'I've drunk a damn sight worse.'
“You know, I actually believe that.' Clarke was out of the car now, Rebus following. 'Must be her over there.'
She was standing at the top of some steps, and had already unlocked the front door. She gave a little wave, which Rebus and Clarke acknowledged – Clarke because it was the right thing to do, and Rebus because Scarlett Colwell was a looker. Her hair fell in long auburn waves, her eyes were dark, her figure curvy. She wore a hugging green miniskirt, black tights and brown calf-length boots. Her Little Red Riding Hood coat reached only as far as her waist. A gust of wind caused her to push the hair back from her eyes, and Rebus felt as if he were walking into a Cadbury's Flake advert. He saw that her mascara was a bit blurry, evidence that she'd shed a few tears since receiving the news, but she was businesslike as the introductions were made.
They followed her up four flights of tenement stairs to the top floor landing, where she produced another key, unlocking the door to Alexander Todorov's flat, Rebus arriving, having paused for breath on the landing below, just as the door swung open. There wasn't much to the apartment: a short, narrow hallway led to the living room with a kitchenette off it. There was a cramped shower room and separate toilet, and a single bedroom with views towards the Meadows. Being in the eaves of the building, the ceilings angled sharply downwards. Rebus wondered if the poet had ever sat up sharply in bed and thumped the crown of his head. The whole flat felt not so much empty as utterly desolate, as though marked by the departure of its most recent resident.
'We're really sorry about this,' Siobhan Clarke was saying as the three of them stood in the living room. Rebus was looking around him: a waste-paper bin full of crumpled poems, an empty cognac bottle lying next to the battered sofa, an Edinburgh bus map pinned to one wall above a foldaway dining table on which sat an electric typewriter. No sign of a computer or a TV or a music system, just a portable radio whose aerial had been snapped off. Books scattered everywhere, some English, some Russian, plus a few other languages.
A Greek dictionary sat on the arm of the sofa. There were empty lager cans on a shelf meant for knick-knacks. Invitations on the mantelpiece to parties from the previous month. They had passed a telephone on the floor in the hallway. Rebus asked if the poet had owned such a thing as a mobile. When Colwell shook her head, hair bouncing and swaying, Rebus knew he wanted to ask another question she could answer in the same way. Clarke's clearing of the throat warned him against it.
'And no computer either?' he asked anyway.
'He was welcome to use the one in my office,' Colwell said. 'But Alexander mistrusted technology.'
Tfou knew him fairly well?'
'I was his translator. When the scholarship was announced, I petitioned hard on his behalf.'
'So where was he before Edinburgh?'
' Paris for a time… Cologne before that… Stanford, Melbourne, Ottawa…' She managed a smile. 'He was very proud of the stamps in his passport.'
'Speaking of which,' Clarke interrupted, “his pockets had been emptied – any idea what he would usually carry around with him?'
'Anotebook and pen… some money, I suppose…”
'Any credit cards?'
'He had a cash card. I think he'd opened an account with First Albannach. Should be some statements around here somewhere.'
She looked about her. “You say he was mugged?'
'Some sort of attack, certainly.'
'What kind of man was he, Dr Colwell?' Rebus asked. 'If someone confronted him in the street, would he put up a struggle, fight them back?'
'Oh, I'd think so. He was physically robust. Liked good wine and a good argument.'
'Did he have a temper?'
'Not especially.'
'But you said he liked to argue.'
'In the sense that he enjoyed debate,' Colwell corrected herself.
'When did you last see him?'
'At the Poetry Library. He was headed to the pub afterwards, but I wanted to get home – essays to mark before we break for Christmas.'
'So who did he go to the pub with?'
'There were a few local poets in the audience: Ron Butlin, Andrew Greig… I'd guess Abigail Thomas would be there, too, if only to pay for the drinks – Alexander wasn't brilliant with money.'
Rebus and Clarke shared a look: they'd have to talk to the librarian again. Rebus gave a little cough, playing for time before asking his next question. 'Would you be willing to identify the body, Dr Colwell?'
The blood drained from Scarlett Colwell's face.
'You seem to have known him better than most,' Rebus argued, 'unless there's a next of kin we can approach.'
But she had already made up her mind. 'It's all right, I'll do it.'
'We can take you there now,' Clarke told her, 'if that's okay with you.'
Colwell nodded slowly, eyes staring into space. Rebus caught Clarke's attention. 'Get on to the station,' he said, 'see if Hawes and Tibbet can come give this place a look-see – passport, cash card, notebook… If they're not here, someone's either got them or dumped them.'
'Not forgetting his set of keys,' Clarke added.
'Good point.' Rebus's eyes scanned the room again. 'Hard to say if this place has been turned over or not – unless you know better, Dr Colwell?'
Colwell shook her head again, and had to remove a strand of hair from over one eye. 'It was always pretty much like this.'
'So no need for forensics,' Rebus told Clarke. 'Just Hawes and Tibbet.' Clarke was nodding as she reached for her phone. Rebus had missed something Colwell had said.
'I've a tutorial in an hour,' she repeated.
'We'll have you back in plenty of time,' he assured her, not particularly caring one way or the other. He held out a hand towards Clarke. 'Keys.'
'Pardon?'
“You're staying here to let Hawes and Tibbet in. I'll drive Dr Colwell to the mortuary.'
Clarke tried staring him out, but eventually relented.
'Get one of them to bring you to the Cowgate afterwards,' Rebus said, hoping to sugar the pill.
4
The identification was immediate, even though most of the body was kept in its shroud, concealing the work done by the pathologists.
Colwell laid her forehead against Rebus's shoulder for a moment, and allowed a single tear to escape from either eye. Rebus regretted not having a clean handkerchief on him, but she reached into her shoulder bag for one, dabbing her eyes and then blowing her nose. Professor Gates was in the room with them, dressed in a three-piece suit which had fitted him beautifully four or five years back. He held his hands in front of him, head bowed, respecting the formalities.
'It's Alexander,' Colwell was eventually able to say.
“You're sure of that?' Rebus felt obliged to press.
'Positive.'
'Perhaps,' Gates piped up, raising his head, 'Dr Colwell would like a cup of tea before the paperwork?'
'Just a couple of forms,' Rebus explained quietly. Colwell nodded slowly, and the three of them went to the
