Exit Music

And this is your idea of narrowing the field?'

All of a sudden, Rebus wanted the day to be over. He wanted to be seated on a bar stool with a drink before him and everything else left far behind. 'If you weren't here,' he sighed, 'just say so.'

She thought this over for a moment. 'I'm not sure,' she said at last, drawing the words out.

'What do you mean?'

'Might liven things up, being a suspect in a police case…'

'Thanks, but we get quite enough time-wasters as it is. The worst offenders,' he added, 'we might even prosecute.'

Her face opened into a smile. 'Sorry,' she apologised. 'Been a long, gruelling day; I probably picked the wrong person to tease.'

Her attention was back on the barrier. 'I suppose I should talk to Gary, make sure he's reported that.' She peeled back a glove to look at her wristwatch. 'Just about see me through to the end of play…' She brought her eyes back to Rebus's. 'After which I dare say I can be located in Montpelier 's.'

'Wine bar in Bruntsfield?' It had taken Rebus only a couple of seconds to place it.

Her smile widened. 'Thought you looked the kind who'd know,'

she said.

In the end, he stayed for three drinks – blame the “Third Glass Free' promotion. Not that he was drinking glasses of anything: three small bottles of imported lager, keeping his wits about him. Cath Mills was a pro, her own three drinks adding up to a whole bottle of Rioja. She'd parked her car around the corner,

since she lived in some flats nearby and could leave it there overnight.

'So don't think you can have me for drunk-driving,' she'd said with a wag of the finger.

'I'm walking, too,' he'd answered, explaining that his own flat was in Marchmont.

When he'd entered the bar, assailed by loudspeaker music and office chatter, she'd been waiting in a booth at the back.

'Hoping I wouldn't find you?' he'd speculated.

'Don't want to seem too easy, do I?'

The conversation had mostly been about his job, plus the usual Edinburgh rants: the traffic, the roadworks, the council, the cold.

She'd warned him that there wasn't much of a story to her own life.

'Married at eighteen, divorced by twenty; tried again at thirty four and it lasted all of six months. Should have known better by then, shouldn't I?'

“You can't always have been a parking supervisor, though?'

Indeed not: office job after office job, then her own little consulting business which had plummeted to earth after two and a half years, not helped by Husband Two hoofing it with the savings.

'I was a PA after that but couldn't hack it… bit of time on the dole and trying to retrain, then this came along.'

'My line of work,' Rebus had said, 'I hear people's stories all the time – they always hold back the interesting stuff.'

'Then take me in for questioning,' she'd replied, stretching her arms wide.

Eventually, he'd got her to say a little about Gary Walsh and Joe Wills. She, too, suspected Wills of drinking on the job, but had yet to catch him.

'Being a detective, you could find out for me.'

'It's a private eye you need. Or set up a few more CCTV cameras without him knowing about it.'

She'd laughed at that, before telling the waitress she was ready for her free drink.

After an hour, they were checking their watches and giving little smiles across the table to one another. 'What about you?' she'd asked. 'Found anyone who'll put up with you?'

'Not for a while. I was married, one daughter – in her thirties now.'

'No office romances? High-pressure job, working in a team… I know how it is.'

'Hasn't happened to me,' he'd confirmed.

'Bully for you.' She sniffed and gave a twitch of the mouth. 'I've given up on one-night stands… more or less.' The twitch becoming another smile.

'This has been nice,' he'd said, aware of how awkward it sounded.

“You won't get into trouble for consorting with a suspect?'

'Who's going to tell?'

'Nobody needs to.' And she'd pointed towards the bar's own CCTV camera, trained on them from a corner of the ceiling. They'd both laughed at that, and as she shrugged back into her parka he'd asked again: 'Were you there that night? Be honest now…' And she'd shaken her head, as much of an answer as he was going to get.

Outside, he'd handed her a business card with the number of his mobile on it. No peck on the cheek or squeeze of the hand: they were two scarred veterans, each respectful of the other. On his way home, Rebus had stopped for fish and chips, eating them out of the little cardboard box. They didn't come wrapped in newspaper any more, something to do with public health. Didn't taste the same either, and the portions of haddock had been whittled away. Blame overfishing in the North Sea. Haddock would soon be a delicacy; either that or extinct. He'd finished by the time he arrived at his tenement, pulling himself up the two flights of stairs. There was no mail waiting, not even a utility bill. He switched on the lights in the living room and selected some music, then called Siobhan.

'What's up?' she asked.

'Just wondered where we go from here.'

'I was thinking of going to the fridge for a can of something.'

'Time was, that would have been my line.'

“The times are a-changing.'

'And that's one of mine, too!'

He could hear her laughing. Then she asked how his interview with Cath Mills had gone.

'Another dead end.'

'Took long enough to drive down it.'

'Didn't see the point of coming back to base.' He paused. 'Thinking of reporting me for bad time-keeping?'

'I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. What's the music you're playing?'

'It's called Little Criminals. There's a track on it called “Jolly Coppers on Parade”.'

'Not someone au fait with the police then…'

'It's Randy Newman. There's another title of his I like: “You Can't Fool the Fat Man”.'

'And would the fat man be yourself, by any chance?' 'Maybe I'll keep you guessing.' He let the silence linger for a moment. You're starting to side with Macrae, aren't you? You think we should be concentrating on the mugger file?'

'I've put Phyl and Colin on it,' Clarke conceded.

'You're losing your bottle?'

'I'm not losing anything.'

'Okay, I put that badly… It's good to be cautious, Shiv. I'm not about to blame you for it.'

'Think about it for a second, John. Was Todorov followed from the Caledonian Hotel? Not according to your CCTV wizard. Did a prostitute proposition him? Maybe, and maybe her pimp jumped in with a length of lead pipe. Whatever happened, the poet was in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

'That much we agree on.'

'And getting up the noses of MSPs, Russian tycoons and First Albannach Bank isn't going to get us anywhere.'

'But it's fun, isn't it? What's the point of a job if you're not having fun?'

'It's fun for you, John… it's always been fun for you.'

'So humour me, my last week at work.'

'I thought that's what I was doing.'

'No, Shiv, what you're doing is writing me off. That's what Todd Goodyear is about – he's your number two, same way you used to be mine. You're already starting to train him up, and probably enjoying it, too.'

'Now hang on a sec…'

'And I'm guessing he's also a means to an end – as long as you've got him with you, you don't have to choose between Phyl and Col. '

'With insights like that, it's a wonder you never got further up the ladder.'

'Thing about that ladder, Shiv, each rung you climb there's another arse waiting to be licked.'

'What a lovely image.'

'We all need some poetry in our lives.' He told her he'd see her tomorrow – 'always supposing I'm needed' – and ended the call. Sat there another five minutes wondering if she'd call back, but she didn't. There was something too cheery about Randy Newman's delivery, so Rebus turned off the album. Plenty of darker stuff he

could play – early King Crimson or Peter Hammill, for example – but instead he walked around the silent flat, going from room to room, and ended up in the hallway with the keys to the Saab in his hand.