‘Usual, please,’ Rebus said anyway. And then: ‘You weren’t exaggerating about the double shift . . .’
This time, when the whisky arrived, the bill came with it. Rebus smiled to let Freddie know this was fine with him. He trickled a few drops of water into the glass and swirled it in his hand, sniffing the contents as he scanned the room.
‘They’ve gone, in case you’re wondering,’ Freddie told him.
‘Who?’
‘The Russians. Checked out this afternoon, apparently. Winging their way back to Moscow.’
Rebus tried not to look too deflated by this news. ‘What I was wondering,’ he said, ‘is whether you’ve got that name for me.’
The barman nodded slowly. ‘I was going to phone you tomorrow.’ The waitress had arrived with another order and he went to fill it. Two large helpings of red wine and a glass of the house champagne. Rebus started listening in on the conversation next to him. Two businessmen with Irish accents, eyes glued to the football on the soundless TV. Some property deal had failed to come off and they were drowning their sorrows.
‘And God grant them a lingering death,’ seemed to be the toast of choice. One of the things Rebus liked best about bars was the chance to eavesdrop on other people’s lives. Did that make him a voyeur, not so very different from Charles Riordan?
‘Any chance we get to screw them over . . .’ one of the Irishmen was saying. Freddie had returned the champagne bottle to the ice bucket and was coming back to Rebus’s end of the bar.
‘He’s Minister for Economic Development,’ the barman explained. ‘Ministers are listed first on the Parliament’s website. Might’ve taken a while otherwise . . .’
‘What’s he called?’
‘James Bakewell.’
Rebus wondered why he knew the name.
‘Saw him on the TV a few weeks back,’ Freddie was saying.
‘On Question Time?’ Rebus guessed. The barman was nodding. Yes, because Rebus had seen Bakewell there, too, arguing the toss with Megan Macfarlane while Alexander Todorov sat between them. Jim, everyone seemed to call him . . . ‘And he was in here with Sergei Andropov, same night as the poet?’ Freddie kept nodding.
And the same night, too, as Morris Gerald Cafferty. Rebus rested his hands against the bar, letting them take his weight. His head was swirling. Freddie had moved to take another order. Rebus thought back to the tape of Question Time. Jim Bakewell had been New Labour with some of the rough edges left untreated. Either he wouldn’t let the image consultants near him, or that was his image. Late forties with a mop of dark brown hair and wire-framed spectacles. Square-jawed and blue-eyed and self-deprecating. He’d got a lot of respect north of the border for the way he’d resigned a safe seat at Westminster to stand for the Scottish Parliament. This made him a rare beast indeed. Seemed to Rebus that a lot of the political talent was still drawn to London. Freddie hadn’t mentioned any minders, which Rebus also found interesting. If Bakewell had been meeting the Russians in an official capacity, surely there’d have been assistants and advisers on hand. The Minister for Economic Development ... late-night drinks with a foreign businessman ... Big Ger Cafferty crashing the party ... Too many questions were hammering away at the inside of Rebus’s skull. It was as if his brain had developed a pulse. Finishing the drink, he left some money on the bar and decided it was time to head home. His phone alerted him to a text message. Siobhan was wondering where he’d got to.
‘Took you long enough,’ he muttered to himself. As he passed the Irishmen, one of them was leaning in towards the other.
‘If he dies on Christmas morning,’ he was confiding in a booming voice, ‘that’ll be tinsel enough for me ...’
Two ways to leave the hotel: the bar’s own door, or through reception. Rebus wasn’t sure why he chose the latter. As he crossed the lobby, two men had just emerged through the revolving door. The one in front he recognised: the man who’d been driving Andropov.
The other was Andropov himself. He had seen Rebus and his eyes were narrowing, wondering where he knew him from. Rebus gave a little bow of the head as they approached one another.
‘Thought you’d all gone home,’ he said, trying to sound casual.
‘I’m staying a few more days.’ There wasn’t much of an accent at all. Rebus could tell Andropov was still trying to place him.
‘Friend of Cafferty’s,’ he pretended to explain.
