Exit Music (2007) (11 page)

“Castle Rock,” Goodyear offered.

“And?”

“A churchyard,” Clarke added.

“Exactly,” Rebus said. “And on the corner of that churchyard you’ll find an old lookout tower. It was used a couple of centuries back to keep watch for body snatchers—and to my mind they should put it back into use. Dodgy place at night, that churchyard . . .” He let his words hang in the air.

“Gaverill’s gay,” Clarke speculated, “and his wife doesn’t know it?”

Rebus shrugged but seemed pleased that she’d reached the same conclusion as him.

“So he was hardly going to take up the woman’s offer,” Goodyear continued, nodding to himself.

At which point the phone buzzed. It was the front desk, letting them know George Gaverill was waiting for them.

They’d already decided that he should be brought to the CID suite—just that little bit more welcoming than an interview room. But first Rebus shook him warmly by the hand and led him along the corridor to IR2, where he asked him to put his eye to the peephole.

“See the young woman?” Rebus asked quietly.

“Yes,” Gaverill whispered back.

“She the one?”

Gaverill turned towards him. “No,” he stated. Rebus stared at the man. Gaverill was about five and a half feet tall, thin-boned and pale-faced with mousy brown hair and some sort of rash on his face. He was probably in his early forties, and Rebus got the feeling the rash could have been with him since his teens.

“Sure?” Rebus asked.

“Fairly sure. This woman was a bit taller, I’d say. Not as young and not as skinny.”

Rebus nodded and led him back the way they’d come, before climbing the stairs to CID. He shook his head when Clarke made eye contact—no identification. She gave a twitch of the mouth and held up the latest
Evening News.
There was a photo of the man called Litvinenko; he was attached to wires in his hospital bed and the poison had made him lose his hair.

“Coincidence” was all Rebus said as Clarke introduced herself to Gaverill.

“Can’t thank you enough for coming, sir.”

Goodyear meantime was busy on the phone, taking notes from someone who’d called the hotline and looking less than thrilled. Clarke had gestured for Gaverill to sit down.

“Can we get you anything?” she asked.

“I just want this over and done with.”

“Well then,” Rebus intervened, “we’ll get straight to business. Maybe you can tell us in your own words exactly what happened?”

“Like I told you, Inspector, I was on King’s Stables Road, around quarter past ten, and there was this woman loitering there, close to the car park exit. I reckoned she was waiting for someone, but when I was making to pass her, she spoke to me.”

“And what did she say?”

“She asked if I wanted . . .” Gaverill swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bouncing.

“A fuck?” Rebus offered.

“Exact words,” Gaverill agreed.

“Was any sort of a price mentioned?”

“She told me it was . . . I think she said ‘no strings,’ something like that. No strings, no comebacks. Said she just wanted a . . .” But he still couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“And this was going to happen right where you stood?” Rebus sounded disbelieving.

“Maybe in the car park . . .”

“Did she say as much?”

“I don’t really remember. I’d started walking away. To be honest with you, I was a bit shocked.”

“I can imagine,” Clarke sympathized. “What a hellish thing to happen. So can you tell us what she looked like?”

“Well, she was . . . I’m not sure exactly. About the same height as me . . . a bit older than the lass downstairs, though I’m not very good at ages—women’s ages, I mean.”

“Lots of makeup?”

“Some makeup . . . and perfume, but I couldn’t tell you what kind.”

“Would you say she looked like a prostitute, Mr. Gaverill?” Rebus asked.

“Not the kind you see on TV, no. She wasn’t dressed provocatively. She had a coat on with a hood. It was cold that night, don’t forget.”

“A coat with a hood?”

“Like a duffel coat maybe . . . or a bit longer than a duffel . . . I’m not terribly sure.” He gave a nervous little laugh. “I wish I could be more help.”

“You’re doing fine,” Rebus assured him.

“Better than fine,” Clarke added.

“To be honest with you,” Gaverill went on, “when I played it back in my mind, I decided she was probably a wee bit bonkers. I remember one time, there was a woman on the steps of a church by Bruntsfield Links, and she was lying there with her legs in the air, skirt hiked up, and it turned out she’d escaped from the Royal Ed . . .” He seemed to think some explanation was needed. “That’s where they keep the —”

“Psychiatric patients,” Clarke interrupted him with a nod.

