Exit Music

'”When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.“' She frowned again. 'That's

not how I remember it. I thought it was to do with eliminating the possible rather than its opposite.'

'Mmm,' Rebus said, hoping she'd think he was agreeing with her.

He placed his empty mug on the table. 'Well, Dr Colwell, seeing how I've done you a favour…'

'Quid pro quo?' She clapped the book shut. Dust rose from its pages.

'I was just wondering if I could have the key to Todorov's flat.'

'As it happens, you're in luck. Someone from Building Services was supposed to stop by and get it, but so far no sign.'

'What will they do with all his stuff?'

'The consulate said they'd take it. He must have some family back in Russia.' She'd gone behind the desk again and opened a drawer, bringing out the key-chain. Rebus took it from her with a nod of thanks. 'There's a servitor on the ground floor here,' she explained. 'If I'm not around, you can always leave it with him.'

She paused. 'And you won't forget that recording?'

'Trust me.'

'It's just that the studio seemed pretty sure it's the only copy left. Poor Mr Riordan – what a terrible way to die…'

Back outside again, Rebus descended the steps from George Square to Buccleuch Place. There were a few students around.

They looked… the only word for it was studious. He stopped at the bottom of the steps to light a cigarette, but the temperature was sinking, and he decided he might as well smoke it indoors.

Todorov's flat seemed unchanged from his first visit, except that the scraps of paper from the bin had been laid flat on the desk – Scarlett Colwell most probably, seeking the elusive poem. Rebus had forgotten about those six copies of Astapovo Blues. Had to find someone with an eBay account so he could shift them. Looking more closely at the room, he decided someone had removed some of the poet's book collection. Colwell again? Or some other member of staff? Rebus wondered if he'd been beaten to it – a glut of Todorov memorabilia bringing prices down. He realised his phone was ringing and took it out. Didn't recognise the number, but it had the international code on the front.

'Detective Inspector Rebus speaking,' he said.

'Hello, it's Roddy Denholm, returning your mysterious call.' The voice was an educated Anglo-Scots drawl.

'Not too much of a mystery, Mr Denholm, and I do appreciate you taking the trouble.'

You're lucky I'm a night owl, Inspector.'

'It's the middle of the day here…'

'But not in Singapore.'

'Mr Blackman thought either Melbourne or Hong Kong.'

Denholm laughed a smoker's throaty laugh. 'I suppose I could be anywhere, actually, couldn't I? I could be around the next corner for all you know. Bloody wonderful things, mobile phones…'

'If you are around the next corner, sir, be cheaper to do this in person.'

Tou could always hop on a jet to Singapore.'

'Trying to lower my carbon footprint, sir.' Rebus blew cigarette smoke towards the living-room ceiling.

'So where are you right now, Inspector?'

'Buccleuch Place.'

'Ah yes, the university district.'

'Standing in a dead man's flat.'

'Not a sentence I think I've ever heard.' The artist sounded duly impressed.

'He wasn't quite in your line of work, sir – poet called Alexander Todorov.'

'I've heard of him.'

'He was killed just over a week ago and your name has cropped up in the inquiry.'

'Do tell.' It sounded as though Denholm was getting himself comfortable on a hotel bed. Rebus, likewise, sat down on the sofa, an elbow on one knee.

“You've been doing a project at the Parliament. There was a man making some sound recordings for you…'

'Charlie Riordan?'

'I'm afraid he's dead, too.' Rebus heard low whistling on the line.

'Someone torched his house.'

'Are the tapes okay?'

'As far as we know, sir.'

Denholm caught Rebus's tone. 'I must sound an insensitive bastard,'

he admitted.

'Don't fret – it was the first thing your dealer asked, too.'

Denholm chuckled. 'Poor guy, though…'

“You knew him?'

'Not until the Parliament project. Seemed likeable, capable…

didn't really talk to him that much.'

'Well, Mr Riordan had also been doing some work with Alexander Todorov.'

'Christ, does that mean I'm next?'

Rebus couldn't tell if he was joking or not. 'I wouldn't have thought so, sir.'

'You're not phoning to warn me?'

'I just thought it an interesting coincidence.'

'Except that I didn't know Alexander Todorov from Adam.'

'Maybe not, but one of your fans did – Sergei Andropov.'

'I know the name…'

'He collects your work. Russian businessman, grew up with Mr Todorov.' Rebus heard another whistle. You've never met him?'

'Not that I know of.' There was silence for a moment. TTou think this Andropov guy killed the poet?'

'We're keeping an open mind.'

'Was it some obscure isotope like that guy in London?'

'He was beaten to a pulp before someone caved his skull in.'

'Not exactly subtle then.'

'Not exactly. Tell me something, Mr Denholm – how did you come to choose the Urban Regeneration Committee for your project?'

'They chose me, Inspector – we asked if anyone would be interested in taking part, and their chairman said she was up for it.'

'Megan Macfarlane?'

'No shortage of ego there, Inspector – I speak as one who knows.'

'I'm sure you do, sir.' Rebus heard something like a doorbell.

'That'll be room service,' Denholm explained.

'I'll let you go then,' Rebus said. 'Thanks for calling, Mr Denholm.'

'No problem.'

'One last thing, though…' Rebus paused just long enough to ensure he had the artist's full attention. 'Before you let them in, best check that it really is room service.'

He snapped shut his phone and allowed himself a little smile.

32

'Can't be that much of it, if it fits on to one of these,' Siobhan Clarke commented. She was back in the CID suite and, DCI Macrae being elsewhere, had commandeered his room, the better to accommodate Terry Grimm. Seated at her boss's desk, she held the clear plastic memory stick between thumb and forefinger, angling it in the light.

TTou'd be surprised,' Grimm said. 'I'm guessing there's about sixteen hours on there. Could have squeezed more in if there had been anything usable. Unfortunately, the heat of the fire had done for most of it.' He'd brought the evidence sacks with him. They were tied shut, but still carried the faintest aroma of charcoal.

'Did anything catch your eye?' Clarke paused. 'Or ear, I suppose I should say.'

Grimm shook his head. 'Tell you what I did do, though…' He reached into his inside pocket and drew out a CD in a plastic wallet.

'Charlie taped the Russian poet at another event, few weeks back. Happened to come across it at the studio, so I burned you a copy.' He handed it over.

'Thanks,' she said.

'Some lecturer at the university was after the other show Charlie taped, but as far as I know you've got the only existing copy.'

'NameofColwell?'

'That's it.' He stared at the backs of his hands. 'Any nearer to finding out who killed him?'

She gestured in the direction of the main office. You can see we're not exactly resting on our laurels.'

He nodded, but his eyes never left hers. 'Good way of avoiding an answer,' he stated.

'It's a case of finding the “why”, Mr Grimm. If you can help shed some light, we'd be incredibly grateful.'

'I've been turning it over in my head. Hazel and me have bounced it around, too. Still doesn't make any sense.'