‘Witness in a case,’ was all she’d told them: no point giving away anything more. The suits hadn’t been happy about it, and were now keeping their distance, phones held to their ears.
‘Reckon he was at home?’ Rebus asked Clarke.
She shrugged. ‘Remember what we were talking about last night?’
‘You mean the argument we were having? Me reading way too much into Todorov’s death?’
‘Don’t rub it in.’
Rebus decided to play devil’s advocate. ‘Could be an accident, of course. And hey, maybe we’ll find him alive and well at his studio.’
‘I’ve tried calling - no answer as yet.’ She nodded towards a kerbside TVR. ‘Woman two doors down says that’s his car. He parked it last night - she knows it was him because of the noise it makes.’ The TVR’s windscreen was shrouded in ash. Rebus watched two more firemen step gingerly over some timbers on their way into what was left of the house. Some of the shelves were still visible in the hallway, though most had been destroyed.
‘Fire investigator on his way?’ Rebus asked.
‘On her way,’ Clarke corrected him.
‘The march of progress ...’ An ambulance crew had turned up, too, but were now checking their watches, unwilling to waste much more time. Todd Goodyear came bounding forward, dressed in a suit rather than a uniform. He nodded a greeting at Rebus and started leafing back through his notebook.
‘How many of those do you get through a month?’ Rebus couldn’t help asking. Clarke gave him a warning look.
‘I’ve talked to the neighbours either side of him,’ Goodyear reported to Clarke. ‘They’re in a state of shock, of course - terrified their own houses might be about to explode. They want to get back in and save a few bits and pieces, but the brigade’s not having it. Seems Riordan came home at eleven thirty. After that, not a peep from him.’
‘The way he’d soundproofed the house . . .’
Goodyear nodded enthusiastically. ‘Unlikely they’d have heard anything. One of the fire officers says the acoustic baffling was probably part of the problem - it can be incredibly flammable.’
‘Riordan didn’t have any visitors in the night?’ Clarke asked.
Goodyear shook his head. He couldn’t help glancing towards Rebus, as if expecting some sort of praise or appraisal.
‘You’re in mufti,’ was all Rebus said.
The constable’s eyes swivelled between the two detectives. Clarke cleared her throat before speaking.
‘If he’s working with us, I thought he’d look less conspicuous ...’
Rebus tried staring her out, then nodded slowly, though he knew she was lying. The suit had been Goodyear’s idea, and now she was covering for him. Before he could say anything, a red car with flashing light roared into view, stuttering to a halt.
‘The fire inspector,’ Clarke announced. The woman who emerged from the car was elegant and businesslike, and seemed straight off to have the brigade’s attention and respect. Officers started pointing at parts of the smoke-streaked building, obviously giving their side of the story, while the two detectives from Leith hovered nearby.
‘Think we should introduce ourselves?’ Clarke asked Rebus.
‘Sooner or later,’ he told her. But she’d already decided and was striding towards the cluster of bodies. Rebus followed, indicating for Goodyear to hang back. The constable seemed reluctant, hopping from pavement to roadway and back again. Rebus had attended plenty of house fires, including one he’d ended up being accused of starting. There’d been a fatality that time, too . . . Not much fun for the pathologists, when there were victims to be identified. He’d almost burned his own flat down once, as well, falling into a stupor on the sofa with the cigarette hanging from his mouth. He’d woken to smouldering fabric and a plume of sulphurous smoke.
Easily done . . .
Clarke was shaking hands with the FI. Not everyone looked happy: the firefighters reckoned CID should leave them to get on with it. Natural reaction, and one Rebus could sympathise with. All the same, he started lighting another cigarette, reckoning it might get him noticed.
‘Bloody menace,’ one of the brigade dutifully muttered. Mission accomplished. The FI’s name was Katie Glass, and she was telling Clarke what happened next: locating any victims; securing breached gas-sources; checking the obvious.
‘Meaning anything from a chip pan left on the heat to an electrical fault.’
Clarke nodded along until Glass had finished, then explained about the homeowner’s role in an ongoing investigation, aware of Leith CID listening in.
