ready. The barman was short and stick-thin with a shaved head. He wore a tartan waistcoat and tie, and looked at Todorov’s photo for only a few seconds before starting to nod, bald pate gleaming.
“He’s been in a few times recently.”
“Was he in two nights ago?” Clarke asked.
“I think so.” The barman was concentrating, brow furrowed. Rebus knew that sometimes the reason people concentrated was to think up a convincing lie. The badge on the barman’s waistcoat identified him only as Freddie.
“Just after ten,” Rebus prompted. “He’d already had a few drinks.”
Freddie was nodding again. “Wanted a large cognac.”
“He just stayed for one?”
“I think so.”
“Did you speak to him?”
Freddie shook his head. “But I know who he is now—I saw about it on the news. What a hellish thing to happen.”
“Hellish,” Rebus agreed.
“Did he sit at the bar?” Clarke asked. “Or was he at a table?”
“The bar—always the bar. I knew he was foreign, but he didn’t act like a poet.”
“And how do poets act, in your experience?”
“What I mean is, he just sat there with a scowl on his face. Mind you, I did see him writing stuff down.”
“The last time he was in?”
“No, before that. Had a wee notebook he kept taking from his pocket. One of the waitresses thought maybe he was an undercover inspector or doing a review for a magazine. I told her I didn’t think so.”
“The last time he was here, you didn’t see the notebook?”
“He was talking to somebody.”
“Who?” Rebus asked.
Freddie just shrugged. “Another drinker. They sat pretty much where you two are.” Rebus and Clarke shared a look.
“What were they talking about?”
“Pays not to eavesdrop.”
“It’s a rare bartender who doesn’t like to listen in on other people’s conversations.”
“They might not have been talking in English.”
“What then—Russian?” Rebus’s eyes narrowed.
“Could be,” Freddie seemed to concede.
“Got any cameras in here?” Rebus was looking around him. Freddie shook his head.
“Was this other drinker male or female?” Clarke asked.
Freddie paused before answering. “Male.”
“Description.”
Another pause. “Bit older than him . . . stockier. We dim the lights at night, and it was a busy session . . .” He shrugged an apology.
“You’re being a great help,” Clarke assured him. “Did they talk for long?” Freddie just shrugged again. “They didn’t leave together?”
“The poet left on his own.” Freddie sounded confident about this at least.
“Don’t suppose cognac comes cheap in here,” Rebus commented, taking in his surroundings.
“Sky’s the limit,” the barman admitted. “But when you’ve a tab running, you tend not to notice.”
“Not until your bill’s handed to you at checkout,” Rebus agreed. “Thing is, though, Freddie, our Russian friend wasn’t a resident here.” He paused for effect. “So whose tab are we talking about?”
The barman seemed to realize his mistake. “Look,” he said, “I don’t want to get into trouble . . .”
“You certainly don’t want to get into trouble with me, ” Rebus confirmed. “The other man was a guest?”
Freddie looked from one detective to the other. “I suppose so,” he said, seeming to deflate. Rebus and Clarke locked eyes.
“If you were here from Moscow on a business trip,” she said quietly, “maybe some kind of delegation . . . which hotel would you stay at?”
There was only one way to answer that, but in reception the staff said they couldn’t help. Instead, they called for the duty manager, and Rebus repeated his question.
“Any Russian businessmen bunking here?”
The duty manager was studying Rebus’s warrant card. When he handed it back, he asked if there was a problem.
“Only if your hotel continues to obstruct me in a murder inquiry,” Rebus drawled.
“Murder?” The duty manager had introduced himself as Richard Browning. He wore a
“He’s been in a few times recently.”
“Was he in two nights ago?” Clarke asked.
“I think so.” The barman was concentrating, brow furrowed. Rebus knew that sometimes the reason people concentrated was to think up a convincing lie. The badge on the barman’s waistcoat identified him only as Freddie.
“Just after ten,” Rebus prompted. “He’d already had a few drinks.”
Freddie was nodding again. “Wanted a large cognac.”
“He just stayed for one?”
“I think so.”
“Did you speak to him?”
Freddie shook his head. “But I know who he is now—I saw about it on the news. What a hellish thing to happen.”
“Hellish,” Rebus agreed.
“Did he sit at the bar?” Clarke asked. “Or was he at a table?”
“The bar—always the bar. I knew he was foreign, but he didn’t act like a poet.”
“And how do poets act, in your experience?”
“What I mean is, he just sat there with a scowl on his face. Mind you, I did see him writing stuff down.”
“The last time he was in?”
“No, before that. Had a wee notebook he kept taking from his pocket. One of the waitresses thought maybe he was an undercover inspector or doing a review for a magazine. I told her I didn’t think so.”
“The last time he was here, you didn’t see the notebook?”
“He was talking to somebody.”
“Who?” Rebus asked.
Freddie just shrugged. “Another drinker. They sat pretty much where you two are.” Rebus and Clarke shared a look.
“What were they talking about?”
“Pays not to eavesdrop.”
“It’s a rare bartender who doesn’t like to listen in on other people’s conversations.”
“They might not have been talking in English.”
“What then—Russian?” Rebus’s eyes narrowed.
“Could be,” Freddie seemed to concede.
“Got any cameras in here?” Rebus was looking around him. Freddie shook his head.
“Was this other drinker male or female?” Clarke asked.
Freddie paused before answering. “Male.”
“Description.”
Another pause. “Bit older than him . . . stockier. We dim the lights at night, and it was a busy session . . .” He shrugged an apology.
“You’re being a great help,” Clarke assured him. “Did they talk for long?” Freddie just shrugged again. “They didn’t leave together?”
“The poet left on his own.” Freddie sounded confident about this at least.
“Don’t suppose cognac comes cheap in here,” Rebus commented, taking in his surroundings.
“Sky’s the limit,” the barman admitted. “But when you’ve a tab running, you tend not to notice.”
“Not until your bill’s handed to you at checkout,” Rebus agreed. “Thing is, though, Freddie, our Russian friend wasn’t a resident here.” He paused for effect. “So whose tab are we talking about?”
The barman seemed to realize his mistake. “Look,” he said, “I don’t want to get into trouble . . .”
“You certainly don’t want to get into trouble with me, ” Rebus confirmed. “The other man was a guest?”
Freddie looked from one detective to the other. “I suppose so,” he said, seeming to deflate. Rebus and Clarke locked eyes.
“If you were here from Moscow on a business trip,” she said quietly, “maybe some kind of delegation . . . which hotel would you stay at?”
There was only one way to answer that, but in reception the staff said they couldn’t help. Instead, they called for the duty manager, and Rebus repeated his question.
“Any Russian businessmen bunking here?”
The duty manager was studying Rebus’s warrant card. When he handed it back, he asked if there was a problem.
“Only if your hotel continues to obstruct me in a murder inquiry,” Rebus drawled.
“Murder?” The duty manager had introduced himself as Richard Browning. He wore a
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