Exit Music

are always people about. We're very careful that way.'

'Didn't stop you taking a scary route to get there,' Clarke pointed out. 'That time of night, King's Stables Road 's pretty well deserted.'

Rebus was peering at a selection of framed photographs in a cabinet. Tou on your wedding day,' he mused.

'Twenty-seven years ago,' Mrs Anderson confirmed.

'And is this your daughter?' He knew the answer already: half a dozen photos time-lined the girl's life.

'Deborah. She'll be home from college next week.'

Rebus nodded slowly. Seemed to him that the most recent pictures were half hidden behind framed memories of a gap-toothed infant and schoolgirl. 'I see she's been going through a Goth stage.'

Meaning the hair suddenly turning jet black, the heavily kohled eyes.

'Again, Inspector,' Roger Anderson interceded, 'I don't see what possible bearing any of this…”

Rebus waved the objection aside. Clarke looked up from the notes she'd been pretending to read.

'I know it's a stupid question,' she said with a smile, 'but you've had time to think back over everything, so is there anything you can add? You didn't see anyone else, or hear anything?'

'Nothing,' Mr Anderson stated.

'Nothing,' his wife echoed. Then, after a moment: 'He's quite a famous poet, isn't he? We've had reporters on the phone.'

'Best not to say anything to them,' Rebus advised.

'I'd love to know how the hell they got to hear about us in the first place,' her husband growled. 'Is this the end of it, do you think?'

'I'm not sure I understand.'

'Will you lot keep coming back, even though we've nothing to tell you?'

'Actually, you need to come to Gayfield Square to make a formal statement,' Clarke told them. She pulled another of her business cards out of the folder. Tou can call this number first, and ask for DC Hawes or DC Tibbet.'

'What's the bloody point?' Roger Anderson asked.

'It's a murder inquiry, sir,' Rebus responded crisply. 'A man was beaten to a pulp, and the killer's still out there. Our job is to find him… sorry if that inconveniences you in any way.'

Tou don't sound too sorry, I must say,' Anderson grumbled.

'Actually, Mr Anderson, my heart bleeds – apologies if that doesn't always come across.' Rebus turned as if readying to leave,

but then paused. 'What sort of car is it, by the way, the one you need to keep parked where there's plenty of light?'

'A Bentley – the Continental GT.'

'From which I take it you don't work in the mailroom at FAB?'

'Doesn't mean I didn't start there, Inspector. Now if you'll excuse us, I think I can hear our di

Mrs Anderson put a hand to her mouth in horror, and darted back into the kitchen.

'If it's burnt,' Rebus said, 'you can always console yourself with a couple more gins.'

Anderson decided not to grace this with an answer, and rose to his feet instead, the better to usher the two detectives off the property.

'Did you have a good supper?' Clarke asked casually, slipping the notes back into her folder. 'After the carols, I mean.'

'Pretty good, yes.'

'I'm always on the lookout for a new restaurant.'

'I'm sure you can afford it,' Anderson said, with a smile which suggested the opposite. 'It's called the Pompadour.'

'I'll make sure he's paying.' Clarke nodded towards Rebus.

Tou do that,' Anderson told her with a laugh. He was still chuckling when he closed the door on them.

'No wonder his wife likes the garden,' Rebus muttered. 'Chance for some time away from that pompous prick.' He started down the path, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette.

'If I tell you something interesting,' Clarke teased, 'will you buy me di

Rebus busied himself with his lighter, nodding a reply.

'There was a copy of its menu sitting on the concierge's desk.'

Rebus exhaled a plume of smoke into the night sky. 'Why's that then?'

'Because,' Clarke told him, 'the Pompadour is the restaurant at the Caledonian Hotel.'

He stared at her for a moment, then turned back to the door and gave it a couple of thumps with his fist. Roger Anderson looked less than delighted, but Rebus wasn't about to give him the chance to complain.

'Before he was attacked,' he stated, 'Alexander Todorov was drinking in the bar at the Caledonian.'

'So?'

'So you were in the restaurant – you didn't happen to see him?'

'Elizabeth and I didn't go near the bar. It's a big hotel, Inspector…'

Anderson was closing the door again. Rebus thought about wedging a foot in to stop him; probably been years since he'd done anything like that. But he couldn't think of any other questions, so he just kept his gaze on Roger Anderson until the solid wooden door was between them. Even then, he focused on it for a few seconds more, willing the man to open up again. But Anderson was gone. Rebus headed back down the path.

'What do you think?' Clarke asked.

'Let's go talk to the other witness. After that, I'll give you my best guess.'

Nancy Sievewright's flat was on the third storey of a Blair Street tenement. There was an illuminated sign across the street, advertising a basement sauna. Further up the steep incline, smokers were huddled outside a bar and there were a few yips and yells from Hunter Square, where the city's homeless often held court until moved on by the police.

There wasn't much light in the tenement's doorway, so Rebus held his cigarette lighter under the intercom, while Clarke made out the various names. Rented flats and a shifting population, meaning some of the buzzers boasted half a dozen names alongside, with scrawled amendments on peeling bits of gummed paper.

Sievewright's name was just about legible, and when Clarke pressed the button the door clicked open without anyone bothering to check who wanted in. The stairwell was well enough lit, with some bags of rubbish at the bottom and a stack of several years'

worth of unwanted telephone directories.

'Someone's got a cat,' Rebus said, sniffing the air.

'Or an incontinence problem,' Clarke agreed. They climbed the stone steps, Rebus pausing at each level as though studying the various names on the doors, but really just catching his breath.

By the time he reached the third floor, Clarke had already rung the bell. The door was opened by a young man with tousled hair and a week's growth of dark beard. He wore eyeliner and a red banda

You're not Kelly,' he said.

'Sorry to disappoint you.' Clarke was holding up her warrant card. 'We're here to see Nancy.'

'She's not in.' He sounded instantly defensive.

'Did she tell you about finding the body?'

'What?' The young man's mouth fell open and stayed that way.

'You a friend of hers?'

'Flatmate.'

'She didn't tell you?' Clarke waited for a response that didn't come. 'Well, anyway, this is just a back-up call. She's not done anything wrong-'

'So if you'll kindly let us in,' Rebus interrupted, 'we'll try to ignore the smell of Bob Hope wafting into our faces.' He gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

'Sure.' The young man held the door open a little wider. Nancy Sievewright's head appeared around her bedroom door.

'Hello, Nancy,' Clarke said, stepping into the hall. There were boxes everywhere – stuff for recycling, stuff to be thrown out, stuff that hadn't made it into the flat's limited cupboard space. 'Just need to check a few things with you.'

Nancy was in the hallway, closing her bedroom door after her.

She wore a short tight skirt with black leggings and a crop top which showed off her midriff and a studded belly button.

'I'm just on my way out,' she said.