‘Maybe he just looked at this country and saw a version of his own... bought and sold for gold, tin, zinc, gas...’
‘Andropov again?’
Rebus offered a shrug. ‘Go get that CD,’ he told her.
37
The bookshop was small and cramped. Rebus feared that if he so much as turned around he would topple a display. The woman behind the till had her nose in a copy of something called Labyrinth. She only worked there part-time and hadn’t been to the Todorov reading.‘We’ve got some of his books, though.’
Rebus looked in the direction she was pointing. ‘Are they signed?’ he asked. For his troubles, Clarke poked him in the ribs before asking the assistant if any photos had been taken on the night. She nodded and muttered something about the shop’s website. Clarke looked to Rebus.
‘Should’ve thought of that first,’ she told him. So they drove back to her flat, Rebus deciding to double-park rather than seek a space further afield.
‘A while since I’ve been here,’ he said as she led him down the narrow hallway. It was much the same layout as his own flat, but with meaner proportions.
‘It’s nothing personal,’ she apologised. ‘Just that I don’t entertain much.’
They were in the living room by now. Chocolate wrappers on the rug next to the sofa, alongside an empty wine glass. On the sofa itself sat a large, venerable-looking teddy bear. Rebus picked it up.
‘It’s a Steiff,’ Clarke told him. ‘Had him since I was a kid.’
‘Has he got a name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Going to tell me what it is?’
‘No.’ She’d gone over to the computer desk by the window and switched on the laptop which rested there. She had one of those S-shaped stools that were supposed to be good for your back, but sat with her feet on the bit that was meant for her knees. Within a matter of moments, she had found the Word Power website. Clicked on ‘recent events’ and then ‘photo gallery’ and started a slow scroll. And there was Todorov, being introduced to the crowd. They were seated on the floor and standing at the back, and all had about them the aura of the converted.
‘How are we supposed to spot the Russians?’ Rebus asked, leaning his hands against the edge of the desk. ‘Cossack hats? Ice picks in their ears?’
‘We never did take a proper look at that list,’ Clarke said.
‘What list?’
‘The one Stahov brought - Russian residents in Edinburgh. He even had his own name on it, remember? Wonder if his driver’s on it, too.’ She was tapping the screen. Only his face was visible. He was seated on a brown leather sofa but with people crouched and seated on the floor in front of him. The photographer was no professional; everyone had been given red eyes. ‘Remember that stooshie at the mortuary? Stahov wanted Todorov’s remains repatriated. I’m pretty sure our friend here was with him.’ She tapped the screen again. Rebus leaned in further for a better look.
‘He’s Andropov’s driver,’ he said. ‘We went eyeball-to-eyeball in the lobby of the Caledonian Hotel.’
‘Must be working for two masters, then, because Stahov got into the back of his old Merc and this guy got behind the wheel.’ She turned her head and looked up at him. ‘Reckon he’ll talk to us?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Maybe he’ll claim diplomatic immunity. ’
‘Was he with Andropov that night in the bar?’
‘No one’s mentioned him.’
‘Might have been waiting outside with the car.’ She glanced at her watch.
‘What now?’ Rebus asked.
‘I’ve got that appointment with Jim Bakewell MSP.’
‘Where are you meeting him?’
‘The Parliament building.’
‘Tell him you need a coffee - I’ll be at the next table over.’
‘Haven’t you got anything better to do?’
‘Like what?’
‘Finding out who’s behind the attack on Cafferty.’
‘You don’t think there’s a link?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘I could really use a shot of that parliamentary espresso,’ Rebus told her.
She couldn’t help smiling. ‘All right then,’ she said. ‘And I really will have you over to supper one night - promise.’
‘Best give me plenty of warning . . . diary’s going to be bursting at the seams.’
‘Retirement’s a whole new beginning for some people,’ she agreed.
‘I don’t plan on twiddling my thumbs,’ he assured her.
Clarke had risen from the stool. She stood in front of him, arms by her sides, eyes fixed on his. The silence lasted fifteen or twenty seconds, Rebus smiling at the end, feeling they’d shared a long conversation without the need for words.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, breaking the spell.
