Ian Rankin - Exit Music

'And if I refuse?'

'You'll be charged with obstruction… and anything else I can think of.'

'I've done nothing wrong.'

'That's all we need to hear – but we need to hear it at the station.'

'My car,' he complained.

'It'll still be here. We'll bring you back afterwards.' She managed a nice friendly smile. 'Promise.'

'How come you started driving Sergei Andropov around?' Clarke asked.

'I drive people for a living.'

They were in an interview room at West End police station, Clarke not wanting to take the Russian to Gayfield Square. She'd sent Goodyear off to fetch coffee. There was a tape deck on the table, but she wasn't using it. No notebook either. Aksanov had asked to smoke and she was letting him.

Your English is good – there's even a trace of local accent.'

'I'm married to a girl from Edinburgh. I've been here almost five years.' He inhaled some smoke and blew it ceilingwards.

'Is she a poetry fan, too?' Aksanov stared at Clarke. 'Well?' she prompted.

'She reads books… mostly novels.'

'So it's just you that likes poetry?' He shrugged but said nothing.

'Read any Seamus Heaney lately? Or how about Robert Burns?'

'Why are you asking me this?'

'Just that you were spotted at poetry readings twice in as many weeks. Or maybe it's just that you really like Alexander Todorov?'

'People say he is Russia's greatest poet.'

'Do you agree?' Aksanov gave another shrug and examined the tip of his cigarette. 'Did you buy a copy of his latest book?'

'I don't see why this is any of your business.'

'Can you remember what it's called?'

'I don't have to talk to you.'

'I'm investigating two murders, Mr Aksanov…'

'And what is that to me?' The Russian was growing angry. But then the door opened and Goodyear came in with two drinks.

'Black, two sugars,' he said, placing one in front of Aksanov.

'White with none.' The second Styrofoam cup was handed to Clarke.

She nodded her thanks, then gave the slightest flick of the head.

Goodyear took the hint and walked to the far wall, resting his back against it, hands clasped in front of him. Aksanov had stubbed out

the cigarette and was readying to light another.

'Second time you went,' she told him, 'you took Sergei Andropov with you.'

'Did I?'

'According to witnesses.' Another mighty shrug, this time accompanied by downturned mouth. 'Are you saying you didn't?' Clarke asked.

'I'm saying nothing.'

'Makes me wonder what it is you're trying to hide. Were you on duty the night Mr Todorov died?'

'I don't remember.'

'I'm only asking you to think back a little over a week.'

'Sometimes I work at night, sometimes not.'

'Andropov was at his hotel. He had a meeting in the bar…'

'There's nothing I can tell you.'

'Why did you go to those poetry readings, Mr Aksanov?' Clarke asked quietly. 'Did Andropov ask you to go? Did he ask you to take him?'

'If I have done anything wrong, go ahead and charge me!'

'Is that what you want?'

'I want to get away from here.' The fingers which gripped the fresh cigarette were starting to shake a little.

'Do you remember the recital at the Poetry Library?' Clarke asked, keeping her voice low and level. 'The man who was recording it? He's been murdered, too.'

'I was at the hotel all night.'

She hadn't quite understood. 'The Caledonian?' she guessed.

'Gleneagles,' he corrected her. 'The night of that fire.'

'It was early morning actually.'

'Night… morning… I was at Gleneagles.'

'All right,' she said, wondering at his sudden increase in agitation.

'Who was it you were driving – Andropov or Stahov?'

'Both. They travelled together. I was there all the time.'

'So you keep saying.'

'Because it is the truth.'

'But the night Mr Todorov died, you don't recall if you were working or not?'

'No.'

'It's quite important, Mr Aksanov. We think whoever killed Todorov was driving a car…'

'I had nothing to do with it! I find these questions totally unacceptable!'

'Do you?'

'Unacceptable and unreasonable.'

'Finished already?' she asked, after fifteen seconds of silence. His brow furrowed. Tour cigarette,' she pointed out. You'd only just started it.'

The Russian stared at the ashtray, where most of an entire cigarette smouldered, having just been stubbed out…

Having arranged for a patrol car to drop Aksanov at Queensferry Road, Clarke wandered back down the corridor towards where Goodyear was sharing gossip with two other constables. Before she could reach him, however, her mobile rang. She didn't recognise the caller's number.

'Hello?' she asked, turning so her back was to Goodyear and his colleagues.

'Detective Sergeant Clarke?'

'Hello, Dr Colwell. I had half a mind to call you myself.'

'Oh?'

'Thought I might need a translator; false alarm as it turned out.

What can I do for you?'

'I've just been listening to that CD.'

'Still wrestling with the new poem?'

To start with, yes… but I ended up listening to the whole thing.'

'Had the same effect on me,' Clarke admitted, remembering back to when Rebus and she had spent the hour in her car…

'Right at the end,' Colwell was saying. 'In fact, after the recital and the Q and A have finished…'

Yes?'

'The mic picks up some bits of conversation.'

'I remember – doesn't the poet start muttering to himself?'

'That's just what thought, and it was difficult to make out. But it's not Alexander's voice.'

'Then whose is it?'

'No idea.'

'But it's in Russian, right?'

'Oh, it's definitely Russian. And after a few plays, I think I've worked out what he's saying.'

Clarke was thinking of Charles Riordan, pointing his all-hearing microphone towards various audience members, picking up their comments. 'So what is he saying?' she asked.

'Something along the lines of- “I wish he was dead.”'

Clarke froze. 'Would you mind repeating that, please?'

Rebus rendezvoused with her at Colwell's office and they listened to the CD together.

'Doesn't sound like Aksanov,' Clarke stated. Her phone started to ring and she gave a little growl as she answered. The voice in her ear identified the caller as DI Calum Stone.

Tou wanted to speak to me?' he said.

'I'll have to phone you back later.' She cut the connection and shook her head slowly, letting Rebus know it was nothing important.

He'd asked for the relevant section of the recording to be played again.

'I'd lay money on it being Andropov,' he muttered afterwards. He was leaning forward in his chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped, completely focused on the recording and seemingly immune to Scarlett Colwell, who was crouched not three feet away next to the CD player, face hidden by the curtain of hair.

'And you're sure you've got the words right?' Clarke asked the academic.

'Positive,' Colwell said. She repeated the Russian. It was written on a pad which Clarke was now holding – the same pad which had once held the translated poem.

'“I wish he was dead”?' Rebus checked. 'Not “I want him killed”

or “I'm going to kill him”?'

'Slightly less inflammatory,' Colwell said.

'Pity.' Rebus turned towards Clarke. 'Plenty to be going on with, though.'

'Plenty,' she agreed. 'Say it is Andropov… who's he talking to?

Has to be Aksanov, hasn't it?'

'And you've just let him go.'

She nodded slowly. 'We can always pick him up again… he's pretty well settled here.'

'Doesn't mean the consulate won't kick him on to a plane bound for Moscow.' Rebus stared at her. 'Know what I reckon? Andropov would love to have someone on the inside at the consulate. That way, he'd know how the land lies back home. If they planned to put him on trial, consulate would be among the first to know.'