Exit Music (2007) (5 page)

“What happens at eleven?” Rebus had asked.

“We shut up shop—metal shutters come down at the entrance and exit.”

“Nobody can get in or out?” Walsh had shaken his head. “You check no one’s locked in?” A nod. “Were any cars left on Level Zero?”

“Not that I remember.”

“You always park next to the cabin?”

“That’s right.”

“But when you drive out, you exit on Level Zero?” A nod from the guard. “And you didn’t see anything?”

“Didn’t hear anything either.”

“There would have been blood on the ground.”

A shrug.

“You like your music, Mr. Walsh.”

“Love it.”

“Lie back in your chair, feet up, headphones on, eyes shut. . . . Some security guard you make.”

Rebus had stared at the monitors again, ignoring Walsh’s glower. There were two covering Level Zero. One was fixed on the exit barriers, the other trained on the far corner. You’d have had better luck with a camera phone.

“Sorry I can’t be more help,” Walsh had said, not bothering to sound sympathetic. “Who was he, anyway?”

“A Russian poet called Todorov.”

Walsh thought for a moment. “I never read poetry.”

“Join the club,” Rebus had told him. “Bit of a waiting list, mind . . .”

6

C
R Studios took up the top floor of a converted warehouse just off Constitution Street. Charles Riordan’s hand, when Clarke shook it, was pudgy and moist, seeming to leave a residue on her palm which rubbing couldn’t remove. There were rings on his right hand, but not the left, and a chunky gold watch loose around his wrist. Clarke noted sweat stains at the armpits of Riordan’s mauve shirt. He’d rolled his sleeves up, showing arms matted with curled black hairs. The way he moved, she could tell he always wanted to appear busy. There was a receptionist at a desk just inside the door, and some sort of engineer pushing buttons at a control desk, eyes fixed to a screen showing what Clarke guessed were sound waves.

“The Kingdom of Noise,” Riordan announced.

“Impressive,” Clarke allowed. Through a window, she could see two separate booths, but no sign of anyone in them. “Bit tight for a band, though.”

“We can accommodate singer-songwriters,” Riordan said. “One man and his guitar—that sort of thing. But really we’re for the spoken word—radio commercials, audiobooks, TV voice-overs . . .”

A pretty specialized kingdom, Clarke couldn’t help thinking. She asked if there was an office where they could talk, but Riordan just stretched out his arms.

A specialized
small
kingdom.

“Well,” she began, “as I said on the phone —”

“I know!” Riordan burst out. “I can’t believe he’s dead!”

Neither receptionist nor engineer batted an eyelid; Riordan had obviously told them the minute he’d come off the phone.

“We’re trying to account for Mr. Todorov’s last movements.” Clarke had opened her notebook for effect. “I believe you had a few drinks with him, the night before last.”

“I saw him more recently than that, sweetheart.” Riordan couldn’t help making it sound like a boast. He’d been wearing sunglasses, but now slipped them off, showing large, dark-rimmed eyes. “I treated him to a curry.”

“Yesterday evening?” Clarke watched the man nod. “Where was this?”

“West Maitland Street. We’d had a couple of beers near Haymarket. He’d been through to Glasgow for the day.”

“Any idea why?”

“Just wanted to see the place. He was trying to figure out the difference between the two cities, in case it helped explain the country—and bloody good luck to him! I’ve been here most of my life and still can’t make sense of it.” Riordan shook his head slowly. “He
did
try explaining it to me—his theory about us—but it went in one ear and out the other.”

Clarke noticed the receptionist and engineer share a look, and assumed this was nothing new as far as they were concerned.

“So he spent the day in Glasgow,” she recapped. “What time did you meet up?”

“Around eight. He’d been waiting till rush hour was past, meant he got a cheap ticket. Met him off the train, and we hit a couple of pubs. Weren’t the first drinks he’d had that day.”

“He was drunk?”

“He was
voluble
. Thing about Alex was, when he drank he got more intellectual. Which was a bugger, because if you were drinking with him you soon started to lose the plot.”

“What happened after the curry?”

