Exit Music (2007) (8 page)

“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, weather-beaten 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 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 anymore . . .” 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 signaled 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 looked at Todorov’s photo for only 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?”

“The bar—always the bar. I knew he was foreign, but he didn’t act like a poet.”

“And how do poets act, in your experience?”

“What I mean is, he just sat there with a scowl on his face. Mind you, I did see him writing stuff down.”

“The last time he was in?”

“No, before that. Had a wee notebook he kept taking from his pocket. One of the waitresses thought maybe he was an undercover inspector or doing a review for a magazine. I told her I didn’t think so.”

“The last time he was here, you didn’t see the notebook?”

“He was talking to somebody.”

“Who?” Rebus asked.

Freddie just shrugged. “Another drinker. They sat pretty much where you two are.” Rebus and Clarke shared a look.

“What were they talking about?”

“Pays not to eavesdrop.”

“It’s a rare bartender who doesn’t like to listen in on other people’s conversations.”

“They might not have been talking in English.”

“What then—Russian?” Rebus’s eyes narrowed.

“Could be,” Freddie seemed to concede.

“Got any cameras in here?” Rebus was looking around him. Freddie shook his head.

“Was this other drinker male or female?” Clarke asked.

Freddie paused before answering. “Male.”

“Description.”

Another pause. “Bit older than him . . . stockier. We dim the lights at night, and it was a busy session . . .” He shrugged an apology.

“You’re being a great help,” Clarke assured him. “Did they talk for long?” Freddie just shrugged again. “They didn’t leave together?”

“The poet left on his own.” Freddie sounded confident about this at least.

“Don’t suppose cognac comes cheap in here,” Rebus commented, taking in his surroundings.

“Sky’s the limit,” the barman admitted. “But when you’ve a tab running, you tend not to notice.”

“Not until your bill’s handed to you at checkout,” Rebus agreed. “Thing is, though, Freddie, our Russian friend wasn’t a resident here.” He paused for effect. “So whose tab are we talking about?”

The barman seemed to realize his mistake. “Look,” he said, “I don’t want to get into trouble . . .”

“You certainly don’t want to get into trouble with
me,
” Rebus confirmed. “The other man was a guest?”

Freddie looked from one detective to the other. “I suppose so,” he said, seeming to deflate. Rebus and Clarke locked eyes.

“If you were here from Moscow on a business trip,” she said quietly, “maybe some kind of delegation . . . which hotel would you stay at?”

There was only one way to answer that, but in reception the staff said they couldn’t help. Instead, they called for the duty manager, and Rebus repeated his question.

“Any Russian businessmen bunking here?”

The duty manager was studying Rebus’s warrant card. When he handed it back, he asked if there was a problem.

“Only if your hotel continues to obstruct me in a murder inquiry,” Rebus drawled.

“Murder?” The duty manager had introduced himself as Richard Browning. He wore a crisp charcoal suit with a checked shirt and lavender tie. Color flooded his cheeks as he repeated Rebus’s word.

“A man left the bar here a couple of nights back, got as far as King’s Stables Road, and was beaten to death. Means the last people who saw him were the ones knocking back cocktails in your hotel.” Rebus had taken a step closer to Richard Browning. “Now, I can get my hands on your registration list and make sure I interview every single guest—maybe set up a big table next to the concierge desk so that it’s nice and public . . .” Rebus paused. “I
can
do that, but it’ll take time and it’ll be messy. Or . . .” Another pause. “You can tell me what Russians you have staying here.”

“You could also,” Clarke added, “go through the bar receipts and find the names of anyone who paid for a large cognac some time after ten on the night before last.”

“Our guests have the right to their privacy,” Browning argued.

“We only want names,” Rebus told him, “not a list of whatever porn they’ve been watching on the film channel.”

Browning stiffened his spine.

“Okay,” Rebus apologized, “this isn’t that sort of hotel. But you
do
have some Russians staying here?”

Browning admitted as much with a nod. “You know there’s a delegation in town?” Rebus assured him he did. “To be honest, we only have three or four of them. The rest are spread around the city—the Balmoral, George, Sheraton, Prestonfield . . .”

“Don’t they get along?” Clarke asked.

“Just not enough presidential suites to go round,” Browning sniffed.

“How much longer are they here?”

“A few days—there’s a trip to Gleneagles planned, but they’re keeping their rooms, saves checking out and checking in again.”

“Nice to have the option,” Rebus commented. “How soon can we have the names?”

“I’m going to have to talk to the general manager first.”

“How soon?” Rebus repeated.

