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  ‘It’s an idea,’ he admitted.

  ‘Needle in a haystack,’ she added. His silence seemed to confirm it and she rested her head against the back of the seat, neither of them in any hurry to go back inside. ‘I remember reading in a paper that we’ve got the most surveillance of any country in the world; more CCTV in London than the whole of the USA . . . can that be right?’

  ‘Can’t say I’ve noticed it reducing the crime stats.’ Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that noise?’

  Clarke saw that Tibbet was gesturing from an upstairs window. ‘I think we’re wanted.’

  ‘Maybe guilt got the better of our killer and he’s come to hand himself in.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Clarke said, not believing it for one moment.

  8

  ‘Been here before?’ Rebus asked, once they’d passed through the metal-detector. He was scooping loose change back into his pocket.‘Got the guided tour soon after it opened,’ Clarke admitted.

  There were indented shapes in the ceiling; Rebus couldn’t tell if they were supposed to be Crusader-style crosses. Plenty of activity in the main entrance hall. Tables had been set up for the tour parties, ID badges lying on them and placards to say which groups were expected. Staff were everywhere, ready to direct visitors to the reception desk. At the far end of the hall, some schoolkids in uniform were settling down for an early lunch.

  ‘First time for me,’ Rebus told Clarke. ‘Always wondered what four hundred million pounds looks like ...’

  The Scottish Parliament had divided public opinion from the moment its plans were revealed in the media. Some thought it bold and revolutionary, others wondered at its quirks and its price tag. The architect had died before completing the project, as had the man who’d commissioned it. But it was built now and working, and Rebus had to admit that the debating chamber, whenever he’d seen it on the TV news, looked a bit special.

  When they told the woman on the reception desk that they were here to see Megan Macfarlane, she printed out a couple of visitor passes. A call to the MSP’s office confirmed that they were expected, and another member of staff stepped forward and asked them to follow him. He was a tall, brisk-stepping figure and, like the receptionist, probably not a day under sixty-five. They followed him down corridors and up in a lift and down more corridors.

  ‘Plenty of concrete and wood,’ Rebus commented.

  ‘And glass,’ Clarke added.

  ‘The special, expensive kind, of course,’ Rebus speculated.

  Their guide said nothing until they turned yet another corner and found a young man waiting for them.

  ‘Thanks, Sandy,’ the man said, ‘I’ll take it from here.’

  As the guide headed back the way they’d just come, Clarke thanked him, and received a little grunt of acknowledgement. Maybe he was just out of breath.

  ‘My name’s Roddy Liddle,’ the young man was telling them. ‘I work for Megan.’

  ‘And who exactly is Megan?’ Rebus asked. Liddle stared at him as if he were maybe making a joke. ‘All our boss told us,’ Rebus explained, ‘was to come down here and talk to someone with that name. Apparently she phoned him.’

  ‘It was me who did the phoning,’ Liddle said, making it sound like yet another arduous task that he’d taken in his stride.

  ‘Good for you, son,’ Rebus told him. The ‘son’ obviously rankled. Liddle was in his early twenties and reckoned he was already well on his way in politics. He looked Rebus up and down before deciding to dismiss him as irrelevant.

  ‘I’m sure Megan will explain.’ Having said which, Liddle turned and led them to the end of the corridor.

  The MSPs private offices were well proportioned, with desks for staff as well as the politicians themselves. It was Rebus’s first sighting of one of the infamous ‘think-pods’ - little alcoves with curved windows and a cushioned seat. This was where the MSPs were supposed to come up with blue-sky ideas. It was also where they found Megan Macfarlane. She rose to greet them.

  ‘Glad you could come at such short notice,’ she said. ‘I know you’re busy on the inquiry, so I won’t keep you long.’ She was short and slim and impeccably groomed, not a hair out of place and with just the right amount of make-up. She wore half-moon glasses which rested most of the way down her nose, so that she peered over them at the two detectives. ‘I’m Megan Macfarlane,’ she said, inviting them to make introductions of their own. Liddle was back behind his desk, staring at messages on his computer. Rebus and Clarke gave their names, and the MSP looked around for places to sit, before having a better idea.

  ‘We’ll go downstairs and get a coffee. Roddy, can I bring you one back?’

