by Ian Rankin
‘We should enter a team of four,’ Tibbet said. Hawes asked what he meant. ‘HQ is having a pub quiz, week before Christmas,’ he explained.
‘By then,’ Clarke reminded him, ‘we’ll be a team of three.’
‘Heard anything about the promotion?’ Hawes asked her. Clarke just shook her head. ‘Taking their time,’ Hawes added, twisting the knife. Rebus was coming back.
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ he said, sitting down again. ‘That was Howdenhall with a bit of news. Tests show our Russian poet had ejaculated at some point during the day. Stained underpants, apparently.’
‘Maybe he got lucky in Glasgow,’ Clarke speculated.
‘Maybe,’ Rebus agreed.
‘Him and this sound recordist?’ Hawes offered.
‘Todorov had a wife,’ Clarke said.
‘You can never tell with poets, though,’ Rebus added. ‘Could’ve been some time after the curry, of course.’
‘Any time up until the minute he was attacked.’ Clarke and Rebus shared another look.
Tibbet was shifting in his chair. ‘Or it could have been . . . you know.’ He cleared his throat, cheeks reddening.
‘What?’ Clarke asked.
‘You know,’ Tibbet repeated.
‘I think Colin means masturbation,’ Hawes interjected. Tibbet’s look was a study in gratitude.
‘John?’ It was the barman. Rebus turned towards him. ‘Thought you’d want to see this.’ He held up a newspaper. It was the day’s final printing of the Evening News. The headline was DEATH OF A POET and beneath it, in bold lettering, ‘The maverick who dared to say nyet!’ There was an archive photo of Alexander Todorov. He stood in Princes Street Gardens, the Castle louring behind him. A tartan scarf was wrapped around his neck; probably his first day in Scotland. A man with only two months to live.
‘Cat’s out of the bag,’ Rebus said, taking the proffered newspaper. Then, to anyone around the table who might know: ‘Does that count as metaphor?’
Day Three
Friday 17 November 2006
7
There was a funny smell in the CID office at Gayfield Square police station. You often noticed it at the height of summer, but this year it seemed determined to linger. It would disappear for a matter of days or weeks, then one morning would announce its creeping reappearance. There had been regular complaints and the Scottish Police Federation had threatened a walkout. Floors had been lifted and drains tested, traps set for vermin, but no answers.‘Smells like death,’ the seasoned officers would comment. Rebus knew what they meant: every now and again, a body would be discovered decomposing in the armchair of a sixties semi, or a floater would be pulled from Leith docks. There was a special room set aside for them at the mortuary, and the attendants had placed a radio on the floor, which could be switched on when desired: ‘Helps take our minds off the pong.’
At Gayfield Square, the answer was to open all available windows, which sent the temperature plummeting. The office of Detective Chief Inspector James Macrae - separated by a glass door from the CID suite - was like a walk-in fridge. This morning, Macrae had shown foresight by hauling an electric heater into work from his Blackhall home. Rebus had seen somewhere that Blackhall boasted the wealthiest residents in the city. It had sounded an unlikely setting - bungalows and more bungalows. Homes in Barnton and the New Town fetched millions. Then again, maybe that explained why the people who lived there weren’t as rich as those in Bungalowland.
Macrae had plugged the heater in and switched it on, but it stayed his side of the desk, and radiated warmth only so far. Phyllida Hawes had already shuffled so close to it that she was almost seated on Macrae’s lap, something the DCI noted with a scowl.
‘Right,’ he barked, clenching his hands together as if in angry prayer, ‘progress report.’ But before Rebus could begin, Macrae sensed a problem. ‘Colin, shut the door, will you? Let’s keep what heat there is to ourselves.’
‘Not much room, sir,’ Tibbet commented. He was standing in the doorway, and what he said was true: with Macrae, Rebus, Clarke and Hawes inside, space in the DCI’s den was limited.
‘Then go back to your desk,’ Macrae replied. ‘I’m sure Phyllida can report on your behalf.’
