Exit Music (2007) (6 page)

“Drugs?”

“So you know about him?”

Rebus shook his head. “Educated guess.”

“And you didn’t know Todd Goodyear was in the police?”

“Believe it or not, Shiv, I don’t keep tabs on the grandkids of villains I locked up two decades back.”

“Thing is, we didn’t just get Sol for possession—we tried to have him for dealing, too. Court gave him the benefit of the doubt.”

Rebus turned towards her. “How do you know all this?”

“I was in the office before you this morning. Few minutes on the computer and one phone call to Dalkeith CID. Rumor at the time was Sol Goodyear was dealing on behalf of Big Ger Cafferty.”

She could see straightaway that she’d struck a nerve: Cafferty was unfinished business—
big
unfinished business—his name top of Rebus’s to-do list. Cafferty had made a decent fist of looking like a retired villain, but Rebus and Clarke knew better.

Cafferty still ran Edinburgh.

And had found himself a place at the top of
her
list, too.

“Is any of this leading somewhere?” Rebus asked, turning his attention back to the windscreen.

“Not really.” She ejected the CD from its slot. The radio blasted into life—Forth One, the DJ talking twenty to the dozen. She switched it off. Rebus had noticed something.

“Didn’t know there was a camera there,” he said. He meant at the corner of the building, between the first and second stories. The camera was pointing into the car park.

“They reckon it stops vandalism. Reminds me actually—think there’s any point looking at city-center footage from the night Todorov was killed? Bound to be cameras at the west end of Princes Street, maybe on Lothian Road, too. If someone was shadowing him . . .” She let the sentence drift.

“It’s an idea,” he admitted.

“Needle in a haystack,” she added. His silence seemed to confirm it, and she rested her head against the back of the seat, neither of them in any hurry to go back inside. “I remember reading in a paper that we’ve got the most surveillance of any country in the world; more CCTV in London than the whole of the USA . . . can that be right?”

“Can’t say I’ve noticed it reducing the crime stats.” Rebus’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that noise?”

Clarke saw that Tibbet was gesturing from an upstairs window. “I think we’re wanted.”

“Maybe guilt got the better of our killer and he’s come to hand himself in.”

“Maybe,” Clarke said, not believing it for one moment.

8

B
een here before?” Rebus asked, once they’d passed through the metal detector. He was scooping loose change back into his pocket.

“Got the guided tour soon after it opened,” Clarke admitted.

There were indented shapes in the ceiling; Rebus couldn’t tell if they were supposed to be Crusader-style crosses. Plenty of activity in the main entrance hall. Tables had been set up for the tour parties, ID badges lying on them and placards to say which groups were expected. Staff were everywhere, ready to direct visitors to the reception desk. At the far end of the hall, some school kids in uniform were settling down for an early lunch.

“First time for me,” Rebus told Clarke. “Always wondered what four hundred million pounds looks like . . .”

The Scottish Parliament had divided public opinion from the moment its plans were revealed in the media. Some thought it bold and revolutionary, others wondered at its quirks and its price tag. The architect had died before completing the project, as had the man who’d commissioned it. But it was built now and working, and Rebus had to admit that the debating chamber, whenever he’d seen it on the TV news, looked a bit special.

When they told the woman at the reception desk that they were here to see Megan Macfarlane, she printed out a couple of visitor passes. A call to the MSP’s office confirmed that they were expected, and another member of staff stepped forward and asked them to follow him. He was a tall, brisk-stepping figure and, like the receptionist, probably not a day under sixty-five. They followed him down corridors and up in a lift and down more corridors.

“Plenty of concrete and wood,” Rebus commented.

“And glass,” Clarke added.

“The special, expensive kind, of course,” Rebus speculated.

Their guide said nothing until they turned yet another corner and found a young man waiting for them.

“Thanks, Sandy,” the man said, “I’ll take it from here.”

As the guide headed back the way they’d just come, Clarke thanked him, and received a little grunt of acknowledgment. Maybe he was just out of breath.

“My name’s Roddy Liddle,” the young man was telling them. “I work for Megan.”

“And who exactly
is
Megan?” Rebus asked. Liddle stared at him as if he were maybe making a joke. “All our boss told us,” Rebus explained, “was to come down here and talk to someone with that name. Apparently she phoned him.”

“It was me who did the phoning,” Liddle said, making it sound like yet another arduous task that he’d taken in his stride.

“Good for you, son,” Rebus told him. The “son” obviously rankled. Liddle was in his early twenties and reckoned he was already well on his way in politics. He looked Rebus up and down before deciding to dismiss him as irrelevant.

“I’m sure Megan will explain.” Having said which, Liddle turned and led them to the end of the corridor.

The MSPs’ private offices were well proportioned, with desks for staff as well as the politicians themselves. It was Rebus’s first sighting of one of the infamous “think pods”—little alcoves with curved windows and a cushioned seat. This was where the MSPs were supposed to come up with blue-sky ideas. It was also where they found Megan Macfarlane. She rose to greet them.

