‘Plenty,’ she agreed. ‘Say it is Andropov ... who’s he talking to? Has to be Aksanov, hasn’t it?’
‘And you’ve just let him go.’
She nodded slowly. ‘We can always pick him up again... he’s pretty well settled here.’
‘Doesn’t mean the consulate won’t kick him on to a plane bound for Moscow.’ Rebus stared at her. ‘Know what I reckon? Andropov would love to have someone on the inside at the consulate. That way, he’d know how the land lies back home. If they planned to put him on trial, consulate would be among the first to know.’
‘Aksanov as his eyes and ears?’ Clarke nodded her agreement. ‘Fair enough, but is he anything else?’
‘Executioner, you mean?’ Rebus pondered this for a moment, then realised that a tear was running down Scarlett Colwell’s face.
‘Sorry,’ he apologised to her. ‘I know this can’t be easy.’
‘Just catch whoever did this to Alexander.’ She dabbed at her face with the back of her hand. ‘Just do that, please.’
‘Thanks to you,’ he assured her, ‘we’ve come a step closer.’ He picked up her translation of the poem. ‘Andropov would have been furious about this. Calling him greedy and a “blight” and part of the whole “parcel of rogues”.’
‘Furious enough to want the poet dead,’ Clarke agreed. ‘But does that mean he did it?’
Rebus stared up at her again. ‘Maybe we should ask him,’ he said.
It had taken well over an hour for Siobhan Clarke to lead DI Derek Starr through the story. Even then, he’d complained for a further fifteen minutes about being kept ‘out of the loop’ before agreeing that Sergei Andropov should be brought in for questioning. They had to shoo three detectives out of the interview room. The men had set up base there, and complained at having to move their stuff.‘Smells like a prop-forward’s jockstrap in here,’ Starr commented.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Clarke replied with a thin smile. She’d bumped into Goodyear in the CID suite and he, too, had voiced a complaint - about being abandoned at the West End cop-shop. True enough, Colwell’s phone call had led Clarke straight out to her car, Goodyear still chatting to his pals in the corridor. Even so, she’d studied the young man’s scowl and offered him four evenly spaced words: get used to it. To which he’d replied that he really was ready to go back to Torphichen and his constable’s uniform both.
They had dispatched a patrol car to the Caledonian Hotel. Forty minutes later it was back and discharging its unhappy human cargo. It was almost eight o’clock, the sky black and the temperature falling.
‘Do I have the right to a lawyer?’ was Sergei Andropov’s first question.
‘Think you need one?’ Starr shot back. He’d borrowed a CD player and was tapping it with one finger.
Andropov considered Starr’s question, then took off his coat, placed it over the back of the chair, and sat down. Clarke was seated next to Starr, notebook and mobile phone in front of her. She was hoping Rebus - stationed outside in his car - would manage to keep quiet.
‘When you’re ready, DS Clarke,’ Starr said, pressing his hands together.
‘Mr Andropov,’ she began, ‘I spoke to Boris Aksanov earlier today.’
‘Yes?’
‘We were talking about the recital at the Scottish Poetry Library... I believe you were there?’
‘Did he tell you that?’
‘There are plenty of witnesses, sir.’ She paused for a moment. ‘We already know that you knew Alexander Todorov in Moscow, and that the pair of you weren’t exactly friends...’
‘Again, who told you this?’
Clarke ignored the question. ‘You went to the reading with Mr Aksanov and then had to sit and listen as the poet extemporised a new piece.’ Clarke unfolded the translation. ‘Heartless appetite . . . The gut’s greed knows no fullness . . . such a parcel of rogues... Not exactly a love letter, is it?’
‘It’s only a poem.’
‘But directed at you, Mr Andropov. Aren’t you one of the “children of Zhdanov”?’
‘Like many thousands of others.’ Andropov gave a little laugh. His eyes were shining.
‘By the way,’ Clarke said, ‘I should have offered commiserations at the start...’
‘For what?’ The eyes had narrowed and darkened.
‘Your friend’s injuries. Have you visited him in hospital? ’
‘You mean Cafferty?’ He seemed dismissive of the tactic. ‘He’ll survive.’