“Not much. I had to be heading home, he said he was getting thirstier. If I know him, he would have gone on to Mather’s.”

“On Queensferry Street?”

“But he’s just as likely to have wandered into the Caledonian Hotel.”

Leaving Todorov at the west end of Princes Street, not a stone’s throw from King’s Stables Road.

“What time was this?”

“Must’ve been around ten.”

“I’m told by the Scottish Poetry Library that you recorded Mr. Todorov’s recital the previous night.”

“That’s right. I’ve done a lot of poets.”

“Charlie’s done a lot of
everything
,” the engineer added. Riordan laughed nervously.

“He means my little project . . . I’m putting together a sort of soundscape of Edinburgh. From poetry readings to pub chatter, street noise, the Water of Leith at sunrise, football crowds, traffic on Princes Street, the beach at Portobello, dogs being walked in the Hermitage . . . hundreds of hours of the stuff.”

“Thousands more like,” the engineer corrected him.

Clarke tried not to be deflected. “Had you met Mr. Todorov before?”

“I taped another performance of his at a café.”

“Which one?”

Riordan shrugged. “It was for a bookshop called Word Power.”

Clarke had seen it that very afternoon, opposite the pub where she’d had lunch with Rebus. She remembered a line in one of Todo-rov’s poems—
Nothing connects
—and thought again how wrong he was.

“How long ago was that?”

“Three weeks back. We had a drink that night, too.”

Clarke tapped her pen against her notebook. “Do you have a receipt for the restaurant?”

“Probably.” Riordan reached into his pocket and brought out a wallet.

“First sighting this year,” the engineer said, eliciting a laugh from the receptionist. She’d clamped a pen between her teeth and was playing with it. Clarke decided the two of them were an item, whether their employer knew it or not. Riordan had pulled out a mass of receipts.

“Reminds me,” he muttered, “need to get some stuff to the accountant. . . . Ah, here it is.” He handed it over. “Mind if I ask why you want it?”

“Shows the time you got the bill, sir. Nine forty-eight—much as you said.” Clarke slipped the piece of paper into the back of her notebook.

“One question you haven’t asked,” Riordan said teasingly. “Why did we meet up at all?”

“All right, then . . . why did you?”

“Alex wanted a copy of his gig. Seemed to him it had gone well.”

Clarke thought back to Todorov’s flat. “Did he ask for any particular format?”

“I burned it onto a CD.”

“He didn’t have a CD player.”

Riordan gave a shrug. “Plenty of people do.”

True enough, but the CD itself hadn’t turned up, most likely taken with the other stuff . . .

“Could you make another copy for me, Mr. Riordan?” Clarke asked.

“How would that help?”

“I’m not sure, but I’d like to hear him in full flow, as it were.”

“The master’s back at my home studio. I could get it burnt by tomorrow.”

“I’m based at Gayfield Square—any chance someone could pop it in?”

“I’ll have one of the children do it,” Riordan agreed, eyes taking in the engineer and receptionist.

“Thanks for your help,” Clarke said.

When smoking had been banned, back in March, Rebus had foreseen disaster for places like the Oxford Bar—traditional pubs catering to basic needs: a pint, a cigarette, horse racing on TV, and a hotline to the local turf accountant. Yet most of his haunts had survived, albeit with reduced takings. True to form, however, the smokers had formed a stubborn little gang that would congregate outside, trading stories and gossip. Tonight, the talk was the usual mix: someone was giving his views on a recently opened tapas bar, while the woman alongside wanted to know what the quietest time was to visit Ikea; a pipe smoker was arguing for full-scale independence, while his English-sounding neighbor teased that the south would be glad of the breakup—“and no bloody alimony!”

“North Sea oil’s the only alimony we’ll need,” the pipe smoker said.

“It’s already running out. Twenty years, and you’ll be back with the begging bowl.”

“In twenty years we’ll be Norway.”

“Either that or Albania.”

“Thing is,” another smoker interrupted, “if Labour lost its Scottish seats at Westminster, it’d never get elected again south of the border.”

“Fair point,” the Englishman said.

“Just after opening or just before closing?” the woman was asking.

