Exit Music

'Liar,' Prosser shot back at him.

'You're still on suspension, Rebus,' Stone was saying. 'Do you really want to take her down with you?'

'Fu

Dr Scarlett Colwell was at her computer when Siobhan Clarke arrived. To Clarke's mind, the woman used a touch too much make-up and would look better without it. Nice hair, though, even if she suspected there might be a bit of dye in it.

'I've brought the CD of the poetry reading,' Clarke said, placing it on the desk.

'Thank you so much.' Colwell picked it up and studied it.

'Can I ask you to take a look at something?'

'Of course.'

'I'll need to use your computer…' The academic gestured for Clarke to sit at the desk. Clarke squeezed past her, Colwell standing at her shoulder as she accessed the Word Power site and clicked the photo gallery option, bringing up the pictures from the cafe.

'That picture,' she said, nodding towards the wall and the shot of Todorov. 'Did you happen to take any others?'

'They were so bad, I deleted them. I'm not great with cameras.'

Clarke nodded and pressed a finger against the screen. 'Remember him?' she asked.

Colwell peered at the chauffeur's face. 'He was there, yes.'

'But you don't know who he is?'

'Should I?'

'Did Todorov speak to him?'

'I couldn't say. Who is he?'

'A Russian… he works at the consulate.'

Colwell stared more intently at the face. Tou know,' she said, 'I think he was at the Poetry Library, too.'

Clarke turned towards her. 'Are you sure?'

'Him and another man…' But she started to shake her head.

'Actually, I'm not certain.'

'Take your time,' Clarke invited, so Colwell ran both hands through her tresses and did some more thinking.

'I'm really not sure,' she confessed after a pause, letting the hair fall around her face again. 'I could be conflating the two readings – do you see what I mean?'

'Imagining the man into the one because you know he was at the other?'

'Exactly so… Do you have any other photos of him?'

'No.' But Clarke started typing again, entering the name Nikolai Stahov into the search engine. She drew a blank, so described the consular official to Colwell instead.

'Doesn't ring any bells,' the academic apologised, so Clarke tried again, this time with a description of Andropov. When Colwell gave another shrug, Clarke tried the website for the Evening News. Skipping back through the days until she'd found the story about the Russians and their blowout meal. Tapping one of the faces in the onscreen photograph.

'He does look familiar,' Colwell admitted.

'From the Poetry Library?'

The academic shrugged and gave a long sigh. Clarke told her not to worry and called the Poetry Library on her mobile.

'Ms Thomas?' she asked when her call was answered.

'Not in today,' another female voice reported. 'Can I help?'

'My name's Detective Sergeant Clarke. I'm investigating Alexander Todorov's murder and I need to ask her something.'

'She's at home today… do you have her number?'

Clarke jotted the number down, then made the call. She asked Abigail Thomas if she had easy access to the Web, then talked her through the links to Word Power and the newspaper.

'Mm, yes,' Thomas eventually said, 'both of them, I think. Seated near the front, second row maybe.'

You're sure of that?'

'Fairly sure.'

'Just to check, Ms Thomas… no one took photos that night?'

'The odd person could have used their camera-phone, I suppose.'

'And you've no CCTV in the library?'

'It's a library,' Abigail Thomas stressed.

'Just a thought… Thanks for your help.' Clarke ended the call.

'Why is it so important?' Colwell asked, breaking Clarke's reverie.

'Might not be,' the detective admitted. 'But Todorov and Andropov had a drink in the same bar, the night the poet was killed.'

'Judging by the news story, Mr Andropov is some sort of businessman?'

'They grew up in the same part of Moscow. DI Rebus says they knew one another…'

'Oh.'

Clarke saw that she'd struck a nerve. 'What is it?' she asked.

'Might help to explain something,' Colwell mused.

'And what's that, Dr Colwell?'

The academic picked up the CD. 'Alexander's extempore poem.'

She walked over to a set of shelves and crouched down in front of it. There was a portable hi-fi there, and she slotted home the recording, then pressed 'play'. The room was filled with the sounds of the audience finding their seats and clearing their throats. 'About halfway through,' Colwell added, holding down the skip button.

But this took her directly to the end of the recording. 'Forgot,' she said, 'there's only the one continuous track.' So she went back to the start and this time used the fast-forward facility.

'First time I listened,' Clarke said, 'I noticed he performed some poems in English, some in Russian.'

Colwell nodded. 'The new poem was in Russian. Ah, here it is.'

She trotted back to her desk and brought out a pad of paper and a pen, concentrating hard as she started to write. Eventually, she told Clarke to press 'rewind'. They listened again, Clarke hitting 'pause' when she felt Colwell was falling behind. 'I really need more time,' the academic apologised. 'This isn't the ideal way to translate a poem…'

'Call it a work in progress,' Clarke cajoled her. Colwell pushed a hand through her mane of hair and started again. After twenty minutes, she tossed the pen back on to the desk. On the CD, Todorov was using English to tell the audience that the next poem was from Astapovo Blues.

'He didn't say anything about the new work,' Clarke realised.

'Nothing,' Colwell agreed.

'Didn't introduce it, either.'

Colwell shook her head, then pushed her hair back into place again. 'I'm not sure how many people would have realised it was a new piece.'

'How can you be sure it was new?'

'There don't seem to be any drafts in his flat, and I know his published work rather well.'

Clarke nodded her understanding and held her hand out. 'May I?' The academic seemed reluctant, but eventually handed the pad over. 'It's really very rough… I've no idea where the line breaks would go…'

Clarke ignored her and started reading.

Winter's tongue licks the children of Zhdanov… The Devil's tongue licks Mother Russia, coating tastebuds with precious metals.

Heartless appetite… The gut's greed knows no fullness, no still moment, no love. Desire ripens, but only to blight. There are morsels here for all in the heat of famine, penances for all as the winter's shadow falls… such a package of scoundrels in my country.

Clarke read it through twice more, then met Colwell's eyes. 'It's not very good, is it?'

'It's a bit rough at the edges,' the academic said defensively.

'I don't mean your translation,' Clarke assured her.

Colwell nodded eventually. 'But there's an anger to it.'

Clarke remembered Professor Gates's words at the Todorov autopsy – there's a fury here. Tes,' she agreed. 'And all that imagery of food…'

Colwell cottoned on. 'The news story? But surely that appeared after Alexander died?'

“True, but the di

'So you're saying this is a poem about the businessman?'

'Composed on the spot, just to get up his nose. Andropov made his fortune from those “precious metals” Todorov mentions.'

'Making him the Devil?'

“ioM don't sound wholly convinced.'

The translation is rough… I'm guessing at some of the phrases.

I really need more time with it.'

Clarke nodded slowly, then remembered something. 'Can I try another CD with you?' She found what she was looking for in her Ibag and knelt down next to the hi-fi. Again, it took a little while Ito find the moment when, at the Word Power reading, Charles [Riordan's roving mic picked up the Russian voice.