Exit Music (2007) (21 page)

“Did Nancy come to see you at the hospital?”

“Nancy who?”

“Your girlfriend Nancy. She was on her way here when she tripped over the body. You were going to sell her some stuff for a friend of hers.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he stated, having decided in the blinking of an eye that there was no point lying about things they already knew.

“She seems to think she is.”

“She’s mistaken.”

“You’re just her dealer, then?”

He scowled as though pained by this turn in the conversation. “What I am, officer, is the victim of a stabbing. The painkillers I’m on make it highly unlikely that anything I say could be used in a court of law.”

“Clever boy,” Clarke said, sounding admiring, “you know your loopholes.”

“Learned the hard way.”

She nodded slowly. “I’ve heard it was Big Ger Cafferty got you started on the selling—do you still see him?”

“Don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Funny, I’ve never heard of a stabbing affecting someone’s memory before . . .” Clarke looked to Hawes for confirmation of this.

“Think you’ve got the patter, don’t you?” Sol Goodyear was saying. “Well try this for a payoff.”

And with that, he slammed the door in their faces. From behind it, as he started climbing the stairs again, could be heard a stream of invective. Hawes raised an eyebrow.

“Bitches
and
lesbians,” she repeated. “Always nice to learn something new about yourself.”

“Isn’t it?”

“So now we’ve got one brother involved, I suppose that means the other has to be taken off the case?”

“That’s a decision for DCI Macrae.”

“How come you didn’t tell Sol we’ve got Todd working with us?”

“Need-to-know basis, Phyl.” Clarke stared at Hawes. “You in a hurry to see the back of PC Goodyear?”

“Just so long as he remembers he
is
a PC. Now that the suite’s filling up, he’s looking too comfortable in that suit of his.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“Some of us have worked our way out of uniform, Siobhan.”

“CID’s a closed shop, is it?” Clarke turned away from Hawes and started moving, but stopped abruptly at the corner. From where she stood, it was about sixty feet to the spot where Alexander Todorov was murdered.

“What are you thinking?” Hawes asked.

“I’m wondering about Nancy. We’re assuming she was on her way to Sol’s when she found the body. But she could’ve walked up here, rung his bell a few times, maybe thumped on his door . . .”

“Not knowing he’s been injured in a brawl?”

“Exactly.”

“And meantime Todorov’s managed to stagger from the car park . . .”

Clarke was nodding.

“You think she saw something?” Hawes added.

“Saw or heard. Maybe hid around this corner, while Todorov’s attacker followed him and delivered the final blow.”

“And her reason for not telling us any of this . . . ?”

“Fear, I suppose.”

“Fear’ll do it every time,” Hawes concurred. “What was that line from Todorov’s poem . . . ?”

“‘He averted his eyes / Ensuring he would not have to testify.’”

“The sort of lesson Nancy might have learned from Sol Goodyear.”

“Yes,” Clarke agreed. “Yes, she might.”

26

R
ebus was eating a bag of crisps and listening again to Eddie Gentry’s CD on his car stereo. Except that it wasn’t stereo exactly, one of the speakers having packed in. Didn’t really matter when it was just one man and his guitar. He’d already finished the first packet of crisps, plus a curried vegetable samosa bought from a corner shop in Polwarth and washed down with a bottle of still water, which he tried to persuade himself made it a balanced meal. He was parked at the bottom end of Cafferty’s street and as far as possible from any of the streetlamps. For once, he didn’t want the gangster spotting him. Then again, he couldn’t even be sure Cafferty was at home: the man’s car was in the driveway, but that didn’t mean much in itself. Some of the house lights were on, but maybe just to deter intruders. Rebus couldn’t see any sign of the bodyguard who lived in the coach house to the rear of the property. Cafferty never seemed to use him much, leading Rebus to believe he was on the payroll for reasons of vanity rather than necessity. Siobhan had texted a couple of times, ostensibly to ask if he fancied supper one night. He knew she’d be wondering what he was up to.

Two hours he’d been parked there, for no good reason. The fifteen-minute break spent at the corner shop had given Cafferty ample time to head out without Rebus being any the wiser. Maybe for once the gangster would be using his room at the Caledonian. As a surveillance, it was laughable, but then he wasn’t even sure it
was
a surveillance. Might be it was just a pretext for not going home, where the only thing waiting was a reissue of Johnny Cash’s
Live at San Quentin
that he hadn’t got round to playing. Kept forgetting to put it in the car, and wondered how it would sound on a single speaker. First stereo he’d ever owned, one of the speakers had packed in after only a month. There was a track on a Velvet Underground album, all the instruments on one channel, vocals on the other, so that he couldn’t listen to both together. It had taken him ages to buy his first CD player, and even now he preferred vinyl. Siobhan said it was because he was “willful.”

“Either that or I’ve just not got the herd mentality,” he’d argued back. These days, she had an MP3 player and bought stuff online. He would tease her by asking if he could take a look at the album cover or lyric sheet.

“You’re missing the big picture,” he’d told her. “A good album should be more than the sum of its parts.”

“Like police work?” she’d guessed, smiling. He hadn’t bothered admitting that he was just coming to that . . .