‘And that makes you suspect something?’ Glass guessed. ‘So be it, but I always like to enter a scene with an open mind - preconceptions mean you can miss things.’ She moved towards the garden gate, flanked by firefighters and watched by Rebus and Clarke.
‘There’s a café back in Portobello,’ Rebus said, giving a final glance towards the gutted house. ‘Fancy a fry-up?’
Afterwards, they headed to Gayfield Square, where Hawes and Tibbet, feeling abandoned, welcomed them with frowns. They soon perked up at news of the fire and asked if it meant they could put the HMF away. Goodyear asked what that was.‘Habitual Mugger File,’ Hawes explained.
‘Not an official term,’ Tibbet added, slapping a hand against the pile of box files.
‘Thought they’d all be on computer,’ Goodyear commented.
‘If you’re applying for the job . . .?’
But Goodyear waved the offer aside. Clarke was seated at her desk, tapping it with a pen.
‘What now, boss?’ Rebus asked, receiving a glare for his efforts.
‘I need to talk to Macrae again,’ she said at last, though she could see his office was empty. ‘Has he been in?’
Hawes shrugged. ‘Not since we got here.’
‘Travel in together?’ Rebus asked, all innocence. It was Colin Tibbet’s turn to glower at him.
‘This changes everything,’ Clarke was saying quietly.
‘Unless it was an accident,’ Rebus reminded her.
‘First Todorov, now the man he spent his final evening with ...’ It was Goodyear who had spoken, but Clarke was nodding her agreement.
‘Could all be a horrible coincidence,’ Rebus argued. Clarke stared at him.
‘Christ, John, you were the one seeing conspiracies! Now it looks like we’ve got a connection, you’re pouring cold water on it!’
‘Isn’t that what you do with a fire?’ When he saw the blood shooting up Clarke’s neck, he knew he’d gone too far. ‘Okay, say you’re right - you still need to run it past Macrae. And meantime, we wait to hear if they find a body. And supposing they do, we then wait to see what Gates and Curt make of it.’ He paused. ‘That’s what’s called “procedure” - you know it as well as I do.’ Clarke knew he was right, and he watched as her shoulders relaxed a little and she dropped the pen on to the desk, where it rolled and settled.
‘For once John’s not wrong,’ she told the room, ‘much as it galls me to say it.’ She smiled, and he smiled back with a little bow from the waist.
‘Had to happen once in my career,’ he said. ‘Better late than never, I suppose.’ There were more smiles, and Rebus felt it at that moment. The inquiry had been on the go for days, but only now had everything changed.
Despite the scowls and the sniping, they really were a team.
Which was how Macrae found them when he walked into the CID suite. Even he seemed to sense a change of atmosphere. Clarke gave him her report, keeping everything simple. The phone rang on Hawes’s desk and Rebus wondered if it was another response to their public appeal. He thought again of the prostitute, trying to do business on a no-through-road, and of Cath Mills, stoking up on Rioja. Todorov was attractive to women - and attracted by them, no doubt. Could a stranger have lured him to his doom with an offer of sex? It was straight out of Le Carré ...
Hawes was off the phone and advancing towards Rebus’s desk. ‘They found the body,’ was all she needed t
o say.
Rebus knocked on Macrae’s door, relaying the message with a look and a nod. Clarke asked the boss if she could be excused. Back in the main body of the kirk, she asked Hawes for details.
‘Male, they think. Under a collapsed section of ceiling in the living room.’
‘Meaning the studio room,’ Goodyear interrupted, reminding them all that he, too, had been to the producer’s home.
‘They’ve got their own team taking photographs and the like,’ Hawes went on. ‘Body is on its way to the mortuary.’
To be placed in the Decomposing Room, Rebus didn’t doubt. He wondered how Todd Goodyear would react to seeing a crispy one.
‘We should go there,’ Clarke told him. But Rebus was shaking his head.
‘Take Todd,’ he offered. ‘Part of that CID learning curve . . .’