  ‘No thanks, Megan. One cup a day’s plenty for me.’

  ‘Good point - I don’t need to be in the chamber later on?’ She waited till he’d shaken his head, then focused her gaze on Clarke. ‘Diuretic effects, you know, doesn’t do to be caught short when you’re halfway through a point of order . . .’

  They went back the way they’d come and found themselves descending an impressive staircase, Macfarlane announcing that the ‘Scot Nats’ had high hopes for May’s elections.

  ‘Latest polls put us five points clear of Labour. Blair’s unpopular, and so is Gordon Brown. The Iraq war, cash for peerages - it was one of my colleagues who started that investigation. Labour’s panicking because Scotland Yard say they’ve uncovered “significant and valuable material”.’ She gave a satisfied smile. ‘Scandal seems to be our opponents’ middle name.’

  ‘So it’s the protest vote you’re after?’ Rebus asked.

  Macfarlane didn’t seem to feel this merited any sort of reply.

  ‘If you win in May,’ Rebus went on, ‘do we get a referendum on independence?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And we suddenly become a Celtic tiger?’

  ‘The Labour Party has been failing the people of Scotland for fifty years, Inspector. It’s time for a change.’

  Queuing at the counter, she announced that this would be her ‘treat’. Rebus ordered an espresso, Clarke a small cappuccino. Macfarlane herself opted for a black coffee into which she poured three sachets of sugar. There were tables nearby, and they chose an empty one, pushing aside the leftover crockery.

  ‘We’re still in the dark,’ Rebus said, lifting his cup. ‘I hope you don’t mind me getting straight to the point, but as you said yourself, we’ve got a murder inquiry waiting for us back at base.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Macfarlane agreed. Then she paused for a moment, as if to marshal her thoughts. ‘How much do you know about me?’ she began by asking.

  Rebus and Clarke shared a look. ‘Until we were told to come see you,’ Rebus obliged, ‘neither of us had ever heard of you.’

  The MSP, trying not to show any pain, blew across the surface of her coffee before taking a sip.

  ‘I’m a Scottish Nationalist,’ she said.

  ‘That much we’d guessed.’

  ‘And that means I’m passionate about my country. If Scotland is to flourish in this new century - and flourish outwith the confines of the UK - we need enterprise, initiative and investment.’ She counted these three off on her fingers. ‘That’s why I’m an active member of the URC - the Urban Regeneration Committee. Not that our remit is purely urban, you understand; in fact, I’ve already proposed a name-change in order to make that clear.’

  ‘Forgive me for interrupting,’ Clarke said, having noted Rebus’s agitation, ‘but can I ask what any of this has to do with us?’

  Macfarlane lowered her eyes and gave a little smile of apology. ‘I’m afraid when I’m passionate about something, I do tend to rabbit on.’

  Rebus’s glance towards Clarke said it all.

  ‘This unfortunate incident,’ Macfarlane was saying, ‘involving the Russian poet . . .’

  ‘What about it?’ Rebus prompted.

  ‘Right now, a group of businessmen is in Scotland - a very prosperous group, and all of them Russian. They represent oil, gas
and steel, and other industries besides. They are looking to the future, Inspector - Scotland’s future. We need to ensure nothing jeopardises the links and relationships that we’ve painstakingly fostered over the past several years. What we certainly don’t want is anyone thinking we’re not a welcoming country, a country that embraces cultures and nationalities. Look at what happened to that young Sikh lad . . .’

  ‘You’re asking us,’ Clarke summarised, ‘if this was a racial attack?’

  ‘One of the group has voiced that concern,’ Macfarlane admitted. She looked towards Rebus but he was staring at the ceiling again, still not sure about it. He’d heard that its concave sections were supposed to look like boats. When he turned his attention back to the MSP, her worried face demanded some reassurance.

  ‘We can’t rule anything out,’ he decided to tell her instead. ‘Could have been racially motivated. The Russian consulate told us as much this morning - there’ve been attacks on some of the migrant workers from Eastern Europe. So it’s certainly a line we’ll be following.’

  She looked shocked by these words, just as he’d intended. Clarke was hiding her smile behind a raised cup. Rebus decided there was more fun to be had. ‘Would any of these businessmen have met with Mr Todorov recently? If so, it would be helpful to talk to them.’

