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“West End sent him,' she blithely lied.

Starr was shaking his head. 'CID,' he stated, 'gets younger- looking every year.'

'How did I do?' Clarke asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Three out often.' She stared at him. 'Gee, thanks.' Slammed shut the door. Rebus's

car was parked directly outside the station. He was thrumming his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead.

'I nearly came ru

'Missed what?'

Only now did he deign to turn his head towards her. 'That night in the Poetry Library, Andropov was only a couple of rows from the front. No way he couldn't have seen the mic'

'So?'

'So you were asking the wrong questions. Todorov got him riled, he blurted out that he wanted him dead – no harm done at the time, the only other Russian-speaker was his driver. But then Todorov does end up dead, and suddenly our friend Andropov has a problem…”

'The recording?'

Rebus nodded. 'Because if we ever heard it and got it translated…'

'Hang on a second.' Clarke pinched the skin either side of her nose and screwed shut her eyes. 'Got any aspirin?'

'Glovebox maybe.'

She looked, and found a strip with two tablets left. Rebus handed her a bottle of water, its seal broken. 'If you don't mind a few germs,' he said.

Her shake of the head told him she didn't. She swallowed the tablets and gave her neck a few rotations.

'I can hear the gristle from here,' he commiserated.

'Never mind that – are you saying Andropov didn't kill Todorov?'

'Suppose he didn't – what would he be most afraid of?' He gave her a moment to answer, then ploughed on. 'He'd be afraid of us thinking he had.'

'And we'd have his own words as evidence?'

'Bringing us to Charles Riordan.'

Clarke's mind was moving now. 'Aksanov got agitated about that when I questioned him – kept going on about how he'd been at Gleneagles all the time.'

'Maybe afraid that we'd be putting him in the frame.'

Tou think Andropov…?'

Rebus shrugged. 'Rather depends on whether we can prove he left Gleneagles that night or early morning.'

'Wouldn't he just have phoned Cafferty instead, got him to do something about it?'

'Possible,' Rebus admitted, still tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel. They were silent for the best part of a minute, collecting their thoughts. 'Remember the trouble we had getting the Caledonian Hotel to cough up details of their guests? Don't suppose Gleneagles will be any easier.'

'But we've got a secret weapon,' Clarke said. 'Remember during the G8? DCI Macrae's pal was in charge of security at the hotel.

Macrae even got a tour of the premises.'

'Meaning he may have met the manager? Got to be worth a try.'

They fell back into silence.

You know what this means?' Clarke finally asked.

Rebus nodded again. 'We still don't know who killed Todorov.'

'Whichever way you look at it, Andropov said he wanted him dead…'

'Doesn't mean he turned words into deeds. If I topped someone every time I cursed them, there'd be precious few students and cyclists left in Edinburgh – or anyone else for that matter.'

'Would I still be here?' she asked.

'Probably,' he allowed.

'Despite the three out of ten?'

'Don't push your luck, DS Clarke.'

42

Todd Goodyear not joining us?' Rebus asked.

'Has he grown on you?'

They were in Kay's Bar – a compromise. It did decent grub, but the beer was good, too. Slightly larger than the Oxford Bar, but managing to be cosy at the same time – the predominant colour was red, extending to the pillars which separated the tables from the actual bar. Clarke had ordered chilli, Rebus declaring that salted peanuts would be enough for him.

“You've managed to keep him below Derek Starr's radar?' Rebus asked, in place of an answer to her question.

'DI Starr thinks Todd is CID.' She stole another of Rebus's peanuts.

'Do I get to dunk my fingers in your chilli when it comes?'

'I'll buy you another packet.'

He swallowed a mouthful of IPA. She was drinking a toxic looking mix of lime juice and soda water.

'Anything pla

'The team's on duty all day.'

'So no surprise party for the old guy?'

Tou didn't want one.'

'So you've just chipped in and bought me something nice?'

'Meant digging deep into the overdraft… What time does your suspension end?'

'Around lunchtime, I suppose.' Rebus thought back to the scene in Corbyn's office… Sir Michael Addison storming out. Sir Michael was Gill Morgan's stepfather. Gill knew Nancy Sievewright. Nancy and Gill and Eddie Gentry had been spied on, the recording watched by Roger Anderson, Stuart Ja

in Edinburgh seemed co

Todorov and Andropov, Andropov and Cafferty, the overworld and the underworld. Sol Goodyear knew Nancy and her crew, too. Sol was Todd Goodyear's brother, and Todd led back to Siobhan and to Rebus himself. Shifting partners in one of those endurance dances.

What was the film? Something about shooting horses. Dance and keep on dancing because nothing else matters.

Problem was, Rebus was about to bow out. Siobhan's chilli had arrived and he watched her unfold a paper napkin on to her lap.

Day after tomorrow, he'd be seated at the edge of the dancefloor.

Give it a few weeks and he'd be yet further back, merging with the other spectators, no longer a participant. He'd seen it with other cops: they retired and promised to keep in touch, but each visit to the old gang merely underlined how far apart they'd grown. There would be an arrangement to share drinks and gossip one night a month. Then it'd be once every few months. Then not at all.

Clean break was the best thing, so he'd been told. Siobhan was asking if he wanted some of her food. 'Grab a fork and tuck in.'

'I'm fine,' he assured her.

Tou were in a world of your own there.'

'It's the age I'm at.'

'So you'll come to the station tomorrow lunchtime?'

'No parties, right?'

She shook her head in agreement. 'And by end of play, we'll have closed all the cases.'

'Of course we will.' He gave a wry smile.

'I'll miss you, you know.' She kept her eyes on the food as she scooped it up.

'For a little while maybe,' he conceded, waving his empty glass at her. 'Time for a refill.'

Tou're driving, remember.'

'Thought you could give me a lift.'

'In your car?'

Til get you a taxi home after.'

'That's mighty generous.'

'Didn't say I'd pay for it,' Rebus told her, heading for the bar.

He did, though, pressing a ten-pound note into her hand and saying he'd see her tomorrow. She'd found a parking space for his Saab near the top of Arden Street. He'd been about to invite her in when

a black cab rumbled into view, its roof light on. Siobhan Clarke had given the driver a wave, then handed Rebus his car keys.

'Bit of luck,' she'd said, referring to the taxi. Rebus had held out the te

'Straight home, mind,' he'd warned her. Watching the cab pull away, he wondered if he was going to take his own advice. It was almost ten, the temperature well above zero. He walked down the hill towards his door, staring up at the bay window of his living room. Darkness up there. No one waiting to welcome him. He thought about Cafferty, wondered what dreams the gangster would be having. Did you dream in a coma? Did you do anything else?

Rebus knew he could visit him, sit with him. Maybe one of the nurses would bring a cup of tea. Maybe she'd be a good listener.