Exit Music

'Inspector, I came here for reassurances and from a sense of protocol. You must know that as a diplomat, I am not obliged to answer any of your questions.'

'Because you've got immunity,' Rebus acknowledged. 'We just assumed you'd want to assist us in any way possible. It is one of

your countrymen who's been killed, and rather a notable one at that.' He tried to sound aggrieved.

'Of course, of course, that's unquestionable.' Stahov kept turning his head, trying to talk to both of them at the same time.

'Good,' Clarke told him. 'Then you won't mind us asking how big a thorn Todorov was proving to be?'

'Thorn?' It was hard to tell if Stahov's English was really defeating him.

'How awkward was it for you,' Clarke rephrased the question, ¦having a noted dissident poet living in Edinburgh?'

'It wasn't awkward at all.'

Tou welcomed him?' Clarke pretended to guess. 'Was there any kind of party at the consulate? He'd been talked about for the Nobel… that must have given you great satisfaction?'

'In today's Russia, the Nobel Prize isn't such a big deal.'

'Mr Todorov had given a couple of public performances recently…

did you happen to go see him?'

'I had other engagements.'

'Did anyone from the consulate-'

But Stahov felt the need to interrupt. 'I don't see what bearing any of this could have on your inquiries. In fact, your questions could be construed as a smokescreen. Whether we wanted Alexander Todorov here or not is of no consequence. He was murdered in your city, your country. Edinburgh is not without its problems with race and creed – Polish workers have found themselves attacked.

Wearing the wrong football shirt can be provocation enough.'

Rebus looked towards Clarke. 'Talk about a smokescreen…'

'I am speaking the truth.' Stahov's voice was begi

Rebus and Clarke seemed to consider this. Rebus unfolded his arms and slipped his hands into his pockets.

'There's always the possibility,' he said quietly, 'that Mr Todorov was attacked by someone with a grudge. That person could be a member of the Russian community here in Edinburgh. I'm assuming the consulate keeps a list of nationals living and working here?'

'My understanding, Inspector, was that Alexander Todorov was just another victim of this city's street crime.'

'Foolish to rule anything out at this stage, sir.'

'And that list would come in handy,' Clarke stressed.

Stahov looked from one detective to the other. Rebus hoped he'd make up his mind soon. One error they'd made in opting for IR3 -it was bloody freezing. The Russian's overcoat looked toasty, but Rebus reckoned Siobhan was going to start shivering soon. He was surprised their breath wasn't visible in the air.

'I will see what I can do,' Stahov said at last. 'But quid pro quo -you will keep me informed of developments?'

'Give us your number,' Clarke told him. The young Russian seemed to take this as agreement.

Rebus knew it was anything but.

There was a package waiting for Siobhan Clarke at the front desk.

Rebus had gone outside for a cigarette and to see whether Stahov had a chauffeur. Clarke opened the padded envelope and found a CD inside, with the single word 'Riordan' written on it in thick black pen. It told her a lot about Charles Riordan that he used his own name, in place of Todorov's. She took the CD upstairs, but there was no machine to play it on. So instead she headed for the car park, passing Rebus as he came in.

'Big black Merc waiting for him,' Rebus confirmed. 'Guy wearing shades and gloves at the helm. Where are you off to?'

She told him and he said he wouldn't mind joining her, though warning that he 'might not last the pace'. In the end, though, the pair of them sat in Clarke's car for a solid hour and a quarter, engine ru

'He's an obsessive,' Clarke commented.

'I hear you,' Rebus agreed. Almost the last thing they heard was a muttered snatch of Russian. 'Probably,' Rebus speculated, 'saying “Thank Khrushchev that's over”.'

'Who's Khrushchev?' Clarke asked. 'Some friend of Jack Palance?'

The recital itself had been riveting, the poet's voice by turns sonorous, gruff, elegiac and booming. He performed some of his work in English, some in Russian, but the majority in both – usually Russian first, English after.

'Sounds like Scots, doesn't it?' Clarke had asked at one point.

'Maybe to someone from England,' Rebus had retorted. Okay, so she'd walked into that one, as so often before – her 'southern'

accent had been easy prey for Rebus since the moment they'd met.

This time, she'd refused to rise to him.

'This one,' she'd said at another point, 'is called “Raskolnikov”

– I remember it from the book. Raskolnikov's a character in Crime and Punishment.'

'A book I'd probably read before you were even born.'

'You've read Dostoevsky?'

“You think I'd lie about something like that?'

'What's it about then?'

'It's about guilt. One of the great Russian novels, in my opinion.'

'How many others have you read?'

'That's neither here nor there.'

Now, as she turned the CD off, he swivelled towards her. 'You've listened to the show, you've been through Todorov's book – have you found anything resembling a motive for his killing?'

'No,' she conceded. 'And I know what you're thinking – Macrae's going to treat it as a mugging gone wrong.'

'Which is pretty well how the consulate wants to see it handled, too.'

She gave a slow, thoughtful nod. 'So who did he have sex with?'

she eventually asked.

'Is it relevant?'

We won't know till we know. Most likely candidate is Scarlett ColwelL'

'Because she's a stu

'Can't bear to think of her with anyone else?' Clarke teased.

'What about Miss Thomas at the Poetry Library?' But this time Clarke gave a snort.

'I don't see her as a contender,' she explained.

'Dr Colwell didn't seem so sure.'

'Which probably says more about Dr Colwell than Ms Thomas.'

'Maybe young Colin had a point,' Rebus ploughed on. 'Or it's just as likely our red-blooded poet picked up a tart in Glasgow.' He saw Clarke's look. 'Sorry, I should have said “sex worker” – or has the terminology changed again since I last got my knuckles rapped?'

'Keep going and I'll rap them again.' She paused for a moment, eyes still fixed on him. 'Fu

'Thought you might.' He turned his attention to the windscreen and the bleak car park beyond. Clarke could see that he wanted to wind down the window so he could smoke. But the smell was out there, lying in wait just above the level of the tarmac.

'He was a pub landlord in Rose Street, mid-eighties,' she said.

'You were a detective sergeant. You helped put him away.'

'He was dealing drugs from the premises.'

'He died in jail, didn't he? Just a year or two after… bad heart or something. Todd Goodyear wouldn't long have been out of nappies.'