Exit Music (2007) (15 page)

Rebus ignored this. He gave Freddie his card. “Call me as soon as you’ve got a name.” Perfect timing: the door was swinging open, a couple of suits coming in. They looked as though some deal had done them a few favors.

“Bottle of Krug!” one of them barked, ignoring the fact that Freddie was busy with another customer. The barman’s eyes met Rebus’s, and the detective nodded to let him know he could go back to his job.

“Bet they’re not even tippers,” Rebus said under his breath.

“Maybe not,” Freddie acknowledged, “but at least they’ll pay for their drinks . . .”

19

C
larke decided to take the call outside, so Goodyear wouldn’t hear her asking Rebus if he was going senile.

“We’ve already been warned off,” she said into the phone, her voice just above a whisper. “What grounds have we got for pulling him in?”

“Anyone willing to drink with Cafferty has got to be dodgy,” she heard Rebus explain.

She gave a sigh she hoped he’d hear. “I don’t want you going within a hundred yards of the Russian delegation until we have something a bit more concrete.”

“You always spoil my fun.”

“When you grow up, you’ll understand.” She ended the call and went back into the CID suite, where Todd Goodyear had plugged in a tape deck borrowed from one of the interview rooms. Turned out Katie Glass had been toting a couple of evidence sacks’ worth of stuff from Riordan’s house. Goodyear had carried them up from the boot of her car.

“Drives a Prius,” he’d commented.

When the bags were opened, the smell of burnt plastic filled the room. But some of the tapes were intact, as were a couple of digital recorders. Goodyear had slotted a cassette tape home, and as Clarke walked in through the door he pressed the play button. The machine didn’t have much of a loudspeaker, and they leaned down either side of it, the better to listen. Clarke could hear chinks and clinks and distant, indistinguishable voices.

“A pub or a café or something,” Goodyear commented. The hubbub continued for a few more minutes, interrupted only by a cough much closer to the microphone.

“Riordan, presumably,” Clarke offered.

Getting bored, she told Goodyear to fast-forward. Same location, same clutter of the overheard everyday.

“You couldn’t dance to it,” Goodyear admitted. Clarke got him to eject the tape and turn it over. They appeared to be in a railway station. There was the platform master’s loud whistle, followed by the sound of a train moving off. The microphone then headed back to the station concourse, where people mingled and waited, probably watching the arrivals or departures board. Someone sneezed, and Riordan himself said, “Bless you.” A couple of women were caught in the middle of a conversation about their partners, and the mic seemed to follow them as they headed for a food kiosk, discussing which filled baguettes took their fancy. Purchases made, it was back to gossiping about their partners again as they queued for coffee at a separate kiosk. Clarke heard the espresso machine at work, a sudden announcement over the station tannoy masking the dialogue. She heard the towns Inverkeithing and Dunfermline being mentioned.

“Must be Waverley,” she said.

“Could be Haymarket,” Goodyear hedged.

“Haymarket doesn’t have a sandwich bar as such.”

“I bow to your superior knowledge.”

“Even when I’m wrong, you should bow anyway.”

He did so, giving a courtier-style flourish of the hand, and she smiled.

“He was obsessive,” Clarke stated, Goodyear nodding his agreement.

“You really think his death is linked to Todorov?” he asked.

“As of this moment, it’s a coincidence . . . but there are precious few murders in Edinburgh—now we get two in a matter of days, and the victims just happen to know one another.”

“Meaning you don’t really think it’s coincidence at all.”

“Thing is, Joppa is a D Division call, and we’re B Division. If we don’t argue our corner, Leith CID will take it.”

“Then we should claim it.”

“Which means persuading DCI Macrae that there’s a connection.” She stopped the tape and ejected it. “Reckon they’re all going to be like that?”

“Only one way to find out.”

“There’ll be hundreds of hours of the stuff.”

“We don’t know that; fire could have made a lot of it unlistenable. Best for one of us to check it first, then pass anything difficult on to Forensics or the engineer at Riordan’s studio.”

“True.” Clarke still didn’t share Goodyear’s enthusiasm. She was thinking back to her own days in uniform . . . not that long ago, really, in the span of things. She’d been every bit as keen as Goodyear, confident that she would make a difference to each and every case—and maybe, just now and then, a
telling
difference. It had happened sometimes, but the glory had been grabbed by someone more senior—not Rebus, she was thinking back to before their pairing. Her at St. Leonard’s, being told that it was all about teamwork, no room for egos and prima donnas. Then Rebus had arrived, his old station having burned to the ground—wiring gone bad. She had to have a little smile to herself at that.

