'From what Ms Macfarlane just said,' Clarke added, 'I'm guessing she's already spoken with you about it.'
'Happened to come up in conversation this morning,' Janney acknowledged, running a hand through his blond hair. His face was freckled, the skin pink, reminding Rebus of a younger Colin Montgomerie, and his eyes were the same dark blue as his tie.
Janney seemed to have decided that further explanation was needed. 'We were on the phone to one another.'
'Are you something to do with these Russian visitors?' Rebus asked. Janney nodded.
'FAB never turns away prospective customers, Inspector.'
FAB: it was how most people referred to the First Albannach Bank. It was a term of affection, but behind it lay one of the biggest employers – and probably the most profitable company – in Scotland. The TV adverts showed FAB as an extended family, and were filmed almost as mini-soaps, while the bank's brand-new corporate HQ – built on green-belt land, despite the protests – was a city in miniature, complete with shopping arcade and cafes. Staff could get their hair done there, or buy food for the evening meal.
They could use the gym or play a round of golf on the company's own nine-hole course.
'So if you're looking for someone to manage that overdraft…'
Janney handed out business cards. Macfarlane laughed when she saw it, before passing him his black coffee. Interesting, Rebus thought: he takes it the same way she does. But he'd bet that if Janney was out with an important customer, whatever the customer ordered would be Janney's drink of choice, too. The Police College at Tulliallan had run a course on it a year or two back: Empathic Interviewing Techniques. When questioning a witness or a suspect, you tried to find things you had in common, even if
that meant lying. Rebus had never really got round to trying it, but he could tell that someone like Janney would be a natural.
'Stuart's incorrigible,' the MSP was saying. 'What have I told you about touting for business? It's unethical.' But she was smiling as she spoke, and Janney gave a quiet chuckle, while sliding his business cards closer to Rebus and Clarke.
'Mr Janney,' Clarke began, 'tells us the pair of you were discussing Alexander Todorov.'
Megan Macfarlane nodded slowly. 'Stuart has an advisory role in URC 'I didn't think FAB would be pro- Nationalist, Mr Janney,' Rebus said.
'Completely neutral,' Janney stressed. 'There are twelve members of the Urban Regeneration Committee, Inspector, representing five political parties.'
'And how many of them did you speak to on the phone today?'
'So far, only Megan,' the banker admitted, 'but then it's not quite lunchtime.' He made show of checking his watch.
'Stuart is our three-I consultant,' Macfarlane was saying. 'Inward Investment Initiatives.'
Rebus ignored this. 'Did Ms Macfarlane ask you to drop by, Mr Janney?' he asked. When the banker looked to the MSP, Rebus had his answer. He turned his attention to Macfarlane herself. 'Which businessman was it?'
She blinked. 'Sorry?'
'Which one was it who seemed so concerned about Alexander Todorov?'
'Why do you want to know?'
'Is there any reason I shouldn't know?' Rebus raised an eyebrow for effect.
'The Inspector's got you cornered, Megan,' Janney was saying with a lopsided smile. He got a baleful look in return, which had gone by the time Macfarlane turned towards Rebus.
'It was Sergei Andropov,' she stated.
'There was a Russian president called Andropov,' Clarke commented.
'No relation,' Janney told her, taking a sip of coffee. 'At HQ, they've taken to calling him Svengali.'
'Why's that, sir?' Clarke sounded genuinely curious.
'The number of takeovers he's finessed, the way he built up his own company into a global player, the boards he's won round, the strategies and gamesmanship…' Janney sounded like he could
go on all day. I'm pretty sure,' he said, 'it's meant as a term of endearment.'
'Sounds like he's endeared himself to you, at any rate,' Rebus commented. 'I'm guessing First Albannach would love to do business with these big shots.'
'We already do.'
Rebus decided to wipe the smile off the banker's face. 'Well, Alexander Todorov happened to bank with you, too, sir, and look what happened to him.'
'DI Rebus has a point, sir,' Clarke interrupted. 'Any chance you could get us details of Mr Todorov's accounts and most recent transactions?'
'There are protocols…'
'I understand, sir, but they might help us find his killer, which in turn would put your clients' minds at rest.'
Janney gave a thoughtful pout. 'Is there an executor?'
'Not that we know of.'
'Which branch was his account with?'
Clarke stretched out her arms and gave a shrug and a hopeful smile.
'I'll see what I can do.'
'We appreciate it, sir,' Rebus told him. 'We're based at Gayfield Square.' He made show of studying his surroundings. 'Not quite as grand as this, but then it didn't bankrupt the taxpayer either…'
9
It was a quick run from the Parliament to the City Chambers.
Rebus told the staff on reception that they had a 2 p.m. appointment with the Lord Provost and were hellish early, but could they leave their car parked outside anyway? Everyone seemed to think that was fine, which caused Rebus to beam a smile and ask if they could fill in the time by saying hello to Graeme MacLeod. More passes, another security check, and they were in. As they waited for the lift, Clarke turned to Rebus.
'I meant to say, you handled Macfarlane and Janney pretty well.'
'I guessed as much from the way you let me do most of the work.'
'Is it too late for me to withdraw the compliment?' But they were both smiling. 'How long till they find out we've nicked a parking space under false pretences?'
'Depends whether they bother to ask the Lord Prov's secretary.'
The lift arrived and they got in, descending two storeys below ground level to where a man was waiting. Rebus introduced him to Clarke as Graeme MacLeod, and MacLeod led them into the CMF Room, explaining that CMF stood for Central Monitoring Facility. Rebus had been there before but Clarke hadn't, and her eyes widened a little as she saw the array of closed-circuit monitors, dozens of them, three deep and with staff manning desks of computers in front of them.
MacLeod liked it when visitors were impressed, and needed no prompting to give his little speech.
'Ten years the city's had CCTV,' he began. 'Started with a dozen cameras in the centre, now we've got over a hundred and thirty,
with more due to be introduced shortly. We maintain a direct link to the Police Control Centre at Bilston, and about twelve hundred arrests a year are down to things we spot in this stuffy wee room.'
The room was certainly warm – heat from all the monitors – and Clarke was shrugging off her coat.
'We're open 247 MacLeod went on, 'and can track a suspect while telling the police where to find them.' The monitors had numbers above them, and MacLeod pointed to one. 'That's the Grassmarket. And if Jenny here' – meaning the woman seated at the desk – 'uses the little keypad in front of her we can swivel the camera, and zoom in on anyone parking their car or coming out of a shop or pub.'
