'Or how about Abigail Thomas at the Poetry Library? You seemed to think she had a crush on him.'
'Probably not reciprocated,' Colwell said dismissively. Then, after a moment's thought: Tou really think Alexander was killed by a woman?'
Rebus shrugged. He was thinking of Todorov, more than a few drinks under his belt, weaving his way down King's Stables Road, a woman suddenly offering him no-strings sex. Would he have gone with a stranger? Probably. But even more likely with someone he'd known…
'Did Mr Todorov ever mention a man called Andropov?' he asked.
She mouthed the name several times, deep in thought, then gave up. 'Sorry,' she said.I 'Another long shot: how about someone called Cafferty?'
'I'm not really helping, am I?' she said as she shook her head.
'Sometimes the things we rule out are as important as the ones we rule in,' he reassured her.
'Like in Sherlock Holmes?' she said. 'When you've eliminated the-' She broke off with a frown. 'I can never remember that quote, but you must know it?'
He nodded, not wanting her to think him ill-read. Every day on his way to work, he passed a statue of Sherlock Holmes by the roundabout on Leith Street. Turned out it was marking the spot where they'd knocked down Conan Doyle's childhood home.
'What is it then?' she was asking.
He gave a shrug. 'I'm like you, never seem to get it right…'
She rose from her chair and came around the desk, her skirt brushing against his legs as she squeezed past. She lifted a book from one of the shelves. From the spine, Rebus could tell it was a collection of quotations. She found the Doyle section and ran a finger down it, finding what she was looking for.
'”When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.“' She frowned again. 'That's
not how I remember it. I thought it was to do with eliminating the possible rather than its opposite.'
'Mmm,' Rebus said, hoping she'd think he was agreeing with her.
He placed his empty mug on the table. 'Well, Dr Colwell, seeing how I've done you a favour…'
'Quid pro quo?' She clapped the book shut. Dust rose from its pages.
'I was just wondering if I could have the key to Todorov's flat.'
'As it happens, you're in luck. Someone from Building Services was supposed to stop by and get it, but so far no sign.'
'What will they do with all his stuff?'
'The consulate said they'd take it. He must have some family back in Russia.' She'd gone behind the desk again and opened a drawer, bringing out the key-chain. Rebus took it from her with a nod of thanks. 'There's a servitor on the ground floor here,' she explained. 'If I'm not around, you can always leave it with him.'
She paused. 'And you won't forget that recording?'
'Trust me.'
'It's just that the studio seemed pretty sure it's the only copy left. Poor Mr Riordan – what a terrible way to die…'
Back outside again, Rebus descended the steps from George Square to Buccleuch Place. There were a few students around.
They looked… the only word for it was studious. He stopped at the bottom of the steps to light a cigarette, but the temperature was sinking, and he decided he might as well smoke it indoors.
Todorov's flat seemed unchanged from his first visit, except that the scraps of paper from the bin had been laid flat on the desk – Scarlett Colwell most probably, seeking the elusive poem. Rebus had forgotten about those six copies of Astapovo Blues. Had to find someone with an eBay account so he could shift them. Looking more closely at the room, he decided someone had removed some of the poet's book collection. Colwell again? Or some other member of staff? Rebus wondered if he'd been beaten to it – a glut of Todorov memorabilia bringing prices down. He realised his phone was ringing and took it out. Didn't recognise the number, but it had the international code on the front.
'Detective Inspector Rebus speaking,' he said.
'Hello, it's Roddy Denholm, returning your mysterious call.' The voice was an educated Anglo-Scots drawl.
'Not too much of a mystery, Mr Denholm, and I do appreciate you taking the trouble.'
You're lucky I'm a night owl, Inspector.'
'It's the middle of the day here…'
'But not in Singapore.'
'Mr Blackman thought either Melbourne or Hong Kong.'
Denholm laughed a smoker's throaty laugh. 'I suppose I could be anywhere, actually, couldn't I? I could be around the next corner for all you know. Bloody wonderful things, mobile phones…'
'If you are around the next corner, sir, be cheaper to do this in person.'
Tou could always hop on a jet to Singapore.'
'Trying to lower my carbon footprint, sir.' Rebus blew cigarette smoke towards the living-room ceiling.
'So where are you right now, Inspector?'
'Buccleuch Place.'
'Ah yes, the university district.'
'Standing in a dead man's flat.'
'Not a sentence I think I've ever heard.' The artist sounded duly impressed.
'He wasn't quite in your line of work, sir – poet called Alexander Todorov.'
'I've heard of him.'
'He was killed just over a week ago and your name has cropped up in the inquiry.'
'Do tell.' It sounded as though Denholm was getting himself comfortable on a hotel bed. Rebus, likewise, sat down on the sofa, an elbow on one knee.
“You've been doing a project at the Parliament. There was a man making some sound recordings for you…'
'Charlie Riordan?'
'I'm afraid he's dead, too.' Rebus heard low whistling on the line.
'Someone torched his house.'
'Are the tapes okay?'
'As far as we know, sir.'
Denholm caught Rebus's tone. 'I must sound an insensitive bastard,'
he admitted.
'Don't fret – it was the first thing your dealer asked, too.'
Denholm chuckled. 'Poor guy, though…'
“You knew him?'
'Not until the Parliament project. Seemed likeable, capable…
didn't really talk to him that much.'
'Well, Mr Riordan had also been doing some work with Alexander Todorov.'
'Christ, does that mean I'm next?'
Rebus couldn't tell if he was joking or not. 'I wouldn't have thought so, sir.'
'You're not phoning to warn me?'
'I just thought it an interesting coincidence.'
'Except that I didn't know Alexander Todorov from Adam.'
'Maybe not, but one of your fans did – Sergei Andropov.'
'I know the name…'
'He collects your work. Russian businessman, grew up with Mr Todorov.' Rebus heard another whistle. You've never met him?'
'Not that I know of.' There was silence for a moment. TTou think this Andropov guy killed the poet?'
