Exit Music (2007) (10 page)

12

C
harles 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 gray 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 granddad 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 recognize 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 curbside parking—Clarke reckoned most people had taken their cars to work. She pulled on the hand brake and turned off the ignition. Goodyear was already striding down the path.

“All I need,” she muttered to herself, undoing her seat belt, “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 recognized 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 storytelling.”

“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?”

“Plenty of times,” Riordan admitted. “And on trains and buses—people snoring or talking to themselves or plotting the overthrow of the government. Tramps on park benches and MPs at the hustings; ice-skaters and picnickers and love rats on the phone to their mistresses.” He turned to Goodyear. “My little hobby,” he explained.

“And when did it turn to an obsession, sir?” Goodyear asked politely. “Some time before your wife left you, I’d imagine.”

The smile fell from Riordan’s face. Realizing he’d slipped up, Goodyear risked a glance towards Clarke. She was shaking her head slowly.

“Are there any other questions?” Riordan asked coldly.

“You can’t think of anyone Alexander Todorov could have been drinking with at the hotel?” Clarke persisted.

“No.” Riordan was moving towards the door. Goodyear mouthed the word “sorry” at Clarke as the pair of them followed their host into the hallway.

Back in the car, Clarke told Goodyear not to worry. “I think we’d had about all we were going to get.”

“All the same, I should have left the talking to you.”

“A lesson learned,” Clarke said, turning the ignition.

13

W
hat’s Sonny Jim doing here?” Rebus asked. He was leaning back in his chair, feet up on the desk, the remote for the video recorder in his hand, having just frozen the TV picture.

“He’s on secondment from Torphichen,” Clarke stated. Rebus stared at her, but she refused to make eye contact. Todd Goodyear had his hand stretched out for shaking. Rebus turned his attention to it, but ignored the offer. Goodyear let his arm fall back to his side, and Clarke gave a vexed sigh.

“Anything good on the box?” she eventually asked.

“That video you wanted.” Rebus seemed already to have dismissed the new arrival from his mind. “Come and take a look.” He let the program run again but turned the sound most of the way down. A panel of politicians and pundits was being asked questions by a savvy-looking audience. Large letters on the floor between the two groups spelled out the word EDINBURGH.

“Filmed at The Hub,” Rebus explained. “I went to a jazz concert there, recognized it straight off.”

“You like jazz?” Goodyear asked, only to be ignored.

“Do you see who I see?” Rebus was asking Clarke.

“Megan Macfarlane.”

“Funny she didn’t mention it,” Rebus mused. “When the presenter was doing the introductions, he said she’s number two in the SNP and likely to take over when her leader jacks it in. Making her, in the presenter’s words, ‘candidate for president of an independent Scottish state.’ ”

“And the rest of the panel?”

“Labour, Tories, and Lib Dems.”

“Plus Todorov.” The poet was seated next to the presenter at the semicircular desk. He seemed relaxed, doodling with his pen on some paper. “How’s he doing?”

“Knows more about politics than I do,” Rebus admitted, “and seems to have an opinion on everything.”

Goodyear had folded his arms and was concentrating on the screen. Rebus gave Clarke another look, this time achieving eye contact. She shrugged, then narrowed her eyes slightly, warning him off. Rebus turned towards Goodyear.

“You know I helped put your granddad away?”

“Ancient history,” the young man said.

“Maybe so, but if it’s going to be an issue, best tell me now.”

“It’s not an issue.” Goodyear was still staring at the screen. “What’s the deal with this woman Macfarlane?”

“She’s a Scot Nat MSP,” Clarke explained. “Has a vested interest in us not shaking things up.”

“Because of all the Russian tycoons in town?” Goodyear saw that Clarke was impressed. “I read the papers,” he explained. “So Macfarlane had a little chat, but neglected to say that she knew the victim?”

“That’s the size of it.” Rebus was showing more interest in the new recruit.

“Well, she’s a politician. Last thing she wants is bad PR—and being linked to a murder inquiry probably counts as a negative.” Goodyear offered a shrug, analysis complete.

The TV show was coming to an end, the dapper presenter announcing that the following week’s episode would be coming from Hull. Rebus turned off the tape and stretched his spine.

“Anyway,” he asked, “where’ve you two been?”

“Riordan,” Clarke stated, starting to fill him in on the meeting. Halfway through, Hawes and Tibbet returned and had to be introduced to Todd Goodyear. Hawes had brought cakes for the office, and apologized to Goodyear that there wasn’t one left over.

“I don’t have a sweet tooth,” he replied with a shake of the head. Tibbet had spent a few months in uniform at Torphichen, just before his promotion to CID, and asked about old colleagues. Rebus got stuck into his slice of caramel shortbread while Clarke boiled the kettle. She checked, but there was no sign of Macrae.

