Exit Music

'What do I say if anyone asks me what I'm up to?'

She thought for a moment. 'Tell them you're the economics editor.'

'Fair enough.'

She left him to it, climbing the stairs to the next level. Rebus started clicking and reading. The first few stories concerned Andropov's business dealings. With perestroika had come a loosening of state controls on industry, allowing men like Andropov to buy into base metals, mining and the rest. Andropov had specialised in zinc, copper and aluminium, before branching out into coal and steel. Ventures into gas and oil had stalled, but in other areas he'd made a killing. Too big a killing, perhaps, leading the authorities to investigate him for corruption. Depending on which investigative journalist you turned to, Andropov was either a martyr or a crook. After twenty minutes, Rebus tried refining the search by adding 'background' to the keywords. He was rewarded with a potted biography of Andropov. Born 1960, the same year as Alexander Todorov, in the Zhdanov suburb of Moscow, also the same as Todorov.

'Well, well,' Rebus muttered to himself. There was no information

as to which schools or colleges Andropov had attended. His early life, it seemed, hadn't been investigated at all. Rebus tried cross referencing Andropov's name with Todorov but drew a blank. But while he was looking at the entries for Todorov – seventeen thousand of them worldwide; Mairie had been right about Andropov's five hundred being small beer – he tried finding information on the poet's university career. Some of his lectures could be downloaded, but there was no mention of improprieties with students. Maybe Andropov had been spi

'Hello.' The bearded man was back.

'Morning,' Rebus said. He seemed to remember that the man's name was Gordon, and Gordon was now peering over his shoulder at the screen.

'I thought Sandy was covering the Todorov story,' he commented.

Tes,'

Rebus said. 'I'm just adding background.'

'Ah.' Gordon nodded slowly, as though this made sense. 'So Sandy 's still stuck outside Gayfield Square?'

'Last I heard,' Rebus agreed.

'What's the betting the cops screw it up, as per?'

'I wouldn't risk my shirt on it,' Rebus said, voice hardening.

'Well, shoulder to the grindstone, nose to the mill…' Gordon was laughing as he moved away.

'Prick,' Rebus said, just loud enough to be overheard. Gordon stopped in his tracks, but didn't turn round, and started walking again after a moment. Either thought he'd misheard or didn't want to start something. Rebus got back to his reading, switching from Todorov to Andropov again, and almost immediately came across a name he recognised: Roddy Denholm. Seemed that Russia 's New Rich liked to buy art. The prices paid at auction were hitting record highs. A plutocrat wasn't a plutocrat without the obligatory Picasso or Matisse. Rebus put some of the news stories on to the screen. They were accompanied by photos taken at sales in Moscow, New York and London. Five million there, ten million here… Andropov was mentioned only tangentially, as someone with a taste for up-to-the-minute art, predominantly British. As such, he bought judiciously from galleries and shows rather than the likes of Sotheby's or Christie's. Recent purchases included two Alison Watts and work by Callum I

'as all these artists are Scottish, Mr Andropov may be starting to specialise'. Rebus jotted down the names and started some new searches. A further fifteen minutes passed before Mairie Henderson returned with two coffees.

'Milk, no sugar.'

'It'll do, I suppose,' Rebus said by way of thanks.

'What did you say to Gordon?' She had pulled her chair in next to his.

'Why?'

'Seemed to think you'd taken against him.'

'Some people are touchy.'

'Whatever you said, he's come to the conclusion you must be management.'

'I always thought I had it in me…' Rebus glanced away from the screen long enough to give her a wink. 'If I hit the print button, where do the pages appear?'

'That machine over there.' She pointed towards a corner of the room.

'So I'd have to walk all the way over there to collect them?'

'You're management, John. Get someone to do it for you…'

28

The reporters had drifted away from Gayfield Square. Maybe because it was approaching lunchtime, or some other story had broken. Siobhan Clarke had been in a meeting with DCI Macrae and the Chief Constable. Corbyn wasn't enthusiastic about leaving her in charge, despite Macrae's spirited defence.

'Let's get DI Starr back from Fettes,' Corbyn had insisted.

“Yes, sir,' Macrae had said, capitulating at the last.

Afterwards, he'd sighed and told Clarke the Chief Constable was right. Clarke had just shrugged and watched him pick up the phone, asking to be co

'Isn't a PEP a pension scheme?' Hawes asked beneath her breath, her way of telling Clarke she was on her side. Clarke smiled back to let her know she appreciated it.

Having had only the briefest of briefings in Macrae's office, Starr focused on the 'tenuous links' between the two deaths, and insisted that they not read too much into them 'at this early stage'. He I wanted the team divided in two, with one group concentrating on Todorov and the other on Riordan. Then, turning his attention to Siobhan Clarke: 'You'll be the nexus, DS Clarke. Meaning if there points of co

aking around the room, he asked if everyone understood how he ranted things to work. The murmurs of assent were drowned out ¦ a sustained belch from Ray Reynolds.

'Chilli con carne,' he stated, by way of apology, as officers nearby notebooks and sheets of paper. The phone on Clarke's desk and she picked it up, pressing a finger in her other ear to le the rest of Starr's oration.

'DS Clarke,' she a

'Is DI Rebus there?'

'Not at the moment. Can I help at all?'

'It's Stuart Ja

'Ah yes, Mr Ja

'Well, DS Clarke, your man Rebus asked for details of Alexander Todorov's bank account…'

“You've got them?'

'I know it's taken a while, but there were protocols…'

Clarke caught Hawes's eye. 'Where are you just now, Mr Ja

'Bank HQ.'

'Could a couple of my colleagues come and collect them?'

'Don't see why not; save me a trip.' Ja

'Thank you, sir. Will you be there for the next hour?'

'If I'm not, I'll leave the envelope with my assistant.'

'Very kind of you.'

'How's the investigation going?'

'We're making progress.'

'Glad to hear it. Papers this morning seem to think you're co

'Don't believe everything you read.'

'Extraordinary, nevertheless.'

'If you say so, Mr Ja

'Thank you,' Hawes mouthed.

'And while you're gone, I might make myself scarce, too. Nancy Sievewright's going to be sick of the sight of me…'

Starr was clapping his hands, signalling that the meeting was at an end, 'unless anyone's got a really stupid question'. His eyes raked the room, daring any hand to be raised. 'Right then,' he barked, let's go to work!'