The question seemed to throw the young woman. ‘Dad did a runner when I was ten.’
‘And your mum?’
‘Lives in Wardieburn.’
Not the city’s most salubrious neighbourhood. ‘See her much?’
‘Is this turning into a social work interview?’
Clarke smiled indulgently. ‘Had any more trouble from Mr Anderson?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You think he’ll be back?’
‘He better think twice.’
‘Funny thing is, he works for Gill’s dad’s bank.’
‘So what?’
‘Gill’s never taken you to any of their parties? No possibility Mr Anderson could have met you there?’
‘No,’ Sievewright stated. Clarke let the silence linger, then leaned back in her chair and placed her palms on the tabletop.
‘Again, just to be clear, you’re not a prostitute and he’s not one of your clients?’ Sievewright glared at her, forming some sort of comeback. Clarke didn’t give her the chance. ‘I think that’s us, then,’ she said. ‘I want to thank you for coming in.’
‘Didn’t have much choice,’ Sievewright complained.
‘Interview ends at ...’ Clarke checked the time, announced it for the benefit of the recorder, then switched the machine off and ejected both tapes, sealing them in separate polythene bags. She handed one to Sievewright. ‘Thanks again.’ The young woman snatched the bag. ‘PC Goodyear will see you out.’
‘Do I get a lift home?’
‘What are we, a taxi service?’
Sievewright gave a curl of the lip, letting Clarke know what she thought of that. Goodyear led her outside, while Clarke gave a twitch of her head to let him know she’d see him upstairs. Once the door was closed, Clarke lifted her phone to her ear.
‘You caught all of that?’
‘Pretty much,’ Rebus’s voice said. She could hear him lighting up.
‘This is going to cost us both a fortune in phone bills.’
‘That depends on where you do the interviews,’ he told her. ‘Anywhere outside the station, I can sit in. It’s only Gayfield itself Corbyn told me to avoid.’
Clarke slipped the cassette tape into the file and tucked it under her arm. ‘Do you think I got everything I could out of her?’ she asked.
‘You did fine. It was good to leave some of the big questions till the end . . . had me wondering if you were going to remember to ask them.’
‘Did I leave anything out?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
She was out in the corridor now, glad to find it about eight degrees cooler.
‘One thing, though,’ Rebus was adding. ‘Why did you ask about her parents?’
‘Not sure really. Maybe it’s because we see so many like her - single-parent household, mum probably holding down a job, giving the daughter time to be led astray . . .’
‘Are you going to go all liberal on me?’
‘Growing up in Wardieburn ... and then suddenly you’re going to parties in the New Town.’
‘And pushing drugs,’ Rebus reminded her. Clarke shouldered open the door to the car park. He was there in his Saab, phone to his ear and a cigarette in his other hand. She folded her phone shut as she opened the passenger-side door and slid in, closing it after her. Rebus had put his own phone back in his pocket.
‘That everything?’ he asked, holding out a hand for the file.
‘As much as I could photocopy without the troops suspecting. ’
He removed the inch-deep block of unsullied copy paper. ‘You learned all the right tricks, Kwai Chang Caine.’
‘Does that make you Master Po?’
‘Didn’t think you were old enough for Kung Fu.’
‘Old enough for the reruns.’ She watched him place the file on the back seat. ‘All through the interview, I was praying you wouldn’t cough or sneeze.’
‘Couldn’t risk lighting a ciggie either,’ Rebus replied. She stared at him, but he was avoiding eye contact.
‘How come,’ she asked eventually, ‘you couldn’t play nice, just this once?’
‘People like Corbyn seem to push my buttons,’ he explained.
‘Making them part of the majority,’ she chided him.
‘Maybe so,’ he admitted. ‘Are you going to interview Bakewell at the Parliament?’ She nodded slowly. ‘Am I invited?’
‘Remind me, what does it mean to be “on suspension”?’
‘Last time I looked, Shiv, the public were allowed into the Parliament building. Buy the man a coffee, and I could be seated at the next table over.’
