'Despite the three out of ten?'
'Don't push your luck, DS Clarke.'
42
Todd Goodyear not joining us?' Rebus asked.
'Has he grown on you?'
They were in Kay's Bar – a compromise. It did decent grub, but the beer was good, too. Slightly larger than the Oxford Bar, but managing to be cosy at the same time – the predominant colour was red, extending to the pillars which separated the tables from the actual bar. Clarke had ordered chilli, Rebus declaring that salted peanuts would be enough for him.
“You've managed to keep him below Derek Starr's radar?' Rebus asked, in place of an answer to her question.
'DI Starr thinks Todd is CID.' She stole another of Rebus's peanuts.
'Do I get to dunk my fingers in your chilli when it comes?'
'I'll buy you another packet.'
He swallowed a mouthful of IPA. She was drinking a toxic looking mix of lime juice and soda water.
'Anything planned for tomorrow?' he asked.
'The team's on duty all day.'
'So no surprise party for the old guy?'
Tou didn't want one.'
'So you've just chipped in and bought me something nice?'
'Meant digging deep into the overdraft… What time does your suspension end?'
'Around lunchtime, I suppose.' Rebus thought back to the scene in Corbyn's office… Sir Michael Addison storming out. Sir Michael was Gill Morgan's stepfather. Gill knew Nancy Sievewright. Nancy and Gill and Eddie Gentry had been spied on, the recording watched by Roger Anderson, Stuart Janney and Jim Bakewell. Everything
in Edinburgh seemed connected. As a detective, Rebus had noticed time and again how true this was. Everything and everyone.
Todorov and Andropov, Andropov and Cafferty, the overworld and the underworld. Sol Goodyear knew Nancy and her crew, too. Sol was Todd Goodyear's brother, and Todd led back to Siobhan and to Rebus himself. Shifting partners in one of those endurance dances.
What was the film? Something about shooting horses. Dance and keep on dancing because nothing else matters.
Problem was, Rebus was about to bow out. Siobhan's chilli had arrived and he watched her unfold a paper napkin on to her lap.
Day after tomorrow, he'd be seated at the edge of the dancefloor.
Give it a few weeks and he'd be yet further back, merging with the other spectators, no longer a participant. He'd seen it with other cops: they retired and promised to keep in touch, but each visit to the old gang merely underlined how far apart they'd grown. There would be an arrangement to share drinks and gossip one night a month. Then it'd be once every few months. Then not at all.
Clean break was the best thing, so he'd been told. Siobhan was asking if he wanted some of her food. 'Grab a fork and tuck in.'
'I'm fine,' he assured her.
Tou were in a world of your own there.'
'It's the age I'm at.'
'So you'll come to the station tomorrow lunchtime?'
'No parties, right?'
She shook her head in agreement. 'And by end of play, we'll have closed all the cases.'
'Of course we will.' He gave a wry smile.
'I'll miss you, you know.' She kept her eyes on the food as she scooped it up.
'For a little while maybe,' he conceded, waving his empty glass at her. 'Time for a refill.'
Tou're driving, remember.'
'Thought you could give me a lift.'
'In your car?'
Til get you a taxi home after.'
'That's mighty generous.'
'Didn't say I'd pay for it,' Rebus told her, heading for the bar.
He did, though, pressing a ten-pound note into her hand and saying he'd see her tomorrow. She'd found a parking space for his Saab near the top of Arden Street. He'd been about to invite her in when
a black cab rumbled into view, its roof light on. Siobhan Clarke had given the driver a wave, then handed Rebus his car keys.
'Bit of luck,' she'd said, referring to the taxi. Rebus had held out the tenner and she'd eventually taken it.
'Straight home, mind,' he'd warned her. Watching the cab pull away, he wondered if he was going to take his own advice. It was almost ten, the temperature well above zero. He walked down the hill towards his door, staring up at the bay window of his living room. Darkness up there. No one waiting to welcome him. He thought about Cafferty, wondered what dreams the gangster would be having. Did you dream in a coma? Did you do anything else?
Rebus knew he could visit him, sit with him. Maybe one of the nurses would bring a cup of tea. Maybe she'd be a good listener.
Alexander Todorov's skull had been smashed from behind. Cafferty had been attacked from behind – but attacked cleanly while the poet had been roughed up first. Rebus kept trying to see the connection – Andropov was the obvious one. Andropov, with his friends in high places – Megan Macfarlane, Jim Bakewell. Cafferty hosting parties, wining and dining Bakewell and the bankers, all lads together… Andropov readying to bring his business to Scotland, where his new friends would cosset him, protect him. Business was business, after all: what did it matter if Andropov faced corruption charges back home? Rebus realised that he was still staring at his flat's unlit and unwelcoming windows.
'Nice night for a walk,' he told himself, continuing downhill with hands in pockets. Marchmont itself was quiet, Melville Drive devoid of vehicles. Jawbone Walk, the path leading through The Meadows, boasted only a handful of pedestrians, students heading home from nights out. Rebus walked beneath the arches created from an actual whale's jawbone, and wondered – not for the first time – at its purpose. When his daughter was a kid, he would pretend they were being swallowed by the whale, like Jonah or Pinocchio… There was some drunken singing in the distance from a couple of tramps on a bench, worldly goods stacked in bags by the side of them. The old infirmary compound was being transformed into new apartment blocks, changing the skyline. He kept walking, reaching Forrest Road. Instead of heading straight on in the direction of The Mound, he took a fork at Greyfriars Bobby and descended into the Grassmarket. Plenty of pubs still open, and people loitering outside the homeless hostels. When he'd first moved to Edinburgh, the Grassmarket had been a dump – much of the Old Town, in fact, had been in dire need of a facelift. Hard now
to remember just how bad it had all been. There were people who said that Edinburgh never changed, but this was patently untrue – it was changing all the time. Smokers were standing in clusters outside the Beehive and Last Drop pubs. The fish 'n' chip shop had a queue. A gust of fat-frying hit Rebus as he walked past and he breathed deeply, savouring it. At one time, the Grassmarket had boasted a gallows, dozens upon dozens of Covenanters dying there.
Maybe Todorov's ghost would bump into them. Another fork in the road was approaching. He took the right-
