Exit Music (2007) (20 page)

24

N
ancy at home?” Rebus asked Sievewright’s flatmate when the young man answered the door.

“No.”

No, because she’d been walking up Leith Street when Rebus had passed her in his Saab. Meaning he had maybe a twenty-minute start on her, always supposing she’d head straight for her flat.

“It’s Eddie, right?” Rebus said. “I was here a few days ago.”

“I remember.”

“Didn’t catch your surname, though.”

“Gentry.”

“As in Bobbie Gentry.”

“Not many people know her these days.”

“I’m older than most people—got a couple of her albums at home. Mind if I come in?” Rebus noted that Gentry had lost his bandanna but still wore the smudgy eyeliner. “She told me to be here at three,” he lied blithely.

“Someone was at the door for her a while back . . .” Gentry was reluctant, but Rebus’s stare told him resistance was futile. He opened the door a little wider, and Rebus gave a little bow of the head as he walked in. The living room smelled of stale tobacco and something that could have been patchouli oil—been awhile since Rebus had come across that particular scent. He wandered over to the window and peered down onto Blair Street.

“Tell you a funny story,” he said, back still to Eddie Gentry. “There’s a warren of basements across the way where bands used to practice. Owner was thinking of redeveloping, so he got some builders in. They were working in these tunnels—miles and miles of them—and they started to hear unearthly groans . . .”

“The massage parlor next door,” Gentry said, cutting to the punch line.

“You’ve heard it.” Rebus turned from the window and studied some of the album sleeves—actual LPs rather than CDs. “Caravan,” he commented. “Canterbury’s finest . . . didn’t know people still listened to them.” There were other sleeves he recognized: the Fairports and Davey Graham and Pentangle.

“Somebody studying archaeology?” he guessed.

“I like a lot of the old stuff,” Gentry explained. He nodded towards the corner of the room. “I play guitar.”

“So you do,” Rebus agreed, seeing a six-string acoustic nestling on its stand, a twelve-string lying on the floor behind it. “Any good?”

In answer, Gentry picked up the six-string and settled on the sofa, legs crossed beneath him. He started to play, and Rebus realized that he’d grown the fingernails long on his right hand, each one a readymade plectrum. Rebus knew the tune, even if he couldn’t place it.

“Bert Jansch?” he guessed over the closing chord.

“From that album he did with John Renbourn.”

“Haven’t listened to it in years.” Rebus nodded his appreciation. “You’re pretty good, son. Shame you can’t make a living from it, eh? Might have stopped you from dealing drugs.”

“What?”

“Nancy’s told us all about it.”

“Whoa, wait a minute.” Gentry put his guitar aside and rose to his feet. “What’s that you’re saying?”

“A deaf musician?” Rebus sounded impressed.

“I heard the words, I just don’t know why she would say that.”

“Night the poet was killed, she was picking up a delivery from the guy you introduced her to.”

“She didn’t say that.” Gentry was trying to sound confident, but his eyes told Rebus a different story. “I didn’t introduce her to
anybody!
”

Rebus shrugged with his hands in his pockets. “No skin off my nose,” he commented. “She says you’re dealing, you say you’re not. . . . We all know there’s stuff being smoked here.”

“Stuff she gets from her boyfriend,” Gentry burst out. But then he corrected himself. “He’s not even her boyfriend . . . she just thinks he is.”

“Who’s this?”

“I don’t know. I mean, he’s been here a couple of times, but he just calls himself Sol—says it’s Latin for ‘the sun.’ Not that he strikes me as
that
bright.”

Rebus laughed as if this were the best joke he’d heard in a while, but Gentry wasn’t smiling.

“I can’t
believe
she’d try dropping me in it,” he muttered to himself.

“She dropped a pal of hers in it, too,” Rebus revealed. “Got her to provide an alibi.” Rebus let his final word hang in the air.

“Alibi?” Gentry echoed. “Christ, you think
she
killed that guy?”

Rebus offered another shrug. “Tell me,” he said, “does Nancy own anything like a cape or a cloak? Sort of thing a monk might wear?”

“No.” Gentry sounded bewildered by the question.

“Have you ever met her friend Gill?”

“Hooray Henrietta from the New Town?” Gentry screwed up his face.

“You know her, then?”

“She came to a party awhile back.”

