'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…'

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 247 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.'

'Doesn't mean there's nothing there.'

'Absolutely.'

'Siobhan here,' Rebus said, 'was telling me there's more CCTV in the UK than any other country.'

'Twenty per cent of all the closed-circuit cameras in the world, one for each and every dozen of us.'

'So quite a lot then?' Rebus muttered.

Tou save all the footage?' Clarke asked.

We do what we can. It goes on to hard disk and video, but there are guidelines we have to follow…'

“What Graeme means,' Rebus explained for Clarke's benefit, 'is that he can't just go handing material to us – Data Protection Act 1997.'

MacLeod was nodding. 'Ninety-eight actually, John. We can give you what we've got, but there are hoops to be gone through first.'

'Which is why I've learned to trust Graeme's judgement.' Rebus turned to MacLeod. 'And I'm guessing you've been through the recordings with whatever the digital equivalent is of a fine-toothed comb?'

MacLeod smiled and nodded. 'Jenny gave me a hand. We had

the photos of the victim from the various news agencies. I think we've picked him up on Shandwick Place. He was on foot and unaccompanied.

That's at just gone ten. Next time we see him is half an hour later on Lothian Road. But as you've guessed, we've no cameras on King's Stables Road itself.'

'Did you get the sense anyone was following him?' Rebus asked.

MacLeod shook his head. 'And neither did Jenny.'

Clarke was studying the screens again. 'A few more years of this and I'll be out of a job.'

MacLeod laughed. 'I doubt that. Surveillance is a tricky balancing act. Invasion of privacy is always an issue, and the civil rights people oppose us every step of the way.'

'Now there's a surprise,' Rebus muttered.

'Don't tell me you'd want one of our cameras peering in through your own window?' MacLeod teased.

Clarke had been thinking. 'Charles Riordan picked up the tab at the curry house at nine forty-eight. Todorov left there and headed into town along Shandwick Place. How come it took him half an hour to travel quarter of a mile to Lothian Road?'

'He stopped for a drink?' Rebus guessed.

'Riordan mentioned Mather's or the Caledonian Hotel. Wherever he went, Todorov was back on the street at ten forty, meaning he'd have been outside the car park five minutes later.' She waited for Rebus to nod his agreement.

'Shutters go down on the car park at eleven,' he added. The attack must've been quick.' Then, to MacLeod: 'What about afterwards, Graeme?'

MacLeod was ready for this. 'The passer-by who found the body called it in at twelve minutes past eleven. We took a look at the footage from the Grassmarket and Lothian Road ten minutes either side of that time.' He gave a shrug. 'Just the usual pub-goers, office parties, late-night shoppers… no crazed muggers legging it with a hammer swinging from their hand.'

'Be handy if we could take a look at that,' Rebus stated. 'We might know faces you don't.'

'Fair enough.'

'But you'd want us to jump through the hoops?'

MacLeod had folded his arms, the gesture providing an answer in itself.

They were heading back through the reception area, Rebus breaking

open a fresh packet of cigarettes, when an attendant in some sort of official garb stopped them. It took a moment for Rebus to register that the Lord Provost herself was there, too, her gold chain of office hanging around her neck. She didn't look particularly happy.