Exit Music

'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 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

They waited until 6 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 which could well have been trimmed with nail scissors.

'A little hobby for Mrs Anderson?' Clarke guessed.

'Who knows – maybe she's the high-flyer 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 multistorey?'

'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. Tou 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. Tou 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.'

Tou 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 shrivelling 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.'