“Bits of squid and tomato,” her neighbor stated. “Not bad once you got the taste . . .”

Rebus stubbed out his cigarette and headed indoors. The round of drinks was waiting for him, along with his change. Colin Tibbet had emerged from the back room to help out.

“You can take your tie off, you know,” Rebus teased him. “We’re not in the office.”

Tibbet smiled but said nothing. Rebus pocketed the change and hefted the two glasses. He liked that Phyllida Hawes drank pints. Tibbet was on orange juice, Clarke sticking to white wine. They’d taken the table at the far end. Clarke had her notebook out. Hawes raised her fresh glass in a silent toast to Rebus. He scraped himself back into the chair.

“Drinks took longer than I thought,” he offered by way of apology.

“Managed a quick smoke, though,” Clarke chided him. He decided to ignore her.

“So what have we got?” he asked instead.

Well, they had a timeline for Todorov’s last two or three hours of life. They had a growing list of items missing—presumed removed—from the deceased. They had a new locus, the car park.

“Is there anything,” Colin Tibbet piped up, “to suggest that we’re dealing with something other than a particularly brutal mugging?”

“Not really,” Clarke offered, but she met John Rebus’s eyes and he gave a slow blink of acknowledgment. It didn’t feel right; Clarke could sense it, too. It just didn’t feel right. His phone, which he’d laid on the tabletop, started to vibrate, sending tremors across the surface of the pint glass next to it. He picked it up and moved away, either for a better signal or to escape the hubbub. They weren’t alone in the back room: a group of three tourists sat bewildered in one corner, showing too much interest in the various artifacts and adverts on the walls. Two men in business suits were hunched over another table, arguing near silently about something. The TV was on, tuned to a quiz show.

“We should enter a team of four,” Tibbet said. Hawes asked what he meant. “HQ is having a pub quiz, week before Christmas,” he explained.

“By then,” Clarke reminded him, “we’ll be a team of three.”

“Heard anything about the promotion?” Hawes asked her. Clarke just shook her head. “Taking their time,” Hawes added, twisting the knife. Rebus was coming back.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” he said, sitting down again. “That was Howdenhall with a bit of news. Tests show our Russian poet had ejaculated at some point during the day. Stained underpants, apparently.”

“Maybe he got lucky in Glasgow,” Clarke speculated.

“Maybe,” Rebus agreed.

“Him and this sound recordist?” Hawes offered.

“Todorov had a wife,” Clarke said.

“You can never tell with poets, though,” Rebus added. “Could’ve been some time after the curry, of course.”

“Any time up until the minute he was attacked.” Clarke and Rebus shared another look.

Tibbet was shifting in his chair. “Or it could have been . . . you know.” He cleared his throat, cheeks reddening.

“What?” Clarke asked.

“You know,” Tibbet repeated.

“I think Colin means masturbation,” Hawes interjected. Tibbet’s look was a study in gratitude.

“John?” It was the barman. Rebus turned towards him. “Thought you’d want to see this.” He held up a newspaper. It was the day’s final printing of the
Evening News
. The headline was “DEATH OF A POET” and beneath it, in bold lettering, “The maverick who dared to say
nyet!
” There was an archive photo of Alexander Todorov. He stood in Princes Street Gardens, the Castle louring behind him. A tartan scarf was wrapped around his neck; probably his first day in Scotland. A man with only two months to live.

“Cat’s out of the bag,” Rebus said, taking the proffered newspaper. Then, to anyone around the table who might know: “Does that count as metaphor?”

DAY THREE

Friday 17 November 2006

7

T
here was a funny smell in the CID office at Gayfield Square police station. You often noticed it at the height of summer, but this year it seemed determined to linger. It would disappear for a matter of days or weeks, then one morning would announce its creeping reappearance. There had been regular complaints and the Scottish Police Federation had threatened a walkout. Floors had been lifted and drains tested, traps set for vermin, but no answers.

“Smells like death,” the seasoned officers would comment. Rebus knew what they meant: every now and again, a body would be discovered decomposing in the armchair of a sixties semi, or a floater would be pulled from Leith docks. There was a special room set aside for them at the mortuary, and the attendants had placed a radio on the floor, which could be switched on when desired: “Helps take our minds off the pong.”