“Well, I was only a bairn when that happened, but I still remember it.”

“Not the sort of thing you’d forget,” Rebus agreed. “Surprised it didn’t put you off women for life.” He gave a laugh so Gaverill would take it as a joke, but Clarke’s eyes warned him to go easy.

“Irene’s a special woman, Inspector,” Gaverill stated.

“I’m sure she is, sir. Been married a while?”

“Nineteen years—she was the first real girlfriend I ever had.”

“First and last, eh?” Rebus offered.

“Mr. Gaverill,” Clarke interrupted, “would you be willing to do us one further favor? I’d like an identification officer to work with you on a composite of the woman’s face. Do you think that might be possible?”

“Right now?” Gaverill checked his watch.

“Soon as possible, while the memory’s still fresh. We could have someone here in ten or fifteen minutes . . .” Meaning half an hour.

“Meant to ask, Mr. Gaverill,” Rebus butted in, “what’s your line of work?”

“Auctions,” Gaverill told him. “I pick stuff up and sell it on.”

“Flexible hours,” Rebus argued. “You can always explain to Irene that you were with a punter.”

Clarke gave a little cough, but Gaverill hadn’t read anything into Rebus’s words. “Ten minutes?” he asked.

“Ten or fifteen,” Clarke assured him.

Lunchtime sandwiches: they’d given their orders to Goodyear, Rebus stressing that it was all part and parcel of the training. Roger and Elizabeth Anderson had gone home; so had Nancy Sievewright. Hawes and Tibbet had gleaned nothing new from either interview. Rebus was studying the computer image of a woman’s face. Gaverill had insisted that most of it be left in shadow, the hood pulled low over the forehead.

“Nobody we know,” Clarke said, not for the first time. Gaverill had just left, and not in the best of moods—it had taken almost an hour for the ID expert, with the help of his laptop, printer, and software, to put together the e-fit.

“Could be anybody,” Rebus said in response to Clarke’s statement. “Still . . . let’s say she was there, whoever she is.”

“You buy Gaverill’s story?”

“You mean you don’t?”

“He seemed genuine to me,” Goodyear piped up, before quickly adding, “for what it’s worth.”

Rebus gave a snort and dumped the remains of his filled roll into the bin, brushing his shirt free of crumbs.

“So now,” Hawes added, “we’ve got a woman trying to lure men into the car park to have quick, meaningless sex with her?” She paused. “I can see where Siobhan has a problem.”

“Tends not to happen too often,” Clarke agreed, “unless the boys know different?”

Rebus looked to Tibbet and Tibbet looked to Goodyear; none of them said anything.

“A hooker, then,” Tibbet decided to offer.

“Sex worker,” Rebus corrected him.

“But the Andersons and Nancy Sievewright walked right past the car park and didn’t see a woman in a hood.”

“Doesn’t mean she wasn’t there, Colin,” Rebus pointed out.

“There’s a term for it, isn’t there?” Goodyear asked. “When a woman sets a man up . . .”

“Honey trap,” Rebus told him. “So are we back to the mugging theory again? It’s not an MO I’ve come across—not in Edinburgh. And here’s another thing—Forensics say Todorov had had sex that day.”

The room was quiet for a moment as they tried to untangle the various threads. Clarke sat with her elbows on the desk, face in her hands. Eventually she looked up.

“Is there anything at all stopping me from coming to the obvious conclusion, and taking that conclusion to DCI Macrae? Victim was robbed, beaten, left for dead.” She nodded towards the e-fit. “And here’s the only suspect we have.”

“So far,” Rebus cautioned. “But Macrae said we’ve got a few days to keep digging, so why not use them?”

“And dig where exactly?”

Rebus tried to think of an answer but gave up. He gestured for Clarke to follow him into the corridor, Hawes and Tibbet looking hurt by the snub. Rebus paused at the top of the stairs. Clarke was approaching, arms folded.

“Are you sure,” Rebus asked her, “that Phyl and Col are okay with Goodyear suddenly appearing on the team?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean he’s not one of us.”

She stared at him. “I don’t think they’re the ones with the problem.” She paused before continuing. “Do you remember your first day in CID?”

“Vaguely.”

