by Ian Rankin
BBC News 24 was playing on the TV, but with the sound turned off. She’d made a couple of calls to check that no one as yet had reported the poet missing. Not much else to be done, so eventually she turned off the TV and computer both, and went through to the bathroom. The lightbulb needed changing, so she undressed in the dark, brushed her teeth, and found she was rinsing the brush under the hot tap instead of the cold. With her bedside light on, a pale pink scarf draped over it, she plumped up the pillows, and raised her knees so she could rest Astapovo Blues against them. It was only forty-odd pages, but had still cost Chris Simpson a tenner.
Keep the faith, as I have and have not . . .
The first poem in the collection ended with the lines:
As the country bled and wept, wept and bled,
He averted his eyes,
Ensuring he would not have to testify.
Flicking back to the title page, she saw that the collection had been translated from the Russian by Todorov himself, ‘with the assistance of Scarlett Colwell’. Clarke settled back and turned to the second poem. By the third of its four stanzas, she was asleep.
Day Two
Thursday 16 November 2006
3
The Scottish Poetry Library was located down one of innumerable pends and wynds leading off the Canongate. Rebus and Clarke managed to miss it, and ended up at the Parliament and the Palace of Holyrood. Driving more slowly back uphill, they missed it again.‘There’s nowhere to park anyway,’ Clarke complained. They were in her car this morning, and therefore dependent on Rebus to spot Crighton’s Close.
‘I think it was back there,’ he said, craning his neck. ‘Pull up on to the pavement and we’ll take a look.’
Clarke left the hazard lights on when she locked the car, and folded her wing mirror in so it wouldn’t get side-swiped. ‘If I get a ticket, you’re paying,’ she warned Rebus.
‘Police business, Shiv. We’ll appeal it.’
The Poetry Library was a modern building cleverly concealed amidst the tenements. A member of staff sat behind the counter and beamed a smile in their direction. The smile evaporated when Rebus showed her his warrant card.
‘Poetry reading a couple of nights back - Alexander Todorov.’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘quite marvellous. We have some of his books for sale.’
‘Was he in Edinburgh on his own? Any family, that sort of thing . . .?’
The woman’s eyes narrowed, and she clutched a hand to her cardigan. ‘Has something happened?’
It was Clarke who answered. ‘I’m afraid Mr Todorov was attacked last night.’
‘Gracious,’ the librarian gasped, ‘is he ...?’
‘As a doornail,’ Rebus supplied. ‘We need to speak to next of kin, or at the very least someone who can identify him.’
‘Alexander was here as a guest of PEN and the university. He’s been in the city a couple of months . . .’ The librarian’s voice was trembling, along with the rest of her.
‘PEN?’
‘It’s a writers’ group . . . very big on human rights.’
‘So where was he staying?’
‘The university provided a flat in Buccleuch Place.’
‘Family? A wife maybe . . .?’
But the woman shook her head. ‘I think his wife died. I don’t recall them having any children - a blessing, I suppose. ’
Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. ‘So who organised his event here? Was it the university, the consulate ...?’
‘It was Scarlett Colwell.’
‘His translator?’ Clarke asked, gaining a nod of confirmation.
‘Scarlett works in the Russian department.’ The librarian started sifting the slips of paper on her desk. ‘I’ve got her number here somewhere ... What a terrible thing to have happened. I can’t tell you how upsetting it is.’
‘No trouble at the reading itself?’ Rebus asked, trying to make the question seem casual.
‘Trouble?’ When she saw he wasn’t about to elucidate, she shook her head. ‘It all went swimmingly. Terrific use of metaphor and rhythm . . . even when he recited in Russian, you could feel the passion.’ She was lost for a moment in reminiscence. Then, with a sigh: ‘Alexander was happy to sign books afterwards.’
‘You make it sound,’ Clarke pointed out, ‘as if that might not always have been the case.’
‘Alexander Todorov was a poet, a very considerable poet.’ As if this explained everything. ‘Ah, here it is.’ She held up the piece of paper but seemed unwilling to relinquish it. Instead, Clarke entered the number into her own mobile, before thanking the librarian for taking the trouble.
Rebus was looking around. ‘Where exactly did the performance happen?’
‘Upstairs. We had an audience of over seventy.’
‘I don’t suppose anyone filmed it, did they?’
‘Filmed it?’
‘For posterity.’
‘Why do you ask?’
Rebus gave a shrug by way of reply.
‘There was a sound recording,’ the woman admitted. ‘Someone from a music studio.’
Clarke had her notebook out. ‘Name?’ she asked.
‘Abigail Thomas.’ The librarian realised her mistake. ‘Oh, you mean the name of the recordist? Charlie something . . .’ Abigail Thomas screwed shut her eyes with the effort, then opened them wide. ‘Charles Riordan. He has his own studio in Leith.’
‘Thank you, Ms Thomas,’ Rebus said. Then: ‘Can you think of anyone we should contact?’
‘You could talk to PEN.’
‘There wasn’t anyone here that night from the consulate? ’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’
‘Oh?’
