‘Going through the Riordan tapes,’ she’d explained. Not a word of truth in it - Todd Goodyear was typing up the last batch of transcripts, looking worn down by the whole experience. He kept staring into space, as if thinking himself into a better place. Clarke, meantime, was waiting for Stone to get back to her, having left a message on his mobile. She was still wondering if it was such a good idea. Stone and Starr seemed pretty pally; chances were, anything she said to the one would get back to the other. She had yet to mention to Starr the appearance of Sergei Andropov and his driver in the Poetry Library audience.
There were no longer any members of the media hanging about outside the station. The last mention of either death had been an inch-long paragraph on one of the Evening News’s inside pages. Starr was currently in another meeting with DCI Macrae. Maybe later today, they would announce that the inquiry was being split into two, since no evidence had come to light connecting the Todorov murder to Riordan’s fate. The team would be broken up; the Riordan case would go back to Leith CID.
Unless Clarke did something about it.
It took her a further ten minutes to decide. Starr was still in his meeting, so she grabbed her coat and wandered over to the desk where Goodyear was working.
‘Going somewhere?’ he asked, somewhat forlornly.
‘We both are,’ she said, brightening his day.
The drive across town to the consulate took only ten minutes. It was housed on a grand Georgian terrace within sight of the Episcopalian Cathedral. The street was wide enough to accommodate a row of parking bays in the middle of the road, and a car was pulling out of one bay as they arrived. While Goodyear put money in the meter, Clarke studied the car next to hers - it looked very much like the one Andropov had been using at the City Chambers and Nikolai Stahov at the mortuary - an old black Merc with darkened rear windows. The licence plate, however, wasn’t the diplomatic kind, so Clarke called the station and asked for a check. The car was registered to Mr Boris Aksanov, with an address in Cramond. Clarke jotted down the details and ended the call.
‘You reckon they’ll let us question him?’ Goodyear asked on his return.
She gave a shrug. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’ She crossed to the consulate, climbed its three stone steps, and pressed the buzzer. The door was opened by a young woman with the fixed smile of the professional greeter. Clarke already had her warrant card open. ‘I’m here to see Mr Aksanov,’ she stated.
‘Mr Aksanov?’ The smile stayed fixed.
‘Your driver.’ Clarke turned her head. ‘His car’s over there.’
‘Well, he’s not here.’
Clarke stared at the woman. ‘You sure about that?’
‘Of course.’
‘What about Mr Stahov?’
‘He’s also not here at present.’
‘When’s he due back?’
‘Later today, I think.’
Clarke was looking over the woman’s shoulder. The entrance hall was large but barren, with peeling paintwork and faded wallpaper. A curving staircase led upwards, but she had no view of the landing. ‘And Mr Aksanov?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He’s not driving Mr Stahov, then?’
The smile was having a bit of trouble. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help...’
‘Aksanov’s driving Sergei Andropov, is he?’
The young woman’s hand was gripping the edge of the door. Clarke could tell she wanted to close it in their faces.
‘I can’t help,’ she repeated instead.
‘Is Mr Aksanov a consular employee?’ But now the door really was being closed, slowly but determinedly. ‘We’ll come back later,’ Clarke stressed. The door clicked shut but she continued to stare at it.
‘She had frightened eyes,’ Goodyear commented.
Clarke nodded her agreement.
‘Waste of money, too - I put half an hour on the meter.’
‘Claim it back from the inquiry.’ Clarke turned and started towards the car, but paused at the Merc and checked her watch. When she got in behind the steering wheel, Goodyear asked if they were headed back to Gayfield Square. Clarke shook her head.
‘Parking wardens round here are vicious,’ she said. ‘And that Merc goes into the red in exactly seven minutes.’
‘Meaning someone’s going to have to feed the meter?’ he guessed.
But Clarke shook her head again. ‘It’s illegal to do that, Todd. If they don’t want a ticket, they’re going to have to move the car.’ She turned her key in the ignition.
‘I thought embassies never paid their fines anyway.’
‘True enough . . . if they have diplomatic plates.’ Clarke put the car into gear and moved out of the parking bay, but only to stop again kerbside a few dozen yards further along. ‘Worth a bit of a wait, wouldn’t you say?’ she asked.
‘If it keeps me away from those transcripts,’ Goodyear agreed.
‘Detective work losing its allure, Todd?’
‘I think I’m ready to go back into uniform.’ He drew back his shoulders, working the muscles. ‘Any news of DI Rebus?’
‘They pulled him in again.’
‘Are they thinking of charging him?’
‘Reason they pulled him in was to tell him there’s no evidence.’
‘They didn’t get a match from that overshoe?’
‘No.’
‘Do they have anyone else in mind?’
‘Christ, Todd, I don’t know!’ The silence in the car lasted half a dozen beats before Clarke expelled air noisily. ‘Look, I’m sorry . . .’
‘I’m the one who should be apologising,’ he assured her. ‘Couldn’t help sticking my nose in.’
‘No, it’s me ... I could be in trouble.’
‘How?’
‘SCDEA were watching Cafferty. John got me to send them elsewhere.’
