Exit Music

Alexander Todorov's skull had been smashed from behind. Cafferty had been attacked from behind – but attacked cleanly while the poet had been roughed up first. Rebus kept trying to see the co

'Nice night for a walk,' he told himself, continuing downhill with hands in pockets. Marchmont itself was quiet, Melville Drive devoid of vehicles. Jawbone Walk, the path leading through The Meadows, boasted only a handful of pedestrians, students heading home from nights out. Rebus walked beneath the arches created from an actual whale's jawbone, and wondered – not for the first time – at its purpose. When his daughter was a kid, he would pretend they were being swallowed by the whale, like Jonah or Pinocchio… There was some drunken singing in the distance from a couple of tramps on a bench, worldly goods stacked in bags by the side of them. The old infirmary compound was being transformed into new apartment blocks, changing the skyline. He kept walking, reaching Forrest Road. Instead of heading straight on in the direction of The Mound, he took a fork at Greyfriars Bobby and descended into the Grassmarket. Plenty of pubs still open, and people loitering outside the homeless hostels. When he'd first moved to Edinburgh, the Grassmarket had been a dump – much of the Old Town, in fact, had been in dire need of a facelift. Hard now

to remember just how bad it had all been. There were people who said that Edinburgh never changed, but this was patently untrue – it was changing all the time. Smokers were standing in clusters outside the Beehive and Last Drop pubs. The fish 'n' chip shop had a queue. A gust of fat-frying hit Rebus as he walked past and he breathed deeply, savouring it. At one time, the Grassmarket had boasted a gallows, dozens upon dozens of Covenanters dying there.

Maybe Todorov's ghost would bump into them. Another fork in the road was approaching. He took the right-hand option, into King's Stables Road. Passing the car park, he stopped for a moment.

There was just the one vehicle on Level Zero, the ground floor.

Driver would have to get a move on, the place was due to close in the next ten or so minutes. The car was parked in the bay next to where Todorov had been attacked. There was no sign of any hooded woman begging for sex. Rebus lit a cigarette and kept moving.

He didn't know what his plan was. King's Stables Road would join Lothian Road in a minute, and he'd be facing the Caledonian Hotel. Was Sergei Andropov still there? Did Rebus really intend a further confrontation?

'Nice night for it,' he repeated to himself.

But then he thought of those Grassmarket pubs. It would make more sense to retrace his steps, have a nightcap, and take a taxi home. He turned on his heels and started back. As he approached the car park again, he saw the last car leaving. It stopped kerbside, and its driver got out, retreating to the exit. He unlocked some metal shutters which started to creep downwards with an electric hum. The driver didn't wait to watch them drop. He was in the car and heading towards the Grassmarket.

The good-looking security guard, Gary Walsh. Parked on Level Zero… Hadn't he told Rebus he always parked next to the security cabin on the next floor up? The shutters were closed now, but there was a little viewing window at chest height. Rebus crouched a little so he could peer inside. The lights were still on; maybe they stayed that way all night. Up in the corner, he could see the security camera. He remembered what Walsh's colleague had said: camera used to point pretty much at that spot… but it gets moved around… Made sense to Rebus – if you worked in a multistorey you'd want your car where the cameras could keep an eye on it. Sod anyone else, just so long as your car was safe…

Macrae's words: less to this than meets the eye. All those co

way back from a day in Glasgow: a curry with Charles Riordan, one drink on Cafferty's tab, and semen on his underpants.

The woman in the hood.

Less to this than meets the eye…

Cherchez la femme…

The poet and his libido. There was a Leonard Cohen album called Death of a Ladies' Man. One of its tracks: 'Don't Go Home With Your Hard-On'. Another: 'True Love Leaves No Traces'.

Trace evidence: blood on the car park floor; oil on the dead man's clothes; semen stains…

Cherchez la femme.

The answer was so close, Rebus could almost taste it.

Day Nine. Saturday 25 November 2006

43

Bright and early that morning, Rebus took his ticket from the machine and watched the barrier shudder upwards. He had entered by the car park's top level on Castle Terrace, but followed the signs to the next level down. There were plenty of empty bays near the guardroom. Rebus walked over to the door and gave a knock before pushing it open.

'What's up?' Joe Wills asked, hands cupped around a mug of black tea. His eyes narrowed as he placed Rebus.

'Hello again, Mr Wills – rough night, was it?' Wills hadn't shaved, his eyes were red-rimmed and bleary, and he hadn't got round to putting his tie on yet.

'Few drinks I was having,' the man started to explain, 'and the Reaper catches me on the mobile – Bill Prentice has gone and pulled a sickie and can I do his morning shift?'

'And despite everything, you were happy to oblige – that's what I call loyalty.' Rebus saw the newspaper on the worktop. Polonium210 was being blamed for Litvinenko's death; Rebus had never heard of it.

'What do you want anyway?' Joe Wills was asking. 'Thought you lot had finished.' Rebus noticed that Wills's mug was emblazoned with the name of a local radio station, Talk 107. 'Don't suppose you've any milk on you?' the man asked. But Rebus's attention was on the CCTV screens.

'Do you drive to work, Mr Wills?'

'Sometimes.'

'I remember you saying you'd had a “prang”.'

'Car still runs.'

'Is it here just now?'

'No.'

'Why's that then?' But Rebus held up a finger. Tou'd still not pass a breathalyser, am I right?' He watched Wills nod. 'Very sensible of you, sir. But the times you do drive to work, I'm betting you keep the car where you can see it?'

'Sure.' Wills took a sip of tea, squirming at its bitterness.

'Covered by one of the cameras, in other words?' Rebus nodded towards the bank of screens. 'Always park in the same spot?'

'Depends.'

'How about your colleague? Would I be right in thinking Mr Walsh prefers the ground floor?'

'How do you know that?'

Again, Rebus ignored the question. 'When I was here the first time,' he said instead, 'day after the murder, if you remember…'

Tes?'

'… the cameras downstairs weren't covering the spot where the attack took place.' He gestured towards one of the screens. 'You told me one camera used to, but it got moved around. But now I see it's been shifted again, so it's covering… here's another wild guess coming up – the bay where Mr Walsh parks?'

'Is this going anywhere?'

Rebus managed a smile. 'Just wondering this, Mr Wills: when exactly did that camera get moved?' He was leaning over the figure of the guard. 'Last shift you did before the murder, I'm betting it was pointing where it is now. Between times, someone tampered with it.'