“I hear that she throws a good party, too. You could offer to play a set.”

“I’d rather stick pins in my eyes.”

“You’re probably right, same as I’d rather listen to Dick Gaughan than James Blunt.” Rebus sniffed loudly, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket. “This Sol character . . . got an address for him?”

“Afraid not.”

“Not to worry.” Rebus was over at the window again, putting the handkerchief back as he gazed down on the street. Not long now till Nancy Sievewright returned. Top of Leith Street, then North Bridge and Hunter Square. . . . “Do you sing as well as play?”

“A little bit.”

“But not in a band?”

“No.”

“You should get yourself up to Fife. Friend of mine says there’s some sort of acoustic scene up there.”

Gentry was nodding. “I’ve played Anstruther.”

“Funny to think of the East Neuk as the center of anything . . . used to be it was shut winter and weekends.”

Gentry smiled. “Wait there, will you?” He was gone from the living room less than a minute. When he came back, he was holding something out towards Rebus—a CD in a clear plastic pocket. There was a folded square of white paper with the titles of three tracks listed. “My demo,” Gentry announced proudly.

“That’s great,” Rebus said. “After I’ve played it, do you want it back?”

“I can burn another one,” Gentry said with a shake of the head.

Rebus patted the disc against the palm of his left hand. “I really appreciate that, Eddie. As long as
you
appreciate that it’s not a bung of some kind.”

Gentry looked horrified. “No, I just thought . . .”

But Rebus touched him on the shoulder and assured him he was only joking. “I’d best be off,” he said. “Thanks again.” He gave a little wave with the CD and made for the hallway and the front door. With the door closed behind him, he started down the stairs, just as Nancy Sievewright was making her way up, still holding the sealed polythene bag with the interview tape inside. Rebus offered her a nod and a smile but said nothing. All the same, he could feel her watching his descent. At the bottom, he looked up—sure enough, she hadn’t moved.

“Just told him,” Rebus called to her.

“Told who what?” she called back.

“Your flatmate, Eddie,” he answered. “The one you tried fobbing us off with . . .”

He exited the tenement and unlocked his car. It was parked illegally but had managed to avoid a ticket.

“My lucky day,” he told himself. He’d finally got round to installing a CD player in the Saab. He drew Gentry’s offering from its sleeve and slotted it home, then studied the titles of the songs.

“Meg’s Mons.”

“Minstrel in Pain.”

“Reverend Walker Blues.”

He liked them already. With the volume low, he took out his phone and called Siobhan Clarke.

“Tell me you’re in the pub” was her opening line.

“Blair Street, actually—and you owe me twenty notes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You won’t when I tell you.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Sievewright gets her stuff from someone called Sol. Her flatmate thinks he’s named himself after the sun, but we know differently, don’t we?”

“Sol Goodyear?”

“I take it Todd’s not within earshot?”

“Making me a coffee.”

“Isn’t that sweet of him?”

“Sol Goodyear?” she repeated, as if she still couldn’t take it in. Eventually, she asked him what he was listening to.

“Nancy’s flatmate plays guitar.”

“I’m assuming he’s not in the car with you.”

“Probably shouting the odds at Sievewright as we speak. But he did give me a demo he made.”

“That was good of him. Bet you can’t remember the last time you listened to anything made after 1975.”

“You gave me that Elbow album . . .”

“True.” The tangent had run its course. “So now we need to add Todd’s brother to the list?”

“Nice to stay busy,” Rebus consoled her. “Do you have a time for Jim Bakewell yet?”

“Haven’t been able to track him down.”

“And Macrae?”

“Wants to add another twenty or so bodies to the team.”

“As long as they’re warm ones . . .”

“He’s even thinking of bringing Derek Starr back from Fettes.”

“Which would mean relegating you to vice-captain?”

“If only I had some vices . . .”

“Should have listened to me, Shiv. I could’ve given you a few tips. Will I see you later at the pub?”

“Might have an early night actually . . . no offense.”

“None taken, but don’t think I’ll forget about that twenty.” Rebus ended the call and turned the music up a little. Gentry was humming along to the melody, and Rebus wasn’t sure if it was meant to be picked up by the mic. It was still the first track, “Meg’s Mons.” He wondered if Meg was a real woman. Peering at the slip of paper in the clear plastic sleeve, he thought he could make out writing on the other side. He pulled out the track listing and unfolded it. Sure enough, on the back was written the name of the studio where Gentry had recorded his demo.

