Exit Music (2007) (7 page)

Clarke stretched out her arms and gave a shrug and a hopeful smile.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“We appreciate it, sir,” Rebus told him. “We’re based at Gayfield Square.” He made show of studying his surroundings. “Not quite as grand as this, but then it didn’t bankrupt the taxpayer either . . .”

9

I
t was a quick run from the Parliament to the City Chambers. Rebus told the staff at reception that they had a 2:00 p.m. appointment with the Lord Provost and were hellish early, but could they leave their car parked outside anyway? Everyone seemed to think that was fine, which caused Rebus to beam a smile and ask if they could fill in the time by saying hello to Graeme MacLeod. More passes, another security check, and they were in. As they waited for the lift, Clarke turned to Rebus.

“I meant to say, you handled Macfarlane and Janney pretty well.”

“I guessed as much from the way you let me do most of the work.”

“Is it too late for me to withdraw the compliment?” But they were both smiling. “How long till they find out we’ve nicked a parking space under false pretenses?”

“Depends whether they bother to ask the Lord Prov’s secretary.” The lift arrived and they got in, descending two stories below ground level to where a man was waiting. Rebus introduced him to Clarke as Graeme MacLeod, and MacLeod led them into the CMF Room, explaining that CMF stood for Central Monitoring Facility. Rebus had been there before, but Clarke hadn’t, and her eyes widened a little as she saw the array of closed-circuit monitors, dozens of them, three deep and with staff manning desks of computers in front of them.

MacLeod liked it when visitors were impressed and needed no prompting to give his little speech.

“Ten years the city’s had CCTV,” he began. “Started with a dozen cameras in the center, now we’ve got over a hundred and thirty, with more due to be introduced shortly. We maintain a direct link to the Police Control Center at Bilston, and about twelve hundred arrests a year are down to things we spot in this stuffy wee room.”

The room was certainly warm—heat from all the monitors—and Clarke was shrugging off her coat.

“We’re open 24/7,” MacLeod went on, “and can track a suspect while telling the police where to find them.” The monitors had numbers above them, and MacLeod pointed to one. “That’s the Grassmarket. And if Jenny here”—meaning the woman seated at the desk—“uses the little keypad in front of her we can swivel the camera and zoom in on anyone parking their car or coming out of a shop or pub.”

Jenny showed how it was done, and Clarke nodded slowly.

“The picture’s very clear,” she commented. “And in color—I was expecting black and white. Don’t suppose you’ve any cameras on King’s Stables Road?”

MacLeod gave a dry chuckle. “I knew that’s what you’d be after.” He reached for a logbook and flicked back a couple of pages. “Martin was manning the decks that night. He tracked the police cars and ambulance.” MacLeod ran a finger along the relevant entry. “Even had a look back at what footage there was but didn’t spot anything conclusive.”

“Doesn’t mean there’s nothing there.”

“Absolutely.”

“Siobhan here,” Rebus said, “was telling me there’s more CCTV in the UK than any other country.”

“Twenty percent of all the closed-circuit cameras in the world, one for each and every dozen of us.”

“So quite a lot then?” Rebus muttered.

“You save all the footage?” Clarke asked.

“We do what we can. It goes onto hard disk and video, but there are guidelines we have to follow . . .”

“What Graeme means,” Rebus explained for Clarke’s benefit, “is that he can’t just go handing material to us—Data Protection Act, 1997.”

MacLeod was nodding. “Ninety-eight actually, John. We can give you what we’ve got, but there are hoops to be gone through first.”

“Which is why I’ve learned to trust Graeme’s judgment.” Rebus turned to MacLeod. “And I’m guessing you’ve been through the recordings with whatever the digital equivalent is of a fine-toothed comb?”

MacLeod smiled and nodded. “Jenny gave me a hand. We had the photos of the victim from the various news agencies. I think we’ve picked him up on Shandwick Place. He was on foot and unaccompanied. That’s at just gone ten. Next time we see him is half an hour later on Lothian Road. But as you’ve guessed, we’ve no cameras on King’s Stables Road itself.”

“Did you get the sense anyone was following him?” Rebus asked.

MacLeod shook his head. “And neither did Jenny.”

Clarke was studying the screens again. “A few more years of this and I’ll be out of a job.”

MacLeod laughed. “I doubt that. Surveillance is a tricky balancing act. Invasion of privacy is always an issue, and the civil rights people oppose us every step of the way.”