They called the Western General from the car, checking on Cafferty’s progress.‘He’s not woken up,’ Rebus said, relaying the message for Clarke’s benefit. ‘Due another scan later today and they’ve got him on drugs to prevent a blood clot.’
‘Think we should send him flowers?’
‘Bit early for a wreath...’
They’d taken a short cut down Calton Road, parked in one of the residential streets at Abbeyhill. Clarke told him to give her a five-minute start, which gave Rebus enough time for a cigarette. Tourists were milling around, a few interested in the Parliament building but the majority keener on the Palace of Holyrood across the street. One or two seemed to be puzzling over the vertical bamboo bars across some of the Parliament’s windows.
‘Join the club,’ Rebus muttered, stubbing the cigarette and heading inside. As he emptied his pockets and prepared for the metal detector at security, he asked one of the guards about the bamboo.
‘Search me,’ the man said.
‘Isn’t that supposed to be my line?’ Rebus replied. On the other side of the detector, he scooped up his stuff and made for the coffee bar. Clarke was in the queue and he took his place directly behind her. ‘Where’s Bakewell?’ he asked.
‘On his way down. He’s not a “coffee person” apparently, but I said it was for my benefit rather than his.’ She ordered her cappuccino and got out some money.
‘Might as well add mine to the order,’ Rebus said. ‘And make it a double.’
‘Want me to drink it for you, too?’
‘Could be the last espresso you ever buy me,’ he chided her.
They found two adjacent tables and settled at them. Rebus still wasn’t sure about this vast, echoing interior. If someone had told him he was in an airport, he might have believed them. He couldn’t tell what sort of statement it was supposed to be making. One newspaper report from a few years back had stuck in his mind, the journalist speculating that the building was too elaborate for its actual purpose and was, in fact, ‘an independent parliament in waiting’. Made sense when you remembered that the architect was Catalan.
‘Detective Sergeant Clarke?’ Jim Bakewell shook Clarke’s hand and she asked him if he wanted anything. ‘We could take your drink to my office,’ was all he said.
‘Yes, but now that we’re here . . .’
Bakewell sighed and sat down, adjusting his glasses. He wore a tweed jacket and what looked like a tweed tie over a check shirt.
‘Won’t take long, sir,’ Clarke was telling him. ‘Wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Alexander Todorov.’
‘I was sorry to hear about him,’ Bakewell declared, but he was adjusting the creases in his trousers as he spoke.
‘You shared a platform with him on Question Time?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Can I ask for your general impression of him?’
Bakewell’s eyes were milky-blue. He nodded a greeting to a passing flunky before addressing the question. ‘I was late arriving, got held up in traffic. Barely had time to shake hands with him before we were ushered into the hall. He wouldn’t wear any make-up, I remember that much.’ He removed his glasses and started polishing t
hem with a handkerchief. ‘Seemed quite brusque with everybody, but he was fine in front of the cameras.’ He put his glasses back on and tucked the handkerchief into a trouser pocket.
‘And afterwards?’ Clarke asked.
‘I seem to think he shot off. Nobody really hangs around. It would mean making small talk with each other.’
‘Fraternising with the enemy?’ Clarke offered.
‘Along those lines, yes.’
‘So is that how you see Megan Macfarlane?’
‘Megan’s a lovely woman . . .’
‘But you’re not dropping round one another’s houses for a chinwag?’
‘Not exactly,’ Bakewell said with a thin smile.
‘Ms Macfarlane seems to think the SNP will win May’s election.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘You don’t think Scotland’s going to want to give Blair a bloody nose over Iraq?’
‘There’s no appetite for independence,’ Bakewell stated gruffly.
‘No appetite for Trident either.’
‘Labour will do just fine come May, Sergeant. Please don’t lose any sleep on our behalf.’
Clarke seemed to be collecting her thoughts. ‘And what about the last time you saw him?’
‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘The night Mr Todorov was killed, he’d just been having a drink in the Caledonian Hotel. You were there, too, Mr Bakewell.’
‘Was I?’ Bakewell furrowed his brow, as if trying to remember.
‘You were seated in one of the booths with a businessman called Sergei Andropov.’
‘Was that the same night?’ He watched Clarke nod slowly. ‘Well, I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Mr Andropov and Mr Todorov grew up together.’
‘That’s news to me.’
‘You didn’t see Todorov in the bar?’
‘I did not.’
‘He was bought a drink by a local gangster called Morris Gerald Cafferty.’
‘Mr Cafferty did join us at the table, but he didn’t have anyone with him.’
‘Had you met him before?’
‘No.’
‘But you knew his reputation?’
‘I knew he was . . . well, “gangster” is maybe a bit strong, Sergeant. But he’s a reformed character now.’ The politician paused. ‘Unless you have evidence to the contrary.’
‘What were the three of you talking about?’
‘Trade . . . the commercial climate.’ Bakewell shrugged. ‘Nothing very riveting.’
‘And when Cafferty joined you, he didn’t happen to mention Alexander Todorov?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘What time did you leave the bar, sir?’
Bakewell puffed out his cheeks with the effort of remembering. ‘Quarter past eleven ... some time around then.’
‘Andropov and Cafferty were still there?’
‘Yes.’
Clarke paused for a moment’s thought. ‘How well did Cafferty seem to know Mr Andropov?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘But it wasn’t the first time they’d met?’
‘Mr Cafferty’s company is representing Mr Andropov in some development projects.’
‘Why did he choose Cafferty?’
Bakewell gave an irritated laugh. ‘Go ask him yourself.’
‘I’m asking you, sir.’
‘I get the feeling you’re fishing, Sergeant, and none too subtly at that. As development minister it’s my job to discuss future planning potential with businesspersons of good standing.’
‘So you had your advisers with you?’ Clarke watched Bakewell try to form an answer. ‘If you were there in your official capacity,’ she pressed, ‘I’m assuming you’d have a team backing you up . . .?’
‘It was an informal meeting,’ the politician snapped.
‘Is that a regular occurrence, sir, in your line of work?’ Bakewell was about to remonstrate, either that or retreat. He had his hands pressed to his knees, readying to rise to his feet. But there was a woman approaching, and she was already addressing him.
‘Jim, where have you been hiding yourself?’ Megan Macfarlane turned towards Clarke and her face fell. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘I’m being grilled about Alexander Todorov,’ Bakewell explained. ‘And Sergei Andropov.’
Macfarlane glowered at Clarke and seemed ready to attack, but Clarke didn’t give her the chance. ‘I’m glad I caught you, Ms Macfarlane,’ she said. ‘I wanted to ask about Charles Riordan.’
‘Who?’
‘He was recording your committee for an art installation. ’
‘Roddy Denholm’s project, you mean?’ Macfarlane sounded interested. ‘What about it?’
‘Mr Riordan was friends with Alexander Todorov, and now both men are dead.’
But if Clarke had hoped to divert Macfarlane’s attention, she’d failed. The MSP stabbed a finger in Rebus’s direction. ‘What’s he doing skulking there?’
Bakewell turned towards Rebus but had no idea who he was. ‘I’m at a loss,’ he admitted.
‘That’s her boss,’ Macfarlane explained. ‘Looks to me like your private chat wasn’t so private, Jim.’
Bakewell stopped looking puzzled and started to look furious instead. ‘Is this true?’ he asked Clarke. But Macfarlane, clearly enjoying every moment, was speaking again.
‘What’s more, I hear he’s been suspended from duty, pending retirement.’
‘And how did you hear that, Ms Macfarlane?’ Rebus asked.
‘I had a meeting with your Chief Constable yesterday and happened to mention your name.’ She made a tutting sound. ‘He’s not going to be pleased about this, is he?’
‘It’s an outrage,’ Bakewell spluttered, finally rising to his feet.
