Authors: Ian Rankin
T
he bookshop was small and cramped. Rebus feared that if he so much as turned around he would topple a display. The woman behind the till had her nose in a copy of something called
Labyrinth
. She worked there only part-time and hadn’t been to the Todorov reading.
“We’ve got some of his books, though.”
Rebus looked in the direction she was pointing. “Are they signed?” he asked. For his troubles, Clarke poked him in the ribs before asking the assistant if any photos had been taken on the night. She nodded and muttered something about the shop’s Web site. Clarke looked to Rebus.
“Should’ve thought of that first,” she told him. So they drove back to her flat, Rebus deciding to double-park rather than seek a space farther afield.
“A while since I’ve been here,” he said as she led him down the narrow hallway. It was much the same layout as his own flat, but with meaner proportions.
“It’s nothing personal,” she apologized. “Just that I don’t entertain much.”
They were in the living room by now. Chocolate wrappers on the rug next to the sofa, alongside an empty wineglass. On the sofa itself sat a large, venerable-looking teddy bear. Rebus picked it up.
“It’s a Steiff,” Clarke told him. “Had him since I was a kid.”
“Has he got a name?”
“Yes.”
“Going to tell me what it is?”
“No.” She’d gone over to the computer desk by the window and switched on the laptop, which rested there. She had one of those S-shaped stools that were supposed to be good for your back, but she sat with her feet on the bit that was meant for her knees. Within a matter of moments, she had found the Word Power Web site. Clicked on “Recent Events” and then “Photo Gallery” and started a slow scroll. And there was Todorov, being introduced to the crowd. They were seated on the floor and standing at the back, and all had about them the aura of the converted.
“How are we supposed to spot the Russians?” Rebus asked, leaning his hands against the edge of the desk. “Cossack hats? Ice picks in their ears?”
“We never did take a proper look at that list,” Clarke said.
“What list?”
“The one Stahov made—Russian residents in Edinburgh. He even had his own name on it, remember? Wonder if his driver’s on it, too.” She was tapping the screen. Only his face was visible. He was seated on a brown leather sofa but with people crouched and seated on the floor in front of him. The photographer was no professional; everyone had been given red eyes. “Remember that fuss at the mortuary? Stahov wanted Todorov’s remains repatriated. I’m pretty sure our friend here was with him.” She tapped the screen again. Rebus leaned in farther for a better look.
“He’s Andropov’s driver,” he said. “We went eyeball-to-eyeball in the lobby of the Caledonian Hotel.”
“Must be working for two masters, then, because Stahov got into the back of his old Merc and this guy got behind the wheel.” She turned her head and looked up at him. “Reckon he’ll talk to us?”
Rebus shrugged. “Maybe he’ll claim diplomatic immunity.”
“Was he with Andropov that night in the bar?”
“No one’s mentioned him.”
“Might have been waiting outside with the car.” She glanced at her watch.
“What now?” Rebus asked.
“I’ve got that appointment with Jim Bakewell MSP.”
“Where are you meeting him?”
“The Parliament building.”
“Tell him you need a coffee—I’ll be at the next table over.”
“Haven’t you got anything better to do?”
“Like what?”
“Finding out who’s behind the attack on Cafferty.”
“You don’t think there’s a link?”
“We don’t
know
.”
“I could really use a shot of that parliamentary espresso,” Rebus told her.
She couldn’t help smiling. “All right, then,” she said. “And I really will have you over to supper one night—promise.”
“Best give me plenty of warning . . . diary’s going to be bursting at the seams.”
“Retirement’s a whole new beginning for some people,” she agreed.
“I don’t plan on twiddling my thumbs,” he assured her.
Clarke had risen from the stool. She stood in front of him, arms by her sides, eyes fixed on his. The silence lasted fifteen or twenty seconds, Rebus smiling at the end, feeling they’d shared a long conversation without the need for words.
“Let’s go,” he said, breaking the spell.
They called the Western General from the car, checking on Cafferty’s progress.
