Authors: Ian Rankin
“All right,” she said, wondering at his sudden increase in agitation. “Who was it you were driving—Andropov or Stahov?”
“Both. They traveled together. I was there all the time.”
“So you keep saying.”
“Because it is the truth.”
“But the night Mr. Todorov died, you don’t recall if you were working or not?”
“No.”
“It’s quite important, Mr. Aksanov. We think whoever killed Todorov was driving a car . . .”
“I had nothing to do with it! I find these questions totally unacceptable!”
“Do you?”
“Unacceptable and unreasonable.”
“Finished already?” she asked after fifteen seconds of silence. His brow furrowed. “Your cigarette,” she pointed out. “You’d only just started it.”
The Russian stared at the ashtray, where most of an entire cigarette smoldered, having just been stubbed out . . .
Having arranged for a patrol car to drop Aksanov at Queensferry Road, Clarke wandered back down the corridor towards where Goodyear was sharing gossip with two other constables. Before she could reach him, however, her mobile rang. She didn’t recognize the caller’s number.
“Hello?” she asked, turning so her back was to Goodyear and his colleagues.
“Detective Sergeant Clarke?”
“Hello, Dr. Colwell. I had half a mind to call you myself.”
“Oh?”
“Thought I might need a translator; false alarm as it turned out. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve just been listening to that CD.”
“Still wrestling with the new poem?”
“To start with, yes . . . but I ended up listening to the whole thing.”
“Had the same effect on me,” Clarke admitted, remembering back to when Rebus and she had spent the hour in her car . . .
“Right at the end,” Colwell was saying. “In fact, after the recital and the Q and A have finished . . .”
“Yes?”
“The mic picks up some bits of conversation.”
“I remember—doesn’t the poet start muttering to himself?”
“That’s just what
I
thought, and it was difficult to make out. But it’s not Alexander’s voice.”
“Then whose is it?”
“No idea.”
“But it’s in Russian, right?”
“Oh, it’s definitely Russian. And after a few plays, I think I’ve worked out what he’s saying.”
Clarke was thinking of Charles Riordan, pointing his all-hearing microphone towards various audience members, picking up their comments. “So what
is
he saying?” she asked.
“Something along the lines of—‘I wish he was dead.’”
Clarke froze. “Would you mind repeating that, please?”
R
ebus rendezvoused with her at Colwell’s office, and they listened to the CD together.
“Doesn’t sound like Aksanov,” Clarke stated. Her phone started to ring, and she gave a little growl as she answered. The voice in her ear identified the caller as DI Calum Stone.
“You wanted to speak to me?” he said.
“I’ll have to phone you back later.” She cut the connection and shook her head slowly, letting Rebus know it was nothing important. He’d asked for the relevant section of the recording to be played again.
“I’d lay money on it being Andropov,” he muttered afterwards. He was leaning forward in his chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped, completely focused on the recording and seemingly immune to Scarlett Colwell, who was crouched not three feet away next to the CD player, face hidden by the curtain of hair.
“And you’re sure you’ve got the words right?” Clarke asked the academic.
“Positive,” Colwell said. She repeated the Russian. It was written on a pad, which Clarke was now holding—the same pad that had once held the translated poem.
“‘I wish he was dead’?” Rebus checked. “Not ‘I want him killed’ or ‘I’m going to kill him’?”
“Slightly less inflammatory,” Colwell said.
“Pity.” Rebus turned towards Clarke. “Plenty to be going on with, though.”
“Plenty,” she agreed. “Say it
is
Andropov . . . who’s he talking to? Has to be Aksanov, hasn’t it?”
“And you’ve just let him go.”
She nodded slowly. “We can always pick him up again . . . he’s pretty well settled here.”
“Doesn’t mean the consulate won’t kick him onto a plane bound for Moscow.” Rebus stared at her. “Know what I reckon? Andropov would love to have someone on the inside at the consulate. That way, he’d know how the land lies back home. If they planned to put him on trial, consulate would be among the first to know.”
“Aksanov as his eyes and ears?” Clarke nodded her agreement. “Fair enough, but is he anything else?”
“Executioner, you mean?” Rebus pondered this for a moment, then realized that a tear was running down Scarlett Colwell’s face.
“Sorry,” he apologized to her. “I know this can’t be easy.”
“Just catch whoever did this to Alexander.” She dabbed at her face with the back of her hand. “Just do that, please.”
“Thanks to you,” he assured her, “we’ve come a step closer.” He picked up her translation of the poem. “Andropov would have been furious about this. Calling him greedy and a ‘blight’ and part of the whole ‘parcel of rogues.’ ”
“Furious enough to want the poet dead,” Clarke agreed. “But does that mean he did it?”
Rebus stared up at her again. “Maybe we should ask him,” he said.
It had taken well over an hour for Siobhan Clarke to lead DI Derek Starr through the story. Even then, he’d complained for a further fifteen minutes about being kept “out of the loop” before agreeing that Sergei Andropov should be brought in for questioning. They had to shoo three detectives out of the interview room. The men had set up base there and complained at having to move their stuff.