“Glad you could come at such short notice,” she said. “I know you’re busy on the inquiry, so I won’t keep you long.” She was short and slim and impeccably groomed, not a hair out of place and with just the right amount of makeup. She wore half-moon glasses that rested most of the way down her nose, so that she peered over them at the two detectives. “I’m Megan Macfarlane,” she said, inviting them to make introductions of their own. Liddle was back behind his desk, staring at messages on his computer. Rebus and Clarke gave their names, and the MSP looked around for places to sit, before having a better idea.

“We’ll go downstairs and get a coffee. Roddy, can I bring you one back?”

“No thanks, Megan. One cup a day’s plenty for me.”

“Good point—I don’t need to be in the chamber later on?” She waited till he’d shaken his head, then focused her gaze on Clarke. “Diuretic effects, you know, doesn’t do to be caught short when you’re halfway through a point of order . . .”

They went back the way they’d come and found themselves descending an impressive staircase, Macfarlane announcing that the “Scot Nats” had high hopes for May’s elections.

“Latest polls put us five points clear of Labour. Blair’s unpopular, and so is Gordon Brown. The Iraq war, cash for peerages—it was one of my colleagues who started that investigation. Labour’s panicking because Scotland Yard say they’ve uncovered ‘significant and valuable material.’” She gave a satisfied smile. “Scandal seems to be our opponents’ middle name.”

“So it’s the protest vote you’re after?” Rebus asked.

Macfarlane didn’t seem to feel this merited any sort of reply.

“If you win in May,” Rebus went on, “do we get a referendum on independence?”

“Absolutely.”

“And we suddenly become a Celtic tiger?”

“The Labour Party has been failing the people of Scotland for fifty years, Inspector. It’s time for a change.”

Queuing at the counter, she announced that this would be her “treat.” Rebus ordered an espresso, Clarke a small cappuccino. Macfarlane herself opted for a black coffee into which she poured three sachets of sugar. There were tables nearby, and they chose an empty one, pushing aside the leftover crockery.

“We’re still in the dark,” Rebus said, lifting his cup. “I hope you don’t mind me getting straight to the point, but as you said yourself, we’ve got a murder inquiry waiting for us back at base.”

“Absolutely,” Macfarlane agreed. Then she paused for a moment, as if to marshal her thoughts. “How much do you know about me?” she began by asking.

Rebus and Clarke shared a look. “Until we were told to come see you,” Rebus obliged, “neither of us had ever heard of you.”

The MSP, trying not to show any pain, blew across the surface of her coffee before taking a sip.

“I’m a Scottish Nationalist,” she said.

“That much we’d guessed.”

“And that means I’m passionate about my country. If Scotland is to flourish in this new century—and flourish outside the confines of the UK—we need enterprise, initiative, and investment.” She counted these three off on her fingers. “That’s why I’m an active member of the URC—the Urban Regeneration Committee. Not that our remit is purely urban, you understand; in fact, I’ve already proposed a name change in order to make that clear.”

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Clarke said, having noted Rebus’s agitation, “but can I ask what any of this has to do with us?”

Macfarlane lowered her eyes and gave a little smile of apology. “I’m afraid when I’m passionate about something, I do tend to rabbit on.”

Rebus’s glance towards Clarke said it all.

“This unfortunate incident,” Macfarlane was saying, “involving the Russian poet . . .”

“What about it?” Rebus prompted.

“Right now, a group of businessmen is in Scotland—a very
prosperous
group, and all of them Russian. They represent oil, gas, and steel, and other industries besides. They are looking to the future, Inspector—Scotland’s future. We need to ensure nothing jeopardizes the links and relationships that we’ve painstakingly fostered over the past several years. What we certainly
don’t
want is anyone thinking we’re not a welcoming country, a country that embraces cultures and nationalities. Look at what happened to that young Sikh lad . . .”

“You’re asking us,” Clarke summarized, “if this was a racial attack?”

“One of the group has voiced that concern,” Macfarlane admitted. She looked towards Rebus, but he was staring at the ceiling again, still not sure about it. He’d heard that its concave sections were supposed to look like boats. When he turned his attention back to the MSP, her worried face demanded some reassurance.

“We can’t rule anything out,” he decided to tell her instead. “Could have been racially motivated. The Russian consulate told us as much this morning—there’ve been attacks on some of the migrant workers from Eastern Europe. So it’s certainly a line we’ll be following.”

She looked shocked by these words, just as he’d intended. Clarke was hiding her smile behind a raised cup. Rebus decided there was more fun to be had. “Would any of these businessmen have met with Mr. Todorov recently? If so, it would be helpful to talk to them.”

Macfarlane was saved from answering by the appearance of a new arrival. Like Rebus and Clarke, he wore a badge that proclaimed him a visitor.

“Megan,” he drawled, “I saw you from the reception desk. Hope I’m not interrupting?”