“He’s not woken up,” Rebus said, relaying the message for Clarke’s benefit. “Due another scan later today, and they’ve got him on drugs to prevent a blood clot.”
“Think we should send him flowers?”
“Bit early for a wreath . . .”
They’d taken a shortcut down Calton Road, parked in one of the residential streets at Abbeyhill. Clarke told him to give her a five minute start, which gave Rebus enough time for a cigarette. Tourists were milling around, a few interested in the Parliament building but the majority keener on the Palace of Holyrood across the street. One or two seemed to be puzzling over the vertical bamboo bars across some of the Parliament’s windows.
“Join the club,” Rebus muttered, stubbing the cigarette and heading inside. As he emptied his pockets and prepared for the metal detector at security, he asked one of the guards about the bamboo.
“Search me,” the man said.
“Isn’t that supposed to be
my
line?” Rebus replied. On the other side of the detector, he scooped up his stuff and made for the coffee bar. Clarke was in the queue, and he took his place directly behind her. “Where’s Bakewell?” he asked.
“On his way down. He’s not a ‘coffee person’ apparently, but I said it was for my benefit rather than his.” She ordered her cappuccino and got out some money.
“Might as well add mine to the order,” Rebus said. “And make it a double.”
“Want me to drink it for you, too?”
“Could be the last espresso you ever buy me,” he chided her.
They found two adjacent tables and settled at them. Rebus still wasn’t sure about this vast, echoing interior. If someone had told him he was in an airport, he might have believed them. He couldn’t tell what sort of statement it was supposed to be making. One newspaper report from a few years back had stuck in his mind, the journalist speculating that the building was too elaborate for its actual purpose and was, in fact, “an independent parliament in waiting.” Made sense when you remembered that the architect was Catalan.
“Detective Sergeant Clarke?” Jim Bakewell shook Clarke’s hand, and she asked him if he wanted anything. “We could take your drink to my office” was all he said.
“Yes, but now that we’re here . . .”
Bakewell sighed and sat down, adjusting his glasses. He wore a tweed jacket and what looked like a tweed tie over a check shirt.
“Won’t take long, sir,” Clarke was telling him. “Wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Alexander Todorov.”
“I was sorry to hear about him,” Bakewell declared, but he was adjusting the creases in his trousers as he spoke.
“You shared a platform with him on
Question Time
?”
“That’s correct.”
“Can I ask for your general impression of him?”
Bakewell’s eyes were milky blue. He nodded a greeting to a passing flunky before addressing the question. “I was late arriving, got held up in traffic. Barely had time to shake hands with him before we were ushered into the hall. He wouldn’t wear any makeup, I remember that much.” He removed his glasses and started polishing them with a handkerchief. “Seemed quite brusque with everybody, but he was fine in front of the cameras.” He put his glasses back on and tucked the handkerchief into a trouser pocket.
“And afterwards?” Clarke asked.
“I seem to think he shot off. Nobody really hangs around. It would mean making small talk with each other.”
“Fraternizing with the enemy?” Clarke offered.
“Along those lines, yes.”
“So is that how you see Megan Macfarlane?”
“Megan’s a lovely woman . . .”
“But you’re not dropping round one another’s houses for a chin-wag?”
“Not exactly,” Bakewell said with a thin smile.
“Ms. Macfarlane seems to think the SNP will win May’s election.”
“Nonsense.”
“You don’t think Scotland’s going to want to give Blair a bloody nose over Iraq?”
“There’s no appetite for independence,” Bakewell stated gruffly.
“No appetite for Trident either.”
“Labour will do just fine come May, Sergeant. Please don’t lose any sleep on our behalf.”
Clarke seemed to be collecting her thoughts. “And what about the last time you saw him?”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“The night Mr. Todorov was killed, he’d just been having a drink in the Caledonian Hotel. You were there, too, Mr. Bakewell.”
“Was I?” Bakewell furrowed his brow, as if trying to remember.
“You were seated in one of the booths with a businessman called Sergei Andropov.”
“Was that the same night?” He watched Clarke nod slowly. “Well, I’ll take your word for it.”
