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Authors: Ian Rankin

Exit Music (2007) (9 page)

BOOK: Exit Music (2007)
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“I didn’t
see
anything!” the teenager wailed. Tears were welling in her eyes, and she had wrapped her arms more tightly around her. The living room door opened again, and Eddie emerged into the hall.

“Stop hassling her,” he said.

“We’re not hassling her, Eddie,” Rebus told him. The young man blanched when he realized Rebus now had his name. He held his ground a further moment or two for pride’s sake, then retreated. “Why didn’t you tell him what had happened?” Rebus asked Nancy.

She was shaking her head slowly, having blinked back the tears. “Just want to forget all about it.”

“Can’t blame you for that,” Clarke sympathized. “But if you
do
remember anything . . .” She was pointing towards the business card.

“I’ll call you,” Nancy agreed.

“And you’ll come to the station, too,” Clarke reminded her, “any time Monday.” Nancy Sievewright nodded, looking utterly dejected. Clarke threw a glance towards Rebus, wondering if he had any other questions. He decided to oblige.

“Nancy,” he asked quietly, “have you ever been to the Caledonian Hotel?”

The teenager gave a snort. “Oh yeah, I’m in there all the time.”

“Seriously, though.”

“What do you think?”

“I’ll take that as a no.” Rebus gave a little jerk of his head, signaling to Clarke that it was time to go. But before they did, he shoved open the living room door. The place was a haze of smoke. There was no ceiling light, just a couple of lamps fitted with purple bulbs and a row of thick white candles on the mantelpiece. The coffee table was covered with cigarette papers, torn bits of card, and shreds of tobacco. Apart from Eddie, there were three figures sprawled on the sofas and the floor. Rebus just nodded at them, then retreated. “Do you do anything yourself?” he asked Nancy. “A bit of blaw maybe?” She was opening the front door.

“Sometimes,” she admitted.

“Thanks for not lying,” Rebus said. There was a girl on the doorstep: Kelly, presumably. She was probably the same age as Nancy, but the makeup would get her into most over-twenty-one nightspots.

“Bye then,” Nancy told the two detectives. As the door closed, they could hear Kelly asking Nancy who they were, along with Nancy’s muffled reply that they worked for the landlord. Rebus gave a snort.

“And guess who that landlord would be?” He watched Clarke give a shrug. “Morris Gerald Cafferty—as in MGC Lettings.”

“I knew he had a few flats,” Clarke commented.

“Hard to turn a corner in this city and not find Cafferty’s paw prints nearby.” Rebus was thoughtful for a moment.

“She was lying,” Clarke stated.

“About the friend she was visiting?” Rebus nodded his agreement.

“Why would she lie?”

“Probably a hundred good reasons.”

“Her stoner buddies, for example.” Clarke was starting back down the stairs. “Is it worth trying to talk to someone called Gill Morgan at 16 Great Stuart Street?”

“Up to you,” Rebus said. He was looking over his shoulder towards the door of Nancy Sievewright’s flat. “She’s an anomaly, though.”

“How so?”

“Every other bugger in this case seems to use the Caledonian like a home from home.”

Clarke was smiling a little smile as the door opened behind them. It stayed open as Nancy Sievewright padded down the stairs towards them.

“There’s something you can do for me,” she said, voice lowered.

“What’s that, Nancy?”

“Keep that creep away from me.”

The two detectives shared a look. “Which creep is that?” Clarke asked.

“The one with the wife, the one who phoned 999 . . .”

“Roger Anderson?” Rebus’s eyes had narrowed.

Nancy gave a nervous nod. “He was round here yesterday. I wasn’t in, but he must have waited. He was parked outside when I got back.”

“What did he want?”

“Said he was worried about me, wanted to make sure I was all right.” She was heading back up the steps again. “I’m done with that.”

“Done with what?” Rebus called, but she didn’t answer, just closed the door softly after her.

“Bloody hell,” Clarke whispered. “What was all that about?”

“Something to ask Mr. Anderson. Funny, I was just thinking to myself that Nancy looks a bit like his daughter.”

“How did he get her address?”

Rebus just shrugged. “It’ll keep,” he stated, after a moment’s thought. “I’ve another little mission for you tonight . . .”

Another little mission: meaning she was on her own when she met with Macrae in his office. He’d been out to some function or other and was dressed in a dinner jacket and black bow tie. There was a driver waiting outside to take him home. As he sat behind his desk, he removed the tie and undid his top button. He’d fetched himself a glass of water from the cooler and was waiting for Clarke to say something. She cleared her throat, cursing Rebus. His reasoning: Macrae would listen to her. That was the whole of it.

