Authors: Ian Rankin
“Well, well,” Rebus said to himself. There was footage of a party in the living room. Dancing and booze and what looked to Rebus like a few lines of coke to go with the dope. A blow job in the bathroom, a punch-up in the hall. Next disc: Sol Goodyear had come to pay his respects, rewarded with a romp in Nancy’s bedroom and some shared moments in the cramped shower cubicle. After he’d gone, she settled down with the hash he’d left and rolled herself a healthy joint. Living room, bathroom, her bedroom, the hallway.
“Everything but the kitchen.” Rebus paused. “The kitchen,” he repeated to himself, “and Eddie Gentry’s bedroom . . .”
By the time he’d reached the final disc in the box he’d grown bored. It was like watching one of those TV reality shows, but with no adverts to break the monotony. This last disc was different, though: no little color-coded sticker. And it had sound. Rebus found himself watching the same room he was sitting in. The chairs and sofas had been filled by men. Cigar-smoking men. Men slurping wine from crystal glasses. Voluble, slurred, happy men, who were being shown a DVD.
“Wonderful meal that,” one of them told the host. There were grunts of agreement, smoke billowing. The camera was pointing at the men, meaning it had to be . . . Rebus got to his feet and approached the plasma screen. There was a small hole drilled into the wall just above one corner of the TV. You’d never see it, or else you might take it for a bit of botched DIY. Rebus peered into it, but couldn’t see anything. He exited the room and entered the one next door—en suite bathroom. Cabinet attached to a mirrored wall. Inside the cabinet: nothing . . . no camera, no wires. He put his eye to the peephole and was looking into the screening room. Back in the home cinema, the men’s comments left Rebus in no doubt that they were watching some of the same footage he’d just viewed.
“Wish my wife was that dirty.”
“Maybe if you plied her with class A rather than Chardonnay . . .”
“Worth a shot, I suppose.”
“And they don’t know you’re watching them, Morris?”
Cafferty’s voice, from the back of the room: “Not a clue,” he growled happily.
“Didn’t Chuck Berry get in trouble for something like this?”
“Getting a few ideas for the good lady, Roger?”
“Married twenty-odd years, Stuart.”
“I’ll take that as a no . . .”
Rebus found himself on his knees in front of the screen. Roger and Stuart, with their wine and cigars, stuffed to the gills by Cafferty and now enjoying this very different form of corporate hospitality.
Roger Anderson.
Stuart Janney.
First Albannach’s brightest and best . . .
“Michael will be gutted he missed this,” Janney added with a laugh. Meaning, no doubt, Sir Michael Addison. But Rebus reckoned Janney was dead wrong. He ejected the disc and went back to the one with the party on it. Bathroom blow job, the donor bearing an uncanny resemblance to Gill Morgan, aspiring actress and Sir Michael’s pampered stepdaughter. Same head had been bent over one of the coke trails in the living room. Rebus went back to the footage of the home cinema, tried to work out which DVD the group was watching. Kept his eyes glued to the two bankers, wondering if either of them would exhibit signs of clocking their boss’s stepkid. Grounds for a revenge attack on Cafferty? Maybe so. But what were they doing there in the first place? Rebus could think of several reasons. From the bank statements, Rebus now knew that Cafferty kept his various onshore accounts with FAB. Added to which, he was going to introduce a new and wealthy client to the bank—Sergei Andropov. And maybe the pair of them would be looking to do a deal with FAB, a vast commercial loan to help them buy up hundreds of acres of Edinburgh.
Andropov was relocating, ducking out of Russia altogether to escape prosecution. Maybe he thought the Scottish Parliament could be persuaded not to extradite him. Maybe he was buying his way into a forthcoming
independent
Scotland. Small country, easy to become a very big fish . . .
Cafferty oiling the wheels.
Hosting a memorable party . . . and secretly taping it. For his own satisfaction? Or to be used against the men themselves? Rebus couldn’t see it having much effect on the likes of Janney and Anderson. But now another man was rising to his feet from one of the sofas. Looked to Rebus as if only Cafferty and this man had been occupying the back row.
“Bathroom?” he inquired.
“Across the hall,” his host obliged. Yes, Cafferty wouldn’t want him using the en suite through the wall; couldn’t risk the camera being found.
“Won’t ask why you need it, Jim,” Stuart Janney commented to a few rugby-club guffaws.
“Nothing sordid, Stuart,” the man called Jim responded, making his exit.
Jim Bakewell, Minister for Economic Development. Meaning Bakewell had lied at the Parliament, telling Siobhan he’d not met Cafferty until that night at the hotel.