“I really can’t say,” Browning spluttered. Clarke handed him a card with her mobile number.

“Sooner the better,” she nudged him.

“Else it’ll be a table by the concierge,” Rebus added.

They left Browning nodding to himself and staring at the floor.

The doorman saw them coming and held open the door. Rebus handed him one of the lurid flyers by way of a tip. As they crossed to Clarke’s car—which she’d parked in an empty cab rank—Rebus saw a limo drawing to a halt, the black Merc from the City Chambers and the same figure emerging from the back: Sergei Andropov. Again, he seemed to sense eyes on him and returned Rebus’s stare for a moment before entering the hotel. The car cruised around the corner and entered the hotel’s car park.

“Same driver Stahov had?” Clarke asked.

“Still didn’t get a good enough look,” Rebus told her. “But that reminds me of something
I
meant to ask when we were inside—namely, what the hell is a respectable hotel like the Caledonian doing letting Big Ger Cafferty over its threshold?”

10

T
hey waited until 6:00 p.m. to do the witness interviews, reckoning there’d be a better chance of finding people at home. Roger and Elizabeth Anderson lived in a detached 1930s house on the southern edge of the city with views to the Pentland Hills. The path leading through the garden to the front door was lit, allowing them to take in the impressive rockeries and an expanse of lawn that could well have been trimmed with nail scissors.

“A little hobby for Mrs. Anderson?” Clarke guessed.

“Who knows—maybe she’s the highflyer and he stays at home.”

But when Roger Anderson opened the door he was dressed in his work suit, the tie loosened and top shirt-button undone. He held the evening paper in one hand and had pushed his reading glasses to the top of his head.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “Wondered when you’d get round to us.” He headed back indoors, expecting them to follow. “It’s the police,” he called to his wife. Rebus gave her a smile when she arrived from the kitchen.

“See you’ve not put the wreath up yet,” he said, gesturing towards the front door.

“She had me throw it in the bin,” Roger Anderson said, using the remote to turn off the TV.

“We’re about to sit down to dinner,” his wife pointed out.

“This won’t take long,” Clarke assured her. She’d brought a folder with her. PCs Todd Goodyear and Bill Dyson had typed up their initial notes. Goodyear’s were immaculate, Dyson’s riddled with spelling mistakes. “It wasn’t you who actually found the body, was it?” Clarke asked.

Elizabeth Anderson had taken a few more steps into the room, standing just behind her husband’s chair, the chair Roger Anderson was sinking back into without bothering to ask if either detective would like to sit. Rebus, however, was happier standing—it meant he could cruise the room, taking it all in. Mr. Anderson had laid his newspaper down on the coffee table next to a crystal tumbler of what smelled like three parts gin to one of tonic.

“We heard the girl screaming,” the man was saying, “went over to see what was happening. Thought she’d been attacked or something.”

“You were parked . . .” Clarke pretended to be scouring the notes.

“In the Grassmarket,” Mr. Anderson stated.

“Why there, sir?” Rebus broke in.

“Why not there?”

“Just seems a fair walk from the church. You were at a carol service, yes?”

“That’s right.”

“Bit early in the year for it?”

“The Christmas lights go on next week.”

“It finished pretty late, didn’t it?”

“We had a spot of supper afterwards.” Anderson sounded indignant that any questions at all needed to be asked of him.

“You didn’t think to use the multistory?”

“Closes at eleven—wasn’t sure we’d be back at the car by then.”

Rebus nodded. “You know the place then? Know its opening hours?”

“I’ve used it in the past. Thing is, the Grassmarket doesn’t cost anything after six thirty.”

“Got to be careful with the pennies, sir,” Rebus agreed, looking around the large, well-furnished room. “It says in the notes you work in . . . ?”

“I’m on the staff at First Albannach.”

Rebus nodded again, pretending not to be surprised. Dyson hadn’t actually bothered to make a note of Anderson’s profession.

“You’re bloody lucky to find me home so early,” Anderson went on. “Been hellish busy recently.”

“Do you happen to know someone called Stuart Janney?”

“Met him many times. . . . Look, what’s any of this got to do with the poor sod who died?”

“Probably nothing at all, sir,” Rebus admitted. “We just like to build up as full a picture as possible.”

“Another reason we park in the Grassmarket,” Elizabeth Anderson said, voice not much above a whisper, “is that it’s well lit, and there are always people about. We’re very careful that way.”

“Didn’t stop you taking a scary route to get there,” Clarke pointed out. “That time of night, King’s Stables Road’s pretty well deserted.”

Rebus was peering at a selection of framed photographs in a cabinet. “You on your wedding day,” he mused.

