Exit Music (2007) (25 page)

“An hour maybe.”

“You sound inconsolable. Any word from our favorite DI?”

“Assuming you mean Rebus rather than Starr, the answer’s no.”

“Tell her,” Tibbet said, “about the bank.”

“Colin says to tell you we enjoyed our visit to First Albannach.”

“Plush, was it?”

“I’ve stayed at worse resorts; they had everything in there but flumes.”

“Did you see Stuart Janney?”

“He was in a meeting. To tell the truth, it was a real production-line number. In and out and thank you very much.”

“They’ve got shareholders to protect. When your profits are hitting ten billion, you don’t want
any
bad publicity.”

Hawes turned to Colin Tibbet. “Siobhan,” she told him, “says the profit last year was
ten
billion.”

“Give or take,” Clarke added.

“Give or take,” Hawes repeated for Tibbet’s benefit.

“Makes you wonder,” Tibbet repeated quietly, with a slow shake of the head.

Hawes stared at him. Kissable lips, she was thinking. Younger than her and less experienced. There was material there she could work with, maybe starting tonight.

“Talk to you later,” she told Clarke, ending the call.

31

D
r. Scarlett Colwell was waiting for Rebus at her office in George Square. She was on one of the upper floors, meaning the view would have been great if not for the buildup of condensation between the layers of double glazing.

“Depressing, isn’t it?” she apologized. “Constructed forty years ago and fit for nothing but demolition.”

Rebus turned his attention instead to the shelves of Russian textbooks. Plaster busts of Marx and Lenin were being used as bookends. On the wall opposite, posters and cards had been pinned up, including a photograph of President Yeltsin dancing. Colwell’s desk was next to the window but facing into the room. Two tables had been pushed together, leaving just enough room for eight chairs to be arranged around them. There was a kettle on the floor, and she crouched down next to it, spooning coffee granules into two mugs.

“Milk?” she asked.

“Thanks,” Rebus said, glancing towards her shock of hair. Her skirt was stretched tight, delineating the line of a hip.

“Sugar?”

“Just milk.”

The kettle finished boiling, and she poured, handing him his cup before getting back to her feet. They stood very close to each other until she apologized again for the lack of space and retreated behind her desk, Rebus content to rest his backside against the table.

“Thanks for seeing me.”

She blew on her coffee. “Not at all. I was devastated to hear about Mr. Riordan.”

“You met him at the Poetry Library?” Rebus guessed.

She nodded, then had to push the hair away from her face. “And at Word Power.”

It was Rebus’s turn to nod. “That’s the bookshop where Mr. Todorov did a reading?”

Colwell pointed towards the wall. This time when Rebus looked, he picked out the photograph of Alexander Todorov in full poetic flow, one arm dramatically raised, mouth agape.

“Doesn’t look like a bookshop,” Rebus declared.

“They moved it to a bigger venue—café on Nicolson Street. Even so, it was packed.”

“He’s in his element, isn’t he?” Rebus was studying the picture more closely. “Did you take this, Dr. Colwell?”

“I’m not very good,” she started to apologize.

“I’m the last one to judge.” He turned and gave her a smile. “So Charles Riordan taped this session, too?”

“That’s right.” She paused. “In fact, it’s a happy coincidence that you called me, Inspector . . .”

“Oh?”

“Because I was on the verge of phoning you, to ask a favor.”

“What is it I can do for you, Dr. Colwell?”

“There’s a magazine called the
London Review of Books.
They saw the obituary I wrote in the
Scotsman,
and they want to publish one of Alexander’s poems.”

“With you so far.” Rebus lifted the cup to his lips.

“It’s a new poem in Russian, one he recited at the Poetry Library.” She gave a little laugh. “In fact, I think he’d only just finished it that day. Point being, I don’t have a copy of it. I’m not sure anyone does.”

“Have you had a look through his wastepaper bin?”

“Would it sound heartless if I said yes?”

“Not at all. But you didn’t find it?”

“No . . . which is why I spoke to a nice man at Mr. Riordan’s studio.”

“That’ll be Terry Grimm.”

She nodded again, pushed her hair back again. “He said there was a recording.”

Rebus thought of the hour he’d spent in Siobhan’s car, the pair of them listening to a dead man. “You want to borrow it?” he guessed, remembering that Todorov had indeed recited some of the poems in Russian.

“Just long enough to write a translation. It would be my memorial to him, I suppose.”

“I can’t see a problem with that.”