CR Studios.

25

R
ebus sat in front of his own personal video monitor. Graeme MacLeod had placed him in a corner of the room and had piled the videotapes next to him. Edinburgh city center’s west end, the night of the Todorov killing.

“You’re going to get me shot,” MacLeod had complained, fetching the tapes from their locked cupboard.

Rebus had been sitting for an hour in the Central Monitoring Facility, sometimes hitting Search and sometimes Pause. There were cameras on Shandwick Place, Princes Street, and Lothian Road. Rebus was looking for evidence of Sergei Andropov or his driver, or maybe Cafferty. Or anyone else attached to the case, come to that. So far he had nothing at all to show for his efforts. The hotel would have its own surveillance, of course, but he doubted the manager would hand it over without a fight, and he couldn’t see himself persuading Siobhan to put in the request.

There was something soothing about the unhurried voyeurism going on around him. One act of vandalism reported, and one known shoplifter tracked along George Street. The camera operators seemed as passive as any daytime TV viewers, and Rebus wondered if there might be some reality show to be made from it. He liked the way the staff could control the remote cameras using a joystick, zooming in on anything suspicious. It didn’t feel like the police state the media were always predicting. All the same, if he worked here every day, he’d be careful of himself on the street, for fear of being caught picking his nose or scratching his backside. Careful in shops and restaurants, too.

And probably with no interest in the TV at home.

MacLeod was back at Rebus’s shoulder. “Anything?” he asked.

“I know you’ve been over this footage more than once, Graeme, but there are a few faces I may know that you don’t.”

“I’m not having a moan.”

“If I were in your shoes, I’d be thinking the same.”

“Just a pity we didn’t have a camera in King’s Stables Road.”

“Hardly anyone uses it at night, I’ve noticed that. Plenty of people turning into Castle Terrace, but almost no one into King’s Stables.”

“And no woman in a hood?”

“Not yet.”

MacLeod consoled Rebus with a pat on the shoulder, then went back to work. It didn’t make sense to Rebus: why would some woman be hanging around there, doling out offers of sex? They had only the one witness’s word for it. Could it have been some fantasy he’d been harboring? Rebus felt his vertebrae snap back into place as he stretched his spine. He wanted a break, but knew if he took one he might not be tempted back. He could always go home—it was what everybody wanted. But then his phone rang, and he scooped it from his pocket. Caller ID: Siobhan.

“What’s up?” he asked, cupping the phone to his mouth so he wouldn’t be overheard.

“Megan Macfarlane’s just called DCI Macrae. She’s not happy you’ve been harassing Sergei Andropov.” She paused. “Want to tell me about it?”

“Happened to run into him last night.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Caledonian Hotel.”

“Your regular watering hole?”

“No need for sarcasm, young lady.”

“And you didn’t think to let me in on it?”

“I really did just bump into him, Shiv. No big deal.”

“To you maybe, but Andropov seems to think it is, and now Megan Macfarlane thinks so, too.”

“Andropov’s Russian, probably used to politicians controlling the police . . .” Rebus was thinking out loud.

“Macrae wants to see you.”

“Tell him I’m banned from Gayfield.”

“I’ve told him. He was furious about that, too.”

“Corbyn’s fault for not alerting him.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Any word from Jim Bakewell’s office?”

“No.”

“So what are you up to?”

“Trying to make space for the new recruits. Four have arrived from Torphichen and two from Leith.”

“Anyone we know?”

“Ray Reynolds.”

“He’s not even a good imitation of a detective,” Rebus stated. Then he asked her if she was going to do anything about Sol Goodyear.

“Soon as I’ve worked out what to say to Todd,” she decided.

“Good luck with that.”

One of the CCTV operators suddenly called to her colleague that she had the shoplifter on Camera 10, entering the bus station. Clarke’s groan was almost audible.

“You’re at the City Chambers,” she stated.

“We’ll make a detective of you yet.”

“You’re on suspension, John.”

“It keeps slipping my mind.”

“Studying the tapes from that night?”

“Correct.”

“Trying to place who at the scene exactly?”

“Who do you think?”

“Why in God’s name would Cafferty want a Russian poet killed?”

