Exit Music

'Governments can have changes of heart.'

'What you're saying is, you're under orders from the Kremlin?'

Stahov's eyes gave nothing away. 'There being no next of kin, the state becomes responsible. I have the authority to request his body.'

'But we have no authority to release it,' Starr countered, having shuffled around towards Clarke, the better to meet Stahov's eye-line. 'You're a diplomat; you must be aware that there are protocols'

'Meaning what, exactly?'

'Meaning,' Clarke explained, 'we'll be hanging on to the body until instructed otherwise by judgment or decree.'

'It is scandalous.' Stahov busied himself tugging at the cuffs of his coat. 'I'm not sure how such a situation can be kept from public view.'

'Go crying to the papers,' Starr taunted him. 'See where it gets.you…'

'Start the process,' Clarke counselled the Russian. 'That's all you lean do.'

Stahov met her eyes again and nodded slowly, then turned on

his heels and headed for the exit, followed by his driver. As soon as both men had left, Starr grabbed Clarke by the arm.

'What are you doing here?' he hissed.

She twisted out of his grip. I'm where I should have been all along, Derek.'

'I left you in charge at Gayfield.'

“You left without so much as a word.'

Perhaps Starr sensed that this was not an argument he could win. He glanced around at the onlookers – Reynolds; the mortuary staff – and allowed his face to soften. 'A discussion for another time, perhaps,' he offered.

Clarke, though she'd already decided not to push it, let him sweat for a moment as she pretended to think it over. 'Fine,' she said at last.

He nodded and turned to the mortuary attendants. 'You did the right thing, calling us. If they try anything else, you know where we are.'

“Think they'll sneak him out in the middle of the night?' one of the men speculated.

One of his colleagues gave a chuckle. 'Been a while since we've had one of those, Davie,' he commented.

Siobhan Clarke decided not to ask.

33

They gathered around a table in the back room of the Oxford Bar.

Word had gone out that John Rebus needed a bit of privacy, meaning they had the space to themselves. Nevertheless, they kept their voices low. First thing Rebus had done was explain his suspension and admit that it was dangerous for them to be seen with him.

Clarke had sipped her tonic water – no gin tonight. Colin Tibbet had looked to Phyllida Hawes for a lead.

'If I have to choose between Derek Starr and yourself… no contest,' Hawes had decided.

'No contest,' Tibbet had echoed, without sounding completely convinced.

'What's the worst they can do to me?' Todd Goodyear had added.

'Send me back to uniform at West End? It's going to happen anyway.'

And he'd raised his half-pint of beer in Rebus's direction.

After which, they'd started detailing the day's events, Rebus careful to edit his own version – since he was supposed to be on suspension.

“You've still not talked to Megan Macfarlane or Jim Bakewell?'

he asked Clarke.

'I've been a bit busy, John.'

'Sorry,' Goodyear said, almost choking on a mouthful of ale, 'that reminds me – while you were at the mortuary, Bakewell's office called. There's a meeting with him pencilled in for tomorrow.'

'Thanks for the heads-up, Todd.'

He winced visibly. Hawes was saying something about being thankful for any excuse to get out of the office.

'Isn't space to swing a cat,' Tibbet concurred. 'I opened my desk drawer this afternoon, somebody had left half a sandwich in it.'

'Did they treat you to lunch at the bank?' Rebus asked.

'Just a couple of foie gras baps,' Hawes informed him. 'To be honest, the place reminded me of a very slick and upmarket production line, but a production line nonetheless.'

'Ten billion in profits.' Tibbet still couldn't take it in.

'More than some countries' GDPs,' Goodyear added.

'Here's hoping they stick around if we get independence,' Rebus said. 'Put them and their nearest competitor together, well, it's not a bad start for a wee country.'

Clarke was looking at him. 'You think that's why Stuart Janney's staying close to Megan Macfarlane?'

Rebus shrugged. 'Nationalists wouldn't want the likes of FAB packing up and shipping out. That gives the bank a bit of leverage.'

'I didn't see any levers sticking out of Ms Macfarlane.'

'But she is the future, isn't she? Banks don't make profits without playing a long game – sometimes a very long game.' He grew thoughtful. 'Maybe they're not the only ones at that…'

His phone started to vibrate, so he checked the number. Another mobile, one he didn't know. He flipped the phone open.

'Hello?'

'Strawman…' Cafferty's pet name for Rebus, its origins all but lost down the years. Rebus was on his feet, making for the front bar, down the couple of steps and then out into the night.

'You've changed your number,' Rebus told the gangster.

'Every few weeks. But I don't mind friends knowing it.'

'That's nice.' Since he was outside, Rebus took the opportunity to get a cigarette going.

'They'll be the death of you, you know.'

'We all have to go sometime.' Rebus was remembering what Stone had said about taps on Cafferty's phones… could they listen in on a mobile? Maybe another reason Cafferty kept changing numbers.

'I want to see you,' the gangster was saying.

'When?'

'Now, of course.'

'Any particular reason?'

'Just come to the canal.'

'Whereabouts on the canal?'

“You know,' Cafferty drawled, ending the conversation. Rebus stared at the phone before snapping it shut. He had wandered out into the lane. No problem this time of night – no traffic. And if any cars did venture along Young Street, the noise they made was a giveaway. So he stood there in the middle of the road, smoking

his cigarette and facing Charlotte Square. One of the regulars had told him a while back that the Georgian building facing him at the far end of the street was the residence of the First Minister. He wondered what the country's leader made of the occasional motley crews to be found smoking outside the Oxford Bar…

The door opened and Siobhan Clarke emerged, sliding her arms into the sleeves of her coat. Todd Goodyear was right behind her, a single half-pint having provided ample sufficiency.

'That was Cafferty,' Rebus told them. 'He wants to see me. You two headed somewhere?'

'Got to meet my girlfriend,' Goodyear explained. 'Going to see the Christmas lights.'

'It's still November,' Rebus complained.

'They were switched on at six tonight.'

'And I thought I'd start heading home,' Clarke added.

Rebus wagged a finger. 'Should never leave a pub together – people will talk.'

'Why does Cafferty want to see you?' Clarke asked.

'He didn't say.'

'Are you going to go?'

'Don't see why not.'

'Where's the meeting – somewhere well lit, I hope?'

'The canal, near that bar at the Fountainbridge basin… What are Phyl and Col up to?'

'Thinking about Princes Street Gardens,' Goodyear said. 'Ferris wheel and the ice rink are open for business.'

Clarke's eyes were fixed on Rebus. You after some back-up?'

The look on his face was answer enough.

'Well…' Goodyear was turning up his collar as he examined the weather. 'See you in the morning, eh?'

'Keep your nose clean, Todd,' Rebus advised him, watching as the young man headed towards Castle Street.

'He's all right, isn't he?' he offered. Clarke, however, was not to be deflected.

You can't just go meeting Cafferty by yourself.'

'It's not like it's the first time.'

'But any one of them could be the last.'

'If I'm found floating, at least you'll know who to pull in.'

'Don't you dare joke about this!'