by Ian Rankin
‘Doesn’t mean there’s nothing there.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Siobhan here,’ Rebus said, ‘was telling me there’s more CCTV in the UK than any other country.’
‘Twenty per cent of all the closed-circuit cameras in the world, one for each and every dozen of us.’
‘So quite a lot then?’ Rebus muttered.
‘You save all the footage?’ Clarke asked.
‘We do what we can. It goes on to hard disk and video, but there are guidelines we have to follow . . .’
‘What Graeme means,’ Rebus explained for Clarke’s benefit, ‘is that he can’t just go handing material to us - Data Protection Act 1997.’
MacLeod was nodding. ‘Ninety-eight actually, John. We can give you what we’ve got, but there are hoops to be gone through first.’
‘Which is why I’ve learned to trust Graeme’s judgement.’ Rebus turned to MacLeod. ‘And I’m guessing you’ve been through the recordings with whatever the digital equivalent is of a fine-toothed comb?’
MacLeod smiled and nodded. ‘Jenny gave me a hand. We had the photos of the victim from the various news agencies. I think we’ve picked him up on Shandwick Place. He was on foot and unaccompanied. That’s at just gone ten. Next time we see him is half an hour later on Lothian Road. But as you’ve guessed, we’ve no cameras on King’s Stables Road itself.’
‘Did you get the sense anyone was following him?’ Rebus asked.
MacLeod shook his head. ‘And neither did Jenny.’
Clarke was studying the screens again. ‘A few more years of this and I’ll be out of a job.’
MacLeod laughed. ‘I doubt that. Surveillance is a tricky balancing act. Invasion of privacy is always an issue, and the civil rights people oppose us every step of the way.’
‘Now there’s a surprise,’ Rebus muttered.
‘Don’t tell me you’d want one of our cameras peering in through your own window?’ MacLeod teased.
Clarke had been thinking. ‘Charles Riordan picked up the tab at the curry house at nine forty-eight. Todorov left there and headed into town along Shandwick Place. How come it took him half an hour to travel quarter of a mile to Lothian Road?’
‘He stopped for a drink?’ Rebus guessed.
‘Riordan mentioned Mather’s or the Caledonian Hotel. Wherever he went, Todorov was back on the street at ten forty, meaning he’d have been outside the car park five minutes later.’ She waited for Rebus to nod his agreement.
‘Shutters go down on the car park at eleven,’ he added. The attack must’ve been quick.’ Then, to MacLeod: ‘What about afterwards, Graeme?’
MacLeod was ready for this. ‘The passer-by who found the body called it in at twelve minutes past eleven. We took a look at the footage from the Grassmarket and Lothian Road ten minutes either side of that time.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Just the usual pub-goers, office parties, late-night shoppers ... no crazed muggers legging it with a hammer swinging from their hand.’
‘Be handy if we could take a look at that,’ Rebus stated. ‘We might know faces you don’t.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘But you’d want us to jump through the hoops?’
MacLeod had folded his arms, the gesture providing an answer in itself.
They were heading back through the reception area, Rebus breaking open a fresh packet of cigarettes, when an attendant in some sort of official garb stopped them. It took a moment for Rebus to register that the Lord Provost herself was there, too, her gold chain of office hanging around her neck. She didn’t look particularly happy.‘I believe we have an appointment?’ she was asking. ‘Though nobody seems to know about it except you two.’
‘Bit of a cock-up there,’ Rebus apologised.
‘So not just a ploy to grab yourselves a precious parking bay?’
‘Perish the thought.’
She glared at him. ‘Just as well you’re going - we need that space for more important visitors.’
Rebus could feel his grip tightening on the cigarettes. ‘What could be more urgent than a murder inquiry?’ he asked.
She caught his meaning. ‘The Russian poet? We need that one cleared fast.’
‘To appease the money-men of the Volga?’ Rebus guessed. Then, after a moment’s thought: ‘How much does the council have to do with them? Megan Macfarlane tells us her Urban Regeneration Committee is involved.’
The Lord Provost was nodding. ‘But there’s council input, too.’
