slowly back uphill, they missed it again.
'There's nowhere to park anyway,' Clarke complained. They were in her car this morning, and therefore dependent on Rebus to spot Crighton's Close.
'I think it was back there,' he said, craning his neck. 'Pull up on to the pavement and we'll take a look.'
Clarke left the hazard lights on when she locked the car, and folded her wing mirror in so it wouldn't get side- swiped. 'If I get a ticket, you're paying,' she warned Rebus.
'Police business, Shiv. We'll appeal it.'
The Poetry Library was a modern building cleverly concealed amidst the tenements. A member of staff sat behind the counter and beamed a smile in their direction. The smile evaporated when Rebus showed her his warrant card.
'Poetry reading a couple of nights back – Alexander Todorov.'
'Oh yes,' she said, 'quite marvellous. We have some of his books I for sale.'
“Was he in Edinburgh on his own? Any family, that sort of thing…?'
The woman's eyes narrowed, and she clutched a hand to her iigan. 'Has something happened?'
It was Clarke who answered. 'I'm afraid Mr Todorov was attacked st night.'
'Gracious,' the librarian gasped, 'is he…?'
'As a doornail,' Rebus supplied. 'We need to speak to next of kin, or at the very least someone who can identify him.'
'Alexander was here as a guest of PEN and the university. He's been in the city a couple of months…' The librarian's voice was trembling, along with the rest of her.
TEN?'
'It's a writers' group… very big on human rights.'
'So where was he staying?'
'The university provided a flat in Buccleuch Place.'
'Family? A wife maybe…?'
But the woman shook her head. 'I think his wife died. I don't recall them having any children – a blessing, I suppose.'
Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. 'So who organised his event here? Was it the university, the consulate…?'
'It was Scarlett Colwell.'
'His translator?' Clarke asked, gaining a nod of confirmation.
'Scarlett works in the Russian department.' The librarian started sifting the slips of paper on her desk. 'I've got her number here somewhere… What a terrible thing to have happened. I can't tell you how upsetting it is.'
'No trouble at the reading itself?' Rebus asked, trying to make the question seem casual.
'Trouble?' When she saw he wasn't about to elucidate, she shook her head. 'It all went swimmingly. Terrific use of metaphor and rhythm… even when he recited in Russian, you could feel the passion.' She was lost for a moment in reminiscence. Then, with a sigh: 'Alexander was happy to sign books afterwards.'
Tou make it sound,' Clarke pointed out, 'as if that might not always have been the case.'
'Alexander Todorov was a poet, a very considerable poet.' As if this explained everything. 'Ah, here it is.' She held up the piece of paper but seemed unwilling to relinquish it. Instead, Clarke entered the number into her own mobile, before thanking the librarian for taking the trouble.
Rebus was looking around. 'Where exactly did the performance happen?'
'Upstairs. We had an audience of over seventy.'
'I don't suppose anyone filmed it, did they?'
'Filmed it?'
'For posterity.'
'Why do you ask?'
Rebus gave a shrug by way of reply.
'There was a sound recording,' the woman admitted. 'Someone from a music studio.'
Clarke had her notebook out. 'Name?' she asked.
'Abigail Thomas.' The librarian realised her mistake. 'Oh, you mean the name of the recordist? Charlie something…' Abigail Thomas screwed shut her eyes with the effort, then opened them wide. 'Charles Riordan. He has his own studio in Leith.'
'Thank you, Ms Thomas,' Rebus said. Then: 'Can you think of anyone we should contact?'
Tou could talk to PEN.'
'There wasn't anyone here that night from the consulate?'
'I wouldn't have thought so.'
'Oh?'
'Alexander was quite vocal in his opposition to the current situation in Russia. He was on the Question Time panel a few weeks back.'
'The TV show?' Clarke asked. 'I watch that sometimes.'
'So his English was pretty good then,' Rebus surmised.
'When he wanted it to be,' the librarian said with a wry smile.
'If he didn't like the point you were making, the ability seemed suddenly to desert him.'
'He sounds quite a character,' Rebus had to admit. He saw that a small pile of Todorov's books had been given their own display on a table near the stairs. 'Are these for sale?' he asked.
'Indeed they are. Would you like to buy one?'
'Would they happen to be signed?' He watched her nod. 'In that case, make it half a dozen.' He was reaching into his jacket for his wallet as the librarian rose from her seat to fetch them. Feeling Clarke's eyes on him, he mouthed something to her.
Something very like 'eBay”.
The car had not received a ticket, but there were dirty looks from the line of motorists attempting to squeeze past. Rebus threw the jjfoag of books on to the back seat. 'Should we warn her we're comig?'
'Might be wise,' Clarke agreed, punching the keys on her phone ad holding it to her ear. 'Tell me, do you even know how to sell lething on eBay?'
I can learn,' Rebus said. Then: 'Tell her we'll meet her at his flat, st in case he's lying in a stupor there and we've got a looky-likey the mortuary.' He stuck a fist to his mouth, stifling a yawn.
'Get any sleep?' Clarke asked.
'Probably the same as you,' he told her.
Clarke's call had connected her to the university switchboard.
She asked for Scarlett Colwell and was put through.
'Miss Colwell?' A pause. 'Sorry, Doctor Colwell.' She rolled her eyes for Rebus's benefit.
'Ask her if she can fix my gout,' he whispered. Clarke thumped his shoulder as she began to give Dr Scarlett Colwell the bad news.
Two minutes later, they were heading for Buccleuch Place, a six storey Georgian block which faced the more modern (and far uglier) university edifices. One tower in particular had been voted the building most people in Edinburgh wanted to see condemned. The tower, perhaps sensing this hostility, had begun to self-destruct, great chunks of cladding falling from it at irregular intervals.
“You never studied here, did you?' Rebus asked, as Clarke's car rumbled across the setts.
'No,' she said, nosing into a parking space. 'Did you?'
Rebus gave a snort. 'I'm a dinosaur, Shiv – back in the Bronze Age they let you become a detective without a diploma and a mortarboard.'
'Weren't the dinosaurs extinct by the Bronze Age?'
'Not having been to college, that's just the sort of thing I wouldn't know. Reckon there's any chance of grabbing ourselves a coffee while we're here?'
“You mean in the flat?' Clarke watched him nod. Tou'd drink a dead man's coffee?'