‘A cause for celebration, I’m sure.’
‘What the hell is she getting at?’ Andropov directed the question at Starr, but it was Clarke who answered.
‘Would you mind taking a listen to this?’ On cue, Starr hit the play button. The noise of the Todorov recital’s conclusion filled the room. People rising from their seats, commenting on the evening, planning drinks and supper ... and then the burst of Russian.
‘Recognise it, Mr Andropov?’ Clarke asked as Starr paused the recording.
‘No.’
‘Sure about that? Maybe if DI Starr plays it back ...?’
‘Look, what are you getting at?’
‘We have a forensics facility here in the city, Mr Andropov. They have a pretty good track record when it comes to voice-pattern recognition...’
‘What do I care?’
‘You care because that’s you on the recording, expressing to Boris Aksanov your desire to see the poet Alexander Todorov dead - the poet who had just humiliated you, the poet who opposed everything you stand for.’ She paused again. ‘And the very next night, that same man was dead.’
‘Meaning I killed him?’ Andropov’s laughter this time was louder and more sustained. ‘And when exactly did I do this? Did I spirit myself away from the hotel bar? Did I hypnotise your development minister so that he would not notice my disappearance?’
‘Others could have acted on your behalf,’ Starr stated icily.
‘Well, that’s something you’re going to have a great deal of trouble proving, since it happens to be untrue.’
‘Why did you go to the recital?’ Clarke asked. Andropov stared at her, and decided he had nothing to lose from answering.
‘Boris told me he’d been to one a few weeks before. I was intrigued. I had never seen Alexander read in public.’
‘Mr Aksanov didn’t strike me as a poetry buff.’
Andropov shrugged. ‘Maybe the consulate asked him to go.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘To ascertain how much of an irritant Alexander intended to be during his stay in the city.’ Andropov shifted in his seat. ‘Alexander Todorov was a professional dissident - it’s how he made his living, picking the pockets of bleeding-heart liberals all over the Western world.’
Clarke waited to see if Andropov had anything more to add. ‘And when you heard his latest poem?’ she asked into the silence.
The shrug this time was conciliatory. ‘You’re right, I was angry with him. What do poets give to the world? Do they provide jobs, energy, raw material? No ... merely words. And often well remunerated in the process - certainly lionised above their due. Alexander Todorov had been suckled by the West precisely because he pandered to its need to see Russia as corrupt and corrosive.’ Andropov had made a fist of his right hand, but then decided against thumping the desk. Instead, he took a deep breath and exhaled noisily through his nostrils. ‘I did say that I wished he was dead, but those, too, were merely words.’
‘Nevertheless, could Boris Aksanov have acted on them?’
‘Have you met Boris? He is no killer; he’s a teddy bear.’
‘Bears have claws,’ Starr felt it necessary to comment. Andropov glowered at him.
‘Thank you for that information - being a Russian, of course, I would not have known that.’
Starr had started blushing. To deflect attention from the fact, he hit the play button again and they eavesdropped once more. Pausing the recording, Starr tapped the machine again. ‘I’d say we’ve got grounds to c
harge you,’ he stated.
‘Really? Well, let us see what one of your famed Edinburgh barristers will say about that.’
‘We don’t have barristers in Scotland,’ Starr spat back.
‘They’re called advocates,’ Clarke explained. ‘But actually, at this point it’s a solicitor you’d want - if we were charging you.’ Her words were aimed at Starr, appealing for him not to take it any further - not just yet.
‘Well?’ Andropov, taking her meaning, was asking the question of Derek Starr. Starr’s mouth twitched but he said nothing. ‘In other words, I am free to leave?’ Andropov had moved his attention to Clarke, but it was Starr who barked out a response.
‘Just don’t leave the country!’
There was more laughter from the Russian. ‘I have no intention of departing your splendid country, Inspector.’
‘Nice warm gulag waiting for you back home?’ Clarke couldn’t help adding.
‘That comment cheapens you.’ Andropov sounded disappointed in her.
