Ian Rankin - Exit Music

'Oh?'

'I said at the time they should get CCTV into the stairwell, but nothing ever happened.'

'At least you tried.'

'Don't know why I bother… job's on the way out anyway. They're replacing us with just the one guy on a motorbike, scooting between half a dozen car parks.'

Rebus was looking around the cramped space. Kettle and mugs, a few tattered paperbacks and magazines, plus the radio – these were all on the work surface opposite the monitors. He guessed that for most of the time, the guards would be facing away from the screens. Why the hell not? Minimum wage, bosses only a distant threat, no job security. One or two buzzes on the intercom per day, people who'd lost their tickets or didn't have change. There was a rack of CDs, bands whose names Rebus vaguely recognised: Kaiser Chiefs, Razorlight, Killers, Strokes, White Stripes…

'No CD player,' he commented.

'They're Gary 's,' Wills explained. 'He brings one of those little machines with him.'

'With headphones?' Rebus guessed, watching as Wills nodded.

'Just wonderful,' he muttered. “You were working here last year, Mr Wills?'

'Been here three years next month.'

'And your colleague?'

'Eight, maybe nine months. I tried his shift but couldn't hack it.

I like my afternoons and evenings free.'

'The better to do some drinking?' Rebus cajoled. Wills's face hardened, encouraging Rebus to press on. 'Ever been in trouble, Mr Wills?'

'How do you mean?'

'Police trouble.'

Wills made show of scratching dandruff from his scalp. 'Long time ago,' he eventually said. 'The bosses know about it.'

'Fighting, was it?'

'Thieving,' Wills corrected him. 'But that was twenty years back.'

'What about your car? You said you'd had a prang?'

But Wills was peering through the window. 'Here's Gary now.' A pale-coloured car had drawn to a halt outside the cabin, its driver locking it after him.

The door burst open. 'Hell's going on downstairs, Joe?' The guard called Gary wasn't yet quite in uniform. Rebus guessed the jacket was in his carrier bag, along with a sandwich box. He was a few years younger than Wills, a lot leaner, and half a foot taller. He dumped two newspapers on to the worktop but couldn't get any further into the room – with Rebus there, space was at a

premium. The man was shrugging out of his coat: crisp white shirt beneath, but no tie – probably a clip-on tucked into a pocket somewhere.

'I'm Detective Inspector Rebus,' Rebus told him. 'Last night, a man was severely beaten.'

'On Level Zero,' Wills added.

'Is he dead?' the new arrival asked, wide-eyed. Wills made a cutthroat gesture with accompanying sound effect. 'Bloody hell. Does the Reaper know?'

Wills shook his head and saw that Rebus needed an explanation.

'It's what we call one of the bosses,' he said. 'She's the only one we ever see. Wears a long black coat with a pointy hood.'

Hence the name. Rebus nodded his understanding. 'I'll need to take a statement,' he told the new arrival. Wills seemed suddenly keen to leave, gathering up his bits and pieces and stuffing them into his own supermarket carrier.

'Happened on your watch, Gary,' he said with a tut. 'The Reaper won't be happy.'

'Now there's a turn-up for the books.' Gary had moved out of the cabin, giving Wills room to make his exit. Rebus came out, too, needing the oxygen.

'We'll talk again,' he warned the departing figure. Wills waved without looking back. Rebus turned his attention to Gary. Lanky, he'd have called him, and round-shouldered as if awkwardly aware of his height. A long face with a square jaw and well-defined cheekbones, plus a mop of dark hair. Rebus almost said it out loud: you should be on a stage in a band, not stuck in a dead-end job. But maybe Gary didn't see it that way. Good-looking, though, which explained the 'stoater of a missus'. Then again, Rebus couldn't tell just how high or low Joe Wills's standards might be…

Twenty minutes got him nothing except a retread: full name, Gary Walsh; maisonette in Shandon; nine months on the job; tried taxi-driving before that but didn't like the night shift; had seen and heard nothing unusual the previous evening.

'What happens at eleven?' Rebus had asked.

'We shut up shop – metal shutters come down at the entrance and exit.'

'Nobody can get in or out?' Walsh had shaken his head. 'You check no one's locked in?' A nod. 'Were any cars left on Level Zero?'

'Not that I remember.'

Tou always park next to the cabin?'

'That's right.'

'But when you drive out, you exit on Level Zero?' A nod from the guard. 'And you didn't see anything?'

'Didn't hear anything either.'

'There would have been blood on the ground.'

A shrug.

'You like your music, Mr Walsh.'

'Love it.'

'Lie back in your chair, feet up, headphones on, eyes shut…

Some security guard you make.'

Rebus had stared at the monitors again, ignoring Walsh's glower.

There were two covering Level Zero. One was fixed on the exit barriers, the other trained on the far corner. You'd have had better luck with a camera-phone.

'Sorry I can't be more help,' Walsh had said, not bothering to sound sympathetic. 'Who was he anyway?'

'A Russian poet called Todorov.'

Walsh had thought for a moment. 'I never read poetry.'

'Join the club,' Rebus had told him. 'Bit of a waiting list, mind…'

CR Studios took up the top floor of a converted warehouse just off Constitution Street. Charles Riordan's hand, when Clarke shook it, was pudgy and moist, seeming to leave a residue on her palm which rubbing couldn't remove. There were rings on his right hand, but not the left, and a chunky gold watch loose around his wrist. Clarke noted sweat stains at the armpits of Riordan's mauve shirt. He'd rolled his sleeves up, showing arms matted with curled black hairs. The way he moved, she could tell he always wanted to appear busy. There was a receptionist at a desk just inside the door, and some sort of engineer pushing buttons at a control desk, eyes fixed to a screen showing what Clarke guessed were sound waves.

'The Kingdom of Noise,' Riordan announced.

'Impressive,' Clarke allowed. Through a window, she could see two separate booths, but no sign of anyone in them. 'Bit tight for a band, though.'

'We can accommodate singer-songwriters,' Riordan said. 'One man and his guitar – that sort of thing. But really we're for the spoken word – radio commercials, audio books, TV voiceovers…'

A pretty specialised kingdom, Clarke couldn't help thinking. She asked if there was an office where they could talk, but Riordan just stretched out his arms.

A specialised small kingdom.

'Well,' she began, 'as I said on the phone-'

'I know!' Riordan burst out. 'I can't believe he's dead!'

Neither receptionist nor engineer batted an eyelid; Riordan had obviously told them the minute he'd come off the phone.

'We're trying to account for Mr Todorov's last movements.' Clarke had opened her notebook for effect. 'I believe you had a few drinks with him, the night before last.'

'I saw him more recently than that, sweetheart.' Riordan couldn't help making it sound like a boast. He'd been wearing sunglasses, but now slipped them off, showing large, dark-rimmed eyes. 'I treated him to a curry.'

'Yesterday evening?' Clarke watched the man nod. 'Where was this?'

' West Maitland Street. We'd had a couple of beers near Haymarket. He'd been through to Glasgow for the day.'

'Any idea why?'

'Just wanted to see the place. He was trying to figure out the difference between the two cities, in case it helped explain the country – and bloody good luck to him! I've been here most of my life and still can't make sense of it.' Riordan shook his head slowly.