“Meeting at HQ,” Rebus explained as she placed a mug on his desk. Then, in an undertone: “Have you cleared the Sundance Kid with him?”

“Not yet.” She glanced over to where Goodyear was chatting easily with Tibbet and Hawes, and even managing to make them both laugh.

“Bringing a uniform in on a murder case?” He kept his voice low. “Sure you know what you’re doing?”

“DCI Macrae put me in charge.”

“Meaning you’re responsible for any and all fuckups.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“How much do you know about him?”

“I know he’s young and he’s keen, and he’s spent too long hanging around with a dead weight.”

“I hope you’re not drawing parallels, DS Clarke.” Rebus slurped from the mug.

“Perish the thought, DI Rebus.” She looked towards Goodyear again. “I’m just giving him a taster, that’s all—couple of days and he’ll be back to West End. Besides, Macrae wanted a few more recruits to the cause . . .”

Rebus nodded slowly, slid from his chair, and wandered over, his hand landing on Goodyear’s shoulder.

“It was you who took the statement from Nancy Sievewright?” he checked. Goodyear nodded. “When she said she’d just been passing by, did you get any sort of an inkling?”

The young man thought for a moment, holding his bottom lip between his teeth. “Not really,” he said at last.

“You either did or you didn’t.”

“In which case, I didn’t.”

Rebus nodded, turning to Hawes and Tibbet. “What did you get in Great Stuart Street?”

“Gill Morgan does live there, and she knows Nancy Sievewright.”

Rebus stared at Hawes. “But?”

Tibbet didn’t want to be left out. “But,” he said, “we got the feeling she was parroting something she’d been told to say.”

Rebus turned back to Goodyear. “And DC Tibbet can tell when someone’s spinning him a line. . . . What does that tell you?”

Goodyear gave his lip another gnaw. “She’s asked a friend to cover for her, because she was lying to us that night.”

“Lying to
you
,” Rebus corrected him, “and you didn’t even know it.” Having made his point, he seemed to dismiss the constable again, turning to Hawes and Tibbet. “What’s Morgan like?”

Hawes: “Lives in a nice flat . . . doesn’t seem to be sharing with anyone.”

“Just her name on the door,” Tibbet added.

“Works as a model, so she says. But no jobs today. If you’re asking me, though, she’s got credit at the Bank of Mum and Dad.”

“Different league from Sievewright,” Rebus commented, waiting for Clarke to nod agreement. “So how do they know one another?”

Hawes and Tibbet seemed at a loss. Rebus made a tutting sound, a teacher whose star pupils had eventually slipped up.

“I think they just know each other socially,” Tibbet blurted out.

Rebus glared at him. “Attend the same regattas, you mean?”

Hawes felt compelled to come to her partner’s defense. “She wasn’t
that
posh.”

“Just making a point, Phyl,” Rebus told her.

“Maybe we should bring her in,” Clarke suggested.

“Your call, Shiv,” Rebus reminded her. “You’re the one Macrae’s put in charge.”

This was news to Hawes and Tibbet. Goodyear meantime was studying Rebus as though wondering how a sergeant could suddenly outrank an inspector. The ringing phone broke the silence. Rebus, being closest, picked it up.

“Todorov inquiry, DI Rebus speaking.”

“Oh . . . hello.” The voice was male and tremulous. “I called earlier . . .”

Rebus caught Hawes’s eye. “About a woman, sir? We appreciate you taking the trouble to phone back.”

“Yes, well . . .”

“So what is it I can do for you, Mr. . . . ?”

“Do I have to give my name?”

“This can be as confidential as you like, sir, but a name would be nice.”

“By ‘confidential’ you mean . . . ?”

I mean spit it out!
Rebus wanted to yell into the receiver. But instead he kept his voice level and pleasant, thinking of something he’d once been told: sincerity is everything—when you can fake that, the sky’s the limit.

“Well, all right, then,” the caller was saying, “my name’s —” He broke off again. “I mean, you can call me George.”

“Thank you, George.”

“George Gaverill.”

“George Gaverill,” Rebus repeated, watching Hawes add the name to her notepad. “Now what is it you’d like to say, George? My colleague mentioned something about a woman . . .”

“Yes.”

“And you’re calling because you saw our flyers at the car park?”

“On the sandwich board outside the car park,” the man corrected Rebus. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I mean, I saw it on the news . . . the poor guy was mugged, wasn’t he? I don’t think she could have done it.”

“You’re probably right, sir. All the same, we try to gather up as much information as we can, helps us build a picture.” Rebus was rolling his eyes. Clarke made a circular motion with her finger:
keep him talking.

“I wouldn’t want my wife to think it was anything other than what it actually was,” Gaverill was saying.

“Absolutely. So this woman, sir . . . ?”

