Exit Music (2007) (23 page)

“Milk, no sugar.”

“It’ll do, I suppose,” Rebus said by way of thanks.

“What did you say to Gordon?” She had pulled her chair in next to his.

“Why?”

“Seemed to think you’d taken against him.”

“Some people are touchy.”

“Whatever you said, he’s come to the conclusion you must be management.”

“I always thought I had it in me . . .” Rebus glanced away from the screen long enough to give her a wink. “If I hit the print button, where do the pages appear?”

“That machine over there.” She pointed towards a corner of the room.

“So I’d have to walk all the way over there to collect them?”

“You’re management, John. Get someone to do it for you . . .”

28

T
he reporters had drifted away from Gayfield Square. Maybe because it was approaching lunchtime, or some other story had broken. Siobhan Clarke had been in a meeting with DCI Macrae and the Chief Constable. Corbyn wasn’t enthusiastic about leaving her in charge, despite Macrae’s spirited defense.

“Let’s get DI Starr back from Fettes,” Corbyn had insisted.

“Yes, sir,” Macrae had said, capitulating at the last.

Afterwards, he’d sighed and told Clarke the Chief Constable was right. Clarke had just shrugged and watched him pick up the phone, asking to be connected to Derek Starr. Within half an hour, Starr himself, coiffeured and cuff-linked, was in the CID suite and gathering the team together for what he termed “a pep talk.”

“Isn’t a PEP a pension scheme?” Hawes asked beneath her breath, her way of telling Clarke she was on her side. Clarke smiled back to let her know she appreciated it.

Having had only the briefest of briefings in Macrae’s office, Starr focused on the “tenuous links” between the two deaths and insisted that they not read too much into them “at this early stage.” He wanted the team divided in two, with one group concentrating on Todorov and the other on Riordan. Then, turning his attention to Siobhan Clarke: “You’ll be the nexus, DS Clarke. Meaning if there
are
points of connection between the two cases, you’ll collate them.” Looking around the room, he asked if everyone understood how he wanted things to work. The murmurs of assent were drowned out by a sustained belch from Ray Reynolds.

“Chili con carne,” he stated, by way of apology, as officers nearby wafted notebooks and sheets of paper. The phone on Clarke’s desk rang and she picked it up, pressing a finger in her other ear to muffle the rest of Starr’s oration.

“DS Clarke,” she announced.

“Is DI Rebus there?”

“Not at the moment. Can I help at all?”

“It’s Stuart Janney.”

“Ah yes, Mr. Janney. This is DS Clarke, we met at the Parliament.”

“Well, DS Clarke, your man Rebus asked for details of Alexander Todorov’s bank account . . .”

“You’ve got them?”

“I know it’s taken awhile, but there were protocols . . .”

Clarke caught Hawes’s eye. “Where are you just now, Mr. Janney?”

“Bank HQ.”

“Could a couple of my colleagues come and collect them?”

“Don’t see why not; save me a trip.” Janney sniffed as he spoke.

“Thank you, sir. Will you be there for the next hour?”

“If I’m not, I’ll leave the envelope with my assistant.”

“Very kind of you.”

“How’s the investigation going?”

“We’re making progress.”

“Glad to hear it. Papers this morning seem to think you’re connecting Todorov’s death to that house fire.”

“Don’t believe everything you read.”

“Extraordinary, nevertheless.”

“If you say so, Mr. Janney. Thanks again.” Clarke put the phone down and turned back to Phyllida Hawes. “I’m getting you and Col out of here. Go to First Albannach’s HQ and pick up Todorov’s bank details from a man called Stuart Janney.”

“Thank you,” Hawes mouthed.

“And while you’re gone, I might make myself scarce, too. Nancy Sievewright’s going to be sick of the sight of me . . .”

Starr was clapping his hands, signaling that the meeting was at an end, “unless anyone’s got a really stupid question.” His eyes raked the room, daring any hand to be raised. “Right, then,” he barked, “let’s go to work!”