“Try making a complaint to the Chief Constable now, Jimbo,” Rebus muttered, stabbing a finger in Bakewell’s direction.
There wasn’t an awful lot more to the DVD. After half an hour, the spectators had wrung as much interest as possible from the show. There were three further members of the party who were new to Rebus. They looked like business types, ruddy-faced and big-bellied. Builders? Contractors? Maybe even councillors . . . Rebus knew he could probably find out, but that would mean taking the recording. Which was fine, so long as no one noticed it was missing. If anyone found out Rebus had been here, Cafferty’s defense team would have a field day.
“Oh aye, John? What defense team is that then?”
Yes, because where was the crime? Bugging flats you were renting? Small beer—the magistrate would watch the DVDs with a good deal of interest, then stick the gangster with a pittance of a fine. Rebus made sure everything was switched off, no prints left behind, then headed downstairs and unlocked the safe again, replacing the box, keeping just the one disc for himself. Down the white marble hall and out into the sweet-smelling air, door secure behind him. He’d have to get Cafferty’s keys back to him, but first he had some thinking to do. He took a left out of the gate and another left at the top of the road, heading for Bruntsfield Place and the first available taxi.
Eddie Gentry, replete with eyeliner and the red bandanna, opened the door to him.
“Nancy’s out,” he said.
“Have you patched things up?”
“We had a frank exchange of views.”
Rebus smiled. “Going to invite me in, Eddie? And by the way, I liked your CD.”
Gentry considered his options, then turned and pushed open the living room door. Rebus followed him inside.
“Ever watch
Big Brother,
Eddie?” Rebus was making a circuit of the room, hands in pockets.
“Life’s too short.”
“It is that,” Rebus seemed to agree. “Tell you something I didn’t spot when I was here before.”
“What?”
Rebus looked up. “Your ceilings have been lowered.”
“Yeah?”
Rebus nodded. “Done before you moved in?”
“Suppose so.”
“There might be original features—cornices, ceiling roses. . . . Why do you reckon the landlord would want them covered up?”
“Insulation?”
“How so?”
Gentry shrugged. “Makes the rooms smaller, meaning easier to heat.”
“The rooms are all the same, then? Fake ceilings?”
“I’m not an architect.”
Rebus locked eyes with the young man, saw the slightest twitch at a corner of his mouth. Eddie Gentry was not feeling comfortable. The detective gave a low, drawn-out whistle.
“You know, don’t you?” he asked. “You’ve known all along?”
“Known what?”
“Cafferty’s got you wired—cameras in the ceiling, in the walls . . .” He pointed towards a corner of the room. “See that hole? Looks like someone’s botched a bit of drilling?” Gentry’s face gave nothing away. “There’s a lens pointing at us. But you already know that. For all I know, maybe it’s even your job to set the camera rolling.” Gentry had folded his arms across his chest. “That session you did at CR Studios—I’m betting it didn’t come cheap. Did Cafferty pay for it? Was that part of the deal? Bit of money in your pocket . . . cheap rent . . . no overcrowding . . . and all you had to do was throw a few parties.” Rebus was thinking it through. “Dope provided by Sol Goodyear—and I’m betting it came cheap, too. Know why?”
“Why?”
“Because Sol works for Cafferty. He’s the dealer, you’re the pimp . . .”
“Fuck you.”
“Careful, son.” Rebus jabbed his forefinger towards the young man. “Have you heard what happened to Cafferty?”
“I heard.”
“Maybe someone didn’t like what he’d been doing. Remember that party with Gill Morgan?”
“What about it?”
“That the only footage of her you got?”
“I’ve no idea.” Rebus looked disbelieving. “I never
watched
any of it.”
“Just handed it over, eh?”
“No harm done, was there?”
“I don’t think you’re qualified to judge that, Eddie. Does Nancy know?”
Gentry shook his head.
“Just you, eh? Did he tell you he was doing the selfsame thing in some of his other flats?”
“You mentioned
Big Brother
earlier—what’s the difference?”
Rebus was standing close to the young man when he answered. “Difference is, they
know
they’re being watched. I can’t really decide who’s the sleazier, you or Cafferty.
He
was watching complete strangers, but you, Eddie, were filming your mates.”
“Is there a law against it?”
“Oh, I’m fairly sure there is. How often does the taping happen?”
“Three or four times—tops.”
