Exit Music

'Just handed it over, eh?'

'No harm done, was there?'

'I don't think you're qualified to judge that, Eddie. Does Nancy know?'

Gentry shook his head.

'Just you, eh? Did he tell you he was doing the selfsame thing in some of his other flats?'

“You mentioned Big Brother earlier – what's the difference?'

Rebus was standing close to the young man when he answered.

'Difference is, they know they're being watched. I can't really decide who's the sleazier, you or Cafferty. He was watching complete strangers, but you, Eddie, were filming your mates.'

'Is there a law against it?'

'Oh, I'm fairly sure there is. How often does the taping happen?'

'Three or four times – tops.'

Because by then Cafferty was bored, and moved on to a new flat, new tenants, new faces and bodies… Rebus walked into the hallway, looked for the hole and found it. Nancy's bedroom: again, the false ceiling; again, the neatly drilled hole. The bathroom was the same. When Rebus emerged into the hallway, Gentry was leaning against the wall, arms still folded, jaw jutting defiantly.

'Where's the hardware?' Rebus asked.

'Mr C took it.'

When?'

'Few weeks back. Like I told you, it was only three or four times…'

'Doesn't make it any less sordid. Let's take a look at your room.' Rebus didn't wait for an invitation, opened the door to Gentry's bedroom and asked where the cables were.

They used to come down from the ceiling. Had them hooked up

to a DVD recorder. If anything interesting was happening, I only had to press the record button.'

'And now the whole lot's been installed in some other flat so your landlord can show a fresh slice of grainy porn to his sweaty pals.'

Rebus was shaking his head slowly. 'Wouldn't want to be in your shoes when Nancy finds out…'

Gentry didn't so much as flinch. 'I think it's time you were leaving,'

he stated. 'Show's over.'

Rebus responded by getting right into the young man's face. Tou couldn't be more wrong, Eddie – this particular show's only just getting started.' He squeezed past, out into the hallway, pausing by the front door. 'I lied by the way – that music of yours is going nowhere. You've just not got the talent, pal.'

Closed the door after him and stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes.

Job done.

40

The CID suite at Gayfield Square might as well have been a swimming pool – all they were doing was treading water. Derek Starr knew it, and was having trouble motivating the group. There wasn't enough for them to do. No exciting new leads on either Todorov or Riordan. Forensics had produced a partial fingerprint from the small bottle of cleaning fluid, but all they knew so far was that it belonged neither to Riordan nor to anyone on the database. Terry Grimm had supplied information that Riordan's house was visited weekly by a team of cleaners from an agency, though they were usually told not to bother with the living-room-cum-studio. But any one of them could have left the print. No one was about to claim for certain that it belonged to the arsonist. It looked like another dead end. Same went for the e-fit of the hooded woman outside the multistorey: officers had taken copies door-to-door, returning to the station with nothing but sore feet.

Having gone through the proper cha

'Going through the Riordan tapes,' she'd explained. Not a word of truth in it – Todd Goodyear was typing up the last batch of transcripts, looking worn down by the whole experience. He kept staring into space, as if thinking himself into a better place. Clarke, meantime, was waiting for Stone to get back to her, having left

a message on his mobile. She was still wondering if it was such a good idea. Stone and Starr seemed pretty pally; chances were, anything she said to the one would get back to the other. She had yet to mention to Starr the appearance of Sergei Andropov and his driver in the Poetry Library audience.

There were no longer any members of the media hanging about outside the station. The last mention of either death had been an inch-long paragraph on one of the Evening News's inside pages.

Starr was currently in another meeting with DCI Macrae. Maybe later today, they would a

Unless Clarke did something about it.

It took her a further ten minutes to decide. Starr was still in his meeting, so she grabbed her coat and wandered over to the desk where Goodyear was working.

'Going somewhere?' he asked, somewhat forlornly.

'We both are,' she said, brightening his day.

The drive across town to the consulate took only ten minutes.

It was housed on a grand Georgian terrace within sight of the Episcopalian Cathedral. The street was wide enough to accommodate a row of parking bays in the middle of the road, and a car was pulling out of one bay as they arrived. While Goodyear put money in the meter, Clarke studied the car next to hers – it looked very much like the one Andropov had been using at the City Chambers and Nikolai Stahov at the mortuary – an old black Merc with darkened rear windows. The licence plate, however, wasn't the diplomatic kind, so Clarke called the station and asked for a check. The car was registered to Mr Boris Aksanov, with an address in Cramond. Clarke jotted down the details and ended the call.

“You reckon they'll let us question him?' Goodyear asked on his return.

She gave a shrug. 'Let's see, shall we?' She crossed to the consulate, climbed its three stone steps, and pressed the buzzer. The door was opened by a young woman with the fixed smile of the professional greeter. Clarke already had her warrant card open.

'I'm here to see Mr Aksanov,' she stated.

'Mr Aksanov?' The smile stayed fixed.

Tour driver.' Clarke turned her head. 'His car's over there.'

'Well, he's not here.'

Clarke stared at the woman. “You sure about that?'

'Of course.'

'What about Mr Stahov?'

'He's also not here at present.'

'When's he due back?'

'Later today, I think.'

Clarke was looking over the woman's shoulder. The entrance hall was large but barren, with peeling paintwork and faded wallpaper.

A curving staircase led upwards, but she had no view of the landing.

'And Mr Aksanov?'

'I don't know.'

'He's not driving Mr Stahov, then?'

The smile was having a bit of trouble. 'I'm afraid I can't help…'

'Aksanov's driving Sergei Andropov, is he?'

The young woman's hand was gripping the edge of the door.

Clarke could tell she wanted to close it in their faces.

'I can't help,' she repeated instead.

'Is Mr Aksanov a consular employee?' But now the door really was being closed, slowly but determinedly. 'We'll come back later,'

Clarke stressed. The door clicked shut but she continued to stare at it.

'She had frightened eyes,' Goodyear commented.

Clarke nodded her agreement.

'Waste of money, too – I put half an hour on the meter.'

'Claim it back from the inquiry.' Clarke turned and started towards the car, but paused at the Merc and checked her watch.