Hawes rolled her eyes and squeezed through the throng to where Colin Tibbet was standing, seemingly in thrall to Derek Starr. Siobhan Clarke found Todd Goodyear sidling up next to her.

“You think DI Starr’s going to want me kept on?” he asked quietly.

“Just keep your head down and hope he doesn’t notice you.”

“And how do I do that?”

“You’re going through all those committee tapes, right?” She watched Goodyear nod. “Just keep doing that, and if he asks who you are, explain that you’re the only sod willing to take on such a thankless task.”

“I’m still not sure what it is you think I might find.”

“Search me,” Clarke confessed. “But you never know your luck.”

“Okay then.” Goodyear sounded far from convinced. “And you’re going to be liaison between the two halves of the inquiry?”

“Always supposing that’s what a ‘nexus’ is.”

“Does that mean you’ll be giving the press conferences?”

Clarke responded with a snort. “Derek Starr’s not going to let anyone hog the cameras except him.”

“He looks more like a salesman than a detective,” Goodyear commented.

“That’s because he is,” Clarke agreed. “And the thing he’s selling is himself. Problem is, he’s bloody good at it.”

“You’re not jealous?” They were being jostled by other detectives, as everyone tried to find a patch of office they could claim as their own.

“DI Starr will go far,” she said, leaving it at that. Goodyear watched as she slung her bag over one shoulder.

“You’re going somewhere,” he stated.

“Well spotted.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“You’ve got all those tapes to listen to, Todd.”

“What’s happened to DI Rebus?”

“He’s in the field,” Clarke explained, reckoning the fewer people who knew about the suspension, the better.

Especially when Rebus, despite—or more accurately
because of
—the suspension, was most definitely still on the case.

Nancy Sievewright hadn’t been at all happy when Clarke had announced herself at the intercom. But at last she’d come downstairs and told the detective that she wanted hot chocolate.

“There’s a place near the top of the street.”

Inside the café, they ordered their drinks and settled on opposing leather couches. Sievewright looked like she’d not had enough sleep. She was still wearing a short skirt, threads trailing from it, and a thin denim jacket, but her legs were wrapped in thick black tights and there were knitted fingerless gloves on her hands. She’d asked for whipped cream and marshmallows in her drink, and she cupped the mug between her palms as she sipped and chewed.

“Any more grief from Mr. Anderson?” Clarke asked. Sievewright just shook her head. “We spoke to Sol Goodyear,” Clarke continued. “You didn’t tell us he lived in the same street the body was found.”

“Why should I?”

Clarke just shrugged. “He doesn’t seem to see himself as your boyfriend.”

“He’s protecting me,” Sievewright snapped back.

“From what?” Clarke asked, but the young woman wasn’t about to answer that. There was music playing quite loudly, and a speaker in the ceiling directly overhead. It was some sort of dance track with a pulsing rhythm and it was giving Clarke a headache. She went to the counter and asked for it to be turned down. The assistant obliged, albeit grudgingly and with minimal effect.

“Why I like this place,” Sievewright said.

“The surly staff?”

“The music.” Sievewright peered at Clarke over the rim of her mug. “So what
did
Sol say about me?”

“Just that you’re not his girlfriend. Speaking to him got me wondering, though . . .”

“What about?”

“About the night of the attack.”

“It was some nutter in a pub . . .”

“I don’t mean the attack on Sol; I’m talking about the poet. You were on your way to buy stuff from Sol. So you either stumbled across the body on your way
up
the lane, or on your way back down . . .”

“What’s the difference?” Sievewright was shuffling her feet, looking down at them as if they were no longer under her control.

“Quite a big difference, actually. Remember when I came to your flat that first time?”

Sievewright nodded.

“There was something you said . . . the
way
you said something. And I was thinking about it yesterday after I’d been talking to Sol.”

The young woman took the bait. “What?” she asked, trying not to sound too interested.