‘I’ve James Corbyn’s number if you need it,’ Macfarlane was telling her colleague as she waved her phone at him. Her assistant, Roddy Liddle, had arrived by her side, laden with files and folders.
‘An outrage!’ Bakewell repeated, causing heads to turn. Two security guards were looking particularly interested.
‘Shall we?’ Clarke suggested to Rebus. He still had half a shot of espresso left, but thought it only good manners to accompany her as she stalked towards the exit.
38
‘What now?’ Rebus asked as he drove her back towards Gayfield Square.‘Talk to Stahov’s driver, I suppose.’
‘Think the consulate will let you?’
‘Have you got a better idea?’
He shrugged. ‘Just that it might be easier to grab him on the street.’
‘What if he doesn’t speak English?’
‘I think he does,’ Rebus stated, remembering the cars parked by the canal, Cafferty’s bodyguard in conversation with Andropov’s driver. ‘And if he doesn’t, we both know a friendly translator.’ Rebus gestured towards the back seat, where he’d slung the CD. ‘And she’s about to owe us a favour.’
‘So I just grab the driver off the street and interrogate him?’ She was staring at Rebus. ‘How much more trouble do you want me to be in?’
The Saab crossed at the Regent Road lights and headed into Royal Terrace. ‘How much can you take?’ he eventually asked.
‘Not much more,’ she admitted. ‘You think Bakewell will talk to the Chief Constable?’
‘He might.’
‘Then I’ll probably be sharing that suspension with you.’
He glanced at her. ‘Won’t that be fun?’
‘I think you’re getting demob-happy, John.’
A patrol car was suddenly behind them, its lights flashing. ‘Christ, what now?’ Rebus complained to no one in particular. He pulled over just short of the next roundabout and got out.
The patrolman took a bit of time adjusting the cap he’d just fixed to his head. He wasn’t anyone Rebus knew.
‘DI Rebus?’ the officer checked. Rebus nodded his confirmation.
‘Got orders to bring you in.’
‘Bring me where?’
/>
‘West End.’
‘Shug Davidson’s throwing me a surprise party?’
‘I wouldn’t know about that.’
Maybe not, but Rebus did: they had something to pin on him, and the bookies were giving a million to one on it being a medal. Rebus turned towards Clarke. She was out of the car now, resting her hands against its roof. Pedestrians had paused for a moment to watch the drama.
‘Take the Saab,’ Rebus told her. ‘See that Dr Colwell gets the CD.’
‘What about the chauffeur?’
‘Some things you’re going to have to decide for yourself.’
He got into the back of the patrol car. ‘Blues and twos, lads,’ he said. ‘Can’t keep Shug Davidson waiting.’
But it wasn’t Davidson waiting for him at Torphichen Place, it was DI Calum Stone, seated behind the interview room’s only table while DS Prosser stood in the corner, hands in pockets.
‘Seems I’ve got a fan club,’ Rebus commented, sitting down opposite Stone.
‘Got a bit of news for you,’ Stone responded. ‘It was Cafferty’s blood on that overshoe.’
‘DNA usually takes longer than that.’
‘All right, then - Cafferty’s blood type.’
‘I sense a “but” ...’
‘No usable prints,’ Stone admitted.
‘Meaning you can’t prove it came from the boot of my car?’ Rebus clapped his hands together once and began getting to his feet. ‘Well, nice of you to let me know . . .’
‘Sit down, Rebus.’
Rebus considered for a few seconds, then sat.
‘Cafferty’s still unconscious,’ Stone explained. ‘They’re not talking coma yet, but I know they’re thinking it. Doctor says he could end his days a vegetable.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘So it looks like we might not get to steal your glory after all.’
‘You still think I did it?’
‘I bloody well know you did.’
‘And I told DS Clarke all about it because I needed her to phone you and get you away from the stakeout?’ Rebus watched Stone’s slow, sustained nod.
‘You used your crime-scene kit so you wouldn’t get any blood on you,’ Prosser snapped from the corner. ‘Shoe blew into the canal and you couldn’t risk going in after it...’