At Gayfield Square, the answer was to open all available windows, which sent the temperature plummeting. The office of Detective Chief Inspector James Macrae—separated by a glass door from the CID suite—was like a walk-in fridge. This morning, Macrae had shown foresight by hauling an electric heater into work from his Blackhall home. Rebus had seen somewhere that Blackhall boasted the wealthiest residents in the city. It had sounded an unlikely setting—bungalows and more bungalows. Homes in Barnton and the New Town fetched millions. Then again, maybe that explained why the people who lived there weren’t as rich as those in Bungalowland.

Macrae had plugged the heater in and switched it on, but it stayed on his side of the desk and radiated warmth only so far. Phyllida Hawes had already shuffled so close to it that she was almost seated on Macrae’s lap, something the DCI noted with a scowl.

“Right,” he barked, clenching his hands together as if in angry prayer, “progress report.” But before Rebus could begin, Macrae sensed a problem. “Colin, shut the door, will you? Let’s keep what heat there is to ourselves.”

“Not much room, sir,” Tibbet commented. He was standing in the doorway, and what he said was true: with Macrae, Rebus, Clarke, and Hawes inside, space in the DCI’s den was limited.

“Then go back to your desk,” Macrae replied. “I’m sure Phyllida can report on your behalf.”

But Tibbet didn’t want that happening: if Clarke was promoted to DI, there’d be a vacancy for detective sergeant, making Hawes and him rivals as well as partners. He sucked in his stomach and managed to get the door closed.

“Progress report,” Macrae repeated. But then his phone rang and he lifted it with a growl. Rebus wondered about his boss’s blood pressure. His own was nothing to boast about, but Macrae’s face was typically puce, and though a couple of years younger than Rebus, his hair had almost gone. As Rebus’s own doctor had conceded during his last checkup, “You’ve had a lucky run, John, but luck always runs out.”

Macrae made only a few grunts before putting the phone back down. His eyes were on Rebus. “Someone from the Russian consulate at the front desk.”

“Wondered when they’d turn up,” Rebus said. “Siobhan and I should take this, sir. Meantime, Phyl and Colin can tell you all you need to know—we had a powwow last night.”

Macrae nodded his agreement, and Rebus turned to Clarke.

“One of the interview rooms?” she suggested.

“Just what I was thinking.” They moved out of the DCI’s office and through the CID suite. The wall boards were still blank. Later today, photos from the crime scene would go up, along with lists of names, jobs to be done, and schedules of hours. At some murder scenes, you would set up a temporary HQ, work from there. But Rebus didn’t see the point this time round. They would put up posters at the car park exit, appealing for information, and maybe get Hawes and Tibbet or a few of the uniforms to stick leaflets on windscreens. But this large, cold room would be their base. Clarke was looking back over her shoulder towards Macrae’s office. Hawes and Tibbet seemed to be in competition to see who could offer the best tidbits to the boss.

“Anyone,” Rebus commented, “would think there’s a DS slot going begging. Who’s your money on?”

“Phyl’s got more years in,” Clarke answered. “She’s got to be favorite. If Colin gets it, I think she’ll walk.”

Rebus nodded his agreement. “Which interview room?” he asked.

“I like Three.”

“Why so?”

“Table’s all greasy and scabby, graffiti scratched on the walls. . . . It’s the sort of place you go when you’ve done something.”

Rebus smiled at her thinking. Even for the pure at heart, IR3 was a troubling experience.

“Spot on,” he said.

The consular official was called Nikolai Stahov. He introduced himself with a self-effacing smile. He was young-looking and shiny-faced with a parting in his light-brown hair which made him seem even more boyish. But he was six feet tall and broad-shouldered, and wore a three-quarter-length black woolen coat, complete with belt and the collar turned up. From one pocket peeked a pair of black leather gloves—mittens, actually, Rebus realized, smooth and rounded where there should have been fingers.
Did your mum dress you?
he wanted to ask. But he shook Stahov’s hand instead.