“Twenty-seven years ago,” Mrs. Anderson confirmed.

“And is this your daughter?” He knew the answer already: half a dozen photos time-lined the girl’s life.

“Deborah. She’ll be home from college next week.”

Rebus nodded slowly. Seemed to him that the most recent pictures were half hidden behind framed memories of a gap-toothed infant and schoolgirl. “I see she’s been going through a Goth stage.” Meaning the hair suddenly turning jet black, the heavily kohled eyes.

“Again, Inspector,” Roger Anderson interceded, “I don’t see what possible bearing any of this —”

Rebus waved the objection aside. Clarke looked up from the notes she’d been pretending to read.

“I know it’s a stupid question,” she said with a smile, “but you’ve had time to think back over everything, so is there anything you can add? You didn’t see anyone else, or hear anything?”

“Nothing,” Mr. Anderson stated.

“Nothing,” his wife echoed. Then, after a moment: “He’s quite a famous poet, isn’t he? We’ve had reporters on the phone.”

“Best not to say anything to them,” Rebus advised.

“I’d love to know how the hell they got to hear about us in the first place,” her husband growled. “Is this the end of it, do you think?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Will you lot keep coming back, even though we’ve nothing to tell you?”

“Actually, you need to come to Gayfield Square to make a formal statement,” Clarke told them. She pulled another of her business cards out of the folder. “You can call this number first and ask for DC Hawes or DC Tibbet.”

“What’s the bloody point?” Roger Anderson asked.

“It’s a murder inquiry, sir,” Rebus responded crisply. “A man was beaten to a pulp, and the killer’s still out there. Our job is to find him . . . sorry if that inconveniences you in any way.”

“You don’t sound too sorry, I must say,” Anderson grumbled.

“Actually, Mr. Anderson, my heart bleeds—apologies if that doesn’t always come across.” Rebus turned as if readying to leave, but then paused. “What sort of car is it, by the way, the one you need to keep parked where there’s plenty of light?”

“A Bentley—the Continental GT.”

“From which I take it you don’t work in the mailroom at FAB?”

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t start there, Inspector. Now if you’ll excuse us, I think I can hear our dinner shriveling on the hob.”

Mrs. Anderson put a hand to her mouth in horror and darted back into the kitchen.

“If it’s burnt,” Rebus said, “you can always console yourself with a couple more gins.”

Anderson decided not to grace this with an answer, and rose to his feet instead, the better to usher the two detectives off the property.

“Did you have a good supper?” Clarke asked casually, slipping the notes back into her folder. “After the carols, I mean.”

“Pretty good, yes.”

“I’m always on the lookout for a new restaurant.”

“I’m sure you can afford it,” Anderson said, with a smile that suggested the opposite. “It’s called the Pompadour.”

“I’ll make sure he’s paying.” Clarke nodded towards Rebus.

“You do that,” Anderson told her with a laugh. He was still chuckling when he closed the door on them.

“No wonder his wife likes the garden,” Rebus muttered. “Chance for some time away from that pompous prick.” He started down the path, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette.

“If I tell you something interesting,” Clarke teased, “will you buy me dinner at the Pompadour?”

Rebus busied himself with his lighter, nodding a reply.

“There was a copy of its menu sitting on the concierge’s desk.”

Rebus exhaled a plume of smoke into the night sky. “Why’s that then?”

“Because,” Clarke told him, “the Pompadour is the restaurant at the Caledonian Hotel.”

He stared at her for a moment, then turned back to the door and gave it a couple of thumps with his fist. Roger Anderson looked less than delighted, but Rebus wasn’t about to give him the chance to complain.

“Before he was attacked,” he stated, “Alexander Todorov was drinking in the bar at the Caledonian.”

“So?”

“So you were in the restaurant—you didn’t happen to see him?”

“Elizabeth and I didn’t go near the bar. It’s a big hotel, Inspector . . .” Anderson was closing the door again. Rebus thought about wedging a foot in to stop him; probably been years since he’d done anything like that. But he couldn’t think of any other questions, so he just kept his gaze on Roger Anderson until the solid wooden door was between them. Even then, he focused on it for a few seconds more, willing the man to open up again. But Anderson was gone. Rebus headed back down the path.

“What do you think?” Clarke asked.

“Let’s go talk to the other witness. After that, I’ll give you my best guess.”

Nancy Sievewright’s flat was on the third story of a Blair Street tenement. There was an illuminated sign across the street, advertising a basement sauna. Farther up the steep incline, smokers were huddled outside a bar and there were a few yips and yells from Hunter Square, where the city’s homeless often held court until moved on by the police.