“Now there’s a surprise,” Rebus muttered.

“Don’t tell me you’d want one of our cameras peering in through your own window?” MacLeod teased.

Clarke had been thinking. “Charles Riordan picked up the tab at the curry house at nine forty-eight. Todorov left there and headed into town along Shandwick Place. How come it took him half an hour to travel quarter of a mile to Lothian Road?”

“He stopped for a drink?” Rebus guessed.

“Riordan mentioned Mather’s or the Caledonian Hotel. Wherever he went, Todorov was back on the street at ten forty, meaning he’d have been outside the car park five minutes later.” She waited for Rebus to nod his agreement.

“Shutters go down on the car park at eleven,” he added. The attack must’ve been quick.” Then, to MacLeod: “What about afterwards, Graeme?”

MacLeod was ready for this. “The passerby who found the body called it in at twelve minutes past eleven. We took a look at the footage from the Grassmarket and Lothian Road ten minutes either side of that time.” He gave a shrug. “Just the usual pub-goers, office parties, late-night shoppers . . . no crazed muggers legging it with a hammer swinging from their hand.”

“Be handy if we could take a look at that,” Rebus stated. “We might know faces you don’t.”

“Fair enough.”

“But you’d want us to jump through the hoops?”

MacLeod had folded his arms, the gesture providing an answer in itself.

They were heading back through the reception area, Rebus breaking open a fresh packet of cigarettes, when an attendant in some sort of official garb stopped them. It took a moment for Rebus to register that the Lord Provost herself was there, too, her gold chain of office hanging around her neck. She didn’t look particularly happy.

“I believe we have an appointment?” she was asking. “Though nobody seems to know about it except you two.”

“Bit of a cock-up there,” Rebus apologized.

“So not just a ploy to grab yourselves a precious parking bay?”

“Perish the thought.”

She glared at him. “Just as well you’re going—we need that space for more important visitors.”

Rebus could feel his grip tightening on the cigarettes. “What could be more urgent than a murder inquiry?” he asked.

She caught his meaning. “The Russian poet? We need that one cleared fast.”

“To appease the moneymen of the Volga?” Rebus guessed. Then, after a moment’s thought: “How much does the council have to do with them? Megan Macfarlane tells us her Urban Regeneration Committee is involved.”

The Lord Provost was nodding. “But there’s council input, too.”

“So you’re glad-handing the fat cats? Good to see my council tax being put to such good use.”

The Lord Provost had taken a step forwards, glare intensifying. She was readying a fresh salvo when her attendant cleared his throat. Through the window, a long black car could be seen trying to maneuver itself through the arch in front of the building. The Lord Provost said nothing, just turned from Rebus and was gone. He gave her five seconds, then made his own exit, Clarke at his shoulder.

“Nice to make friends,” she said.

“I’m a week from retirement, Shiv, what the hell do I care?”

They walked a few yards down the pavement, then stopped while Rebus got his cigarette lit.

“Did you see the paper this morning?” Clarke asked. “Andy Kerr won Politician of the Year last night.”

“And who’s he when he’s at home?”

“Man who brought in the smoking ban.”

Rebus just snorted. Pedestrians were watching the official-looking car draw to a halt in front of the waiting Lord Provost. Her liveried attendant stepped forward to open the back door. Tinted windows had shielded the passenger from view, but as he stepped out Rebus immediately guessed he was one of the Russians. Big coat, black gloves, and a chiseled, unsmiling face. Maybe forty years old, hair short and well groomed with some graying at the temples. Steely gray eyes that took in everything, Rebus and Clarke included, even as he was shaking the Lord Provost’s hand and answering some remark she’d made. Rebus sucked smoke deep into his lungs and watched as the party disappeared back inside.

“Looks like the Russian consulate’s going into the taxi business,” Rebus stated, studying the black Mercedes.

“Same car Stahov had?” Clarke guessed.

“Could be.”

“What about the driver?”

“Hard to tell.”

Another official had appeared and was gesturing for them to move their car so the chauffeur could park. Rebus held up a single digit, meaning one minute. Then he noticed that Clarke was still wearing her visitor’s badge.

“Better hand them back,” he said. “You take this.” He held out the half-smoked cigarette towards her, but she was reluctant, so instead he balanced it on a windowsill nearby. “Watch it doesn’t blow away,” he warned, taking her badge and unclipping his own.

