Exit Music (2007) Read Free

She was seventeen and on her way home from a friend’s house. The friend lived in Great Stuart Street and Nancy in Blair Street, just off the Cowgate. She had already left school and was unemployed, though hoping to get into college some day to study as a dental assistant. Goodyear had done the interview, and Rebus was impressed: neat handwriting and plenty of detail. Turning to Dyson’s notebook was like turning from hope to despair—a mess of hastily scrawled hieroglyphs. Those seven months couldn’t pass quickly enough for PC Bill Dyson. Through guesswork, Rebus reckoned the middle-aged couple were Roger and Elizabeth Anderson and that they lived in Frogston Road West, on the southern edge of the city. There was a phone number, but no hint of their ages or occupations. Instead, Rebus could make out the words “just passing” and “called it in.” He handed the notebooks back without comment. All three would be interviewed again later. Rebus checked his watch, wondering when the pathologist would arrive. Not much else to be done in the meantime.
    “Tell them they can go.”
    “Girl’s still a bit shaky,” Goodyear said. “Reckon we should drop her home?”
    Rebus nodded and turned his attention to Dyson. “How about the other two?”
    “Their car’s parked in the Grassmarket.”
    “Spot of late-night shopping?”
    Dyson shook his head. “Carol concert at St. Cuthbert’s.”
    “A conversation we could have saved ourselves,” Rebus told him, “if you’d bothered to write any of it down.” As his eyes drilled into the constable’s, he could sense the question Dyson wanted to ask: What would be the bloody point of that? Luckily, the old-timer knew better than to utter anything of the kind out loud . . . not until the other old-timer was well out of earshot.
    Rebus caught up with Clarke at the Scene of Crime van, where she was quizzing the team leader. His name was Thomas Banks—“Tam” to those who knew him. He gave a nod of greeting and asked if his name was on the guest list for Rebus’s retirement do.
    “How come you’re all so keen to witness my demise?”
    “Don’t be surprised,” Tam said, “if the suits from HQ come with stakes and mallets, just to be on the safe side.” He winked towards Clarke. “Siobhan here tells me you’ve wangled it so your last shift’s a Saturday. Is that so we’re all at home watching telly while you take the long walk?”
    “Just the way it fell, Tam,” Rebus assured him. “Any tea going?”
    “You turned your nose up at it,” Tam chided him.
    “That was half an hour ago.”
    “No second chances here, John.”
    “I was asking,” Clarke interrupted, “if Tam’s team had anything for us.”
    “I’m guessing he said to be patient.”
    “That’s about the size of it,” Tam confirmed, checking a text message on his mobile phone. “Stabbing outside a pub at Haymarket,” he informed them.
    “Busy night,” Clarke offered. Then, to Rebus: “Doctor reckons our man was bludgeoned and maybe even kicked to death. He’s betting blunt force trauma at the autopsy.”
    “He’s not going to get any odds from me,” Rebus told her.
    “Nor me,” Tam added, rubbing a finger across the bridge of his nose. He turned to Rebus: “Know who that young copper was?” He nodded towards the patrol car. Todd Goodyear was helping Nancy Sievewright into the back seat, Bill Dyson drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.
    “Never seen him before,” Rebus admitted.
    “You maybe knew his granddad, though . . .” Tam left it at that, wanting Rebus to do the work. It didn’t take long.
    “Not Harry Goodyear?”
    Tam was nodding in confirmation, leaving Clarke to ask who Harry Goodyear was.
    “Ancient history,” Rebus informed her.
    Which, typically, left her none the wiser.

2
    R ebus was giving Clarke a lift home when the call came in on her mobile.
    They did a U-turn and headed for the Cowgate, home to the city’s mortuary. There was an unmarked