Because by then Cafferty was bored, and moved on to a new flat, new tenants, new faces and bodies . . . Rebus walked into the hallway, looked for the hole and found it. Nancy’s bedroom: again, the false ceiling; again, the neatly drilled hole. The bathroom was the same. When Rebus emerged into the hallway, Gentry was leaning against the wall, arms still folded, jaw jutting defiantly.
“Where’s the hardware?” Rebus asked.
“Mr. C took it.”
“When?”
“Few weeks back. Like I told you, it was only three or four times . . .”
“Doesn’t make it any less sordid. Let’s take a look at your room.” Rebus didn’t wait for an invitation, opened the door to Gentry’s bedroom and asked where the cables were.
“They used to come down from the ceiling. Had them hooked up to a DVD recorder. If anything interesting was happening, I only had to press the Record button.”
“And now the whole lot’s been installed in some other flat so your landlord can show a fresh slice of grainy porn to his sweaty pals.” Rebus was shaking his head slowly. “Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when Nancy finds out . . .”
Gentry didn’t so much as flinch. “I think it’s time you were leaving,” he stated. “Show’s over.”
Rebus responded by getting right into the young man’s face. “You couldn’t be more wrong, Eddie—this particular show’s only just getting started.” He squeezed past, out into the hallway, pausing by the front door. “I lied by the way—that music of yours is going nowhere. You’ve just not got the talent, pal.”
Closed the door after him and stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes.
Job done.
T
he CID suite at Gayfield Square might as well have been a swimming pool—all they were doing was treading water. Derek Starr knew it and was having trouble motivating the group. There wasn’t enough for them to do. No exciting new leads on either Todorov or Riordan. Forensics had produced a partial fingerprint from the small bottle of cleaning fluid, but all they knew so far was that it belonged neither to Riordan nor to anyone on the database. Terry Grimm had supplied information that Riordan’s house was visited weekly by a team of cleaners from an agency, though they were usually told not to bother with the living-room-cum-studio. But any one of them could have left the print. No one was about to claim for certain that it belonged to the arsonist. It looked like another dead end. Same went for the e-fit of the hooded woman outside the multistory: officers had taken copies door-to-door, returning to the station with nothing but sore feet.
Having gone through the proper channels, Starr had at last secured CCTV footage from the few cameras in and around Portobello, but no one was very hopeful—all they showed was early-morning traffic. Again, without knowing how the attacker had reached Riordan’s house, it was needle-in-a-haystack stuff. The way Starr himself kept looking at Siobhan Clarke, he knew she was holding back on him. Twice in the space of half an hour he’d asked her what she was working on.
“Going through the Riordan tapes,” she’d explained. Not a word of truth in it—Todd Goodyear was typing up the last batch of transcripts, looking worn down by the whole experience. He kept staring into space, as if thinking himself into a better place. Clarke, meantime, was waiting for Stone to get back to her, having left a message on his mobile. She was still wondering if it was such a good idea. Stone and Starr seemed pretty pally; chances were, anything she said to the one would get back to the other. She had yet to mention to Starr the appearance of Sergei Andropov and his driver in the Poetry Library audience.
There were no longer any members of the media hanging about outside the station. The last mention of either death had been an inch-long paragraph on one of the
Evening News
’s inside pages. Starr was currently in another meeting with DCI Macrae. Maybe later today they would announce that the inquiry was being split into two, since no evidence had come to light connecting the Todorov murder to Riordan’s fate. The team would be broken up; the Riordan case would go back to Leith CID.
Unless Clarke did something about it.
It took her a further ten minutes to decide. Starr was still in his meeting, so she grabbed her coat and wandered over to the desk where Goodyear was working.
“Going somewhere?” he asked, somewhat forlornly.
“We both are,” she said, brightening his day.
The drive across town to the consulate took only ten minutes. It was housed on a grand Georgian terrace within sight of the Episcopalian Cathedral. The street was wide enough to accommodate a row of parking bays in the middle of the road, and a car was pulling out of one bay as they arrived. While Goodyear put money in the meter, Clarke studied the car next to hers—it looked very much like the one Andropov had been using at the City Chambers and Nikolai Stahov at the mortuary—an old black Merc with darkened rear windows. The license plate, however, wasn’t the diplomatic kind, so Clarke called the station and asked for a check. The car was registered to Mr. Boris Aksanov, with an address in Cramond. Clarke jotted down the details and ended the call.
“You reckon they’ll let us question him?” Goodyear asked on his return.
She gave a shrug. “Let’s see, shall we?” She crossed to the consulate, climbed its three stone steps, and pressed the buzzer. The door was opened by a young woman with the fixed smile of the professional greeter. Clarke already had her warrant card open. “I’m here to see Mr. Aksanov,” she stated.
