by Ian Rankin
Clarke was surprised by the change of subject. ‘Depends what you mean,’ she said warily.
‘It’s just gossip among the uniforms. The pair of them are supposed to be close.’
‘They detest one another,’ Clarke heard herself say.
‘Really?’
She nodded. ‘I sometimes wonder how it’ll pan out . . .’ She was almost talking to herself, because it had crossed her mind often these past few weeks. ‘Any particular reason why you’re asking?’
‘When Sol started dealing, I think he was talked into it by Cafferty.’
‘You think or you know?’
‘He’s never admitted it.’
‘Then what makes you so sure?’
‘Are cops still allowed to have hunches?’
Clarke smiled, thinking of Rebus again. ‘It’s frowned upon.’
‘But that doesn’t stop it happening.’ He studied what little was left in his mug. ‘I’m glad you’ve put my mind at rest about DI Rebus. You didn’t sound surprised when I mentioned Cafferty.’
‘Like you said, I did some checking.’
He gave a smile and a nod, then asked if she wanted a refill.
‘One’s enough for now.’ Clarke drained her cup, taking only a few seconds to make up her mind. ‘You’re based at Torphichen, right?’
‘Right.’
‘And can they spare you for a morning?’ Goodyear’s face brightened like a kid at Christmas. ‘I’ll give them a call,’ Clarke went on, ‘and tell them I’ve snaffled you for a few hours.’ She wagged a finger in his face. ‘Just a few hours, mind. Let’s see how we get on.’
‘You won’t regret it,’ Todd Goodyear said.
‘That’s what you said on Friday - better make sure I don’t.’ My case, Clarke was thinking, and my team . . . and here was her first little bit of recruiting. Maybe it was his naked enthusiasm, reminding her of the cop she’d been, too, once upon a time. Or the notion of rescuing him from his time-serving partner. Then again, with Rebus on the cusp of retirement, a buffer between herself and her remaining colleagues might prove handy . . .
Being selfish or being kind? she asked herself.
Was it possible for an action to be both?
Roger Anderson had reversed halfway down his drive when he spotted the car blocking the gates. The gates themselves were electric, and had swung open at the push of a button, but there was a Saab on the roadway, stopping him getting out.
‘Of all the inconsiderate bloody . . .’ He was wondering which neighbour was responsible. The Archibalds two doors down always seemed to have workmen in or visitors staying. The Graysons across the road had a couple of sons home for the winter from their gap years. Then there were the cold callers and the people dropping leaflets and cards through the door . . . He sounded the Bentley’s horn, which brought his wife to the dining-room window. Was there someone in the Saab’s passenger seat? No ... they were in the bloody driving seat! Anderson thumped on the horn a couple more times, then undid his seatbelt and got out, stomping towards the offending vehicle. The window on the driver’s side was sliding down, a face peering out at him.
‘Oh, it’s you.’ One of the detectives from last night . . . Inspector something.
‘DI Rebus,’ Rebus reminded the banker. ‘And how are you this morning, Mr Anderson?’
‘Look, Inspector, I do intend coming to your station sometime today . . .’
‘Whenever suits you, sir, but that’s not the reason I’m here.’
‘Oh?’
‘After we left you on Friday, we paid a call to the other witness - Miss Sievewright.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘She told us you’d been to see her.’
‘That’s right.’ Anderson glanced over his shoulder, as if checking his wife was out of earshot.
‘Any particular reason, sir?’
‘Just wanted to make sure she hadn’t suffered any . . . well, she’d had a nasty shock, hadn’t she?’
‘Seems you gave her another one, sir.’
Anderson’s cheeks had flushed. ‘I only went round there to—’
‘So you’ve said,’ Rebus interrupted. ‘But what I’m wondering is, how did you know her name and address? She’s not in the phone book.’
‘The officer told me.’
‘DS Clarke?’ Rebus was frowning. But Anderson shook his head.
‘When our statements were being taken. Or rather, just after. I’d offered to run her home, you see. He happened to mention her name and Blair Street both.’
