Exit Music

'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.

Tfour 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

signalled 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 only looked at Todorov's photo for 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 realise his mistake. 'Look,' he said, 'I don't want to get into trouble…'

Tou 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 through 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. Colour 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.

Tfou can tell me what Russians you have staying here.'

Tou 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 apologised, 'this isn't that sort of hotel. But you do have some Russians staying here?'

Browning admitted as much with a nod. Tou 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?'