‘Going to drop by the hospital sometime?’ she added. ‘Funny, isn’t it, how people around you seem to end up either dead or in a coma?’
Andropov was rising to his feet, lifting his coat from the chair. Starr and Clarke shared a look, but neither could think of any tactic to delay his departure. Goodyear was just outside the door, ready to show the Russian out.
‘We’ll talk again,’ Starr assured Andropov.
‘I look forward to it, Inspector.’
‘And we want you to surrender your passport,’ was Clarke’s final salvo. Andropov gave a little bow of the head and was gone. Starr, who had risen to his feet, closed the door, walked around the desk and sat down again, facing Clarke. Pretending to check for messages on her phone, she’d just broken the connection to Rebus.
‘If it’s anyone,’ Starr was telling her, ‘it’s the driver. Even then, a bit of hard evidence might be useful.’
Clarke had placed her notebook and mobile back in her bag. ‘Andropov’s right about Aksanov - I don’t see him as an assassin.’
‘Then we need to look at the hotel angle again, see if there’s any way Andropov could have followed the poet.’
‘Cafferty was there, too, don’t forget.’
‘One or the other, then.’
‘The problem,’ she sighed, ‘is that we’ve got a third man - Jim Bakewell’s already said the three of them were in that booth till gone eleven... by which time Todorov was dead.’
‘So we’re back to square one?’ Starr didn’t bother masking his exasperation.
‘We’re rattling the cage,’ Clarke corrected him. Then, after a moment’s thought: ‘Thanks for sticking with it, Derek.’
Starr thawed perceptibly. ‘You should have come to me sooner, Siobhan. I want a break on this as much as you do.’
‘I know. But you’re going to split the two investigations, aren’t you?’
‘DCI Macrae thinks it would help.’
She nodded, as if agreeing with the analysis. ‘Do we work tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘Weekend overtime has been approved.’
‘John Rebus’s last day,’ she stated quietly.
‘Incidentally,’ Starr added, ignoring her, ‘the officer who showed Andropov out... is he new to the team?’
‘West End sent him,’ she blithely lied.
Starr was shaking his head. ‘CID,’ he stated, ‘gets younger-looking every year.’
‘How did I do?’ Clarke asked, sliding into the passenger seat.‘Three out of ten.’
She stared at him. ‘Gee, thanks.’ Slammed shut the door. Rebus’s car was parked directly outside the station. He was thrumming his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead.
‘I nearly came running in there,’ he went on. ‘How could you have missed it?’
‘Missed what?’
Only now did he deign to turn his head towards her. ‘That night in the Poetry Library, Andropov was only a couple of rows from the front. No way he couldn’t have seen the mic.’
‘So?’
‘So you were asking the wrong questions. Todorov got him riled, he blurted out that he wanted him dead - no harm done at the time, the only other Russian-speaker was his driver. But then Todorov does end up dead, and suddenly our friend Andropov has a problem . . .’
‘The recording?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Because if we ever heard it and got it translated ...’
‘Hang on a second.’ Clarke pinched the skin either side of her nose and screwed shut her eyes. ‘Got any aspirin?’
‘Glovebox maybe.’
She looked, and found a strip with two tablets left. Rebus handed her a bottle of water, its seal broken. ‘If you don’t mind a few germs,’ he said.
Her shake of the head told him she didn’t. She swallowed the tablets and gave her neck a few rotations.
‘I can hear the gristle from here,’ he commiserated.
‘Never mind that - are you saying Andropov didn’t kill Todorov?’
‘Suppose he didn’t - what would he be most afraid of?’ He gave her a moment to answer, then ploughed on. ‘He’d be afraid of us thinking he had.’
‘And we’d have his own words as evidence?’
‘Bringing us to Charles Riordan.’
Clarke’s mind was moving now. ‘Aksanov got agitated about that when I questioned him - kept going on about how he’d been at Gleneagles all the time.’
‘Maybe afraid that we’d be putting him in the frame.’
‘You think Andropov ...?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Rather depends on whether we can prove he left Gleneagles that night or early morning.’
‘Wouldn’t he just have phoned Cafferty instead, got him to do something about it?’