But Tibbet didn’t want that happening: if Clarke was promoted DI, there’d be a vacancy at detective sergeant, making Hawes and him rivals as well as partners. He sucked in his stomach and managed to get the door closed.
‘Progress report,’ Macrae repeated. But then his phone rang and he lifted it with a growl. Rebus wondered about his boss’s blood pressure. His own was nothing to boast about, but Macrae’s face was typically puce, and though a couple of years younger than Rebus, his hair had almost gone. As Rebus’s own doctor had conceded during his last check-up, ‘You’ve had a lucky run, John, but luck always runs out.’
Macrae made only a few grunts before putting the phone back down. His eyes were on Rebus. ‘Someone from the Russian consulate at the front desk.’
‘Wondered when they’d turn up,’ Rebus said. ‘Siobhan and I should take this, sir. Meantime, Phyl and Colin can tell you all you need to know - we had a pow-wow last night.’
Macrae nodded his agreement and Rebus turned to Clarke.
‘One of the interview rooms?’ she suggested.
‘Just what I was thinking.’ They moved out of the DCI’s office and through the CID suite. The wall-boards were still blank. Later today, photos from the crime scene would go up, along with lists of names, jobs to be done, and schedules of hours. At some murder scenes, you would set up a temporary HQ, work from there. But Rebus didn’t see the point this time round. They would put up posters at the car park exit, appealing for information, and maybe get Hawes and Tibbet or a few of the uniforms to stick leaflets on windscreens. But this large, cold room would be their base. Clarke was looking back over her shoulder towards Macrae’s office. Hawes and Tibbet seemed to be in competition to see who could offer the best titbits to the boss.
‘Anyone,’ Rebus commented, ‘would think there’s a DS slot going begging. Who’s your money on?’
‘Phyl’s got more years in,’ Clarke answered. ‘She’s got to be favourite. If Colin gets it, I think she’ll walk.’
Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘Which interview room?’ he asked.
‘I like Three.’
‘Why so?’
‘Table’s all greasy and scabby, graffiti scratched on the walls ... It’s the sort of place you go when you’ve done something.’
Rebus smiled at her thinking. Even for the pure at heart, IR3 was a troubling experience.
‘Spot on,’ he said.
The consular official was called Nikolai Stahov. He introduced himself with a self-effacing smile. He was young-looking and shiny-faced with a parting in his light-brown hair which made him seem even more boyish. But he was six feet tall and broad-shouldered, and wore a three-quarter-length black woollen coat, complete with belt and the collar turned up. From one pocket peeked a pair of black leather gloves - mittens, actually, Rebus realised, smooth and rounded where there should have been fingers. Did your mum dress you? he wanted to ask. But he shook Stahov’s hand instead.
‘We’re sorry about Mr Todorov,’ Clarke said, reaching out her own hand towards the Russian. She got a little bow along with the shake.
‘My consulate,’ Stahov said, ‘wishes to be assured that everything possible is being done to capture and prosecute the perpetrator.’
Rebus nodded slowly. ‘We thought we’d be more comfortable in one of our interview rooms . . .’
They led the young Russian down the corridor, stopping at the third door. It was unlocked. Rebus pulled it open and gestured for Clarke and Stahov to go in. Then he slid the panel across the door, changing its message from Vacant to In Use.
‘Take a seat,’ he said. Stahov was studying his surroundings as he lowered himself on to the chair. He was about to place his hands on the tabletop, but thought better of it and rested them on his lap inste
ad. Clarke had taken the seat opposite, Rebus content to lean against the wall, arms folded. ‘So what can you tell us about Alexander Todorov?’ he asked.
‘Inspector, I came here for reassurances and from a sense of protocol. You must know that as a diplomat, I am not obliged to answer any of your questions.’
‘Because you’ve got immunity,’ Rebus acknowledged. ‘We just assumed you’d want to assist us in any way possible. It is one of your countrymen who’s been killed, and rather a notable one at that.’ He tried to sound aggrieved.
‘Of course, of course, that’s unquestionable.’ Stahov kept turning his head, trying to talk to both of them at the same time.
‘Good,’ Clarke told him. ‘Then you won’t mind us asking how big a thorn Todorov was proving to be?’