“The night that man was murdered —” The voice broke off abruptly, and Rebus thought he’d lost him. But then he heard breathing on the line. “I was walking along King’s Stables Road . . .”

“What time was this?”

“Ten . . . maybe ten fifteen.”

“And there was a woman?”

“Yes.”

“I’m with you so far, sir.” Rebus rolled his eyes again.

“She propositioned me.”

It was Rebus’s turn to pause. “By which you mean . . . ?”

“Just what I say: she wanted to have sex, though she put it rather more crudely.”

“And this was on King’s Stables Road?”

“Yes.”

“Near the car park?”

“Outside the car park, yes.”

“A prostitute?”

“I suppose so. I mean, it’s not every day something like that happens—not to me, at any rate.”

“And what did you say to her, sir?”

“I turned her down, naturally.”

“And this was around ten or quarter past?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Rebus shrugged, letting the others know he wasn’t sure what he was getting. He really wanted a description, but it would be easier face to face. Moreover, Gaverill’s eyes would tell Rebus whether he was dealing with just another crank.

“Is there any way,” he began quietly, “I could persuade you to come to the station? I can’t stress how vital your information might be.”

“Really?” Gaverill perked up for a moment, but only a moment. “My wife, though . . . I couldn’t possibly . . .”

“You could make some excuse, I’m sure.”

“Why do you say that?” the man barked suddenly.

“I just thought . . .” But the line had gone dead. Rebus cursed under his breath and dropped the phone back onto the desk. “In the movies, someone would have traced the call.”

“I’ve never heard of a sex worker operating from that street or anywhere near,” Clarke commented skeptically.

“Sounded genuine enough,” Rebus felt bound to counter.

“Reckon Gaverill’s his real name?”

“I’d put money on it.”

“Then we look him up in the phone book.” Clarke turned to Hawes and Tibbet. “Get on to it.”

They got on to it, while Rebus tapped the phone, willing it to ring again. When it did, he snatched the receiver up.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Gaverill was saying. “It was rude of me.”

“Don’t blame you for being a little cautious, sir,” Rebus assured him. “We were just hoping you’d phone again. This is one of those cases where we’re desperate for a break of some kind.”

“But she wasn’t a mugger or anything.”

“Doesn’t mean she didn’t see something. We reckon the victim was attacked just before eleven. If she was in the area . . .”

“Yes, I see what you mean.”

Hawes and Tibbet had done the deed. A piece of paper was waved under Rebus’s nose: phone number and address for George Gaverill.

“Tell you what,” Rebus said into the phone, “this call must be costing you money. Let me ring you back—are you on the 229 number?”

“Yes, but I don’t want . . .” The rest of the sentence died with a gurgle in Gaverill’s throat.

“Now then,” Rebus said, a little more steel in his voice, “we either come round to question you at your home, Mr. Gaverill, or you come and see us here at Gayfield Square—which is it to be?”

Sounding like a chastened child, Gaverill told Rebus to give him half an hour.

But before Gaverill arrived, there were three other visitors. Roger and Elizabeth Anderson were first. And after Hawes and Tibbet had taken them to an interview room, Nancy Sievewright turned up. Rebus asked the front desk to put her in one of the spare rooms—“but not IR3”—and give her a cup of tea.

“Don’t want her seeing Anderson,” he explained to Clarke.

She nodded. “We need to talk to Anderson anyway, see what he says to Nancy’s story.”

“Already done,” Rebus admitted. Her gaze hardened, but all he did was shrug. “Happened to be out that way this morning, thought I might as well ask him about it.”

“What did he say?”

“He was worried about her. Got her name and address from . . .” Rebus turned towards Todd Goodyear. “Wasn’t you, was it?”

“Must’ve been Dyson,” Goodyear said.

“That’s what I thought. Anyway, I’ve warned him off.” He seemed to think for a moment, then asked Clarke if she wanted to take Goodyear with her and get Sievewright’s formal statement. “Part of Todd’s learning curve,” he argued.

“You’re forgetting one thing, John—
I’m
in charge.”

“Only trying to be helpful.” Rebus had stretched his arms, all innocence.

“Thanks, but I’d rather hear what Gaverill’s got to say.”

“I get the feeling he’ll be easily intimidated. He trusts me now, but when he comes up against three of us . . .” He started to shake his head. “Don’t want him clamming up again.”

“Let’s wait and see” was all Clarke said. Rebus gave another shrug and wandered over to the window.

“Meantime,” he said, “want to hear my theory?”

“Your theory of what?”

“Why he’s so sweaty about his wife finding out.”

“Because,” Goodyear piped up, “she’ll think he accepted the offer.”

But Rebus was shaking his head. “Quite the reverse, young Todd. Would DS Clarke like to hazard a guess?”

“Slay us with an insight,” she said instead, folding her arms.

“What else is there on King’s Stables Road?” Rebus asked.