“Maybe he gets annoyed when verses don’t rhyme. By the by, here’s a strange one for you—that CD Sievewright’s flatmate gave me was recorded at Riordan’s studio.”

“Yet another coincidence.” But she was silent for a moment. “Think it’s worth talking to the engineer about?”

“You’re mob-handed, Shiv—it’s worth chasing every single lead, no matter how brittle.”

“I’m not great at delegating.”

“Me neither. Still headed straight home from work?”

“That’s the plan.”

“I’ll be thinking of you, then.”

“John, just promise me one thing—no more drinks at the Caledonian Hotel.”

“Yes, boss. Talk to you later.” He ended the call but sat there staring at the phone. Macrae, Macfarlane, and Andropov—all annoyed as hell with him.

“Good,” he said quietly, reaching for the next videotape.

“Can I ask you about your brother?”

Clarke had led Todd Goodyear into the corridor for a bit of privacy. She’d already set the new recruits to work. Some were studying the “bible”—the collating of everything pertaining to the case—while others had been assigned the Riordan tapes. It wasn’t exactly a collection of the brightest and the best—no CID unit wanted to give up its star players to a rival team. A detective from Goodyear’s own station had recognized him and asked what he thought he was up to, “masquerading as a proper cop.”

“Sol?” Goodyear was asking now, looking puzzled. “What about him?”

“He was in a fight—what night was that?”

“Last Wednesday.”

Clarke nodded. Same night Todorov was attacked. “Can you give me an address for him?”

“What’s going on?”

“Turns out he might know Nancy Sievewright.”

“You’re kidding me.” He’d started laughing.

“No joke,” she assured him. “We think he was her dealer. Did you know he was still in the game?”

“No.” The blood was rising up Goodyear’s neck.

“So I need his address.”

“I don’t know it. I mean, it’s somewhere around the Grass market . . .”

“I thought he lived in Dalkeith.”

“Sol’s always on the move.”

“How did you know he’d been in a fight?”

“He called me.”

“So you’re still in touch?”

“He has my mobile number.”

“Meaning you’ve got his?”

Goodyear shook his head. “He keeps changing it.”

“This fight he had . . . any idea where it happened?”

“A pub in Haymarket.”

Clarke nodded to herself. The SOCO, Tam Banks, had got a message about the incident, hadn’t he? Mentioned it at the Todorov scene. A stabbing. . . . “So you don’t keep in touch, but he phones you when he’s been stabbed?”

Goodyear ignored this. “What does it matter if he knows Nancy Sievewright?”

“Just another loose end that needs tying.”

“We’ve got more of those than a frayed rug.” Clarke offered up a tired smile, and Goodyear sighed, shoulders slumping. “When you find Sol’s address, do you want me along?”

“Can’t happen,” she said. “You’re his brother.”

He nodded his understanding.

“I’m assuming West End took an interest in the stabbing?” she asked. Meaning the police station on Torphichen Place. Goodyear nodded again.

“They asked him a few questions at A&E. By the time I saw him, he’d been transferred to a ward. Just the one night, for observation.”

“Do you think he told the officers anything?”

Goodyear shrugged. “All he said was, he was having a drink and this guy took against him. It moved outside, and Sol came off worst.”

“And the other guy?”

“Didn’t say anything about him.” Goodyear bit his bottom lip. “If Sol’s connected . . . does that mean a conflict of interest? Back to my old station and uniform?”

“I’ll have to ask DCI Macrae.”

He nodded again, but dolefully this time. “I didn’t know he was still dealing,” he stressed. “Maybe Sievewright’s lying . . .”

Clarke imagined herself placing a hand on his arm, offering comfort. But in the real world, she just moved past him and back into the already overcrowded CID suite. Chairs had been borrowed from the interview rooms, and she had to weave between them as she made for her desk. There was another officer stationed there. He apologized but didn’t move. Three more detectives were huddled around Rebus’s desk. Clarke picked up her phone and called Torphichen. She was patched through to CID and found herself talking to Detective Inspector Shug Davidson.

“Want to thank you,” he chuckled, “for taking Ray Reynolds off our hands.” She looked across the room towards Reynolds, a detective constable these past nine years, promotion never on the cards. He was standing in front of the Murder Wall and rubbing his stomach as if preparing for another of his infamous belches.

“That’s good,” she told Davidson, “because I’m after a favor in return.”

