‘With respect, Dr Colwell, you’re a beautiful woman, and I get the impression Alexander Todorov liked women. I’m not sure the existence of any partner short of a Ninja assassin would have deterred him.’
She gave another perfect smile, lowering her lashes in feigned modesty.
‘Well,’ she admitted, ‘you’re right, of course. After a few drinks, Alexander’s libido seemed always to be refreshed.’
‘A nice way of putting it. Are the words his?’
‘All my own work, Inspector.’
‘He seems to have thought of you as a friend, though, or he wouldn’t have taken you into his confidence.’
‘I’m not sure he had any real friends. Writers are like that sometimes - they see the rest of us as source material. Can you imagine being in bed with someone and knowing they’re going to write about it afterwards? Knowing the whole world will be reading about that most intimate of moments?’
‘I take your point.’ Rebus paused to clear his throat. ‘But he must have had some way of ... “quenching” that libido you mentioned?’
‘Oh, he had women, Inspector.’
‘Students? Here in Edinburgh?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘Or how about Abigail Thomas at the Poetry Library? You seemed to think she had a crush on him.’
‘Probably not reciprocated,’ Colwell said dismissively. Then, after a moment’s thought: ‘You really think Alexander was killed by a woman?’
Rebus shrugged. He was thinking of Todorov, more than a few drinks under his belt, weaving his way down King’s Stables Road, a woman suddenly offering him no-strings sex. Would he have gone with a stranger? Probably. But even more likely with someone he’d known...
‘Did Mr Todorov ever mention a man called Andropov?’ he asked.
She mouthed the name several times, deep in thought, then gave up. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘Another long shot: how about someone called Cafferty?’
‘I’m not really helping, am I?’ she said as she shook her head.
‘Sometimes the things we rule out are as important as the ones we rule in,’ he reassured her.
‘Like in Sherlock Holmes?’ she said. ‘When you’ve eliminated the—’ She broke off with a frown. ‘I can never remember that quote, but you must know it?’
He nodded, not wanting her to think him ill-read. Every day on his way to work, he passed a statue of Sherlock Holmes by the roundabout on Leith Street. Turned out it was marking the spot where they’d knocked down Conan Doyle’s childhood home.
‘What is it then?’ she was asking.
He gave a shrug. ‘I’m like you, never seem to get it right . . .’
She rose from her chair and came around the desk, her skirt brushing against his legs as she squeezed past. She lifted a book from one of the shelves. From the spine, Rebus could tell it was a collection of quotations. She found the Doyle section and ran a finger down it, finding what she was looking for.
‘“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”’ She frowned again. ‘That’s not how I remember it. I thought it was to do with eliminating the possible rather than its opposite.’
‘Mmm,’ Rebus said, hoping she’d think he was agreeing with her. He placed his empty mug on the table. ‘Well, Dr Colwell, seeing how I’ve done you a favour . . .’
‘Quid pro quo?’ She clapped the book shut. Dust rose from its pages.
‘I was just wondering if I could have the key to Todorov’s flat.’
‘As it happens, you’re in luck. Someone from Building Services was supposed to stop by and get it, but so far no sign.’
‘What will they do with all his stuff?’
‘The consulate said they’d take it. He must have some family back in Russia.’ She’d gone behind the desk again and opened a drawer, bringing out the key-chain. Rebus took it from her with a nod of thanks. ‘There’s a servitor on the ground floor here,’ she explained. ‘If I’m not around, you can always leave it with him.’ She paused. ‘And you won’t forget that recording?’
‘Trust me.’
‘It’s just that the studio seemed pretty sure it’s the only copy left. Poor Mr Riordan - what a terrible way to die . . .’
Back outside again, Rebus descended the steps from George Square to Buccleuch Place. There were a few students around. They looked ... the only word for it was studious. He stopped at the bottom of the steps to light a cigarette, but the temperature was sinking, and he decided he might as well smoke it indoors.
