Exit Music

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. There was a fire . . .’

  Blackman slapped his palms to his cheeks. ‘Are the tapes all right?’

  Rebus stared at him. ‘Nice of you to show concern, sir.’

  ‘Oh, well, yes, of course it’s a terrible tragedy for the family and...um ...’

  ‘I think the recordings are fine.’

  Blackman gave silent thanks and then asked what this had to do with the artist.

  ‘Mr Riordan was murdered, sir. We’re wondering if he’d recorded something he shouldn’t have.’

  ‘At the Parliament, you mean?’

  ‘Any reason why Mr Denholm chose the Urban Regeneration Committee for his project?’

  ‘I’ve not the faintest idea.’

  ‘Then you see why I need to talk to him. Maybe you’ve got a number for his mobile?’

  ‘He doesn’t always answer.’

  ‘Nevertheless, a message could be left.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Blackman didn’t sound keen.

  ‘So if you could give me the number,’ Rebus pressed. The dealer sighed again and gestured for Rebus to follow him, unlocking a door at the back of the room. It was a cramped office, the size of a box room and with unframed canvases and uncanvased frames everywhere. Blackman’s own phone was charging, but he unplugged it and pressed the keys until the artist’s number showed on the screen. Rebus punched it into his own phone, while asking how much Denholm’s work tended to fetch.

  ‘Depends on size, materials, man-hours...’

  ‘A ballpark figure.’

  ‘Between thirty and fifty . . .’

  ‘Thousand pounds?’ Rebus awaited the dealer’s nodded confirmation.

  ‘And how many does he knock out each year?’

  Blackman scowled. ‘As I told you, there’s a waiting list.’

  ‘So which one did Andropov buy?’

  ‘Sergei Andropov has a good eye. I’d happened to acquire an early example of Roddy’s work in oils, probably painted the year he left Glasgow School of Art.’ Blackman lifted a postcard from the desk. It was a reproduction of the painting. ‘It’s called Hopeless.’

  To Rebus, it looked as if a child had taken a line for a walk. Hopeless just about summed it up.

  ‘Fetched a record price for one of Roddy’s pre-video works,’ the dealer added.

  ‘And how much did you pocket, Mr Blackman?’

  ‘A percentage, Inspector. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .’

  But Rebus wasn’t about to let go. ‘Nice to see my taxes going into your pocket.’

  ‘If you mean the Parliament commission, you’ve no need to worry - First Albannach Bank is underwriting the whole thing.’

  ‘As in paying for it?’

  Blackman nodded abruptly. ‘Now you really must excuse me ...’

  ‘Generous of them,’ Rebus commented.

  ‘FAB is a tremendous patron of the arts.’

  It was Rebus’s turn to nod. ‘Just a couple more questions, sir - any idea why Andropov is moving into Scottish art?’

  ‘Because he likes it.’

  ‘Is the same true of all these other Russian millionaires and billionaires?’

  ‘I’ve no doubt some are buying for investment, others for pleasure.’

  ‘And some as a way of letting everyone else know how rich they are?’

  Blackman offered the thinnest of smiles. ‘There may be an element of that.’

  ‘Same as with their Caribbean yachts - mine’s bigger than yours. And the mansions in London, the jewellery for the trophy wife . . .’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

  ‘Still doesn’t explain the interest in Scotland.’ They’d moved back out of the office into the gallery space.

  ‘There are old ties, Inspector. Russians revere Robert Burns, for example, perhaps seeing him as an ideal of Communism. I forget which leader it was - Lenin, maybe - who said that if there was to be a revolt in Europe, it would most likely start in Scotland.’

  ‘But that’s all changed, hasn’t it? We’re talking capitalists, not Communists.’

  ‘Old ties,’ Blackman repeated. ‘Maybe they still think there’s a revolution on the cards.’ And he smiled wistfully, making Rebus think the man had at one time been a card-carrier. Hell, why not? Rebus had grown up in Fife, solidly working class and full of coal mines. Fife had elected Britain’s first - maybe even the only - Communist MP. In the 1950s and 60s there’d been plenty of Communist councillors. Rebus wasn’t old enough for the General Strike, but he remembered an aunt telling him about it - barricades erected, towns and villages cut off - UDI, basically. The People’s Kingdom of Fife. He had a little smile to himself, nodding at Terence Blackman.