‘Or you could go home and let me talk to Corbyn, see if I can change his mind.’
‘Won’t happen,’ he stated.
‘Which - you going home or him changing his mind?’
‘Both.’
‘God give me strength,’ she sighed.
‘Amen to that . . . and speaking of the Almighty, I didn’t hear much from young Todd during the interview.’
‘He was there to observe.’
‘It’s all right, you know ... you can admit that you missed me.’
‘Weren’t you just saying that I covered all the bases?’
She watched Rebus shrug. ‘Maybe there were bases she kept hidden from us.’
‘You’re telling me you’d have teased the dealer’s name out of her?’
‘Twenty quid says I’ll have it by day’s end.’
‘If Corbyn gets wind that you’re still on the case . . .’
‘But I won’t be, DS Clarke. I’ll be a civilian. Not much he can do about that, is there?’
‘John . . .’ she began to caution, but broke off, knowing she’d be wasting her breath. ‘Keep me posted,’ she muttered at last, opening the car door and easing herself out.
‘Notice something?’ he asked. She leaned back down into the car.
‘What?’
He waved his arm, taking in the car park. ‘The smell’s gone ... Wonder if that’s an omen.’ He was smiling as he turned the key in the ignition, leaving Clarke with an unasked question:
Good omen or bad?
24
‘Nancy at home?’ Rebus asked Sievewright’s flatmate when the young man answered the door.‘No.’
No, because she’d been walking up Leith Street when Rebus had passed her in his Saab. Meaning he had maybe a twenty-minute start on her, always supposing she’d head straight for her flat.
‘It’s Eddie, right?’ Rebus said. ‘I was here a few days ago.’
‘I remember.’
‘Didn’t catch your surname, though.’
‘Gentry.’
‘As in Bobbie Gentry.’
‘Not many people know her these days.’
‘I’m older than most people - got a couple of her albums at home. Mind if I come in?’ Rebus noted that Gentry had lost his bandanna but still wore the smudgy eyeliner. ‘She told me to be here at three,’ he lied blithely.
‘Someone was at the door for her a while back ...’ Gentry was reluctant, but Rebus’s stare told him resistance was futile. He opened the door a little wider and Rebus gave a little bow of the head as he walked in. The living room smelt of stale tobacco and something that could have been patchouli oil - been a while since Rebus had come across that particular scent. He wandered over to the window and peered down on to Blair Street.
‘Tell you a funny story,’ he said, back still to Eddie Gentry. ‘There’s a warren of basements across the way where bands used to practise. Owner was thinking of redeveloping, so he got some builders in. They were working in these tunnels - miles and miles of them - and they started to hear unearthly groans . . .’
‘The massage parlour next door,’ Gentry said, cutting to the punchline.
‘You’ve heard it.’ Rebus turned from the window and studied some of the album sleeves - actual LPs rather than CDs. ‘Caravan,’ he commented. ‘Canterbury’s finest ... didn’t know people still listened to them.’ There were other
sleeves he recognised: the Fairports and Davey Graham and Pentangle.
‘Somebody studying archaeology?’ he guessed.
‘I like a lot of the old stuff,’ Gentry explained. He nodded towards the corner of the room. ‘I play guitar.’
‘So you do,’ Rebus agreed, seeing a six-string acoustic nestling on its stand, a twelve-string lying on the floor behind it. ‘Any good?’
In answer, Gentry picked up the six-string and settled on the sofa, legs crossed beneath him. He started to play, and Rebus realised that he’d grown the fingernails long on his right hand, each one a ready-made plectrum. Rebus knew the tune, even if he couldn’t place it.
‘Bert Jansch?’ he guessed over the closing chord.
‘From that album he did with John Renbourn.’
‘Haven’t listened to it in years.’ Rebus nodded his appreciation. ‘You’re pretty good, son. Shame you can’t make a living from it, eh? Might have stopped you from dealing drugs.’
‘What?’
‘Nancy’s told us all about it.’