“We’re sorry about Mr. Todorov,” Clarke said, reaching out her own hand towards the Russian. She got a little bow along with the shake.

“My consulate,” Stahov said, “wishes to be assured that everything possible is being done to capture and prosecute the perpetrator.”

Rebus nodded slowly. “We thought we’d be more comfortable in one of our interview rooms . . .”

They led the young Russian down the corridor, stopping at the third door. It was unlocked. Rebus pulled it open and gestured for Clarke and Stahov to go in. Then he slid the panel across the door, changing its message from Vacant to In Use.

“Take a seat,” he said. Stahov was studying his surroundings as he lowered himself onto the chair. He was about to place his hands on the tabletop, but thought better of it and rested them on his lap instead. Clarke had taken the seat opposite, Rebus content to lean against the wall, arms folded. “So what can you tell us about Alexander Todorov?” he asked.

“Inspector, I came here for reassurances and from a sense of protocol. You must know that as a diplomat, I am not obliged to answer any of your questions.”

“Because you’ve got immunity,” Rebus acknowledged. “We just assumed you’d want to assist us in any way possible. It
is
one of your countrymen who’s been killed, and rather a notable one at that.” He tried to sound aggrieved.

“Of course, of course, that’s unquestionable.” Stahov kept turning his head, trying to talk to both of them at the same time.

“Good,” Clarke told him. “Then you won’t mind us asking how big a thorn Todorov was proving to be?”

“Thorn?” It was hard to tell if Stahov’s English was really defeating him.

“How awkward was it for you,” Clarke rephrased the question, “having a noted dissident poet living in Edinburgh?”

“It wasn’t awkward at all.”

“You welcomed him?” Clarke pretended to guess. “Was there any kind of party at the consulate? He’d been talked about for the Nobel. . . . That must have given you great satisfaction?”

“In today’s Russia, the Nobel Prize isn’t such a big deal.”

“Mr. Todorov had given a couple of public performances recently . . . did you happen to go see him?”

“I had other engagements.”

“Did anyone from the consulate —”

But Stahov felt the need to interrupt. “I don’t see what bearing any of this could have on your inquiries. In fact, your questions could be construed as a smoke screen. Whether we wanted Alexander Todorov here or not is of no consequence. He was murdered in
your
city,
your
country. Edinburgh is not without its problems with race and creed—Polish workers have found themselves attacked. Wearing the wrong football shirt can be provocation enough.”

Rebus looked towards Clarke. “Talk about a smoke screen . . .”

“I am speaking the truth.” Stahov’s voice was beginning to tremble, and he made an effort to calm himself. “What my consulate requires, Inspector, is to be kept informed of developments. That way, we can reassure Moscow that your investigation has been rigorous and fair, and they in turn can advise your government of our satisfaction.”

Rebus and Clarke seemed to consider this. Rebus unfolded his arms and slipped his hands into his pockets.

“There’s always the possibility,” he said quietly, “that Mr. Todorov was attacked by someone with a grudge. That person
could
be a member of the Russian community here in Edinburgh. I’m assuming the consulate keeps a list of nationals living and working here?”

“My understanding, Inspector, was that Alexander Todorov was just another victim of this city’s street crime.”

“Foolish to rule anything out at this stage, sir.”

“And that list
would
come in handy,” Clarke stressed.

Stahov looked from one detective to the other. Rebus hoped he’d make up his mind soon. One error they’d made in opting for IR3—it was bloody freezing. The Russian’s overcoat looked toasty, but Rebus reckoned Siobhan was going to start shivering soon. He was surprised their breath wasn’t visible in the air.

“I will see what I can do,” Stahov said at last. “But quid pro quo—you will keep me informed of developments?”

“Give us your number,” Clarke told him. The young Russian seemed to take this as agreement.

Rebus knew it was anything but.

There was a package waiting for Siobhan Clarke at the front desk. Rebus had gone outside for a cigarette and to see whether Stahov had a chauffeur. Clarke opened the padded envelope and found a CD inside, with the single word “Riordan” written on it in thick black pen. It told her a lot about Charles Riordan that he used his own name, in place of Todorov’s. She took the CD upstairs, but there was no machine to play it on. So instead she headed for the car park, passing Rebus as he came in.