Todorov’s flat seemed unchanged from his first visit, except that the scraps of paper from the bin had been laid flat on the desk - Scarlett Colwell most probably, seeking the elusive poem. Rebus had forgotten about those six copies of Astapovo Blues. Had to find someone with an eBay account so he could shift them. Looking more closely at the room, he decided someone had removed some of the poet’s book collection. Colwell again? Or some other member of staff? Rebus wondered if he’d been beaten to it - a glut of Todorov memorabilia bringing prices down. He realised his phone was ringing and took it out. Didn’t recognise the number, but it had the international code on the front.
‘Detective Inspector Rebus speaking,’ he said.
‘Hello, it’s Roddy Denholm, returning your mysterious call.’ The voice was an educated Anglo-Scots drawl.
‘Not too much of a mystery, Mr Denholm, and I do appreciate you taking the trouble.’
‘You’re lucky I’m a night owl, Inspector.’
‘It’s the middle of the day here . . .’
‘But not in Singapore.’
‘Mr Blackman thought either Melbourne or Hong Kong.’
Denholm laughed a smoker’s throaty laugh. ‘I suppose I could be anywhere, actually, couldn’t I? I could be around the next corner for all you know. Bloody wonderful things, mobile phones . . .’
‘If you are around the next corner, sir, be cheaper to do this in person.’
‘You could always hop on a jet to Singapore.’
‘Trying to lower my carbon footprint, sir.’ Rebus blew cigarette smoke towards the living-room ceiling.
‘So where are you right now, Inspector?’
‘Buccleuch Place.’
‘Ah yes, the university district.’
‘Standing in a dead man’s flat.’
‘Not a sentence I think I’ve ever heard.’ The artist sounded duly impressed.
‘He wasn’t quite in your line of work, sir - poet called Alexander Todorov.’
‘I’ve heard of him.’
‘He was killed just over a week ago and your name has cropped up in the inquiry.’
‘Do tell.’ It sounded as though Denholm was getting himself comfortable on a hotel bed. Rebus, likewise, sat down on the sofa, an elbow on one knee.
‘You’ve been doing a project at the Parliament. There was a man making some sound recordings for you...’
‘Charlie Riordan?’
‘I’m afraid he’s dead, too.’ Rebus heard low whistling on the line. ‘Someone torched his house.’
‘Are the tapes okay?’
‘As far as we know, sir.’
Denholm caught Rebus’s tone. ‘I must sound an insensitive bastard,’ he admitted.
‘Don’t fret - it was the first thing your dealer asked, too.’
Denholm chuckled. ‘Poor guy, though . . .’
‘You knew him?’
‘Not until the Parliament project. Seemed likeable, capable . . . didn’t really talk to him that much.’
‘Well, Mr Riordan had also been doing some work with Alexander Todorov.’
‘Christ, does that mean I’m next?’
Rebus couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so, sir.’
‘You’re not phoning to warn me?’
‘I just thought it an interesting coincidence.’
‘Except that I didn’t know Alexander Todorov from Adam.’
‘Maybe not, but one of your
fans did - Sergei Andropov. ’
‘I know the name...’
‘He collects your work. Russian businessman, grew up with Mr Todorov.’ Rebus heard another whistle. ‘You’ve never met him?’
‘Not that I know of.’ There was silence for a moment. ‘You think this Andropov guy killed the poet?’
‘We’re keeping an open mind.’
‘Was it some obscure isotope like that guy in London?’
‘He was beaten to a pulp before someone caved his skull in.’
‘Not exactly subtle then.’
‘Not exactly. Tell me something, Mr Denholm - how did you come to choose the Urban Regeneration Committee for your project?’
‘They chose me, Inspector - we asked if anyone would be interested in taking part, and their chairman said she was up for it.’
‘Megan Macfarlane?’
‘No shortage of ego there, Inspector - I speak as one who knows.’
‘I’m sure you do, sir.’ Rebus heard something like a doorbell.
‘That’ll be room service,’ Denholm explained.
‘I’ll let you go then,’ Rebus said. ‘Thanks for calling, Mr Denholm.’
‘No problem.’
‘One last thing, though ...’ Rebus paused just long enough to ensure he had the artist’s full attention. ‘Before you let them in, best check that it really is room service.’