“Well, sir,” she began, “it’s about Alexander Todorov.”

“You’ve got someone in the frame?” Macrae had brightened, but only until she shook her head.

“It’s just that we think there may be more to it than a mugging gone wrong.”

“Oh yes?”

“We’ve not got much in the way of evidence as yet, but there are a lot of . . .” A lot of what? She couldn’t think of a convincing way of putting it. “There are a lot of leads we need to follow, and mostly they point away from a random attack.”

Macrae leaned back in his chair. “This sounds like Rebus,” he stated. “He’s got you in here arguing
his
corner.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t agree with him, sir.”

“Sooner you’re free of him the better.” Clarke prickled visibly, and Macrae gave a little wave of apology. “You know what I mean, Siobhan. How long till he goes? A week . . . and what happens then? Will the case be closed by the time he packs his bags?”

“Doubtful,” Clarke conceded.

“Meaning
you’ll
be left with it, Siobhan.”

“I don’t mind that, sir.”

Macrae stared at her. “Reckon it’s worth a few more days, this hunch of his?”

“It’s more than a hunch,” Clarke stressed. “Todorov connects to a number of people, and it’s a matter of ruling them out rather than ruling anything in.”

“And what if there’s less to this than meets the eye? We’ve been here before with John after all.”

“He’s solved a lot of cases in his time,” Clarke stated.

“You make a good character witness, Siobhan.” Macrae was smiling tiredly. “I know John outranks you,” he said eventually, “but I want you in charge of the Todorov murder. Makes things easier, as he himself would admit.”

Clarke nodded slowly but said nothing.

“Two or three days—see what you can come up with. You’ve got Hawes and Tibbet—who else are you going to bring aboard?”

“I’ll let you know.”

Macrae grew thoughtful again. “Someone from the Russian embassy spoke to Scotland Yard . . . and
they
spoke to our dear Chief Constable.” He sighed. “If he knew I was letting John Rebus anywhere near this, he’d have kittens.”

“They make nice pets, sir,” Clarke offered, but Macrae just glowered.

“It’s why
you’re
in charge, Siobhan, not John. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m guessing he’s skulking nearby, waiting for you to report back to him?”

“You know him too well, sir.”

Macrae made a little gesture with his hand, telling her she was dismissed. She wandered back through the CID suite and down to the lobby, where she saw a face she recognized. Todd Goodyear had either finished a shift or was working undercover, dressed as he was in black straight-leg denims and a black padded bomber jacket. Clarke made show of trying to place him.

“The Todorov crime scene? PC Goodyear?”

He nodded, and glanced towards the folder she was still carrying. “You got my notes?”

“As you can see . . .” She was playing for time, wondering why he was there.

“Were they all right?”

“They were fine.” He looked keen for a bit more than that, but she just repeated the word “fine,” then asked what he was doing.

“Waiting for you,” he owned up. “I’d heard tell you worked late.”

“Actually, I just got here twenty minutes ago.”

He was nodding. “I was outside in the car.” He glanced over her shoulder. “DI Rebus isn’t with you?”

“Look, Todd, what the hell is it you want?”

Goodyear licked his lips. “I thought PC Dyson told you—I’m after a stint with CID.”

“Good for you.”

“And I wondered if you maybe needed someone . . .” He let the sentence drift off.

“With Todorov, you mean?”

“It’d be a chance for me to learn. That was my first murder scene . . . I’d love to know what happens next.”

“What happens next is a lot of slogging, most of it with nothing to show at the end.”

“Sounds great.” He offered her a grin. “I write a good report, DS Clarke . . . I don’t miss too many tricks. I just feel I could be doing
more
.”

“Persistent little sod, aren’t you?”

“Let me try to convince you over a drink.”

“I’m meeting someone.”

“Tomorrow, then? I could buy you a coffee.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday, and DCI Macrae hasn’t put together a budget.”

“Meaning no overtime?” Goodyear nodded his understanding.

Clarke thought for a moment. “Why me rather than Rebus? He’s the ranking officer.”

“Maybe I thought you’d be a better listener.”

“Meaning more gullible?”

“Meaning just what I said.”

Clarke took another moment to make up her mind. “Actually, it’s me in charge of this case, so let’s meet for that coffee first thing Monday morning. There’s a place on Broughton Street I sometimes use.” She named it, and a time.

“Thanks, DS Clarke,” Goodyear said. “You won’t regret it.” He held out his hand and they shook on it.

