Exit Music

'In me?'

'In everybody.' He paused. 'I think we're put here for a purpose.

Never find out what it is if you don't ask questions.'

'And your “purpose” is to pry into my love life?'

He gave a little cough, face reddening. 'I didn't mean it like that.'

'Back in the cafe, you talked about God's purpose – is this where you tell me you're religious?'

'Well, as a matter of fact, I am. Is there anything wrong with that?'

'Nothing at all. DI Rebus used to be, too, and I've managed to cope with him all these years.'

'Used to be?'

'In that he went to church…' She thought for a moment. 'Actually, he went to dozens of them, a different one every week.'

'Looking for something he couldn't find,' Goodyear guessed.

'He'd probably kill me for telling you,' Clarke warned.

'But you're not religious yourself, DS Clarke?'

'Lord, no,' she said with a smile. 'Hard to be, in this line of work.'

Tou reckon?'

'All the stuff we deal with… people gone bad, hurting themselves and others.' She gave him another glance. 'Isn't God supposed to have made us in his or her image?'

'An argument that might take us the rest of the day.'

'Instead of which, I'll ask if you've got a girlfriend.'

He nodded. 'Her name's Sonia, works as a SOCO.'

'And what did the two of you get up to at the weekend – apart from church, obviously?'

'She had a hen party Saturday, I didn't see much of her. Sonia's not a churchgoer…'

'And how's your brother doing?'

'Okay, I think.'

Tou mean you don't know?'

'He's out of hospital.'

'I thought you said it was a punch-up?'

'There was a knife…'

'His or the other guy's?'

'The other guy's, hence Sol's stitches.'

Clarke was thoughtful for a moment. Tou said your mum and dad fell apart when your grandad went to jail…'

Goodyear leaned back into his seat. 'Mum started on medication.

Dad walked out soon after and hit the bottle harder than ever. There were days I'd bump into him outside the shops and he wouldn't even recognise me.'

'Tough on a young kid.'

'Sol and me mostly stayed with our Aunt Susan, Mum's sister.

House wasn't really big enough, but she never complained. I started going with her to church on Sundays. Sometimes she was so tired, she nodded off in the pew. Used to have a bag of sweets with her, and this one time they slid from her lap and started rolling across the floor.' He smiled at the memory. 'Anyway, that's about all there is to it.'

'Just as well – we're nearly there.' They were heading down Portobello High Street and – a first for Clarke – without being held up by roadworks. Two more minutes and they were turning off Joppa Road and cruising a street of terraced Victorian houses.

'Number eighteen,' Goodyear said, spotting it first. Plenty of kerbside parking – Clarke reckoned most people had taken their cars to work. She pulled on the handbrake and turned off the ignition.

Goodyear was already striding down the path.

'All I need,' she muttered to herself, undoing her seatbelt, 'is a bloody holy-roller…' Not that she meant it: as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew where she'd got them – or at least their sentiment.

John Rebus.

She'd only just reached Goodyear as the door opened, Charles Riordan looking surprised to be face-to-face with a police uniform.

He recognised Clarke however and ushered the two officers inside.

The hallway was lined with bookshelves but no books. Instead, all the available space was taken up with old-fashioned reels of tape and boxes of cassettes.

'Come in if you can get in,' was Riordan's comment. He led them into what should have been the living room but had been fitted out as a studio, complete with acoustic baffling stapled to the walls and a mixing-desk surrounded by more cartons of cassettes, minidiscs and reel-to-reels. Cables snaked underfoot, microphones lay in the dust, and the curtains covering the only window looked half an inch thick.

'Riordan Mansions,' Charles Riordan announced.

'Can I take it you're not married?' Clarke asked.

'Was once, but she couldn't hack it.'

“The equipment, you mean?'

But Riordan shook his head. 'I like to make recordings.' He paused meaningfully. 'Of everything. After a while, it started to get to Audrey.' He slipped his hands into his pockets. 'So what can I do for you today, officers?'

Clarke was looking around the room. 'Are we being taped, Mr Riordan?'

Riordan gave a chuckle and, by way of answer, pointed to a slender black microphone.

'And the other day at your studio?'

He nodded. 'I used DAT. Though these days I'm more into digital.'

'I thought DAT was digital?' Goodyear asked.

'But it's tape – I'm talking about straight to the hard drive.'

'Would you mind turning it off?' Clarke asked, making it sound like the demand it really was. Riordan shrugged and hit a switch on the mixing desk.

'More questions about Alexander?' he asked.

'One or two, yes.'

'You got the CD?'

Clarke nodded. 'Thanks for that.'

'He was a great performer, wasn't he?'

'He was,' Clarke acknowledged. 'But what I really wanted to ask you about was the night he died.'

Tes?'

'After the curry, you said you parted company. You were heading home, and Mr Todorov was going to find a drink?'

'That's right.'

'And you added that it was a toss-up whether he went to Mather's or the Caledonian Hotel – why those two in particular, Mr Riordan?'

Riordan gave a shrug. 'He was going to have to walk past both of them.'

'And a dozen more besides,' Clarke countered.

'Maybe he'd mentioned them to me.'

'You don't remember?'

'Is it important?'

'It could be.' Clarke glanced towards Goodyear. He was playing the game: shoulders back, legs slightly parted, hands clasped in front of him… and saying nothing. He looked official. Clarke doubted Riordan would pay any attention to the prominent ears or the crooked teeth or the eyelashes… all he'd be seeing was a uniform, focusing his mind on the gravity of the situation.

Riordan had been rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 'Well, I suppose he must have mentioned them,' he said.

'But not on the night you met?' Clarke watched Riordan shake his head. 'So he didn't have a rendezvous planned?'

'How do you mean?'

'After you split up, Mr Todorov headed straight for the bar at the Caledonian. He got talking to someone there. Just wondered if it was a regular thing.'

'Alexander liked people: people who'd buy him drinks and listen to his stories and then tell him a few of their own.'

'Never thought of the Caledonian as a place for story-telling.'

'You're wrong – hotel bars are perfect. You meet strangers there, and you spill your life out for the twenty or thirty minutes that you're with them. It's quite incredible what people will tell complete strangers.'

'Maybe because they are strangers,' Goodyear interrupted.

'The constable has a good point,' Riordan said.

'But how do you know this, Mr Riordan?' Clarke asked. 'Can I assume you've done some covert taping in places like the Caledonian?'

'Plenty of times,' Riordan admitted. 'And on trains and buses – people snoring or talking to themselves or plotting the overthrow of the government. Tramps on park benches and MPs at the hustings; ice-skaters and picnickers and love rats on the phone to their mistresses.' He turned to Goodyear. 'My little hobby,' he explained.

'And when did it turn to an obsession, sir?' Goodyear asked politely.

'Some time before your wife left you, I'd imagine.'

The smile fell from Riordan's face. Realising he'd slipped up, Goodyear risked a glance towards Clarke. She was shaking her head slowly.

'Are there any other questions?' Riordan asked coldly.

Tou can't think of anyone Alexander Todorov could have been drinking with at the hotel?' Clarke persisted.