Exit Music

Maybe thirty or forty over the course of his three-decades-plus on the force. Another ten days and this poor wretch would have been somebody else's problem – and still could be. For weeks now he'd been feeling Siobhan Clarke's tension: part of her, maybe the best part of her, wanted Rebus gone. It was the only way she could start to prove herself. Her eyes were on him now, as if she knew what he was thinking. He offered a sly smile.

'I'm not dead yet,' he said, as the Scene-of-Crime van slowed to a halt on the roadway.

The duty doctor had duly declared death. The SOCOs had taped off Raeburn Wynd at top and bottom. Lights had been erected, a sheet pi

'Rumour is,' Dyson said, 'you've finally got your jotters.'

'Weekend after next,' Rebus confirmed. 'Can't be too far away yourself.'

'Seven months and counting. Nice wee taxi job lined up for afterwards.

Don't know how Todd will cope without me.'

'I'll try to maintain my composure,' Goodyear drawled.

'That's one thing you're good at,' Dyson was saying, as Rebus went back to his reading. The girl who had found the body was called Nancy Sievewright. She was seventeen and on her way home from a friend's house. The friend lived in Great Stuart Street and Nancy in Blair Street, just off the Cowgate. She had already left school and was unemployed, though hoping to get into college some day to study as a dental assistant. Goodyear had done the interview, and Rebus was impressed: neat handwriting, and plenty of detail. Turning to Dyson's notebook was like turning from hope to despair – a mess of hastily scrawled hieroglyphs. Those seven months couldn't pass quickly enough for PC Bill Dyson. Through guesswork, Rebus reckoned the middle-aged couple were Roger and Elizabeth Anderson and that they lived in Frogston Road West, on the southern edge of the city. There was a phone number, but no hint of their ages or occupations. Instead, Rebus could make out the words 'just passing1 and 'called it in'. He handed the notebooks back without comment. All three would be interviewed again later.

Rebus checked his watch, wondering when the pathologist would arrive. Not much else to be done in the meantime.

Tell them they can go.'

'Girl's still a bit shaky,' Goodyear said. 'Reckon we should drop her home?'

Rebus nodded and turned his attention to Dyson. 'How about the other two?'

Their car's parked in the Grassmarket.'

'Spot of late-night shopping?'

Dyson shook his head. 'Carol concert at St Cuthbert's.'

'A conversation we could have saved ourselves,' Rebus told him, ' you'd bothered to write any of it down.' As his eyes drilled into constable's, he could sense the question Dyson wanted to ask: I would be the bloody point of that? Luckily, the old-timer knew tter than to utter anything of the kind out loud… not until the Br old-timer was well out of earshot.

Rebus caught up with Clarke at the Scene-of-Crime van, where she was quizzing the team leader. His name was Thomas Banks – ' Tarn ' to those who knew him. He gave a nod of greeting and asked if his name was on the guest list for Rebus's retirement do.

'How come you're all so keen to witness my demise?'

'Don't be surprised,' Tam said, 'if the suits from HQ come with stakes and mallets, just to be on the safe side.' He winked towards Clarke. 'Siobhan here tells me you've wangled it so your last shift's a Saturday. Is that so we're all at home watching telly while you take the long walk?'

'Just the way it fell, Tam,' Rebus assured him. 'Any tea going?'

Tou turned your nose up at it,' Tam chided him.

'That was half an hour ago.'

'No second chances here, John.'

'I was asking,' Clarke interrupted, 'if Tarn 's team had anything for us.'

'I'm guessing he said to be patient.'

'That's about the size of it,' Tam confirmed, checking a text message on his mobile phone. 'Stabbing outside a pub at Haymarket,'

he informed them.

'Busy night,' Clarke offered. Then, to Rebus: 'Doctor reckons our man was bludgeoned and maybe even kicked to death. He's betting blunt force trauma at the autopsy.'

'He's not going to get any odds from me,' Rebus told her.

'Nor me,' Tam added, rubbing a finger across the bridge of his nose. He turned to Rebus: 'Know who that young copper was?' He nodded towards the patrol car. Todd Goodyear was helping Nancy Sievewright into the back seat, Bill Dyson drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

'Never seen him before,' Rebus admitted.

Tou maybe knew his grandad though…' Tam left it at that, wanting Rebus to do the work. It didn't take long.

'Not Harry Goodyear?'

Tam was nodding in confirmation, leaving Clarke to ask who Harry Goodyear was.

'Ancient history,' Rebus informed her.

Which, typically, left her none the wiser.

2

Rebus was giving Clarke a lift home when the call came in on her mobile.

They did a U-turn and headed for the Cowgate, home to the city's mortuary. There was an unmarked white van sitting by the loading bay. Rebus parked next to it and led the way. The night shift consisted of just two men. One was in his forties and had the look – to Rebus's eyes – of an ex-con. A faded blue tattoo crept out of the neck of his overalls and halfway up his throat. It took Rebus a moment to place it as some sort of snake. The other man was a lot younger, bespectacled and gawky.

'I take it you're the poet,' Rebus guessed.

'Lord Byron, we call him,' the older man rasped.

That's how I recognised him,' the young attendant told Rebus. 'I was at a reading he gave just yesterday…' He glanced at his watch. Day before yesterday,' he corrected himself, reminding Rebus that it was past midnight. 'He was wearing the exact same clothes.'

'Hard to ID him from his face,' Clarke interrupted, playing devil's j advocate.

The young man nodded agreement. 'All the same… the hair, that jacket and the belt…'

'So what's his name?' Rebus asked.

Todorov. Alexander Todorov. He's Russian. I've got one of his oks in the staffroom. He signed it for me.'

That'll be worth a few quid.' The other attendant sounded sudly interested.

you fetch it?' Rebus asked. The young man nodded and luffled past, heading for the corridor. Rebus studied the rows of srated doors. 'Which one's he in?'

'Number three.' The attendant rapped his knuckles against the door in question. There was a label on it, but no name as yet. 'I wouldn't bet on Lord Byron being wrong – he's got brains.'

'How long has he been here?'

'Couple of months. Real name's Chris Simpson.'

Clarke had a question of her own. 'Any idea how soon the autopsy will get done?'

'Soon as the pathologists get their arses down here.'

Rebus had picked up a copy of the day's Evening News. 'Looking bad for Hearts,' the attendant told him. 'Pressley's lost the captaincy and there's a caretaker coach.'

'Music to DS Clarke's ears,' Rebus told the man. He held the paper up so she could see the front page. A Sikh teenager had been attacked in Pilrig Park and his hair lopped off.

'Not our patch, thank God,' she said. At the sound of footsteps, all three of them turned, but it was only Chris Simpson returning with the slim hardback book. Rebus took charge of it and turned to the back cover. The poet's unsmiling face stared back at him.