‘So you’re glad-handing the fat cats? Good to see my council tax being put to such good use.’
The Lord Provost had taken a step forwards, glare intensifying. She was readying a fresh salvo when her attendant cleared his throat. Through the window, a long black car could be seen trying to manoeuvre itself through the arch in front of the building. The Lord Provost said nothing, just turned from Rebus and was gone. He gave her five seconds, then made his own exit, Clarke at his shoulder.
‘Nice to make friends,’ she said.
‘I’m a week from retirement, Shiv, what the hell do I care?’
They walked a few yards down the pavement, then stopped while Rebus got his cigarette lit.
‘Did you see the paper this morning?’ Clarke asked. ‘Andy Kerr won Politician of the Year last night.’
‘And who’s he when he’s at home?’
‘Man who brought in the smoking ban.’
Rebus just snorted. Pedestrians were watching the official-looking car draw to a halt in front of the waiting Lord Provost. Her liveried attendant stepped forward to open the back door. Tinted windows had shielded the passenger from view, but as he stepped out Rebus immediately guessed he was one of the Russians. Big coat, black gloves, and a chiselled, unsmiling face. Maybe forty years old, hair short and well groomed with some greying at the temples. Steely grey eyes which took in everything, Rebus and Clarke included, even as he was shaking the Lord Provost’s hand and answering some remark she’d made. Rebus sucked smoke deep into his lungs and watched as the party disappeared back inside.
‘Looks like the Russian consulate’s going into the taxi business,’ Rebus stated, studying the black Mercedes.
‘Same car Stahov had?’ Clarke guessed.
‘Could be.’
‘What about the driver?’
‘Hard to tell.’
Another official had appeared and was gesturing for them to move their car so the chauffeur could park. Rebus held up a single digit, meaning one minute. Then he noticed that Clarke was still wearing her visitor’s badge.
‘Better hand them back,’ he said. ‘You take this.’ He held out the half-smoked cigarette towards her, but she was reluctant, so instead he balanced it on a windowsill nearby. ‘Watch it doesn’t blow away,’ he warned, taking her badge and unclipping his own.
‘I’m sure they don’t need them,’ she commented. Rebus just smiled and headed for reception.
‘Thought we better give you these,’ he told the woman behind the desk. ‘You can always recycle them, eh? We’ve all got to do our bit.’ He was still smiling, so the receptionist smiled back.
‘By the way,’ he added, leaning over the desk, ‘that bloke with the Lord Provost - was it who I think it was?’
‘Some sort of business tycoon,’ the woman said. Yes, because the visitors’ log was sitting there in front of them, and the last name to be entered - entered with what looked like thick blue ink from a fountain pen - was the same one she uttered now.
‘Sergei Andropov.’
‘Where to?’ Clarke asked.‘The pub.’
‘Do you have one in mind?’
‘Mather’s, of course.’
But as Clarke drove them down Johnston Terrace, Rebus told her to take a detour, a series of left turns bringing them into King’s Stables Road from the Grassmarket end. They drew to a halt outside the multistorey, and saw that Hawes and Tibbet were busy. Clarke sounded the horn as she turned off the ignition. Tibbet turned and waved. He’d been sticking flyers on win
dscreens - POLICE INCIDENT: INFORMATION REQUIRED. Hawes was setting up a sandwich board on the pavement next to the exit barriers - a larger version of the flyer, exact same wording. There was a grainy photograph of Todorov: ‘Around 11 p.m. on Wednesday 15 November a man was attacked within the confines of this car park, dying from his injuries. Did you see anything? Was anyone you know parked here on that evening? Please call the incident room ...’ The number given was a police switchboard.
‘Just as well,’ Rebus pointed out, ‘seeing as there’s no one currently home at CID.’
‘Macrae was saying much the same thing,’ Hawes agreed, studying her handiwork. ‘Wanted to know how many more officers we’d be needing.’
‘I like my teams small and perfectly formed,’ Rebus replied.
‘Obviously not a Hearts fan,’ Tibbet added in an undertone.
‘You a Hibs fan then, Colin, same as Siobhan here?’
