Exit Music

When she got in behind the steering wheel, Goodyear asked if they were headed back to Gayfield Square. Clarke shook her head.

'Parking wardens round here are vicious,' she said. 'And that Merc goes into the red in exactly seven minutes.'

'Meaning someone's going to have to feed the meter?' he guessed.

But Clarke shook her head again. 'It's illegal to do that, Todd. If they don't want a ticket, they're going to have to move the car.' She turned her key in the ignition.

'I thought embassies never paid their fines anyway.'

True enough… if they have diplomatic plates.' Clarke put the car into gear and moved out of the parking bay, but only to stop again kerbside a few dozen yards further along. 'Worth a bit of a; wait, wouldn't you say?' she asked.

'If it keeps me away from those transcripts,' Goodyear agreed.

'Detective work losing its allure, Todd?'

'I think I'm ready to go back into uniform.' He drew back his shoulders, working the muscles. 'Any news of DI Rebus?'

'They pulled him in again.'

'Are they thinking of charging him?'

'Reason they pulled him in was to tell him there's no evidence.'

'They didn't get a match from that overshoe?'

'No.'

'Do they have anyone else in mind?'

'Christ, Todd, I don't know!' The silence in the car lasted half a dozen beats before Clarke expelled air noisily. 'Look, I'm sorry…'

'I'm the one who should be apologising,' he assured her. 'Couldn't help sticking my nose in.'

'No, it's me… I could be in trouble.'

'How?'

'SCDEA were watching Cafferty. John got me to send them elsewhere.'

The young man's eyes had widened. 'Bloody hell,' he said.

'Language,' she warned him.

'They had surveillance on Cafferty… That has to look bad for DI Rebus.'

Clarke gave a shrug.

'Surveillance on Cafferty…' Goodyear repeated to himself, shaking his head slowly. Clarke's attention had been diverted by movement along the street. A man was exiting the consulate.

'This looks promising,' she said. Same man who'd been with Stahov at the mortuary; same man who'd been photographed at the Word Power event. Aksanov unlocked the car and got in.

Clarke decided to let her engine idle, until she knew what he was going to do – move to a different bay, or head elsewhere. When he passed his third vacant bay, she had her answer.

'We're going to follow him?' Goodyear asked, fastening his seat belt.

'Well spotted.'

'And then what?'

'I was thinking of pulling him over on some trumped-up charge…'

'Is that wise?'

'Du

'Heading out of town?' Goodyear guessed.

'Aksanov lives in Cramond; maybe he's going home.'

Queensferry Street became Queensferry Road. Looking at her

speedometer, Clarke saw that he was staying within the limit.

When the traffic lights ahead turned red, she watched his brake lights, but they were both in good working order. If Cramond was his destination, he'd probably keep going till the Barnton roundabout, then take a right. Question was, did she want him getting that far? Every few hundred yards on Queensferry Road, there seemed to be another set of lights. As the Merc stopped at the next red, Clarke brought her own car up close behind it.

'Reach over into the back seat, will you, Todd?' she asked. 'On the floor there…' He had to undo his seatbelt in order to twist his body around sufficiently.

'This what you want?' he asked.

'Plug it into the socket there,' she told him. 'Then put your window down.'

'There's a magnet on the base?' he guessed.

'That's right.'

The moment the flashing blue light was plugged in, it began working. Goodyear reached out of the window and attached it to the roof. The light ahead was still red. Clarke sounded her horn and watched the driver examine her in his rearview mirror. She signalled with her hand for him to pull over. When the light turned green, that was exactly what he did, crossing the junction and bumping his passenger-side tyres up on to the pavement.

Clarke passed him and then did the same with her car. Traffic slowed to watch, but kept moving. The driver was out of the Merc.

He wore sunglasses and a suit and tie. He was standing on the pavement when Clarke reached him. She had her ID open for inspection.

'Is there a problem?' he asked, his English heavily accented.

'Mr Aksanov? We met at the mortuary…'

'I asked what the problem was.'

Tou're going to have to come to the station.'

“What have I done wrong?' He had lifted a mobile phone from his pocket. 'I will speak to the consulate.'

'Won't do you any good,' she warned him. 'That's not an official car, which makes me think you're self-employed. No immunity, Mr Aksanov.'

'I am a driver for the consulate.'

'But not just the consulate. Now get in the car.' There was steel in her voice. He was still holding the phone, but had yet to do anything with it.

'And if I refuse?'

'You'll be charged with obstruction… and anything else I can think of.'

'I've done nothing wrong.'

'That's all we need to hear – but we need to hear it at the station.'

'My car,' he complained.

'It'll still be here. We'll bring you back afterwards.' She managed a nice friendly smile. 'Promise.'

'How come you started driving Sergei Andropov around?' Clarke asked.

'I drive people for a living.'

They were in an interview room at West End police station, Clarke not wanting to take the Russian to Gayfield Square. She'd sent Goodyear off to fetch coffee. There was a tape deck on the table, but she wasn't using it. No notebook either. Aksanov had asked to smoke and she was letting him.

Your English is good – there's even a trace of local accent.'

'I'm married to a girl from Edinburgh. I've been here almost five years.' He inhaled some smoke and blew it ceilingwards.

'Is she a poetry fan, too?' Aksanov stared at Clarke. 'Well?' she prompted.

'She reads books… mostly novels.'

'So it's just you that likes poetry?' He shrugged but said nothing.

'Read any Seamus Heaney lately? Or how about Robert Burns?'

'Why are you asking me this?'

'Just that you were spotted at poetry readings twice in as many weeks. Or maybe it's just that you really like Alexander Todorov?'

'People say he is Russia's greatest poet.'

'Do you agree?' Aksanov gave another shrug and examined the tip of his cigarette. 'Did you buy a copy of his latest book?'

'I don't see why this is any of your business.'

'Can you remember what it's called?'

'I don't have to talk to you.'

'I'm investigating two murders, Mr Aksanov…'

'And what is that to me?' The Russian was growing angry. But then the door opened and Goodyear came in with two drinks.

'Black, two sugars,' he said, placing one in front of Aksanov.

'White with none.' The second Styrofoam cup was handed to Clarke.

She nodded her thanks, then gave the slightest flick of the head.

Goodyear took the hint and walked to the far wall, resting his back against it, hands clasped in front of him. Aksanov had stubbed out

the cigarette and was readying to light another.

'Second time you went,' she told him, 'you took Sergei Andropov with you.'

'Did I?'

'According to witnesses.' Another mighty shrug, this time accompanied by downturned mouth. 'Are you saying you didn't?' Clarke asked.

'I'm saying nothing.'

'Makes me wonder what it is you're trying to hide. Were you on duty the night Mr Todorov died?'

'I don't remember.'

'I'm only asking you to think back a little over a week.'