“Smells like a prop forward’s jockstrap in here,” Starr commented.
“I wouldn’t know,” Clarke replied with a thin smile. She’d bumped into Goodyear in the CID suite, and he, too, had voiced a complaint—about being abandoned at the West End cop shop. True enough, Colwell’s phone call had led Clarke straight out to her car, Goodyear still chatting to his pals in the corridor. Even so, she’d studied the young man’s scowl and offered him four evenly spaced words:
get used to it.
To which he’d replied that he really was ready to go back to Torphichen and his constable’s uniform both.
They had dispatched a patrol car to the Caledonian Hotel. Forty minutes later it was back and discharging its unhappy human cargo. It was almost 8:00, the sky black and the temperature falling.
“Do I have the right to a lawyer?” was Sergei Andropov’s first question.
“Think you need one?” Starr shot back. He’d borrowed a CD player and was tapping it with one finger.
Andropov considered Starr’s question, then took off his coat, placed it over the back of the chair, and sat down. Clarke was seated next to Starr, notebook and mobile phone in front of her. She was hoping Rebus—stationed outside in his car—would manage to keep quiet.
“When you’re ready, DS Clarke,” Starr said, pressing his hands together.
“Mr. Andropov,” she began, “I spoke to Boris Aksanov earlier today.”
“Yes?”
“We were talking about the recital at the Scottish Poetry Library . . . I believe you were there?”
“Did he tell you that?”
“There are plenty of witnesses, sir.” She paused for a moment. “We already know that you knew Alexander Todorov in Moscow, and that the pair of you weren’t exactly friends . . .”
“Again, who told you this?”
Clarke ignored the question. “You went to the reading with Mr. Aksanov and then had to sit and listen as the poet extemporized a new piece.” Clarke unfolded the translation.
“Heartless appetite . . . The gut’s greed knows no fullness. . . . such a parcel of rogues. . . .
Not exactly a love letter, is it?”
“It’s only a poem.”
“But directed at
you,
Mr. Andropov. Aren’t you one of the ‘children of Zhdanov’?”
“Like many thousands of others.” Andropov gave a little laugh. His eyes were shining.
“By the way,” Clarke said, “I should have offered commiserations at the start . . .”
“For what?” The eyes had narrowed and darkened.
“Your friend’s injuries. Have you visited him in hospital?”
“You mean Cafferty?” He seemed dismissive of the tactic. “He’ll survive.”
“A cause for celebration, I’m sure.”
“What the hell is she getting at?” Andropov directed the question at Starr, but it was Clarke who answered.
“Would you mind taking a listen to this?” On cue, Starr hit the Play button. The noise of the Todorov recital’s conclusion filled the room. People rising from their seats, commenting on the evening, planning drinks and supper . . . and then the burst of Russian.
“Recognize it, Mr. Andropov?” Clarke asked as Starr paused the recording.
“No.”
“Sure about that? Maybe if DI Starr plays it back . . . ?”
“Look, what are you getting at?”
“We have a forensics facility here in the city, Mr. Andropov. They have a pretty good track record when it comes to voice-pattern recognition . . .”
“What do I care?”
“You care because that’s you on the recording, expressing to Boris Aksanov your desire to see the poet Alexander Todorov dead—the poet who had just humiliated you, the poet who opposed everything you stand for.” She paused again. “And the very next night, that same man
was
dead.”
“Meaning I killed him?” Andropov’s laughter this time was louder and more sustained. “And when exactly did I do this? Did I spirit myself away from the hotel bar? Did I hypnotize your development minister so that he would not notice my disappearance?”
“Others could have acted on your behalf,” Starr stated icily.
“Well, that’s something you’re going to have a great deal of trouble proving, since it happens to be untrue.”
“Why did you go to the recital?” Clarke asked. Andropov stared at her and decided he had nothing to lose from answering.
“Boris told me he’d been to one a few weeks before. I was intrigued. I had never seen Alexander read in public.”
“Mr. Aksanov didn’t strike me as a poetry buff.”
Andropov shrugged. “Maybe the consulate asked him to go.”
“Why would they do that?”
“To ascertain how much of an irritant Alexander intended to be during his stay in the city.” Andropov shifted in his seat. “Alexander Todorov was a professional dissident—it’s how he made his living, picking the pockets of bleeding-heart liberals all over the Western world.”
Clarke waited to see if Andropov had anything more to add. “And when you heard his latest poem?” she asked into the silence.
The shrug this time was conciliatory. “You’re right, I was angry with him. What do poets give to the world? Do they provide jobs, energy, raw material? No . . . merely words. And often well remunerated in the process—certainly lionized above their due. Alexander Todorov had been suckled by the West
precisely
because he pandered to its need to see Russia as corrupt and corrosive.” Andropov had made a fist of his right hand, but then decided against thumping the desk. Instead, he took a deep breath and exhaled noisily through his nostrils. “I did say that I wished he was dead, but those, too, were merely words.”
