Exit Music

'Which pub you headed for?'

'Pear Tree probably.'

'What did you think?'

'Bit pompous.'

'We on for Saturday?'

'Depends on the kids.'

'Has it started raining?'

'I've got the dog in the car.'

And then the ringing of a mobile phone, silenced when the recipient answered…

Answered in what sounded to Clarke suspiciously like Russian.

Only a couple of words before the voice was muffled. Did the poet himself possess a mobile phone? Not as far as she knew. Meaning someone in the audience…? Yes, because now the mic was sweeping back round again, catching Todorov being thanked by the bookseller.

'And if you'd be happy to sign some stock afterwards…?' she was asking.

'Absolutely. My pleasure.'

'Then a drink on us at the Pear Tree… You're sure we can't tempt you to supper?'

'I try to avoid temptation, my dear. It's not good for a poet of my advancing years.' But then Todorov's attention was deflected. 'Ah, Mr Riordan, isn't it? How did the recording go?'

'It was great, thank you.'

Dead men talking, Clarke couldn't help thinking. The mic itself cut out after that. The timer on the player told her she'd been

listening for the best part of an hour. Macrae's office was empty, no sign of Starr anywhere nearby. Clarke removed her earphones and checked her mobile for messages. There were none. She tried Rebus's home number but got his machine. He wasn't answering his mobile either. She was tapping the phone against her pursed lips when Todd Goodyear reappeared.

'Girlfriend's just given me a tip-off,' he said.

'Remind me of her name.'

'Sonia.'

'And what does Sonia tell you?'

'When they were searching the canal, they came up with an overshoe. You know, the polythene sort with the elastic around the ankle?'

'Talk about contaminating the crime scene…'

He caught her meaning. 'No,' he clarified, 'it wasn't dropped by a SOCO. There were spots of blood on it. Well, that's what they think, anyway.'

'Meaning the assailant wore it?' Goodyear was nodding. Scene-of crime clothing – protective overalls, hats, overshoes and disposable gloves… the whole lot designed so as not to leave trace evidence.

Yes, but that worked both ways, didn't it? Meant the investigators didn't leave anything that could be misconstrued; meant anyone wearing the get-up could mount an attack without fear of getting the victim's blood or hair or fibres on them. Dump the overalls – or better still, burn them – and you had a good chance of getting away with it.

'Don't go thinking what you're thinking,' Clarke warned Goodyear, the same words Rebus had used on her. 'This had nothing to do with DI Rebus.'

'Not saying it did.' Goodyear seemed stung by the accusation.

'What else did Sonia say?'

He shrugged by way of an answer. Clarke made a flicking motion with her fingers, and he took the hint, turning and finding that the desk he'd been using had found a new owner in his absence. As he walked away, readying to remonstrate, Clarke picked up her bag and coat, headed downstairs and out into Gayfield Square. Rebus was parked by the kerb. She gave the briefest of smiles and opened the passenger-side door, climbing in.

Tour phone's off,' she told him.

'Haven't got round to switching it on.'

'Have you heard? They've found an overshoe.'

'Shug's already dragged me in for questioning,' Rebus admitted,

punching his PIN into his mobile. 'Stone was there, too, enjoying every bastard minute.'

'What did you tell them?'

'The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.'

'This is serious, John!'

'Who knows that better than me?' he muttered. 'But it only becomes problematic when they trace the overshoe to the boot of my car.'

She stared at him. 'When?' she echoed.

'Think about it, Shiv. Only reason to leave the shoe was to stick me more firmly in the frame. The Saab's boot hasn't shut properly for months, and there's nothing in there but crime-scene kit.'

'And that old pair of hiking boots,' she corrected him.

'Aye,' he agreed, 'and if a hiking boot would have served the purpose, you can bet they'd have taken that instead.'

'So who's the “they”? You still think Andropov?'

He dragged his palms down his face, accentuating the bloodshot and dark-ringed eyes, the day's worth of grey stubble. 'Proving it is going to be the killer,' he replied at last.

Clarke nodded her agreement and they sat in silence for a while, until Rebus asked how everything else was shaping up.

'Starr and Macrae started the day with a good old chinwag.'

'No doubt my name featured on the agenda.'

'All I've been doing is listening to that other recording of Todorov.'

'Nice to see you breaking a sweat.'

'Riordan's mic picked up some of the audience. I think I heard a Russian voice.'

'Oh?'

'Thought I might nip over to Word Power and ask them.'

'Need a lift?'

'Sure.'

'Do me a favour first, will you? I need the CD of Todorov's other performance.'

Why?' He explained about Scarlett Colwell and the new poem.

'So you're keeping in her good books, eh?'

'Just go fetch it.'

She opened the car door but then paused. 'The show Todorov did for Word Power, he read out a poem by Burns – “Farewell to All Our Scottish Fame”.'

Rebus nodded. 'I know that one. It's about the English buying us off. Scotland lost all its money in a Panama land-grab. England

suggested a union of the two countries.'

'What was so bad about that?'

'I keep forgetting you're English… We ceased to be a nation, Siobhan.'

'And became a parcel of rogues instead?'

'According to Burns, yes.'

'Sounds to me as if Todorov was a bit of a Scot Nat.'

'Maybe he just looked at this country and saw a version of his own… bought and sold for gold, tin, zinc, gas…'

'Andropov again?'

Rebus offered a shrug. 'Go get that CD,' he told her.

37

The bookshop was small and cramped. Rebus feared that if he so much as turned around he would topple a display. The woman behind the till had her nose in a copy of something called Labyrinth. She only worked there part-time and hadn't been to the Todorov reading.

“We've got some of his books, though.'

Rebus looked in the direction she was pointing. 'Are they signed?'

he asked. For his troubles, Clarke poked him in the ribs before asking the assistant if any photos had been taken on the night.

She nodded and muttered something about the shop's website.

Clarke looked to Rebus.

'Should've thought of that first,' she told him. So they drove back to her flat, Rebus deciding to double-park rather than seek a space further afield.

'A while since I've been here,' he said as she led him down the narrow hallway. It was much the same layout as his own flat, but with meaner proportions.

'It's nothing personal,' she apologised. 'Just that I don't entertain much.'

They were in the living room by now. Chocolate wrappers on the rug next to the sofa, alongside an empty wine glass. On the sofa itself sat a large, venerable-looking teddy bear. Rebus picked it up.

'It's a Steiff,' Clarke told him. 'Had him since I was a kid.'

'Has he got a name?'

Tea.'

'Going to tell me what it is?'

'No.' She'd gone over to the computer desk by the window and

switched on the laptop which rested there. She had one of those S-shaped stools that were supposed to be good for your back, but sat with her feet on the bit that was meant for her knees. Within a matter of moments, she had found the Word Power website.

Clicked on 'recent events' and then 'photo gallery' and started a slow scroll. And there was Todorov, being introduced to the crowd.