“Mr. Andropov and Mr. Todorov grew up together.”
“That’s news to me.”
“You didn’t see Todorov in the bar?”
“I did not.”
“He was bought a drink by a local gangster called Morris Gerald Cafferty.”
“Mr. Cafferty did join us at the table, but he didn’t have anyone with him.”
“Had you met him before?”
“No.”
“But you knew his reputation?”
“I knew he was . . . well, ‘gangster’ is maybe a bit strong, Sergeant. But he’s a reformed character now.” The politician paused. “Unless you have evidence to the contrary.”
“What were the three of you talking about?”
“Trade . . . the commercial climate.” Bakewell shrugged. “Nothing very riveting.”
“And when Cafferty joined you, he didn’t happen to mention Alexander Todorov?”
“Not that I remember.”
“What time did you leave the bar, sir?”
Bakewell puffed out his cheeks with the effort of remembering. “Quarter past eleven . . . some time around then.”
“Andropov and Cafferty were still there?”
“Yes.”
Clarke paused for a moment’s thought. “How well did Cafferty seem to know Mr. Andropov?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“But it wasn’t the first time they’d met?”
“Mr. Cafferty’s company is representing Mr. Andropov in some development projects.”
“Why did he choose Cafferty?”
Bakewell gave an irritated laugh. “Go ask him yourself.”
“I’m asking you, sir.”
“I get the feeling you’re fishing, Sergeant, and none too subtly at that. As development minister it’s my job to discuss future planning potential with businesspersons of good standing.”
“So you had your advisers with you?” Clarke watched Bakewell try to form an answer. “If you were there in your official capacity,” she pressed, “I’m assuming you’d have a team backing you up . . . ?”
“It was an informal meeting,” the politician snapped.
“Is that a regular occurrence, sir, in your line of work?” Bakewell was about to remonstrate, either that or retreat. He had his hands pressed to his knees, readying to rise to his feet. But there was a woman approaching, and she was already addressing him.
“Jim, where have you been hiding yourself?” Megan Macfarlane turned towards Clarke, and her face fell. “Oh, it’s you.”
“I’m being grilled about Alexander Todorov,” Bakewell explained. “
And
Sergei Andropov.”
Macfarlane glowered at Clarke and seemed ready to attack, but Clarke didn’t give her the chance. “I’m glad I caught you, Ms. Macfarlane,” she said. “I wanted to ask about Charles Riordan.”
“Who?”
“He was recording your committee for an art installation.”
“Roddy Denholm’s project, you mean?” Macfarlane sounded interested. “What about it?”
“Mr. Riordan was friends with Alexander Todorov, and now both men are dead.”
But if Clarke had hoped to divert Macfarlane’s attention, she’d failed. The MSP stabbed a finger in Rebus’s direction. “What’s he doing skulking there?”
Bakewell turned towards Rebus but had no idea who he was. “I’m at a loss,” he admitted.
“That’s her boss,” Macfarlane explained. “Looks to me like your private chat wasn’t so private, Jim.”
Bakewell stopped looking puzzled and started to look furious instead. “Is this true?” he asked Clarke. But Macfarlane, clearly enjoying every moment, was speaking again.
“What’s more, I hear he’s been suspended from duty, pending retirement.”
“And how did you hear that, Ms. Macfarlane?” Rebus asked.
“I had a meeting with your Chief Constable yesterday and happened to mention your name.” She made a tutting sound. “He’s not going to be pleased about this, is he?”
“It’s an outrage,” Bakewell spluttered, finally rising to his feet.
“I’ve James Corbyn’s number if you need it,” Macfarlane was telling her colleague as she waved her phone at him. Her assistant, Roddy Liddle, had arrived by her side, laden with files and folders.
“An outrage!” Bakewell repeated, causing heads to turn. Two security guards were looking particularly interested.
“Shall we?” Clarke suggested to Rebus. He still had half a shot of espresso left, but thought it only good manners to accompany her as she stalked towards the exit.