‘And you wandered up and down Blair Street looking for a buzzer with her name on?’
‘I don’t see that I’ve done anything wrong.’
‘In which case, I’m sure you’ll have told Mrs Anderson all about it.’
‘Now look here . . .’
But Rebus was starting his ignition. ‘We’ll see you at the station later . . . and your good lady wife, too, of course.’
He pulled away with the window still open and left it that way for the first few minutes. This time of the morning, he knew the traffic would be sluggish heading back into town. He’d only had the three pints last night, but his head felt gummy. Saturday he’d watched a bit of TV, rueing another obituary - the footballer Ferenc Puskàs. Rebus had been in his teens when the European Cup Final had come to Hampden. Real Madrid against Eintracht Frankfurt, Real winning 7-3. One of the great games, and Puskàs one of the greatest players. The young Rebus had found Hungary, the footballer’s home country, in an atlas, and had wanted to go there.
Jack Palance, and now Puskàs, both gone for ever. That was what happened with heroes.
So: Saturday night at the Oxford Bar, sorrows drowned, any and all conversations forgotten by the next morning. Sunday: laundry and the supermarket, and news that a Russian journalist called Litvinenko had been poisoned in London. That had made Rebus sit up in his chair, increasing the volume on the TV. Gates and Curt had joked about poisoned umbrella tips, but here was the real-life equivalent. One theory was that a meal in a sushi restaurant had contained the poison, the Russian mafia to blame. Litvinenko was in hospital under armed guard. Rebus had decided against calling Siobhan; it was just a coincidence after all. He’d been agitated, waking each morning to dread. His last weekend as a serving officer; his last week now beginning. Siobhan had done all right on Friday night, and had even looked a little bit sheepish when explaining that Macrae wanted her spearheading the case.
‘Makes sense to me,’ was all Rebus had said, getting in the drinks. He thought he knew the way Macrae would be thinking. Less to this than meets the eye ... That was the way Siobhan said he had put it. But it would keep Rebus occupied until retirement day, after which Siobhan would be persuaded to return to route one: a mugging gone wrong.
‘Makes sense to me,’ he repeated now, heading down a rat run. Ten minutes later, he was parking at Gayfield Square. No sign of Siobhan’s car. He went upstairs and found Hawes and Tibbet seated together at the same desk, staring at the mute telephone.
‘No joy?’ Rebus guessed.
‘Eleven calls so far,’ Hawes said, tapping the notepad in front of her. ‘One driver who exited the car park at nine fifteen on the night in question and therefore had nothing at all to tell us but wanted to chat anyway.’ She glanced up at Rebus. ‘He enjoys hill-walking and jogging, if you’re interested. ’ Without bothering to look, she could sense Tibbet grinning beside her, and gave him an elbow in the ribs.
‘He was on the phone to Phyl for half an hour,’ Tibbet added after stifling a grunt.
‘Who else have we got?’ Rebus asked.
‘Anonymous cranks and practical jokers,’ Hawes replied. ‘And one guy we’re hoping will call back. He started talking about a woman hanging around on the street, but the line went dead before I could get any details.’
‘Probably just saw Nancy Sievewright,’ Rebus cautioned. But he was thinking: why would Nancy be ‘hanging around’? ‘I’ve got a job for the pair of you,’ he said, reachin
g for Hawes’s notepad and finding a clean sheet. He jotted down the details of Nancy’s ‘friend’ Gill Morgan. ‘Go see if this checks out. Sievewright reckons she was on her way home from Great Stuart Street. Even if there’s someone by that name living at the address, give them a bit of a grilling.’
Hawes stared at the page. ‘You think she’s lying?’
‘Seemed to have trouble remembering. But she’ll probably have primed this pal of hers.’
‘I can usually tell when someone’s spinning me a line,’ Tibbet stated.
‘That’s because you’re a good cop, Colin,’ Rebus told him. Tibbet puffed out his chest a little, which Hawes noticed with a laugh.
‘You’ve just been spun a line,’ she pointed out to her partner. Then, rising to her feet: ‘Let’s go.’ Tibbet followed her sheepishly, pausing in the doorway.