‘Possible,’ Rebus admitted, still tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel. They were silent for the best part of a minute, collecting their thoughts. ‘Remember the trouble we had getting the Caledonian Hotel to cough up details of their guests? Don’t suppose Gleneagles will be any easier.’
‘But we’ve got a secret weapon,’ Clarke said. ‘Remember during the G8? DCI Macrae’s pal was in charge of security at the hotel. Macrae even got a tour of the premises.’
‘Meaning he may have met the manager? Got to be worth a try.’ They fell back into silence.
‘You know what this means?’ Clarke finally asked.
Rebus nodded again. ‘We still don’t know who killed Todorov.’
‘Whichever way you look at it, Andropov said he wanted him dead...’
‘Doesn’t mean he turned words into deeds. If I topped someone every time I cursed them, there’d be precious few students and cyclists left in Edinburgh - or anyone else for that matter.’
‘Would I still be here?’ she asked.
‘Probably,’ he allowed.
‘Despite the three out of ten?’
‘Don’t push your luck, DS Clarke.’
42
‘Todd Goodyear not joining us?’ Rebus asked.‘Has he grown on you?’
They were in Kay’s Bar - a compromise. It did decent grub, but the beer was good, too. Slightly larger than the Oxford Bar, but managing to be cosy at the same time - the predominant colour was red, extending to the pillars which separated the tables from the actual bar. Clarke had ordered chilli, Rebus declaring that salted peanuts would be enough for him.
‘You’ve managed to keep him below Derek Starr’s radar?’ Rebus asked, in place of an answer to her question.
‘DI Starr thinks Todd is CID.’ She stole another of Rebus’s peanuts.
‘Do I get to dunk my fingers in your chilli when it comes?’
‘I’ll buy you another packet.’
He swallowed a mouthful of IPA. She was drinking a toxic-looking mix of lime juice and soda water.
‘Anything planned for tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘The team’s on duty all day.’
‘So no surprise party for the old guy?’
‘You didn’t wan
t one.’
‘So you’ve just chipped in and bought me something nice?’
‘Meant digging deep into the overdraft ... What time does your suspension end?’
‘Around lunchtime, I suppose.’ Rebus thought back to the scene in Corbyn’s office ... Sir Michael Addison storming out. Sir Michael was Gill Morgan’s stepfather. Gill knew Nancy Sievewright. Nancy and Gill and Eddie Gentry had been spied on, the recording watched by Roger Anderson, Stuart Janney and Jim Bakewell. Everything in Edinburgh seemed connected. As a detective, Rebus had noticed time and again how true this was. Everything and everyone. Todorov and Andropov, Andropov and Cafferty, the overworld and the underworld. Sol Goodyear knew Nancy and her crew, too. Sol was Todd Goodyear’s brother, and Todd led back to Siobhan and to Rebus himself. Shifting partners in one of those endurance dances. What was the film? Something about shooting horses. Dance and keep on dancing because nothing else matters.
Problem was, Rebus was about to bow out. Siobhan’s chilli had arrived and he watched her unfold a paper napkin on to her lap. Day after tomorrow, he’d be seated at the edge of the dancefloor. Give it a few weeks and he’d be yet further back, merging with the other spectators, no longer a participant. He’d seen it with other cops: they retired and promised to keep in touch, but each visit to the old gang merely underlined how far apart they’d grown. There would be an arrangement to share drinks and gossip one night a month. Then it’d be once every few months. Then not at all.
Clean break was the best thing, so he’d been told. Siobhan was asking if he wanted some of her food. ‘Grab a fork and tuck in.’
‘I’m fine,’ he assured her.
‘You were in a world of your own there.’
‘It’s the age I’m at.’
‘So you’ll come to the station tomorrow lunchtime?’
‘No parties, right?’
She shook her head in agreement. ‘And by end of play, we’ll have closed all the cases.’
‘Of course we will.’ He gave a wry smile.
‘I’ll miss you, you know.’ She kept her eyes on the food as she scooped it up.
‘For a little while maybe,’ he conceded, waving his empty glass at her. ‘Time for a refill.’