W
hat now?” Rebus asked as he drove her back towards Gayfield Square.
“Talk to Stahov’s driver, I suppose.”
“Think the consulate will let you?”
“Have you got a better idea?”
He shrugged. “Just that it might be easier to grab him on the street.”
“What if he doesn’t speak English?”
“I think he does,” Rebus stated, remembering the cars parked by the canal, Cafferty’s bodyguard in conversation with Andropov’s driver. “And if he doesn’t, we both know a friendly translator.” Rebus gestured towards the back seat, where he’d slung the CD. “And she’s about to owe us a favor.”
“So I just grab the driver off the street and interrogate him?” She was staring at Rebus. “How much more trouble do you want me to be in?”
The Saab crossed at the Regent Road lights and headed into Royal Terrace. “How much can you take?” he eventually asked.
“Not much more,” she admitted. “You think Bakewell will talk to the Chief Constable?”
“He might.”
“Then I’ll probably be sharing that suspension with you.”
He glanced at her. “Won’t that be fun?”
“I think you’re getting demob-happy, John.”
A patrol car was suddenly behind them, its lights flashing. “Christ, what now?” Rebus complained to no one in particular. He pulled over just short of the next roundabout and got out.
The patrolman took a bit of time adjusting the cap he’d just fixed to his head. He wasn’t anyone Rebus knew.
“DI Rebus?” the officer checked. Rebus nodded his confirmation.
“Got orders to bring you in.”
“Bring me where?”
“West End.”
“Shug Davidson’s throwing me a surprise party?”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
Maybe not, but Rebus did: they had something to pin on him, and the bookies were giving a million to one on it being a medal. Rebus turned towards Clarke. She was out of the car now, resting her hands against its roof. Pedestrians had paused for a moment to watch the drama.
“Take the Saab,” Rebus told her. “See that Dr. Colwell gets the CD.”
“What about the chauffeur?”
“Some things you’re going to have to decide for yourself.”
He got into the back of the patrol car. “Blues and twos, lads,” he said. “Can’t keep Shug Davidson waiting.”
But it wasn’t Davidson waiting for him at Torphichen Place, it was DI Calum Stone, seated behind the interview room’s only table while DS Prosser stood in the corner, hands in pockets.
“Seems I’ve got a fan club,” Rebus commented, sitting down opposite Stone.
“Got a bit of news for you,” Stone responded. “It was Cafferty’s blood on that overshoe.”
“DNA usually takes longer than that.”
“All right, then—Cafferty’s blood
type
.”
“I sense a ‘but’ . . .”
“No usable prints,” Stone admitted.
“Meaning you can’t prove it came from the boot of my car?” Rebus clapped his hands together once and began getting to his feet. “Well, nice of you to let me know . . .”
“Sit down, Rebus.”
Rebus considered for a few seconds, then sat.
“Cafferty’s still unconscious,” Stone explained. “They’re not talking coma yet, but I know they’re thinking it. Doctor says he could end his days a vegetable.” His eyes narrowed. “So it looks like we might not get to steal your glory after all.”
“You still think I did it?”
“I bloody well know you did.”
“And I told DS Clarke all about it because I needed her to phone you and get you away from the stakeout?” Rebus watched Stone’s slow, sustained nod.
“You used your crime-scene kit so you wouldn’t get any blood on you,” Prosser snapped from the corner. “Shoe blew into the canal, and you couldn’t risk going in after it—”
“We’ve been through this!” Rebus spat back.
“No doubt we’ll go over it again,” Stone warned. “Soon as we’ve completed our inquiries.”
“I can hardly wait.” This time Rebus did rise to his feet. “That all you wanted me for?”
Stone just nodded again, then waited until Rebus reached the door before firing another question at him. “Officers who brought you in say there was a woman in the car with you—DS Clarke, I presume?”
“Of course not.”
“Liar,” Prosser shot back at him.
“You’re still on suspension, Rebus,” Stone was saying. “Do you really want to take her down with you?”
