Exit Music (2007) by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online

search list. And ask Scarlett Colwell if Todorov had access to a vehicle. I’m pretty sure she’ll say no, but all the same . . .”
    “No sign of any abandoned cars in the multistory?”
    “Good point, Shiv, I’ll have someone check. Talk to you later.” The phone went dead, and she managed a little smile, hadn’t heard Rebus so fired up in several months. Not for the first time, she wondered what the hell he would do with himself when the work was done.
    Answer: bug her, most likely—phone calls daily, wanting to know everything about her caseload.
    Clarke got through to Dr. Colwell on the mobile, Colwell having forgotten to turn her own off.
    “Sorry,” Clarke apologized, “are you in the middle of your tutorial?”
    “I had to send them away.”
    “I can understand. Maybe you should shut up shop for the day. You’ve had quite a shock.”
    “And do what exactly? My boyfriend’s in London, I’ve got the whole flat to myself.”
    “There must be a friend you could call.” Clarke looked up as Hawes walked back into the room, but this time all Hawes did was offer a shrug: no notebook, keys, or cash card. Tibbet had done no better and was sitting on the chair, frowning over one of the poems in Astapovo Blues . “Anyway,” Clarke rattled on, “reason I’m phoning is to ask if Alexander owned a car.”
    “He didn’t.”
    “Could he drive?”
    “I’ve no idea. I certainly wouldn’t have ventured into any vehicle with him behind the wheel.”
    Clarke was nodding towards the route map—stood to reason Todorov would take buses. “Thanks anyway,” she said.
    “Did you talk to Abi Thomas?” Colwell asked abruptly.
    “She went to the pub with him.”
    “I’ll bet she did.”
    “But only stayed for one.”
    “Oh yes?”
    “You sound as if you don’t believe her, Dr. Colwell.”
    “Abi Thomas got hot flushes just reading Alexander’s poems . . . imagine how she felt squeezed in next to him at a corner table in some seedy bar.”
    “Well, thanks for your help —” But Clarke was talking into a dead phone. She stared at it, then became aware of two pairs of eyes on her: Hawes and Tibbet.
    “I don’t think we’re going to find anything else here, Siobhan,” Hawes piped up, while her partner clucked his agreement. He was an inch shorter than her and several inches less smart, but knew enough to let her argue their case.
    “Back to base?” Clarke suggested, to enthusiastic nods. “Okay,” she agreed, “but take one more recon first—and this time we’re after car keys or anything else that might suggest the deceased would have need of a car-parking space.” Having said which, she relieved Tibbet of his book and swapped places with him, settling back to see if there was anything she’d missed in “Codex Coda.”
    The SOCOs tried pushing the BMW aside, with no success at all. They then debated jacking it up, or maneuvering a hoist in so they could lift it. The rest of the parking level had become a buzz of activity, as a line of cops in white overalls shuffled along in formation on their knees, checking that the ground held no further clues. Todd Goodyear was among them and greeted Rebus with a nod. Photos and video were being taken, and another team was outside, tracing the route from car park to lane. The SOCOs were trying not to look too shamefaced, knowing they should have spotted the blood trail on the night itself. They gave Ray Duff dirty looks whenever his back was turned.
    Such was the scene that greeted the BMW’s owner when she returned, briefcase and shopping bags in hand. Todd Goodyear was told to get to his feet and take a brief statement from her.
    “Bloody brief,” Tam Banks stressed, keen for his team to start work on the evidence beneath her car.
    Rebus was standing alongside the car park’s security guard. The man had just returned from a check of the other levels. His name was Joe Wills and the uniform he was wearing had probably been tailored with someone else in