'In the living room?'
Glass nodded.
'So you think it was deliberate?'
Now she shrugged. 'Thing is, if you wanted to kill someone in a fire, usually you'd go to town – slosh petrol around the place, that sort of thing. This was a couple of sheets of loo roll and a small bottle of something flammable.'
'I think I see what you're getting at,' Rebus told her. 'Maybe Riordan wasn't the target.' He paused to see if anyone would beat him to it. 'The tapes were,' he eventually explained.
The tapes?' Hawes asked, forehead creasing.
'Piled around the little home-made pyre.'
'Meaning what exactly?'
That Riordan had something somebody wanted.'
'Or something they didn't want anyone else to have,' Clarke added, running a finger beneath her chin. 'Is there anything at all left of those tapes, Katie?'
Glass gave another shrug. 'Most of the tape itself is done to a crisp. Some of the casings fared a little better.'
'So there could still be writing on them?'
'It's possible,' Glass conceded. 'We've got a slew of stuff that the fire didn't quite get to – dunno how playable any of it will be. Heat, smoke and water may have done their bit. We've also got some of the deceased's recording equipment – again, the stuff on the hard disks might be salvageable.' She didn't sound optimistic.
Rebus caught Siobhan Clarke's eye. 'Right up Ray Duffs street,'
he said.
Goodyear had turned away from the window and was trying to catch up. 'Who's Ray Duff?'
'Forensics,' Clarke explained. But she was focusing on Rebus.
'How about the engineer at Riordan's studio? He might be able to help.'
'Could have kept back-ups,' Tibbet piped up.
'So,' Glass said, folding her arms, 'do I send the stuff here, or to forensics, or the dead man's studio? Whatever the answer, I'll have to keep your D Division colleagues in the loop.'
Rebus thought for a moment, then puffed out his cheeks, exhaled noisily, and said: 'DS Clarke's in charge.'
Freddie the barman was on duty again. Rebus had spent a few minutes outside the Caledonian Hotel, smoking a cigarette and watching the choreography of passing traffic. Two taxis were parked in the cab rank, the drivers chatting to one another. The Caledonian's liveried doorman was giving directions to a couple of tourists. The elaborate clock at the corner of Fraser's department store was being photographed, presumably by another tourist.
There never seemed to be enough rooms in Edinburgh for these visitors; new hotels were always being proposed, considered and constructed. He could think of five or six off the top of his head, all opening within the past ten years, and with more to come. It gave the impression of Edinburgh as a boomtown. More people than ever seemed to want to work there, or visit, or do business.
The Parliament had brought plenty of opportunities. Some argued that independence would spoil things, others that it would build on the success while dealing with devolution's failings. It interested
him that a hard-nosed executive like Stuart Janney would cosy up to a nationalist like Megan Macfarlane. But not as much as these Russian visitors interested him. Big place, Russia, and rich in all manner of resources. You could drop Scotland into it dozens of times over. So why were these men here? Rebus was more than curious.
He finished the cigarette and headed indoors, sliding on to one of the bar stools and offering Freddie a reasonably hearty 'good afternoon'. For a couple of seconds, Freddie mistook him for a guest -he knew the face, after all. He placed a coaster in front of Rebus and asked what he was having.
'The usual,' Rebus teased, enjoying the barman's confusion. Then he shook his head. 'I'm the cop from Friday. But I'll take a dram with a spot of water in it, so long as it's on the house.'
The young man hesitated, but eventually turned to the array of spirits bottles.
'A malt, mind,' Rebus warned him. There was no one else in the bar, no one at all. 'Bit of a graveyard, this time of day.'
'I'm on a double shift – the quiet suits me fine.'
The, too. Means we can talk that bit more freely.'
'Talk?'
'We've got the bar tabs from the night that Russian came in.
Remember? He sat right here, and one of your guests bought him a cognac. Guest's name is Morris Gerald Cafferty.'
Freddie placed the whisky in front of Rebus, and filled a small glass jug with tap water. Rebus dribbled some into the malt and thanked the barman.
Tou'll know Mr Cafferty?' he persisted. 'Last time we spoke, you pretended you didn't. Might explain why you tried pulling a flanker, telling me Todorov could've been talking Russian to the man who bought him the drink. Can't say I blame you, Freddie -Cafferty's not a man you'd want to get on the wrong side of.' He paused. 'Problem is, same goes for me.'
'I was confused, that's all – it was a busy night. Joseph Bonner was in with a party of five… Lady Helen Wood at another table with half a dozen friends…'
'No problem remembering names now, eh, Freddie?' Rebus gave a smile. 'But it's Cafferty I'm interested in.'
'I know the gentleman,' the barman eventually conceded.
Rebus's smile widened. 'Maybe it's because he gets called “gentleman”
that he stays here. Wouldn't happen everywhere in the city, believe me.'
'I know he's been in trouble down the years.'
'No secret,' Rebus agreed. 'Maybe he mentioned it himself and told you to get a copy of that book about him, the one that came out last year?'
Freddie couldn't help smiling back. 'Gave me a copy, actually – signed and everything.'
'He's generous that way. Comes in here most days, would you say?'
'He checked in a week ago; due to leave us in a couple of days.'
'Funny,' Rebus said, pretending to concentrate on the contents of his glass, 'that just about coincides with all these Russians.'
'Does it?' The way Freddie said it, he knew damned well what Rebus was up to.
'Can I remind you,' Rebus said, voice hardening, 'I'm looking into a murder… two murders actually. The night the poet came in here, he'd just had a meal and a drink with a man who's now turned up dead. It's getting serious, Freddie – something you need to bear in mind. You don't want to say anything, fine by me, I'll just arrange to have a patrol car come and pick you up. We'll put you in cuffs and make you comfortable in one of our excellent cells while we get the interrogation room ready…' He paused, letting it sink in. 'I'm trying to be nice here, Freddie, doing my best to be things like “understated” and “people-centred”. That can all change.' He tipped the last of the whisky down his throat.
'Get you another?' the barman asked, his way of saying he was going to cooperate. Rebus shook his head.
'Tell me about Cafferty,' he said instead.
'Comes in most evenings. You're right about the Russians – if it looks like none of them are coming in, he doesn't linger. I know he tries the restaurant, too – has a look around and if they're not there, he won't stay.'
'What about if they are there?'
'Takes a table nearby. Same thing in here. I get the feeling he didn't know them before, but he knows some of them now.'
'So they're all friendly and chatty?'
'Not exactly – they've not got much English. But each of them has a translator – usually some good-looking blonde…'
