Ian Rankin
Exit Music
Book 17 in the Inspector Rebus series, 2007
Father always said a policeman's knock is unmistakable, and it is, the rap on the paintwork a very public command, feasting. the hearer's capacity for guilt.
Andrew O'Hagan, Be Near Me
Day One. Wednesday 15 November 2006
1
The girl screamed once, only the once, but it was enough. By the time the middle-aged couple arrived at the foot of Raeburn Wynd, she was kneeling on the ground, hands over her face, shoulders heaving with sobs. The man studied the corpse for a moment, then tried shielding his wife's eyes, but she had already turned away.
He took out his phone and called the emergency number. It was ten minutes before the police car arrived, during which time the girl tried to leave, the man explaining calmly that she should wait, his hand rubbing her shoulder. His wife was seated kerbside, despite the nighttime chill. November in Edinburgh, not quite cold enough for a frost but heading that way. King's Stables Road wasn't the busiest of thoroughfares. A No Entry sign prevented vehicles using it as a route from the Grassmarket to Lothian Road. At night it could be a lonely spot, with not much more than a multistorey jcar park on one side, Castle Rock and a cemetery on the other. The street lighting seemed underpowered, and pedestrians kept leir wits about them. The middle-aged couple had been to a ol service in St Cuthbert's Church, helping raise money for the “s children's hospital. The woman had bought a holly wreath, rhich now lay on the ground to the left of the corpse. Her husband ldn't help thinking: a minute either way and we might not have rd, might be heading home in the car, the wreath on the back at and Classic FM on the radio.
'I want to go home,' the girl was complaining between sobs. She standing, knees grazed. Her skirt was too short, the man felt,, her denim jacket was unlikely to keep out the cold. She looked liar to him. He had considered – briefly considered – lending his coat. Instead, he reminded her again that she needed to stay put. Suddenly, their faces turned blue. The police car was arriving, lights flashing.
'Here they come,' the man said, placing his arm around her shoulders as if to comfort her, removing it again when he saw his wife was watching.
Even after the patrol car drew to a halt, its roof light stayed on, engine left running. Two uniformed officers emerged, not bothering with their caps. One of them carried a large black torch. Raeburn Wynd was steep and led to a series of mews conversions above garages which would once have housed the monarch's carriages and horses. It would be treacherous when icy.
'Maybe he slipped and banged his head,' the man offered. 'Or he was sleeping rough, or had had a few too many…'
'Thank you, sir,' one of the officers said, meaning the opposite.
His colleague had switched the torch on, and the middle-aged man realised that there was blood on the ground, blood on the slumped body's hands and clothes. The face and hair were clotted with it.
'Or someone smashed him to a pulp,' the first officer commented.
'Unless, of course, he slipped repeatedly against a cheese-grater.'
His young colleague winced. He'd been crouching down, the better to shine light on to the body, but he rose to his feet again.
'Whose is the wreath?' he asked.
'My wife's,' the man stated, wondering afterwards why he hadn't just said 'mine'.
'Jack Palance,' Detective Inspector John Rebus said.
'I keep telling you, I don't know him.'
'Big film star.'
'So name me a film.'
'His obituary's in the Scotsman.'
'Then you should be clued up enough to tell me what I've seen him in.' Detective Sergeant Siobhan Clarke got out of the car and slammed shut the door.
'He was the bad guy in a lot of Westerns,' Rebus persisted.
Clarke showed her warrant card to one of the uniforms and took a proffered torch from the younger of the two. The Scene-of-Crime unit was on its way. Spectators had started gathering, drawn to the scene by the patrol car's blue beacon. Rebus and Clarke had been working late at Gayfield Square police station, hammering out a theory – but no prime suspect – in an unsolved investigation.
Both had been glad of the break provided by the summons. They'd arrived in Rebus's wheezing Saab 900, from the boot of which he was now fetching polythene overshoes and latex gloves. It took him half a dozen noisy attempts to slam shut the lid.
'Need to trade it in,' he muttered.
'Who'd want it?' Clarke asked, pulling on the gloves. Then, when he didn't answer: 'Were those hiking boots I glimpsed?'
'As old as the car,' Rebus stated, heading towards the corpse.
The two detectives fell silent, studying the figure and its surroundings.
'Someone's done a job on him,' Rebus eventually commented. He turned towards the younger constable. 'What's your name, son?'
'Goodyear, sir… Todd Goodyear.'
Todd?'
'Mum's maiden name, sir,' Goodyear explained.
'Ever heard of Jack Palance, Todd?'
'Wasn't he in Shane?
Tfou're wasted in uniform.'
Goodyear's colleague chuckled. 'Give young Todd here half a chance and it's you he'll be grilling rather than any suspects.'
'How's that?' Clarke asked.
The constable – at least fifteen years older than his partner and maybe three times the girth – nodded towards Goodyear. 'I'm not good enough for Todd,' he explained. 'Got his eyes set on CID.'
Goodyear ignored this. He had his notebook in his hand. Want us to start taking details?' he asked. Rebus looked towards the pavement.
A middle-aged couple were seated kerbside, holding hands.
Then there was the teenage girl, arms wrapped around herself as she shivered against a wall. Beyond her the crowd of onlookers was starting to shuffle forward again, warnings forgotten.
'Best thing you can do,' Rebus offered, 'is hold that lot back till we can secure the scene. Doctor should be here