‘You okay manning the phones?’ he asked Rebus.
‘It rings, and I pick it up ... does that about cover it?’
Tibbet was trying not to scowl as Hawes returned to fetch him. ‘By the way,’ she said to Rebus, ‘if you get bored you can watch the telly - we got hold of that video Siobhan wanted.’
Rebus noticed it lying on the desk. It was marked with the words ‘Question Time’.
‘You might learn something,’ was the parting shot from the doorway, made by Tibbet rather than Hawes. Rebus was quietly impressed.
‘We’ll make a man of you yet, Colin,’ he muttered under his breath, reaching out to pick up the tape.
12
Charles Riordan wasn’t at the studio. The receptionist told them he was spending the morning at home and, when asked, provided them with an address in Joppa. It was a fifteen-minute drive away, and took them past the flat grey waters of the Firth of Forth. At one point, Goodyear tapped the side window.‘Cat and dog home back there,’ he said. ‘I went once, thinking I’d get a pet. In the end, I couldn’t choose ... told myself I’d go back some day.’
‘I’ve never had a pet,’ Clarke said. ‘Find it hard enough taking care of myself.’
He laughed at that. ‘Any boyfriends?’
‘One or two down the years.’
He laughed again. ‘I meant just now.’
She took her eyes off the road long enough to give him a look. ‘You’re trying too hard, Todd.’
‘Just nervous.’
‘That why you’re asking so many questions?’
‘No, not at all. I’m just ... well, I suppose I’m interested. ’
‘In me?’
‘In everybody.’ He paused. ‘I think we’re put here for a purpose. Never find out what it is if you don’t ask questions. ’
‘And your “purpose” is to pry into my love life?’
He gave a little cough, face reddening. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘Back in the café, you talked about God’s purpose - is this where you tell me you’re religious?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, I am. Is there anything wrong with that?’
‘Nothing at all. DI Rebus used to be, too, and I’ve managed to cope with him all these years.’
‘Used to be?’
‘In that he went to church . . .’ She thought for a moment. ‘Actually, he went to dozens of them, a different one every week.’
‘Looking for something he couldn’t find,’ Goodyear guessed.
‘He’d probably kill me for telling you,’ Clarke warned.
‘But you’re not religious yourself, DS Clarke?’
‘Lord, no,’ she said with a smile. ‘Hard to be, in this line of work.’
‘You reckon?’
‘All the stuff we deal with . . . people gone bad, hurting themselves and others.’ She gave him another glance. ‘Isn’t God supposed to have made us in his or her image?’
‘An argument that might take us the rest of the day.’
‘Instead of which, I’ll ask if you’ve got a girlfriend.’
He nodded. ‘Her name’s Sonia, works as a SOCO.’
‘And what did the two of you get up to at the weekend - apart from church, obviously?’
‘She had a hen party Saturday, I didn’t see much of her. Sonia’s not a churchgoer ...’
‘And how’s your brother doing?’
‘Okay, I think.’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘He’s out of hospital.’
‘I thought you said it was a punch-up?’
‘There was a knife . . .’
‘His or the other guy’s?’
‘The other guy’s, hence Sol’s stitches.’
Clarke was thoughtful for a moment. ‘You said your mum and dad fell apart when your grandad went to jail . . .’
Goodyear leaned back into his seat. ‘Mum started on medication. Dad walked out soon after and hit the bottle harder than ever. There were days I’d bump into him outside the shops and he wouldn’t even recognise me.’
‘Tough on a young kid.’
‘Sol and me mostly stayed with our Aunt Susan, Mum’s sister. House wasn’t really big enough, but she never complained. I started going with her to church on Sundays. Sometimes she was so tired, she nodded off in the pew. Used to have a bag of sweets with her, and this one time they slid from her lap and started rolling across the floor.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘Anyway, that’s about all there is to it.’
‘Just as well - we’re nearly there.’ They were heading down Portobello High Street and - a first for Clarke - without being held up by roadworks. Two more minutes and they were turning off Joppa Road and cruising a street of terraced Victorian houses.