“Mr. Aksanov?” The smile stayed fixed.
“Your driver.” Clarke turned her head. “His car’s over there.”
“Well, he’s not here.”
Clarke stared at the woman. “You sure about that?”
“Of course.”
“What about Mr. Stahov?”
“He’s also not here at present.”
“When’s he due back?”
“Later today, I think.”
Clarke was looking over the woman’s shoulder. The entrance hall was large but barren, with peeling paintwork and faded wallpaper. A curving staircase led upwards, but she had no view of the landing. “And Mr. Aksanov?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s not driving Mr. Stahov, then?”
The smile was having a bit of trouble. “I’m afraid I can’t help . . .”
“Aksanov’s driving Sergei Andropov, is he?”
The young woman’s hand was gripping the edge of the door. Clarke could tell she wanted to close it in their faces.
“I can’t help,” she repeated instead.
“Is Mr. Aksanov a consular employee?” But now the door really was being closed, slowly but determinedly. “We’ll come back later,” Clarke stressed. The door clicked shut, but she continued to stare at it.
“She had frightened eyes,” Goodyear commented.
Clarke nodded her agreement.
“Waste of money, too—I put half an hour on the meter.”
“Claim it back from the inquiry.” Clarke turned and started towards the car, but paused at the Merc and checked her watch. When she got in behind the steering wheel, Goodyear asked if they were headed back to Gayfield Square. Clarke shook her head.
“Parking wardens round here are vicious,” she said. “And that Merc goes into the red in exactly seven minutes.”
“Meaning someone’s going to have to feed the meter?” he guessed.
But Clarke shook her head again. “It’s illegal to do that, Todd. If they don’t want a ticket, they’re going to have to move the car.” She turned her key in the ignition.
“I thought embassies never paid their fines anyway.”
“True enough . . . if they have diplomatic plates.” Clarke put the car into gear and moved out of the parking bay, but only to stop again curbside a few dozen yards farther along. “Worth a bit of a wait, wouldn’t you say?” she asked.
“If it keeps me away from those transcripts,” Goodyear agreed.
“Detective work losing its allure, Todd?”
“I think I’m ready to go back into uniform.” He drew back his shoulders, working the muscles. “Any news of DI Rebus?”
“They pulled him in again.”
“Are they thinking of charging him?”
“Reason they pulled him in was to tell him there’s no evidence.”
“They didn’t get a match from that overshoe?”
“No.”
“Do they have anyone else in mind?”
“Christ, Todd, I don’t know!” The silence in the car lasted half a dozen beats before Clarke expelled air noisily. “Look, I’m sorry . . .”
“I’m the one who should be apologizing,” he assured her. “Couldn’t help sticking my nose in.”
“No, it’s me . . . I could be in trouble.”
“How?”
“SCDEA were watching Cafferty. John got me to send them elsewhere.”
The young man’s eyes had widened. “Bloody hell,” he said.
“Language,” she warned him.
“They had surveillance on Cafferty. . . . That has to look bad for DI Rebus.”
Clarke gave a shrug.
“Surveillance on Cafferty . . .” Goodyear repeated to himself, shaking his head slowly. Clarke’s attention had been diverted by movement along the street. A man was exiting the consulate.
“This looks promising,” she said. Same man who’d been with Stahov at the mortuary, same man who’d been photographed at the Word Power event. Aksanov unlocked the car and got in. Clarke decided to let her engine idle, until she knew what he was going to do—move to a different bay, or head elsewhere. When he passed his third vacant bay, she had her answer.
“We’re going to follow him?” Goodyear asked, fastening his seat belt.
“Well spotted.”
“And then what?”
“I was thinking of pulling him over on some trumped-up charge . . .”
“Is that wise?”
“Dunno yet. Let’s see what happens.” The Merc had signaled left into Queensferry Street.
“Heading out of town?” Goodyear guessed.
“Aksanov lives in Cramond; maybe he’s going home.”
Queensferry Street became Queensferry Road. Looking at her speedometer, Clarke saw that he was staying within the limit. When the traffic lights ahead turned red, she watched his brake lights, but they were both in good working order. If Cramond was his destination, he’d probably keep going till the Barnton roundabout, then take a right. Question was, did she want him getting that far? Every few hundred yards on Queensferry Road, there seemed to be another set of lights. As the Merc stopped at the next red, Clarke brought her own car up close behind it.
“Reach over into the back seat, will you, Todd?” she asked. “On the floor there . . .” He had to undo his seat belt in order to twist his body around sufficiently.
