Authors: Ian Rankin
He snapped shut his phone and allowed himself a little smile.
C
an’t be that much of it, if it fits onto one of these,” Siobhan Clarke commented. She was back in the CID suite and, DCI Macrae being elsewhere, had commandeered his room, the better to accommodate Terry Grimm. Seated at her boss’s desk, she held the clear plastic memory stick between thumb and forefinger, angling it in the light.
“You’d be surprised,” Grimm said. “I’m guessing there’s about sixteen hours on there. Could have squeezed more in if there had been anything usable. Unfortunately, the heat of the fire had done for most of it.” He’d brought the evidence sacks with him. They were tied shut but still carried the faintest aroma of charcoal.
“Did anything catch your eye?” Clarke paused. “Or
ear,
I suppose I should say.”
Grimm shook his head. “Tell you what I did do, though . . .” He reached into his inside pocket and drew out a CD in a plastic wallet. “Charlie taped the Russian poet at another event, few weeks back. Happened to come across it at the studio, so I burned you a copy.” He handed it over.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Some lecturer at the university was after the other show Charlie taped, but as far as I know
you’ve
got the only existing copy.”
“Name of Colwell?”
“That’s it.” He stared at the backs of his hands. “Any nearer to finding out who killed him?”
She gestured in the direction of the main office. “You can see we’re not exactly resting on our laurels.”
He nodded, but his eyes never left hers. “Good way of avoiding an answer,” he stated.
“It’s a case of finding the ‘why,’ Mr. Grimm. If you can help shed some light, we’d be incredibly grateful.”
“I’ve been turning it over in my head. Hazel and me have bounced it around, too. Still doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well, if you
do
think of anything . . .” She was rising to her feet, signaling that the meeting was over. Through the glass partition, she could see that there was a hubbub in the outer office. Out of it emerged Todd Goodyear. He knocked once and entered, closing the door after him.
“If I’m going to manage to actually
hear
what’s on those committee recordings, I’m going to need to shift my stuff,” he complained. “It’s like the monkey house out there.” He recognized Terry Grimm and gave a little nod of greeting.
“The Parliament tapes?” Grimm guessed. “You’re still trawling through them?”
“Still trawling.” Goodyear had a sheaf of paper under one arm.
He held the sheets out for Clarke to take. She saw that he had typed up his detailed notes on the contents of each tape. There were screeds of the stuff. In her early days as a detective, she, too, would have been this meticulous . . . back before Rebus showed her how to cut corners.
“Thanks,” she said. “And this is for you . . .” Handing him the memory stick. “Mr. Grimm reckons there’s about sixteen hours’ worth.”
Goodyear gave a protracted sigh and asked Terry Grimm how things were at the studio.
“Just about coping, thanks.”
Clarke was sifting the typed sheets. “Did anything here jump out at you?” she asked Goodyear.
“Not one single thing,” he informed her.
“Imagine how
we
felt,” Grimm added, “sitting there for days on end, listening to politician after politician drone on . . .”
Goodyear just shook his head, unwilling to imagine himself in that role.
“What you got was the good stuff,” Grimm assured him.
Clarke noticed that it had quieted down in the main office. “What was the noise about?” she asked Goodyear.
“Bit of a free-for-all at the mortuary,” he explained casually, tossing the memory stick into the air and catching it. “Someone’s trying to claim Todorov’s body. DI Starr wanted to know who was the fastest driver.” Another toss, another catch. “DC Reynolds claimed
he
was. Not everyone agreed . . .” He had been slow to notice that Clarke was glaring at him, but now his voice trailed off. “I should have told you straight off?” he guessed.
“That’s right,” she answered in a voice of quiet menace. And then, to Terry Grimm: “PC Goodyear will see you out. Thanks again for coming.”
She marched downstairs to the car park and got into her car. Started the ignition and drove. She wanted to ask Starr why he hadn’t said anything . . . why he hadn’t asked
her.
Giving the job to one of his boys instead—Ray Reynolds, at that! Was it because she’d gone off without telling him? Was it so she’d know her place in future?
She had plenty of questions for DI Derek Starr.