  Macfarlane was saved from answering by the appearance of a new arrival. Like Rebus and Clarke, he wore a badge which proclaimed him a visitor.

  ‘Megan,’ he drawled, ‘I saw you from the reception desk. Hope I’m not interrupting?’

  ‘Not at all.’ The MSP could hardly disguise her relief. ‘Let me get you a coffee, Stuart.’ Then, to Rebus and Clarke: ‘This is Stuart Janney, from First Albannach Bank. Stuart, these are the officers in charge of the Todorov case.’ Janney shook hands before pulling over a chair.

  ‘I hope you’re both clients,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘State of my finances,’ Rebus informed him, ‘you should be happy I’m with the competition.’

  Janney made a show of wincing. He’d been carrying his trench coat over one arm, and now folded it across his lap. ‘Grim news about that murder,’ he said, while Macfarlane rejoined the queue at the counter.

  ‘Grim,’ Rebus echoed.

  ‘From what Ms Macfarlane just said,’ Clarke added, ‘I’m guessing she’s already spoken with you about it.’

  ‘Happened to come up in conversation this morning,’ Janney acknowledged, running a hand through his blond hair. His face was freckled, the skin pink, reminding Rebus of a younger Colin Montgomerie, and his eyes were the same dark blue as his tie. Janney seemed to have decided that further explanation was needed. ‘We were on the phone to one another.’

  ‘Are you something to do with these Russian visitors?’ Rebus asked. Janney nodded.

  ‘FAB never turns away prospective customers, Inspector. ’

  FAB: it was how most people referred to the First Albannach Bank. It was a term of affection, but behind it lay one of the biggest employers - and probably the most profitable company - in Scotland. The TV adverts showed FAB as an extended family, and were filmed almost as mini-soaps, while the bank’s brand-new corporate HQ - built on green-belt land, despite the protests - was a city in miniature, complete with shopping arcade and cafés. Staff could get their hair done there, or buy food for the evening meal. They could use the gym or play a round of golf on the company’s own nine-hole course.

  ‘So if you’re looking for someone to manage that overdraft ...’ Janney handed out business cards. Macfarlane laughed when she saw it, before passing him his black coffee. Interesting, Rebus thought: he takes it the same way she does. But he’d bet that if Janney was out with an important customer, whatever the customer ordered would be Janney’s drink of choice, too. The Police College at Tulliallan had run a course on it a year or two back: Empathic Interviewing Techniques. When questioning a witness or a suspect, you tried to find things you had in common, even if that meant lying. Rebus had never really got round to trying it, but he could tell that someone like Janney would be a natural.

  ‘Stuart’s incorrigible,’ the MSP was saying. ‘What have I told you about touting for business? It’s unethical.’ But she was smiling as she spoke, and Janney gave a quiet chuckle, while sliding his business cards closer to Rebus and Clarke.

  ‘Mr Janney,’ Clarke began, ‘tells us the pair of you were discussing Alexander Todorov.’

  Megan Macfarlane nodded slowly. ‘Stuart has an advisory role in URC.’

  ‘I didn’t think FAB would be pro-Nationalist, Mr Janney,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Completely neutral,’ Janney stressed. ‘There are twelve members of the Urban Regeneration Committee, Inspector, representing five political parties.’

  ‘And how many of them did you speak to on the phone today?’

  ‘So far, only Megan,’ the banker admitted, ‘but then it’s not quite lunchtime.’ He made show of checking his watch.

  ‘Stuart is our three-I consultant,’ Macfarlane was saying. ‘Inward Investment Initiatives.’

  Rebus ignored this. ‘Did Ms Macfarlane ask you to drop by, Mr Janney?’ he asked. When the banker looked to the MSP, Rebus had his answer. He turned his attention to Macfarlane herself. ‘Which businessman was it?’

  She blinked. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Which one was it who seemed so concerned about Alexander Todorov?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Is there any reason I shouldn’t know?’ Rebus raised an eyebrow for effect.

  ‘The Inspector’s got you cornered, Megan,’ Janney was saying with a lopsided smile. He got a baleful look in return, which had gone by the time Macfarlane turned towards Rebus.

  ‘It was Sergei Andropov,’ she stated.