Wiring gone bad: a fair description of Rebus himself at times. Bringing with him to St. Leonard’s his mistrust of “teamwork,” his two-decades-plus of bets hedged, lines crossed, and rules broken.

And at least one very personal vendetta.

Goodyear was suggesting they give one of the little digital recorders a listen. There was no external speaker, but the headphones from Goodyear’s iPod fitted one of the sockets. Clarke didn’t really fancy pushing the little buds into her own ears, so told him he could do the listening. But after about half a minute and the pressing of buttons in various configurations, he gave up.

“That’s one for our friendly specialist,” he said, moving to the next machine.

“I meant to ask,” Clarke said, “how you felt meeting Cafferty.”

Goodyear considered his answer. “Just looking at him,” he said eventually, “you can see he’s full of sin. It’s in his eyes, the way he looks at you, the way he carries himself . . .”

“You judge people by the way they look?”

“Not all the time.” He did a bit more button pushing, earphones still in place, and then held up a finger to let her know he was getting something. After a moment’s listening he made eye contact. “You’re not going to believe this.” He unplugged himself and offered her the earphones. Reluctantly, she held them either side of her head, close to her ears but not touching. He’d rewound a little, and now she heard voices. Tinny little voices, but words she recognized:

“After you split up, Mr. Todorov headed straight for the bar at the Caledonian. He got talking to someone there . . .”

“That’s me,” she said. “He told us he wasn’t recording!”

“He lied. People do sometimes.”

Clarke gave him a scowl and listened to a bit more, then told Goodyear to fast-forward. He did, but there was silence.

“Go back again,” she ordered.

What was she hoping for? Riordan’s last moments, captured for posterity? His attacker’s voice? Riordan gaining some measure of justice from beyond the grave?

Only silence.

“Further back.”

Clarke and Goodyear himself, winding up their questioning of Riordan in his living room.

“We’re the last thing on it,” she stated.

“Does that make us suspects?”

“Any more wisecracks, you’re back in the woolly suit,” she warned him.

Goodyear looked contrite. “Woolly suit,” he repeated. “I’ve not heard that one before.”

“Picked it up from Rebus,” Clarke admitted.

So many things he’d given her . . . not all of them useful.

“I don’t think he likes me,” Goodyear was telling her.

“He doesn’t
like
anyone.”

“He likes you,” Goodyear argued.

“He tolerates me,” Clarke corrected him. “Different thing entirely.” She was staring at the machine. “I can’t believe he recorded us.”

“If you ask me,
not
being recorded by Mr. Riordan would have put us in the minority.”

“True enough.”

Goodyear picked up another of the clear plastic sacks and gave it a shake. “Plenty more for us to listen to.”

She nodded, then leaned across and patted his shoulder. “Plenty for
you
to listen to, Todd,” she corrected him.

“Learning curve?” he guessed.

“Learning curve,” she agreed.

“Want to do something tonight?” Phyllida Hawes asked. She was driving, Colin Tibbet her passenger. It annoyed her that he would sit with one hand gripping the door handle, as if ready to eject should her skills suddenly desert her. Sometimes she would put the wind up him on purpose, accelerating towards the vehicle in front or taking a turn at the last possible and unsignaled second. Serve him right for doubting her. One time, he’d told her she drove as though they’d just nicked the car from a forecourt.

“Could go for a drink,” he offered.

“Now
there’s
a novelty.”

“Or we could
not
go for a drink.” He thought for a moment. “Chinese? Indian?”

“With ideas as radical as these, Col, you should be running a brains trust.”

“You’re in a mood,” he stated.

“Am I?” she replied icily.

“Sorry,” he said.

Another thing that was starting to annoy her: rather than argue his corner, he’d concede on just about any and every point.

Until eight weeks back, Hawes had had a lover—a live-in lover at that. Colin had managed a few single-nighters and one girl who’d actually stuck with him for the best part of a month. Somehow, three weeks ago, they’d fallen into bed together after a night on the piss. Neither had really recovered from it since waking up, faces an inch apart, horror dawning.

It was an accident.

Best put behind us.

And never mentioned.

Forget it ever happened . . .

