Authors: Ian Rankin
Friday 24 November 2006
W
hen Rebus woke up next morning, it was to an insistent buzzing from the entryphone. He rolled over in bed and checked his watch—not yet 7:00. Still dark outside, and a few more minutes until the timer would kick the central heating into action. The room was cold, the hall floor sucking heat from his feet as he padded down it and picked up the phone next to the door.
“This better be good,” he croaked.
“Depends on your point of view.” Rebus recognized the voice but couldn’t place it. “Come on, John,” the man drawled. “It’s Shug Davidson.”
“Up with the lark, Shug.”
“I’ve not been to bed yet.”
“Bit early for a social call.”
“Isn’t it? Now how about letting me in?”
Rebus’s finger hesitated above the entry button. He sensed that if he pressed it, his whole world would start to change—and probably not for the better. Problem was, what was the alternative?
He pressed the button.
DI Shug Davidson was one of the good guys. The force believed that human existence could be divided into two straightforward camps—good guys and bad. Davidson had made few enemies and many friends. He was conscientious and pragmatic, humane and sympathetic. But he had a serious look on his face this morning, only some of which could be attributed to lack of sleep. He also had a uniformed constable with him. Rebus had left the door ajar while he retreated to the bedroom to put some clothes on, yelling that Davidson could make tea if he liked. But Davidson and the uniform seemed content to stand in the hallway, so that Rebus had to squeeze past them to get to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth with more care than usual, staring at himself in the mirror above the sink. He was still staring at the reflection as he wiped his mouth dry. Back in the hall, he said the word “shoes” and made for the living room, finding them next to his chair.
“Do I take it,” Rebus asked as he wrestled with the laces, “West End has need of my finely honed detective skills?”
“Stone’s told us all about your rendezvous with Cafferty,” Davidson stated. “And Siobhan mentioned the cigarette butt. Not the only thing we found floating in the canal, though . . .”
“Oh?”
“We found a polythene overshoe, John. Looks like there might be some blood on it.”
“The sort of overshoes the SOCOs wear?”
“The SOCOs wear them, yes, but so do we.”
Rebus nodded slowly. “I keep some in the boot of the Saab.”
“Mine are in the VW’s glove box.”
“Just the place for them, when you think of it.” Finally, Rebus seemed happy with the knots. He stood up and made eye contact with Davidson. “Am I a suspect, then, Shug?”
“Bit of questioning should put everyone’s minds at rest.”
“Glad to help, DI Davidson.”
There was a bit more work to be done: finding keys and phone, picking out a coat to wear over his suit jacket. But then they were ready. Rebus locked the front door after him and followed Davidson downstairs, the constable bringing up the rear.
“Heard about the poor sod in London?” Davidson asked.
“Litvinenko?”
“Recently deceased. They’ve ruled out thallium, whatever that is . . .”
Turned out the two detectives were expected to sit in the back of the Passat while the uniform did the driving. Marchmont to Torphichen Place was a ten-minute ride. Melville Drive was quiet, the morning rush hour not yet begun. There were joggers busy on the Meadows, the car’s headlights picking out the reflective strips on their shoes. They waited at the Tollcross junction for the light to change to green, drove round the one-way into Fountainbridge, and were soon passing the wine bar at the canal basin. This was where Rebus had waited for Cafferty and Andropov to come out, the night he’d followed them to Granton. Rebus was trying to remember if there was any CCTV on the canal itself. He didn’t think so. But maybe there’d be cameras outside the wine bar. Just because he hadn’t noticed any didn’t mean they weren’t there. Unlikely they’d have spotted him loitering in the vicinity, but you never knew. The Leamington Lift Bridge wasn’t much used at night, but it
was
used. Drunks congregated with their bottles, youths walked to and fro, looking for action. Might someone have seen something? A figure running away? The tenement on Leamington Road where he’d parked his car that first night . . . if a neighbor had been peering from their window at the right moment . . .