“Not at all.” The MSP could hardly disguise her relief. “Let me get you a coffee, Stuart.” Then, to Rebus and Clarke: “This is Stuart Janney, from First Albannach Bank. Stuart, these are the officers in charge of the Todorov case.” Janney shook hands before pulling over a chair.

“I hope you’re both clients,” he said with a smile.

“State of my finances,” Rebus informed him, “you should be happy I’m with the competition.”

Janney made a show of wincing. He’d been carrying his trench coat over one arm, and now folded it across his lap. “Grim news about that murder,” he said, while Macfarlane rejoined the queue at the counter.

“Grim,” Rebus echoed.

“From what Ms. Macfarlane just said,” Clarke added, “I’m guessing she’s already spoken with you about it.”

“Happened to come up in conversation this morning,” Janney acknowledged, running a hand through his blond hair. His face was freckled, the skin pink, reminding Rebus of a younger Colin Montgomerie, and his eyes were the same dark blue as his tie. Janney seemed to have decided that further explanation was needed. “We were on the phone to one another.”

“Are you something to do with these Russian visitors?” Rebus asked. Janney nodded.

“FAB never turns away prospective customers, Inspector.”

FAB: it was how most people referred to the First Albannach Bank. It was a term of affection, but behind it lay one of the biggest employers—and probably the most profitable company—in Scotland. The TV adverts showed FAB as an extended family, and were filmed almost as mini-soaps, while the bank’s brand-new corporate HQ—built on greenbelt land, despite the protests—was a city in miniature, complete with shopping arcade and cafés. Staff could get their hair done there, or buy food for the evening meal. They could use the gym or play a round of golf on the company’s own nine-hole course.

“So if you’re looking for someone to manage that overdraft . . .” Janney handed out business cards. Macfarlane laughed when she saw it, before passing him his black coffee. Interesting, Rebus thought: he takes it the same way she does. But he’d bet that if Janney was out with an important customer, whatever the customer ordered would be Janney’s drink of choice, too. The Police College at Tulliallan had run a course on it a year or two back: Empathic Interviewing Techniques. When questioning a witness or a suspect, you tried to find things you had in common, even if that meant lying. Rebus had never really got round to trying it, but he could tell that someone like Janney would be a natural.

“Stuart’s incorrigible,” the MSP was saying. “What have I told you about touting for business? It’s unethical.” But she was smiling as she spoke, and Janney gave a quiet chuckle, while sliding his business cards closer to Rebus and Clarke.

“Mr. Janney,” Clarke began, “tells us the pair of you were discussing Alexander Todorov.”

Megan Macfarlane nodded slowly. “Stuart has an advisory role in the URC.”

“I didn’t think FAB would be pro-Nationalist, Mr. Janney,” Rebus said.

“Completely neutral,” Janney stressed. “There are twelve members of the Urban Regeneration Committee, Inspector, representing five political parties.”

“And how many of them did you speak to on the phone today?”

“So far, only Megan,” the banker admitted, “but then it’s not
quite
lunchtime.” He made show of checking his watch.

“Stuart is our three-I consultant,” Macfarlane was saying. “Inward Investment Initiatives.”

Rebus ignored this. “Did Ms. Macfarlane ask you to drop by, Mr. Janney?” he asked. When the banker looked to the MSP, Rebus had his answer. He turned his attention to Macfarlane herself. “Which businessman was it?”

She blinked. “Sorry?”

“Which one was it who seemed so concerned about Alexander Todorov?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Is there any reason I
shouldn’t
know?” Rebus raised an eyebrow for effect.

“The Inspector’s got you cornered, Megan,” Janney was saying with a lopsided smile. He got a baleful look in return, which had gone by the time Macfarlane turned towards Rebus.

“It was Sergei Andropov,” she stated.

“There was a Russian president called Andropov,” Clarke commented.

“No relation,” Janney told her, taking a sip of coffee. “At HQ, they’ve taken to calling him Svengali.”

“Why’s that, sir?” Clarke sounded genuinely curious.

“The number of takeovers he’s finessed, the way he built up his own company into a global player, the boards he’s won round, the strategies and gamesmanship . . .” Janney sounded as if he could go on all day. “I’m pretty sure,” he said, “it’s meant as a term of endearment.”

“Sounds like he’s endeared himself to you, at any rate,” Rebus commented. “I’m guessing First Albannach would love to do business with these big shots.”

“We already do.”

Rebus decided to wipe the smile off the banker’s face. “Well, Alexander Todorov happened to bank with you, too, sir, and look what happened to him.”

“DI Rebus has a point, sir,” Clarke interrupted. “Any chance you could get us details of Mr. Todorov’s accounts and most recent transactions?”

“There are protocols . . .”

“I understand, sir, but they might help us find his killer, which in turn would put your clients’ minds at rest.”

Janney gave a thoughtful pout. “Is there an executor?”

“Not that we know of.”

“Which branch was his account with?”