Ian Rankin - Exit Music

'Hello again, Mr Wills – rough night, was it?' Wills hadn't shaved, his eyes were red-rimmed and bleary, and he hadn't got round to putting his tie on yet.

'Few drinks I was having,' the man started to explain, 'and the Reaper catches me on the mobile – Bill Prentice has gone and pulled a sickie and can I do his morning shift?'

'And despite everything, you were happy to oblige – that's what I call loyalty.' Rebus saw the newspaper on the worktop. Polonium210 was being blamed for Litvinenko's death; Rebus had never heard of it.

'What do you want anyway?' Joe Wills was asking. 'Thought you lot had finished.' Rebus noticed that Wills's mug was emblazoned with the name of a local radio station, Talk 107. 'Don't suppose you've any milk on you?' the man asked. But Rebus's attention was on the CCTV screens.

'Do you drive to work, Mr Wills?'

'Sometimes.'

'I remember you saying you'd had a “prang”.'

'Car still runs.'

'Is it here just now?'

'No.'

'Why's that then?' But Rebus held up a finger. Tou'd still not pass a breathalyser, am I right?' He watched Wills nod. 'Very sensible of you, sir. But the times you do drive to work, I'm betting you keep the car where you can see it?'

'Sure.' Wills took a sip of tea, squirming at its bitterness.

'Covered by one of the cameras, in other words?' Rebus nodded towards the bank of screens. 'Always park in the same spot?'

'Depends.'

'How about your colleague? Would I be right in thinking Mr Walsh prefers the ground floor?'

'How do you know that?'

Again, Rebus ignored the question. 'When I was here the first time,' he said instead, 'day after the murder, if you remember…'

Tes?'

'… the cameras downstairs weren't covering the spot where the attack took place.' He gestured towards one of the screens. 'You told me one camera used to, but it got moved around. But now I see it's been shifted again, so it's covering… here's another wild guess coming up – the bay where Mr Walsh parks?'

'Is this going anywhere?'

Rebus managed a smile. 'Just wondering this, Mr Wills: when exactly did that camera get moved?' He was leaning over the figure of the guard. 'Last shift you did before the murder, I'm betting it was pointing where it is now. Between times, someone tampered with it.'

'I told you – it gets moved around.'

Rebus wasn't six inches from Wills when he next spoke. Tfou know, don't you? You're not the sharpest tack in the carpet, but you worked it out before any of us. Have you told anyone, Mr Wills? Or are you good at keeping secrets? Maybe you just want the quiet life, a few drinks at night and some milk to go with your tea. You're not about to grass up a mate, are you? But here's my advice, Mr Wills, and it really would be in your interest to take it.' Rebus paused, ensuring he had the man's undivided attention.

'Don't say a fucking word to your workmate. Because if you do, and I get to hear about it, I'll have you in the cells rather than him, understood?'

Wills had stopped moving, the mug trembling slightly in his hands.

'Do we have an understanding?' Rebus persisted. The guard did no more than nod, but Rebus hadn't quite finished with him.

'An address,' he said, placing his notebook on the worktop. 'Write it down for me.' He watched Joe Wills put down the mug and start to comply. Walsh's batch of CDs was in its usual place; Rebus doubted Wills would have much use for them. 'And one last thing,'

he said, taking the notebook back. 'When my Saab reaches the exit, I want you to override the barrier for me. Money you charge in this place is absolutely criminal.'

Shandon was on the west side of the city, tucked in between the canal and Slateford Road. Not much more than a fifteen-minute drive, especially at the weekend. Rebus had switched on his CD player, only to find himself listening to Eddie Gentry. He ejected the disc and tossed it on to the back seat, replacing it with Tom Waits. But the patented gravel of Waits's voice was too obtrusive, so he settled for silence instead. Gary Walsh lived at number 28, a terraced house in a narrow street. There was a space next to Walsh's car, so Rebus parked the Saab and locked it. The upstairs window at number 28 was curtained. Stood to reason: when a man worked the late shift, he slept late, too. Rebus decided to leave the doorbell alone and knocked instead. When the door opened, a woman in full make-up stood there. Her hair was immaculate, and she was dressed for work, minus her shoes.

'Mrs Walsh?' Rebus said.

'Yes.'

'I'm Detective Inspector Rebus.' As she studied his warrant card, he studied her. Late-thirties or early forties, meaning maybe ten years older than her partner. Gary Walsh, it seemed, was a toyboy.

But when Joe Wills had called Mrs Walsh a 'stoater' he hadn't been kidding. She was well preserved and glowing with life. 'Ripe' was the word Rebus found himself thinking. On the other hand, those looks wouldn't last much longer – nothing stayed ripe for ever.

'Mind if I come in?' he asked.

'What's it about?'

'The murder, Mrs Walsh.' Her green eyes widened. 'The one at your husband's place of work.'

'Gary didn't say anything.'

“The Russian poet? Found dead at the bottom of Raeburn Wynd?'

It was in the papers…'

“The attack started in the car park.' Her eyes were losing some of their focus. 'It was last Wednesday night, just before your husband

finished work…' He paused for a moment. 'You really don't know, do you?'

'He didn't tell me.' Some of the colour had drained from her face.

Rebus went into his notebook and pulled out a newspaper cutting.

It showed a photo of the poet, taken from one of his book jackets.

'His name was Alexander Todorov, Mrs Walsh.' But she had dashed back into the house, not quite closing the door behind her.

Rebus paused for a moment, then pushed it open again and followed her inside. The hallway was small, with half a dozen coats hanging on hooks, next to the staircase. Two doors off: kitchen and living room. She was in the latter, seated on the edge of the settee as she tied a pair of high-heeled shoes around her ankles.

'I'm going to be late,' she muttered.

'Where do you work?' Rebus was scanning the room. Big TV, big hi-fi, and shelves filled to the brim with CDs and tapes.

'Perfume counter,' she was saying.

'I don't suppose five minutes will hurt…'

'Gary's sleeping – you can come back later. He's got to take the car to the garage, though, get the player fixed…' Her voice trailed off.

'What is it, Mrs Walsh?'

She was rubbing her hands together as she got to her feet. Rebus doubted that her unsteadiness was due to the heels.

'Nice duffel coat, by the way,' he told her. She looked at him as though he'd started using a foreign language. 'In the hall,' he explained. 'The black one with the hood… looks right cosy.' He smiled without humour. 'Ready to tell me about it, Mrs Walsh?'

'There's nothing to tell.' She was looking around the room as if for an escape hatch. We have to get the car fixed…'

'So you keep saying.' Rebus narrowed his eyes and peered out of the window towards the Ford Escort. 'What is it you've remembered, Mrs Walsh? Maybe we should wake Gary, eh?'

'I have to get to work.'

'There are some questions that need answering first.' Less than meets the eye: those words kept bouncing around the inside of Rebus's skull. Todorov had led him to Cafferty and Andropov, and he'd latched on to both because they were the ones who interested him – because they were the ones he wanted to be guilty. Seeing conspiracies and cover-ups where none existed. Andropov had panicked because of that single outburst – didn't mean he'd killed the poet…

'How did you find out about Gary and Cath Mills?' Rebus asked