“Funny, she asked me much the same thing not half an hour ago . . .” Rebus pushed open the door and made good his escape.
Dr. Scarlett Colwell was at her computer when Siobhan Clarke arrived. To Clarke’s mind, the woman used a touch too much makeup and would look better without it. Nice hair, though, even if she suspected there might be a bit of dye in it.
“I’ve brought the CD of the poetry reading,” Clarke said, placing it on the desk.
“Thank you so much.” Colwell picked it up and studied it.
“Can I ask you to take a look at something?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll need to use your computer . . .” The academic gestured for Clarke to sit at the desk. Clarke squeezed past her, Colwell standing at her shoulder as she accessed the Word Power site and clicked the photo gallery option, bringing up the pictures from the café. “That picture,” she said, nodding towards the wall and the shot of Todorov. “Did you happen to take any others?”
“They were so bad, I deleted them. I’m not great with cameras.”
Clarke nodded and pressed a finger against the screen. “Remember him?” she asked.
Colwell peered at the chauffeur’s face. “He was there, yes.”
“But you don’t know who he is?”
“Should I?”
“Did Todorov speak to him?”
“I couldn’t say. Who is he?”
“A Russian . . . he works at the consulate.”
Colwell stared more intently at the face. “You know,” she said, “I think he was at the Poetry Library, too.”
Clarke turned towards her. “Are you sure?”
“Him and another man . . .” But she started to shake her head. “Actually, I’m not certain.”
“Take your time,” Clarke invited, so Colwell ran both hands through her tresses and did some more thinking.
“I’m really not sure,” she confessed after a pause, letting the hair fall around her face again. “I could be conflating the two readings—do you see what I mean?”
“Imagining the man into the one because you know he was at the other?”
“Exactly so. . . . Do you have any other photos of him?”
“No.” But Clarke started typing again, entering the name Nikolai Stahov into the search engine. She drew a blank, so described the consular official to Colwell instead.
“Doesn’t ring any bells,” the academic apologized, so Clarke tried again, this time with a description of Andropov. When Colwell gave another shrug, Clarke tried the Web site for the
Evening News
. Skipping back through the days until she’d found the story about the Russians and their blowout meal. Tapping one of the faces in the on screen photograph.
“He
does
look familiar,” Colwell admitted.
“From the Poetry Library?”
The academic shrugged and gave a long sigh. Clarke told her not to worry and called the Poetry Library on her mobile.
“Ms. Thomas?” she asked when her call was answered.
“Not in today,” another female voice reported. “Can I help?”
“My name’s Detective Sergeant Clarke. I’m investigating Alexander Todorov’s murder and I need to ask her something.”
“She’s at home today . . . do you have her number?”
Clarke jotted the number down, then made the call. She asked Abigail Thomas if she had easy access to the Web, then talked her through the links to Word Power and the newspaper.
“Mm, yes,” Thomas eventually said, “both of them, I think. Seated near the front, second row maybe.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Fairly sure.”
“Just to check, Ms. Thomas . . . no one took photos that night?”
“The odd person could have used their camera phone, I suppose.”
“And you’ve no CCTV in the library?”
“It’s a
library,
” Abigail Thomas stressed.
“Just a thought. . . . Thanks for your help.” Clarke ended the call.
“Why is it so important?” Colwell asked, breaking Clarke’s reverie.
“Might not be,” the detective admitted. “But Todorov and Andropov had a drink in the same bar, the night the poet was killed.”
“Judging by the news story, Mr. Andropov is some sort of businessman?”
“They grew up in the same part of Moscow. DI Rebus says they knew one another . . .”
“Oh.”
Clarke saw that she’d struck a nerve. “What is it?” she asked.
“Might help to explain something,” Colwell mused.
“And what’s that, Dr. Colwell?”
The academic picked up the CD. “Alexander’s extempore poem.” She walked over to a set of shelves and crouched down in front of it. There was a portable hi-fi there, and she slotted home the recording, then pressed Play. The room was filled with the sounds of the audience finding their seats and clearing their throats. “About halfway through,” Colwell added, holding down the skip button. But this took her directly to the end of the recording. “Forgot,” she said, “there’s only the one continuous track.” So she went back to the start and this time used the fast-forward facility.