“I remember mine like it was yesterday. The way everybody kept saying I was ‘fresh meat,’ I thought they were vampires.” She unfolded her arms, rested her hands on her hips. “Todd wants that taste of CID, John.”

“Sounds like he’s got his teeth into you, at any rate.”

Her smile became a scowl, but the thought of vampires had given Rebus a notion. “Might be a long shot,” he said, “but the guard at the car park said something about one of the bosses, the only one that ever went near the place. He called her the Reaper. Want to know why?”

“Okay then, why?” Clarke was determined not to be placated.

“On account,” Rebus told her, “of the hood she always wears.”

14

G
ary Walsh was in the car park’s security shack, having relieved Joe Wills about an hour before. With the jacket of his uniform undone and his shirt tieless, he looked fairly relaxed.

“Money for old rope, this,” Rebus teased him as he knocked on the half-open door. Walsh slid his feet from the tabletop and pulled out his earphones, turning off the CD player. “What’re you listening to?”

“Primal Scream.”

“And what would you have done if I’d been one of the bosses?”

“Reaper’s the only one we ever see.”

“So you said. . . . Anyone told her about the murder?”

“She got it from a reporter.”

“And?” Rebus was studying a newspaper next to the radio: that afternoon’s
Evening News
with the crossword already done.

Walsh just shrugged. “Wanted to see the blood.”

“She sounds lovely.”

“She’s all right.”

“Got a name for her?”

Walsh was studying him. “You nicked anybody yet?”

“Not yet.”

“What do you want to talk to Cath for?”

“That’s her name—Cath?”

“Cath Mills.”

“Does she look anything like this?”

Walsh took the picture of the hooded woman from Rebus and stared at it unblinkingly, then shook his head.

“Sure?” Rebus said.

“Nothing like her.” Walsh handed the picture back. “Who’s it supposed to be?”

“Witness saw a woman hanging around outside on the night Todorov was murdered. It’s a question of ruling people out.”

“Well, you can rule the Reaper out straightaway—Cath wasn’t here that night.”

“All the same, I’ll take her phone number.”

Walsh pointed to a corkboard behind the door. “It’s up there.”

Rebus started jotting down the mobile number. “How often does she drop by?”

“Maybe a couple of times a week—once on Joe’s shift, once on mine.”

“Ever had trouble with the local prossies?”

“Didn’t know there
were
any.”

Rebus was closing his notebook when the buzzer sounded. Walsh was looking at one of the monitors: a driver was out of his car and standing at the exit barrier.

“Is there a problem?” Walsh asked into the microphone.

“Bloody thing’s just chewed up my ticket.”

Walsh rolled his eyes for Rebus’s benefit. “Been doing that a lot,” he told him. He pushed a button and the barrier started to rise, the driver getting back behind his steering wheel without so much as a “thanks” or “good-bye.”

“Going to have to close that exit,” Walsh muttered, “till they come and fix it.”

“Never a dull moment, eh?”

Walsh gave a snort. “This woman,” he said, rising to his feet, “reckon she had anything to do with it?”

“Why do you ask?”

Walsh was buttoning his uniform. “You don’t get many women muggers, do you?”

“Not many,” Rebus conceded.

“And it
was
a mugging? I mean, papers say the guy’s pockets were emptied.”

“Looks that way.” Rebus paused for a moment. “You lock up at eleven, right?”

“Right.”

“That’s pretty much when the body was found.”

“Oh aye?”

“But you didn’t see anything?”

“Nothing.”

“You’d have driven right past Raeburn Wynd.”

Walsh just shrugged. “I didn’t see anything and I didn’t hear anything. I certainly didn’t see a woman in a cloak. Probably have scared the life out of me, with that graveyard across the road . . .” He broke off, brow furrowing.

“What is it?” Rebus asked.

“Probably nothing—just thinking about those ghost tours they do . . . dressing up in costumes, putting a fright on the tourists . . .”

“I don’t think our mystery woman was in that sort of game.” But Rebus knew what he meant. You saw them at night, wandering up and down the Royal Mile: guides dressed as vampires or God-knew-what. “Besides, I’ve never heard of them doing walking tours down here.”

“Cemetery’s not safe enough,” Walsh agreed, ready to leave the kiosk. He’d picked up a glossy plastic sign with the words Out of Order on it. Rebus preceded him out.

“Ever get any hassle from that quarter?” Rebus asked.