“This what you want?” he asked.
“Plug it into the socket there,” she told him. “Then put your window down.”
“There’s a magnet on the base?” he guessed.
“That’s right.”
The moment the flashing blue light was plugged in, it began working. Goodyear reached out of the window and attached it to the roof. The light ahead was still red. Clarke sounded her horn and watched the driver examine her in his rearview mirror. She signaled with her hand for him to pull over. When the light turned green, that was exactly what he did, crossing the junction and bumping his passenger-side tires up onto the pavement. Clarke passed him and then did the same with her car. Traffic slowed to watch but kept moving. The driver was out of the Merc. He wore sunglasses and a suit and tie. He was standing on the pavement when Clarke reached him. She had her ID open for inspection.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, his English heavily accented.
“Mr. Aksanov? We met at the mortuary . . .”
“I asked what the problem was.”
“You’re going to have to come to the station.”
“What have I done wrong?” He had lifted a mobile phone from his pocket. “I will speak to the consulate.”
“Won’t do you any good,” she warned him. “That’s not an official car, which makes me think you’re self-employed. No immunity, Mr. Aksanov.”
“I am a driver for the consulate.”
“But not
just
the consulate. Now get in the car.” There was steel in her voice. He was still holding the phone, but had yet to do anything with it.
“And if I refuse?”
“You’ll be charged with obstruction . . . and anything else I can think of.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“That’s all we need to hear—but we need to hear it at the station.”
“My car,” he complained.
“It’ll still be here. We’ll bring you back afterwards.” She managed a nice friendly smile. “Promise.”
“How come you started driving Sergei Andropov around?” Clarke asked.
“I drive people for a living.”
They were in an interview room at West End police station, Clarke not wanting to take the Russian to Gayfield Square. She’d sent Goodyear off to fetch coffee. There was a tape deck on the table, but she wasn’t using it. No notebook either. Aksanov had asked to smoke, and she was letting him.
“Your English is good—there’s even a trace of local accent.”
“I’m married to a girl from Edinburgh. I’ve been here almost five years.” He inhaled some smoke and blew it ceilingwards.
“Is she a poetry fan, too?” Aksanov stared at Clarke. “Well?” she prompted.
“She reads books . . . mostly novels.”
“So it’s just you that likes poetry?” He shrugged but said nothing. “Read any Seamus Heaney lately? Or how about Robert Burns?”
“Why are you asking me this?”
“Just that you were spotted at poetry readings twice in as many weeks. Or maybe it’s just that you
really
like Alexander Todorov?”
“People say he is Russia’s greatest poet.”
“Do you agree?” Aksanov gave another shrug and examined the tip of his cigarette. “Did you buy a copy of his latest book?”
“I don’t see why this is any of your business.”
“Can you remember what it’s called?”
“I don’t have to talk to you.”
“I’m investigating two murders, Mr. Aksanov . . .”
“And what is that to me?” The Russian was growing angry. But then the door opened, and Goodyear came in with two drinks.
“Black, two sugars,” he said, placing one in front of Aksanov. “White with none.” The second Styrofoam cup was handed to Clarke. She nodded her thanks, then gave the slightest flick of the head. Goodyear took the hint and walked to the far wall, resting his back against it, hands clasped in front of him. Aksanov had stubbed out the cigarette and was readying to light another.
“Second time you went,” she told him, “you took Sergei Andropov with you.”
“Did I?”
“According to witnesses.” Another mighty shrug, this time accompanied by downturned mouth. “Are you saying you didn’t?” Clarke asked.
“I’m saying nothing.”
“Makes me wonder what it is you’re trying to hide. Were you on duty the night Mr. Todorov died?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I’m only asking you to think back a little over a week.”
“Sometimes I work at night, sometimes not.”
“Andropov was at his hotel. He had a meeting in the bar . . .”
“There’s nothing I can tell you.”
“Why did you go to those poetry readings, Mr. Aksanov?” Clarke asked quietly. “Did Andropov ask you to go? Did he ask you to take him?”
“If I have done anything wrong, go ahead and charge me!”
“Is that what you want?”
“I want to get away from here.” The fingers that gripped the fresh cigarette were starting to shake a little.
“Do you remember the recital at the Poetry Library?” Clarke asked, keeping her voice low and level. “The man who was recording it? He’s been murdered, too.”
“I was at the hotel all night.”
She hadn’t quite understood. “The Caledonian?” she guessed.
“Gleneagles,” he corrected her. “The night of that fire.”
“It was early morning actually.”
“Night . . . morning . . . I was at Gleneagles.”