jobs to be done, and schedules of hours. At some murder scenes, you would set up a temporary HQ, work from there. But Rebus didn’t see the point this time round. They would put up posters at the car park exit, appealing for information, and maybe get Hawes and Tibbet or a few of the uniforms to stick leaflets on windscreens. But this large, cold room would be their base. Clarke was looking back over her shoulder towards Macrae’s office. Hawes and Tibbet seemed to be in competition to see who could offer the best tidbits to the boss.
“Anyone,” Rebus commented, “would think there’s a DS slot going begging. Who’s your money on?”
“Phyl’s got more years in,” Clarke answered. “She’s got to be favorite. If Colin gets it, I think she’ll walk.”
Rebus nodded his agreement. “Which interview room?” he asked.
“I like Three.”
“Why so?”
“Table’s all greasy and scabby, graffiti scratched on the walls. . . . It’s the sort of place you go when you’ve done something.”
Rebus smiled at her thinking. Even for the pure at heart, IR3 was a troubling experience.
“Spot on,” he said.
The consular official was called Nikolai Stahov. He introduced himself with a self-effacing smile. He was young-looking and shiny-faced with a parting in his light-brown hair which made him seem even more boyish. But he was six feet tall and broad-shouldered, and wore a three-quarter-length black woolen coat, complete with belt and the collar turned up. From one pocket peeked a pair of black leather gloves—mittens, actually, Rebus realized, smooth and rounded where there should have been fingers. Did your mum dress you? he wanted to ask. But he shook Stahov’s hand instead.
“We’re sorry about Mr. Todorov,” Clarke said, reaching out her own hand towards the Russian. She got a little bow along with the shake.
“My consulate,” Stahov said, “wishes to be assured that everything possible is being done to capture and prosecute the perpetrator.”
Rebus nodded slowly. “We thought we’d be more comfortable in one of our interview rooms . . .”
They led the young Russian down the corridor, stopping at the third door. It was unlocked. Rebus pulled it open and gestured for Clarke and Stahov to go in. Then he slid the panel across the door, changing its message from Vacant to In Use.
“Take a seat,” he said. Stahov was studying his surroundings as he lowered himself onto the chair. He was about to place his hands on the tabletop, but thought better of it and rested them on his lap instead. Clarke had taken the seat opposite, Rebus content to lean against the wall, arms folded. “So what can you tell us about Alexander Todorov?” he asked.
“Inspector, I came here for reassurances and from a sense of protocol. You must know that as a diplomat, I am not obliged to answer any of your questions.”
“Because you’ve got immunity,” Rebus acknowledged. “We just assumed you’d want to assist us in any way possible. It is one of your countrymen who’s been killed, and rather a notable one at that.” He tried to sound aggrieved.
“Of course, of course, that’s unquestionable.” Stahov kept turning his head, trying to talk to both of them at the same time.
“Good,” Clarke told him. “Then you won’t mind us asking how big a thorn Todorov was proving to be?”
“Thorn?” It was hard to tell if Stahov’s English was really defeating him.
“How awkward was it for you,” Clarke rephrased the question, “having a noted dissident poet living in Edinburgh?”
“It wasn’t awkward at all.”
“You welcomed him?” Clarke pretended to guess. “Was there any kind of party at the consulate? He’d been talked about for the Nobel. . . . That must have given you great satisfaction?”
“In today’s Russia, the Nobel Prize isn’t such a big deal.”
“Mr. Todorov had given a couple of public performances recently . . . did you happen to go see him?”
“I had other
“Anyone,” Rebus commented, “would think there’s a DS slot going begging. Who’s your money on?”
“Phyl’s got more years in,” Clarke answered. “She’s got to be favorite. If Colin gets it, I think she’ll walk.”
Rebus nodded his agreement. “Which interview room?” he asked.
“I like Three.”
“Why so?”
“Table’s all greasy and scabby, graffiti scratched on the walls. . . . It’s the sort of place you go when you’ve done something.”
Rebus smiled at her thinking. Even for the pure at heart, IR3 was a troubling experience.
“Spot on,” he said.
The consular official was called Nikolai Stahov. He introduced himself with a self-effacing smile. He was young-looking and shiny-faced with a parting in his light-brown hair which made him seem even more boyish. But he was six feet tall and broad-shouldered, and wore a three-quarter-length black woolen coat, complete with belt and the collar turned up. From one pocket peeked a pair of black leather gloves—mittens, actually, Rebus realized, smooth and rounded where there should have been fingers. Did your mum dress you? he wanted to ask. But he shook Stahov’s hand instead.
“We’re sorry about Mr. Todorov,” Clarke said, reaching out her own hand towards the Russian. She got a little bow along with the shake.
“My consulate,” Stahov said, “wishes to be assured that everything possible is being done to capture and prosecute the perpetrator.”
Rebus nodded slowly. “We thought we’d be more comfortable in one of our interview rooms . . .”
They led the young Russian down the corridor, stopping at the third door. It was unlocked. Rebus pulled it open and gestured for Clarke and Stahov to go in. Then he slid the panel across the door, changing its message from Vacant to In Use.
“Take a seat,” he said. Stahov was studying his surroundings as he lowered himself onto the chair. He was about to place his hands on the tabletop, but thought better of it and rested them on his lap instead. Clarke had taken the seat opposite, Rebus content to lean against the wall, arms folded. “So what can you tell us about Alexander Todorov?” he asked.
“Inspector, I came here for reassurances and from a sense of protocol. You must know that as a diplomat, I am not obliged to answer any of your questions.”
“Because you’ve got immunity,” Rebus acknowledged. “We just assumed you’d want to assist us in any way possible. It is one of your countrymen who’s been killed, and rather a notable one at that.” He tried to sound aggrieved.
“Of course, of course, that’s unquestionable.” Stahov kept turning his head, trying to talk to both of them at the same time.
“Good,” Clarke told him. “Then you won’t mind us asking how big a thorn Todorov was proving to be?”
“Thorn?” It was hard to tell if Stahov’s English was really defeating him.
“How awkward was it for you,” Clarke rephrased the question, “having a noted dissident poet living in Edinburgh?”
“It wasn’t awkward at all.”
“You welcomed him?” Clarke pretended to guess. “Was there any kind of party at the consulate? He’d been talked about for the Nobel. . . . That must have given you great satisfaction?”
“In today’s Russia, the Nobel Prize isn’t such a big deal.”
“Mr. Todorov had given a couple of public performances recently . . . did you happen to go see him?”
“I had other
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