“You told us: ‘I didn’t
see
anything.’ But you put the stress on ‘see’ when I’m guessing most people would have emphasized the ‘anything.’ Made me wonder if you were doing that thing of not quite telling the truth but at the same time managing not to tell an outright lie.”

“You’ve lost me.” Sievewright’s knees were bouncing like pistons.

“I think maybe you’d gone to Sol’s door, rung the bell, and waited. You knew he was expecting you. Maybe you stood there for a while, thinking he’d be back soon. Maybe you tried his mobile, but he wasn’t answering.”

“Because he was getting himself stabbed.”

Clarke nodded slowly. “So you’re outside his flat, and suddenly you hear something at the bottom of the lane. You go to the corner and take a look.”

But Sievewright was shaking her head emphatically.

“Okay then,” Clarke conceded, “you don’t
see
anything, but you do hear something, don’t you, Nancy?”

The young woman looked at her for a long time, then broke off eye contact and took another slurp of hot chocolate. When she spoke, the music covered whatever it was she said.

“I didn’t catch that,” Clarke apologized.

“I said yes.”

“You heard something?”

“A car. It pulled up and . . .” She paused, lifting her eyes to the ceiling in thought. Eventually, she looked at Clarke again. “First off, there was this groaning. I thought maybe a drunk was about to be sick. His words seemed all slurred. Could have been saying something in Russian, though. That would make sense, wouldn’t it?” She seemed keen for Clarke to agree, so Clarke nodded again.

“And then a car?” she prompted.

“It pulled up. Door opened, and I heard this noise, just a dull sort of thump and no more groans.”

“How can you be sure it was a car?”

“Didn’t sound like a van or a lorry.”

“You didn’t look?”

“By the time I turned the corner, it was gone. There was just a body slumped next to the wall.”

“I think I know why you screamed,” Clarke stated. “You thought it was Sol?”

“At first, yes. But when I got close, I saw it wasn’t.”

“Why didn’t you run?”

“That couple arrived. I did try to leave, but the man told me I should stay. If I’d scarpered, it’d have looked bad for me, wouldn’t it? And he could’ve given you my description.”

“True enough,” Clarke admitted. “What made you think it might be Sol?”

“When you deal drugs, you make enemies.”

“Such as?”

“The bastard who knifed him outside the pub.”

Clarke was nodding thoughtfully. “Any others?”

Sievewright saw what she was getting at. “You think maybe they killed the poet by mistake?”

“I’m not sure.” How much sense did it make? The trail of blood led back to the multistory, meaning whoever had attacked Todorov must’ve known he wasn’t Sol Goodyear. But as for the coup de grâce . . . well, it could have been the same person, but not necessarily. And Sievewright was spot on—dealers made enemies. Maybe she would put that point to Sol himself, see if he had any names for her. Likelihood was, of course, that he’d keep them to himself, maybe intent on exacting his own revenge. She imagined Sol rubbing at the ragged line of stitches, as if trying to erase them. Imagined the two boys growing up, Sol and his wee brother, Todd, granddad dead in jail and parents going to pieces. At what point had Todd decided to cut his brother adrift? And had Sol suffered as a result?

“Can I get another?” Sievewright was asking, lifting her empty mug.

“Your turn to pay,” Clarke reminded her.

“I’ve got no money.”

Clarke sighed and handed her a fiver. “And get me another cappuccino,” she said.

29

H
e’s a hard man to pin down,” Terence Blackman said, fluttering his hands.

Blackman ran a gallery of contemporary art on William Street in the city’s west end. The gallery consisted of two rooms with white walls and sanded wooden flooring. Blackman himself was barely five feet tall, skinny with a slight paunch, and was probably thirty or forty years older than he dressed. The thatch of brown hair looked dyed, and might even have been an expensive weave job. An assortment of nips and tucks had stretched the skin tight over the face, so that Blackman’s range of expressions was limited. According to the Web, he acted as Roddy Denholm’s agent.

“So where is he now?” Rebus asked, stepping around a sculpture that looked like a mass brawl of wire coat hangers.

