Ian Rankin - Exit Music

'Just don't leave the country!'

There was more laughter from the Russian. 'I have no intention of departing your splendid country, Inspector.'

'Nice warm gulag waiting for you back home?' Clarke couldn't help adding.

'That comment cheapens you.' Andropov sounded disappointed in her.

'Going to drop by the hospital sometime?' she added. 'Funny, isn't it, how people around you seem to end up either dead or in a coma?'

Andropov was rising to his feet, lifting his coat from the chair.

Starr and Clarke shared a look, but neither could think of any tactic to delay his departure. Goodyear was just outside the door, ready to show the Russian out.

'We'll talk again,' Starr assured Andropov.

'I look forward to it, Inspector.'

'And we want you to surrender your passport,' was Clarke's final salvo. Andropov gave a little bow of the head and was gone.

Starr, who had risen to his feet, closed the door, walked around the desk and sat down again, facing Clarke. Pretending to check for messages on her phone, she'd just broken the connection to Rebus.

'If it's anyone,' Starr was telling her, 'it's the driver. Even then, a bit of hard evidence might be useful.'

Clarke had placed her notebook and mobile back in her bag.

'Andropov's right about Aksanov – I don't see him as an assassin.'

'Then we need to look at the hotel angle again, see if there's any way Andropov could have followed the poet.'

'Cafferty was there, too, don't forget.'

'One or the other, then.'

'The problem,' she sighed, 'is that we've got a third man – Jim Bakewell's already said the three of them were in that booth till gone eleven… by which time Todorov was dead.'

'So we're back to square one?' Starr didn't bother masking his exasperation.

'We're rattling the cage,' Clarke corrected him. Then, after a moment's thought: 'Thanks for sticking with it, Derek.'

Starr thawed perceptibly. Tou should have come to me sooner, Siobhan. I want a break on this as much as you do.'

'I know. But you're going to split the two investigations, aren't you?'

'DCI Macrae thinks it would help.'

She nodded, as if agreeing with the analysis. 'Do we work tomorrow?'

she asked.

“Weekend overtime has been approved.'

'John Rebus's last day,' she stated quietly.

'Incidentally,' Starr added, ignoring her, 'the officer who showed Andropov out… is he new to the team?'

“West End sent him,' she blithely lied.

Starr was shaking his head. 'CID,' he stated, 'gets younger- looking every year.'

'How did I do?' Clarke asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Three out often.' She stared at him. 'Gee, thanks.' Slammed shut the door. Rebus's

car was parked directly outside the station. He was thrumming his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead.

'I nearly came running in there,' he went on. 'How could you have missed it?'

'Missed what?'

Only now did he deign to turn his head towards her. 'That night in the Poetry Library, Andropov was only a couple of rows from the front. No way he couldn't have seen the mic'

'So?'

'So you were asking the wrong questions. Todorov got him riled, he blurted out that he wanted him dead – no harm done at the time, the only other Russian-speaker was his driver. But then Todorov does end up dead, and suddenly our friend Andropov has a problem…”

'The recording?'

Rebus nodded. 'Because if we ever heard it and got it translated…'

'Hang on a second.' Clarke pinched the skin either side of her nose and screwed shut her eyes. 'Got any aspirin?'

'Glovebox maybe.'

She looked, and found a strip with two tablets left. Rebus handed her a bottle of water, its seal broken. 'If you don't mind a few germs,' he said.

Her shake of the head told him she didn't. She swallowed the tablets and gave her neck a few rotations.

'I can hear the gristle from here,' he commiserated.

'Never mind that – are you saying Andropov didn't kill Todorov?'

'Suppose he didn't – what would he be most afraid of?' He gave her a moment to answer, then ploughed on. 'He'd be afraid of us thinking he had.'

'And we'd have his own words as evidence?'

'Bringing us to Charles Riordan.'

Clarke's mind was moving now. 'Aksanov got agitated about that when I questioned him – kept going on about how he'd been at Gleneagles all the time.'

'Maybe afraid that we'd be putting him in the frame.'

Tou think Andropov…?'

Rebus shrugged. 'Rather depends on whether we can prove he left Gleneagles that night or early morning.'

'Wouldn't he just have phoned Cafferty instead, got him to do something about it?'

'Possible,' Rebus admitted, still tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel. They were silent for the best part of a minute, collecting their thoughts. 'Remember the trouble we had getting the Caledonian Hotel to cough up details of their guests? Don't suppose Gleneagles will be any easier.'

'But we've got a secret weapon,' Clarke said. 'Remember during the G8? DCI Macrae's pal was in charge of security at the hotel.

Macrae even got a tour of the premises.'

'Meaning he may have met the manager? Got to be worth a try.'

They fell back into silence.

You know what this means?' Clarke finally asked.

Rebus nodded again. 'We still don't know who killed Todorov.'

'Whichever way you look at it, Andropov said he wanted him dead…'

'Doesn't mean he turned words into deeds. If I topped someone every time I cursed them, there'd be precious few students and cyclists left in Edinburgh – or anyone else for that matter.'

'Would I still be here?' she asked.

'Probably,' he allowed.

'Despite the three out of ten?'

'Don't push your luck, DS Clarke.'

Todd Goodyear not joining us?' Rebus asked.

'Has he grown on you?'

They were in Kay's Bar – a compromise. It did decent grub, but the beer was good, too. Slightly larger than the Oxford Bar, but managing to be cosy at the same time – the predominant colour was red, extending to the pillars which separated the tables from the actual bar. Clarke had ordered chilli, Rebus declaring that salted peanuts would be enough for him.

“You've managed to keep him below Derek Starr's radar?' Rebus asked, in place of an answer to her question.

'DI Starr thinks Todd is CID.' She stole another of Rebus's peanuts.

'Do I get to dunk my fingers in your chilli when it comes?'

'I'll buy you another packet.'

He swallowed a mouthful of IPA. She was drinking a toxic looking mix of lime juice and soda water.

'Anything planned for tomorrow?' he asked.

'The team's on duty all day.'

'So no surprise party for the old guy?'

Tou didn't want one.'

'So you've just chipped in and bought me something nice?'

'Meant digging deep into the overdraft… What time does your suspension end?'

'Around lunchtime, I suppose.' Rebus thought back to the scene in Corbyn's office… Sir Michael Addison storming out. Sir Michael was Gill Morgan's stepfather. Gill knew Nancy Sievewright. Nancy and Gill and Eddie Gentry had been spied on, the recording watched by Roger Anderson, Stuart Janney and Jim Bakewell. Everything

in Edinburgh seemed connected. As a detective, Rebus had noticed time and again how true this was. Everything and everyone.

Todorov and Andropov, Andropov and Cafferty, the overworld and the underworld. Sol Goodyear knew Nancy and her crew, too. Sol was Todd Goodyear's brother, and Todd led back to Siobhan and to Rebus himself. Shifting partners in one of those endurance dances.

What was the film? Something about shooting horses. Dance and keep on dancing because nothing else matters.

Problem was, Rebus was about to bow out. Siobhan's chilli had arrived and he watched her unfold a paper napkin on to her lap.