‘Ah yes.’ The chauffeur was standing just the other side of Rebus, hands clasped in front of him, feet splayed. Chauffeur and bodyguard.
‘The few extra days,’ Rebus enquired of Andropov, ‘business or pleasure?’
‘Usually I find business a distinct pleasure.’ It sounded like a line he’d used dozens of times before, always expecting a laugh or a smile. Rebus obliged as best he could.
‘Seen Mr Cafferty today?’ he asked eventually.
‘I’m sorry, I seem to have forgotten your name . . .’
‘I’m John,’ Rebus told him.
‘And your connection to Cafferty ...?’
‘I was wondering the same about you, Mr Andropov.’ Rebus decided he’d already been rumbled. ‘It’s fine to hobnob with the great and the good, being fawned over by politicians of all creeds and colours . . . but when you start cosying up to a career criminal like Cafferty, alarm bells are bound to start ringing.’
‘You were at the City Chambers,’ Andropov announced with a wag of one gloved finger. ‘And then you were outside the hotel here.’
‘I’m a detective, Mr Andropov.’ Rebus held up his warrant card and Andropov examined it.
‘Have I done something wrong, Inspector?’
‘A week back, you were having a little chat with Jim Bakewell and Morris Gerald Cafferty.’
‘What if I was?’
‘There was another man in the bar - a poet called Todorov. Less than twenty minutes after walking out of here, he was murdered.’
Andropov was nodding. ‘A great tragedy. The world has an apparent need of poets, Inspector. They are, so they tell us, its “unacknowledged legislators”.’
‘I’d say they’ve got a bit of competition in that department. ’
Andropov decided to ignore this. ‘Several people,’ he said instead, ‘inform me that your police force may not be investigating Alexander’s death as a simple street attack. Tell me, Inspector, what do you think happened?’
‘A story best told at my police station. Would you be willing to drop in for an interview, Mr Andropov?’
‘I can’t see that anything would be gained from that, Inspector.’
‘I’ll assume that’s a no.’
‘Let me offer my own theory.’ Andropov took a step closer, mimicked by his driver. ‘Cherchez la femme, Inspector.’
‘Meaning what exactly?’
‘You don’t speak French?’
‘I know what it means; I’m just not sure what you’re getting at.’
‘In Moscow, Alexander Todorov had something of a reputation. He was forced to leave his teaching post after accusations of improper conduct. Female students, you know, and apparently the younger the better. Now, if you’ll excuse me ...’ Andropov was obviously heading for the bar.
‘Hooking up with your gangster friend again?’ Rebus guessed. Andropov ignored him and kept walking. The driver, however, decided that Rebus merited a final baleful look, the kind that said you, me and a dark alley ...
The look Rebus gave him back carried another message, no less threatening. You’re on my list, pal, you and your boss both.
Outside once again in the crisp night air, he decided he might try walking home. His heart was pounding, mouth dry, blood coursing through him. He gave it a few hundred yards, then hailed the first taxi he saw.
Day Six
Wednesday 22 November 2006
21
The sound engineer was called Terry Grimm and the secretary was Hazel Harmison. They seemed shell-shocked, and with good reason.‘We’ve no idea what to do,’ Grimm exp
lained. ‘I mean ... do we get paid at month’s end? What do we do about all the jobs we’ve got on our books?’
Siobhan Clarke nodded slowly. Grimm was seated at the mixing desk, swivelling nervily on his chair. Harmison was standing by her desk, arms folded. ‘I’m sure Mr Riordan will have made some kind of provision ...’ But Clarke wasn’t sure of that at all. Todd Goodyear was staring at all the machinery, the banks of knobs and dials, switches and slider controls. In the pub last night, Hawes had hinted that really it should be either her or Tibbet who accompanied Clarke today. It made Siobhan wonder again if she’d brought Goodyear into the team precisely because she didn’t want to have to make that choice.
‘Can neither of you sign company cheques?’ Clarke asked now.
‘Charlie wasn’t that trusting,’ Hazel Harmison piped up.
‘The company accountant’s the one to speak to.’
