Exit Music

'I'm a detective, Mr Andropov.' Rebus held up his warrant card and Andropov examined it.

'Have I done something wrong, Inspector?'

'A week back, you were having a little chat with Jim Bakewell and Morris Gerald Cafferty.'

'What if I was?'

'There was another man in the bar – a poet called Todorov. Less than twenty minutes after walking out of here, he was murdered.'

Andropov was nodding. 'A great tragedy. The world has an apparent need of poets, Inspector. They are, so they tell us, its “unacknowledged legislators”.'

'I'd say they've got a bit of competition in that department.'

Andropov decided to ignore this. 'Several people,' he said instead, 'inform me that your police force may not be investigating Alexander's death as a simple street attack. Tell me, Inspector, what do you think happened?'

'A story best told at my police station. Would you be willing to drop in for an interview, Mr Andropov?'

'I can't see that anything would be gained from that, Inspector.'

'I'll assume that's a no.'

'Let me offer my own theory.' Andropov took a step closer, mimicked by his driver. 'Cherchez la femme, Inspector.'

'Meaning what exactly?'

Tou don't speak French?'

'I know what it means; I'm just not sure what you're getting at.'

'In Moscow, Alexander Todorov had something of a reputation.

He was forced to leave his teaching post after accusations of improper conduct. Female students, you know, and apparently the younger the better. Now, if you'll excuse me…' Andropov was obviously heading for the bar.

'Hooking up with your gangster friend again?' Rebus guessed.

Andropov ignored him and kept walking. The driver, however, decided that Rebus merited a final baleful look, the kind that said you, me and a dark alley…

The look Rebus gave him back carried another message, no less threatening. You're on my list, pal, you and your boss both.

Outside once again in the crisp night air, he decided he might try

walking home. His heart was pounding, mouth dry, blood coursing through him. He gave it a few hundred yards, then hailed the first taxi he saw.

Day Six. Wednesday 22 November 2006

21

The sound engineer was called Terry Grimm and the secretary was Hazel Harmison. They seemed shell-shocked, and with good reason.

'We've no idea what to do,' Grimm explained. 'I mean… do we get paid at month's end? What do we do about all the jobs we've got on our books?'

Siobhan Clarke nodded slowly. Grimm was seated at the mixing desk, swivelling nervily on his chair. Harmison was standing by her desk, arms folded. 'I'm sure Mr Riordan will have made some kind of provision…' But Clarke wasn't sure of that at all. Todd Goodyear was staring at all the machinery, the banks of knobs and dials, switches and slider controls. In the pub last night, Hawes had hinted that really it should be either her or Tibbet who accompanied Clarke today. It made Siobhan wonder again if she'd brought Goodyear into the team precisely because she didn't want to have to make that choice.

'Can neither of you sign company cheques?' Clarke asked now.

'Charlie wasn't that trusting,' Hazel Harmison piped up.

'The company accountant's the one to speak to.'

'Except he's on holiday.'

'Someone else at his firm, then?'

'One-man band,' Grimm stated.

'I'm sure it'll all work out,' Clarke remarked crisply. She'd had enough of their bellyaching. 'Reason we're here is, some of Mr Riordan's recordings have been salvaged from the house. Most, however, went up in smoke. I'm wondering if he kept copies.'

'Might be some in the storeroom,' Grimm conceded. 'I was always warning that he didn't back up enough…' He met her eyes. 'The hard disks didn't make it?'

'Mostly not. We've brought some stuff with us, wondered if maybe you'd have better luck than us.'

Grimm gave a shrug. 'I can take a look.' Clarke handed her car keys to Goodyear.

'Fetch up the bags,' she said. The phone had started ringing, and Harmison picked it up.

'CR Studios, how can I help you?' She listened for a moment. 'No, I'm sorry,' she began to apologise. 'We can't take on any new work at the moment, due to unforeseen circumstances.'

Clarke still had the engineer's attention. “You could go it alone,'

she told him quietly. 'I mean the two of you…' Glancing towards Harmison. He nodded and got up, walked over to the desk and gestured for the telephone. 'One moment, please,' Harmison said into the mouthpiece. 'I'm just going to hand you over to Mr Grimm.'

'How can I help?' Terry Grimm asked the caller. Harmison wandered over towards Clarke, her arms folded again, as if to form a shield against further blows.

'First time I was here,' Clarke said, 'Terry hinted that Mr Riordan recorded everything.'

The secretary nodded. 'One time, the three of us went out for di

There've been times I'd have done the same,' Clarke acknowledged.

The, too. Plumbers who promise to be there at eleven… people on the phone who say the cheque's in the post…'

Clarke was smiling now, too. But Harmison's face fell again.

'I feel so sorry for Terry. He's worked every bit as hard as Charlie, probably put in more hours, truth be told.'

'What sort of work have you got on just now?'

'Radio ads… couple of audio books… plus editing the Parliament project.'

'What Parliament project?'

“You know they have a Festival of Politics every year?'

'I didn't, actually.'

'Had to happen – we've got festivals for everything else. This coming year, there's an artist they've commissioned to put something together. He works in video and so on, and he wanted a sound collage to go with whatever it is he's doing.'

'So you've been taping stuff at the Parliament?'

'Hundreds of hours of it.' Harmison nodded towards the battery of machines. But Grimm was clicking his fingers, gaining her attention.

'I'll just put my assistant back on,' he was telling the caller. 'And she'll fix up a meeting.'

Harmison fairly trotted towards the desk and the appointments diary. Clarke reckoned it was his use of 'assistant' that had done it. No longer a mere secretary or receptionist…

Grimm was nodding in gratitude as he approached Clarke.

'Thanks for the tip,' he said.

'Hazel was just telling me about the Festival of Politics.'

Grimm turned his eyes heavenwards. What a nightmare. Artist hadn't a clue what he wanted. Bounces around between Geneva and New York and Madrid… We'd get the occasional e-mail or fax.

Get me some sounds of a debate, but make sure it's heated. All the meetings of one of the committees… some of the guided tours…

interviews with visitors… He'd be vague as hell, then tell us we hadn't done what he wanted. Luckily we kept all his e-mails.'

'And of course Charlie would have taped any meetings or phone calls?'

'How did you guess?'

'Hazel told me.'

'Well, our artist friend loved that. I mean, not everyone likes it when they find out they've been secretly taped…'

'I can imagine,' Clarke drawled.

'But he thought it was hysterical.'

'Sounds like a big project, though.'

'Nearly done. I put together two hours of collage, and so far he seems to like it. Plans to use it with some video installation at the Parliament building.' Grimm gave a shrug, which seemed to sum up his attitude to 'artists'.

“What's his name?'