“I think I’m being fitted up, Shug,” Rebus said as the car took a right at the roundabout, squeezing down the narrow arc of Gardner’s Crescent and signaling left at the next lights, into Morrison Street. They were back into the one-way system and would have to take a couple more rights to bring them to C Division HQ.
“Lot of people,” Davidson said, “are going to think he deserves a medal—the guy who clobbered Cafferty, I mean.” He paused, fixing Rebus with a look. “Just for the record, I don’t happen to be among them.”
“I didn’t do it, Shug.”
“Then you’ll be fine, won’t you? We’re cops, John, we
know
the innocent always go free . . .”
They were silent after that until the patrol car drew up outside the police station. No media, for which Rebus was thankful, but as they entered the lobby he saw Derek Starr having a whispered confab with Calum Stone.
“Nice day for a lynching,” Rebus told them. Davidson just kept moving, so Rebus followed.
“Reminds me,” Davidson was saying, “I think the Complaints are after a word, too.”
The Complaints: Internal Affairs . . . cops who liked nothing more than dustbinning their own.
“Seems you were suspended a few days back,” Davidson added, “but didn’t take it to heart.” He’d paused at the door to one of the interview rooms. “In here, John.” The door opened outwards. Reason for that was a prisoner couldn’t barricade himself in. Usual arrangement of table and chairs, with tape recorders and even a video camera bolted high up on the wall above the door, aimed at the table.
“The accommodation’s fine,” Rebus said, “but does it come with breakfast?”
“I can probably summon a bacon roll.”
“With brown sauce,” Rebus stated.
“Tea or coffee with that?”
“Milky tea, I think,
garçon
. No sugar.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Davidson closed the door after him, and Rebus sat down at the table, resting his head on his arms. So what if a SOCO had found an overshoe? Could be that one of the SOCOs themselves had left it there. Bloodstains might well turn out to be bits of bark or rust—plenty of both in the canal. Cops and SOCOs used overshoes, but who else? Some hospitals . . . maybe the mortuary . . . places that needed to be kept sterile. He thought of the lock on the Saab’s boot and how he’d been meaning to get it fixed. It would close eventually, but only with persistence, and even then it would spring open with minimal effort. Cafferty knew Rebus’s car. Stone and Prosser knew it, too. Had Andropov’s driver clocked it that day outside the City Chambers? No, because they’d been in Siobhan’s car, hadn’t they? But Rebus had left the Saab curbside while he’d followed Cafferty and Andropov to the wine bar . . . an opportunity for either of the bodyguards to swipe anything they liked from the boot. Cafferty himself had said it: Andropov’s driver had recognized Rebus. . . . A bloodstained overshoe—what were the chances of finding anything on it leading back to Rebus? He’d no way of knowing.
“Your last days as a cop, John,” he told himself. “Savor them . . .”
The door opened and a woman constable appeared with a polystyrene beaker.
“Tea?” he speculated, sniffing the contents.
“If you say so,” she responded, before making a tactical retreat. He took a sip and decided to be satisfied. When the door next opened, it was Shug Davidson, carrying in a third chair.
“Strangest bacon butty I’ve ever seen,” Rebus told him.
“Rolls are coming.” Davidson placed the chair next to his own, then sat down. He produced two cassette tapes from his pocket, unwrapped them, and slotted them into the machine.
“Do I need a lawyer, Shug?”
“You’re the detective, you tell me,” Davidson answered. And then the door opened once more and DI Calum Stone made his entry. He carried a case file with him and wore a grim look on his face.
“You’ve handed over control?” Rebus guessed, eyes on Davidson. But it was Stone who replied.
“SCD takes precedence.”
“Feel free to help yourselves to some of my station’s caseload, too,” Rebus told him. Stone just smirked and opened the file. It was dog-eared and coffee-stained and bore the hallmarks of having been pored over many times in pursuit of a fresh angle on Cafferty. Funny thing was, Rebus kept a file much like it at home . . .