  ‘By revolution you mean independence?’

  ‘Could hardly make a worse fist of it than the current lot ...’ Blackman’s mobile was ringing, and he pulled it from his pocket, walking away from Rebus and giving a little flick of the hand, hinting at dismissal.

  ‘Thanks for your time,’ Rebus muttered, heading for the door.

  On the pavement outside he tried the artist’s number. It rang and rang until an automated voice told him to leave a message. He did so, then tried another number. Siobhan Clarke picked up.

  ‘Enjoying your leisure time?’ she asked.

  ‘You’re one to talk - is that an espresso machine I hear?’

  ‘Had to get out of the station. Corbyn’s brought Derek Starr back.’

  ‘We knew it would happen.’

  ‘We did,’ she conceded. ‘So I’m having a bit of a blether with Nancy Sievewright. She tells me that the night of the Todorov killing, she was at Sol’s house trying to get some stuff. Only Sol was otherwise occupied, as we now know. But Nancy heard a car draw up and someone jump out and whack our poet across the back of the head.’

  ‘So he was attacked twice?’

  ‘It would seem so.’

  ‘Same person each time?’

  ‘Don’t know. I was beginning to wonder if Sol himself might have been the intended target second time around.’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  ‘You sound sceptical.’

  ‘Is Nancy in earshot?’

  ‘Popped to the loo.’

  ‘Well, for what it’s worth, how about this: Todorov’s jumped in the car park, that much we know. He staggers into the night, but the attacker calmly gets into his or her car and follows, decides to finish the job.’

  ‘Meaning the car was in the multistorey?’

  ‘Not necessarily ... could’ve been parked on the street. Is it worth another trip to the City Chambers? Go back through the video. Up till now, we were looking at pedestrians ...’

  ‘Ask your friend at Central Monitoring to bring us numberplates for any cars going in or out of King’s Stables Road?’ She seemed to be considering it. ‘Thing is, Starr’s busily rewinding to the mugging scenario.’

  ‘You’ve not told him about the car?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Are you going to?’ he asked teasingly.

  ‘The alternative being, keep it to myself, just like you would? Then if I’m right and he’s wrong, I get the applause? ’

  ‘You’re learning.’

  ‘I’ll have to mull it over.’ But he could tell she was already half convinced. ‘So what are you up to? I hear traffic.’

  ‘Bit of window-shopping.’

  ‘Pull the other one.’ She paused again. ‘Nancy’s coming back. I better hang up . . .’

  ‘Tell me, did Starr make one of his “into the breach” speeches?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’ll bet Goodyear lapped it up.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. Col liked it, though ... I’ve sent him and Phyl to First Albannach. Janney’s got Todorov’s account details.’

  ‘Took him long enough.’

  ‘Well, he’s had a lot on his plate - wining and dining the Russians at Gleneagles ...’

  Not to mention,
Rebus could have added, hanging around the Granton seafront with Cafferty and Andropov ... Instead, he said his goodbyes and hung up. Looked around him at the small shops: women’s boutiques mostly. Realised he was a two-minute walk from the Caledonian Hotel.

  ‘Why the hell not?’ he asked himself. Answer: no reason at all.

  At reception, he asked for ‘Mr Andropov’s room’. But no one was answering. The clerk asked if he wanted to leave a message, but he shook his head and sauntered into the bar. It wasn’t Freddie serving. This bartender was young and blonde and had an East European accent. To her opening question, Rebus replied that he’d have a Highland Park. She offered him ice, and he sensed she was new either to the job or to Scotland. He shook his head and asked where she was from.

  ‘Cracow,’ she said. ‘In Poland.’

  Rebus just nodded. His ancestors had come from Poland, but that was as much as he knew about the place. He slid on to a stool and scooped up some nuts from a bowl.

  ‘Here we are,’ she said, placing the drink in front of him.

  ‘And some water, please.’

  ‘Of course.’ She sounded flustered, annoyed to have made the mistake. About a pint of tap water arrived in a jug. Rebus added the merest dribble to the glass and swirled it in his hand.

