Ian Rankin - Exit Music

Day after tomorrow, he'd be seated at the edge of the dancefloor.

Give it a few weeks and he'd be yet further back, merging with the other spectators, no longer a participant. He'd seen it with other cops: they retired and promised to keep in touch, but each visit to the old gang merely underlined how far apart they'd grown. There would be an arrangement to share drinks and gossip one night a month. Then it'd be once every few months. Then not at all.

Clean break was the best thing, so he'd been told. Siobhan was asking if he wanted some of her food. 'Grab a fork and tuck in.'

'I'm fine,' he assured her.

Tou were in a world of your own there.'

'It's the age I'm at.'

'So you'll come to the station tomorrow lunchtime?'

'No parties, right?'

She shook her head in agreement. 'And by end of play, we'll have closed all the cases.'

'Of course we will.' He gave a wry smile.

'I'll miss you, you know.' She kept her eyes on the food as she scooped it up.

'For a little while maybe,' he conceded, waving his empty glass at her. 'Time for a refill.'

Tou're driving, remember.'

'Thought you could give me a lift.'

'In your car?'

Til get you a taxi home after.'

'That's mighty generous.'

'Didn't say I'd pay for it,' Rebus told her, heading for the bar.

He did, though, pressing a ten-pound note into her hand and saying he'd see her tomorrow. She'd found a parking space for his Saab near the top of Arden Street. He'd been about to invite her in when

a black cab rumbled into view, its roof light on. Siobhan Clarke had given the driver a wave, then handed Rebus his car keys.

'Bit of luck,' she'd said, referring to the taxi. Rebus had held out the tenner and she'd eventually taken it.

'Straight home, mind,' he'd warned her. Watching the cab pull away, he wondered if he was going to take his own advice. It was almost ten, the temperature well above zero. He walked down the hill towards his door, staring up at the bay window of his living room. Darkness up there. No one waiting to welcome him. He thought about Cafferty, wondered what dreams the gangster would be having. Did you dream in a coma? Did you do anything else?

Rebus knew he could visit him, sit with him. Maybe one of the nurses would bring a cup of tea. Maybe she'd be a good listener.

Alexander Todorov's skull had been smashed from behind. Cafferty had been attacked from behind – but attacked cleanly while the poet had been roughed up first. Rebus kept trying to see the connection – Andropov was the obvious one. Andropov, with his friends in high places – Megan Macfarlane, Jim Bakewell. Cafferty hosting parties, wining and dining Bakewell and the bankers, all lads together… Andropov readying to bring his business to Scotland, where his new friends would cosset him, protect him. Business was business, after all: what did it matter if Andropov faced corruption charges back home? Rebus realised that he was still staring at his flat's unlit and unwelcoming windows.

'Nice night for a walk,' he told himself, continuing downhill with hands in pockets. Marchmont itself was quiet, Melville Drive devoid of vehicles. Jawbone Walk, the path leading through The Meadows, boasted only a handful of pedestrians, students heading home from nights out. Rebus walked beneath the arches created from an actual whale's jawbone, and wondered – not for the first time – at its purpose. When his daughter was a kid, he would pretend they were being swallowed by the whale, like Jonah or Pinocchio… There was some drunken singing in the distance from a couple of tramps on a bench, worldly goods stacked in bags by the side of them. The old infirmary compound was being transformed into new apartment blocks, changing the skyline. He kept walking, reaching Forrest Road. Instead of heading straight on in the direction of The Mound, he took a fork at Greyfriars Bobby and descended into the Grassmarket. Plenty of pubs still open, and people loitering outside the homeless hostels. When he'd first moved to Edinburgh, the Grassmarket had been a dump – much of the Old Town, in fact, had been in dire need of a facelift. Hard now

to remember just how bad it had all been. There were people who said that Edinburgh never changed, but this was patently untrue – it was changing all the time. Smokers were standing in clusters outside the Beehive and Last Drop pubs. The fish 'n' chip shop had a queue. A gust of fat-frying hit Rebus as he walked past and he breathed deeply, savouring it. At one time, the Grassmarket had boasted a gallows, dozens upon dozens of Covenanters dying there.

Maybe Todorov's ghost would bump into them. Another fork in the road was approaching. He took the right-hand option, into King's Stables Road. Passing the car park, he stopped for a moment.

There was just the one vehicle on Level Zero, the ground floor.

Driver would have to get a move on, the place was due to close in the next ten or so minutes. The car was parked in the bay next to where Todorov had been attacked. There was no sign of any hooded woman begging for sex. Rebus lit a cigarette and kept moving.

He didn't know what his plan was. King's Stables Road would join Lothian Road in a minute, and he'd be facing the Caledonian Hotel. Was Sergei Andropov still there? Did Rebus really intend a further confrontation?

'Nice night for it,' he repeated to himself.

But then he thought of those Grassmarket pubs. It would make more sense to retrace his steps, have a nightcap, and take a taxi home. He turned on his heels and started back. As he approached the car park again, he saw the last car leaving. It stopped kerbside, and its driver got out, retreating to the exit. He unlocked some metal shutters which started to creep downwards with an electric hum. The driver didn't wait to watch them drop. He was in the car and heading towards the Grassmarket.

The good-looking security guard, Gary Walsh. Parked on Level Zero… Hadn't he told Rebus he always parked next to the security cabin on the next floor up? The shutters were closed now, but there was a little viewing window at chest height. Rebus crouched a little so he could peer inside. The lights were still on; maybe they stayed that way all night. Up in the corner, he could see the security camera. He remembered what Walsh's colleague had said: camera used to point pretty much at that spot… but it gets moved around… Made sense to Rebus – if you worked in a multistorey you'd want your car where the cameras could keep an eye on it. Sod anyone else, just so long as your car was safe…

Macrae's words: less to this than meets the eye. All those connections… Cath Mills, aka the Reaper, asking Rebus about one-night stands and flings with workmates… Alexander Todorov, on his

way back from a day in Glasgow: a curry with Charles Riordan, one drink on Cafferty's tab, and semen on his underpants.

The woman in the hood.

Less to this than meets the eye…

Cherchez la femme…

The poet and his libido. There was a Leonard Cohen album called Death of a Ladies' Man. One of its tracks: 'Don't Go Home With Your Hard-On'. Another: 'True Love Leaves No Traces'.

Trace evidence: blood on the car park floor; oil on the dead man's clothes; semen stains…

Cherchez la femme.

The answer was so close, Rebus could almost taste it.

Bright and early that morning, Rebus took his ticket from the machine and watched the barrier shudder upwards. He had entered by the car park's top level on Castle Terrace, but followed the signs to the next level down. There were plenty of empty bays near the guardroom. Rebus walked over to the door and gave a knock before pushing it open.

'What's up?' Joe Wills asked, hands cupped around a mug of black tea. His eyes narrowed as he placed Rebus.