He’d finished the crisps and folded the bag into a narrow strip so he could tie it into a knot. Didn’t know why he did that, just seemed neater somehow. A mate back in army days had done it, and Rebus had followed suit. It made a change from putting a match under the empty packet and watching it shrivel to a miniature version of itself, like something from a doll’s house. Simple pleasures, same as sitting in a car on a quiet nighttime street, music playing and belly full. He would give it another hour. He had the Who’s
Endless Wire
for when he got fed up of Gentry. Hadn’t yet worked out what the title meant, but because he’d bought the CD at least he had the lyrics.

A car was reversing out of some gates up the road. Looked to Rebus very much like Cafferty’s gates, Cafferty’s car. Being driven by the bodyguard, because there was a reading light on in the back seat, illuminating Cafferty’s dome of a head. He seemed to be peering at some papers. Rebus waited. The car was turning downhill, meaning it would drive straight past him. He ducked down, waiting until its lights had passed. It signaled right, and Rebus turned the ignition, doing a three-point turn and following. At the Granville Terrace junction, Cafferty’s car jumped out in front of a double-decker bus. Rebus had to wait for traffic to clear, but knew there was nothing Cafferty could do now until Leven Street. He stayed behind the bus until it signaled to pick up passengers, then moved out and past it. There was a gap of a hundred yards between him and the car in front. Eventually its brake lights glowed as it reached the traffic lights at the King’s Theatre. As Rebus crawled nearer, he saw that something was wrong.

It wasn’t Cafferty’s car.

He drew up behind it. The car in front of it, stopped on red, wasn’t Cafferty either. No way the bodyguard could have passed both cars and got through the lights while they were still on green. Rebus had been behind the bus for maybe a couple of minutes. There had been the Viewforth crossroads, but he’d looked both ways and seen no sign of Cafferty. Had to have turned sharpish down one of the narrow side streets, but which one? He did another three-point turn, a taxi sounding a complaint as it waited to follow him back along Gilmore Place. There were a few boardinghouses whose front gardens had been paved and turned into car parking, but none of the vehicles matched Cafferty’s Bentley.

“You wait two solid hours and then you lose him at the first hurdle,” Rebus muttered to himself. There was a convent, its gates open, but Rebus doubted he’d find the gangster there. Roads off to left and right, but none looked promising. At the Viewforth traffic lights he turned the car again. This time he signaled left and headed down a narrow one-way street towards the canal. It wasn’t well lit and wouldn’t be used much this time of night, meaning he’d stick out like a sore thumb, so when a curbside parking space appeared, he reversed into it. There was a bridge across the canal, but it was blocked to everything except bikes and pedestrians. As Rebus headed that way on foot, he finally saw the Bentley. It was parked up next to some wasteland. A couple of canal boats were moored for the night, smoke billowing from the chimney of one of them. Rebus hadn’t been down this way in ages. New blocks of flats had appeared from somewhere, but it didn’t look as though many of them were occupied. Then he saw a sign stating that they were “serviced apartments.” The Leamington Lift Bridge was a construction of wrought iron with a wooden roadway. It could be raised to let barges and pleasure boats through, but otherwise lay level with either bank of the canal. Two men were standing in the middle of it, their shadows thrown onto the water by a near-as-dammit full moon. Cafferty was doing the talking, throwing out his arms to illustrate each point. The focus of his interest seemed to be the canal’s far bank. There was a walkway stretching from Fountainbridge to the city limits and beyond. At one time it had been a treacherous spot, but a new footpath had been built and the canal seemed a lot cleaner than Rebus remembered it. Beyond the footpath stood a high wall, behind which, Rebus knew, was one of Edinburgh’s redundant industrial sites. Until about a year back, it had been a brewery, but now most of the buildings were in the process of being dismantled, the steel mash tuns removed. Time was, the city had boasted thirty or forty breweries. Now, Rebus seemed to think there was just the one, not too far away on Slateford Road.

When the other man half turned to concentrate on what Cafferty was saying, Rebus recognized the silhouette of Sergei Andropov’s distinctive face. The door to Cafferty’s car opened, but only so his driver could get out to light a cigarette. Rebus heard another door, almost like an echo of the first. He decided to pretend he was on his way home, tucked his hands into his jacket, hunched his shoulders, and started walking. Risking just the one glance back over his shoulder, he saw that there was another car parked alongside Cafferty’s. Andropov’s driver had decided on a cigarette break, too. Cafferty and the Russian, meantime, had crossed the bridge and were still deep in conversation. Rebus wished he’d thought to bring a microphone of some kind—the engineer at Riordan’s studio would have obliged. As it was, he couldn’t make out anything. What was more, he was headed away from the scene, and it would raise suspicions were he suddenly to turn and retrace his steps. He passed a car workshop, locked up tight for the night. Past it were some tenement flats. He thought about going inside, climbing a flight, and peering from the stairwell window. Instead, he stopped and lit a cigarette, then pretended to take a phone call, holding the mobile close to his face. He started walking again, but slowly, aware of the two men on the opposite bank. Andropov gave a whistle, and gestured to the drivers to stay put. Rebus saw that the canal was coming to an end at a recently built basin, complete with a couple of more permanent-looking barges, one of which had a For Sale sign taped to its only window. New buildings had been thrown up here, too: office blocks, restaurants, and a bar with plenty of glass frontage and outside tables, which were being used tonight only by hardened smokers. One of the units was still to let, and Rebus couldn’t see much action in the restaurants. The bar had a cash machine to one side of it, and he paused to use it, risking another glance towards the approaching figures.

