‘Let’s see how I get on.’
She rose from her chair and slid it aside so Rebus could roll his own chair closer to the screen. ‘I’m going to do the rounds, see what the gossip is.’
‘What do I say if anyone asks me what I’m up to?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Tell them you’re the economics editor.’
‘Fair enough.’
She left him to it, climbing the stairs to the next level. Rebus started clicking and reading. The first few stories concerned Andropov’s business dealings. With perestroika had come a loosening of state controls on industry, allowing men like Andropov to buy into base metals, mining and the rest. Andropov had specialised in zinc, copper and aluminium, before branching out into coal and steel. Ventures into gas and oil had stalled, but in other areas he’d made a killing. Too big a killing, perhaps, leading the authorities to investigate him for corruption. Depending on which investigative journalist you turned to, Andropov was either a martyr or a crook. After twenty minutes, Rebus tried refining the search by adding ‘background’ to the keywords. He was rewarded with a potted biography of Andropov. Born 1960, the same year as Alexander Todorov, in the Zhdanov suburb of Moscow, also the same as Todorov.
‘Well, well,’ Rebus muttered to himself. There was no information as to which schools or colleges Andropov had attended. His early life, it seemed, hadn’t been investigated at all. Rebus tried cross-referencing Andropov’s name with Todorov but drew a blank. But while he was looking at the entries for Todorov - seventeen thousand of them worldwide; Mairie had been right about Andropov’s five hundred being small beer - he tried finding information on the poet’s university career. Some of his lectures could be downloaded, but there was no mention of improprieties with students. Maybe Andropov had been spinning him a line.
‘Hello.’ The bearded man was back.
‘Morning,’ Rebus said. He seemed to remember that the man’s name was Gordon, and Gordon was now peering over his shoulder at the screen.
‘I thought Sandy was covering the Todorov story,’ he commented.
‘Yes,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m just adding background.’
‘Ah.’ Gordon nodded slowly, as though this made sense. ‘So Sandy’s still stuck outside Gayfield Square?’
‘Last I heard,’ Rebus agreed.
‘What’s the betting the cops screw it up, as per?’
‘I wouldn’t risk my shirt on it,’ Rebus said, voice hardening.
‘Well, shoulder to the grindstone, nose to the mill ...’ Gordon was laughing as he moved away.
‘Prick,’ Rebus said, just loud enough to be overheard. Gordon stopped in his tracks, but didn’t turn round, and started walking again after a moment. Either thought he’d misheard or didn’t want to start something. Rebus got back to his reading, switching from Todorov to Andropov again, and almost immediately came across a name he recognised: Roddy Denholm. Seemed that Russia’s New Rich liked to buy art. The prices paid at auction were hitting record highs. A plutocrat wasn’t a plutocrat without the obligatory Picasso or Matisse. Rebus put some of the news stories on to the screen. They were accompanied by photos taken at sales in Moscow, New York and London. Five million there, ten million here... Andropov was mentioned only tangentially, as someone with a taste for up-to-the-minute art, predominantly British. As such, he bought judiciously from galleries and shows rather than the likes of Sotheby’s or Christie’s. Recent purchases included two Alison Watts and work by Callum Innes, David Mach, Douglas Gordon and Roddy Denholm. Siobhan had mentioned Denholm to Rebus - the guy doing the art show at the Parliament, Riordan working for him. The journalist writing the piece had added that ‘as all these artists are Scottish, Mr Andropov may be starting to specialise’. Rebus jotted down the names and started some new searches. A further fifteen minutes passed before Mairie Henderson returned with two coffees.
‘Milk, no sugar.’
‘It’ll do, I suppose,’ Rebus said by way of thanks.
‘What did you say to Gordon?’ She had pulled her chair in next to his.
‘Why?’
‘Seemed to think you’d taken against him.’
‘Some people are touchy.’
‘Whatever you said, he’s come to the conclusion you must be management.’
‘I always thought I had it in me . . .’ Rebus glanced away from the screen long enough to give her a wink. ‘If I hit the print button, where do the pages appear?’
‘That machine over there.’ She pointed towards a corner of the room.