‘Livingston,’ Tibbet corrected him.
‘Hearts have got a Russian owner, haven’t they?’
It was Clarke who answered. ‘He’s Lithuanian actually.’
Hawes interrupted to ask where Rebus and Clarke were headed.
‘The pub,’ Clarke announced.
‘Lucky you.’
‘Business rather than pleasure.’
‘So what do Colin and me do after this?’ Hawes’s eyes were on Rebus.
‘Back to base,’ he told her, ‘to await the torrent of phone calls.’
‘And,’ Clarke suddenly remembered, ‘I need someone to call the BBC for me. See if they’ll send us a copy of Todorov on Question Time. I want to see just how much of a stirrer he really was.’
‘They ran a bit of it on the news last night,’ Colin Tibbet announced. ‘There was a package about the case, and that was all the footage of him they seemed to have.’
‘Thanks for sharing,’ Clarke told him. ‘Maybe you could get on to the Beeb for me?’
He gave a shrug, indicating willingness. Clarke’s attention was drawn to the stack of flyers he still held. Though they were printed on various colours of paper, most seemed to be a particularly lurid pink.
‘We wanted them in a hurry,’ Tibbet explained. ‘This was what was on offer.’
‘Let’s go,’ Rebus told Clarke, making for the car, but Hawes had other ideas.
‘We should be doing the follow-up interviews with the witnesses,’ she called. ‘Me and Colin could do it.’
Rebus pretended to think for all of five seconds before turning down the offer.
Back in the car, he stared at the No Entry sign which was denying them direct access to Lothian Road.
‘Think I should chance it?’ Clarke asked.
‘Up to you, Shiv.’
She gnawed at her bottom lip, then executed a three-point turn. Ten minutes later, they were on Lothian Road, passing the other end of King’s Stables Road. ‘Should’ve chanced it,’ Rebus commented. Two further minutes and they were parking on the yellow lines outside Mather’s, having disregarded a road sign warning them they could only turn into Queensferry Street if they were a bus or a taxi. The white van in front had done the selfsame thing and the estate car behind them was following suit.
‘A regular little law-breaking convoy,’ was Rebus’s comment.
‘I despair of this town,’ Clarke said, teeth bared. ‘Who thinks up the traffic management?’
‘You need a drink,’ Rebus informed her. He didn’t get into Mather’s much, but he liked the place. It was old-fashioned, with few chairs, most of them occupied by serious-looking men. Early afternoon, and Sky Sports was on the television. Clarke had brought a few of the flyers with her - yellow in preference to pink - and went around the tables with them, while Rebus held one up in front of the barman’s face.
‘Two nights ago,’ he said, ‘around ten o’clock, maybe a little after.’
‘Wasn’t my shift,’ the barman answered.
‘Then whose was it?’
‘Terry’s.’
‘And where’s Terry?’
‘In his kip, most likely.’
‘Is he on again tonight?’ When the barman nodded, Rebus pressed the flyer on him. ‘I want a phone call from him, whether he served this guy or not. No phone call, it’s you I’ll blame.’
The barman just gave a twitch of the mouth. Clarke was standing next to Rebus. ‘Guy over in the corner seems to know you,’ she said. Rebus looked and nodded, then walked over to the table, Clarke following.
‘All right, Big?’ Rebus said by way of greeting.
The man drinking alone - half of heavy and an inch of whisky - seemed to be enjoying his berth, one foot up on the chair next to him, a hand scratching his chest. He was wearing a faded denim shirt, undone to below the breastbone. Rebus hadn’t seen him in maybe seven or eight years. He called himself Podeen - Big Podeen. Ex-Navy, ex-bouncer, looking his age now, his huge, weatherbeaten face caving in on itself, most of the teeth having disappeared from the fleshy-lipped mouth.
‘Not bad, Mr Rebus.’ There were no handshakes, just slight tilts of the head and occasional eye contact.
‘This your local then?’ Rebus asked.
‘Depends how you mean.’
‘Thought you were living down the coast.’
‘That was years back. People change, move on.’ There was a pouch of tobacco on the table, next to a lighter and cigarette papers. Podeen picked it up and began to play with it.