But they weren’t there anymore.

He looked in through the windows of the bar and saw that they were removing their coats. Even from here, Rebus could hear pounding music. Several TV sets were also on the go, and the clientele was predominantly young and studenty. The only person who paid attention to the new arrivals was their waitress, who bounded over with a smile and took their order. No way Rebus could go in—the place wasn’t so busy that he’d be able to hide in the throng. And even supposing he did go in, he’d never get close enough to hear anything. Cafferty had chosen wisely: not even Riordan would have stood a chance. The two men could have a chat without fear of eavesdroppers. What to do next . . . ? Plenty of dark corners out here, meaning he could bide his time and freeze his backside. Or he could retreat to his car. The two men would have to return to their own cars eventually. With a hundred quid extracted from the machine, Rebus made his choice. He walked back along the other side of the canal, crossed at the Leamington Bridge, and hummed to himself as he passed the piece of wasteground. Not that the two drivers paid any attention, they were too busy talking to each other. Rebus doubted Cafferty’s man spoke any Russian, meaning Andropov’s driver must have a decent grasp of English.

Once installed in the Saab, Rebus considered switching the engine on, so he could have some heat. But an idling motor might make the guards curious, so he rubbed his hands together and drew his coat more tightly around him. It was a further twenty minutes before anything happened. He hadn’t caught sight of Andropov and Cafferty, but both cars were on the move. He followed them back to Gilmore Place. They signaled to turn right at the Viewforth junction, and then right again at Dundee Street. Two minutes later they were pulling to a halt outside the bar. While one of its sides faced the canal, the other fronted Fountainbridge. Traffic here was busier, with plenty of parked cars. Rebus found a space near the old Co-op Funeral Home. Major works were in progress, and one building had lost everything but its façade, while a new construction rose up to fill the space behind. It was all insurance companies and banks around here, Rebus seemed to think, which made him think also of Sir Michael Addison, Stuart Janney, and Roger Anderson—First Albannach men all. In his wing mirror, he could see that the two cars were idling but hadn’t bothered to switch off their lights or engines. Give it a couple of years, he’d probably be empowered to arrest them under some CO
₂
injunction. Except that he wouldn’t be here in a couple of years . . .

“Bingo,” he said to himself as Andropov and Cafferty emerged. They got into their separate cars and headed off, passing Rebus and making towards Lothian Road. Again, Rebus followed: harder to lose them this time. As they passed the end of King’s Stables Road, Rebus felt his stomach tighten at the prospect that they might end up at the car park, but they stayed on the main drag and turned into Princes Street, Charlotte Square, and Queen Street. When passing Young Street, Rebus glanced down it towards the Oxford Bar.

“Not tonight, my love,” he cooed, blowing it a kiss.

At the end of Queen Street, they forked left onto Leith Walk, passing Gayfield Square. Great Junction Street, North Junction Street, and they were on the waterfront to the west of Leith itself. More redevelopment was happening here, blocks of apartments rising from what had been dockland and industrial estates.

“Hardly the tourist trail, Sergei,” Rebus muttered as the cars pulled over again. There was another car already sitting there, hazard lights on. Rebus drove past—no way he could park, the streets were deserted. Instead, he took the first turning he came to, did another of the three-pointers he was becoming so expert in, and crawled back to the junction. He signaled right and passed the three cars. Same deal: Cafferty and Andropov standing on the pavement, Cafferty with his arms stretched wide as if to encompass
everything
. But this time with two new attendants: Stuart Janney and Nikolai Stahov. The consular official stood with his gloved hands behind his back, a Cossack hat on his head. Janney looked thoughtful, arms folded, nodding to himself.

“Gang’s all here,” Rebus commented.

There was a petrol station with its lights still on, so he pulled into the forecourt and dribbled some unleaded into the tank. Bought chewing gum from the cashier when he paid, and stood beside the pump, unwrapping a piece slowly and making as if to check messages on his phone. The cashier kept staring out at him, and he knew this wasn’t an act he could keep up for long. He looked back along the street, but couldn’t make out much. Cafferty still seemed to be holding the floor. A car had pulled up at the pump behind him. Two men got out. One busied himself with the nozzle while the other gave a few stretches and started walking towards the kiosk, but then seemed to change his mind and headed towards Rebus instead.

“Evening,” he said. He was big, bigger than Rebus. His belt was on its last notch and looked ready to snap. His head was shaved, some gray showing through. Pudgy face like an overfed baby who still objected every time the breast was taken away. Rebus just nodded a reply, flicking the gum wrapper into a bin.

The new arrival was studying Rebus’s car. “Bit of a clunker,” he offered, “even as Saabs go.”