‘So I’d have to walk all the way over there to collect them?’
‘You’re management, John. Get someone to do it for you ...’
28
The reporters had drifted away from Gayfield Square. Maybe because it was approaching lunchtime, or some other story had broken. Siobhan Clarke had been in a meeting with DCI Macrae and the Chief Constable. Corbyn wasn’t enthusiastic about leaving her in charge, despite Macrae’s spirited defence.‘Let’s get DI Starr back from Fettes,’ Corbyn had insisted.
‘Yes, sir,’ Macrae had said, capitulating at the last.
Afterwards, he’d sighed and told Clarke the Chief Constable was right. Clarke had just shrugged and watched him pick up the phone, asking to be connected to Derek Starr. Within half an hour, Starr himself, coiffeured and cufflinked, was in the CID suite and gathering the team together for what he termed ‘a pep talk’.
‘Isn’t a PEP a pension scheme?’ Hawes asked beneath her breath, her way of telling Clarke she was on her side. Clarke smiled back to let her know she appreciated it.
Having had only the briefest of briefings in Macrae’s office, Starr focused on the ‘tenuous links’ between the two deaths, and insisted that they not read too much into them ‘at this early stage’. He wanted the team divided in two, with one group concentrating on Todorov and the other on Riordan. Then, turning his attention to Siobhan Clarke: ‘You’ll be the nexus, DS Clarke. Meaning if there are points of connection between the two cases, you’ll collate them.’ Looking around the room, he asked if everyone understood how he wanted things to work. The murmurs of assent were drowned out by a sustained belch from Ray Reynolds.
‘Chilli con carne,’ he stated, by way of apology, as officers nearby wafted notebooks and sheets of paper. The phone on Clarke’s desk rang and she picked it up, pressing a finger in her other ear to muffle the rest of Starr’s oration.
‘DS Clarke,’ she announced.
‘Is DI Rebus there?’
‘Not at the moment. Can I help at all?’
‘It’s Stuart Janney.’
‘Ah yes, Mr Janney. This is DS Clarke, we met at the Parliament.’
‘Well, DS Clarke, your man Rebus asked for details of Alexander Todorov’s bank account . . .’
‘You’ve got them?’
‘I know it’s taken a while, but there were protocols . . .’
Clarke caught Hawes’s eye. ‘Where are you just now, Mr Janney?’
‘Bank HQ.’
‘Could a couple of my colleagues come and collect them?’
‘Don’t see why not; save me a trip.’ Janney sniffed as he spoke.
‘Thank you, sir. Will you be there for the next hour?’
‘If I’m not, I’ll leave the envelope with my assistant.’
‘Very kind of you.’
‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘We’re making progress.’
‘Glad to hear it. Papers this morning seem to think you’re connecting Todorov’s death to that house fire.’
‘Don’t believe everything you read.’
‘Extraordinary, nevertheless.’
‘If you say so, Mr Janney. Thanks again.’ Clarke put the phone down and turned back to Phyllida Hawes. ‘I’m getting you and Col out of here. Go to First Albannach’s HQ and pick up Todorov’s bank details from a man called Stuart Janney.’
‘Thank you,’ Hawes mouthed.
‘And while you’re gone, I might make mys
elf scarce, too. Nancy Sievewright’s going to be sick of the sight of me . . .’
Starr was clapping his hands, signalling that the meeting was at an end, ‘unless anyone’s got a really stupid question’. His eyes raked the room, daring any hand to be raised. ‘Right then,’ he barked, ‘let’s go to work!’
Hawes rolled her eyes and squeezed through the throng to where Colin Tibbet was standing, seemingly in thrall to Derek Starr. Siobhan Clarke found Todd Goodyear sidling up next to her.
‘You think DI Starr’s going to want me kept on?’ he asked quietly.
‘Just keep your head down and hope he doesn’t notice you.’
‘And how do I do that?’
‘You’re going through all those committee tapes, right?’ She watched Goodyear nod. ‘Just keep doing that, and if he asks who you are, explain that you’re the only sod willing to take on such a thankless task.’
