crisp charcoal suit with a checked shirt and lavender tie. Color flooded his cheeks as he repeated Rebus’s word.
“A man left the bar here a couple of nights back, got as far as King’s Stables Road, and was beaten to death. Means the last people who saw him were the ones knocking back cocktails in your hotel.” Rebus had taken a step closer to Richard Browning. “Now, I can get my hands on your registration list and make sure I interview every single guest—maybe set up a big table next to the concierge desk so that it’s nice and public . . .” Rebus paused. “I can do that, but it’ll take time and it’ll be messy. Or . . .” Another pause. “You can tell me what Russians you have staying here.”
“You could also,” Clarke added, “go through the bar receipts and find the names of anyone who paid for a large cognac some time after ten on the night before last.”
“Our guests have the right to their privacy,” Browning argued.
“We only want names,” Rebus told him, “not a list of whatever porn they’ve been watching on the film channel.”
Browning stiffened his spine.
“Okay,” Rebus apologized, “this isn’t that sort of hotel. But you do have some Russians staying here?”
Browning admitted as much with a nod. “You know there’s a delegation in town?” Rebus assured him he did. “To be honest, we only have three or four of them. The rest are spread around the city—the Balmoral, George, Sheraton, Prestonfield . . .”
“Don’t they get along?” Clarke asked.
“Just not enough presidential suites to go round,” Browning sniffed.
“How much longer are they here?”
“A few days—there’s a trip to Gleneagles planned, but they’re keeping their rooms, saves checking out and checking in again.”
“Nice to have the option,” Rebus commented. “How soon can we have the names?”
“I’m going to have to talk to the general manager first.”
“How soon?” Rebus repeated.
“I really can’t say,” Browning spluttered. Clarke handed him a card with her mobile number.
“Sooner the better,” she nudged him.
“Else it’ll be a table by the concierge,” Rebus added.
They left Browning nodding to himself and staring at the floor.
The doorman saw them coming and held open the door. Rebus handed him one of the lurid flyers by way of a tip. As they crossed to Clarke’s car—which she’d parked in an empty cab rank—Rebus saw a limo drawing to a halt, the black Merc from the City Chambers and the same figure emerging from the back: Sergei Andropov. Again, he seemed to sense eyes on him and returned Rebus’s stare for a moment before entering the hotel. The car cruised around the corner and entered the hotel’s car park.
“Same driver Stahov had?” Clarke asked.
“Still didn’t get a good enough look,” Rebus told her. “But that reminds me of something I meant to ask when we were inside—namely, what the hell is a respectable hotel like the Caledonian doing letting Big Ger Cafferty over its threshold?”
10
T hey waited until 6:00 p.m. to do the witness interviews, reckoning there’d be a better chance of finding people at home. Roger and Elizabeth Anderson lived in a detached 1930s house on the southern edge of the city with views to the Pentland Hills. The path leading through the garden to the front door was lit, allowing them to take in the impressive rockeries and an expanse of lawn that could well have been trimmed with nail scissors.
“A little hobby for Mrs. Anderson?” Clarke guessed.
“Who knows—maybe she’s the highflyer and he stays at home.”
But when Roger Anderson opened the door he was dressed in his work suit, the tie loosened and top shirt-button undone. He held the evening paper in one hand and had pushed his reading glasses to the top of his head.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “Wondered when you’d get round to us.” He headed back indoors, expecting them to follow. “It’s the police,” he called to his
“A man left the bar here a couple of nights back, got as far as King’s Stables Road, and was beaten to death. Means the last people who saw him were the ones knocking back cocktails in your hotel.” Rebus had taken a step closer to Richard Browning. “Now, I can get my hands on your registration list and make sure I interview every single guest—maybe set up a big table next to the concierge desk so that it’s nice and public . . .” Rebus paused. “I can do that, but it’ll take time and it’ll be messy. Or . . .” Another pause. “You can tell me what Russians you have staying here.”
“You could also,” Clarke added, “go through the bar receipts and find the names of anyone who paid for a large cognac some time after ten on the night before last.”
“Our guests have the right to their privacy,” Browning argued.
“We only want names,” Rebus told him, “not a list of whatever porn they’ve been watching on the film channel.”
Browning stiffened his spine.
“Okay,” Rebus apologized, “this isn’t that sort of hotel. But you do have some Russians staying here?”
Browning admitted as much with a nod. “You know there’s a delegation in town?” Rebus assured him he did. “To be honest, we only have three or four of them. The rest are spread around the city—the Balmoral, George, Sheraton, Prestonfield . . .”
“Don’t they get along?” Clarke asked.
“Just not enough presidential suites to go round,” Browning sniffed.
“How much longer are they here?”
“A few days—there’s a trip to Gleneagles planned, but they’re keeping their rooms, saves checking out and checking in again.”
“Nice to have the option,” Rebus commented. “How soon can we have the names?”
“I’m going to have to talk to the general manager first.”
“How soon?” Rebus repeated.
“I really can’t say,” Browning spluttered. Clarke handed him a card with her mobile number.
“Sooner the better,” she nudged him.
“Else it’ll be a table by the concierge,” Rebus added.
They left Browning nodding to himself and staring at the floor.
The doorman saw them coming and held open the door. Rebus handed him one of the lurid flyers by way of a tip. As they crossed to Clarke’s car—which she’d parked in an empty cab rank—Rebus saw a limo drawing to a halt, the black Merc from the City Chambers and the same figure emerging from the back: Sergei Andropov. Again, he seemed to sense eyes on him and returned Rebus’s stare for a moment before entering the hotel. The car cruised around the corner and entered the hotel’s car park.
“Same driver Stahov had?” Clarke asked.
“Still didn’t get a good enough look,” Rebus told her. “But that reminds me of something I meant to ask when we were inside—namely, what the hell is a respectable hotel like the Caledonian doing letting Big Ger Cafferty over its threshold?”
10
T hey waited until 6:00 p.m. to do the witness interviews, reckoning there’d be a better chance of finding people at home. Roger and Elizabeth Anderson lived in a detached 1930s house on the southern edge of the city with views to the Pentland Hills. The path leading through the garden to the front door was lit, allowing them to take in the impressive rockeries and an expanse of lawn that could well have been trimmed with nail scissors.
“A little hobby for Mrs. Anderson?” Clarke guessed.
“Who knows—maybe she’s the highflyer and he stays at home.”
But when Roger Anderson opened the door he was dressed in his work suit, the tie loosened and top shirt-button undone. He held the evening paper in one hand and had pushed his reading glasses to the top of his head.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “Wondered when you’d get round to us.” He headed back indoors, expecting them to follow. “It’s the police,” he called to his
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