‘Thorn?’ It was hard to tell if Stahov’s English was really defeating him.
‘How awkward was it for you,’ Clarke rephrased the question, ‘having a noted dissident poet living in Edinburgh?’
‘It wasn’t awkward at all.’
‘You welcomed him?’ Clarke pretended to guess. ‘Was there any kind of party at the consulate? He’d been talked about for the Nobel ... that must have given you great satisfaction?’
‘In today’s Russia, the Nobel Prize isn’t such a big deal.’
‘Mr Todorov had given a couple of public performances recently ... did you happen to go see him?’
‘I had other engagements.’
‘Did anyone from the consulate—’
But Stahov felt the need to interrupt. ‘I don’t see what bearing any of this could have on your inquiries. In fact, your questions could be construed as a smokescreen. Whether we wanted Alexander Todorov here or not is of no consequence. He was murdered in your city, your country. Edinburgh is not without its problems with race and creed - Polish workers have found themselves attacked. Wearing the wrong football shirt can be provocation enough.’
Rebus looked towards Clarke. ‘Talk about a smokescreen . . .’
‘I am speaking the truth.’ Stahov’s voice was beginning to tremble, and he made an effort to calm himself. ‘What my consulate requires, Inspector, is to be kept informed of developments. That way, we can reassure Moscow that your investigation has been rigorous and fair, and they in turn can advise your government of our satisfaction.’
Rebus and Clarke seemed to consider this. Rebus unfolded his arms and slipped his hands into his pockets.
‘There’s always the possibility,’ he said quietly, ‘that Mr Todorov was attacked by someone with a grudge. That person could be a member of the Russian community here in Edinburgh. I’m assuming the consulate keeps a list of nationals living and working here?’
‘My understanding, Inspector, was that Alexander Todorov was just another victim of this city’s street crime.’
‘Foolish to rule anything out at this stage, sir.’
‘And that list would come in handy,’ Clarke stressed.
Stahov looked from one detective to the other. Rebus hoped he’d make up his mind soon. One error they’d made in opting for IR3 - it was bloody freezing. The Russian’s overcoat looked toasty, but Rebus reckoned Siobhan was going to start shivering soon. He was surprised their breath wasn’t visible in the air.
‘I will see what I can do,’ Stahov said at last. ‘But quid pro quo - you will keep me informed of developments?’
‘Give us your number,’ Clarke told him. The young Russian seemed to take this as agreement.
Rebus knew it was anything but.
There was a package waiting for Siobhan Clarke at the front desk. Rebus had gone outside for a cigarette and to see whether Stahov had a chauffeur. Clarke opened the padded envelope and found a CD inside, with the single word ‘Riordan’ written on it in thick black pen. It told her a lot about Charles Riordan that he used his own name, in place of Todorov’s. She took the CD upstairs, but there was no machine to play it on. So instead she headed for the car park, passing Rebus as he came in.‘Big black Merc waiting for him,’ Rebus confirmed. ‘Guy wearing shades and gloves at the helm. Where are you off to?’
She told him and he said he wouldn’t mind joining her, though warning that he ‘might not last the pace’. In the end, though, the pair of them sat in Clarke’s car for a solid hour and a quarter, engine running so the heater stayed on. Riordan had recorded everything: some chat between audience members, then the introduction by Abigail Thomas, Todorov’s half-hour and the Q and A session after, most of the questions steering clear of politics. As the applause died and the audience dispersed, Riordan’s mike was still picking up chatter.
‘He’s an obsessive,’ Clarke commented.
‘I hear you,’ Rebus agreed. Almost the last thing they heard was a muttered snatch of Russian. ‘Probably,’ Rebus speculated, ‘saying “Thank Khrushchev that’s over”.’
‘Who’s Khrushchev?’ Clarke asked. ‘Some friend of Jack Palance?’
The recital itself had been riveting, the poet’s voice by turns sonorous, gruff, elegiac and booming. He performed some of his work in English, some in Russian, but the majority in both - usually Russian first, English after.