“Big black Merc waiting for him,” Rebus confirmed. “Guy wearing shades and gloves at the helm. Where are you off to?”

She told him, and he said he wouldn’t mind joining her, though warning that he “might not last the pace.” In the end, though, the pair of them sat in Clarke’s car for a solid hour and a quarter, engine running so the heater stayed on. Riordan had recorded everything: some chat between audience members, then the introduction by Abigail Thomas, Todorov’s half hour and the Q and A session after, most of the questions steering clear of politics. As the applause died and the audience dispersed, Riordan’s mic was still picking up chatter.

“He’s an obsessive,” Clarke commented.

“I hear you,” Rebus agreed. Almost the last thing they heard was a muttered snatch of Russian. “Probably,” Rebus speculated, “saying ‘Thank Khrushchev that’s over.’ ”

“Who’s Khrushchev?” Clarke asked. “Some friend of Jack Palance?”

The recital itself had been riveting, the poet’s voice by turns sonorous, gruff, elegiac, and booming. He performed some of his work in English, some in Russian, but the majority in both—usually Russian first, English after.

“Sounds like Scots, doesn’t it?” Clarke had asked at one point.

“Maybe to someone from England,” Rebus had retorted. Okay, so she’d walked into that one, as so often before—her “southern” accent had been easy prey for Rebus since the moment they’d met. This time, she’d refused to rise to him.

“This one,” she’d said at another point, “is called ‘Raskolnikov’—I remember it from the book. Raskolnikov’s a character in
Crime and Punishment
.”

“A book I’d probably read before you were even born.”

“You’ve read Dostoevsky?”

“You think I’d lie about something like that?”

“What’s it about, then?”

“It’s about guilt. One of the great Russian novels, in my opinion.”

“How many others have you read?”

“That’s neither here nor there.”

Now, as she turned the CD off, he swiveled towards her. “You’ve listened to the show, you’ve been through Todorov’s book—have you found
anything
resembling a motive for his killing?”

“No,” she conceded. “And I know what you’re thinking—Macrae’s going to treat it as a mugging gone wrong.”

“Which is pretty well how the consulate wants to see it handled, too.”

She gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “So who did he have sex with?” she eventually asked.

“Is it relevant?”

“We won’t know till we know. Most likely candidate is Scarlett Colwell.”

“Because she’s a stunner?” Rebus sounded dubious.

“Can’t bear to think of her with anyone else?” Clarke teased.

“What about Miss Thomas at the Poetry Library?” But this time Clarke gave a snort.

“I don’t see her as a contender,” she explained.

“Dr. Colwell didn’t seem so sure.”

“Which probably says more about Dr. Colwell than Ms. Thomas.”

“Maybe young Colin had a point,” Rebus plowed on. “Or it’s just as likely our red-blooded poet picked up a tart in Glasgow.” He saw Clarke’s look. “Sorry, I should have said ‘sex worker’—or has the terminology changed again since I last got my knuckles rapped?”

“Keep going and I’ll rap them again.” She paused for a moment, eyes still fixed on him. “Funny to think of you reading
Crime and Punishment
.” She took a deep breath. “I did a search on Harry Goodyear.”

“Thought you might.” He turned his attention to the windscreen and the bleak car park beyond. Clarke could see that he wanted to wind down the window so he could smoke. But the smell was out there, lying in wait just above the level of the tarmac.

“He was a pub landlord in Rose Street, mid-eighties,” she said. “You were a detective sergeant. You helped put him away.”

“He was dealing drugs from the premises.”

“He died in jail, didn’t he? Just a year or two after . . . bad heart or something. Todd Goodyear wouldn’t long have been out of nappies.” She paused in case he had anything to add, then went on. “Todd’s got a brother, did you know that? Name’s Sol, been on our radar a few times. I say that, but actually he lives in Dalkeith, making him E Division’s problem. Guess what he’s been in trouble for.”