  ‘Meeting someone?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s here to see me, I think.’ Rebus turned towards the speaker. Andropov must have been sitting in the same booth, the one with the blind spot. He managed a smile, but his eyes were cold.

  ‘Henchman not with you?’ Rebus asked.

  Andropov ignored this. ‘Another bottle of water,’ he told the barkeeper. ‘And no ice this time.’

  She nodded and took the bottle from a fridge, unscrewing it and pouring.

  ‘So, Inspector,’ Andropov was saying, ‘is it really me you’re looking for?’

  ‘Just happened to be in the area. I was visiting Terence Blackman’s gallery.’

  ‘You like art?’ Andropov’s eyebrows had gone up.

  ‘I’m very keen on Roddy Denholm. Especially those early ones where he got the pre-school kids to do some doodles.’

  ‘I think you are being mocking.’ Andropov had picked up his drink. ‘On my room,’ he instructed the bartender. Then, to Rebus: ‘Join me, please.’

  ‘This is the same booth?’ Rebus asked as they got settled.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘The booth you were in, the night Alexander Todorov was here.’

  ‘I didn’t even know he was in the bar.’

  ‘Cafferty paid for his drink. After the poet had gone, Cafferty then came over here and joined you.’ Rebus paused. ‘You and the Minister for Economic Development.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Andropov seemed to admit. ‘Really I am. I can see you are not a man to cut corners.’

  ‘Can’t be bought off, either.’

  ‘I’m sure of that, too.’ The Russian gave another smile; again, it didn’t reach his eyes.

  ‘So what were you chatting about with Jim Bakewell?’

  ‘Strange as it may seem, we were discussing economic development.’

  ‘You’re thinking of investing in Scotland?’

  ‘I find it such a welcoming country.’

  ‘But we’ve none of the stuff you’re interested in - no gas or coal or steel...’

  ‘You do have gas and coal actually. And oil, of course.’

  ‘About twenty years’ worth.’

  ‘In the North Sea, yes - but you’re forgetting the waters to the west. Plenty of oil in the Atlantic, Inspector, and eventually we will master the technology, allowing us to extract it. Then there are the alternative energies - wind and wave.’

  ‘Don’t forget all that hot air in the Parliament.’ Rebus took a sip of his drink, savouring it. ‘Doesn’t explain why you’re eyeing up derelict land in Edinburgh.’

  ‘You do keep a watchful eye, don’t you?’

  ‘Comes with the territory.’

  ‘Is it because of Mr Cafferty?’

  ‘Could be. How did you two get to know one another?’

  ‘Through business, Inspector. All of it above board, I assure you.’

  ‘That why the authorities back in Moscow are preparing to take you down?’

  ‘Politics,’ Andropov explained with a pained expression. ‘And a refusal to grease the necessary palms.’

  ‘So you’re being made an example of?’

  ‘Events will run their course ...’ He lifted his glass to his lips.

  ‘A lot of rich men are in jail in Russia. You’re not scared of joining them?’ Andropov just shrugged. ‘Lucky you’ve made plenty of friends here - not just Labour, but the SNP, too. Must be nice to feel so wanted.’ Still the Russian said nothing, so Rebus decided on a change of topic. ‘Tell me about Alexander Todorov.’

  ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘You mentioned that he got kicked out of his teaching post for being too friendly with the students.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m not finding anything about it in the records.’

  ‘It was hushed up, but plenty of people in Moscow knew.’

  ‘Funny, though, that you’d tell me that and forget to mention that the two of you grew up together - same age, same neighbourhood ...’

  Andropov looked at him. ‘Once again, I admit I’m impressed. ’

  ‘How well did you know him?’

  ‘Hardly at all. I’m afraid I came to represent everything Alexander detested. He would probably use words like “greed” and “ruthlessness”, while I prefer “self-reliance” and “dynamism”.’

  ‘He was an old-fashioned Communist?’

  ‘You know the English word “bolshie”? It has its roots in “bolshevism”, a Russian word. The Bolsheviks were fairly ruthless themselves, but these days bolshie just means awkward or stubborn ... that’s what Alexander was.’

  ‘You knew he was living in Edinburgh?’