“Right, then, DI Davidson,” Stone said, adjusting his jacket and shirt cuffs as he made himself comfortable, “switch that tape machine on and let’s get down to business . . .”
Half an hour later, the rolls arrived. Stone rose to his feet and began pacing, not quite managing to look sanguine that he had not been included in the food order. Rebus’s was cold, and the sauce was tomato rather than brown, but he attacked it with exaggerated zeal.
“This is delicious,” he would say one minute, and “Proper butter, too,” the next. Davidson had offered to split his own helping with Stone, but Stone had waved it aside. “Another cup of tea’s what we need,” Rebus suggested, and Davidson, finding his mouth full of stodgy dough, was forced to agree. So another round of teas arrived, and they washed down the last remnants of roll with them, Rebus daintily brushing bits of flour from the corners of his mouth before declaring himself “ready for round two.”
The machine was switched on again and Rebus went back to defending Siobhan Clarke’s role in the previous evening’s events.
“She does whatever
you
tell her,” Stone insisted.
“I’m sure DI Davidson here will vouch that DS Clarke is very much her own woman . . .” Rebus broke off and watched Davidson nod. “DI Davidson nods,” he added for the benefit of the tapes. Then he rubbed a finger across the bridge of his nose. “Look, here’s the bottom line—I’ve not tried to hide anything from you. I admit I saw Cafferty last night. I was there by the canal with him. But I didn’t attack him.”
“You admit you led an SCD surveillance unit away from the scene?”
“Stupid in retrospect,” Rebus agreed.
“But that’s all you did?”
“That’s all I did.”
Stone looked to Davidson and then back at Rebus. “In which case, Inspector, you won’t mind if we go down to the processing area?”
Rebus stared at Stone. “Are you charging me?”
“We’re asking you to volunteer your fingerprints,” Davidson explained.
“And a DNA swab,” Stone added.
“For purposes of elimination, John.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Why would an innocent man refuse?” Stone asked. The smirk was back again.
S
iobhan Clarke knew damned well she wouldn’t find a space in the car park at Gayfield Square—all those new arrivals, driving in from all over the city. Her own flat was only a five-minute walk, her car parked curbside in a residents’ bay. So she walked to work, taking with her a personal CD player. She’d found it under her bed, coated with dust. Replaced the batteries and found that the earphones from her iPod fitted the socket. On her way to work, she picked up coffee from the Broughton Street basement café. Seemed like an age since she’d met Todd Goodyear there. Derek Starr still didn’t seem to have noticed her new recruit—plenty of bodies in the CID suite, meaning Todd might go undetected awhile longer.
When she arrived, there was someone at her desk. She flung her shoulder bag onto the floor next to the chair, hoping it might act as a hint. When it didn’t, she flicked the officer’s ear. He looked up from the call he was making, and she gestured for him to vamoose. He didn’t seem happy about it, but got up anyway, continuing the conversation as he moved away. Todd Goodyear was standing in front of her with more sheets of transcript from the Urban Regeneration Committee.
“Doesn’t seem quite as busy in here,” Clarke commented, noting that Starr was in earnest conversation with Macrae in the DCI’s office.
“We’ve requisitioned two of the interview rooms,” he explained. “Numbers one and two—three’s too cold, apparently.” Then, after a meaningful pause: “What’s this I hear about Cafferty?”
“Did your girlfriend tell you?” Clarke took a sip of cappuccino. Goodyear was nodding.
“She was summoned to the canal,” he confirmed.
“That must have put a damper on your evening.”
“Part and parcel of the job.” He paused. “She saw you there, too. How do you want to play it?”
She didn’t get his meaning at first, then realized that Todd had been present outside the pub. He, too, knew that Rebus had been on his way to a rendezvous with Cafferty.