“What’s this I hear about John getting booted into touch?”

“News travels . . .”

“Age has not softened him—that’s a quote from somewhere.”

“Listen, Shug, do you remember last Wednesday night, a fight outside a pub at Haymarket?”

“Sol Goodyear, you mean?”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve got his brother on secondment, I’m told. Seems like a decent bloke. I think he’s embarrassed about Sol—and rightly so. Sol’s got a fair bit of form.”

“So this fight he got into . . . ?”

“If you ask me, there was money owed by one of his punters. Guy didn’t fancy paying up, so decided to have a go at Sol. We’re considering making it attempted murder.”

“Todd says he was only in hospital the one night.”

“With eight stitches in his side. More of a slice than a proper stabbing, meaning he got lucky.”

“You caught the attacker?”

“He’s pleading self-defense, naturally. Name’s Larry Fintry—Crazy Larry, he gets called. Should be in the nuthouse, if you ask me.”

“Care in the community, Shug.”

“Aye, with the pharmaceuticals dispensed by Sol Goodyear.”

“I need to speak to Sol,” Clarke said.

“Why’s that?”

“The Todorov murder. We think the girl who found the body was on her way to Sol’s.”

“More than likely,” Davidson agreed. “Last address I have for him is Raeburn Wynd.”

Clarke’s whole body froze for a moment. “That’s where we found the body.”

“I know.” Davidson was laughing. “And if Sol hadn’t been getting himself stabbed at Haymarket around the exact same time, I might have thought to mention it earlier.”

In the end, she took Phyllida Hawes with her. Tibbet had looked distraught, as if fearing Siobhan had already made up her mind who should replace her at sergeant level when she was promoted. She hadn’t bothered reminding him that she would have little or no say over anyone’s fate. Instead, she had simply told him that he was in charge until her return, which perked him up a little.

They’d taken Clarke’s car, sticking to shoptalk interrupted only occasionally by awkward silences—Hawes wanting to know about life post-Rebus (but not daring to ask), while Clarke didn’t quite get round to bringing up Hawes’s relationship with Tibbet. It was a mercy when the car finally stopped at the foot of Raeburn Wynd. The lane was L-shaped. From the main road, all you could see were garages and lockups, but around the corner, buildings which at one time would have housed horses and their coaches had been turned into mews flats.

“None of the neighbors heard anything?” Hawes asked.

“Might send the team out to ask them again and flash that e-fit,” Clarke considered.

“Can Ray Reynolds be one of them, please?”

Clarke managed a smile. “Didn’t take long.”

“I’d heard the stories,” Hawes said, “but nothing quite prepares you . . .”

They’d turned the corner into the mews proper. Clarke stopped at one of the doors, checked the address she’d copied into her notebook, and pressed the bell. After twenty seconds, she tried again.

“I’m coming!” someone yelled from within. There was the sound of feet thumping down a flight of stairs, and the door was opened by Sol Goodyear. Had to be him: same eyelashes and ears as his brother.

“Solomon Goodyear?” Clarke checked.

“Christ, what do you lot want?”

“Well spotted. I’m DS Clarke, this is DC Hawes.”

“Got a warrant?”

“Want to ask you a couple of questions about the murder.”

“What murder?”

“The one at the bottom of your street.”

“I was in hospital at the time.”

“How’s the wound?”

He lifted his shirt to show a large white compress, just above the waistband of his underpants. “Itches like buggery,” he admitted. Then, catching on: “How did you know about it?”

“DI Davidson at Torphichen filled me in. Mentioned Crazy Larry, too. Bit of a tip for you, actually—before you square up to someone, always check their nickname.”

Sol Goodyear snorted at that, but still didn’t show any great desire to let them in. “My brother’s a cop,” he said instead.

“Oh, yes?” Clarke tried to sound surprised. She reckoned Sol would try this line on any police officer he met.

“He’s still in uniform, but not for much longer. Todd’s always been a fast-track kind of guy. He was the white sheep of the family.” He gave a little laugh at what Clarke assumed was another of his well-rehearsed lines.

“That’s a good one,” Hawes obliged, managing to sound as though she meant the opposite. The laugh died in Sol Goodyear’s throat.

“Well, anyway,” he sniffed, “I wasn’t here that night. They didn’t discharge me till the evening after.”