Jenny showed how it was done, and Clarke nodded slowly.
'The picture's very clear,' she commented. 'And in colour – I was expecting black and white. Don't suppose you've any cameras on King's Stables Road?'
MacLeod gave a dry chuckle. 'I knew that's what you'd be after.'
He reached for a logbook and flicked back a couple of pages. 'Martin was manning the decks that night. He tracked the police cars and ambulance.' MacLeod ran a finger along the relevant entry. 'Even had a look back at what footage there was but didn't spot anything conclusive.'
'Doesn't mean there's nothing there.'
'Absolutely.'
'Siobhan here,' Rebus said, 'was telling me there's more CCTV in the UK than any other country.'
'Twenty per cent of all the closed-circuit cameras in the world, one for each and every dozen of us.'
'So quite a lot then?' Rebus muttered.
Tou save all the footage?' Clarke asked.
We do what we can. It goes on to hard disk and video, but there are guidelines we have to follow…'
“What Graeme means,' Rebus explained for Clarke's benefit, 'is that he can't just go handing material to us – Data Protection Act 1997.'
MacLeod was nodding. 'Ninety-eight actually, John. We can give you what we've got, but there are hoops to be gone through first.'
'Which is why I've learned to trust Graeme's judgement.' Rebus turned to MacLeod. 'And I'm guessing you've been through the recordings with whatever the digital equivalent is of a fine-toothed comb?'
MacLeod smiled and nodded. 'Jenny gave me a hand. We had
the photos of the victim from the various news agencies. I think we've picked him up on Shandwick Place. He was on foot and unaccompanied.
That's at just gone ten. Next time we see him is half an hour later on Lothian Road. But as you've guessed, we've no cameras on King's Stables Road itself.'
'Did you get the sense anyone was following him?' Rebus asked.
MacLeod shook his head. 'And neither did Jenny.'
Clarke was studying the screens again. 'A few more years of this and I'll be out of a job.'
MacLeod laughed. 'I doubt that. Surveillance is a tricky balancing act. Invasion of privacy is always an issue, and the civil rights people oppose us every step of the way.'
'Now there's a surprise,' Rebus muttered.
'Don't tell me you'd want one of our cameras peering in through your own window?' MacLeod teased.
Clarke had been thinking. 'Charles Riordan picked up the tab at the curry house at nine forty-eight. Todorov left there and headed into town along Shandwick Place. How come it took him half an hour to travel quarter of a mile to Lothian Road?'
'He stopped for a drink?' Rebus guessed.
'Riordan mentioned Mather's or the Caledonian Hotel. Wherever he went, Todorov was back on the street at ten forty, meaning he'd have been outside the car park five minutes later.' She waited for Rebus to nod his agreement.
'Shutters go down on the car park at eleven,' he added. The attack must've been quick.' Then, to MacLeod: 'What about afterwards, Graeme?'
MacLeod was ready for this. 'The passer-by who found the body called it in at twelve minutes past eleven. We took a look at the footage from the Grassmarket and Lothian Road ten minutes either side of that time.' He gave a shrug. 'Just the usual pub-goers, office parties, late-night shoppers… no crazed muggers legging it with a hammer swinging from their hand.'
'Be handy if we could take a look at that,' Rebus stated. 'We might know faces you don't.'
'Fair enough.'
'But you'd want us to jump through the hoops?'
MacLeod had folded his arms, the gesture providing an answer in itself.
They were heading back through the reception area, Rebus breaking
open a fresh packet of cigarettes, when an attendant in some sort of official garb stopped them. It took a moment for Rebus to register that the Lord Provost herself was there, too, her gold chain of office hanging around her neck. She didn't look particularly happy.
'I believe we have an appointment?' she was asking. 'Though nobody seems to know about it except you two.'
'Bit of a cock-up there,' Rebus apologised.
'So not just a ploy to grab yourselves a precious parking bay?'
'Perish the thought.'
She glared at him. 'Just as well you're going – we need that space for more important visitors.'
Rebus could feel his grip tightening on the cigarettes. 'What could be more urgent than a murder inquiry?' he asked.
She caught his meaning. 'The Russian poet? We need that one cleared fast.'
'To appease the money-men of the Volga?' Rebus guessed. Then, after a moment's thought: 'How much does the council have to do with them? Megan Macfarlane tells us her Urban Regeneration Committee is involved.'
The Lord Provost was nodding. 'But there's council input, too.'
'So you're glad-handing the fat cats? Good to see my council tax being put to such good use.'
The Lord Provost had taken a step forwards, glare intensifying.
She was readying a fresh salvo when her attendant cleared his throat. Through the window, a long black car could be seen trying to manoeuvre itself through the arch in front of the building. The Lord Provost said nothing, just turned from Rebus and was gone.
He gave her five seconds, then made his own exit, Clarke at his shoulder.
'Nice to make friends,' she said.
'I'm a week from retirement, Shiv, what the hell do I care?'
They walked a few yards down the pavement, then stopped while Rebus got his cigarette lit.
'Did you see the paper this morning?' Clarke asked. 'Andy Kerr won Politician of the Year last night.'
'And who's he when he's at home?'
'Man who brought in the smoking ban.'
Rebus just snorted. Pedestrians were watching the official-looking car draw to a halt in front of the waiting Lord Provost. Her liveried attendant stepped forward to open the back door. Tinted windows had shielded the passenger from view, but as he stepped out Rebus immediately guessed he was one of the Russians. Big coat, black
gloves, and a chiselled, unsmiling face. Maybe forty years old, hair short and well groomed with some greying at the temples. Steely grey eyes which took in everything, Rebus and Clarke included, even as he was shaking the Lord Provost's hand and answering some remark she'd made. Rebus sucked smoke deep into his lungs and watched as the party disappeared back inside.
'Looks like the Russian consulate's going into the taxi business,'
Rebus stated, studying the black Mercedes.
'Same car Stahov had?' Clarke guessed.
'Could be.'
'What about the driver?'
'Hard to tell.'
Another official had appeared and was gesturing for them to move their car so the chauffeur could park. Rebus held up a single digit, meaning one minute. Then he noticed that Clarke was still wearing her visitor's badge.
'Better hand them back,' he said. Tou take this.' He held out the half-smoked cigarette towards her, but she was reluctant, so instead he balanced it on a windowsill nearby. 'Watch it doesn't blow away,' he warned, taking her badge and unclipping his own.
'I'm sure they don't need them,' she commented. Rebus just smiled and headed for reception.
