Exit Music
‘We’ve been through this!’ Rebus spat back.
‘No doubt we’ll go over it again,’ Stone warned. ‘Soon as we’ve completed our inquiries.’
‘I can hardly wait.’ This time Rebus did rise to his feet. ‘That all you wanted me for?’
Stone just nodded again, then waited until Rebus reached the door before firing another question at him. ‘Officers who brought you in say there was a woman in the car with you - DS Clarke, I presume?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Liar,’ Prosser shot back at him.
‘You’re still on suspension, Rebus,’ Stone was saying. ‘Do you really want to take her down with you?’
‘Funny, she asked me much the same thing not half an hour ago . . .’ Rebus pushed open the door and made good his escape.
Dr Scarlett Colwell was at her computer when Siobhan Clarke arrived. To Clarke’s mind, the woman used a touch too much make-up and would look better without it. Nice hair, though, even if she suspected there might be a bit of dye in it.‘I’ve brought the CD of the poetry reading,’ Clarke said, placing it on the desk.
‘Thank you so much.’ Colwell picked it up and studied it.
‘Can I ask you to take a look at something?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll need to use your computer ...’ The academic gestured for Clarke to sit at the desk. Clarke squeezed past her, Colwell standing at her shoulder as she accessed the Word Power site and clicked the photo gallery option, bringing up the pictures from the café. ‘That picture,’ she said, nodding towards the wall and the shot of Todorov. ‘Did you happen to take any others?’
‘They were so bad, I deleted them. I’m not great with cameras.’
Clarke nodded and pressed a finger against the screen. ‘Remember him?’ she asked.
Colwell peered at the chauffeur’s face. ‘He was there, yes.’
‘But you don’t know who he is?’
‘Should I?’
‘Did Todorov speak to him?’
‘I couldn’t say. Who is he?’
‘A Russian . . . he works at the consulate.’
Colwell stared more intently at the face. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think he was at the Poetry Library, too.’
Clarke turned towards her. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Him and another man...’ But she started to shake her head. ‘Actually, I’m not certain.’
‘Take your time,’ Clarke invited, so Colwell ran both hands through her tresses and did some more thinking.
‘I’m really not sure,’ she confessed after a pause, letting the hair fall around her face again. ‘I could be conflating the two readings - do you see what I mean?’
‘Imagining the man into the one because you know he was at the other?’
‘Exactly so ... Do you have any other photos of him?’
‘No.’ But Clarke started typing again, entering the name Nikolai Stahov into the search engine. She drew a blank, so described the consular official to Colwell instead.
‘Doesn’t ring any bells,’ the academic apologised, so Clarke tried again, this time with a description of Andropov. When Colwell gave another shrug, Clarke tried the website for the Evening News. Skipping back through the days until she’d found the story about the Russians and their blowout meal. Tapping one of the faces in the onscreen photograph.
‘He does look familiar,’ Colwell admitted.
‘From the Poetry Library?’
The academic shrugged and gave a long sigh. Clarke told her not to worry and called the Poetry Library on her mobile.
‘Ms Thomas?’ she asked when her call was answered.
‘Not in today,’ another female voice reported. ‘Can I help?’
‘My name’s Detective Sergeant Clarke. I’m investigating Alexander Todorov’s murder and I need to ask her something. ’
‘She’s at home today... do you have her number?’
Clarke jotted the number down, then made the call. She asked Abigail Thomas if she had easy access to the Web, then talked her through the links to Word Power and the newspaper.
‘Mm, yes,’ Thomas eventually said, ‘both of them, I think. Seated near the front, second row maybe.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Fairly sure.’
‘Just to check, Ms Thomas . . . no one took photos that night?’
‘The odd person could have used their camera-phone, I suppose.’
‘And you’ve no CCTV in the library?’
‘It’s a library,’ Abigail Thomas stressed.
‘Just a thought . . . Thanks for your help.’ Clarke ended the call.
‘Why is it so important?’ Colwell asked, breaking Clarke’s reverie.
‘Might not be,’ the detective admitted. ‘But Todorov and Andropov had a drink in the same bar, the night the poet was killed.’