“Couple of junkies wanting a handout. . . . If you ask me, they beat that poor bugger up in the stairwell last year.”

“Your colleague told me about that—never solved?”

Walsh gave a snort, which was all the answer Rebus needed. “Any idea which station did the investigating?”

“It was before I started here.” Walsh’s eyes narrowed. “Is it because this guy’s foreign, or because he’s a bigwig?”

“Not sure I get you.” They were heading down the ramp towards the exit level.

“Is that why you’re spending so much time on it?”

“It’s because he was murdered, Mr. Walsh,” Rebus stated, getting out his mobile.

Megan Macfarlane had been to some meeting in Leith. Roddy Liddle said she could probably manage ten minutes at the Starbucks just uphill from the Parliament, so that was where Clarke and Todd Goodyear were waiting. Goodyear was drinking tea, while Clarke’s own Americano had come with the requested extra shot of espresso. She’d also splashed out on two slices of carrot cake, though Goodyear had tried paying.

“My treat,” she’d insisted. Then had asked at the till for a receipt, just in case she could finesse it as an expense. They sat at a table near the window, with a view of the darkening Canongate. “Daft place to put a parliament,” she commented.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” Goodyear offered.

She smiled at that, and asked him what he thought of CID so far. He considered for a moment before answering.

“I like that you’ve kept me on.”

“So far,” she warned.

“And you seem to click as a team—I like that, too. The case itself . . .” His voice drifted off.

“Spit it out.”

“I think maybe all of you—and this isn’t a criticism—are a little bit in thrall to DI Rebus.”

“Can you be a ‘little bit’ in thrall?”

“You know what I mean, though . . . he’s old, experienced, seen a lot of action down the years. So when he has hunches, you tend to follow them.”

“It’s just the way some cases go, Todd—you drop a pebble in water, and the ripples start to spread.”

“But it’s not like that at all, is it?” He pulled his chair closer to the table, warming to his argument. “It’s actually linear. The crime is committed by a person, and the job of CID is to find them. Most of the time, that’s pretty straightforward—they feel guilty and hand themselves in, or someone witnesses the crime, or they’re already known to us and their prints or DNA give them away.” He paused. “I get the feeling DI Rebus hates those sorts of cases, the ones where the motive’s too easy to spot.”

“You barely
know
DI Rebus.” Clarke prickled.

Goodyear seemed to sense he’d gone too far. “All I mean is, he likes things to be complex, gives him more of a challenge.”

“Less to this than meets the eye—that’s what you’re saying?”

“I’m saying we should keep an open mind.”

“Thanks for the advice.” Clarke’s voice was as chilled as the carrot cake. Goodyear stared into his mug and looked relieved when the door opened and Megan Macfarlane approached the table. She was toting about three kilos of ring binder, which she let clatter to the floor. Roddy Liddle had gone to the counter to order their drinks.

“The hoops we have to go through,” Macfarlane complained. She gave Todd Goodyear a questioning smile and Clarke made the introductions.

“I’m a great fan,” Goodyear told the MSP. “I admired the stand you took on the tram system.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have a few thousand friends who think the same way?” Macfarlane had collapsed into her chair, eyes staring ceilingwards.

“And I’ve always supported independence,” Goodyear went on. She angled her head towards him before turning to Clarke.

“I like this one better,” she commented.

“Speaking of DI Rebus,” Clarke said, “he’s sorry he can’t make it along this afternoon. But he was the one who happened to spot your
Question Time
appearance—we’re wondering why you didn’t mention it.”

“Is that all?” Macfarlane sounded irritated. “I thought maybe you’d arrested someone.”

“Did you just meet Mr. Todorov that one time?” Clarke persisted.

“Yes.”

“So you met at the studio?”

“The Hub,” Macfarlane corrected. “Yes, we were all due to rendezvous there an hour before recording.”

“I thought it went out live,” Goodyear interrupted.

“Not quite,” the MSP insisted. “Of course, Jim Bakewell, being a Labour
minister
, had to turn up fashionably late—floor staff didn’t like that, which might explain why he got so little screen time.” She perked up again at the memory, and gave Liddle a blessing as he arrived with her black coffee and a single espresso for himself. He dragged a chair over so he could be part of the company, and shook hands with Goodyear.