She turned right at the top of Leith Street, then hard left onto North Bridge. Straight across at the Tron and a right-hand turn, crossing oncoming traffic and onto Blair Street, passing Nancy Sievewright’s flat again. If Talking Heads really did reckon London a small city, they should try Edinburgh. No more than eight minutes after leaving Gayfield Square, she was pulling into the mortuary car park, stopping alongside Reynolds’s car, and wondering if she’d beaten his time. There was another car, a big old Mercedes Benz, parked between two of the mortuary’s anonymous white transit vans. Clarke stalked past it to the door marked Staff Only, turned the handle, and went in. There was no one in the corridor, and no one in the staff room, though steam was rising from the spout of a recently boiled kettle. She moved through the holding area and opened another door into a further corridor, up some stairs to the next level. This was where the public entrance was. It was where relatives waited to identify their loved ones and where the subsequent paperwork was taken care of. Usually it was a place of low sobbing, quiet reflection, utter and ghastly silence. But not today.
She recognized Nikolai Stahov straight off. He wore the same long black coat as when they’d first met. Alongside him stood a man who also looked Russian, maybe five years younger but almost as many inches taller and broader. Stahov was remonstrating in English with Derek Starr, who stood with arms folded, legs apart, as if ready for a ruck. Next to him was Reynolds, and behind them the four mortuary staff.
“We have right,” Stahov was saying. “Constitutional right . . . moral right.”
“A murder inquiry is ongoing,” Starr explained. “The body has to stay here in case further tests are required.”
Stahov, glancing to his left, had noticed Clarke. “Help us, please,” he implored her. She took a few steps forward.
“What seems to be the problem?”
Starr glared at her. “The consulate wants to repatriate Mr. Todorov’s remains,” he explained.
“Alexander needs to be buried in his homeland,” Stahov stated.
“Is there anything in his will to that effect?” Clarke asked.
“Will or no will, his wife is buried in Moscow —”
“Something I’ve been meaning to ask,” Clarke interrupted. Stahov had turned completely towards her, which seemed to annoy Starr. “What actually happened to his wife?”
“Cancer,” Stahov told her. “They could have operated, but she would have lost the baby she was carrying. So she continued with the pregnancy.” Stahov offered a shrug. “The baby was stillborn, and by then the mother only had a few days to live.”
The story seemed to have calmed the whole room. Clarke nodded slowly. “Why the sudden urgency, Mr. Stahov? Alexander died eight days ago . . . why wait till now?”
“All we want is to return him home, with due respect to his international stature.”
“I wasn’t sure he had that much stature in Russia. Didn’t you say that the Nobel Prize isn’t such a big deal in Moscow these days?”
“Governments can have changes of heart.”
“What you’re saying is, you’re under orders from the Kremlin?”
Stahov’s eyes gave nothing away. “There being no next of kin, the state becomes responsible. I have the authority to request his body.”
“But we have no authority to release it,” Starr countered, having shuffled around towards Clarke, the better to meet Stahov’s eye line. “You’re a diplomat; you must be aware that there are
protocols
.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Meaning,” Clarke explained, “we’ll be hanging on to the body until instructed otherwise by judgment or decree.”
“It is scandalous.” Stahov busied himself tugging at the cuffs of his coat. “I’m not sure how such a situation can be kept from public view.”
“Go crying to the papers,” Starr taunted him. “See where it gets you . . .”
“Start the process,” Clarke counseled the Russian. “That’s all you can do.”
Stahov met her eyes again and nodded slowly, then turned on his heels and headed for the exit, followed by his driver. As soon as both men had left, Starr grabbed Clarke by the arm.
“What are you doing here?” he spat.
She twisted out of his grip. “I’m where I should have been all along, Derek.”
“I left you in charge at Gayfield.”
“You left without so much as a word.”
Perhaps Starr sensed that this was not an argument he could win. He glanced around at the onlookers—Reynolds, the mortuary staff—and allowed his face to soften. “A discussion for another time, perhaps,” he offered.
Clarke, though she’d already decided not to push it, let him sweat for a moment as she pretended to think it over. “Fine,” she said at last.
He nodded and turned to the mortuary attendants. “You did the right thing, calling us. If they try anything else, you know where we are.”
“Think they’ll sneak him out in the middle of the night?” one of the men speculated.
One of his colleagues gave a chuckle. “Been a while since we’ve had one of those, Davie,” he commented.
Siobhan Clarke decided not to ask.