‘Whoa, wait a minute.’ Gentry put his guitar aside and rose to his feet. ‘What’s that you’re saying?’
‘A deaf musician?’ Rebus sounded impressed.
‘I heard the words, I just don’t know why she would say that.’
‘Night the poet was killed, she was picking up a delivery from the guy you introduced her to.’
‘She didn’t say that.’ Gentry was trying to sound confident, but his eyes told Rebus a different story. ‘I didn’t introduce her to anybody!’
Rebus shrugged with his hands in his pockets. ‘No skin off my nose,’ he commented. ‘She says you’re dealing, you say you’re not . . . We all know there’s stuff being smoked here.’
‘Stuff she gets from her boyfriend,’ Gentry burst out. But then he corrected himself. ‘He’s not even her boyfriend ... she just thinks he is.’
‘Who’s this?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, he’s been here a couple of times, but he just calls himself Sol - says it’s Latin for “the sun”. Not that he strikes me as that bright.’
Rebus laughed as if this were the best joke he’d heard in a while, but Gentry wasn’t smiling.
‘I can’t believe she’d try dropping me in it,’ he muttered to himself.
‘She dropped a pal of hers in it, too,’ Rebus revealed. ‘Got her to provide an alibi.’ Rebus let his final word hang in the air.
‘Alibi?’ Gentry echoed. ‘Christ, you think she killed that guy?’
Rebus offered another shrug. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘does Nancy own anything like a cape or a cloak? Sort of thing a monk might wear?’
‘No.’ Gentry sounded bewildered by the question.
‘Have you ever met her friend Gill?’
‘Hooray Henrietta from the New Town?’ Gentry screwed up his face.
‘You know her, then?’
‘She came to a party a while back.’
‘I hear that she throws a good party, too. You could offer to play a set.’
‘I’d rather stick pins in my eyes.’
‘You’re probably right, same as I’d rather listen to Dick Gaughan than James Blunt.’ Rebus sniffed loudly, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘This Sol character ... got an address for him?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Not to worry.’ Rebus was over at the window again, putting the handkerchief back as he gazed down on the street. Not long now till Nancy Sievewright returned. Top of Leith Street, then North Bridge and Hunter Square . . . ‘Do you sing as well as play?’
‘A little bit.’
‘But not in a band?’
‘No.’
‘You should get yourself up to Fife. Friend of mine says there’s some sort of acoustic scene up there.’
Gentry was nodding. ‘I’ve played Anstruther.’
‘Funny to think of the East Neuk as the centre of anything . . . used to be it was shut winter and weekends.’
Gentry smiled. ‘Wait there, will you?’ He was gone from the living room less than a minute. When he came back, he was holding something out towards Rebus - a CD in a clear plastic pocket. There was a folded square of white paper with the titles of three tracks listed. ‘My demo,’ Gentry announced proudly.
‘That’s great,’ Rebus said. ‘After I’ve played it, do you want it back?’
‘I can burn another one,’ Gentry said with a shake of the head.
Rebus patted the disc against the palm of his left hand. ‘I really appreciate that, Eddie. As long as you appreciate that it’s not a bung of some kind.’
Gentry looked horrified. ‘No, I just thought . . .’
But Rebus touched him on the shoulder, and assured him he was only joking. ‘I’d best be off,’ he said. ‘Thanks again.’ He gave a little wave with the CD and made for the hallway and the front door. With the door closed behind him, he started down the stairs, just as Nancy Sievewright was making her way up, still holding the sealed polythene bag with the interview tape inside. Rebus offered her a nod and a smile, but said nothing. All the same, he could feel her watching his descent. At the bottom, he looked up - sure enough, she hadn’t moved.
‘Just told him,’ Rebus called to her.
‘Told who what?’ she called back.
‘Your flatmate Eddie,’ he answered. ‘The one you tried fobbing us off with . . .’
He exited the tenement and unlocked his car. It was parked illegally but had managed to avoid a ticket.
‘My lucky day,’ he told himself. He’d finally got round to installing a CD player in the Saab. He drew Gentry’s offering from its sleeve and slotted it home, then studied the titles of the songs.