“Think we’ll start to hear rumors, Roddy?” Macfarlane asked, pouring a first sachet of sugar into her drink. “Me being seen with a uniformed police officer?”

“Very likely,” Liddle drawled, lifting the tiny cup to his mouth.

“You were saying about Mr. Todorov,” Clarke prompted.

“She wants to know about
Question Time,
” Macfarlane explained to her assistant. “Thinks I must be hiding something.”

“Just wondering,” Clarke interrupted, “why you didn’t think to mention it.”

“Tell me, Sergeant, have any of the other politicos who shared the stage with the victim come forward with their reminiscences?” The question didn’t seem to require an answer. “No, because they’d have said much the same as me—our Russian friend necked some wine, crammed a few sandwiches into his face, and said nary a word to us. I rather got the impression he wasn’t a great fan of politicians as an overall species.”

“What about after the show?”

“Taxis were waiting . . . he grunted his good-byes and left, tucking a spare bottle of wine under his jacket.” She paused. “How any of this aids your inquiry is a mystery to me.”

“That was the only time you met him?”

“Didn’t I just say so?” She looked to her assistant for confirmation. Clarke decided to look at him, too.

“What about you, Mr. Liddle?” she asked. “Did you talk to him at The Hub?”

“I introduced myself—‘surly,’ I’d have called him. There’s usually a nonpolitician on the show, and there’s always a rigorous pre-interview. The researcher who’d talked with Todorov didn’t sound too thrilled—you could tell by her notes that he hadn’t been forthcoming. To this day, I don’t know why they had him on.”

Clarke thought for a moment. Charles Riordan had said that Todorov liked to chat to people, yet the drinker in Mather’s had said he hardly uttered a word. And now Macfarlane and Liddle were saying much the same. Did Todorov have two sides to his personality? “Whose idea would it have been to book him on the show?” she asked Liddle.

“Producer, presenter, one of the crew . . . I dare say anyone can propose a guest.”

“Could it have been,” Goodyear interrupted, “a case of sending a message to Moscow?”

“I suppose so,” Macfarlane conceded, sounding impressed.

“How do you mean?” Clarke asked Goodyear.

“There was a journalist killed there awhile back. Maybe the BBC wanted people to know you can’t stifle free speech so easily.”

“Someone stifled it eventually, though, didn’t they?” Liddle added. “Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. And look at what happened to that poor bloody Russian in London . . .”

Macfarlane was scowling at him. “That’s
exactly
the kind of rumor we want to clamp down on!”

“Of course, of course,” he mumbled, busying himself with his already empty cup.

“So, just to recap,” Clarke announced into the silence, “the two of you saw Mr. Todorov at the
Question Time
recording, but didn’t get much of a conversation going. You hadn’t met him before, and you didn’t see him again afterwards—is that the way you’d like me to phrase it in my report?”

“Report?” Macfarlane fairly barked the word.

“Not for public consumption,” Clarke reassured her. Then, after a moment’s beat, she delivered her coup de grâce: “Until the trial, of course.”

“I’ve already stressed, Sergeant, that we have some influential investors in town, and it might not take much to spook them.”

“But you’d agree, wouldn’t you,” Clarke countered, “that we need to show them how scrupulous and thorough our police force is?”

Macfarlane seemed about to say something to that, but her phone was trilling. She turned away from the table as she answered.

“Stuart, how are things?”

Clarke guessed “Stuart” might be the banker, Stuart Janney.

“I hope you got them all a booking at Andrew Fairlie?” Macfarlane had got to her feet and was on the move. She headed outside, glancing through the window as she continued her conversation.

“It’s the restaurant at Gleneagles,” Liddle was explaining.

“I know,” Clarke told him. Then, for Goodyear’s benefit: “Our economic saviors are staying the night there—nice big dinner and a round of golf after breakfast.” She asked Liddle who would be picking up the tab. “The hard-pressed taxpayer?” she guessed. He gave a shrug and she turned back to Goodyear. “Still reckon the meek will inherit the earth, Todd?”

“Psalm 37, verse 11,” Goodyear intoned. But now Clarke’s own phone was ringing. She picked it up and held it to her ear. John Rebus wanted a progress report.

“Just getting a bit of Scripture from PC Goodyear,” she told him. “The meek inheriting the earth and all of that.”