But how could they? It
had
happened, and despite herself she’d quite like for it to happen again. She had transferred her annoyance with herself on to Colin, in the hope he might do something about it, but he was like some sort of sponge, just soaking it all up.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” he said now, “if Shiv takes us all for a drink tonight. Keep the team together—it’s what good managers do.”

“What you mean is, better that than having John Rebus to herself.”

“You may have a point.”

“On the other hand,” Hawes added, “could be she’ll want young Todd all to herself . . .”

He turned towards her. “You don’t really think so?”

“Women work in mysterious ways, Colin.”

“So I’ve noticed. Why do you think she brought him on to the team?”

“Maybe she just fell for his charms.”

“Seriously, though.”

“The DCI’s put her in charge. Means she can recruit who she likes, and young Todd wasn’t backwards at coming forwards.”

“She was easy to persuade?” Tibbet’s forehead was creased in thought.

“Doesn’t mean you can persuade her to put your name forward for promotion.”

“That’s not what I was thinking,” Tibbet assured her. He looked through the windscreen. “It’s next right, isn’t it?”

Hawes refused to signal, and crossed the traffic only when there was a bus bearing down on them.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Tibbet said.

“I know,” Phyllida replied with a thin-lipped smile. “But when you’re driving a car you’ve just nicked from a forecourt . . .”

They were headed—Shiv’s orders—to Nancy Sievewright’s flat. Had to ask her about the woman in the cowl. Very word Shiv had used—“cowl”—Hawes checking afterwards that she hadn’t meant “hood.”

“Hood or cowl, Phyl, what’s the difference exactly?” Shiv having grown prickly these past couple of weeks.

“Just here on the left,” Colin Tibbet was saying. “There’s a space further down.”

“Which I couldn’t possibly have spotted without you, DC Tibbet.” To which he gave no reaction whatsoever.

The door to the communal stairwell had been wedged open, so they decided not to bother with the intercom. Once you crossed the threshold you were in a cold, shadowy place. The white wall-tiles had been damaged and now sported graffiti tags. Voices echoed from somewhere above. A woman, by far the louder of the two. The deeper male bass was softer, entreating.

“Just get the fuck away from me! Why can’t you take a telling?”

“I think you know why.”

“I don’t fucking well care!”

The couple seemed unaware of the two new arrivals who were climbing towards them.

The man: “Look, if you’ll only talk to me for a moment.”

Interrupted by Colin Tibbet: “Is there a problem here?” His ID open, letting them know who—and more importantly
what
—he was.

“Christ, what now?” the man uttered in exasperation.

“Pretty much what I was asking myself thirty seconds ago, sir,” Hawes told him. “It’s Mr. Anderson, isn’t it? My partner and I took the statements from you and your wife.”

“Oh, yes.” Anderson had the good grace to look embarrassed. Hawes saw that one of the doors on the next landing up was wide open. That would be Nancy Sievewright’s flat. Hawes met the eyes of the underfed, underdressed girl.

“We interviewed you, too, Nancy,” she said.

Sievewright nodded her agreement. “Two birds with one stone,” Colin Tibbet stated.

“I didn’t realize,” Hawes said, “you two knew one another.”

“We
don’t!
” Nancy Sievewright exploded. “He just keeps coming here!”

“Grossly unfair,” Anderson snarled. Hawes shared a look with Tibbet. They knew what they had to do.

“Let’s get you inside,” Hawes told Sievewright.

“And if you’ll come downstairs with me, sir,” Tibbet said to Anderson. “There’s a question we were hoping to ask you . . .”

Sievewright stomped back into her flat and made straight for the narrow kitchen, where she picked up the kettle and filled it. “The other two, I thought they were going to deal with it.”

Meaning, Hawes guessed, Rebus and Clarke. “Why does he keep coming round?” she asked.

Sievewright tugged at a straggle of hair above one ear. “No idea. Says he wants to check I’m all right. But when I tell him I am, he comes back again! I think he hangs around until he knows I’m in the flat on my own . . .” She twisted the hair into a tighter skein. “Fuck him,” she said defiantly, hunting among the mugs on the drainer for the one least likely to poison her.

“You could make a formal complaint,” Hawes told her, “explain he’s harassing you . . .”

“Reckon that would stop him?”

“It might,” Hawes said, believing it about as much as the girl herself did. Sievewright had rinsed her chosen mug and now dumped a tea bag into it. She patted the kettle, willing it to boil.