T
hey gathered around a table in the back room of the Oxford Bar. Word had gone out that John Rebus needed a bit of privacy, meaning they had the space to themselves. Nevertheless, they kept their voices low. First thing Rebus had done was explain his suspension and admit that it was dangerous for them to be seen with him. Clarke had sipped her tonic water—no gin tonight. Colin Tibbet had looked to Phyllida Hawes for a lead.
“If I have to choose between Derek Starr and yourself . . . no contest,” Hawes had decided.
“No contest,” Tibbet had echoed, without sounding completely convinced.
“What’s the worst they can do to me?” Todd Goodyear had added. “Send me back to uniform at West End? It’s going to happen anyway.” And he’d raised his half-pint of beer in Rebus’s direction.
After which, they’d started detailing the day’s events, Rebus careful to edit his own version—since he
was
supposed to be on suspension.
“You’ve still not talked to Megan Macfarlane or Jim Bakewell?” he asked Clarke.
“I’ve been a bit busy, John.”
“Sorry,” Goodyear said, almost choking on a mouthful of ale, “that reminds me—while you were at the mortuary, Bakewell’s office called. There’s a meeting with him penciled in for tomorrow.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, Todd.”
He winced visibly. Hawes was saying something about being thankful for any excuse to get out of the office.
“Isn’t space to swing a cat,” Tibbet concurred. “I opened my desk drawer this afternoon, somebody had left half a sandwich in it.”
“Did they treat you to lunch at the bank?” Rebus asked.
“Just a couple of foie gras baps,” Hawes informed him. “To be honest, the place reminded me of a very slick and upmarket production line, but a production line nonetheless.”
“Ten billion in profits.” Tibbet still couldn’t take it in.
“More than some countries’ GDPs,” Goodyear added.
“Here’s hoping they stick around if we get independence,” Rebus said. “Put them and their nearest competitor together, well, it’s not a bad start for a wee country.”
Clarke was looking at him. “You think that’s why Stuart Janney’s staying close to Megan Macfarlane?”
Rebus shrugged. “Nationalists wouldn’t want the likes of FAB packing up and shipping out. That gives the bank a bit of leverage.”
“I didn’t see any levers sticking out of Ms. Macfarlane.”
“But she
is
the future, isn’t she? Banks don’t make profits without playing a long game—sometimes a very long game.” He grew thoughtful. “Maybe they’re not the only ones at that . . .”
His phone started to vibrate, so he checked the number. Another mobile, one he didn’t know. He flipped the phone open.
“Hello?”
“Strawman . . .” Cafferty’s pet name for Rebus, its origins all but lost down the years. Rebus was on his feet, making for the front bar, down the couple of steps and then out into the night.
“You’ve changed your number,” Rebus told the gangster.
“Every few weeks. But I don’t mind friends knowing it.”
“That’s nice.” Since he was outside, Rebus took the opportunity to get a cigarette going.
“They’ll be the death of you, you know.”
“We all have to go sometime.” Rebus was remembering what Stone had said about taps on Cafferty’s phones . . . could they listen in on a mobile? Maybe another reason Cafferty kept changing numbers.
“I want to see you,” the gangster was saying.
“When?”
“Now, of course.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Just come to the canal.”
“Whereabouts on the canal?”
“You know,” Cafferty drawled, ending the conversation. Rebus stared at the phone before snapping it shut. He had wandered out into the lane. No problem this time of night—no traffic. And if any cars did venture along Young Street, the noise they made was a giveaway. So he stood there in the middle of the road, smoking his cigarette and facing Charlotte Square. One of the regulars had told him awhile back that the Georgian building facing him at the far end of the street was the residence of the First Minister. He wondered what the country’s leader made of the occasional motley crews to be found smoking outside the Oxford Bar . . .
The door opened and Siobhan Clarke emerged, sliding her arms into the sleeves of her coat. Todd Goodyear was right behind her, a single half-pint having provided ample sufficiency.
“That was Cafferty,” Rebus told them. “He wants to see me. You two headed somewhere?”
“Got to meet my girlfriend,” Goodyear explained. “Going to see the Christmas lights.”
“It’s still November,” Rebus complained.
“They were switched on at six tonight.”
“And I thought I’d start heading home,” Clarke added.
Rebus wagged a finger. “Should never leave a pub together— people will talk.”
“Why does Cafferty want to see you?” Clarke asked.
“He didn’t say.”
“Are you going to go?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“Where’s the meeting—somewhere well lit, I hope?”