“Anyone asks,” she told him, “you tell them just as much as you know. For what it’s worth, DI Rebus has already talked to the inquiry team.”
Goodyear expelled some air. “Is he a suspect?”
Clarke shook her head. But she knew damned well the possibility was being discussed in Macrae’s room. As soon as Goodyear had retreated, she reached into her bag for the CD player and took the disc from the top drawer of her desk. Todorov’s recital for the benefit of the Word Power bookshop. She plugged herself in, cranked up the volume, and closed her eyes.
A café. The espresso machine was hissing somewhere in the distance. Charles Riordan had to be positioned near the front of the audience. She could hear Todorov clearing his throat. One of the booksellers gave the welcome and made some introductory remarks. Clarke knew the café. It was near the old Odeon cinema, popular with students. Big comfy sofas and mood music, the sort of place where you felt guilty ordering anything not fair-trade or organic. Didn’t sound like there was amplification for the poet. Riordan’s mic was good, though. When he changed its positioning, she could sense individuals in the audience: a cough here, a sniffle there. Murmurs and whispers. Riordan seemed almost as interested in these as in the main event. Figured: the man did like to eavesdrop.
When the poet started speaking, he covered almost identical ground to his recital at the Poetry Library—made the same icebreaking jokes, said how welcoming he found Scottish people. Clarke could imagine his eyes scanning the audience for any women who might like to take the welcome a little further. He veered a few times from the Poetry Library script, announcing at one point that he would next read a poem by Robert Burns. It was called “Farewell to All Our Scottish Fame.” Todorov read it in heavily accented English, having apologized for “anglicizing” certain words:
Farewell to all our Scottish fame,
Farewell our ancient glory.
Farewell even to the Scottish name,
So famed in martial story.
Now Sark runs over the Solway sands,
And Tweed runs to the ocean,
To mark where England’s province stands—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.
There were two further verses, each ending with the same last line. Applause and a couple of whoops when the poet had finished. Todorov then went back to poems from
Astapovo Blues
and ended by saying that copies were available for sale at the door. After the ovation had died down, Riordan’s mic made another circuit of the room, catching reactions to the recital.
“Going to buy a copy, then?”
“Ten quid’s a bit steep . . . anyway, we’ve heard most of them now.”
“Which pub you headed for?”
“Pear Tree probably.”
“What did you think?”
“Bit pompous.”
“We on for Saturday?”
“Depends on the kids.”
“Has it started raining?”
“I’ve got the dog in the car.”
And then the ringing of a mobile phone, silenced when the recipient answered . . .
Answered in what sounded to Clarke suspiciously like Russian. Only a couple of words before the voice was muffled. Did the poet himself possess a mobile phone? Not as far as she knew. Meaning someone in the audience . . . ? Yes, because now the mic was sweeping back round again, catching Todorov being thanked by the bookseller.
“And if you’d be happy to sign some stock afterwards . . . ?” she was asking.
“Absolutely. My pleasure.”
“Then a drink on us at the Pear Tree . . . You’re sure we can’t tempt you to supper?”
“I try to avoid temptation, my dear. It’s not good for a poet of my advancing years.” But then Todorov’s attention was deflected. “Ah, Mr. Riordan, isn’t it? How did the recording go?”
“It was great, thank you.”
Dead men talking, Clarke couldn’t help thinking. The mic itself cut out after that. The timer on the player told her she’d been listening for the best part of an hour. Macrae’s office was empty, no sign of Starr anywhere nearby. Clarke removed her earphones and checked her mobile for messages. There were none. She tried Rebus’s home number but got his machine. He wasn’t answering his mobile either. She was tapping the phone against her pursed lips when Todd Goodyear reappeared.
“Girlfriend’s just given me a tip-off,” he said.
“Remind me of her name.”
“Sonia.”
“And what does Sonia tell you?”
“When they were searching the canal, they came up with an overshoe. You know, the polythene sort with the elastic around the ankle?”
