Hawes drank pints.
Tibbet was on orange juice, Clarke sticking to white wine. They'd taken the table at the far end. Clarke had her notebook out. Hawes raised her fresh glass in a silent toast to Rebus. He scraped himself back into the chair.
'Drinks took longer than I thought,' he offered by way of apology.
'Managed a quick smoke, though,' Clarke chided him. He decided to ignore her.
'So what have we got?' he asked instead.
Well, they had a time-line for Todorov's last two or three hours of life. They had a growing list of items missing – presumed removed – from the deceased. They had a new locus, the car park.
'Is there anything,' Colin Tibbet piped up, 'to suggest that we're dealing with something other than a particularly brutal mugging?'
'Not really,' Clarke offered, but she met John Rebus's eyes and he gave a slow blink of acknowledgement. It didn't feel right; Clarke could sense it, too. It just didn't feel right. His phone, which he'd laid on the tabletop, started to vibrate, sending tremors across the surface of the pint glass next to it. He picked it up and moved away, either for a better signal or to escape the hubbub. They weren't alone in the back room: a group of three tourists sat bewildered in one corner, showing too much interest in the various artefacts and adverts on the walls. Two men in business suits were hunched over another table, arguing near-silently about something. The TV was on, tuned to a quiz show.
'We should enter a team of four,' Tibbet said. Hawes asked what he meant. 'HQ is having a pub quiz, week before Christmas,' he explained.
'By then,' Clarke reminded him, 'we'll be a team of three.'
'Heard anything about the promotion?' Hawes asked her. Clarke just shook her head. 'Taking their time,' Hawes added, twisting the knife. Rebus was coming back.
'Curiouser and curiouser,' he said, sitting down again. 'That was Howdenhall with a bit of news. Tests show our Russian poet had ejaculated at some point during the day. Stained underpants, apparently.'
'Maybe he got lucky in Glasgow,' Clarke speculated.
'Maybe,' Rebus agreed.
'Him and this sound recordist?' Hawes offered.
Todorov had a wife,' Clarke said.
Tou can never tell with poets, though,' Rebus added. 'Could've been some time after the curry, of course.'
'Any time up until the minute he was attacked.' Clarke and Rebus shared another look.
Tibbet was shifting in his chair. 'Or it could have been… you know.' He cleared his throat, cheeks reddening.
'What?' Clarke asked.
“You know,' Tibbet repeated.
'I think Colin means masturbation,' Hawes interjected. Tibbet's look was a study in gratitude.
'John?' It was the barman. Rebus turned towards him. 'Thought you'd want to see this.' He held up a newspaper. It was the day's final printing of the Evening News. The headline was DEATH OF A POET and beneath it, in bold lettering, 'The maverick who dared to say nyet!' There was an archive photo of Alexander Todorov. He stood in Princes Street Gardens, the Castle louring behind him. A tartan scarf was wrapped around his neck; probably his first day in Scotland. A man with only two months to live.
'Cat's out of the bag,' Rebus said, taking the proffered newspaper.
Then, to anyone around the table who might know: 'Does that count as metaphor?'
Day Three. Friday 17 November 2006
7
There was a funny smell in the CID office at Gayfield Square police station. You often noticed it at the height of summer, but this year it seemed determined to linger. It would disappear for a matter of days or weeks, then one morning would announce its creeping reappearance. There had been regular complaints and the Scottish Police Federation had threatened a walkout. Floors had been lifted and drains tested, traps set for vermin, but no answers.
'Smells like death,' the seasoned officers would comment. Rebus knew what they meant: every now and again, a body would be discovered decomposing in the armchair of a sixties semi, or a floater would be pulled from Leith docks. There was a special room set aside for them at the mortuary, and the attendants had placed a radio on the floor, which could be switched on when desired: 'Helps take our minds off the pong.'
At Gayfield Square, the answer was to open all available windows, which sent the temperature plummeting. The office of Detective Chief Inspector James Macrae – separated by a glass door from the CID suite – was like a walk-in fridge. This morning, Macrae had shown foresight by hauling an electric heater into work from his Blackhall home. Rebus had seen somewhere that Blackhall boasted the wealthiest residents in the city. It had sounded an unlikely setting – bungalows and more bungalows. Homes in Barnton and the New Town fetched millions. Then again, maybe that explained why the people who lived there weren't as rich as those in Bungalowland.
Macrae had plugged the heater in and switched it on, but it stayed his side of the desk, and radiated warmth only so far.
Phyllida Hawes had already shuffled so close to it that she was almost seated on Macrae's lap, something the DCI noted with a scowl.
'Right,' he barked, clenching his hands together as if in angry prayer, 'progress report.' But before Rebus could begin, Macrae sensed a problem. 'Colin, shut the door, will you? Let's keep what heat there is to ourselves.'
'Not much room, sir,' Tibbet commented. He was standing in the doorway, and what he said was true: with Macrae, Rebus, Clarke and Hawes inside, space in the DCI's den was limited.
'Then go back to your desk,' Macrae replied. 'I'm sure Phyllida can report on your behalf.'
But Tibbet didn't want that happening: if Clarke was promoted DI, there'd be a vacancy at detective sergeant, making Hawes and him rivals as well as partners. He sucked in his stomach and managed to get the door closed.
'Progress report,' Macrae repeated. But then his phone rang and he lifted it with a growl. Rebus wondered about his boss's blood pressure. His own was nothing to boast about, but Macrae's face was typically puce, and though a couple of years younger than Rebus, his hair had almost gone. As Rebus's own doctor had conceded during his last check-up, 'You've had a lucky run, John, but luck always runs out.'
Macrae made only a few grunts before putting the phone back down. His eyes were on Rebus. 'Someone from the Russian consulate at the front desk.'
'Wondered when they'd turn up,' Rebus said. 'Siobhan and I should take this, sir. Meantime, Phyl and Colin can tell you all you need to know – we had a pow-wow last night.'
Macrae nodded his agreement and Rebus turned to Clarke.
'One of the interview rooms?' she suggested.
'Just what I was thinking.' They moved out of the DCI's office and through the CID suite. The wall-boards were still blank. Later today, photos from the crime scene would go up, along with lists of names, jobs to be done, and schedules of hours. At some murder scenes, you would set up a temporary HQ, work from there. But Rebus didn't see the point this time round. They would put up posters at the car park exit, appealing for information, and maybe get Hawes and Tibbet or a few of the uniforms to stick leaflets on windscreens. But this large, cold room would be their base. Clarke was looking back over her shoulder towards Macrae's office. Hawes and Tibbet seemed to be in competition to see who could offer the best titbits to the boss.
'Anyone,' Rebus commented, 'would think there's a DS slot going begging. Who's your money on?'