‘Except he’s on holiday.’
‘Someone else at his firm, then?’
‘One-man band,’ Grimm stated.
‘I’m sure it’ll all work out,’ Clarke remarked crisply. She’d had enough of their bellyaching. ‘Reason we’re here is, some of Mr Riordan’s recordings have been salvaged from the house. Most, however, went up in smoke. I’m wondering if he kept copies.’
‘Might be some in the storeroom,’ Grimm conceded. ‘I was always warning that he didn’t back up enough . . .’ He met her eyes. ‘The hard disks didn’t make it?’
‘Mostly not. We’ve brought some stuff with us, wondered if maybe you’d have better luck than us.’
Grimm gave a shrug. ‘I can take a look.’ Clarke handed her car keys to Goodyear.
‘Fetch up the bags,’ she said. The phone had started ringing, and Harmison picked it up.
‘CR Studios, how can I help you?’ She listened for a moment. ‘No, I’m sorry,’ she began to apologise. ‘We can’t take on any new work at the moment, due to unforeseen circumstances.’
Clarke still had the engineer’s attention. ‘You could go it alone,’ she told him quietly. ‘I mean the two of you ...’ Glancing towards Harmison. He nodded and got up, walked over to the desk and gestured for the telephone. ‘One moment, please,’ Harmison said into the mouthpiece. ‘I’m just going to hand you over to Mr Grimm.’
‘How can I help?’ Terry Grimm asked the caller. Harmison wandered over towards Clarke, her arms folded again, as if to form a shield against further blows.
‘First time I was here,’ Clarke said, ‘Terry hinted that Mr Riordan recorded everything.’
The secretary nodded. ‘One time, the three of us went out for dinner. They brought something we hadn’t ordered. Charlie pulled this little recorder from his pocket and played it back to the staff, proving it was them to blame.’ She was smiling at the memory.
‘There’ve been times I’d have done the same,’ Clarke acknowledged.
‘Me, too. Plumbers who promise to be there at eleven . . . people on the phone who say the cheque’s in the post . . .’
Clarke was smiling now, too. But Harmison’s face fell again.
‘I feel so sorry for Terry. He’s worked every bit as hard as Charlie, probably put in more hours, truth be told.’
‘What sort of work have you got on just now?’
‘Radio ads . . . couple of audio books . . . plus editing the Parliament project.’
‘What Parliament project?’
‘You know they have a Festival of Politics every year?’
‘I didn’t, actually.’
‘Had to happen - we’ve got festivals for everything else. This coming year, there’s an artist they’ve commissioned to put something together. He works in video and so on, and he wanted a sound collage to go with whatever it is he’s doing.’
‘So you’ve been taping stuff at the Parliament?’
‘Hundreds of hours of it.’ Harmison nodded towards the battery of machines. But Grimm was clicking his fingers, gaining her attention.
‘I’ll just put my assistant back on,’ he was telling the caller. ‘And she’ll fix up a meeting.’
Harmison fairly trotted towards the desk and the appointments diary. Clarke reckoned it was his use of ‘assistant’ that had done it. No longer a mere secretary or receptionist . . .
Grimm was nodding in gratitude as he approached Clarke. ‘Thanks for the tip,’ he said.
‘Hazel was just telling me about the Festival of Politics.’
Grimm turned his eyes heavenwards. ‘What a nightmare. Artist hadn’t a clue what he wanted. Bounces around between Geneva and New York and Madrid . .. We’d get the occasional e-mail or fax. Get me some sounds of a debate, but make sure it’s heated. All the meetings of one of the committees ... some of the guided tours ... interviews with visitors ... He’d be vague as hell, then tell us we hadn’t done what he wanted. Luckily we kept all his e-mails.’
‘And of course Charlie would have taped any meetings or phone calls?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘Hazel told me.’
‘Well, our artist friend loved that. I mean, not everyone likes it when they find out they’ve been secretly taped . . .’
‘I can imagine,’ Clarke drawled.
‘But he thought it was hysterical.’
‘Sounds like a big project, though.’