“The canal, near that bar at the Fountainbridge basin. . . . What are Phyl and Col up to?”
“Thinking about Princes Street Gardens,” Goodyear said. “Ferris wheel and the ice rink are open for business.”
Clarke’s eyes were fixed on Rebus. “You after some backup?”
The look on his face was answer enough.
“Well . . .” Goodyear was turning up his collar as he examined the weather. “See you in the morning, eh?”
“Keep your nose clean, Todd,” Rebus advised him, watching as the young man headed towards Castle Street.
“He’s all right, isn’t he?” he offered. Clarke, however, was not to be deflected.
“You can’t just go meeting Cafferty by yourself.”
“It’s not like it’s the first time.”
“But any one of them could be the
last
.”
“If I’m found floating, at least you’ll know who to pull in.”
“Don’t you
dare
joke about this!”
He rested the palm of his hand against her shoulder. “Siobhan, it’s fine,” he assured her. “But there is a fly of sorts in the ointment . . . SCD could be watching Cafferty.”
“What?”
“I had a run-in with them last night.” Seeing the look on her face, he withdrew his hand and held it up in a show of appeasement. “I’ll explain later, but the thing is, they want me keeping my distance.”
“Then that’s what you should do.”
“Absolutely,” he said, making to hand her Stone’s business card. “And what I want
you
to do is ring this guy Stone and tell him DI Rebus needs an urgent word.”
“What?”
“Use the phone in the Ox—don’t want him tracing your mobile. You stay anonymous, say Rebus wants a meet at the petrol station. Then hang up.”
“Christ’s sake, John . . .” She was staring at the card.
“Hey, another forty-eight hours, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“You’re suspended from duty and you’re
still
in my hair.”
“Like a brush through the tangles, eh?” Rebus said with a smile.
“More like malfunctioning curling tongs,” Clarke told him, but she headed back into the bar anyway to make the call.
“Took your time” was Cafferty’s opening line. He was on the same footbridge across the canal, hands in the pockets of his long camel hair coat.
“Where’s your car?” Rebus asked, glancing back towards the deserted patch of wasteland.
“I walked. Only takes ten minutes.”
“And no bodyguard?”
“No need,” Cafferty stated.
Rebus lit another cigarette. “So you knew I was here the other night?”
“It was Sergei’s driver who recognized you.” The one who’d stared daggers at Rebus that night at the hotel. “Were you with us all the way to Granton?”
“It was a nice night for a drive.” Rebus tried blowing smoke towards Cafferty’s face, but the breeze whipped it away.
“It’s all legit, you know. Follow us all you like.”
“Thanks, I will.”
“Sergei loves Scotland, that’s what it comes down to. His dad used to read him
Treasure Island.
I had to take him to Queen Street Gardens. Pond there’s supposed to be what gave Robert Louis Stevenson the idea.”
“Fascinating.” Rebus was staring at the canal’s glassy surface. Might only be three or four feet deep, but he’d known men to drown in it.
“He’s thinking of bringing his businesses here,” Cafferty said.
“Didn’t know we had a lot of tin and zinc mines.”
“Well, maybe not
all
his businesses.”
“I can’t see the point really—it’s not as if we don’t have an extradition treaty with Russia.”
“You sure about that?” Cafferty said with a teasing smile. “Anyway, we
do
have a policy on political asylum, don’t we?”
“Not sure your pal fits the bill.”
Cafferty just smiled again.
“That night in the hotel,” Rebus pushed on, “you and Todorov, then you and Andropov, plus a government minister called Bakewell . . . what was that really all about?”
“I thought I’d already explained—I’d no idea who it was I bought a drink for.”
“You didn’t know that Todorov and Andropov grew up together?”
“No.”
Rebus flicked ash into the air. “So what was it you were discussing with the Minister for Economic Development?”
“I’m betting you’ve asked Sergei the same question.”
“How do you think he answered?”
“He probably told you they were talking about economic development—it happens to be true.”
“You seem to be in the market for a lot of land, Cafferty. Andropov puts up the money, you act as his factor?”
“All aboveboard.”
“Does he know about your history as a landlord? Flats stuffed with tenants, fire risks ignored, dole checks lifted and cashed . . .”
“You really are clutching at straws, aren’t you? Anyone would think you were in
there
.” Cafferty jabbed a finger towards the canal.
