Rebus was giving Clarke a lift home when the call came in on her mobile.
They did a U-turn and headed for the Cowgate, home to the city's mortuary. There was an unmarked white van sitting by the loading bay. Rebus parked next to it and led the way. The night shift consisted of just two men. One was in his forties and had the look – to Rebus's eyes – of an ex-con. A faded blue tattoo crept out of the neck of his overalls and halfway up his throat. It took Rebus a moment to place it as some sort of snake. The other man was a lot younger, bespectacled and gawky.
'I take it you're the poet,' Rebus guessed.
'Lord Byron, we call him,' the older man rasped.
That's how I recognised him,' the young attendant told Rebus. 'I was at a reading he gave just yesterday…' He glanced at his watch. Day before yesterday,' he corrected himself, reminding Rebus that it was past midnight. 'He was wearing the exact same clothes.'
'Hard to ID him from his face,' Clarke interrupted, playing devil's j advocate.
The young man nodded agreement. 'All the same… the hair, that jacket and the belt…'
'So what's his name?' Rebus asked.
Todorov. Alexander Todorov. He's Russian. I've got one of his oks in the staffroom. He signed it for me.'
That'll be worth a few quid.' The other attendant sounded sudly interested.
you fetch it?' Rebus asked. The young man nodded and luffled past, heading for the corridor. Rebus studied the rows of srated doors. 'Which one's he in?'
'Number three.' The attendant rapped his knuckles against the door in question. There was a label on it, but no name as yet. 'I wouldn't bet on Lord Byron being wrong – he's got brains.'
'How long has he been here?'
'Couple of months. Real name's Chris Simpson.'
Clarke had a question of her own. 'Any idea how soon the autopsy will get done?'
'Soon as the pathologists get their arses down here.'
Rebus had picked up a copy of the day's Evening News. 'Looking bad for Hearts,' the attendant told him. 'Pressley's lost the captaincy and there's a caretaker coach.'
'Music to DS Clarke's ears,' Rebus told the man. He held the paper up so she could see the front page. A Sikh teenager had been attacked in Pilrig Park and his hair lopped off.
'Not our patch, thank God,' she said. At the sound of footsteps, all three of them turned, but it was only Chris Simpson returning with the slim hardback book. Rebus took charge of it and turned to the back cover. The poet's unsmiling face stared back at him.
Rebus showed it to Clarke, who shrugged.
'Looks like the same leather jacket,' Rebus commented. 'But he's got some sort of chain round his neck.'
'He was wearing it at the reading,' Simpson confirmed.
'And the guy you brought in tonight?'
'No chain – I had a quick look. Maybe they took it… whoever mugged him, I mean.'
'Or maybe it's not him. How long was Todorov staying in town?'
'He's here on some sort of scholarship. Hasn't lived in Russia for a while – calls himself an exile.'
Rebus was turning the pages of the book. It was called Astapovo Blues. The poems were in English and called things like 'Raskolnikov', 'Leonid', and 'Mind Gulag1. 'What does the title mean?' he asked Simpson.
'It's the place where Tolstoy died.'
The other attendant chuckled. 'Told you he had a brain on him.'
Rebus handed the book to Clarke, who flicked to the title page.
Todorov had written an inscription, telling 'Dear Chris' to 'keep the faith, as I have and have not'. 'What did he mean?' she asked.
'I said I was trying to be a poet. He told me that meant I already was. I think he's saying he kept faith with poetry, but not with Russia.' The young man was starting to blush.
'Where was this?' Rebus asked.
'The Scottish Poetry Library – just off the Canongate.'
'Was anyone with him? A wife maybe, or someone from the publisher?'
Simpson told them he couldn't be sure. 'He's famous, you know.
There was talk of the Nobel Prize.'
Clarke had closed the book. 'There's always the Russian consulate,'
she suggested. Rebus gave a slow nod. They could hear a car drawing up outside.
'That'll be at least one of them,' the other attendant said. 'Best get the lab ready, Lord Byron.'
Simpson had reached out a hand for his book, but Clarke waved it at him.
'Mind if I hang on to it, Mr Simpson? Promise I won't put it on eBay.'
The young man seemed reluctant, but was being prodded into action by his colleague. Clarke sealed the deal by slipping the book into her coat pocket. Rebus had turned to face the outer door, which was being hauled open by a puffy-eyed Professor Gates. Only a couple of steps behind him was Dr Curt – the two pathologists had worked together so frequently that they often seemed to Rebus a single unit. Hard to imagine that outside of work they could ever lead separate, distinguishable lives.
'Ah, John,' Gates said, proffering a hand as chilled as the room.
The night's grown bitter. And here's DS Clarke, too – looking forward, no doubt, to stepping out from the mentor's shadow.'
Clarke prickled but kept her mouth shut – no point in arguI ing that, as far as she was concerned, she'd long ago left Rebus's 1»hadow. Rebus himself offered a smile of support before shaking hands with the ashen-faced Curt. There had been a cancer scare; eleven months back, and some of the man's energy had failed to jjjeturn, though he'd given up the cigarettes for good.
'How are you, John?' Curt was asking. Rebus felt maybe that lould have been his question, but he offered a reassuring nod.
'I'm guessing box two,' Gates was saying, turning to his associite.
'Deal or no deal?'
'It's number three actually,' Clarke told him. 'We think he may a Russian poet.'
“Not Todorov?' Curt asked, one eyebrow raised. Clarke showed the book, and the eyebrow went a little higher.
Wouldn't have taken you for a poetry lover, Doc,' Rebus comBnted.
'Are we in the midst of a diplomatic incident?' Gates snorted.
auld we be checking for poisoned umbrella tips?'
'Looks like he was mugged by a psycho,' Rebus explained.
'Unless there's a poison out there that strips the skin away from your face.'
'Necrotising fasciitis,' Curt muttered.
'Arising from Streptococcus pyogenes,' Gates added. 'Not that I think we've ever seen it.' To Rebus's ears, he sounded genuinely disappointed.
Blunt force trauma: the police doctor had been spot-on. Rebus sat in his living room, not bothering to switch on any lights, and smoked a cigarette. Having banned nicotine from workplaces and pubs, the government were now looking at banning it from the home, too. Rebus wondered how they'd go about enforcing that. A John Hiatt album was on the CD player, volume kept low. The track was called 'Lift Up Every Stone'. All his time on the force, he hadn't done anything else. But Hiatt was using stones to build a wall, while Rebus just peered beneath them at the tiny dark things scuttling around. He wondered if the lyric was a poem, and what the Russian poet would have made of Rebus's riff on it. They'd tried phoning the consulate, but no one had answered, not even a machine, so they'd decided to call it a night. Siobhan had been dozing off during the autopsy, much to Gates's irritation. Rebus's fault: he'd been keeping her late at the office, trying to get her interested in all those cold cases, all the ones still niggling him, hoping that maybe they would keep his memory warm…
Rebus had dropped her home and then driven through the silent pre-dawn streets to Marchmont, an eventual parking space, and his second-floor tenement flat. The living room had a bay window, and that was where his chair was. He was promising himself he'd make it as far as the bedroom, but there was a spare duvet behind the sofa