“First time I listened,” Clarke said, “I noticed he performed some poems in English, some in Russian.”
Colwell nodded. “The new poem was in Russian. Ah, here it is.” She trotted back to her desk and brought out a pad of paper and a pen, concentrating hard as she started to write. Eventually, she told Clarke to press Rewind. They listened again, Clarke hitting Pause when she felt Colwell was falling behind. “I really need more time,” the academic apologized. “This isn’t the ideal way to translate a poem . . .”
“Call it a work in progress,” Clarke cajoled her. Colwell pushed a hand through her mane of hair and started again. After twenty minutes, she tossed the pen back onto the desk. On the CD, Todorov was using English to tell the audience that the next poem was from
Astapovo Blues.
“He didn’t say anything about the new work,” Clarke realized.
“Nothing,” Colwell agreed.
“Didn’t introduce it, either.”
Colwell shook her head, then pushed her hair back into place again. “I’m not sure how many people would have realized it was a new piece.”
“How can you be sure it
was
new?”
“There don’t seem to be any drafts in his flat, and I know his published work rather well.”
Clarke nodded her understanding and held her hand out. “May I?” The academic seemed reluctant, but eventually handed the pad over. “It’s really very rough . . . I’ve no idea where the line breaks would go . . .”
Clarke ignored her and started reading.
Winter’s tongue licks the children of Zhdanov. . . . The Devil’s tongue licks Mother Russia, coating taste buds with precious metals. Heartless appetite. . . . The gut’s greed knows no fullness, no still moment, no love. Desire ripens, but only to blight. There are morsels here for all in the heat of famine, penances for all as the winter’s shadow falls . . . such a package of scoundrels in my country.
Clarke read it through twice more, then met Colwell’s eyes. “It’s not very good, is it?”
“It’s a bit rough at the edges,” the academic said defensively.
“I don’t mean your translation,” Clarke assured her.
Colwell nodded eventually. “But there’s an anger to it.”
Clarke remembered Professor Gates’s words at the Todorov autopsy—
there’s a fury here
. “Yes,” she agreed. “And all that imagery of food . . .”
Colwell cottoned on. “The news story? But surely that appeared after Alexander died?”
“True, but the dinner itself was a few days earlier—maybe he’d found out about it.”
“So you’re saying this is a poem about the businessman?”
“Composed on the spot, just to get up his nose. Andropov made his fortune from those ‘precious metals’ Todorov mentions.”
“Making him the Devil?”
“You don’t sound wholly convinced.”
“The translation is rough . . . I’m guessing at some of the phrases. I really need more time with it.”
Clarke nodded slowly, then remembered something. “Can I try another CD with you?” She found what she was looking for in her bag and knelt down next to the hi-fi. Again, it took a little while to find the moment when, at the Word Power reading, Charles Riordan’s roving mic picked up the Russian voice.
“There,” Clarke said.
“It’s only a couple of words,” Colwell said. “He’s answering a phone call. All he says is ‘hello’ and ‘yes.’ ”
“Worth a try,” Clarke said with a sigh, ejecting the disc and rising to her feet. She reached for the pad of paper again. “Can I take the poem with me meantime? Leave you to get on with something you feel is more accurate?”
“There was bad blood between Alexander and this businessman?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But it’s a motive, right? And if they met again in that bar . . .”
Clarke held up a hand in warning. “We’ve no evidence that they even
saw
one another in that bar, which is why I’d be grateful if you kept all of this to yourself, Dr. Colwell. Otherwise you could jeopardize the inquiry.”
“I understand.” The academic nodded her agreement. Clarke tore the sheet from the pad and folded it into four.
“One little piece of advice,” Clarke said as she finished folding. “The final line of the poem, he’s quoting from Robert Burns. It’s not ‘a package of scoundrels’ . . . it’s ‘a parcel of rogues’ . . .”