DAY FOUR

Monday 20 November 2006

11

S
iobhan Clarke was ten minutes early, but Goodyear was already there. He was in his uniform, but with the same bomber jacket as Friday night covering it and zipped to the neck.

“Embarrassed to be seen in it?” Clarke asked.

“Well, you know what it’s like . . .”

She did indeed. Long time since she’d worn a constabulary uniform, but the job was still something you didn’t always readily own up to. Parties she’d been to, people always seemed a bit less comfortable once they knew what she did for a living. It was the same on a night out, guys either losing interest or else making too many jokes:
Going to cuff me to your bedposts? Wait till you see my truncheon. Don’t worry about the neighbors, I’ll come quietly, officer . . .

Goodyear was back on his feet, asking what she’d like. “They’re on the case,” she assured him. Her regular cappuccino was being prepared, so all Goodyear had to do was pay for it and fetch it over. They were seated on stools at a table by the window. It was a basement, so all they could see was a passing parade of legs at street level. Gusts of rain were blowing in from the North Sea; everyone was hurrying to be somewhere else. Clarke turned down his offer of sugar and told him to relax.

“You’re not at a job interview,” she said.

“I thought I was,” he replied with a nervy little laugh, showing a line of slightly crooked teeth. His ears stuck out a little bit, too, and his eyelashes were very fair. He was drinking a mug of filter coffee, and the crumbs on his plate were evidence of an earlier croissant. “Good weekend?” he asked.


Great
weekend,” she corrected him. “Hibs won six–one, and Hearts lost to Rangers.”

“You’re a Hibs fan.” He nodded slowly to himself, filing the information away. “Were you at the game?”

She shook her head. “It was at Motherwell. I had to content myself with a film.”


Casino Royale
?”

She shook her head. “
The Departed.
” They lapsed into silence, until a thought struck Clarke. “How long were you waiting before I got here?”

“Not too long. Woke up early and thought I might as well . . .” He took a deep breath. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d find this place, so I left plenty of time. I always err on the side of caution.”

“Duly noted, PC Goodyear. So tell me a bit about yourself.”

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

“Well, I’m guessing you know who my granddad was . . .” He looked up at her, and she nodded. “Most people seem to, whether they say as much to my face.”

“You were young when he died,” Clarke said.

“I was four. But I hadn’t seen him for the best part of a year. Mum and Dad wouldn’t take me with them.”

“To the prison, you mean?” It was Goodyear’s turn to nod.

“Mum fell apart a bit. . . . She was always highly strung, and her parents thought her a class above my dad. So when
his
dad ended up in jail, that seemed all the proof they needed. Added to which, my dad always liked drowning his own sorrows.” He offered a rueful smile. “Maybe some people would be better off never marrying.”

“But then there’d be no Todd Goodyear.”

“God must have had his reasons.”

“Does any of it explain why you joined the police?”

“Maybe—but thanks for not making a straight assumption. So many people have tried spelling it out to me like that. ‘You’re atoning, Todd’ or ‘You’re showing not all Goodyears are cut from the same cloth.’”

“Lazy thinking?” Clarke guessed.

“How about you, DS Clarke? What made you become a cop?”

She considered a moment before deciding to tell him the truth. “I think I was reacting against my parents. They were typical liberal lefties, growing up in the sixties.”

“The only way to rebel was to become the Establishment?” Goodyear smiled and nodded his understanding.

“Not a bad way of putting it,” Clarke agreed, lifting her cup to her lips. “What does your brother think of it all?”

“You know he’s been in trouble a few times?”

“I know his name’s on our books,” Clarke admitted.

“You’ve been checking up on me?” But Clarke wasn’t about to answer that. “I never see him.” Goodyear paused. “Actually, that’s not strictly true—he’s been in hospital, and I went to visit him.”

“Nothing serious?”

“He got himself into some stupid argument in a pub. That’s just the way Sol is.”

“Is he older than you or younger?”

“Two years older. Not that you’d ever have known it—when we were kids, neighbors used to say how much more mature than him I seemed. They just meant I was better behaved—plus I used to do the shopping and stuff . . .” He seemed lost in the past for a moment, then shook his head clear. “DI Rebus,” he said, “has a bit of history with Big Ger Cafferty, doesn’t he?”

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 neighbor 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 seat belt 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 had only the three pints last night, but his head felt gummy. Saturday he’d watched a bit of TV, ruing another obituary—the footballer Ferenc Puskás. 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 Puskás 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 Puskás, both gone forever. 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, reaching 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.

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