The young man’s eyes had widened. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.
‘Language,’ she warned him.
‘They had surveillance on Cafferty ... That has to look bad for DI Rebus.’
Clarke gave a shrug.
‘Surveillance on Cafferty ...’ Goodyear repeated to himself, shaking his head slowly. Clarke’s attention had been diverted by movement along the street. A man was exiting the consulate.
‘This looks promising,’ she said. Same man who’d been with Stahov at the mortuary; same man who’d been photographed at the Word Power event. Aksanov unlocked the car and got in. Clarke decided to let her engine idle, until she knew what he was going to do - move to a different bay, or head elsewhere. When he passed his third vacant bay, she had her answer.
‘We’re going to follow him?’ Goodyear asked, fastening his seatbelt.
‘Well spotted.’
‘And then what?’
‘I was thinking of pulling him over on some trumped-up charge...’
‘Is that wise?’
‘Dunno yet. Let’s see what happens.’ The Merc had signalled left into Queensferry Street.
‘Heading out of town?’ Goodyear guessed.
‘Aksanov lives in Cramond; maybe he’s going home.’
Queensferry Street became Queensferry Road. Looking at her speedometer, Clarke saw that he was staying within the limit. When the traffic lights ahead turned red, she watched his brake lights, but they were both in good working order. If Cramond was his destination, he’d probably keep going till the Barnton roundabout, then take a right. Question was, did she want him getting that far? Every few hundred yards on Queensferry Road, there seemed to be another set of lights. As the Merc stopped at the next red, Clarke brought her own car up close behind it.
‘Reach over into the back seat, will you, Todd?’ she asked. ‘On the floor there . . .’ He had to undo his seatbelt in order to twist his body around sufficiently.
‘This what you want?’ he asked.
‘Plug it into the socket there,’ she told him. ‘Then put your window down.’
‘There’s a magnet on the base?’ he guessed.
/> ‘That’s right.’
The moment the flashing blue light was plugged in, it began working. Goodyear reached out of the window and attached it to the roof. The light ahead was still red. Clarke sounded her horn and watched the driver examine her in his rearview mirror. She signalled with her hand for him to pull over. When the light turned green, that was exactly what he did, crossing the junction and bumping his passenger-side tyres up on to the pavement. Clarke passed him and then did the same with her car. Traffic slowed to watch, but kept moving. The driver was out of the Merc. He wore sunglasses and a suit and tie. He was standing on the pavement when Clarke reached him. She had her ID open for inspection.
‘Is there a problem?’ he asked, his English heavily accented.
‘Mr Aksanov? We met at the mortuary . . .’
‘I asked what the problem was.’
‘You’re going to have to come to the station.’
‘What have I done wrong?’ He had lifted a mobile phone from his pocket. ‘I will speak to the consulate.’
‘Won’t do you any good,’ she warned him. ‘That’s not an official car, which makes me think you’re self-employed. No immunity, Mr Aksanov.’
‘I am a driver for the consulate.’
‘But not just the consulate. Now get in the car.’ There was steel in her voice. He was still holding the phone, but had yet to do anything with it.
‘And if I refuse?’
‘You’ll be charged with obstruction ... and anything else I can think of.’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘That’s all we need to hear - but we need to hear it at the station.’
‘My car,’ he complained.
‘It’ll still be here. We’ll bring you back afterwards.’ She managed a nice friendly smile. ‘Promise.’
‘How come you started driving Sergei Andropov around?’ Clarke asked.‘I drive people for a living.’
They were in an interview room at West End police station, Clarke not wanting to take the Russian to Gayfield Square. She’d sent Goodyear off to fetch coffee. There was a tape deck on the table, but she wasn’t using it. No notebook either. Aksanov had asked to smoke and she was letting him.
‘Your English is good - there’s even a trace of local accent. ’
‘I’m married to a girl from Edinburgh. I’ve been here almost five years.’ He inhaled some smoke and blew it ceilingwards.
‘Is she a poetry fan, too?’ Aksanov stared at Clarke. ‘Well?’ she prompted.
‘She reads books... mostly novels.’
‘So it’s just you that likes poetry?’ He shrugged but said nothing. ‘Read any Seamus Heaney lately? Or how about Robert Burns?’
‘Why are you asking me this?’
‘Just that you were spotted at poetry readings twice in as many weeks. Or maybe it’s just that you really like Alexander Todorov?’
‘People say he is Russia’s greatest poet.’
‘Do you agree?’ Aksanov gave another shrug and examined the tip of his cigarette. ‘Did you buy a copy of his latest book?’
‘I don’t see why this is any of your business.’
‘Can you remember what it’s called?’
‘I don’t have to talk to you.’
‘I’m investigating two murders, Mr Aksanov...’
‘And what is that to me?’ The Russian was growing angry. But then the door opened and Goodyear came in with two drinks.
‘Black, two sugars,’ he said, placing one in front of Aksanov. ‘White with none.’ The second Styrofoam cup was handed to Clarke. She nodded her thanks, then gave the slightest flick of the head. Goodyear took the hint and walked to the far wall, resting his back against it, hands clasped in front of him. Aksanov had stubbed out the cigarette and was readying to light another.
