Exit Music

They were seated on the floor and standing at the back, and all had about them the aura of the converted.

'How are we supposed to spot the Russians?' Rebus asked, leaning his hands against the edge of the desk. 'Cossack hats? Ice picks in their ears?'

'We never did take a proper look at that list,' Clarke said.

'What list?'

“The one Stahov brought – Russian residents in Edinburgh. He even had his own name on it, remember? Wonder if his driver's on it, too.' She was tapping the screen. Only his face was visible.

He was seated on a brown leather sofa but with people crouched and seated on the floor in front of him. The photographer was no professional; everyone had been given red eyes. 'Remember that stooshie at the mortuary? Stahov wanted Todorov's remains repatriated.

I'm pretty sure our friend here was with him.' She tapped the screen again. Rebus leaned in further for a better look.

'He's Andropov's driver,' he said. 'We went eyeball-to-eyeball in the lobby of the Caledonian Hotel.'

'Must be working for two masters, then, because Stahov got into the back of his old Merc and this guy got behind the wheel.' She turned her head and looked up at him. 'Reckon he'll talk to us?'

Rebus shrugged. 'Maybe he'll claim diplomatic immunity.'

'Was he with Andropov that night in the bar?'

'No one's mentioned him.'

'Might have been waiting outside with the car.' She glanced at her watch.

'What now?' Rebus asked.

'I've got that appointment with Jim Bakewell MSP.'

'Where are you meeting him?'

'The Parliament building.'

'Tell him you need a coffee – I'll be at the next table over.'

'Haven't you got anything better to do?'

'Like what?'

'Finding out who's behind the attack on Cafferty.'

You don't think there's a link?'

'We don't know.'

'I could really use a shot of that parliamentary espresso,' Rebus told her.

She couldn't help smiling. 'All right then,' she said. 'And I really will have you over to supper one night – promise.'

'Best give me plenty of warning… diary's going to be bursting at the seams.'

'Retirement's a whole new begi

'I don't plan on twiddling my thumbs,' he assured her.

Clarke had risen from the stool. She stood in front of him, arms by her sides, eyes fixed on his. The silence lasted fifteen or twenty seconds, Rebus smiling at the end, feeling they'd shared a long conversation without the need for words.

'Let's go,' he said, breaking the spell.

They called the Western General from the car, checking on Cafferty's progress.

'He's not woken up,' Rebus said, relaying the message for Clarke's benefit. 'Due another scan later today and they've got him on drugs to prevent a blood clot.'

'Think we should send him flowers?'

'Bit early for a wreath…'

They'd taken a short cut down Calton Road, parked in one of the residential streets at Abbeyhill. Clarke told him to give her a five-minute start, which gave Rebus enough time for a cigarette.

Tourists were milling around, a few interested in the Parliament building but the majority keener on the Palace of Holyrood across the street. One or two seemed to be puzzling over the vertical bamboo bars across some of the Parliament's windows.

'Join the club,' Rebus muttered, stubbing the cigarette and heading inside. As he emptied his pockets and prepared for the metal detector at security, he asked one of the guards about the bamboo.

'Search me,' the man said.

'Isn't that supposed to be my line?' Rebus replied. On the other side of the detector, he scooped up his stuff and made for the coffee bar. Clarke was in the queue and he took his place directly behind her. 'Where's Bakewell?' he asked.

'On his way down. He's not a “coffee person” apparently, but I said it was for my benefit rather than his.' She ordered her cappuccino and got out some money.

'Might as well add mine to the order,' Rebus said. 'And make it a double.'

'Want me to drink it for you, too?'

'Could be the last espresso you ever buy me,' he chided her.

They found two adjacent tables and settled at them. Rebus still wasn't sure about this vast, echoing interior. If someone had told him he was in an airport, he might have believed them. He couldn't tell what sort of statement it was supposed to be making. One newspaper report from a few years back had stuck in his mind, the journalist speculating that the building was too elaborate for its actual purpose and was, in fact, 'an independent parliament in waiting5. Made sense when you remembered that the architect was Catalan.

'Detective Sergeant Clarke?' Jim Bakewell shook Clarke's hand and she asked him if he wanted anything. 'We could take your drink to my office,' was all he said.

Yes, but now that we're here…'

Bakewell sighed and sat down, adjusting his glasses. He wore a tweed jacket and what looked like a tweed tie over a check shirt.

'Won't take long, sir,' Clarke was telling him. 'Wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Alexander Todorov.'

'I was sorry to hear about him,' Bakewell declared, but he was adjusting the creases in his trousers as he spoke.

“You shared a platform with him on Question Time?'

'That's correct.'

'Can I ask for your general impression of him?'

Bakewell's eyes were milky-blue. He nodded a greeting to a passing flunky before addressing the question. 'I was late arriving, got held up in traffic. Barely had time to shake hands with him before we were ushered into the hall. He wouldn't wear any make-up, I remember that much.' He removed his glasses and started polishing them with a handkerchief. 'Seemed quite brusque with everybody, but he was fine in front of the cameras.' He put his glasses back on and tucked the handkerchief into a trouser pocket.

'And afterwards?' Clarke asked.

'I seem to think he shot off. Nobody really hangs around. It would mean making small talk with each other.'

'Fraternising with the enemy?' Clarke offered.

'Along those lines, yes.'

'So is that how you see Megan Macfarlane?'

'Megan's a lovely woman…'

'But you're not dropping round one another's houses for a chin wag?'

'Not exactly,' Bakewell said with a thin smile.

'Ms Macfarlane seems to think the SNP will win May's election.'

'Nonsense.'

You don't think Scotland's going to want to give Blair a bloody nose over Iraq?'

'There's no appetite for independence,' Bakewell stated gruffly.

'No appetite for Trident either.'

'Labour will do just fine come May, Sergeant. Please don't lose any sleep on our behalf.'

Clarke seemed to be collecting her thoughts. 'And what about the last time you saw him?'

'I don't think I understand.'

'The night Mr Todorov was killed, he'd just been having a drink in the Caledonian Hotel. You were there, too, Mr Bakewell.'

'Was I?' Bakewell furrowed his brow, as if trying to remember.

Tfou were seated in one of the booths with a businessman called Sergei Andropov.'

'Was that the same night?' He watched Clarke nod slowly. 'Well, I'll take your word for it.'

'Mr Andropov and Mr Todorov grew up together.'

'That's news to me.'

'You didn't see Todorov in the bar?'

'I did not.'

'He was bought a drink by a local gangster called Morris Gerald Cafferty.'

'Mr Cafferty did join us at the table, but he didn't have anyone with him.'

'Had you met him before?'

'No.'

'But you knew his reputation?'

'I knew he was… well, “gangster” is maybe a bit strong, Sergeant.

But he's a reformed character now.' The politician paused. 'Unless you have evidence to the contrary.'

“What were the three of you talking about?'