‘I’m still not sure what it is you think I might find.’
‘Search me,’ Clarke confessed. ‘But you never know your luck.’
‘Okay then.’ Goodyear sounded far from convinced. ‘And you’re going to be liaison between the two halves of the inquiry?’
‘Always supposing that’s what a “nexus” is.’
‘Does that mean you’ll be giving the press conferences?’ Clarke responded with a snort. ‘Derek Starr’s not going to let anyone hog the cameras except him.’
‘He looks more like a salesman than a detective,’ Goodyear commented.
‘That’s because he is,’ Clarke agreed. ‘And the thing he’s selling is himself. Problem is, he’s bloody good at it.’
‘You’re not jealous?’ They were being jostled by other detectives, as everyone tried to find a patch of office they could claim as their own.
‘DI Starr will go far,’ she said, leaving it at that. Goodyear watched as she slung her bag over one shoulder.
‘You’re going somewhere,’ he stated.
‘Well spotted.’
‘Anything I can help with?’
‘You’ve got all those tapes to listen to, Todd.’
‘What’s happened to DI Rebus?’
‘He’s in the field,’ Clarke explained, reckoning the fewer people who knew about the suspension, the better.
Especially when Rebus, despite - or more accurately because of - the suspension, was most definitely still on the case.
Nancy Sievewright hadn’t been at all happy when Clarke had announced herself at the intercom. But at last she’d come downstairs and told the detective that she wanted hot chocolate.‘There’s a place near the top of the street.’
Inside the café, they ordered their drinks and settled on opposing leather couches. Sievewright looked like she’d not had enough sleep. She was still wearing a short skirt, threads trailing from it, and a thin denim jacket, but her legs were wrapped in thick black tights and there were knitted fingerless gloves on her hands. She’d asked for whipped cream and marshmallows in her drink, and cupped the mug between her palms as she sipped and chewed.
‘Any more grief from Mr Anderson?’ Clarke asked. Sievewright just shook her head. ‘We spoke to Sol Goodyear,’ Clarke continued. ‘You didn’t tell us he lived in the same street the body was found.’
‘Why should I?’
Clarke just shrugged. ‘He doesn’t seem to see himself as your boyfriend.’
‘He’s protecting me,’ Sievewright snapped back.
‘From what?’ Clarke asked, but the young woman wasn’t about to answer that. There was music playing quite loudly, and a speaker in the ceiling directly overhead. It was some sort of dance track with a pulsing rhythm and it was giving Clarke a headache. She went to the counter and asked for it to be turned down. The assistant obliged, albeit grudgingly and with minimal effect.
‘Why I like this place,’ Sievewright said.
‘The surly staff?’
‘The music.’ Sievewright peered at Clarke over the rim of her mug. ‘So what did Sol say about me?’
‘Just that you’re not his girlfriend. Speaking to him got me wondering, though . . .’
‘What about?’
‘About the night of the attack.’
‘It was some nutter in a pub . . .’
‘I don’t mean the attack on Sol; I’m talking about the poet. You were on your way to buy stuff from Sol. So you either stumbled across the body on your way up the lane, or on your way back down...’
‘What’s the difference?’ Sievewright was shuffling her feet, looking down at them as if they were no longer under her control.
‘Quite a big difference, actually. Remember when I came to your flat that first time?’
Sievewright nodded.
‘There was something you said ... the way you said something. And I was thinking about it yesterday after I’d been talking to Sol.’
The young woman took the bait. ‘What?’ she asked, trying not to sound too interested.
‘You told us: “I didn’t see anything.” But you put the stress on “see” when I’m guessing most people would have emphasised the “anything”. Made me wonder if you were doing that thing of not quite telling the truth but at the same time managing not to tell an outright lie.’
‘You’ve lost me.’ Sievewright’s knees were bouncing like pistons.
‘I think maybe you’d gone to Sol’s door, rung the bell and waited. You knew he was expecting you. Maybe you stood there for a while, thinking he’d be back soon. Maybe you tried his mobile, but he wasn’t answering.’
‘Because he was getting himself stabbed.’