‘Number eighteen,’ Goodyear said, spotting it first. Plenty of kerbside parking - Clarke reckoned most people had taken their cars to work. She pulled on the handbrake and turned off the ignition. Goodyear was already striding down the path.
‘All I need,’ she muttered to herself, undoing her seatbelt, ‘is a bloody holy-roller ...’ Not that she meant it: as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew where she’d got them - or at least their sentiment.
John Rebus.
She’d only just reached Goodyear as the door opened, Charles Riordan looking surprised to be face-to-face with a police uniform. He recognised Clarke however and ushered the two officers inside.
The hallway was lined with bookshelves but no books. Instead, all the available space was taken up with old-fashioned reels of tape and boxes of cassettes.
‘Come in if you can get in,’ was Riordan’s comment. He led them into what should have been the living room but had been fitted out as a studio, complete with acoustic baffling stapled to the walls and a mixing-desk surrounded by more cartons of cassettes, minidiscs and reel-to-reels. Cables snaked underfoot, microphones lay in the dust, and the curtains covering the only window looked half an inch thick.
‘Riordan Mansions,’ Charles Riordan announced.
‘Can I take it you’re not married?’ Clarke asked.
‘Was once, but she couldn’t hack it.’
‘The equipment, you mean?’
But Riordan shook his head. ‘I like to make recordings.’ He paused meaningfully. ‘Of everything. After a while, it started to get to Audrey.’ He slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘So what can I do for you today, officers?’
Clarke was looking around the room. ‘Are we being taped, Mr Riordan?’
Riordan gave a chuckle and, by way of answer, pointed to a slender black microphone.
‘And the other day at your studio?’
He nodded. ‘I used DAT. Though these days I’m more into digital.’
‘I thought DAT was digital?’ Goodyear asked.
‘But it’s tape - I’m talking about straight to the hard drive.’
‘Would you mind turning it off?’ Clarke asked, making it sound like the demand it really was. Riordan shrugged and hit a switch on the mixing desk.
‘More questions about Alexander?’ he asked.
‘One or two, yes.’
‘You got the CD?’
Clarke nodded. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘He was a great performer, wasn’t he?’
‘He was,’ Clarke acknowledged. ‘But what I really wanted to ask you about was the night he died.’
‘Yes?’
‘After the curry, you said you parted company. You were heading home, and Mr Todorov was going to find a drink?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you added that it was a toss-up whether he went to Mather’s or the Caledonian Hotel - why those two in particular, Mr Riordan?’
Riordan gave a shrug. ‘He was going to have to walk past both of them.’
‘And a dozen more besides,’ Clarke countered.
‘Maybe he’d mentioned them to me.’
‘You don’t remember?’
‘Is it important?’
‘It could be.’ Clarke glanced towards Goodyear. He was playing the game: shoulders back, legs slightly parted, hands clasped in front of him . . . and saying nothing. He looked official. Clarke doubted Riordan would pay any attention to the prominent ears or the crooked teeth or the eyelashes ... all he’d be seeing was a uniform, focusing his mind on the gravity of the situation.
Riordan had been rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘Well, I suppose he must have mentioned them,’ he said.
‘But not on the night you met?’ Clarke watched Riordan shake his head. ‘So he didn’t have a rendezvous planned?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘After you split up, Mr Todorov headed straight for the bar at the Caledonian. He got talking to someone there. Just wondered if it was a regular thing.’
‘Alexander liked people: people who’d buy him drinks and listen to his stories and then tell him a few of their own.’
‘Never thought of the Caledonian as a place for story-telling. ’
‘You’re wrong - hotel bars are perfect. You meet strangers there, and you spill your life out for the twenty or thirty minutes that you’re with them. It’s quite incredible what people will tell complete strangers.’
‘Maybe because they are strangers,’ Goodyear interrupted.
‘The constable has a good point,’ Riordan said.
‘But how do you know this, Mr Riordan?’ Clarke asked. ‘Can I assume you’ve done some covert taping in places like the Caledonian?’