‘Nearly done. I put together two hours of collage, and so far he seems to like it. Plans to use it with some video installation at the Parliament building.’ Grimm gave a shrug, which seemed to sum up his attitude to ‘artists’.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Roddy Denholm.’
‘And he’s not based in Scotland?’
‘Has a flat in the New Town, but never seems to be there.’
The intercom buzzed, letting them know Goodyear was back with the spools of tape and the digital recorders.
‘What is it you think we might get from them?’ Grimm asked, staring at the polythene sacks as Goodyear placed them on the floor.
‘To be honest, I’m not sure,’ Clarke admitted. Hazel Harmison had finished making the appointment and was now staring in morbid fascination at the sacks. She’d folded her arms once more, but it wasn’t proving at all effective.
‘Did you make the appointment for today or tomorrow?’ Grimm asked her, hoping to divert her attention.
‘Midday tomorrow.’
‘This recording you’ve been doing at the Parliament . . .’ Clarke asked Grimm. ‘You said you’d been taping one of the committees - mind if I ask which one?’
‘Urban Regeneration,’ he stated. ‘Not exactly a cauldron of human drama, believe me.’
‘I believe you,’ Clarke told him. Interesting all the same. ‘So was it you doing the actual recording rather than Mr Riordan?’
‘Both of us.’
‘That committee’s chaired by Megan Macfarlane, isn’t it?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘You might say I’ve got an interest in politics. Mind if I take a listen?’
‘To the Urban Regeneration Committee?’ He sounded nonplussed. ‘You’ve gone beyond an “interest in politics”, Sergeant ...’
She took the bait: ‘And into what?’
‘Masochism,’ he stated, turning towards the mixing desk.
‘Gill Morgan?’ Rebus asked into the intercom. He was standing outside a door on Great Stuart Street. Cars rumbled across the setts, taking drivers and passengers to Queen Street and George Street. The morning rush hour wasn’t quite over and Rebus had to lean down, ear pressed to the intercom’s loudspeaker, to make out the eventual reply.‘What is it?’ The voice sounded bleary.
‘Sorry if I woke you,’ Rebus pretended to apologise. ‘I’m a police officer, a few follow-up questions regarding Miss Sievewright.’
‘You’ve got to be joking.’ Bleary and irritated.
‘Wait till you hear the punchline.’
But she’d missed that: the setts sending tremors through a lorry. Rather than repeat himself, Rebus just aske
d to be let in.
‘I need to get dressed.’
He repeated the request and the buzzer sounded. He pushed open the door into the communal stairwell and climbed the two flights. She’d left her door ajar for him, but he gave a knock anyway.
‘Wait in the living room!’ she called, presumably from her bedroom. Rebus could see the living room. It was at the end of a wide hall, the sort that often got called a ‘dining hallway’, meaning you were supposed to have a table there and entertain your friends to supper rather than have them traipse all over your actual living room. It seemed to him a very Edinburgh thing. Welcoming, but not very. The living room itself boasted stark white walls to complement stark white furniture. It was like walking into an igloo. The floorboards had been stripped and varnished and he concentrated on them for a moment, trying to avoid becoming snow-blind. It was a big room with a high ceiling and two huge windows. He couldn’t imagine that Gill Morgan shared with anyone, the place was too tidy. There was a flat-screen TV on the wall above the fireplace and no ornaments anywhere. It was like the rooms in the Sunday newspaper supplements, the ones designed to be photographed rather than lived in.
‘Sorry about that,’ a young woman said, walking into the room. ‘I realised after I’d let you in that you could be anybody. The officers the other day carried ID - can I see yours?’
Rebus got out his warrant card, and as she studied it, so he studied her. She was tiny - almost elfin-like. Probably not even five feet tall, and with a pointy little face and almond-shaped eyes. Brown hair tied into a ponytail, and arms the thickness of pipe-cleaners. Hawes and Tibbet had said she was a model of some kind . . . Rebus found that hard to believe. Weren’t models supposed to be tall? Satisfied with his credentials, Morgan had sunk into a white leather armchair, tucking her legs beneath her.