was plugged in, it began working. Goodyear reached out of the window and attached it to the roof. The light ahead was still red. Clarke sounded her horn and watched the driver examine her in his rearview mirror. She signalled with her hand for him to pull over. When the light turned green, that was exactly what he did, crossing the junction and bumping his passenger-side tyres up on to the pavement.

Clarke passed him and then did the same with her car. Traffic slowed to watch, but kept moving. The driver was out of the Merc.

He wore sunglasses and a suit and tie. He was standing on the pavement when Clarke reached him. She had her ID open for inspection.

'Is there a problem?' he asked, his English heavily accented.

'Mr Aksanov? We met at the mortuary…'

'I asked what the problem was.'

Tou're going to have to come to the station.'

“What have I done wrong?' He had lifted a mobile phone from his pocket. 'I will speak to the consulate.'

'Won't do you any good,' she warned him. 'That's not an official car, which makes me think you're self-employed. No immunity, Mr Aksanov.'

'I am a driver for the consulate.'

'But not just the consulate. Now get in the car.' There was steel in her voice. He was still holding the phone, but had yet to do anything with it.