Thyl's got more years in,' Clarke answered. 'She's got to be favourite. If Colin gets it, I think she'll walk.'
Rebus nodded his agreement. 'Which interview room?' he asked.
'I like Three.'
'Why so?'
'Table's all greasy and scabby, graffiti scratched on the walls…
It's the sort of place you go when you've done something.'
Rebus smiled at her thinking. Even for the pure at heart, IR3 was a troubling experience.
'Spot on,' he said.
The consular official was called Nikolai Stahov. He introduced himself with a self-effacing smile. He was young- looking and shiny faced with a parting in his light-brown hair which made him seem even more boyish. But he was six feet tall and broad-shouldered, and wore a three-quarter-length black woollen coat, complete with belt and the collar turned up. From one pocket peeked a pair of black leather gloves – mittens, actually, Rebus realised, smooth and rounded where there should have been fingers. Did your mum dress you? he wanted to ask. But he shook Stahov's hand instead.
“We're sorry about Mr Todorov,' Clarke said, reaching out her own hand towards the Russian. She got a little bow along with the shake.
'My consulate,' Stahov said, 'wishes to be assured that everything possible is being done to capture and prosecute the perpetrator.'
Rebus nodded slowly. 'We thought we'd be more comfortable in one of our interview rooms…'
They led the young Russian down the corridor, stopping at the third door. It was unlocked. Rebus pulled it open and gestured for Clarke and Stahov to go in. Then he slid the panel across the door, changing its message from Vacant to In Use.
'Take a seat,' he said. Stahov was studying his surroundings as he lowered himself on to the chair. He was about to place his hands on the tabletop, but thought better of it and rested them on his lap instead. Clarke had taken the seat opposite, Rebus content to lean against the wall, arms folded. 'So what can you tell us about Alexander Todorov?' he asked.
'Inspector, I came here for reassurances and from a sense of protocol. You must know that as a diplomat, I am not obliged to answer any of your questions.'
'Because you've got immunity,' Rebus acknowledged. 'We just assumed you'd want to assist us in any way possible. It is one of
your countrymen who's been killed, and rather a notable one at that.' He tried to sound aggrieved.
'Of course, of course, that's unquestionable.' Stahov kept turning his head, trying to talk to both of them at the same time.
'Good,' Clarke told him. 'Then you won't mind us asking how big a thorn Todorov was proving to be?'
'Thorn?' It was hard to tell if Stahov's English was really defeating him.
'How awkward was it for you,' Clarke rephrased the question, ¦having a noted dissident poet living in Edinburgh?'
'It wasn't awkward at all.'
Tou welcomed him?' Clarke pretended to guess. 'Was there any kind of party at the consulate? He'd been talked about for the Nobel… that must have given you great satisfaction?'
'In today's Russia, the Nobel Prize isn't such a big deal.'
'Mr Todorov had given a couple of public performances recently…
did you happen to go see him?'
'I had other engagements.'
'Did anyone from the consulate-'
But Stahov felt the need to interrupt. 'I don't see what bearing any of this could have on your inquiries. In fact, your questions could be construed as a smokescreen. Whether we wanted Alexander Todorov here or not is of no consequence. He was murdered in your city, your country. Edinburgh is not without its problems with race and creed – Polish workers have found themselves attacked.
Wearing the wrong football shirt can be provocation enough.'
Rebus looked towards Clarke. 'Talk about a smokescreen…'
'I am speaking the truth.' Stahov's voice was beginning to tremble, and he made an effort to calm himself. 'What my consulate requires, Inspector, is to be kept informed of developments. That way, we can reassure Moscow that your investigation has been rigorous and fair, and they in turn can advise your government of our satisfaction.'
Rebus and Clarke seemed to consider this. Rebus unfolded his arms and slipped his hands into his pockets.
'There's always the possibility,' he said quietly, 'that Mr Todorov was attacked by someone with a grudge. That person could be a member of the Russian community here in Edinburgh. I'm assuming the consulate keeps a list of nationals living and working here?'
'My understanding, Inspector, was that Alexander Todorov was just another victim of this city's street crime.'
'Foolish to rule anything out at this stage, sir.'
'And that list would come in handy,' Clarke stressed.
Stahov looked from one detective to the other. Rebus hoped he'd make up his mind soon. One error they'd made in opting for IR3 -it was bloody freezing. The Russian's overcoat looked toasty, but Rebus reckoned Siobhan was going to start shivering soon. He was surprised their breath wasn't visible in the air.
'I will see what I can do,' Stahov said at last. 'But quid pro quo -you will keep me informed of developments?'
'Give us your number,' Clarke told him. The young Russian seemed to take this as agreement.
Rebus knew it was anything but.
There was a package waiting for Siobhan Clarke at the front desk.
Rebus had gone outside for a cigarette and to see whether Stahov had a chauffeur. Clarke opened the padded envelope and found a CD inside, with the single word 'Riordan' written on it in thick black pen. It told her a lot about Charles Riordan that he used his own name, in place of Todorov's. She took the CD upstairs, but there was no machine to play it on. So instead she headed for the car park, passing Rebus as he came in.
'Big black Merc waiting for him,' Rebus confirmed. 'Guy wearing shades and gloves at the helm. Where are you off to?'
She told him and he said he wouldn't mind joining her, though warning that he 'might not last the pace'. In the end, though, the pair of them sat in Clarke's car for a solid hour and a quarter, engine running so the heater stayed on. Riordan had recorded everything: some chat between audience members, then the introduction by Abigail Thomas, Todorov's half-hour and the Q and A session after, most of the questions steering clear of politics. As the applause died and the audience dispersed, Riordan's mike was still picking up chatter.
'He's an obsessive,' Clarke commented.
'I hear you,' Rebus agreed. Almost the last thing they heard was a muttered snatch of Russian. 'Probably,' Rebus speculated, 'saying “Thank Khrushchev that's over”.'
'Who's Khrushchev?' Clarke asked. 'Some friend of Jack Palance?'
The recital itself had been riveting, the poet's voice by turns sonorous, gruff, elegiac and booming. He performed some of his work in English, some in Russian, but the majority in both – usually Russian first, English after.
'Sounds like Scots, doesn't it?' Clarke had asked at one point.
'Maybe to someone from England,' Rebus had retorted. Okay, so she'd walked into that one, as so often before – her 'southern'
accent had been easy prey for Rebus since the moment they'd met.
This time, she'd refused to rise to him.