‘Judging by the news story, Mr Andropov is some sort of businessman?’
‘They grew up in the same part of Moscow. DI Rebus says they knew one another . . .’
‘Oh.’
Clarke saw that she’d struck a nerve. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Might help to explain something,’ Colwell mused.
‘And what’s that, Dr Colwell?’
The academic picked up the CD. ‘Alexander’s extempore poem.’ She walked over to a set of shelves and crouched down in front of it. There was a portable hi-fi there, and she slotted home the recording, then pressed ‘play’. The room was filled with the sounds of the audience finding their seats and clearing their throats. ‘About halfway through,’ Colwell added, holding down the skip button. But this took her directly to the end of the recording. ‘Forgot,’ she said, ‘there’s only the one continuous track.’ So she went back to the start and this time used the fast-forward facility.
‘First time I listened,’ Clarke said, ‘I noticed he performed some poems in English, some in Russian.’
Colwell nodded. ‘The new poem was in Russian. Ah, here it is.’ She trotted back to her desk and brought out a pad of paper and a pen, concentrating hard as she started to write. Eventually, she told Clarke to press ‘rewind’. They listened again, Clarke hitting ‘pause’ when she felt Colwell was falling behind. ‘I really need more time,’ the academic apologised. ‘This isn’t the ideal way to translate a poem ...’
‘Call it a work in progress,’ Clarke cajoled her. Colwell pushed a hand through her mane of hair and started again. After twenty minutes, she tossed the pen back on to the desk. On the CD, Todorov was using English to tell the audience that the next poem was from Astapovo Blues.
‘He didn’t say anything about the new work,’ Clarke realised.
‘Nothing,’ Colwell agreed.
‘Didn’t introduce it, either.’
Colwell shook her head, then pushed her hair back into place again. ‘I’m not sure how many people would have realised it was a new piece.’
‘How can you be sure it was new?’
‘There don’t seem to be any drafts in his flat, and I know his published work rather well.’
Clarke nodded her understanding and held her hand out. ‘May I?’ The academic seemed reluctant, but eventually handed the pad over. ‘It’s really very rough . . . I’ve no idea where the line breaks would go ...’
Clarke ignored her and started reading.
Winter’s tongue licks the children of Zhdanov ... The Devil’s tongue licks Mother Russia, coating tastebuds with precious metals. Heartless appetite ... The gut’s greed knows no fullness, no still moment, no love. Desire ripens, but only to blight. There are morsels here for all in the heat of famine, penances for all as the winter’s shadow falls... such a package of scoundrels in my country.
Clarke read it through twice more, then met Colwell’s eyes. ‘It’s not very good, is it?’
‘It’s a bit rough at the edges,’ the academic said defensively.
‘I don’t mean your translation,’ Clarke assured her.
Colwell nodded ev
entually. ‘But there’s an anger to it.’
Clarke remembered Professor Gates’s words at the Todorov autopsy - there’s a fury here. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘And all that imagery of food . . .’
Colwell cottoned on. ‘The news story? But surely that appeared after Alexander died?’
‘True, but the dinner itself was a few days earlier - maybe he’d found out about it.’
‘So you’re saying this is a poem about the businessman? ’
‘Composed on the spot, just to get up his nose. Andropov made his fortune from those “precious metals” Todorov mentions.’
‘Making him the Devil?’
‘You don’t sound wholly convinced.’
‘The translation is rough... I’m guessing at some of the phrases. I really need more time with it.’
Clarke nodded slowly, then remembered something. ‘Can I try another CD with you?’ She found what she was looking for in her bag and knelt down next to the hi-fi. Again, it took a little while to find the moment when, at the Word Power reading, Charles Riordan’s roving mic picked up the Russian voice.
‘There,’ Clarke said.
‘It’s only a couple of words,’ Colwell said. ‘He’s answering a phone call. All he says is “hello” and “yes”.’
‘Worth a try,’ Clarke said with a sigh, ejecting the disc and rising to her feet. She reached for the pad of paper again. ‘Can I take the poem with me meantime? Leave you to get on with something you feel is more accurate?’