‘Second time you went,’ she told him, ‘you took Sergei Andropov with you.’
‘Did I?’
‘According to witnesses.’ Another mighty shrug, this time accompanied by downturned mouth. ‘Are you saying you didn’t?’ Clarke asked.
‘I’m saying nothing.’
‘Makes me wonder what it is you’re trying to hide. Were you on duty the night Mr Todorov died?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘I’m only asking you to think back a little over a week.’
‘Sometimes I work at night, sometimes not.’
‘Andropov was at his hotel. He had a meeting in the bar . . .’
‘There’s nothing I can tell you.’
‘Why did you go to those poetry readings, Mr Aksanov?’ Clarke asked quietly. ‘Did Andropov ask you to go? Did he ask you to take him?’
‘If I have done anything wrong, go ahead and charge me!’
‘Is that what you want?’
‘I want to get away from here.’ The fingers which gripped the fresh cigarette were starting to shake a little.
‘Do you remember the recital at the Poetry Library?’ Clarke asked, keeping her voice low and level. ‘The man who was recording it? He’s been murdered, too.’
‘I was at the hotel all night.’
She hadn’t quite understood. ‘The Caledonian?’ she guessed.
‘Gleneagles,’ he corrected her. ‘The night of that fire.’
‘It was early morning actually.’
‘Night . . . morning ... I was at Gleneagles.’
‘All right,’ she said, wondering at his sudden increase in agitation. ‘Who was it you were driving - Andropov or Stahov?’
‘Both. They travelled together. I was there all the time.’
‘So you keep saying.’
‘Because it is the truth.’
‘But the night Mr Todorov died, you don’t recall if you were working or not?’
‘No.’
‘It’s quite important, Mr Aksanov. We think whoever killed Todorov was driving a car . . .’
‘I had nothing to do with it! I find these questions totally unacceptable!’
‘Do you?’
‘Unacceptable and unreasonable.’
‘Finished already?’ she asked, after fifteen seconds of silence. His brow furrowed. ‘Your cigarette,’ she pointed out. ‘You’d only just started it.’
The Russian stared at the ashtray, where most of an entire cigarette smouldered, having just been stubbed out . . .
Having arranged for a patrol car to drop Aksanov at Queensferry Road, Clarke wandered back down the corridor towards where Goodyear was sharing gossip with two other constables. Before she could reach him, however, her mobile rang. She didn’t recognise the caller’s number.‘Hello?’ she asked, turning so her back was to Goodyear and his colleagues.
‘Detective Sergeant Clarke?’
‘Hello, Dr Colwell. I had half a mind to call you myself.’
‘Oh?’
‘Thought I might need a translator; false alarm as it turned out. What can I do for you?’
‘I’ve just been listening to that CD.’
‘Still wrestling with the new poem?’
‘To start with, yes ... but I ended up listening to the whole thing.’
‘Had the same effect on me,’ Clarke admitted, remembering back to when Rebus and she had spent the hour in her car...
‘Right at the end,’ Colwell was saying. ‘In fact, after the recital and the Q and A have finished...’
‘Yes?’
‘The mic picks up some bits of conversation.’
‘I remember - doesn’t the poet start muttering to himself ?’
‘That’s just what I thought, and it was difficult to make out. But it’s not Alexander’s voice.’
‘Then whose is it?’
‘No idea.’
‘But it’s in Russian, right?’
‘Oh, it’s definitely Russian. And after a few plays, I think I’ve worked out what he’s saying.’
Clarke was thinking of Charles Riordan, pointing his all-hearing microphone towards various audience members, picking up their comments. ‘So what is he saying?
’ she asked.
‘Something along the lines of - “I wish he was dead.”’
Clarke froze. ‘Would you mind repeating that, please?’
41
Rebus rendezvoused with her at Colwell’s office and they listened to the CD together.‘Doesn’t sound like Aksanov,’ Clarke stated. Her phone started to ring and she gave a little growl as she answered. The voice in her ear identified the caller as DI Calum Stone.
‘You wanted to speak to me?’ he said.
‘I’ll have to phone you back later.’ She cut the connection and shook her head slowly, letting Rebus know it was nothing important. He’d asked for the relevant section of the recording to be played again.
‘I’d lay money on it being Andropov,’ he muttered afterwards. He was leaning forward in his chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped, completely focused on the recording and seemingly immune to Scarlett Colwell, who was crouched not three feet away next to the CD player, face hidden by the curtain of hair.
‘And you’re sure you’ve got the words right?’ Clarke asked the academic.
‘Positive,’ Colwell said. She repeated the Russian. It was written on a pad which Clarke was now holding - the same pad which had once held the translated poem.
‘“I wish he was dead”?’ Rebus checked. ‘Not “I want him killed” or “I’m going to kill him”?’
‘Slightly less inflammatory,’ Colwell said.
‘Pity.’ Rebus turned towards Clarke. ‘Plenty to be going on with, though.’