“Melbourne, I think. Could be Hong Kong.”

“Any of his stuff here today?”

“There’s actually a waiting list. Half a dozen buyers, money no object.”

“Russians?” Rebus guessed.

Blackman stared at him. “I’m sorry, Inspector, why was it you wanted to see Roddy?”

“He’s been working on a project at the Parliament.”

“An albatross around all our necks.” Blackman sighed.

“Mr. Denholm needed bits and pieces of recording done, and the man responsible has turned up dead.”

“What?”

“His name’s Charles Riordan.”

“Dead?”

“I’m afraid so. There was a fire . . .”

Blackman slapped his palms to his cheeks. “Are the tapes all right?”

Rebus stared at him. “Nice of you to show concern, sir.”

“Oh, well, yes, of course it’s a terrible tragedy for the family and . . . um . . .”

“I think the recordings are fine.”

Blackman gave silent thanks and then asked what this had to do with the artist.

“Mr. Riordan was murdered, sir. We’re wondering if he’d recorded something he shouldn’t have.”

“At the Parliament, you mean?”

“Any reason why Mr. Denholm chose the Urban Regeneration Committee for his project?”

“I’ve not the faintest idea.”

“Then you see why I need to talk to him. Maybe you’ve got a number for his mobile?”

“He doesn’t always answer.”

“Nevertheless, a message could be left.”

“I suppose so.” Blackman didn’t sound keen.

“So if you could give me the number,” Rebus pressed. The dealer sighed again and gestured for Rebus to follow him, unlocking a door at the back of the room. It was a cramped office, the size of a box room and with unframed canvases and uncanvased frames everywhere. Blackman’s own phone was charging, but he unplugged it and pressed the keys until the artist’s number showed on the screen. Rebus punched it into his own phone, while asking how much Denholm’s work tended to fetch.

“Depends on size, materials, man-hours . . .”

“A ballpark figure.”

“Between thirty and fifty . . .”

“Thousand pounds?” Rebus awaited the dealer’s nodded confirmation.

“And how many does he knock out each year?”

Blackman scowled. “As I told you, there’s a waiting list.”

“So which one did Andropov buy?”

“Sergei Andropov has a good eye. I’d happened to acquire an early example of Roddy’s work in oils, probably painted the year he left Glasgow School of Art.” Blackman lifted a postcard from the desk. It was a reproduction of the painting. “It’s called
Hopeless
.”

To Rebus, it looked as if a child had taken a line for a walk. Hopeless just about summed it up.

“Fetched a record price for one of Roddy’s pre-video works,” the dealer added.

“And how much did you pocket, Mr. Blackman?”

“A percentage, Inspector. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

But Rebus wasn’t about to let go. “Nice to see my taxes going into your pocket.”

“If you mean the Parliament commission, you’ve no need to worry—First Albannach Bank is underwriting the whole thing.”

“As in paying for it?”

Blackman nodded abruptly. “Now you really must excuse me . . .”

“Generous of them,” Rebus commented.

“FAB is a tremendous patron of the arts.”

It was Rebus’s turn to nod. “Just a couple more questions, sir—any idea why Andropov is moving into Scottish art?”

“Because he likes it.”

“Is the same true of all these other Russian millionaires and billionaires?”

“I’ve no doubt some are buying for investment, others for pleasure.”

“And some as a way of letting everyone else know how rich they are?”

Blackman offered the thinnest of smiles. “There may be an element of that.”

“Same as with their Caribbean yachts—mine’s bigger than yours. And the mansions in London, the jewelry for the trophy wife . . .”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Still doesn’t explain the interest in Scotland.” They’d moved back out of the office into the gallery space.

“There are old ties, Inspector. Russians revere Robert Burns, for example, perhaps seeing him as an ideal of Communism. I forget which leader it was—Lenin, maybe—who said that if there was to be a revolt in Europe, it would most likely start in Scotland.”

“But that’s all changed, hasn’t it? We’re talking capitalists, not Communists.”

