Exit Music

'I told you – it gets moved around.'

Rebus wasn't six inches from Wills when he next spoke. Tfou know, don't you? You're not the sharpest tack in the carpet, but you worked it out before any of us. Have you told anyone, Mr Wills? Or are you good at keeping secrets? Maybe you just want the quiet life, a few drinks at night and some milk to go with your tea. You're not about to grass up a mate, are you? But here's my advice, Mr Wills, and it really would be in your interest to take it.' Rebus paused, ensuring he had the man's undivided attention.

'Don't say a fucking word to your workmate. Because if you do, and I get to hear about it, I'll have you in the cells rather than him, understood?'

Wills had stopped moving, the mug trembling slightly in his hands.

'Do we have an understanding?' Rebus persisted. The guard did no more than nod, but Rebus hadn't quite finished with him.

'An address,' he said, placing his notebook on the worktop. 'Write it down for me.' He watched Joe Wills put down the mug and start to comply. Walsh's batch of CDs was in its usual place; Rebus doubted Wills would have much use for them. 'And one last thing,'

he said, taking the notebook back. 'When my Saab reaches the exit, I want you to override the barrier for me. Money you charge in this place is absolutely criminal.'

Shandon was on the west side of the city, tucked in between the canal and Slateford Road. Not much more than a fifteen-minute drive, especially at the weekend. Rebus had switched on his CD player, only to find himself listening to Eddie Gentry. He ejected the disc and tossed it on to the back seat, replacing it with Tom Waits. But the patented gravel of Waits's voice was too obtrusive, so he settled for silence instead. Gary Walsh lived at number 28, a terraced house in a narrow street. There was a space next to Walsh's car, so Rebus parked the Saab and locked it. The upstairs window at number 28 was curtained. Stood to reason: when a man worked the late shift, he slept late, too. Rebus decided to leave the doorbell alone and knocked instead. When the door opened, a woman in full make-up stood there. Her hair was immaculate, and she was dressed for work, minus her shoes.

'Mrs Walsh?' Rebus said.

'Yes.'

'I'm Detective Inspector Rebus.' As she studied his warrant card, he studied her. Late-thirties or early forties, meaning maybe ten years older than her partner. Gary Walsh, it seemed, was a toyboy.

But when Joe Wills had called Mrs Walsh a 'stoater' he hadn't been kidding. She was well preserved and glowing with life. 'Ripe' was the word Rebus found himself thinking. On the other hand, those looks wouldn't last much longer – nothing stayed ripe for ever.

'Mind if I come in?' he asked.

'What's it about?'

'The murder, Mrs Walsh.' Her green eyes widened. 'The one at your husband's place of work.'

'Gary didn't say anything.'

“The Russian poet? Found dead at the bottom of Raeburn Wynd?'

It was in the papers…'

“The attack started in the car park.' Her eyes were losing some of their focus. 'It was last Wednesday night, just before your husband

finished work…' He paused for a moment. 'You really don't know, do you?'

'He didn't tell me.' Some of the colour had drained from her face.

Rebus went into his notebook and pulled out a newspaper cutting.

It showed a photo of the poet, taken from one of his book jackets.

'His name was Alexander Todorov, Mrs Walsh.' But she had dashed back into the house, not quite closing the door behind her.

Rebus paused for a moment, then pushed it open again and followed her inside. The hallway was small, with half a dozen coats hanging on hooks, next to the staircase. Two doors off: kitchen and living room. She was in the latter, seated on the edge of the settee as she tied a pair of high-heeled shoes around her ankles.

'I'm going to be late,' she muttered.

'Where do you work?' Rebus was sca

'Perfume counter,' she was saying.

'I don't suppose five minutes will hurt…'

'Gary's sleeping – you can come back later. He's got to take the car to the garage, though, get the player fixed…' Her voice trailed off.

'What is it, Mrs Walsh?'

She was rubbing her hands together as she got to her feet. Rebus doubted that her unsteadiness was due to the heels.

'Nice duffel coat, by the way,' he told her. She looked at him as though he'd started using a foreign language. 'In the hall,' he explained. 'The black one with the hood… looks right cosy.' He smiled without humour. 'Ready to tell me about it, Mrs Walsh?'

'There's nothing to tell.' She was looking around the room as if for an escape hatch. We have to get the car fixed…'

'So you keep saying.' Rebus narrowed his eyes and peered out of the window towards the Ford Escort. 'What is it you've remembered, Mrs Walsh? Maybe we should wake Gary, eh?'

'I have to get to work.'

'There are some questions that need answering first.' Less than meets the eye: those words kept bouncing around the inside of Rebus's skull. Todorov had led him to Cafferty and Andropov, and he'd latched on to both because they were the ones who interested him – because they were the ones he wanted to be guilty. Seeing conspiracies and cover-ups where none existed. Andropov had panicked because of that single outburst – didn't mean he'd killed the poet…

'How did you find out about Gary and Cath Mills?' Rebus asked

quietly. Cath Mills… admitting to Rebus that night in the bar that she'd almost given up on one-night stands.

Walsh's wife gave a look of horror and slumped on to the sofa again, face in hands, smearing the perfect make-up. Started muttering the words 'Oh God' over and over. Then, eventually: 'He kept telling me it had just been that one time… just the once, and a mistake at that. A huge mistake.'

'But you thought you knew better,' Rebus added. Yes, Gary Walsh would be tempted again, would stray again. He was young and chiselled and rock-star handsome, whereas his wife was getting older by the day, make-up doing only so much to cover the working of time… 'A pretty desperate measure,' Rebus stated quietly.

'Wearing that hood so he'd get the message. Hanging around the street, offering yourself to strangers…'

Smudgy tears were coursing down both cheeks, her shoulders heaving.

Alexander Todorov: wrong place, wrong time. A voluptuous woman offering no-strings sex, leading him into the car park where they'd be in full view of the camera. Gary Walsh's car their destination – not that Todorov was to know that. Screwing a man she'd only just met, so that her watching husband would know the price of further infidelity.

'Did you do it against the car?' he asked. 'On the bo

He was still peering out at the Escort, thinking: fingerprints, blood, maybe even semen.

'Inside.' Her voice wasn't much more than a whisper.

'Inside?'

'I had a set of keys.'

'Is that where…?' He didn't need to finish the sentence. She was nodding, meaning Walsh and the Reaper had enjoyed their tryst in the same place.

'Not my idea,' she said, and Rebus had to strain to make out the words.

'The man you'd picked up,' he realised. 'He wanted to do it inside the car?'

She nodded again.

'Bit more comfortable, I suppose,' he offered. But then a thought hit him. The missing CD… Todorov's final performance, as recorded by Charles Riordan… Car to the garage… get the player fixed… 'What's wrong with the CD player, Mrs Walsh?' Rebus asked, keeping his voice level. 'It's his CD, isn't it? He wanted to hear it while you were…?'

She stared at him through a mess of mascara and eyeliner. 'It's stuck in the machine. But I didn't know, I didn't know…'