‘Got something for us?’
Podeen puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. ‘I was here two nights back, and your man there wasn’t.’ He nodded towards the flyer. ‘Know who he is, though, used to see him in here round about closing time. Bit of a nighthawk, if you ask me.’
‘Like yourself, Big?’
‘And your good self, too, I seem to remember.’
‘Pipe and slippers these days, Big,’ Rebus told him. ‘Cocoa and in bed by ten.’
‘Can’t see it somehow. Guess who I bumped into the other day - our old friend Cafferty. How come you never managed to put him away?’
‘We got him a couple of times, Big.’
Podeen wrinkled his nose. ‘A few years here and there. He always seemed to get back off the canvas, though, didn’t he?’ Podeen’s eyes met Rebus’s again. ‘Word is, you’re for the gold watch. Not a bad heavyweight career, Mr Rebus, but that’s what they’ll always say about you . . .’
‘What?’
‘That you lacked the knockout punch.’ Podeen lifted his whisky glass. ‘Anyway, here’s to the twilight years. Maybe we’ll start seeing you in here more often. Then again, most of the pubs in this city, you’d have to keep your back to the wall - plenty of grudges, Mr Rebus, and once you’re not the law any more . . .’ Podeen gave a theatrical shrug.
‘Thanks for cheering me up, Big.’ Rebus glanced towards the flyer. ‘Did you ever talk to him?’ Podeen made a face and shook his head. ‘Anyone else in here we should be asking?’
‘He used to stand at the bar, as near the door as possible. It was the drink he liked, not the company.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You’ve not asked me about Cafferty.’
‘Okay, what about him?’
‘He said to say hello.’
Rebus stared him out. ‘Is that it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘And where did this earth-shattering exchange take place?’
‘Funnily enough, just across the road. I bumped into him as he was coming out of the Caledonian Hotel.’
Which was their next destination. The vast pink-hued edifice had two doors. One led into the hotel’s reception area and boasted a doorman. The other took you directly into the bar, which was open to residents and waifs alike. Rebus decided he was thirsty and ordered a pint. Clarke said she’d stick to tomato juice.‘Been cheaper across the road,’ she commented.
‘Which is why you’re paying.’ But when the bill came, he slapped a five-pound note on it, hoping for change.
‘Your chum in Mather’s was right, wasn’t he?’ Clarke
ventured. ‘When I go out for the night, I always keep watch on who’s coming and going, just in case I see a face I know.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Number of villains we’ve put away, stands to reason some of them are back on the street. Just make sure you frequent a better class of watering-hole.’
‘Like this place, for instance?’ Clarke looked around her. ‘What do you think Todorov would see in it?’
Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Not sure,’ he conceded. ‘Maybe just a different sort of vibe.’
‘Vibe?’ Clarke echoed with a smile.
‘Must’ve picked that up from you.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Tibbet then. Anyway, what’s wrong with it? It’s a perfectly decent word.’
‘It just doesn’t sound right, coming from you.’
‘Should have heard me in the sixties.’
‘I wasn’t born in the sixties.’
‘Don’t keep reminding me.’ He’d downed half his drink, and signalled for the barman, flyer at the ready. The barman was short and stick-thin with a shaved head. He wore a tartan waistcoat and tie, and only looked at Todorov’s photo for a few seconds before starting to nod, bald pate gleaming.
‘He’s been in a few times recently.’
‘Was he in two nights ago?’ Clarke asked.
‘I think so.’ The barman was concentrating, brow furrowed. Rebus knew that sometimes the reason people concentrated was to think up a convincing lie. The badge on the barman’s waistcoat identified him only as Freddie.
‘Just after ten,’ Rebus prompted. ‘He’d already had a few drinks.’
Freddie was nodding again. ‘Wanted a large cognac.’
‘He just stayed for one?’
‘I think so.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
Freddie shook his head. ‘But I know who he is now - I saw about it on the news. What a hellish thing to happen.’
‘Hellish,’ Rebus agreed.
‘Did he sit at the bar?’ Clarke asked. ‘Or was he at a table?’