“Old ties,” Blackman repeated. “Maybe they still think there’s a revolution on the cards.” And he smiled wistfully, making Rebus think the man had at one time been a card carrier. Hell, why not? Rebus had grown up in Fife, solidly working class and full of coal mines. Fife had elected Britain’s first—maybe even the
only
—Communist MP. In the 1950s and ’60s there’d been plenty of Communist councillors. Rebus wasn’t old enough for the General Strike, but he remembered an aunt telling him about it—barricades erected, towns and villages cut off—UDI, basically. The People’s Kingdom of Fife. He had a little smile to himself, nodding at Terence Blackman.

“By revolution, you mean independence?”

“Could hardly make a worse fist of it than the current lot . . .” Blackman’s mobile was ringing, and he pulled it from his pocket, walking away from Rebus and giving a little flick of the hand, hinting at dismissal.

“Thanks for your time,” Rebus muttered, heading for the door.

On the pavement outside he tried the artist’s number. It rang and rang until an automated voice told him to leave a message. He did so, then tried another number. Siobhan Clarke picked up.

“Enjoying your leisure time?” she asked.

“You’re one to talk—is that an espresso machine I hear?”

“Had to get out of the station. Corbyn’s brought Derek Starr back.”

“We knew it would happen.”

“We did,” she conceded. “So I’m having a bit of a blather with Nancy Sievewright. She tells me that the night of the Todorov killing, she was at Sol’s house trying to get some stuff. Only Sol was otherwise occupied, as we now know. But Nancy heard a car draw up and someone jump out and whack our poet across the back of the head.”

“So he was attacked twice?”

“It would seem so.”

“Same person each time?”

“Don’t know. I was beginning to wonder if Sol himself might have been the intended target second time around.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“You sound skeptical.”

“Is Nancy in earshot?”

“Popped to the loo.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, how about this: Todorov’s jumped in the car park, that much we know. He staggers into the night, but the attacker calmly gets into his or her car and follows, decides to finish the job.”

“Meaning the car was in the multistory?”

“Not necessarily . . . could’ve been parked on the street. Is it worth another trip to the City Chambers? Go back through the video. Up till now, we were looking at pedestrians . . .”

“Ask your friend at Central Monitoring to bring us number plates for any cars going in or out of King’s Stables Road?” She seemed to be considering it. “Thing is, Starr’s busily rewinding to the mugging scenario.”

“You’ve not told him about the car?”

“Not yet.”

“Are you going to?” he asked teasingly.

“The alternative being, keep it to myself, just like you would? Then if I’m right and he’s wrong, I get the applause?”

“You’re learning.”

“I’ll have to mull it over.” But he could tell she was already half-convinced. “So what are you up to? I hear traffic.”

“Bit of window-shopping.”

“Pull the other one.” She paused again. “Nancy’s coming back. I better hang up . . .”

“Tell me, did Starr make one of his ‘into the breach’ speeches?”

“What do you think?”

“I’ll bet Goodyear lapped it up.”

“I’m not so sure. Col liked it, though . . . I’ve sent him and Phyl to First Albannach. Janney’s got Todorov’s account details.”

“Took him long enough.”

“Well, he’s had a lot on his plate—wining and dining the Russians at Gleneagles . . .”

Not to mention, Rebus could have added, hanging around the Granton seafront with Cafferty and Andropov. . . . Instead, he said his good-byes and hung up. Looked around him at the small shops: women’s boutiques mostly. Realized he was a two-minute walk from the Caledonian Hotel.

“Why the hell not?” he asked himself. Answer: no reason at all.

At reception, he asked for “Mr. Andropov’s room.” But no one was answering. The clerk asked if he wanted to leave a message, but he shook his head and sauntered into the bar. It wasn’t Freddie serving. This bartender was young and blond and had an East European accent. To her opening question, Rebus replied that he’d have a Highland Park. She offered him ice, and he sensed she was new either to the job or to Scotland. He shook his head and asked where she was from.