There wasn’t much light in the tenement’s doorway, so Rebus held his cigarette lighter under the intercom, while Clarke made out the various names. Rented flats and a shifting population, meaning some of the buzzers boasted half a dozen names alongside, with scrawled amendments on peeling bits of gummed paper. Sievewright’s name was just about legible, and when Clarke pressed the button the door clicked open without anyone bothering to check who wanted in. The stairwell was well enough lit, with some bags of rubbish at the bottom and a stack of several years’ worth of unwanted telephone directories.

“Someone’s got a cat,” Rebus said, sniffing the air.

“Or an incontinence problem,” Clarke agreed. They climbed the stone steps, Rebus pausing at each level as though studying the various names on the doors, but really just catching his breath. By the time he reached the third floor, Clarke had already rung the bell. The door was opened by a young man with tousled hair and a week’s growth of dark beard. He wore eyeliner and a red bandanna.

“You’re not Kelly,” he said.

“Sorry to disappoint you.” Clarke was holding up her warrant card. “We’re here to see Nancy.”

“She’s not in.” He sounded instantly defensive.

“Did she tell you about finding the body?”

“What?” The young man’s mouth fell open and stayed that way.

“You a friend of hers?”

“Flatmate.”

“She didn’t tell you?” Clarke waited for a response that didn’t come. “Well, anyway, this is just a backup call. She’s not done anything wrong —”

“So if you’ll kindly let us in,” Rebus interrupted, “we’ll try to ignore the smell of Bob Hope wafting into our faces.” He gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

“Sure.” The young man held the door open a little wider. Nancy Sievewright’s head appeared around her bedroom door.

“Hello, Nancy,” Clarke said, stepping into the hall. There were boxes everywhere—stuff for recycling, stuff to be thrown out, stuff that hadn’t made it into the flat’s limited cupboard space. “Just need to check a few things with you.”

Nancy was in the hallway, closing her bedroom door after her.

She wore a short tight skirt with black leggings and a crop top, which showed off her midriff and a studded belly button.

“I’m just on my way out,” she said.

“I’d put another layer on,” Rebus suggested. “It’s perishing.”

“Won’t take a moment,” Clarke was reassuring the teenager. “Where’s the best place to talk?”

“Kitchen,” Nancy stated. Yes, because the sweet smell of dope was coming from behind another closed door, probably the living room. There was music, too, something rambling and electronic. Rebus couldn’t place it, but it reminded him a bit of Tangerine Dream.

The kitchen was narrow and cluttered, seemed the flatmates existed on takeaways. The window had been left open a couple of inches, which did little to lessen the smell from the sink.

“Someone’s missed their turn to do the washing-up,” Rebus commented.

Nancy ignored him. She had folded her arms and was waiting for a question. Clarke went back into her folder again, bringing out Todd Goodyear’s impeccable report and another business card.

“We’d like you to come down to Gayfield Square some time soon,” Clarke began, “and give a proper signed statement. Ask for either of these officers.” She handed over the card. “Meantime, we just want to check a couple of things. You were on your way back here when you found the victim?”

“That’s right.”

“You’d been to a friend’s in . . .” Clarke pretended to look at the report. She was expecting Nancy to finish the sentence, but the teenager seemed to be having trouble remembering. “Great Stuart Street,” Clarke reminded her. Nancy nodded in agreement. “What’s your friend’s name, Nancy?”

“What do you need that for?”

“It’s just the way we are, we like as much detail as we can get.”

“Her name’s Gill.”

Clarke wrote the name down. “Surname?” she asked.

“Morgan.”

“And what number does she live at?”

“Sixteen.”

“Great.” Clarke wrote this down, too. “Thanks for that.”

The living room door opened, and a female face peered out, disappearing again after meeting Rebus’s glare.

“Who’s your landlord?” Rebus decided to ask Nancy. She gave a shrug.

“I give the rent to Eddie.”

“Is Eddie the one who answered the door?”

She nodded, and Rebus took a couple of steps back into the hall. On top of one of the cardboard boxes sat a pile of mail. As Clarke asked another question, he sifted through it, stopping at one envelope in particular. In place of a stamp, there was a business frank, and alongside it the name of the company: MGC Lettings. Rebus dropped the letter and listened to Nancy’s answer.

“I don’t know if the car park was locked up—what difference does it make?”

“Not much,” Clarke seemed to concede.

“We think the victim was attacked there,” Rebus added. “He either staggered along to the lane where you found him, or else he was carried there.”