night as the poet?' Freddie kept nodding.
And the same night, too, as Morris Gerald Cafferty. Rebus rested his hands against the bar, letting them take his weight. His head was swirling. Freddie had moved to take another order. Rebus thought back to the tape of Question Time. Jim Bakewell had been New Labour with some of the rough edges left untreated. Either he wouldn't let the image consultants near him, or that was his image. Late forties with a mop of dark brown hair and wire- framed spectacles. Square-jawed and blue-eyed and self-deprecating. He'd got a lot of respect north of the border for the way he'd resigned a safe seat at Westminster to stand for the Scottish Parliament.
This made him a rare beast indeed. Seemed to Rebus that a lot of the political talent was still drawn to London. Freddie hadn't mentioned any minders, which Rebus also found interesting. If Bakewell had been meeting the Russians in an official capacity, surely there'd have been assistants and advisers on hand. The Minister for Economic Development… late-night drinks with a foreign businessman… Big Ger Cafferty crashing the party…
Too many questions were hammering away at the inside of Rebus's skull. It was as if his brain had developed a pulse. Finishing the drink, he left some money on the bar and decided it was time to head home. His phone alerted him to a text message. Siobhan was wondering where he'd got to.
'Took you long enough,' he muttered to himself. As he passed the Irishmen, one of them was leaning in towards the other.
'If he dies on Christmas morning,' he was confiding in a booming voice, 'that'll be tinsel enough for me…'
Two ways to leave the hotel: the bar's own door, or through reception.
Rebus wasn't sure why he chose the latter. As he crossed the lobby, two men had just emerged through the revolving door. The one in front he recognised: the man who'd been driving Andropov.
The other was Andropov himself. He had seen Rebus and his eyes were narrowing, wondering where he knew him from. Rebus gave a little bow of the head as they approached one another.
'Thought you'd all gone home,' he said, trying to sound casual.
'I'm staying a few more days.' There wasn't much of an accent at all. Rebus could tell Andropov was still trying to place him.
'Friend of Cafferty's,' he pretended to explain.
'Ah yes.' The chauffeur was standing just the other side of Rebus, hands clasped in front of him, feet splayed. Chauffeur and bodyguard.
'The few extra days,' Rebus enquired of Andropov, 'business or pleasure?'
'Usually I find business a distinct pleasure.' It sounded like a line he'd used dozens of times before, always expecting a laugh or a smile. Rebus obliged as best he could.
'Seen Mr Cafferty today?' he asked eventually.
'I'm sorry, I seem to have forgotten your name…'
'I'm John,' Rebus told him.
'And your connection to Cafferty…?'
'I was wondering the same about you, Mr Andropov.' Rebus decided he'd already been rumbled. 'It's fine to hobnob with the great and the good, being fawned over by politicians of all creeds
and colours… but when you start cosying up to a career criminal like Cafferty, alarm bells are bound to start ringing.'
Tfou were at the City Chambers,' Andropov announced with a wag of one gloved finger. 'And then you were outside the hotel here.'
'I'm a detective, Mr Andropov.' Rebus held up his warrant card and Andropov examined it.
'Have I done something wrong, Inspector?'
'A week back, you were having a little chat with Jim Bakewell and Morris Gerald Cafferty.'
'What if I was?'
'There was another man in the bar – a poet called Todorov. Less than twenty minutes after walking out of here, he was murdered.'
Andropov was nodding. 'A great tragedy. The world has an apparent need of poets, Inspector. They are, so they tell us, its “unacknowledged legislators”.'
'I'd say they've got a bit of competition in that department.'
Andropov decided to ignore this. 'Several people,' he said instead, 'inform me that your police force may not be investigating Alexander's death as a simple street attack. Tell me, Inspector, what do you think happened?'
'A story best told at my police station. Would you be willing to drop in for an interview, Mr Andropov?'
'I can't see that anything would be gained from that, Inspector.'
'I'll assume that's a no.'
'Let me offer my own theory.' Andropov took a step closer, mimicked by his driver. 'Cherchez la femme, Inspector.'
'Meaning what exactly?'
Tou don't speak French?'
'I know what it means; I'm just not sure what you're getting at.'
'In Moscow, Alexander Todorov had something of a reputation.
He was forced to leave his teaching post after accusations of improper conduct. Female students, you know, and apparently the younger the better. Now, if you'll excuse me…' Andropov was obviously heading for the bar.
'Hooking up with your gangster friend again?' Rebus guessed.
Andropov ignored him and kept walking. The driver, however, decided that Rebus merited a final baleful look, the kind that said you, me and a dark alley…
The look Rebus gave him back carried another message, no less threatening. You're on my list, pal, you and your boss both.
Outside once again in the crisp night air, he decided he might try
walking home. His heart was pounding, mouth dry, blood coursing through him. He gave it a few hundred yards, then hailed the first taxi he saw.
Day Six. Wednesday 22 November 2006
21
The sound engineer was called Terry Grimm and the secretary was Hazel Harmison. They seemed shell- shocked, and with good reason.
'We've no idea what to do,' Grimm explained. 'I mean… do we get paid at month's end? What do we do about all the jobs we've got on our books?'
Siobhan Clarke nodded slowly. Grimm was seated at the mixing desk, swivelling nervily on his chair. Harmison was standing by her desk, arms folded. 'I'm sure Mr Riordan will have made some kind of provision…' But Clarke wasn't sure of that at all. Todd Goodyear was staring at all the machinery, the banks of knobs and dials, switches and slider controls. In the pub last night, Hawes had hinted that really it should be either her or Tibbet who accompanied Clarke today. It made Siobhan wonder again if she'd brought Goodyear into the team precisely because she didn't want to have to make that choice.
'Can neither of you sign company cheques?' Clarke asked now.
'Charlie wasn't that trusting,' Hazel Harmison piped up.
'The company accountant's the one to speak to.'
'Except he's on holiday.'
