Exit Music

After an hour, they were checking their watches and giving little smiles across the table to one another. 'What about you?' she'd asked. 'Found anyone who'll put up with you?'

'Not for a while. I was married, one daughter – in her thirties now.'

'No office romances? High-pressure job, working in a team… I know how it is.'

'Hasn't happened to me,' he'd confirmed.

'Bully for you.' She sniffed and gave a twitch of the mouth. 'I've given up on one-night stands… more or less.' The twitch becoming another smile.

'This has been nice,' he'd said, aware of how awkward it sounded.

“You won't get into trouble for consorting with a suspect?'

'Who's going to tell?'

'Nobody needs to.' And she'd pointed towards the bar's own CCTV camera, trained on them from a corner of the ceiling. They'd both laughed at that, and as she shrugged back into her parka he'd asked again: 'Were you there that night? Be honest now…' And she'd shaken her head, as much of an answer as he was going to get.

Outside, he'd handed her a business card with the number of his mobile on it. No peck on the cheek or squeeze of the hand: they were two scarred veterans, each respectful of the other. On his way home, Rebus had stopped for fish and chips, eating them out of the little cardboard box. They didn't come wrapped in newspaper any more, something to do with public health. Didn't taste the same either, and the portions of haddock had been whittled away. Blame overfishing in the North Sea. Haddock would soon be a delicacy; either that or extinct. He'd finished by the time he arrived at his tenement, pulling himself up the two flights of stairs. There was no mail waiting, not even a utility bill. He switched on the lights in the living room and selected some music, then called Siobhan.

'What's up?' she asked.

'Just wondered where we go from here.'

'I was thinking of going to the fridge for a can of something.'

'Time was, that would have been my line.'

“The times are a-changing.'

'And that's one of mine, too!'

He could hear her laughing. Then she asked how his interview with Cath Mills had gone.

'Another dead end.'

'Took long enough to drive down it.'

'Didn't see the point of coming back to base.' He paused. 'Thinking of reporting me for bad time-keeping?'

'I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. What's the music you're playing?'

'It's called Little Criminals. There's a track on it called “Jolly Coppers on Parade”.'

'Not someone au fait with the police then…'

'It's Randy Newman. There's another title of his I like: “You Can't Fool the Fat Man”.'

'And would the fat man be yourself, by any chance?' 'Maybe I'll keep you guessing.' He let the silence linger for a moment. You're starting to side with Macrae, aren't you? You think we should be concentrating on the mugger file?'

'I've put Phyl and Colin on it,' Clarke conceded.

'You're losing your bottle?'

'I'm not losing anything.'

'Okay, I put that badly… It's good to be cautious, Shiv. I'm not about to blame you for it.'

'Think about it for a second, John. Was Todorov followed from the Caledonian Hotel? Not according to your CCTV wizard. Did a prostitute proposition him? Maybe, and maybe her pimp jumped in with a length of lead pipe. Whatever happened, the poet was in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

'That much we agree on.'

'And getting up the noses of MSPs, Russian tycoons and First Alba

'But it's fun, isn't it? What's the point of a job if you're not having fun?'

'It's fun for you, John… it's always been fun for you.'

'So humour me, my last week at work.'

'I thought that's what I was doing.'

'No, Shiv, what you're doing is writing me off. That's what Todd Goodyear is about – he's your number two, same way you used to be mine. You're already starting to train him up, and probably enjoying it, too.'

'Now hang on a sec…'

'And I'm guessing he's also a means to an end – as long as you've got him with you, you don't have to choose between Phyl and Col. '

'With insights like that, it's a wonder you never got further up the ladder.'

'Thing about that ladder, Shiv, each rung you climb there's another arse waiting to be licked.'

'What a lovely image.'

'We all need some poetry in our lives.' He told her he'd see her tomorrow – 'always supposing I'm needed' – and ended the call. Sat there another five minutes wondering if she'd call back, but she didn't. There was something too cheery about Randy Newman's delivery, so Rebus turned off the album. Plenty of darker stuff he

could play – early King Crimson or Peter Hammill, for example – but instead he walked around the silent flat, going from room to room, and ended up in the hallway with the keys to the Saab in his hand.

'Why the hell not?' he told himself. It wasn't as if it would be the first time, and he doubted it would be the last. Wasn't drunk enough for it to be a problem. He locked the flat and headed down the stairwell, out into the night. Unlocked the Saab and got in. It was only a five-minute drive, and took him past Montpelier 's again.

A right-hand turn off Bruntsfield Place, then one more right and he was parking in a quiet street of detached Victorian-era houses.

He'd been here so often, he'd started to notice changes: new lampposts or new pavements. Signs had gone up warning that come March the parking would be zoned. It had already happened in Marchmont; hadn't made it any easier to find a space. A few rubbish skips had come and gone. He'd heard the Polish accents of the workmen. Extensions had been added to some homes, and the garages dismantled in two separate gardens. Plenty of comings and goings during the day, but much quieter in the evening. Practically every house had its own driveway, but cars from neighbouring streets would park up overnight. No one had ever paid attention to Rebus. In fact, one dog-walker had started to mistake him for a local, and would nod and smile or offer a hello. The dog itself was small and wiry and looked less trusting, turning away from him the one time he'd tried crouching down to pat it.

That had been a rare occurrence: mostly he stayed in the car, hands on the steering wheel, window rolled down and a cigarette between his lips. The radio could be playing. He wouldn't even be watching the house necessarily, but he knew who lived there.

Knew, too, that there was a coach-house in the back garden, which was where the bodyguard lived. One time, a car had stopped when it was halfway through the driveway gates. The bodyguard was in the front, but it was the back window which had slid soundlessly down, the better for the passenger to make eye contact with the watching Rebus. The look was a mixture of contempt, frustration, and maybe even pity – though this last would have been imitation.

Rebus doubted Big Ger Cafferty had ever in his adult life felt an emotion like pity for another human being.