Hawes was on the phone to CR Studios, giving them the news while confirming that Riordan himself hadn’t actually turned up so far that day. Colin Tibbet’s task was to chase up Richard Browning at the Caledonian Hotel. How long did it take to go through an evening’s worth of bar tabs? If Rebus didn’t know better, he’d have said Browning was chancing his arm, hoping CID would forget all about it. When a face appeared around the door, Rebus was the only one not doing anything.‘There’s someone downstairs,’ the desk sergeant said. ‘Looking to hand in a list of Russians ... could it be the Hearts first team for Saturday?’
But Rebus knew who and what it was: Nikolai Stahov from the consulate; Russian nationals based in Edinburgh. Again, Stahov had taken his time, and Rebus doubted they’d have much use for the list - the landscape had changed since they’d first asked for it. All the same, and for want of anything better to do, he nodded and said he’d be down straight away.
But when he opened the door to the reception area, the man studying the posters on the walls was not Stahov.
It was Stuart Janney.
‘Mr Janney,’ Rebus said, holding out a hand and trying not to show his surprise.
‘It’s Detective Inspector ...?’
‘Rebus,’ he reminded the banker.
Janney nodded, as if in apology for not having remembered. ‘I’m just handing in a message.’ He’d lifted an envelope from his pocket. ‘Didn’t expect someone of your calibre to be on the receiving end.’
‘Likewise, I didn’t know you ran errands for the Russian consulate.’
Janney managed a smile. ‘I ran into Nikolai at Gleneagles. He happened to find the envelope in his pocket .. . mentioned he was supposed to bring it in.’
‘You told him you’d save him the trouble?’
Janney gave a shrug. ‘No big deal.’
‘How was the golf?’
‘I didn’t play. FAB was giving a presentation, which happened to coincide with the visit by our Russian friends.’
‘That is a coincidence. Anyone would think you were stalking them.’
Now Janney laughed, head back. ‘Business is business, Inspector, and, lest we forget, good for Scotland.’
‘True enough - that why you’re keeping in with the SNP, too? Reckon they’ll be running the show next May?’
‘As I said at our first encounter, the bank has to stay neutral. On the other hand, the Nats are making a strong showing. Independence may be a ways off, but it’s probably inevitable.’
‘And good for business?’
Janney gave a shrug. ‘They’re pledging to drop the rate of corporation tax.’
Rebus was examining the sealed envelope. ‘Did Comrade Stahov happen to mention what’s in here?’
‘Russian nationals living locally. He said it’s to do with the Todorov case. I can’t really see the connection myself ...’ Janney let the sentence hang, as if ready for Rebus’s explanation, but all Rebus did was tuck the envelope inside his jacket.
‘How about Mr Todorov’s bank statements?’ he asked instead. ‘Any further forward with them?’
‘As I said, Inspector, there are procedures. Sometimes, without the benefit of an executor, the wheels grind slow . . .’
‘So have you done any deals yet?’
‘Deals?’ Janney seemed not to understand.
‘With these Russians I’m supposed to be tiptoeing around.’
‘It’s nothing to do with “tiptoeing” - we just don’t want them getting the wrong idea.’
‘About Scotland, you mean? A man’s dead, Mr Janney - not much we can do to change that.’
The door next to the reception desk opened and DCI Macrae appeared. He was dressed in coat and scarf, ready to leave.
‘Any news on the fire?’ he asked Rebus.
‘No, sir,’ Rebus told him.
‘Nothing from the post-mortem?’
‘Not yet.’
‘But you still think it ties to the poet fellow?’
‘Sir, this is Mr Janney. He works for First Albannach Bank.’
The two men shook hands. Rebus hoped his boss would take the hint, but just in case, he added the information that Janney was going to provide details of Todorov’s bank account.
‘Am I to understand,’ Janney said, ‘that someone else has died?’
‘House fire,’ Macrae barked. ‘Friend of Todorov’s.’
‘Gracious me.’
Rebus had extended his own hand towards the banker. ‘Well,’ he interrupted, ‘thanks again for dropping by.’
‘Yes,’ Janney conceded, ‘you must have a lot on your plate.’
‘The whole help-yourself buffet,’ Rebus acknowledged with a smile.