Meg’s Mons.
Minstrel in Pain.
Reverend Walker Blues.
He liked them already. With the volume low, he took out his phone and called Siobhan Clarke.
‘Tell me you’re in the pub,’ was her opening line.
‘Blair Street, actually - and you owe me twenty notes.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You won’t when I tell you.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘Sievewright gets her stuff from someone called Sol. Her flatmate thinks he’s named himself after the sun, but we know differently, don’t we?’
‘Sol Goodyear?’
‘I take it Todd’s not within earshot?’
‘Making me a coffee.’
‘Isn’t that sweet of him?’
‘Sol Goodyear?’ she repeated, as if she still couldn’t take it in. Eventually, she asked him what he was listening to.
‘Nancy’s flatmate plays guitar.’
‘I’m assuming he’s not in the car with you.’
‘Probably shouting the odds at Sievewright as we speak. But he did give me a demo he made.’
‘That was good of him. Bet you can’t remember the last time you listened to anything made after 1975.’
‘You gave me that Elbow album . . .’
‘True.’ The tangent had run its course. ‘So now we need to add Todd’s brother to the list?’
‘Nice to stay busy,’ Rebus consoled her. ‘Do you have a time for Jim Bakewell yet?’
‘Haven’t been able to track him down.’
‘And Macrae?’
‘Wants to add another twenty or so bodies to the team.’
‘As long as they’re warm ones . . .’
‘He’s even thinking of bringing Derek Starr back from Fettes.’
‘Which would mean relegating you to vice-captain?’
‘If only I had some vices . . .’
‘Should have listened to me, Shiv. I could’ve given you a few tips. Will I see you later at the pub?’
‘Might have an early night actually ... no offence.’
‘None taken, but don’t think I’ll forget about that twenty.’ Rebus ended the call and turned the music up a little. Gentry was humming along to the melody, and Rebus wasn’t sure if it was meant to be picked up by the mic. It was still the f
irst track, ‘Meg’s Mons’. He wondered if Meg was a real woman. Peering at the slip of paper in the clear plastic sleeve, he thought he could make out writing on the other side. He pulled out the track listing and unfolded it. Sure enough, on the back was written the name of the studio where Gentry had recorded his demo.
CR Studios.
25
Rebus sat in front of his own personal video monitor. Graeme MacLeod had placed him in a corner of the room, and had piled the videotapes next to him. Edinburgh city centre’s west end, the night of the Todorov killing.‘You’re going to get me shot,’ MacLeod had complained, fetching the tapes from their locked cupboard.
Rebus had been sitting for an hour in the Central Monitoring Facility, sometimes hitting ‘search’ and sometimes ‘pause’. There were cameras on Shandwick Place, Princes Street and Lothian Road. Rebus was looking for evidence of Sergei Andropov or his driver, or maybe Cafferty. Or anyone else attached to the case, come to that. So far he had nothing at all to show for his efforts. The hotel would have its own surveillance, of course, but he doubted the manager would hand it over without a fight, and couldn’t see himself persuading Siobhan to put in the request.
There was something soothing about the unhurried voyeurism going on around him. One act of vandalism reported, and one known shoplifter tracked along George Street. The camera operators seemed as passive as any daytime TV viewers, and Rebus wondered if there might be some reality show to be made from it. He liked the way the staff could control the remote cameras using a joystick, zooming in on anything suspicious. It didn’t feel like the police state the media were always predicting. All the same, if he worked here every day, he’d be careful of himself on the street, for fear of being caught picking his nose or scratching his backside. Careful in shops and restaurants, too.
And probably with no interest in the TV at home.
MacLeod was back at Rebus’s shoulder. ‘Anything?’ he asked.
‘I know you’ve been over this footage more than once, Graeme, but there are a few faces I may know that you don’t.’
‘I’m not having a moan.’
‘If I were in your shoes, I’d be thinking the same.’
‘Just a pity we didn’t have a camera in King’s Stables Road.’