Rebus thought back to the day he'd seen Andropov outside the hotel and the City Chambers: no glamorous assistant. 'They don't all need a translator,' he said.
Freddie was nodding. 'Mr Andropov speaks English fairly fluently.'
'Which means he probably speaks it better than Cafferty.'
'I do sometimes get that impression. Other thing I felt was that maybe they weren't strangers when they met…'
'What do you mean?'
'First time they ran into one another in here, it was like they didn't need introductions. Mr Andropov, when he shook hands with Mr Cafferty, he sort of gripped his arm at the same time… I dunno.' Freddie shrugged. 'Just seemed like they knew one another.'
'How much do you know about Andropov?' Rebus asked. Freddie shrugged again.
'He tips well, never seems to drink very much – usually bottles of water, he insists on Scottish.'
'I meant what do you know of his background?'
'Nothing at all'
The neither,' Rebus admitted. 'So how many times have Cafferty and Andropov met?'
'I've seen them in here a couple of times… the other barman, Jimmy, says he saw them having a chinwag one time, too.'
'What do they talk about?'
'Not a clue.'
Tou better not be holding back on me, Freddie.'
'I'm not.'
Tou said Andropov's English was better than Cafferty's.'
'But not from hearing them in conversation.'
Rebus was gnawing away at his bottom lip. 'So what does Cafferty talk to you about?'
' Edinburgh, mostly – the way it used to be… how things have changed…“
'Sounds riveting. Nothing about the Russians?'
Freddie shook his head. 'Said the best moment of his life was the day he went “legit”.'
'He's about as legit as a twenty-quid Rolex.'
'I've been offered a few of those in my time,' the barman mused.
'Something I noticed about all the Russian gentlemen – nice watches. Tailored suits, too. But their shoes look cheap; I can never understand that. People should take better care of their feet.' He decided Rebus merited an explanation. 'My girlfriend's a chiropodist.'
'The pillow talk must be scintillating,' Rebus muttered, staring at the empty room and imagining it full of Russian tycoons and their translators.
And Big Ger Cafferty.
'Night the poet was in here,' he said, 'he just had the one drink with Cafferty and then left…'
'That's right.'
'But what did Cafferty do?' Rebus was remembering that bar tab: eleven drinks in total.
Freddie thought for a moment. 'I think he stayed for a bit… yes, he was here till I closed up, more or less.'
'More or less?'
'Well, he may have nipped to the toilet. Actually, he went over to Mr Andropov's booth. There was another gentleman there, a politician, I think.'
Tou think?'
'Whenever they come on the telly, I turn the sound down.'
'But you recognised this man?'
'Like I say, I think he's something to do with the Parliament.'
'Which booth was this?' The barman pointed, and Rebus slid from his stool and headed over to it. 'And Andropov was where?'
he called.
'Move in a bit further… yes, there.'
From where Rebus was now sitting, he could only see the nearest end of the bar. The stool he'd just risen from, the one Todorov had taken, was hidden from view. Rebus got to his feet again and walked back to Freddie.
“You sure you've not got cameras in here?'
'We don't need them.'
Rebus thought for a moment. 'Do me a favour, will you?' he said.
'Next time you get a break, find a computer.'
'There's one in the Business Centre.'
'Log on to the Scottish Parliament website. There'll be about a hundred and twenty-nine faces there… see if you can match one of them.'
'My breaks tend to be twenty minutes.'
Rebus ignored this. He gave Freddie his card. 'Call me as soon as you've got a name.' Perfect timing: the door was swinging open, a couple of suits coming in. They looked as though some deal had done them a few favours.
'Bottle of Krug!' one of them barked, ignoring the fact that Freddie was busy with another customer. The barman's eyes met Rebus's and the detective nodded to let him know he could go back to his job.
'Bet they're not even tippers,' Rebus said under his breath.
'Maybe not,' Freddie acknowledged, 'but at least they'll pay for their drinks…'
19
Clarke decided to take the call outside, so Goodyear wouldn't hear her asking Rebus if he was going senile.
'We've already been warned off,' she said into the phone, her voice just above a whisper. 'What grounds have we got for pulling him in?'
'Anyone willing to drink with Cafferty has got to be dodgy,' she heard Rebus explain.
She gave a sigh she hoped he'd hear. 'I don't want you going within a hundred yards of the Russian delegation until we have something a bit more concrete.'
“You always spoil my fun.'
'When you grow up, you'll understand.' She ended the call and went back into the CID suite, where Todd Goodyear had plugged in a tape deck borrowed from one of the interview rooms. Turned out Katie Glass had been toting a couple of evidence sacks' worth of stuff from Riordan's house. Goodyear had carried them up from the boot of her car.
'Drives a Prius,' he'd commented.
When the bags were opened, the smell of burnt plastic filled the room. But some of the tapes were intact, as were a couple of digital recorders. Goodyear had slotted a cassette tape home, and as Clarke walked in through the door he pressed the play button.
The machine didn't have much of a loudspeaker, and they leant down either side of it, the better to listen. Clarke could hear chinks and clinks and distant, indistinguishable voices.
'A pub or a cafe or something,' Goodyear commented. The hubbub continued for a few more minutes, interrupted only by a cough much closer to the microphone.
'Riordan, presumably,' Clarke offered.
Getting bored, she told Goodyear to fast forward. Same location, same clutter of the overheard everyday.
