Exit Music

'He was comfortable enough,' Hawes announced. 'Six grand in the current account and eighteen in savings.' She checked the transaction dates: no significant deposits or withdrawals in the days leading up to his death, and no transactions at all thereafter.

'Whoever took his cash card, they don't seem to be using it.'

'They could have cleaned him out,' Tibbet acknowledged. 'Twenty four K… so much for the starving artist.'

'Garrets mustn't be as fashionable these days,' Hawes agreed.

She was punching a number into her phone. Clarke picked up and Hawes relayed the highlights to her. 'Took out a hundred the day he was killed.'

'Where from?'

'Machine at Waverley Station.' Hawes frowned suddenly. 'Why did he leave Edinburgh from one station but come back to the other?'

'He was meeting Charles Riordan. I think Riordan frequented some curry house nearby.'

'Can't really check with him, though, can we?'

'Not really,' Clarke admitted. Hawes could hear voices in the background; all the same, it sounded a lot calmer than Gayfield Square.

'Where are you, Shiv?' she asked.

'City Chambers, asking about CCTV.'

'How long till you're back at base?'

'An hour maybe.'

'You sound inconsolable. Any word from our favourite DI?'

'Assuming you mean Rebus rather than Starr, the answer's no.'

'Tell her,' Tibbet said, 'about the bank.'

'Colin says to tell you we enjoyed our visit to First Albannach.'

'Plush, was it?'

'I've stayed at worse resorts; they had everything in there but flumes.'

'Did you see Stuart Janney?'

'He was in a meeting. To tell the truth, it was a real production line number. In and out and thank you very much.'

'They've got shareholders to protect. When your profits are hitting ten billion, you don't want any bad publicity.'

Hawes turned to Colin Tibbet. 'Siobhan,' she told him, 'says the profit last year was ten billion.'

'Give or take,' Clarke added.

'Give or take,' Hawes repeated for Tibbet's benefit.

'Makes you wonder,' Tibbet repeated quietly, with a slow shake of the head.

Hawes stared at him. Kissable lips, she was thinking. Younger than her and less experienced. There was material there she could work with, maybe starting tonight.

'Talk to you later,' she told Clarke, ending the call.

31

Dr Scarlett Colwell was waiting for Rebus at her office in George Square. She was on one of the upper floors, meaning the view would have been great if not for the build-up of condensation between the layers of double-glazing.

'Depressing, isn't it?' she apologised. 'Constructed forty years ago and fit for nothing but demolition.'

Rebus turned his attention instead to the shelves of Russian textbooks. Plaster busts of Marx and Lenin were being used as bookends. On the wall opposite, posters and cards had been pinned up, including a photograph of President Yeltsin dancing. Colwell's desk was next to the window, but facing into the room. Two tables had been pushed together, leaving just enough room for eight chairs to be arranged around them. There was a kettle on the floor, and she crouched down next to it, spooning coffee granules into two mugs.

'Milk?' she asked.

'Thanks,' Rebus said, glancing towards her shock of hair. Her skirt was stretched tight, delineating the line of a hip.

'Sugar?'

'Just milk.'

The kettle finished boiling and she poured, handing him his cup before getting back to her feet. They stood very close to one another until she apologised again for the lack of space and retreated behind her desk, Rebus content to rest his backside against the table.

Thanks for seeing me.'

She blew on her coffee. 'Not at all. I was devastated to hear about Mr Riordan.'

“You met him at the Poetry Library?' Rebus guessed.

She nodded, then had to push the hair away from her face. 'And at Word Power.'

It was Rebus's turn to nod. 'That's the bookshop where Mr Todorov did a reading?'

Colwell pointed towards the wall. This time when Rebus looked, he picked out the photograph of Alexander Todorov in full poetic flow, one arm dramatically raised, mouth agape.

'Doesn't look like a bookshop,' Rebus declared.

'They moved it to a bigger venue – cafe on Nicolson Street. Even so, it was packed.'

'He's in his element, isn't he?' Rebus was studying the picture more closely. 'Did you take this, Dr Colwell?'

'I'm not very good,' she started to apologise.

'I'm the last one to judge.' He turned and gave her a smile. 'So Charles Riordan taped this session, too?'

'That's right.' She paused. 'In fact, it's a happy coincidence that you called me, Inspector…'

'Oh?'

'Because I was on the verge of phoning you, to ask a favour.'

'What is it I can do for you, Dr Colwell?'

'There's a magazine called the London Review of Books. They saw the obituary I wrote in the Scotsman and they want to publish one of Alexander's poems.'

'With you so far.' Rebus lifted the cup to his lips.

'It's a new poem in Russian, one he recited at the Poetry Library.'

She gave a little laugh. 'In fact, I think he'd only just finished it that day. Point being, I don't have a copy of it. I'm not sure anyone does.'

'Have you had a look through his waste-paper bin?'

'Would it sound heartless if I said yes?'

'Not at all. But you didn't find it?'

'No… which is why I spoke to a nice man at Mr Riordan's studio.'

'That'll be Terry Grimm.'

She nodded again, pushed her hair back again. 'He said there was a recording.'

Rebus thought of the hour he'd spent in Siobhan's car, the pair of them listening to a dead man. Tou want to borrow it?' he guessed, remembering that Todorov had indeed recited some of the poems in Russian.

'Just long enough to write a translation. It would be my memorial to him, I suppose.'

'I can't see a problem with that.'

She beamed, and he got the feeling that if the desk hadn't been there, she might even have reached over and hugged him. Instead, she asked if she would have to listen to the CD at the station or would it be possible to take it away with her. The station… one place Rebus couldn't be seen.

'I can bring it to you,' he said, and her smile widened before melting away.

'Deadline's next week,' she suddenly realised.

'No problem,' Rebus assured her. 'And I'm sorry we haven't tracked down Mr Todorov's killer yet.'

Her face fell further. 'I'm sure you're doing your utmost.'

'Thanks for the vote of confidence.' He paused. Tou've still not asked me why I'm here.'

'I was thinking you'd get round to telling me.'

'I've been researching Mr Todorov's life, looking for enemies.'

'Alexander made an enemy of the state, Inspector.'

'That much I believe. But one story I've been hearing is that he was dismissed from a lectureship for getting too friendly with his students. Thing is, I think the person who told me that was trying to sell me a pup.'

But she was shaking her head. 'Actually, it's true – Alexander told me about it himself. The charges were trumped up, of course – they just wanted him out, by fair means or foul.' She sounded aggrieved on the poet's behalf.

'Do you mind if I ask… did he ever try anything with you, Dr Colwell?'

'I have a partner, Inspector.'

'With respect, Dr Colwell, you're a beautiful woman, and I get the impression Alexander Todorov liked women. I'm not sure the existence of any partner short of a Ninja assassin would have deterred him.'

She gave another perfect smile, lowering her lashes in feigned modesty.