“You own a flat on Blair Street, it’s let to Nancy Sievewright and Eddie Gentry.” Just the two tenants, now Rebus thought of it; unusual for one of Cafferty’s fire traps. “Nancy’s friendly with Sol Goodyear,” he went on, “so friendly, in fact, that she gets her gear from him. Same night Sol gets himself stabbed in Haymarket, Nancy trips over Todorov’s body at the foot of Sol’s lane.” Rebus had brought his face close to the gangster’s. “See what I’m getting at?”
“Not really.”
“And now the consulate want to spirit Todorov’s body away.”
“Those straws I mentioned, Rebus, I’m losing count of them.”
“They’re not straws, Cafferty, they’re chains, and guess who it is they seem to be winding themselves around?”
“Steady,” Cafferty cautioned. “With language like that, you might want to start writing a bit of poetry yourself.”
“Problem with that is, the only words I can find to rhyme with ‘Cafferty’ are ‘evil’ and ‘bastard.’ ”
The gangster grinned, showing off expensive dental work. Then he sniffed the air and strolled to the far side of the bridge. “I grew up not too far from here, did you know that?”
“I thought it was Craigmillar.”
“But I’d an aunt and uncle in Gorgie, they looked after me when my mum was working. Dad legged it a month before I was due.” He turned towards Rebus. “You didn’t grow up in the city, did you?”
“Fife,” Rebus stated.
“You won’t remember the abattoir then. Occasionally, you’d get a bull making a break for it. The alarm would sound and us kids would be kept indoors until the sharpshooter arrived. I remember one time, I watched from the window. Bloody great beast it was, with snot and steam belching from it, kicking up its legs at the thought of all that bloody freedom.” He paused. “Right up until the moment the gunman went down on one knee, got his aim right, and shot it in the head. Those legs buckled and the gleam left its eyes. For a time there, I used to think that was
me
—the last free bull.”
“You’re full of bull all right,” Rebus retorted.
“Thing is,” Cafferty said with a smile that was almost rueful, “nowadays, I think maybe it’s you, Rebus. You’re bucking and kicking and snorting, because you can’t deal with the idea of me being legit.”
“That’s because ‘idea’ is as far as it gets.” He paused, flicking the remains of his cigarette into the water. “Why the hell did you bring me here, Cafferty?”
The gangster shrugged. “Not too many chances left for these little tête-à-têtes. And when Sergei told me you’d followed us that night . . . well, maybe I was just looking for the opportunity.”
“I’m touched.”
“I heard on the news that DI Starr’s been shipped in to head up the inquiry. They’ve already put you out to pasture, haven’t they? Just as well the pension’s healthy . . .”
“And all of it clean.”
“Siobhan’s got her chance to shine now.”
“She’s a match for you, Cafferty.”
“Let’s wait and see.”
“Just so long as I’ve got a ringside seat.”
Cafferty’s attention had shifted to the high brick wall, beyond which lay the development site. “Nice talking to you, Rebus. Enjoy that walk into the sunset.”
But Rebus didn’t budge. “Have you heard about the Russian guy in London? Got to be careful who you play with, Cafferty.”
“No one’s about to poison me, Rebus. Sergei and me, we see things the same way. Few years from now, Scotland’s going to be independent—not a shred of doubt about that. Sitting on thirty years’ worth of North Sea oil and God alone knows how much more in the Atlantic. Worst-case scenario, we do a deal with Westminster and end up with eighty or ninety percent of the cut.” Cafferty gave a slow shrug. “And then we’ll go and spend the money on our usual leisure pursuits—booze, drugs, and gambling. Put a supercasino in every city, and watch the profits stack up . . .”
“Another of your silent invasions, eh?”
“Soviets always did think there’d be revolution in Scotland. Won’t matter to you, though, will it? You’ll be out of the game for good.” Cafferty gave a little wave of the hand and turned his back.
Rebus stood his ground a bit longer but knew there was little to be gained from sticking around. All the same, he hesitated. The Cafferty of the other evening had been an actor on a stage, with props, including the car and the driver. Tonight’s Cafferty was different, more reflective. Lots of faces in Cafferty’s wardrobe . . . a mask for every occasion. Rebus considered offering him a lift home, but why the hell would he want to do that? Instead he turned and headed back to his car, lighting another cigarette on the way. The gangster’s story about the bull stayed with him. Was that how retirement would feel, all that strange and disconcerting freedom, but brutally short?