Exit Music

Rebus tutted, and watched as Corbyn gave a final wave to the reporters before entering the reception area. 'He's inside,' he said into the mouthpiece.

'Suppose I'd better get ready to look surprised.'

'Pleasantly surprised, Shiv. Might get you an extra brownie point.'

'I'm going to talk to him about your suspension.'

'You'll be on a hiding to nothing.'

'Even so…' She drew in some breath. 'And talk of the devil…'

The phone went dead in Rebus's hand. He nipped it shut and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel.

'Where are you, Mairie?' he muttered. But just as he uttered these words, Mairie Henderson appeared around the corner from East London Street, moving briskly uphill towards the police station.

She had a notebook in one hand, pen and Dictaphone in the other, and a large black satchel slung over one shoulder. Rebus sounded his horn, but she paid no heed. He tried again with the same lack of effect, and didn't want to attract any attention other than hers.

So he gave up and got out of the car, taking up position next to it with hands in pockets. Henderson was in conversation with one of her colleagues. Then she collared a photographer and asked him what shots he'd been taking. Rebus recognised him, thought his name was Mungo or something, knew he'd worked with Mairie in the past. A text arrived on her phone and she checked it while still talking to the snapper, before punching some buttons and making a call. Phone to her ear, she moved away from the melee towards the patch of grass which sat in the middle of Gayfield Square.

There was some litter there – empty wine bottles and fast-food wrappers – which she frowned at as she spoke. Then she lifted her eyes and saw Rebus. He was smiling. She kept her gaze on him as she spoke. Conversation over, she skirted the patch of grass. Rebus was back in the car; no point letting anyone else see him. Mairie Henderson climbed into the passenger seat, holding her satchel on her lap.

°What's up?' she said.

'And hello to you, Mairie. How's the newspaper business?'

'Crumbling at the seams,' she admitted. 'Between the freesheets and the Internet, readers willing to pay for their news are rapidly disappearing.'

'And ad revenue with them?' Rebus guessed.

'Meaning cutbacks,' she sighed.

'Not so much work for a freelancer like yourself?'

'There are still plenty of stories, John, it's just that the editors are loath to pay for them. Haven't you noticed the tabloids – they advertise for readers to send in news and pics…' She rested her head against the back of the seat, closing her eyes for a moment.

Rebus felt an unexpected jab of sympathy. He'd known Mairie for years, during which time they'd traded tips and information. He'd never before known her to sound so beaten.

'Maybe I can help,' he offered.

Todorov and Riordan?' she guessed, opening her eyes and turning to face him.

'The very same.'

'How come you're out here rather than in there?' She gestured towards the police station.

'Because I'm after a favour.'

'Meaning you want me to do some digging?'

Tou know me too well, Mairie.'

'I know I've done you plenty of favours in the past, John, and the scales never seem to balance.'

'Might be different this time.'

She laughed tiredly. 'Another line you always use.'

'All right then, call it your retirement gift to me.'

She studied him more closely. 'I'd forgotten you were on your way out.'

'I'm already out. Corbyn's suspended me.'

'Why did he do that?'

'I badmouthed a pal of his called Sir Michael Addison.'

'The banker?' Her intonation lifted along with her spirits.

'There's a tie – a loose tie – between him and Todorov.'

'How loose?'

'The whole six degrees.'

'Intriguing nevertheless.'

'Knew you'd think so.'

'And you'll tell me the story?'

'I'll tell you what I can,' Rebus corrected her.

'In return for what exactly?'

'A man called Andropov.'

'He's the Russian industrialist.'

'That's right.'

'Recently in town as part of a trade delegation.'

'They all went home; Andropov stayed.'

'I didn't know that.' She pursed her lips. 'So what is it you want to know?'

'Who he is and how he got his money. Again, there's a hook-up to Todorov.'

'In that they're both Russian?'

'I've heard they knew one another, back in the mists of time.'

'And?'

'And the night Todorov died, he was drinking in the same bar as his old classmate.'

Mairie Henderson let out a low, sustained whistle. 'No one else has this?'

Rebus shook his head. 'And there's plenty more.'

'If I run a story, your bosses are bound to guess the source.'

'The source is back to being a civilian in a couple of days.'

'Meaning no comebacks?'

'No comebacks,' he agreed.

Her eyes narrowed. 'I'm betting there's plenty more dirt you could be dishing.'

'Saving it for my memoirs, Mairie.'

She studied him again. 'You'll be needing a ghost-writer,' she informed him. Didn't sound like she was joking.

The Scotsman newspaper was based in an up-to-date facility at the bottom of Holyrood Road, opposite the BBC and the Parliament building. Although Mairie Henderson had left her full-time job there several years back, she was still a known face and carried her own security pass.

'How did you wangle that?' Rebus asked as he signed himself in at reception. Henderson tapped the side of her nose as Rebus pi

'Doesn't take many hands to produce a paper these days.'

Tou don't sound too enthusiastic'

'The old building had a bit of character to it. And so did the old newsroom, everyone scuttling around like mad trying to put a story together. Editor with his sleeves rolled up, effing and blinding.

Subs smoking like chimneys and trying to sneak puns into the copy… cutting and pasting by hand. Everything's just gotten so…“

She sought the right word. 'Efficient,' she eventually said.

'Being a cop was more fun in the old days, too,' Rebus assured her, 'but we also made more mistakes.'

'At your age, you're allowed to be nostalgic'

'But you're not?'

She just shrugged and sat herself at a vacant computer, gesturing for him to pull up a chair. A middle-aged man with a scraggy beard and wearing half-moon glasses walked past and said hello.

'Hiya, Gordon,' Henderson replied. 'Remind me of the password, will you?'

'Co

She thanked him and then, watching him leave, gave a little smile. 'Half the people in here,' she told Rebus, her voice lowered, 'think I'm still on the payroll.'

'Handy to be able to waltz in.' He watched her tap in the password and start to search the computer for the name Andropov.

'First name?' she asked.

'Sergei.'

She searched again, halving the initial results.

'We could have logged on to the Internet anywhere,' Rebus told her.

'This isn't the Internet as such; it's a database of news stories.'

'From the Scotsman?'

'And every other paper you can think of.' She tapped the screen.

'Just over five hundred hits,' she stated.

'Seems a lot.'

She gave him a look. 'It's minuscule. Want me to print the pages, or are you happy to scroll?'

'Let's see how I get on.'

She rose from her chair and slid it aside so Rebus could roll his own chair closer to the screen. 'I'm going to do the rounds, see what the gossip is.'