‘There was bad blood between Alexander and this businessman? ’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘But it’s a motive, right? And if they met again in that bar . . .’
Clarke held up a hand in warning. ‘We’ve no evidence that they even saw one another in that bar, which is why I’d be grateful if you kept all of this to yourself, Dr Colwell. Otherwise you could jeopardise the inquiry.’
‘I understand.’ The academic nodded her agreement. Clarke tore the sheet from the pad and folded it into four.
‘One little piece of advice,’ Clarke said as she finished folding. ‘The final line of the poem, he’s quoting from Robert Burns. It’s not “a package of scoundrels” ... it’s “a parcel of rogues” ...’
39
Rebus sat by the bedside of Morris Gerald Cafferty.He’d shown his warrant card and asked the day shift if Cafferty had had any other visitors. The nurse had shaken her head.
No, because - despite his goading of Rebus - Cafferty had no friends. His wife was dead, his son murdered years back. His trusted lieutenant of long standing had ‘disappeared’ after a falling-out. There was just the one bodyguard at the house, and right now his main concern was probably where his next paycheque was coming from. Doubtless there would be accountants and lawyers - Stone would have the details - but these weren’t the sort of men to pay respects. Cafferty was still in intensive care, but Rebus had heard two staff members discussing a looming bed crisis. Maybe they would move him back to an open ward. Or, if his finances could be unlocked, a private room. As of now, he seemed content with the tubes, machines, and flickering screens. There were wires attached to his skull, measuring brain activity. Fluids were being drip-fed into one arm. Cafferty seemed to be wearing some sort of gown with a front but, Rebus guessed, no back. His arms were bare and the hairs covering them were like silver wires. Rebus stood up and leaned down over Cafferty’s face, wondering if the machine might suddenly register awareness of his proximity, but there was no change in the readout. He traced the route from Cafferty’s body to the machines and from there to the wall sockets. Cafferty wasn’t dying; the doctor had confided that much. Another reason to move him from intensive care. How intensively did you have to tend a vegetable? Rebus looked at Cafferty’s knuckles and fingernails, the thick wrists, the dry white skin on each elbow. He was a large man, yes, but not particularly muscular. There were lines around the neck, like the circles on a freshly felled tree. The jaw was slack, the mouth open to accommodate a tube. There was a single track down the side of the face where some saliva had dried to a crust. With eyes closed, Cafferty looked harmless enough. What little hair there was on his scalp needed a wash. The charts at the end of the bed had told Rebus nothing. They were just a way of reducing the patient’s life to a series of numbers and graphs. Impossible to tell if a line angling upwards was a good sign or a bad...
‘Wake up, you old bastard,’ Rebus whispered into the gangster’s ear. ‘Playtime’s over.’ Not a flicker. ‘No point you hiding there inside that thick skull of yours. I’m waiting for you out here.’
Nothing apart from a gurgling in the throat, and Cafferty was making that same sound every thirty seconds or so. Rebus slumped back into his chair. When he’d arrived, a nurse had asked if he was the patient’s brother.
‘Does it matter?’ he’d asked her.
‘It’s just that you do look like him,’ she’d said, waddling away. He decided that it was a story worth sharing with the patient, but before he could start there was a trembling in his shirt pocket. He took his mobile out, checking to left and right for anyone who might disapprove.
‘What’s up, Shiv?’ he asked.
‘Andropov and his driver were in the audience at the Poetry Library. Todorov made up a poem on the spot, and I think Andropov was its target.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Have they given you a break?’
It took a moment for Rebus to realise what she meant. ‘I’m not being grilled. Nothing on the overshoe but blood - same type as Cafferty.’
‘So where are you now?’
‘Visiting the patient.’
‘Christ, John, how’s that going to look?’
‘I wasn’t planning on sticking a pillow over his face.’
‘But say he snuffs it while you’re there?’
‘Not a bad point, DS Clarke.’
‘So walk away.’
‘Where do you want to meet?’
‘I have to get back to Gayfield Square.’
‘I thought we were going to pick up the chauffeur?’
‘We are doing no such thing.’
‘Meaning you’re going to run it past Derek Starr?’
