Exit Music

'Didn't know he was dead?'

She shook her head wildly from side to side, and Rebus believed her. All she'd needed was a man, any man, and when it was over she'd pushed it from her mind. Hadn't asked his name or nationality, probably hadn't looked at his face. Maybe she'd taken a couple of strong drinks for courage.

And her husband hadn't wanted to talk about it afterwards…

hadn't told her anything.

Rebus stood by the window, deep in thought. So many domestics down the years, partners abusing partners, lies and deceit, fury and festering resentment. There's a fury here… Sudden or protracted violence, mind games, power struggles. Love turning sour or stale as the years passed…

And now here came sleepy-faced Gary Walsh, descending the staircase, calling out to his wife. Tou still here?' Through the hall and into the living room, barefoot in faded denims and with his torso naked, rubbing one hand up and down his hairless chest as he wiped at his eyes with the other. Blinking as he realised there was a stranger in the room… looking to his wife for an explanation… her face creased in pain, tears dripping from her chin… then back to Rebus, placing him now, eyes turning towards the door in contemplation of flight.

With no shoes on, Gary?' Rebus chided him.

'I could outrun you in diving boots, you fat bastard,' Walsh sneered.

'And there's that sudden rage we've been looking forward to,'

Rebus said with just a hint of a smile. 'Care to tell your wife what happened to Alexander Todorov when you got hold of him?'

'He fell asleep in the car,' Mrs Walsh was saying, playing the scene back in her mind, eyes stinging and red but fixed on her young husband. 'I realised he was drunk, couldn't rouse him… so I left him.' Gary had leant his head against the door frame, arms behind him, hands pressed to the jamb.

'I don't know what she's talking about,' he eventually drawled.

'Really I don't.'

Rebus had his mobile in his hand, punching in the necessary number. He kept his eyes on Walsh, Walsh staring back at him, still thinking about doing a ru

'Siobhan?' he said. 'Bit of news to brighten your morning.' He'd

started giving the address when Gary Walsh spun round, hand snaking ahead of him, readying to unlock the front door. It was a few inches open, freedom shining in, when Rebus's weight smashed into him from behind, expelling all the air from Walsh's chest and the power from his legs. The door slammed shut again and he slid on to his knees, coughing and spluttering and with blood dripping from his crumpled nose. His wife appeared not to have noticed, wrapped up in her own drama as she sat, head in hands, on the sofa's edge. Rebus picked his mobile up from the carpet, aware of the adrenalin pounding through him, his heart racing. One perk of the job he really was going to miss…

'Sorry about that,' he told Clarke. 'Just ran into someone…'

44

The forensics team had come for the Ford Escort, their mechanic taking only a few minutes to extract the stuck CD. It played perfectly on the machine at Gayfield Square. There was nothing written on it but the single word Riordan – same as on the copy Riordan himself had made for Siobhan Clarke. More good news: looked like the toolbox in the boot would be helpful. Walsh had rinsed the blood from the claw hammer but there were spots elsewhere. The rest of the car – in and out – would be dusted, tested, and checked by Ray Duff and his lab boys back at their Howdenhall HQ. It was, as even Derek Starr admitted, 'a result'. Starr hadn't been expecting much of anything from the day except overtime. Instead of which, he was bouncing on his toes, and had called the Chief Constable at home before anyone else had a chance – much to the a

Gary Walsh was in IR1 and Louisa Walsh in IR2, telling their separate stories. The husband's resistance crumbled only by degrees, as he was presented with one piece of evidence after another: the hammer, the blood, the moving of the camera afterwards to make it seem as though he could not have witnessed the attack. A search warrant was being issued. The detectives asked Walsh if they might conceivably find the items stolen from Alexander Todorov hidden somewhere in or around his home or place of work, but he'd shaken his head.

didn't mean to murder him, just wanted him out of my car…

Sleeping like a baby after shagging my wife… stinking of booze and sweat and her perfume… Smacked him around a bit and he staggered off into the night… I got in the car and started driving, then noticed he'd done something to the CD player, it wasn't working any

more… The final fucking straw… Saw him at the bottom of that alley and I just lost it… I lost it, that's all, and it's all her fault…

Thought if I took a few things away with me, it'd look like a mugging… They're at the foot of Castle Rock, I chucked them over the wall…

'So,' Siobhan Clarke said, 'after everything we've gone through, it boils down to a domestic?' She sounded dazed and devastated, unwilling to believe. Rebus shrugged in sympathy. He was back inside Gayfield Square, DI Derek Starr himself having granted permission, saying he'd 'deal with any and all repercussions'.

'Big of you,' Rebus had muttered.

'He has a fling,' Clarke continued, for herself more than Rebus, 'admits it to the wife, who acts out her revenge. Husband sees red and the poor drunken sap she's cajoled into having sex with her ends up on a slab?' She started shaking her head slowly.

'A cold, cleansed death,' Rebus commented.

'That's a line of Todorov's,' Clarke told him. 'And there was nothing “cleansed” about it.'

Rebus gave a slow shrug. 'Andropov told me, “cherchez la femme” – he was trying to muddy the water, but turns out he was right.'

'The drink with Cafferty… Riordan recording the recital…

Andropov, Stahov, Macfarlane and Bakewell…?' She counted the names off on her fingers 'Nothing to do with it,' Rebus admitted. 'In the end, it came down to a jammed CD and a man brought to the boil.' They were standing in the corridor outside the interview rooms, keeping their voices low, aware of the presence behind the nearest doors of Walsh and his wife. Clarke was having a desolate little laugh to herself as one of the uniforms appeared around the corner. Rebus recognised Todd Goodyear.

'Back in the old woolly suit?' Rebus asked him.

Goodyear brushed his hands down the front of his uniform. 'I'm pulling a weekend shift at West End – but when I heard, I had to make a detour. Is it true?'

'Seems to be,' Clarke sighed.

'The car park attendant?' He watched her nod. 'So all those hours I spent on the Riordan tapes…?'

'Were part of the process,' Rebus assured him, slapping a hand on the young man's shoulder. Goodyear stared at him.

Tou're back from suspension,' he realised.

'Not much escapes you, lad.'

Goodyear held out a hand for Rebus to shake. 'I'm glad they're looking elsewhere for whoever attacked Cafferty.'

'Not sure I'm totally off the hook, but thanks anyway.'

'Need to get the boot of your car fixed.'

Rebus chuckled. Tou're right about that, Todd. Soon as I get a minute…'

Goodyear had turned towards Clarke. Another handshake, and a thank you for her help.

Tou did okay, kid,' she told him, affecting an American accent.

The blood was creeping up his neck as he bowed his head a final time and headed back the way he'd come.

'God knows how much work he put into those Parliament tapes,'

Clarke said under her breath. 'All of it redundant.'

'Part of life's rich tapestry, Shiv.'

'You really should get that car of yours fixed.'