particular show's only just getting started.' He squeezed past, out into the hallway, pausing by the front door. 'I lied by the way – that music of yours is going nowhere. You've just not got the talent, pal.'
Closed the door after him and stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes.
Job done.
40
The CID suite at Gayfield Square might as well have been a swimming pool – all they were doing was treading water. Derek Starr knew it, and was having trouble motivating the group. There wasn't enough for them to do. No exciting new leads on either Todorov or Riordan. Forensics had produced a partial fingerprint from the small bottle of cleaning fluid, but all they knew so far was that it belonged neither to Riordan nor to anyone on the database. Terry Grimm had supplied information that Riordan's house was visited weekly by a team of cleaners from an agency, though they were usually told not to bother with the living-room-cum-studio. But any one of them could have left the print. No one was about to claim for certain that it belonged to the arsonist. It looked like another dead end. Same went for the e-fit of the hooded woman outside the multistorey: officers had taken copies door-to- door, returning to the station with nothing but sore feet.
Having gone through the proper channels, Starr had at last secured CCTV footage from the few cameras in and around Portobello, but no one was very hopeful – all they showed was early-morning traffic. Again, without knowing how the attacker had reached Riordan's house, it was needle-in-a-haystack stuff. The way Starr himself kept looking at Siobhan Clarke, he knew she was holding back on him. Twice in the space of half an hour he'd asked her what she was working on.
'Going through the Riordan tapes,' she'd explained. Not a word of truth in it – Todd Goodyear was typing up the last batch of transcripts, looking worn down by the whole experience. He kept staring into space, as if thinking himself into a better place. Clarke, meantime, was waiting for Stone to get back to her, having left
a message on his mobile. She was still wondering if it was such a good idea. Stone and Starr seemed pretty pally; chances were, anything she said to the one would get back to the other. She had yet to mention to Starr the appearance of Sergei Andropov and his driver in the Poetry Library audience.
There were no longer any members of the media hanging about outside the station. The last mention of either death had been an inch-long paragraph on one of the Evening News's inside pages.
Starr was currently in another meeting with DCI Macrae. Maybe later today, they would announce that the inquiry was being split into two, since no evidence had come to light connecting the Todorov murder to Riordan's fate. The team would be broken up; the Riordan case would go back to Leith CID.
Unless Clarke did something about it.
It took her a further ten minutes to decide. Starr was still in his meeting, so she grabbed her coat and wandered over to the desk where Goodyear was working.
'Going somewhere?' he asked, somewhat forlornly.
'We both are,' she said, brightening his day.
The drive across town to the consulate took only ten minutes.
It was housed on a grand Georgian terrace within sight of the Episcopalian Cathedral. The street was wide enough to accommodate a row of parking bays in the middle of the road, and a car was pulling out of one bay as they arrived. While Goodyear put money in the meter, Clarke studied the car next to hers – it looked very much like the one Andropov had been using at the City Chambers and Nikolai Stahov at the mortuary – an old black Merc with darkened rear windows. The licence plate, however, wasn't the diplomatic kind, so Clarke called the station and asked for a check. The car was registered to Mr Boris Aksanov, with an address in Cramond. Clarke jotted down the details and ended the call.
“You reckon they'll let us question him?' Goodyear asked on his return.
She gave a shrug. 'Let's see, shall we?' She crossed to the consulate, climbed its three stone steps, and pressed the buzzer. The door was opened by a young woman with the fixed smile of the professional greeter. Clarke already had her warrant card open.
'I'm here to see Mr Aksanov,' she stated.
'Mr Aksanov?' The smile stayed fixed.
Tour driver.' Clarke turned her head. 'His car's over there.'
'Well, he's not here.'
Clarke stared at the woman. “You sure about that?'
'Of course.'
'What about Mr Stahov?'
'He's also not here at present.'
'When's he due back?'
'Later today, I think.'
Clarke was looking over the woman's shoulder. The entrance hall was large but barren, with peeling paintwork and faded wallpaper.
A curving staircase led upwards, but she had no view of the landing.
'And Mr Aksanov?'
'I don't know.'
'He's not driving Mr Stahov, then?'
The smile was having a bit of trouble. 'I'm afraid I can't help…'
'Aksanov's driving Sergei Andropov, is he?'
The young woman's hand was gripping the edge of the door.
Clarke could tell she wanted to close it in their faces.
'I can't help,' she repeated instead.
'Is Mr Aksanov a consular employee?' But now the door really was being closed, slowly but determinedly. 'We'll come back later,'
Clarke stressed. The door clicked shut but she continued to stare at it.
'She had frightened eyes,' Goodyear commented.
Clarke nodded her agreement.
'Waste of money, too – I put half an hour on the meter.'
'Claim it back from the inquiry.' Clarke turned and started towards the car, but paused at the Merc and checked her watch.
When she got in behind the steering wheel, Goodyear asked if they were headed back to Gayfield Square. Clarke shook her head.
'Parking wardens round here are vicious,' she said. 'And that Merc goes into the red in exactly seven minutes.'
'Meaning someone's going to have to feed the meter?' he guessed.
But Clarke shook her head again. 'It's illegal to do that, Todd. If they don't want a ticket, they're going to have to move the car.' She turned her key in the ignition.
'I thought embassies never paid their fines anyway.'
True enough… if they have diplomatic plates.' Clarke put the car into gear and moved out of the parking bay, but only to stop again kerbside a few dozen yards further along. 'Worth a bit of a; wait, wouldn't you say?' she asked.
'If it keeps me away from those transcripts,' Goodyear agreed.
'Detective work losing its allure, Todd?'
'I think I'm ready to go back into uniform.' He drew back his shoulders, working the muscles. 'Any news of DI Rebus?'