“I’m sure they don’t need them,” she commented. Rebus just smiled and headed for reception.

“Thought we better give you these,” he told the woman behind the desk. “You can always recycle them, eh? We’ve all got to do our bit.” He was still smiling, so the receptionist smiled back.

“By the way,” he added, leaning over the desk, “that bloke with the Lord Provost—was it who I think it was?”

“Some sort of business tycoon,” the woman said. Yes, because the visitors’ log was sitting there in front of them, and the last name to be entered—entered with what looked like thick blue ink from a fountain pen—was the same one she uttered now.

“Sergei Andropov.”

“Where to?” Clarke asked.

“The pub.”

“Do you have one in mind?”

“Mather’s, of course.”

But as Clarke drove them down Johnston Terrace, Rebus told her to take a detour, a series of left turns bringing them into King’s Stables Road from the Grassmarket end. They drew to a halt outside the multistory, and saw that Hawes and Tibbet were busy. Clarke sounded the horn as she turned off the ignition. Tibbet turned and waved. He’d been sticking flyers on windscreens—POLICE INCIDENT: INFORMATION REQUIRED. Hawes was setting up a sandwich board on the pavement next to the exit barriers—a larger version of the flyer, exact same wording. There was a grainy photograph of Todorov: “Around 11 p.m. on Wednesday 15 November a man was attacked within the confines of this car park, dying from his injuries. Did you see anything? Was anyone you know parked here on that evening? Please call the incident room . . .” The number given was a police switchboard.

“Just as well,” Rebus pointed out, “seeing as there’s no one currently home at CID.”

“Macrae was saying much the same thing,” Hawes agreed, studying her handiwork. “Wanted to know how many more officers we’d be needing.”

“I like my teams small and perfectly formed,” Rebus replied.

“Obviously not a Hearts fan,” Tibbet added in an undertone.

“You a Hibs fan then, Colin, same as Siobhan here?”

“Livingston,” Tibbet corrected him.

“Hearts have got a Russian owner, haven’t they?”

It was Clarke who answered. “He’s Lithuanian actually.”

Hawes interrupted to ask where Rebus and Clarke were headed.

“The pub,” Clarke announced.

“Lucky you.”

“Business rather than pleasure.”

“So what do Colin and me do after this?” Hawes’s eyes were on Rebus.

“Back to base,” he told her, “to await the torrent of phone calls.”

“And,” Clarke suddenly remembered, “I need someone to call the BBC for me. See if they’ll send us a copy of Todorov on
Question Time
. I want to see just how much of a stirrer he really was.”

“They ran a bit of it on the news last night,” Colin Tibbet announced. “There was a package about the case, and that was all the footage of him they seemed to have.”

“Thanks for sharing,” Clarke told him. “Maybe
you
could get on to the Beeb for me?”

He gave a shrug, indicating willingness. Clarke’s attention was drawn to the stack of flyers he still held. Though they were printed on various colors of paper, most seemed to be a particularly lurid pink.

“We wanted them in a hurry,” Tibbet explained. “This was what was on offer.”

“Let’s go,” Rebus told Clarke, making for the car, but Hawes had other ideas.

“We should be doing the follow-up interviews with the witnesses,” she called. “Me and Colin could do it.”

Rebus pretended to think for all of five seconds before turning down the offer.

Back in the car, he stared at the No Entry sign that was denying them direct access to Lothian Road.

“Think I should chance it?” Clarke asked.

“Up to you, Shiv.”

She gnawed at her bottom lip, then executed a three-point turn. Ten minutes later, they were on Lothian Road, passing the other end of King’s Stables Road. “Should’ve chanced it,” Rebus commented. Two further minutes and they were parking on the yellow lines outside Mather’s, having disregarded a road sign warning them they could turn into Queensferry Street only if they were a bus or a taxi. The white van in front had done the selfsame thing and the estate car behind them was following suit.

“A regular little law-breaking convoy” was Rebus’s comment.

“I despair of this town,” Clarke said, teeth bared. “Who thinks up the traffic management?”

“You need a drink,” Rebus informed her. He didn’t get into Mather’s much, but he liked the place. It was old-fashioned, with few chairs, most of them occupied by serious-looking men. Early afternoon, and Sky Sports was on the television. Clarke had brought a few of the flyers with her—yellow in preference to pink—and went around the tables with them, while Rebus held one up in front of the barman’s face.