  ‘There was a Russian president called Andropov,’ Clarke commented.

  ‘No relation,’ Janney told her, taking a sip of coffee. ‘At HQ, they’ve taken to calling him Svengali.’

  ‘Why’s that, sir?’ Clarke sounded genuinely curious.

  ‘The number of takeovers he’s finessed, the way he built up his own company into a global player, the boards he’s won round, the strategies and gamesmanship ...’ Janney sounded like he could go on all day. ‘I’m pretty sure,’ he said, ‘it’s meant as a term of endearment.’

  ‘Sounds like he’s endeared himself to you, at any rate,’ Rebus commented. ‘I’m guessing First Albannach would love to do business with these big shots.’

  ‘We already do.’

  Rebus decided to wipe the smile off the banker’s face. ‘Well, Alexander Todorov happened to bank with you, too, sir, and look what happened to him.’

  ‘DI Rebus has a point, sir,’ Clarke interrupted. ‘Any chance you could get us details of Mr Todorov’s accounts and most recent transactions?’

  ‘There are protocols ...’

  ‘I understand, sir, but they might help us find his killer, which in turn would put your clients’ minds at rest.’

  Janney gave a thoughtful pout. ‘Is there an executor?’

  ‘Not that we know of.’

  ‘Which branch was his account with?’

  Clarke stretched out her arms and gave a shrug and a hopeful smile.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘We appreciate it, sir,’ Rebus told him. ‘We’re based at Gayfield Square.’ He made show of studying his surroundings. ‘Not quite as grand as this, but then it didn’t bankrupt the taxpayer either . . .’

  9

  It was a quick run from the Parliament to the City Chambers. Rebus told the staff on reception that they had a 2 p.m. appointment with the Lord Provost and were hellish early, but could they leave their car parked outside anyway? Everyone seemed to think that was fine, which caused Rebus to beam a smile and ask if they could fill in the time by saying hello to Graeme MacLeod. More passes, another security check, and they were in. As they waited for the lift, Clarke turned to Rebus.‘I meant to say, you handled Macfarlane and Janney pretty well.’


  ‘I guessed as much from the way you let me do most of the work.’

  ‘Is it too late for me to withdraw the compliment?’ But they were both smiling. ‘How long till they find out we’ve nicked a parking space under false pretences?’

  ‘Depends whether they bother to ask the Lord Prov’s secretary.’ The lift arrived and they got in, descending two storeys below ground level to where a man was waiting. Rebus introduced him to Clarke as Graeme MacLeod, and MacLeod led them into the CMF Room, explaining that CMF stood for Central Monitoring Facility. Rebus had been there before but Clarke hadn’t, and her eyes widened a little as she saw the array of closed-circuit monitors, dozens of them, three deep and with staff manning desks of computers in front of them.

  MacLeod liked it when visitors were impressed, and needed no prompting to give his little speech.

  ‘Ten years the city’s had CCTV,’ he began. ‘Started with a dozen cameras in the centre, now we’ve got over a hundred and thirty, with more due to be introduced shortly. We maintain a direct link to the Police Control Centre at Bilston, and about twelve hundred arrests a year are down to things we spot in this stuffy wee room.’

  The room was certainly warm - heat from all the monitors - and Clarke was shrugging off her coat.

  ‘We’re open 24/7,’ MacLeod went on, ‘and can track a suspect while telling the police where to find them.’ The monitors had numbers above them, and MacLeod pointed to one. ‘That’s the Grassmarket. And if Jenny here’ - meaning the woman seated at the desk - ‘uses the little keypad in front of her we can swivel the camera, and zoom in on anyone parking their car or coming out of a shop or pub.’

  Jenny showed how it was done, and Clarke nodded slowly.

  ‘The picture’s very clear,’ she commented. ‘And in colour - I was expecting black and white. Don’t suppose you’ve any cameras on King’s Stables Road?’

  MacLeod gave a dry chuckle. ‘I knew that’s what you’d be after.’ He reached for a logbook and flicked back a couple of pages. ‘Martin was manning the decks that night. He tracked the police cars and ambulance.’ MacLeod ran a finger along the relevant entry. ‘Even had a look back at what footage there was but didn’t spot anything conclusive.’