engagements.”
“Did anyone from the consulate —”
But Stahov felt the need to interrupt. “I don’t see what bearing any of this could have on your inquiries. In fact, your questions could be construed as a smoke screen. Whether we wanted Alexander Todorov here or not is of no consequence. He was murdered in your city, your country. Edinburgh is not without its problems with race and creed—Polish workers have found themselves attacked. Wearing the wrong football shirt can be provocation enough.”
Rebus looked towards Clarke. “Talk about a smoke screen . . .”
“I am speaking the truth.” Stahov’s voice was beginning to tremble, and he made an effort to calm himself. “What my consulate requires, Inspector, is to be kept informed of developments. That way, we can reassure Moscow that your investigation has been rigorous and fair, and they in turn can advise your government of our satisfaction.”
Rebus and Clarke seemed to consider this. Rebus unfolded his arms and slipped his hands into his pockets.
“There’s always the possibility,” he said quietly, “that Mr. Todorov was attacked by someone with a grudge. That person could be a member of the Russian community here in Edinburgh. I’m assuming the consulate keeps a list of nationals living and working here?”
“My understanding, Inspector, was that Alexander Todorov was just another victim of this city’s street crime.”
“Foolish to rule anything out at this stage, sir.”
“And that list would come in handy,” Clarke stressed.
Stahov looked from one detective to the other. Rebus hoped he’d make up his mind soon. One error they’d made in opting for IR3—it was bloody freezing. The Russian’s overcoat looked toasty, but Rebus reckoned Siobhan was going to start shivering soon. He was surprised their breath wasn’t visible in the air.
“I will see what I can do,” Stahov said at last. “But quid pro quo—you will keep me informed of developments?”
“Give us your number,” Clarke told him. The young Russian seemed to take this as agreement.
Rebus knew it was anything but.
There was a package waiting for Siobhan Clarke at the front desk. Rebus had gone outside for a cigarette and to see whether Stahov had a chauffeur. Clarke opened the padded envelope and found a CD inside, with the single word “Riordan” written on it in thick black pen. It told her a lot about Charles Riordan that he used his own name, in place of Todorov’s. She took the CD upstairs, but there was no machine to play it on. So instead she headed for the car park, passing Rebus as he came in.
“Big black Merc waiting for him,” Rebus confirmed. “Guy wearing shades and gloves at the helm. Where are you off to?”
She told him, and he said he wouldn’t mind joining her, though warning that he “might not last the pace.” In the end, though, the pair of them sat in Clarke’s car for a solid hour and a quarter, engine running so the heater stayed on. Riordan had recorded everything: some chat between audience members, then the introduction by Abigail Thomas, Todorov’s half hour and the Q and A session after, most of the questions steering clear of politics. As the applause died and the audience dispersed, Riordan’s mic was still picking up chatter.
“He’s an obsessive,” Clarke commented.
“I hear you,” Rebus agreed. Almost the last thing they heard was a muttered snatch of Russian. “Probably,” Rebus speculated, “saying ‘Thank Khrushchev that’s over.’ ”
“Who’s Khrushchev?” Clarke asked. “Some friend of Jack Palance?”
The recital itself had been riveting, the poet’s voice by turns sonorous, gruff, elegiac, and booming. He performed some of his work in English, some in Russian, but the majority in both—usually Russian first, English after.
“Sounds like Scots, doesn’t it?” Clarke had asked at one point.
“Maybe to someone from England,” Rebus had retorted. Okay, so she’d walked into that
“Did anyone from the consulate —”
But Stahov felt the need to interrupt. “I don’t see what bearing any of this could have on your inquiries. In fact, your questions could be construed as a smoke screen. Whether we wanted Alexander Todorov here or not is of no consequence. He was murdered in your city, your country. Edinburgh is not without its problems with race and creed—Polish workers have found themselves attacked. Wearing the wrong football shirt can be provocation enough.”
Rebus looked towards Clarke. “Talk about a smoke screen . . .”
“I am speaking the truth.” Stahov’s voice was beginning to tremble, and he made an effort to calm himself. “What my consulate requires, Inspector, is to be kept informed of developments. That way, we can reassure Moscow that your investigation has been rigorous and fair, and they in turn can advise your government of our satisfaction.”
Rebus and Clarke seemed to consider this. Rebus unfolded his arms and slipped his hands into his pockets.
“There’s always the possibility,” he said quietly, “that Mr. Todorov was attacked by someone with a grudge. That person could be a member of the Russian community here in Edinburgh. I’m assuming the consulate keeps a list of nationals living and working here?”
“My understanding, Inspector, was that Alexander Todorov was just another victim of this city’s street crime.”
“Foolish to rule anything out at this stage, sir.”
“And that list would come in handy,” Clarke stressed.
Stahov looked from one detective to the other. Rebus hoped he’d make up his mind soon. One error they’d made in opting for IR3—it was bloody freezing. The Russian’s overcoat looked toasty, but Rebus reckoned Siobhan was going to start shivering soon. He was surprised their breath wasn’t visible in the air.
“I will see what I can do,” Stahov said at last. “But quid pro quo—you will keep me informed of developments?”
“Give us your number,” Clarke told him. The young Russian seemed to take this as agreement.
Rebus knew it was anything but.
There was a package waiting for Siobhan Clarke at the front desk. Rebus had gone outside for a cigarette and to see whether Stahov had a chauffeur. Clarke opened the padded envelope and found a CD inside, with the single word “Riordan” written on it in thick black pen. It told her a lot about Charles Riordan that he used his own name, in place of Todorov’s. She took the CD upstairs, but there was no machine to play it on. So instead she headed for the car park, passing Rebus as he came in.
“Big black Merc waiting for him,” Rebus confirmed. “Guy wearing shades and gloves at the helm. Where are you off to?”
She told him, and he said he wouldn’t mind joining her, though warning that he “might not last the pace.” In the end, though, the pair of them sat in Clarke’s car for a solid hour and a quarter, engine running so the heater stayed on. Riordan had recorded everything: some chat between audience members, then the introduction by Abigail Thomas, Todorov’s half hour and the Q and A session after, most of the questions steering clear of politics. As the applause died and the audience dispersed, Riordan’s mic was still picking up chatter.
“He’s an obsessive,” Clarke commented.
“I hear you,” Rebus agreed. Almost the last thing they heard was a muttered snatch of Russian. “Probably,” Rebus speculated, “saying ‘Thank Khrushchev that’s over.’ ”
“Who’s Khrushchev?” Clarke asked. “Some friend of Jack Palance?”
The recital itself had been riveting, the poet’s voice by turns sonorous, gruff, elegiac, and booming. He performed some of his work in English, some in Russian, but the majority in both—usually Russian first, English after.
“Sounds like Scots, doesn’t it?” Clarke had asked at one point.
“Maybe to someone from England,” Rebus had retorted. Okay, so she’d walked into that
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