‘Alexander was quite vocal in his opposition to the current situation in Russia. He was on the Question Time panel a few weeks back.’
‘The TV show?’ Clarke asked. ‘I watch that sometimes.’
‘So his English was pretty good then,’ Rebus surmised.
‘When he wanted it to be,’ the librarian said with a wry smile. ‘If he didn’t like the point you were making, the ability seemed suddenly to desert him.’
‘He sounds quite a character,’ Rebus had to admit. He saw that a small pile of Todorov’s books had been given their own display on a table near the stairs. ‘Are these for sale?’ he asked.
‘Indeed they are. Would you like to buy one?’
‘Would they happen to be signed?’ He watched her nod. ‘In that case, make it half a dozen.’ He was reaching into his jacket for his wallet as the librarian rose from her seat to fetch them. Feeling Clarke’s eyes on him, he mouthed something to her.
Something very like ‘eBay’.
The car had not received a ticket, but there were dirty looks from the line of motorists attempting to squeeze past. Rebus threw the bag of books on to the back seat. ‘Should we warn her we’re coming?’‘Might be wise,’ Clarke agreed, punching the keys on her phone and holding it to her ear. ‘Tell me, do you even know how to sell something on eBay?’
‘I can learn,’ Rebus said. Then: ‘Tell her we’ll meet her at his flat, just in case he’s lying in a stupor there and we’ve got a looky-likey in the mortuary.’ He stuck a fist to his mouth, stifling a yawn.
‘Get any sleep?’ Clarke asked.
‘Probably the same as you,’ he told her.
Clarke’s call had connected her to the university switchboard. She asked for Scarlett Colwell and was put through.
‘Miss Colwell?’ A pause. ‘Sorry, Doctor Colwell.’ She rolled her eyes for Rebus’s benefit.
‘Ask her if she can fix my gout,’ he whispered. Clarke thumped his shoulder as she began to give Dr Scarlett Colwell the bad news.
Two minutes later, they were heading for Buccleuch Place, a six-storey Georgian block which faced the more modern (and far uglier) university edifices. One tower in particular had been voted the building most people in Edinburgh wanted to see condemned. The tower, perhaps sensing this hostility, had begun to
self-destruct, great chunks of cladding falling from it at irregular intervals.
‘You never studied here, did you?’ Rebus asked, as Clarke’s car rumbled across the setts.
‘No,’ she said, nosing into a parking space. ‘Did you?’
Rebus gave a snort. ‘I’m a dinosaur, Shiv - back in the Bronze Age they let you become a detective without a diploma and a mortarboard.’
‘Weren’t the dinosaurs extinct by the Bronze Age?’
‘Not having been to college, that’s just the sort of thing I wouldn’t know. Reckon there’s any chance of grabbing ourselves a coffee while we’re here?’
‘You mean in the flat?’ Clarke watched him nod. ‘You’d drink a dead man’s coffee?’
‘I’ve drunk a damn sight worse.’
‘You know, I actually believe that.’ Clarke was out of the car now, Rebus following. ‘Must be her over there.’
She was standing at the top of some steps, and had already unlocked the front door. She gave a little wave, which Rebus and Clarke acknowledged - Clarke because it was the right thing to do, and Rebus because Scarlett Colwell was a looker. Her hair fell in long auburn waves, her eyes were dark, her figure curvy. She wore a hugging green miniskirt, black tights and brown calf-length boots. Her Little Red Riding Hood coat reached only as far as her waist. A gust of wind caused her to push the hair back from her eyes, and Rebus felt as if he were walking into a Cadbury’s Flake advert. He saw that her mascara was a bit blurry, evidence that she’d shed a few tears since receiving the news, but she was businesslike as the introductions were made.
They followed her up four flights of tenement stairs to the top-floor landing, where she produced another key, unlocking the door to Alexander Todorov’s flat, Rebus arriving, having paused for breath on the landing below, just as the door swung open. There wasn’t much to the apartment: a short, narrow hallway led to the living room with a kitchenette off it. There was a cramped shower room and separate toilet, and a single bedroom with views towards the Meadows. Being in the eaves of the building, the ceilings angled sharply downwards. Rebus wondered if the poet had ever sat up sharply in bed and thumped the crown of his head. The whole flat felt not so much empty as utterly desolate, as though marked by the departure of its most recent resident.
‘We’re really sorry about this,’ Siobhan Clarke was saying as the three of them stood in the living room. Rebus was looking around him: a waste-paper bin full of crumpled poems, an empty cognac bottle lying next to the battered sofa, an Edinburgh bus map pinned to one wall above a foldaway dining table on which sat an electric typewriter. No sign of a computer or a TV or a music system, just a portable radio whose aerial had been snapped off. Books scattered everywhere, some English, some Russian, plus a few other languages. A Greek dictionary sat on the arm of the sofa. There were empty lager cans on a shelf meant for knick-knacks. Invitations on the mantelpiece to parties from the previous month. They had passed a telephone on the floor in the hallway. Rebus asked if the poet had owned such a thing as a mobile. When Colwell shook her head, hair bouncing and swaying, Rebus knew he wanted to ask another question she could answer in the same way. Clarke’s clearing of the throat warned him against it.