She beamed, and he got the feeling that if the desk hadn’t been there, she might even have reached over and hugged him. Instead, she asked if she would have to listen to the CD at the station or would it be possible to take it away with her. The station . . . one place Rebus couldn’t be seen.

“I can bring it to you,” he said, and her smile widened before melting away.

“Deadline’s next week,” she suddenly realized.

“No problem,” Rebus assured her. “And I’m sorry we haven’t tracked down Mr. Todorov’s killer yet.”

Her face fell further. “I’m sure you’re doing your utmost.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He paused. “You’ve still not asked me why I’m here.”

“I was thinking you’d get round to telling me.”

“I’ve been researching Mr. Todorov’s life, looking for enemies.”

“Alexander made an enemy of the
state,
Inspector.”

“That much I believe. But one story I’ve been hearing is that he was dismissed from a lectureship for getting too friendly with his students. Thing is, I think the person who told me that was trying to sell me a pup.”

But she was shaking her head. “Actually, it’s true—Alexander told me about it himself. The charges were trumped up, of course—they just wanted him out, by fair means or foul.” She sounded aggrieved on the poet’s behalf.

“Do you mind if I ask . . . did he ever try anything with
you,
Dr. Colwell?”

“I have a partner, Inspector.”

“With respect, Dr. Colwell, you’re a beautiful woman, and I get the impression Alexander Todorov
liked
women. I’m not sure the existence of any partner short of a Ninja assassin would have deterred him.”

She gave another perfect smile, lowering her lashes in feigned modesty.

“Well,” she admitted, “you’re right, of course. After a few drinks, Alexander’s libido seemed always to be refreshed.”

“A nice way of putting it. Are the words his?”

“All my own work, Inspector.”

“He seems to have thought of you as a friend, though, or he wouldn’t have taken you into his confidence.”

“I’m not sure he had any
real
friends. Writers are like that sometimes—they see the rest of us as source material. Can you imagine being in bed with someone and knowing they’re going to write about it afterwards? Knowing the whole world will be reading about that most intimate of moments?”

“I take your point.” Rebus paused to clear his throat. “But he must have had some way of . . . ‘quenching’ that libido you mentioned?”

“Oh, he had women, Inspector.”

“Students? Here in Edinburgh?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Or how about Abigail Thomas at the Poetry Library? You seemed to think she had a crush on him.”

“Probably not reciprocated,” Colwell said dismissively. Then, after a moment’s thought: “You really think Alexander was killed by a woman?”

Rebus shrugged. He was thinking of Todorov, more than a few drinks under his belt, weaving his way down King’s Stables Road, a woman suddenly offering him no-strings sex. Would he have gone with a stranger? Probably. But even more likely with someone he’d known . . .

“Did Mr. Todorov ever mention a man called Andropov?” he asked.

She mouthed the name several times, deep in thought, then gave up. “Sorry,” she said.

“Another long shot: how about someone called Cafferty?”

“I’m not really helping, am I?” she said as she shook her head.

“Sometimes the things we rule out are as important as the ones we rule in,” he reassured her.

“Like in Sherlock Holmes?” she said. “When you’ve eliminated the —” She broke off with a frown. “I can never remember that quote, but you must know it?”

He nodded, not wanting her to think him ill-read. Every day on his way to work, he passed a statue of Sherlock Holmes by the roundabout on Leith Street. Turned out it was marking the spot where they’d knocked down Conan Doyle’s childhood home.

“What is it, then?” she was asking.

He gave a shrug. “I’m like you, never seem to get it right . . .”

She rose from her chair and came around the desk, her skirt brushing against his legs as she squeezed past. She lifted a book from one of the shelves. From the spine, Rebus could tell it was a collection of quotations. She found the Doyle section and ran a finger down it, finding what she was looking for.

“ ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ ” She frowned again. “That’s not how I remember it. I thought it was to do with eliminating the possible rather than its opposite.”

“Mmm,” Rebus said, hoping she’d think he was agreeing with her. He placed his empty mug on the table. “Well, Dr. Colwell, seeing how I’ve done you a favor . . .”

“Quid pro quo?” She clapped the book shut. Dust rose from its pages.

“I was just wondering if I could have the key to Todorov’s flat.”

“As it happens, you’re in luck. Someone from Building Services was supposed to stop by and get it, but so far no sign.”

“What will they do with all his stuff?”

“The consulate said they’d take it. He must have
some
family back in Russia.” She’d gone behind the desk again and opened a drawer, bringing out the key chain. Rebus took it from her with a nod of thanks. “There’s a servitor on the ground floor here,” she explained. “If I’m not around, you can always leave it with him.” She paused. “And you won’t forget that recording?”