“Nevertheless, could Boris Aksanov have acted on them?”
“Have you met Boris? He is no killer; he’s a teddy bear.”
“Bears have claws,” Starr felt it necessary to comment. Andropov glowered at him.
“Thank you for that information—being a Russian, of course, I would not have known that.”
Starr had started blushing. To deflect attention from the fact, he hit the Play button again and they eavesdropped once more. Pausing the recording, Starr tapped the machine again. “I’d say we’ve got grounds to charge you,” he stated.
“Really? Well, let us see what one of your famed Edinburgh barristers will say about that.”
“We don’t
have
barristers in Scotland,” Starr spat back.
“They’re called advocates,” Clarke explained. “But actually, at this point it’s a solicitor you’d want—
if
we were charging you.” Her words were aimed at Starr, appealing for him not to take it any further—not just yet.
“Well?” Andropov, taking her meaning, was asking the question of Derek Starr. Starr’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing. “In other words, I am free to leave?” Andropov had moved his attention to Clarke, but it was Starr who barked out a response.
“Just don’t leave the country!”
There was more laughter from the Russian. “I have no intention of departing your splendid country, Inspector.”
“Nice warm gulag waiting for you back home?” Clarke couldn’t help adding.
“That comment cheapens you.” Andropov sounded disappointed in her.
“Going to drop by the hospital sometime?” she added. “Funny, isn’t it, how people around you seem to end up either dead or in a coma?”
Andropov was rising to his feet, lifting his coat from the chair. Starr and Clarke shared a look, but neither could think of any tactic to delay his departure. Goodyear was just outside the door, ready to show the Russian out.
“We’ll talk again,” Starr assured Andropov.
“I look forward to it, Inspector.”
“And we want you to surrender your passport” was Clarke’s final salvo. Andropov gave a little bow of the head and was gone. Starr, who had risen to his feet, closed the door, walked around the desk, and sat down again, facing Clarke. Pretending to check for messages on her phone, she’d just broken the connection to Rebus.
“If it’s anyone,” Starr was telling her, “it’s the driver. Even then, a bit of hard evidence might be useful.”
Clarke had placed her notebook and mobile back in her bag. “Andropov’s right about Aksanov—I don’t see him as an assassin.”
“Then we need to look at the hotel angle again, see if there’s any way Andropov could have followed the poet.”
“Cafferty was there, too, don’t forget.”
“One or the other, then.”
“The problem,” she sighed, “is that we’ve got a third man—Jim Bakewell’s already said the three of them were in that booth till gone eleven . . . by which time Todorov was dead.”
“So we’re back to square one?” Starr didn’t bother masking his exasperation.
“We’re rattling the cage,” Clarke corrected him. Then, after a moment’s thought: “Thanks for sticking with it, Derek.”
Starr thawed perceptibly. “You should have come to me sooner, Siobhan. I want a break on this as much as you do.”
“I know. But you’re going to split the two investigations, aren’t you?”
“DCI Macrae thinks it would help.”
She nodded, as if agreeing with the analysis. “Do we work tomorrow?” she asked.
“Weekend overtime has been approved.”
“John Rebus’s last day,” she stated quietly.
“Incidentally,” Starr added, ignoring her, “the officer who showed Andropov out . . . is he new to the team?”
“West End sent him,” she blithely lied.
Starr was shaking his head. “CID,” he stated, “gets younger-looking every year.”
“How did I do?” Clarke asked, sliding into the passenger seat.
“Three out of ten.”
She stared at him. “Gee, thanks.” Slammed shut the door. Rebus’s car was parked directly outside the station. He was thrumming his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead.
“I nearly came running in there,” he went on. “How could you have missed it?”
“Missed what?”
Only now did he deign to turn his head towards her. “That night in the Poetry Library, Andropov was only a couple of rows from the front. No way he couldn’t have seen the mic.”
“So?”
“So you were asking the wrong questions. Todorov got him riled, he blurted out that he wanted him dead—no harm done at the time, the only other Russian speaker was his driver. But then Todorov
does
end up dead, and suddenly our friend Andropov has a problem . . .”
“The recording?”
Rebus nodded. “Because if we ever heard it and got it translated . . .”
“Hang on a second.” Clarke pinched the skin either side of her nose and screwed shut her eyes. “Got any aspirin?”
“Glove box maybe.”
She looked and found a strip with two tablets left. Rebus handed her a bottle of water, its seal broken. “If you don’t mind a few germs,” he said.
Her shake of the head told him she didn’t. She swallowed the tablets and gave her neck a few rotations.
“I can hear the gristle from here,” he commiserated.
“Never mind that—are you saying Andropov didn’t kill Todorov?”
“Suppose he didn’t—what would he be most afraid of?” He gave her a moment to answer, then plowed on. “He’d be afraid of
us
thinking he
had
.”
“And we’d have his own words as evidence?”