The two men shook hands. For a moment, it looked as if Macrae and the banker might leave the station together. Rebus didn’t like the idea of Macrae spilling any more of the buffet, so told him he needed a word. Janney exited alone, and Rebus waited until the door had closed. But it was Macrae who spoke.
‘What do you think of Goodyear?’ he asked.
‘Seems proficient.’ Macrae seemed to be expecting some caveat, but Rebus shrugged his shoulders instead and left it at that.
‘Siobhan appears to agree with you.’ Macrae paused. ‘There’ll be a few changes to the team when you retire.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I reckon Siobhan’s about ready for a step-up to inspector. ’
‘She’s been ready for years.’
Macrae nodded to himself. ‘What was it you wanted to speak to me about?’ he eventually asked.
‘It’ll keep, sir,’ Rebus assured him. He watched the boss head for the exit and considered stepping into the car park for a smoke. But instead, he headed back upstairs, tearing open the envelope and studying the names. There were a couple of dozen, but no other details - nothing like addresses or a list of occupations. Stahov had been scrupulous to the point of adding his own name at the very bottom - maybe he’d done it for a laugh, knowing the sheet itself was of no possible use to the inquiry. But as Rebus pushed open the door to the CID suite, he saw that Hawes and Tibbet were on their feet, keen to tell him something.
‘Spit it out,’ he said.
Tibbet was holding out another sheet of paper. ‘Fax from the Caledonian. Several of the hotel residents bought brandies at the bar that night.’
‘Any of them Russian?’ Rebus asked.
‘Have a look.’
So Rebus took the fax from him and saw three names staring back at him. Two were complete strangers, but didn’t sound foreign. The third wasn’t foreign either, but it sent the blood thrumming in his ears.
Mr M. Cafferty.
M for Morris. Morris Gerald Cafferty.
‘Big Ger,’ Hawes explained, with no necessity whatsoever.
17
Rebus had only the one question: bring him in, or question him at his house?‘My decision, not yours,’ Siobhan Clarke reminded him. She’d been back from the mortuary half an hour and seemed to be nursing a headache. Tibbet had made her a coffee, and Rebus had watched her press two tablets from their foil enclosure into the palm of her hand. Todd Goodyear had thrown up only the once, in the mortuary
car park, though there had been another crisis point on the way back to Gayfield Square when they passed some men laying tarmac.
‘Something about the smell,’ he’d explained.
He now looked pale and shaken, but kept telling everyone he was all right - whether they wanted to hear it or not. Clarke had gathered them round so she could tell them what Gates and Curt had told her: male, five ten, rings on two fingers of the right hand, gold watch on one wrist, and with a broken jaw.
‘Maybe a roof beam fell on him,’ she speculated. The victim hadn’t been tied to any piece of furniture, and neither his hands nor his feet had been bound. ‘Just lying in a heap on the living-room floor. Probable cause of death: smoke inhalation. Gates did stress that these were preliminary findings ...’
Rebus: ‘Still makes it a suspicious death.’
Hawes: ‘Which means it’s ours.’
‘And ID?’ Tibbet asked.
‘Dental records, if we’re lucky.’
‘Or the rings?’ Goodyear guessed.
‘Even if they belonged to Riordan,’ Rebus told him, ‘doesn’t mean Riordan was the last man wearing them. I had a case ten or twelve years back, guy being done for fraud tried faking his own death . . .’
Goodyear nodded slowly, beginning to see.
After which, Rebus divulged his own news, before asking his question.
Clarke sat with the fax in one hand, head resting in the other. ‘This,’ she said, ‘just keeps getting better and better. Then, raising her eyes to meet Rebus’s: ‘Interview Room 3?’
‘IR3 it is,’ he said, ‘and remember to wrap up warm.’
Cafferty, however, sat with his chair slid back from the table, one leg crossed over the other and hands behind his head, for all the world as if he were in the parlour back home.‘Siobhan,’ he said as she walked into the room, ‘always a great delight. Doesn’t she look businesslike, Rebus? You’ve trained her to perfection.’