‘And no computer either?’ he asked anyway.
‘He was welcome to use the one in my office,’ Colwell said. ‘But Alexander mistrusted technology.’
‘You knew him fairly well?’
‘I was his translator. When the scholarship was announced, I petitioned hard on his behalf.’
‘So where was he before Edinburgh?’
‘Paris for a time ... Cologne before that ... Stanford, Melbourne, Ottawa . . .’ She managed a smile. ‘He was very proud of the stamps in his passport.’
‘Speaking of which,’ Clarke interrupted, ‘his pockets had been emptied - any idea what he would usually carry around with him?’
‘A notebook and pen . . . some money, I suppose . . .’
‘Any credit cards?’
‘He had a cash card. I think he’d opened an account with First Albannach. Should be some statements around here somewhere.’ She looked about her. ‘You say he was mugged?’
‘Some sort of attack, certainly.’
‘What kind of man was he, Dr Colwell?’ Rebus asked. ‘If someone confronted him in the street, would he put up a struggle, fight them back?’
‘Oh, I’d think so. He was physically robust. Liked good wine and a good argument.’
‘Did he have a temper?’
‘Not especially.’
‘But you said he liked to argue.’
‘In the sense that he enjoyed debate,’ Colwell corrected herself.
‘When did you last see him?’
‘At the Poetry Library. He was headed to the pub afterwards, but I wanted to get home - essays to mark before we break for Christmas.’
‘So who did he go to the pub with?’
‘There were a few local poets in the audience: Ron Butlin, Andrew Greig . . . I’d guess Abigail Thomas would be there, too, if only to pay for the drinks - Alexander wasn’t brilliant with money.’
Rebus and Clarke shared a look: they’d have to talk to the librarian again. Rebus gave a little cough, playing for time before asking his next question. ‘Would you be willing to identify the body, Dr Colwell?’
The blood drained from Scarlett Colwell’s face.
‘You seem to have known him better than most,’ Rebus argued, ‘unless there’s a next of kin we can approach.’
But she had already made up her mind. ‘It’s all right, I’ll do it.’
‘We can take you there now,’ Clarke told her, ‘if that’s okay with you.’
Colwell nodded slowly, eyes staring into space. Rebus caught Clarke’s attention. ‘Get on to the station,’ he said, ‘see if Hawes and Tibbet can come give this place a look-see - passport, cash card, notebook ... If they’re not here, someone’s either got them or dumped them.’
‘Not forgetting his set of keys,’ Clarke added.
‘Good point.’ Rebus’s eyes scanned the room again. ‘Hard to say if this place has been turned over or not - unless you know better, Dr Colwell?’
Colwell shook her head again, and had to remove a strand of hair from over one eye. ‘It was always pretty much like this.’
‘So no need for forensics,’ Rebus told Clarke. ‘Just Hawes and Tibbet.’ Clarke was nodding as she reached for her phone. Rebus had missed something Colwell had said.
‘I’ve a tutorial in an hour,’ she repeated.
‘We’ll have you back in plenty of time,’ he assured her, not particularly caring one way or the other. He held out a hand towards Clarke. ‘Keys.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You’re staying here to let Hawes and Tibbet in. I’ll drive Dr Colwell to the mortuary.’
Clarke tried staring him out, but eventually relented.
‘Get one of them to bring you to the Cowgate afterwards,’ Rebus said, hoping to sugar the pill.
4
The identification was immediate, even though most of the body was kept in its shroud, concealing the work done by the pathologists. Colwell laid her forehead against Rebus’s shoulder for a moment, and allowed a single tear to escape from either eye. Rebus regretted not having a clean handkerchief on him, but she reached into her shoulder bag for one, dabbing her eyes and then blowing her nose. Professor Gates was in the room with them, dressed in a three-piece suit which had fitted him beautifully four or five years back. He held his hands in front of him, head bowed, respecting the formalities.‘It’s Alexander,’ Colwell was eventually able to say.
‘You’re sure of that?’ Rebus felt obliged to press.
‘Positive.’
‘Perhaps,’ Gates piped up, raising his head, ‘Dr Colwell would like a cup of tea before the paperwork?’
‘Just a couple of forms,’ Rebus explained quietly. Colwell nodded slowly, and the three of them went to the pathologist’s private office. It was a claustrophobic space wit
h no natural light and the smell of damp wafting in from the shower cubicle next door. The day shift was on, and Rebus didn’t recognise the man who brought the tea. Gates called him Kevin, told him to close the door again on his way out, then opened the folder on his desk.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘was Mr Todorov any sort of car enthusiast?’
‘I don’t think he’d have known the engine from the boot,’ Colwell said with a hint of a smile. ‘He once got me to change the bulb in his desk lamp.’
Gates smiled back at her, then turned his attention to Rebus. ‘Forensics asked if he maybe worked as a mechanic. There was some oil on the hem of the jacket and the trouser knees.’