He snapped shut his phone and allowed himself a little smile.
32
‘Can’t be that much of it, if it fits on to one of these,’ Siobhan Clarke commented. She was back in the CID suite and, DCI Macrae being elsewhere, had commandeered his room, the better to accommodate Terry Grimm. Seated at her boss’s desk, she held the clear plastic memory stick between thumb and forefinger, angling it in the light.‘You’d be surprised,’ Grimm said. ‘I’m guessing there’s about sixteen hours on there. Could have squeezed more in if there had been anything usable. Unfortunately, the heat of the fire had done for most of it.’ He’d brought the evidence sacks with him. They were tied shut, but still carried the faintest aroma of charcoal.
‘Did anything catch your eye?’ Clarke paused. ‘Or ear, I suppose I should say.’
Grimm shook his head. ‘Tell you what I did do, though ...’ He reached into his inside pocket and drew out a CD in a plastic wallet. ‘Charlie taped the Russian poet at another event, few weeks back. Happened to come across it at the studio, so I burned you a copy.’ He handed it over.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘Some lecturer at the university was after the other show Charlie taped, but as far as I know you’ve got the only existing copy.’
‘Name of Colwell?’
‘That’s it.’ He stared at the backs of his hands. ‘Any nearer to finding out who killed him?’
She gestured in the direction of the main office. ‘You can see we’re not exactly resting on our laurels.’
He nodded, but his eyes never left hers. ‘Good way of avoiding an answer,’ he stated.
‘It’s a case of finding the “why”, Mr Grimm. If you can help shed some light, we’d be incredibly grateful.’
‘I’ve been turning it over in my head. Hazel and me have bounced it around, too. Still doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Well, if you do think of anything ...’ She was rising to her feet, signalling that the meeting was over. Through the glass partition, she could see that there was a hubbub in the outer office. Out of it emerged Todd Goodyear. He knocked once and entered, closing the door after him.
‘If I’m going to manage to actually hear what’s on those committee recordings, I’m going to need to shift my stuff,’ he complained. ‘It’s like the monkey house out there.’ He recognised Terry Grimm and gave a little nod of greeting.
‘The Parliament tapes?’ Grimm guessed. ‘You’re still trawling through them?’
‘Still trawling.’ Goodyear had a sheaf of paper under one arm. He held the sheets out for Clarke to take. She saw that he had typed up his detailed notes on the contents of each tape. There was screeds of the stuff. In her early days as a detective, she, too, would have been this meticulous ... back before Rebus showed her how to cut corners.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘And this is for you . . .’ Handing him the memory stick. ‘Mr Grimm reckons there’s about sixteen hours’ worth.’
Goodyear gave a protracted sigh, and asked Terry Grimm how things were at the studio.
‘Just about coping, thanks.’
Clarke was sifting the typed sheets. ‘Did anything here jump out at you?’ she asked Goodyear.
‘Not one single thing,’ he informed her.
‘Imagine how we felt,’ Grimm added, ‘sitting there for days on end, listening to politician after politician drone on ...’
Goodyear just shook his head, unwilling to imagine himself in that role.
‘What you got was the good stuff,’ Grimm assured him.
Clarke noticed that it had quietened down in the main office. ‘What was the noise about?’ she asked Goodyear.
‘Bit of a free-for-all at the mortuary,’ he explained casually, tossing the memory stick into the air and catching it. ‘Someone’s trying to claim Todorov’s body. DI Starr wanted to know who was the fastest driver.’ Another toss, another catch. ‘DC Reynolds claimed he was. Not everyone agreed ...’ He had been slow to notice that Clarke was glaring at him, but now his voice trailed off. ‘I should have told you straight off?’ he guessed.
‘That’s right,’ she answered in a voice of quiet menace. And then, to Terry Grimm: ‘PC Goodyear will see you out. Thanks again for coming.’
She marched downstairs to the car park and got into her car. Started the ignition and drove. She wanted to ask Starr why he hadn’t said anything ... why he hadn’t asked her. Giving the job to one of his boys instead - Ray Reynolds, at that! Was it because she’d gone off without telling him? Was it so she’d know her place in future?