  ‘I think I saw it mentioned in a newspaper.’

  ‘Did the two of you meet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Funny he started drinking here . . .’

  ‘Is it?’ Andropov shrugged again and took another sip of water.

  ‘So here you both are in Edinburgh, two men who grew up together, famous in your separate ways, and you didn’t think to get in touch?’

  ‘We would have had nothing to say to one another,’ Andropov declared. Then: ‘Would you like another drink, Inspector?’

  Rebus noticed that he’d finished the whisky. He shook his head and started to rise from the booth.

  ‘I’ll be sure to mention to Mr Bakewell that you dropped by,’ Andropov was saying.

  ‘Mention it to Cafferty, too, if you like,’ Rebus retorted. ‘He’ll tell you, once I get my teeth into something, I don’t let go.’

  ‘And yet the pair of you seem very similar... A pleasure talking to you, Inspector.’

  Outside, Rebus tried to get a cigarette lit in the swirling breeze. He had his head tucked into his jacket when the taxi pulled up, which meant he escaped the attention of Megan Macfarlane and Roddy Liddle, the MSP and her assistant marching into the hotel lobby, eyes fixed ahead of them. Rebus, blowing smoke skywards, wondered if Sergei Andropov would hesitate to tell them, too, about his recent visitor . . .

  30

  As Siobhan Clarke walked into the narrow CID room at West End police station, there was applause. Only two of the six desks were occupied, but both men wanted to show their appreciation.‘Feel free to keep Ray Reynolds as long as you like,’ DI Shug Davidson added with a grin, before introducing her to a detective constable called Adam Bruce. Davidson had his feet up on the desk, chair tilted back.

  ‘Nice to see you hard at it,’ Clarke commented. ‘Where’s everyone else?’

  ‘Probably getting some Christmas shopping done. Can I expect a little something from you this year, Shiv?’

  ‘I was thinking of sticking some gift-wrap on Ray and posting him
back.’

  ‘Don’t you dare. Any joy with Sol Goodyear?’

  ‘I’m not sure “joy” is quite the right word.’

  ‘He’s a sod, isn’t he? Couldn’t be more different from his brother. You know Todd goes to church on a Sunday?’

  ‘So he said.’

  ‘Talk about chalk and cheese ...’ Davidson was shaking his head slowly.

  ‘Can we talk about Larry Fintry instead?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Is he on remand?’

  Davidson gave a snort. ‘Cells are bursting at the seams, Shiv - you know that as well as I do.’

  ‘So he’s out on bail?’

  ‘Anything short of genocide and cannibalism these days, bail’s a nap.’

  ‘So where can I find him?’

  ‘He’s in a hostel up in Bruntsfield.’

  ‘What sort of hostel?’

  ‘Addiction problems. Doubt he’d be there this time of day, though.’ Davidson checked his watch. ‘Hunter Square or the Meadows, maybe.’

  ‘I was just in a café off Hunter Square.’

  ‘See any nutters hanging around?’

  ‘I saw a few street people,’ Clarke corrected him. She’d noticed that although Bruce was glued to a computer screen, he was actually playing Minesweeper.

  ‘The benches behind the old hospital,’ Davidson was saying, ‘he likes to hang out there sometimes. Might be a bit chilly, though. Drop-in centres on the Grassmarket and Cowgate are another possibility ... What is it you want him for?’

  ‘I’m starting to wonder if there might be a price on Sol Goodyear’s head.’

  Davidson gave a hoot. ‘Little turd’s not worth it.’

  ‘All the same...’

  ‘And no one in their right mind would give Crazy Larry the job. All this comes down to, Shiv, is Sol hassling Larry for money owed. It was probably when Sol said there’d be no more dope coming that Larry blew one of his last remaining fuses.’

  ‘Rewiring, that’s what the guy needs,’ DC Bruce added, eyes still fixed on the game in front of him.

  ‘If you want to go traipsing after Crazy Larry,’ Davidson said, ‘that’s fine, but don’t expect to get anything out of him. And I still don’t see Sol Goodyear as the target of a hit.’

  ‘He must have enemies.’

  ‘But he’s got friends, too.’

  Clarke narrowed her eyes. ‘Meaning?’