Exit Music

'Why?'

'Seemed to think you'd taken against him.'

'Some people are touchy.'

'Whatever you said, he's come to the conclusion you must be management.'

'I always thought I had it in me…' Rebus glanced away from the screen long enough to give her a wink. 'If I hit the print button, where do the pages appear?'

'That machine over there.' She pointed towards a corner of the room.

'So I'd have to walk all the way over there to collect them?'

'You're management, John. Get someone to do it for you…'

28

The reporters had drifted away from Gayfield Square. Maybe because it was approaching lunchtime, or some other story had broken. Siobhan Clarke had been in a meeting with DCI Macrae and the Chief Constable. Corbyn wasn't enthusiastic about leaving her in charge, despite Macrae's spirited defence.

'Let's get DI Starr back from Fettes,' Corbyn had insisted.

“Yes, sir,' Macrae had said, capitulating at the last.

Afterwards, he'd sighed and told Clarke the Chief Constable was right. Clarke had just shrugged and watched him pick up the phone, asking to be connected to Derek Starr. Within half an hour, Starr himself, coiffeured and cufflinked, was in the CID suite and gathering the team together for what he termed 'a pep talk'.

'Isn't a PEP a pension scheme?' Hawes asked beneath her breath, her way of telling Clarke she was on her side. Clarke smiled back to let her know she appreciated it.

Having had only the briefest of briefings in Macrae's office, Starr focused on the 'tenuous links' between the two deaths, and insisted that they not read too much into them 'at this early stage'. He I wanted the team divided in two, with one group concentrating on Todorov and the other on Riordan. Then, turning his attention to Siobhan Clarke: 'You'll be the nexus, DS Clarke. Meaning if there points of connection between the two cases, you'll collate them.'

aking around the room, he asked if everyone understood how he ranted things to work. The murmurs of assent were drowned out ¦ a sustained belch from Ray Reynolds.

'Chilli con carne,' he stated, by way of apology, as officers nearby notebooks and sheets of paper. The phone on Clarke's desk and she picked it up, pressing a finger in her other ear to le the rest of Starr's oration.

'DS Clarke,' she announced.

'Is DI Rebus there?'

'Not at the moment. Can I help at all?'

'It's Stuart Janney.'

'Ah yes, Mr Janney. This is DS Clarke, we met at the Parliament.'

'Well, DS Clarke, your man Rebus asked for details of Alexander Todorov's bank account…'

“You've got them?'

'I know it's taken a while, but there were protocols…'

Clarke caught Hawes's eye. 'Where are you just now, Mr Janney?'

'Bank HQ.'

'Could a couple of my colleagues come and collect them?'

'Don't see why not; save me a trip.' Janney sniffed as he spoke.

'Thank you, sir. Will you be there for the next hour?'

'If I'm not, I'll leave the envelope with my assistant.'

'Very kind of you.'

'How's the investigation going?'

'We're making progress.'

'Glad to hear it. Papers this morning seem to think you're connecting Todorov's death to that house fire.'

'Don't believe everything you read.'

'Extraordinary, nevertheless.'

'If you say so, Mr Janney. Thanks again.' Clarke put the phone down and turned back to Phyllida Hawes. 'I'm getting you and Col out of here. Go to First Albannach's HQ and pick up Todorov's bank details from a man called Stuart Janney.'

'Thank you,' Hawes mouthed.

'And while you're gone, I might make myself scarce, too. Nancy Sievewright's going to be sick of the sight of me…'

Starr was clapping his hands, signalling that the meeting was at an end, 'unless anyone's got a really stupid question'. His eyes raked the room, daring any hand to be raised. 'Right then,' he barked, let's go to work!'

Hawes rolled her eyes and squeezed through the throng to where Colin Tibbet was standing, seemingly in thrall to Derek Starr.

Siobhan Clarke found Todd Goodyear sidling up next to her.

'You think DI Starr's going to want me kept on?' he asked quietly.

'Just keep your head down and hope he doesn't notice you.'

'And how do I do that?'

Tou're going through all those committee tapes, right?' She

watched Goodyear nod. 'Just keep doing that, and if he asks who you are, explain that you're the only sod willing to take on such a thankless task.'

'I'm still not sure what it is you think I might find.'

'Search me,' Clarke confessed. 'But you never know your luck.'

'Okay then.' Goodyear sounded far from convinced. 'And you're going to be liaison between the two halves of the inquiry?'

'Always supposing that's what a “nexus” is.'

'Does that mean you'll be giving the press conferences?'

Clarke responded with a snort. 'Derek Starr's not going to let anyone hog the cameras except him.'

'He looks more like a salesman than a detective,' Goodyear commented.

'That's because he is,' Clarke agreed. 'And the thing he's selling is himself. Problem is, he's bloody good at it.'

“You're not jealous?' They were being jostled by other detectives, as everyone tried to find a patch of office they could claim as their own.

'DI Starr will go far,' she said, leaving it at that. Goodyear watched as she slung her bag over one shoulder.

Tou're going somewhere,' he stated.

'Well spotted.'

'Anything I can help with?'

Tou've got all those tapes to listen to, Todd.'

'What's happened to DI Rebus?'

'He's in the field,' Clarke explained, reckoning the fewer people who knew about the suspension, the better.

Especially when Rebus, despite – or more accurately because of – the suspension, was most definitely still on the case.

Nancy Sievewright hadn't been at all happy when Clarke had announced herself at the intercom. But at last she'd come downstairs and told the detective that she wanted hot chocolate.

'There's a place near the top of the street.'

Inside the cafe, they ordered their drinks and settled on opposing leather couches. Sievewright looked like she'd not had enough sleep. She was still wearing a short skirt, threads trailing from it, and a thin denim jacket, but her legs were wrapped in thick black tights and there were knitted fingerless gloves on her hands. She'd asked for whipped cream and marshmallows in her drink, and cupped the mug between her palms as she sipped and chewed.

'Any more grief from Mr Anderson?' Clarke asked. Sievewright just shook her head. 'We spoke to Sol Goodyear,' Clarke continued.

Tou didn't tell us he lived in the same street the body was found.'

'Why should I?'

Clarke just shrugged. 'He doesn't seem to see himself as your boyfriend.'

'He's protecting me,' Sievewright snapped back.

'From what?' Clarke asked, but the young woman wasn't about to answer that. There was music playing quite loudly, and a speaker in the ceiling directly overhead. It was some sort of dance track with a pulsing rhythm and it was giving Clarke a headache. She went to the counter and asked for it to be turned down. The assistant obliged, albeit grudgingly and with minimal effect.

'Why I like this place,' Sievewright said.

'The surly staff?'

'The music' Sievewright peered at Clarke over the rim of her mug. 'So what did Sol say about me?'

'Just that you're not his girlfriend. Speaking to him got me wondering, though…'

'What about?'

'About the night of the attack.'

'It was some nutter in a pub…'

'I don't mean the attack on Sol; I'm talking about the poet. You were on your way to buy stuff from Sol. So you either stumbled across the body on your way up the lane, or on your way back down…'

'What's the difference?' Sievewright was shuffling her feet, looking down at them as if they were no longer under her control.