‘Yes.’
‘He doesn’t know this case like we do, Siobhan.’
‘John, as of now we’ve got precisely nothing.’
‘I disagree. The connections are beginning to come together ... don’t tell me you can’t sense it?’ He’d risen from his chair again, but only to bend over Cafferty’s face. One of the machines gave a loud beep, to which Clarke added a voluble sigh.
‘You’re still by his bed,’ she stated.
‘Thought I saw his eyelids flicker. So where is it we’re going to meet?’
‘Let me talk it through with Starr and Macrae.’
‘Give it to Stone instead.’
She was silent for a moment. ‘I must have misheard.’
‘SCD has more clout than us. Give him the Todorov- Andropov connection.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it might help Stone build his case against Cafferty. Andropov’s a businessman ... businessmen like to cut deals.’
‘You know that’s not going to happen.’
‘Then why am I wasting my breath?’
‘Because you think I need Stone to be my friend. He’s got it in mind that I helped you get to Cafferty. Only way I can show him otherwise is to give him this.’
‘Sometimes you’re too clever for your own good.’ He paused. ‘But you should still talk to him. If the consulate starts pleading diplomatic immunity, SCD’s got a stronger hand than us.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning channels to Special Branch and the spooks.’
‘Are you going all James Bond on me?’
‘There’s only one James Bond, Shiv,’ he told her, hoping for a laugh which didn’t come.
‘I’ll mull it over,’ she conceded instead, ‘if you promise to be out of that hospital in the next five minutes.’
/>
‘Already on my way,’ he lied, ending the call. His mouth was dry, and he didn’t reckon the patient would mind if he borrowed some of the water on the bedside cabinet. There was a clear plastic jug with a tumbler next to it. Rebus drank two glasses, then decided to take a look inside the cabinet itself.
He wasn’t expecting to find Cafferty’s watch, wallet and keys. But since they were there, he flipped open the wallet and found that it contained five ten-pound notes, a couple of credit cards, and some scraps of paper with phone numbers on - none of them meaning anything to Rebus. The watch was a Rolex, naturally, and he weighed it in his hand to confirm that it was the real deal. Then he picked up the keys. There were half a dozen of them. They chinked and clinked as he rolled them between palm and fingers.
House keys.
Chinked them and clinked them and kept staring at Cafferty.
‘Any objections?’ he asked quietly. And then, after a further moment: ‘Didn’t think so ...’
His luck just kept getting better and better: no one had bothered to set the alarm, and Cafferty’s bodyguard was elsewhere. Having entered by the front door, the first thing Rebus did was check the corners of the ceiling for security cameras. There weren’t any, so he padded into the drawing room. The house was Victorian, the ceilings high with ornate cornicing. Cafferty had started collecting art, big splashy paintings which hurt Rebus’s eyes. He wondered if any of them were by Roddy Denholm. The curtains were closed and he left them that way, turning on the lights instead. TV and hi-fi and three sofas. Nothing on the marble-topped coffee table but a couple of old newspapers and a pair of spectacles - the gangster too vain to wear them anywhere outside the privacy of his home. There was a door to the right of the fireplace and Rebus opened it. Cafferty’s booze cupboard, big enough to contain a double fridge and assorted wine racks, with bottles of spirits lining a shelf. Resisting temptation, he closed the door again and headed back into the hall. More doors off: a huge kitchen; a conservatory with a pool table; laundry room; bathroom; office; yet another, less formal, living room. He wondered if the gangster really enjoyed rattling around in a place this size.‘Course you do,’ he said, answering his own question. The stairs were wide and carpeted. Next floor up: two bedrooms with bathrooms attached; a home cinema, forty-two-inch plasma screen flush with the wall; and what seemed to be a storeroom, filled with boxes and tea chests, most of them empty. There was a woman’s hat on the top of one box, photo albums and shoes beneath. This, Rebus guessed, was all that remained of the late Mrs Cafferty. There was a dartboard on one wall, with puncture marks around its circumference, evidence that someone needed to improve their throwing. Rebus guessed that the dartboard would have fallen into disuse once the room changed identity.