“Cracow,” she said. “In Poland.”

Rebus just nodded. His ancestors had come from Poland, but that was as much as he knew about the place. He slid onto a stool and scooped up some nuts from a bowl.

“Here we are,” she said, placing the drink in front of him.

“And some water, please.”

“Of course.” She sounded flustered, annoyed to have made the mistake. About a pint of tap water arrived in a jug. Rebus added the merest dribble to the glass and swirled it in his hand.

“Meeting someone?” she asked.

“He’s here to see me, I think.” Rebus turned towards the speaker. Andropov must have been sitting in the same booth, the one with the blind spot. He managed a smile, but his eyes were cold.

“Henchman not with you?” Rebus asked.

Andropov ignored this. “Another bottle of water,” he told the barkeeper. “And no ice this time.”

She nodded and took the bottle from a fridge, unscrewing it and pouring.

“So, Inspector,” Andropov was saying, “is it really me you’re looking for?”

“Just happened to be in the area. I was visiting Terence Blackman’s gallery.”

“You like art?” Andropov’s eyebrows had gone up.

“I’m very keen on Roddy Denholm. Especially those early ones where he got the preschool kids to do some doodles.”

“I think you are being mocking.” Andropov had picked up his drink. “On my room,” he instructed the bartender. Then, to Rebus: “Join me, please.”

“This
is
the same booth?” Rebus asked as they got settled.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“The booth you were in the night Alexander Todorov was here.”

“I didn’t even know he was in the bar.”

“Cafferty paid for his drink. After the poet had gone, Cafferty then came over here and joined you.” Rebus paused. “You and the Minister for Economic Development.”

“I’m impressed,” Andropov seemed to admit. “Really I am. I can see you are not a man to cut corners.”

“Can’t be bought off, either.”

“I’m sure of that, too.” The Russian gave another smile; again, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“So what were you chatting about with Jim Bakewell?”

“Strange as it may seem, we were discussing economic development.”

“You’re thinking of investing in Scotland?”

“I find it such a welcoming country.”

“But we’ve none of the stuff you’re interested in—no gas or coal or steel . . .”

“You do have gas and coal, actually. And oil, of course.”

“About twenty years’ worth.”

“In the North Sea, yes—but you’re forgetting the waters to the west. Plenty of oil in the Atlantic, Inspector, and eventually we will master the technology, allowing us to extract it. Then there are the alternative energies—wind and wave.”

“Don’t forget all that hot air in the Parliament.” Rebus took a sip of his drink, savoring it. “Doesn’t explain why you’re eyeing up derelict land in Edinburgh.”

“You
do
keep a watchful eye, don’t you?”

“Comes with the territory.”

“Is it because of Mr. Cafferty?”

“Could be. How did you two get to know one another?”

“Through business, Inspector. All of it aboveboard, I assure you.”

“That why the authorities back in Moscow are preparing to take you down?”

“Politics,” Andropov explained with a pained expression. “And a refusal to grease the necessary palms.”

“So you’re being made an example of?”

“Events will run their course . . .” He lifted his glass to his lips.

“A lot of rich men are in jail in Russia. You’re not scared of joining them?” Andropov just shrugged. “Lucky you’ve made plenty of friends here—not just Labour, but the SNP, too. Must be nice to feel so wanted.” Still the Russian said nothing, so Rebus decided on a change of topic. “Tell me about Alexander Todorov.”

“What would you like to know?”

“You mentioned that he got kicked out of his teaching post for being too friendly with the students.”

“Yes?”

“I’m not finding anything about it in the records.”

“It was hushed up, but plenty of people in Moscow knew.”

“Funny, though, that you’d tell me that and forget to mention that the two of you grew up together—same age, same neighborhood . . .”

Andropov looked at him. “Once again, I admit I’m impressed.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Hardly at all. I’m afraid I came to represent everything Alexander detested. He would probably use words like ‘greed’ and ‘ruthlessness,’ while I prefer ‘self-reliance’ and ‘dynamism.’”