Clarke nodded slowly. ‘So you’re outside his flat, and suddenly you hear something at the bottom of the lane. You go to the corner and take a look.’
But Sievewright was shaking her head emphatically.
‘Okay then,’ Clarke conceded, ‘you don’t see anything, but you do hear something, don’t you, Nancy?’
The young woman looked at her for a long time, then broke off eye contact and took another slurp of hot chocolate. When she spoke, the music covered whatever it was she said.
‘I didn’t catch that,’ Clarke apologised.
‘I said yes.’
‘You heard something?’
‘A car. It pulled up and . . .’ She paused, lifting her eyes to the ceiling in thought. Eventually, she looked at Clarke again. ‘First off, there was this groaning. I thought maybe a drunk was about to be sick. His words seemed all slurred. Could have been saying something in Russian, though. That would make sense, wouldn’t it?’ She seemed keen for Clarke to agree, so Clarke nodded again.
‘And then a car?’ she prompted.
‘It pulled up. Door opened, and I heard this noise, just a dull sort of thump and no more groans.’
‘How can you be sure it was a car?’
‘Didn’t sound like a van or a lorry.’
‘You didn’t look?’
‘By the time I turned the corner, it was gone. There was just a body slumped next to the wall.’
‘I think I know why you screamed,’ Clarke stated. ‘You thought it was Sol?’
‘At first, yes. But when I got close, I saw it wasn’t.’
‘Why didn’t you run?’
‘That couple arrived. I did try to leave, but the man told me I should stay. If I’d scarpered, it’d have looked bad for me, wouldn’t it? And he could’ve given you my description. ’
‘True enough,’ Clarke admitted. ‘What made you think it might be Sol?’
‘When you deal drugs, you make enemies.’
‘Such as?’
‘The bastard who knifed him outside the pub.’
Clarke was nodding thoughtfully. ‘Any others?’
Sievewright saw what she was getting at. ‘You think maybe they killed the poet by mistake?’
‘I’m not sure.’ How much sense did it make? The trail of blood led back to the multistorey, meaning whoever had attacked Todorov must’ve known he wasn’t Sol Goodyear. But as for the coup de grâce ... Wel
l, it could have been the same person, but not necessarily. And Sievewright was spot on - dealers made enemies. Maybe she would put that point to Sol himself, see if he had any names for her. Likelihood was, of course, that he’d keep them to himself, maybe intent on exacting his own revenge. She imagined Sol rubbing at the ragged line of stitches, as if trying to erase them. Imagined the two boys growing up, Sol and his wee brother Todd, grandad dead in jail and parents going to pieces. At what point had Todd decided to cut his brother adrift? And had Sol suffered as a result?
‘Can I get another?’ Sievewright was asking, lifting her empty mug.
‘Your turn to pay,’ Clarke reminded her.
‘I’ve got no money.’
Clarke sighed and handed her a fiver. ‘And get me another cappuccino,’ she said.
29
‘He’s a hard man to pin down,’ Terence Blackman said, fluttering his hands.Blackman ran a gallery of contemporary art on William Street in the city’s west end. The gallery consisted of two rooms with white walls and sanded wooden flooring. Blackman himself was barely five feet tall, skinny with a slight paunch, and was probably thirty or forty years older than he dressed. The thatch of brown hair looked dyed, and might even have been an expensive weave-job. An assortment of nips and tucks had stretched the skin tight over the face, so that Blackman’s range of expressions was limited. According to the web, he acted as Roddy Denholm’s agent.
‘So where is he now?’ Rebus asked, stepping around a sculpture which looked like a mass brawl of wire coat hangers.
‘Melbourne, I think. Could be Hong Kong.’
‘Any of his stuff here today?’
‘There’s actually a waiting list. Half a dozen buyers, money no object.’
‘Russians?’ Rebus guessed.
Blackman stared at him. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, why was it you wanted to see Roddy?’
‘He’s been working on a project at the Parliament.’
‘An albatross around all our necks,’ Blackman sighed.
‘Mr Denholm needed bits and pieces of recording done, and the man responsible has turned up dead.’
‘What?’
‘His name’s Charles Riordan.’