“Trust me.”

“It’s just that the studio seemed pretty sure it’s the only copy left. Poor Mr. Riordan—what a terrible way to die . . .”

Back outside again, Rebus descended the steps from George Square to Buccleuch Place. There were a few students around. They looked . . . the only word for it was “studious.” He stopped at the bottom of the steps to light a cigarette, but the temperature was sinking, and he decided he might as well smoke it indoors.

Todorov’s flat seemed unchanged from his first visit, except that the scraps of paper from the bin had been laid flat on the desk—Scarlett Colwell most probably, seeking the elusive poem. Rebus had forgotten about those six copies of
Astapovo Blues.
Had to find someone with an eBay account so he could shift them. Looking more closely at the room, he decided someone had removed some of the poet’s book collection. Colwell again? Or some other member of the staff? Rebus wondered if he’d been beaten to it—a glut of Todorov memorabilia bringing prices down. He realized his phone was ringing and took it out. Didn’t recognize the number, but it had the international code on the front.

“Detective Inspector Rebus speaking,” he said.

“Hello, it’s Roddy Denholm, returning your mysterious call.” The voice was an educated Anglo-Scots drawl.

“Not too much of a mystery, Mr. Denholm, and I do appreciate you taking the trouble.”

“You’re lucky I’m a night owl, Inspector.”

“It’s the middle of the day here . . .”

“But not in Singapore.”

“Mr. Blackman thought either Melbourne or Hong Kong.”

Denholm laughed a smoker’s throaty laugh. “I suppose I could be anywhere, actually, couldn’t I? I could be around the next corner for all you know. Bloody wonderful things, mobile phones . . .”

“If you
are
around the next corner, sir, be cheaper to do this in person.”

“You could always hop on a jet to Singapore.”

“Trying to lower my carbon footprint, sir.” Rebus blew cigarette smoke towards the living room ceiling.

“So where are you right now, Inspector?”

“Buccleuch Place.”

“Ah yes, the university district.”

“Standing in a dead man’s flat.”

“Not a sentence I think I’ve ever heard.” The artist sounded duly impressed.

“He wasn’t quite in your line of work, sir—poet called Alexander Todorov.”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“He was killed just over a week ago, and your name has cropped up in the inquiry.”

“Do tell.” It sounded as though Denholm was getting himself comfortable on a hotel bed. Rebus, likewise, sat down on the sofa, an elbow on one knee.

“You’ve been doing a project at the Parliament. There was a man making some sound recordings for you . . .”

“Charlie Riordan?”

“I’m afraid he’s dead, too.” Rebus heard low whistling on the line. “Someone torched his house.”

“Are the tapes okay?”

“As far as we know, sir.”

Denholm caught Rebus’s tone. “I must sound an insensitive bastard,” he admitted.

“Don’t fret—it was the first thing your dealer asked, too.”

Denholm chuckled. “Poor guy, though . . .”

“You knew him?”

“Not until the Parliament project. Seemed likable, capable . . . didn’t really talk to him that much.”

“Well, Mr. Riordan had also been doing some work with Alexander Todorov.”

“Christ, does that mean I’m next?”

Rebus couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “I wouldn’t have thought so, sir.”

“You’re not phoning to warn me?”

“I just thought it an interesting coincidence.”

“Except that I didn’t know Alexander Todorov from Adam.”

“Maybe not, but one of your fans did—Sergei Andropov.”

“I know the name . . .”

“He collects your work. Russian businessman, grew up with Mr. Todorov.” Rebus heard another whistle. “You’ve never met him?”

“Not that I know of.” There was silence for a moment. “You think this Andropov guy killed the poet?”

“We’re keeping an open mind.”

“Was it some obscure isotope like that guy in London?”

“He was beaten to a pulp before someone caved his skull in.”

“Not exactly subtle, then.”

“Not exactly. Tell me something, Mr. Denholm—how did you come to choose the Urban Regeneration Committee for your project?”

“
They
chose me, Inspector—we asked if anyone would be interested in taking part, and their chairman said she was up for it.”

“Megan Macfarlane?”

“No shortage of ego there, Inspector—I speak as one who knows.”

“I’m sure you do, sir.” Rebus heard something like a doorbell.

“That’ll be room service,” Denholm explained.

“I’ll let you go, then,” Rebus said. “Thanks for calling, Mr. Denholm.”

“No problem.”

“One last thing, though . . .” Rebus paused just long enough to ensure he had the artist’s full attention. “Before you let them in, best check that it really
is
room service.”