She had plenty of questions for DI Derek Starr.
She turned right at the top of Leith Street, then hard left on to North Bridge. Straight across at the Tron and a right-hand turn, crossing oncoming traffic and on to Blair Street, passing Nancy Sievewright’s flat again. If Talking Heads really did reckon London a ‘small city’, they should try Edinburgh. No more than eight minutes after leaving Gayfield Square, she was pulling into the mortuary car park, stopping alongside Reynolds’s car and wondering if she’d beaten his time. There was another car, a big old Mercedes Benz, parked between two of the mortuary’s anonymous white transit vans. Clarke stalked past it to the door marked Staff Only, turned the handle and went in. There was no one in the corridor, and no one in the staff room, though steam was rising from the spout of a recently boiled kettle. She moved through the holding area and opened another door into a further corridor, up some stairs to the next level. This was where the public entrance was. It was where relatives waited to identify their loved ones and where the subsequent paperwork was taken care of. Usually it was a place of low sobbing, quiet reflection, utter and ghastly silence. But not today.
She recognised Nikolai Stahov straight off. He wore the same long black coat as when they’d first met. Alongside him stood a man who also looked Russian, maybe five years younger but almost as many inches taller and broader. Stahov was remonstrating in English with Derek Starr, who stood with arms folded, legs apart, as if ready for a ruck. Next to him was Reynolds, and behind them the four mortuary staff.
‘We have right,’ Stahov was saying. ‘Constitutional right ... moral right.’
‘A murder inquiry is ongoing,’ Starr explained. ‘The body has to stay here in case further tests are required.’
Stahov, glancing to his left, had noticed Clarke. ‘Help us, please,’ he implored her. She took a few steps forward.
‘What seems to be the problem?’
Starr glared at her. ‘The consulate wants to repatriate Mr Todorov’s remains,’ he explained.
‘Alexander needs to be buried in his home
land,’ Stahov stated.
‘Is there anything in his will to that effect?’ Clarke asked.
‘Will or no will, his wife is buried in Moscow—’
‘Something I’ve been meaning to ask,’ Clarke interrupted. Stahov had turned completely towards her, which seemed to annoy Starr. ‘What actually happened to his wife?’
‘Cancer,’ Stahov told her. ‘They could have operated, but she would have lost the baby she was carrying. So she continued with the pregnancy.’ Stahov offered a shrug. ‘The baby was stillborn, and by then the mother only had a few days to live.’
The story seemed to have calmed the whole room. Clarke nodded slowly. ‘Why the sudden urgency, Mr Stahov? Alexander died eight days ago . . . why wait till now?’
‘All we want is to return him home, with due respect to his international stature.’
‘I wasn’t sure he had that much stature in Russia. Didn’t you say that the Nobel Prize isn’t such a big deal in Moscow these days?’
‘Governments can have changes of heart.’
‘What you’re saying is, you’re under orders from the Kremlin?’
Stahov’s eyes gave nothing away. ‘There being no next of kin, the state becomes responsible. I have the authority to request his body.’
‘But we have no authority to release it,’ Starr countered, having shuffled around towards Clarke, the better to meet Stahov’s eye-line. ‘You’re a diplomat; you must be aware that there are protocols.’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’
‘Meaning,’ Clarke explained, ‘we’ll be hanging on to the body until instructed otherwise by judgment or decree.’
‘It is scandalous.’ Stahov busied himself tugging at the cuffs of his coat. ‘I’m not sure how such a situation can be kept from public view.’
‘Go crying to the papers,’ Starr taunted him. ‘See where it gets you . . .’
‘Start the process,’ Clarke counselled the Russian. ‘That’s all you can do.’
Stahov met her eyes again and nodded slowly, then turned on his heels and headed for the exit, followed by his driver. As soon as both men had left, Starr grabbed Clarke by the arm.
‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed.
She twisted out of his grip. ‘I’m where I should have been all along, Derek.’