‘Sounds like Scots, doesn’t it?’ Clarke had asked at one point.
‘Maybe to someone from England,’ Rebus had retorted. Okay, so she’d walked into that one, as so often before - her ‘southern’ accent had been easy prey for Rebus since the moment they’d met. This time, she’d refused to rise to him.
‘This one,’ she’d said at another point, ‘is called “Raskolnikov” - I remember it from the book. Raskolnikov’s a character in Crime and Punishment.’
‘A book I’d probably read before you were even born.’
‘You’ve read Dostoevsky?’
‘You think I’d lie about something like that?’
‘What’s it about then?’
‘It’s about guilt. One of the great Russian novels, in my opinion.’
‘How many others have you read?’
‘That’s neither here nor there.’
Now, as she turned the CD off, he swivelled towards her. ‘You’ve listened to the show, you’ve been through Todorov’s book - have you found anything resembling a motive for his killing?’
‘No,’ she conceded. ‘And I know what you’re thinking - Macrae’s going to treat it as a mugging gone wrong.’
‘Which is pretty well how the consulate wants to see it handled, too.’
She gave a slow, thoughtful nod. ‘So who did he have sex with?’ she eventually asked.
‘Is it relevant?’
‘We won’t know till we know. Most likely candidate is Scarlett Colwell.’
‘Because she’s a stunner?’ Rebus sounded dubious.
‘Can’t bear to think of her with anyone else?’ Clarke teased.
‘What about Miss Thomas at the Poetry Library?’ But this time Clarke gave a snort.
‘I don’t see her as a contender,’ she explained.
‘Dr Colwell didn’t seem so sure.’
‘Which probably says more about Dr Colwell than Ms Thomas.’
‘Maybe young Colin had a point,’ Rebus ploughed on. ‘Or it’s just as likely our red-blooded poet picked up a tart in Glasgow.’ He saw Clarke’s look. ‘Sorry, I should have said “sex worker” - or has the terminology changed again since I last got my knuckles rapped?’
‘Keep going and I’ll rap them again.’ She paused for a moment, eyes still fixed on him. ‘Funny to think of you reading Crime and Punishment.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I did a search on Harry Goodyear.’
‘Thought you might.’ He turned his attention to the windscreen and the bleak car park beyond. Clarke could see that he wanted to wind down the window so he could smoke. But the smell was out there, lying in wait just above the level of the tarmac.
‘He was a pub landlord in Rose Street, mid-eighties,’ she said. ‘You were a detective sergeant. You helped put him away.’
‘He was dealing drugs from the premises.’
‘Drugs?’
‘So you know about him?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Educated guess.’
‘And you didn’t know Todd Goodyear was in the police?’
‘Believe it or not, Shiv, I don’t keep tabs on the grandkids of villains I locked up two decades back.’
‘Thing is, we didn’t just get Sol for possession - we tried to have him for dealing, too. Court gave him the benefit of the doubt.’
Rebus turned towards her. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘I was in the office before you this morning. Few minutes on the computer and one phone call to Dalkeith CID. Rumour at the time was, Sol Goodyear was dealing on behalf of Big Ger Cafferty.’
She could see straight away that she’d struck a nerve: Cafferty was unfinished business - big unfinished business - his name top of Rebus’s ‘to do’ list. Cafferty had made a decent fist of looking like a retired villain, but Rebus and Clarke knew better.
Cafferty still ran Edinburgh.
And had found himself a place at the top of her list, too.
‘Is any of this leading somewhere?’ Rebus asked, turning his attention back to the windscreen.
‘Not really.’ She ejected the CD from its slot. The radio blasted into life - Forth 1, the DJ talking twenty to the dozen. She switched it off. Rebus had noticed something.
‘Didn’t know there was a camera there,’ he said. He meant at the corner of the building, between the first and second storeys. The camera was pointing into the car park.
‘They reckon it stops vandalism. Reminds me actually - think there’s any point looking at city-centre footage from the night Todorov was killed? Bound to be cameras at the west end of Princes Street, maybe on Lothian Road, too. If someone was shadowing him ...’ She let the sentence drift.