“Talk about contaminating the crime scene . . .”
He caught her meaning. “No,” he clarified, “it wasn’t dropped by a SOCO. There were spots of blood on it. Well, that’s what they think, anyway.”
“Meaning the assailant wore it?” Goodyear was nodding. Scene-ofcrime clothing—protective overalls, hats, overshoes, and disposable gloves . . . the whole lot designed so as not to leave trace evidence. Yes, but that worked both ways, didn’t it? Meant the investigators didn’t leave anything that could be misconstrued; meant anyone wearing the getup could mount an attack without fear of getting the victim’s blood or hair or fibers on them. Dump the overalls—or better still, burn them—and you had a good chance of getting away with it.
“Don’t go thinking what you’re thinking,” Clarke warned Goodyear, the same words Rebus had used on her. “This had nothing to do with DI Rebus.”
“Not saying it did.” Goodyear seemed stung by the accusation.
“What else did Sonia say?”
He shrugged by way of an answer. Clarke made a flicking motion with her fingers, and he took the hint, turning and finding that the desk he’d been using had found a new owner in his absence. As he walked away, readying to remonstrate, Clarke picked up her bag and coat, headed downstairs and out into Gayfield Square. Rebus was parked by the curb. She gave the briefest of smiles and opened the passenger-side door, climbing in.
“Your phone’s off,” she told him.
“Haven’t got round to switching it on.”
“Have you heard? They’ve found an overshoe.”
“Shug’s already dragged me in for questioning,” Rebus admitted, punching his PIN into his mobile. “Stone was there, too, enjoying every bastard minute.”
“What did you tell them?”
“The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
“This is serious, John!”
“Who knows that better than me?” he muttered. “But it only becomes problematic when they trace the overshoe to the boot of my car.”
She stared at him.
“When?”
she echoed.
“Think about it, Shiv. Only reason to leave the shoe was to stick me more firmly in the frame. The Saab’s boot hasn’t shut properly for months, and there’s nothing in there but crime-scene kit.”
“And that old pair of hiking boots,” she corrected him.
“Aye,” he agreed, “and if a hiking boot would have served the purpose, you can bet they’d have taken that instead.”
“So who’s the ‘they’? You still think Andropov?”
He dragged his palms down his face, accentuating the bloodshot and dark-ringed eyes, the day’s worth of gray stubble. “Proving it is going to be the killer,” he replied at last.
Clarke nodded her agreement, and they sat in silence for a while, until Rebus asked how everything else was shaping up.
“Starr and Macrae started the day with a good old chin-wag.”
“No doubt my name featured on the agenda.”
“All I’ve been doing is listening to that other recording of Todorov.”
“Nice to see you breaking a sweat.”
“Riordan’s mic picked up some of the audience. I think I heard a Russian voice.”
“Oh?”
“Thought I might nip over to Word Power and ask them.”
“Need a lift?”
“Sure.”
“Do me a favor first, will you? I need the CD of Todorov’s other performance.”
“Why?” He explained about Scarlett Colwell and the new poem. “So you’re keeping in her good books, eh?”
“Just go fetch it.”
She opened the car door but then paused. “The show Todorov did for Word Power, he read out a poem by Burns—‘Farewell to All Our Scottish Fame.’ ”
Rebus nodded. “I know that one. It’s about the English buying us off. Scotland lost all its money in a Panama landgrab. England suggested a union of the two countries.”
“What was so bad about that?”
“I keep forgetting you’re English. . . . We ceased to be a nation, Siobhan.”
“And became a parcel of rogues instead?”
“According to Burns, yes.”
“Sounds to me as if Todorov was a bit of a Scot Nat.”
“Maybe he just looked at this country and saw a version of his own . . . bought and sold for gold, tin, zinc, gas . . .”
“Andropov again?”
Rebus offered a shrug. “Go get that CD,” he told her.