'Riordan Mansions,' Charles Riordan announced.

'Can I take it you're not married?' Clarke asked.

'Was once, but she couldn't hack it.'

“The equipment, you mean?'

But Riordan shook his head. 'I like to make recordings.' He paused meaningfully. 'Of everything. After a while, it started to get to Audrey.' He slipped his hands into his pockets. 'So what can I do for you today, officers?'

Clarke was looking around the room. 'Are we being taped, Mr Riordan?'

Riordan gave a chuckle and, by way of answer, pointed to a slender black microphone.

'And the other day at your studio?'

He nodded. 'I used DAT. Though these days I'm more into digital.'

'I thought DAT was digital?' Goodyear asked.

'But it's tape – I'm talking about straight to the hard drive.'

'Would you mind turning it off?' Clarke asked, making it sound like the demand it really was. Riordan shrugged and hit a switch on the mixing desk.

'More questions about Alexander?' he asked.

'One or two, yes.'

'You got the CD?'

Clarke nodded. 'Thanks for that.'

'He was a great performer, wasn't he?'

'He was,' Clarke acknowledged. 'But what I really wanted to ask you about was the night he died.'

Tes?'

'After the curry, you said you parted company. You were heading home, and Mr Todorov was going to find a drink?'

'That's right.'

'And you added that it was a toss-up whether he went to Mather's or the Caledonian Hotel – why those two in particular, Mr Riordan?'

Riordan gave a shrug. 'He was going to have to walk past both of them.'

'And a dozen more besides,' Clarke countered.

'Maybe he'd mentioned them to me.'

'You don't remember?'

'Is it important?'

'It could be.' Clarke glanced towards Goodyear. He was playing the game: shoulders back, legs slightly parted, hands clasped in front of him… and saying nothing. He looked official. Clarke doubted Riordan would pay any attention to the prominent ears or the crooked teeth or the eyelashes… all he'd be seeing was a uniform, focusing his mind on the gravity of the situation.

Riordan had been rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 'Well, I suppose he must have mentioned them,' he said.

'But not on the night you met?' Clarke watched Riordan shake his head. 'So he didn't have a rendezvous planned?'

'How do you mean?'

'After you split up, Mr Todorov headed straight for the bar at the Caledonian. He got talking to someone there. Just wondered if it was a regular thing.'

'Alexander liked people: people who'd buy him drinks and listen to his stories and then tell him a few of their own.'

'Never thought of the Caledonian as a place for story-telling.'

'You're wrong – hotel bars are perfect. You meet strangers there, and you spill your life out for the twenty or thirty minutes that you're with them. It's quite incredible what people will tell complete strangers.'

'Maybe because they are strangers,' Goodyear interrupted.

'The constable has a good point,' Riordan said.

'But how do you know this, Mr Riordan?' Clarke asked. 'Can I assume you've done some covert taping in places like the Caledonian?'

'Plenty of times,' Riordan admitted. 'And on trains and buses – people snoring or talking to themselves or plotting the overthrow of the government. Tramps on park benches and MPs at the hustings; ice-skaters and picnickers and love rats on the phone to their mistresses.' He turned to Goodyear. 'My little hobby,' he explained.

'And when did it turn to an obsession, sir?' Goodyear asked politely.

'Some time before your wife left you, I'd imagine.'

The smile fell from Riordan's face. Realising he'd slipped up, Goodyear risked a glance towards Clarke. She was shaking her head slowly.

'Are there any other questions?' Riordan asked coldly.

Tou can't think of anyone Alexander Todorov could have been drinking with at the hotel?' Clarke persisted.

'No.' Riordan was moving towards the door. Goodyear mouthed the word 'sorry' at Clarke as the pair of them followed their host into the hallway.

Back in the car, Clarke told Goodyear not to worry. 'I think we'd had about all we were going to get.'

'All the same, I should have left the talking to you.'

'A lesson learned,' Clarke said, turning the ignition.

'What's Sonny Jim doing here?' Rebus asked. He was leaning back in his chair, feet up on the desk, the remote for the video recorder in his hand, having just frozen the TV picture.

'He's on secondment from Torphichen,' Clarke stated. Rebus stared at her, but she refused to make eye contact. Todd Goodyear had his hand stretched out for shaking. Rebus turned his attention to it, but ignored the offer. Goodyear let his arm fall back to his side and Clarke gave a vexed sigh.

'Anything good on the box?' she eventually asked.

'That video you wanted.' Rebus seemed already to have dismissed the new arrival from his mind. 'Come and take a look.' He let the programme run again, but turned the sound most of the way down.

A panel of politicians and pundits was being asked questions by a sawy-looking audience. Large letters on the floor between the two groups spelt out the word EDINBURGH.

'Filmed at The Hub,' Rebus explained. 'I went to a jazz concert there, recognised it straight off.'

You like jazz?' Goodyear asked, only to be ignored.

'Do you see who I see?' Rebus was asking Clarke.

'Megan Macfarlane.'

'Funny she didn't mention it,' Rebus mused. 'When the presenter was doing the introductions, he said she's number two in the SNP and likely to take over when her leader jacks it in. Making her, in the presenter's words, “candidate for president of an independent Scottish state”.'

'And the rest of the panel?'

'Labour, Tories, and Lib Dems.'

'Plus Todorov.' The poet was seated next to the presenter at the

semicircular desk. He seemed relaxed, doodling with his pen on some paper. 'How's he doing?'

'Knows more about politics than I do,' Rebus admitted, 'and seems to have an opinion on everything.'

Goodyear had folded his arms and was concentrating on the screen. Rebus gave Clarke another look, this time achieving eye contact. She shrugged, then narrowed her eyes slightly, warning him off. Rebus turned towards Goodyear.

'You know I helped put your grandad away?'

'Ancient history,' the young man said.

'Maybe so, but if it's going to be an issue, best tell me now.'

'It's not an issue.' Goodyear was still staring at the screen.

'What's the deal with this woman Macfarlane?'

'She's a Scot Nat MSP,' Clarke explained. 'Has a vested interest in us not shaking things up.'

'Because of all the Russian tycoons in town?' Goodyear saw that Clarke was impressed. 'I read the papers,' he explained. 'So Macfarlane had a little chat, but neglected to say that she knew the victim?'

'That's the size of it.' Rebus was showing more interest in the new recruit.

'Well, she's a politician. Last thing she wants is bad PR – and being linked to a murder inquiry probably counts as a negative.'

Goodyear offered a shrug, analysis complete.

The TV show was coming to an end, the dapper presenter announcing that the following week's episode would be coming from Hull. Rebus turned off the tape and stretched his spine.

'Anyway,' he asked, 'where've you two been?'

'Riordan,' Clarke stated, starting to fill him in on the meeting.

Halfway through, Hawes and Tibbet returned and had to be introduced to Todd Goodyear. Hawes had brought cakes for the office, and apologised to Goodyear that there wasn't one left over.

'I don't have a sweet tooth,' he replied with a shake of the head. Tibbet had spent a few months in uniform at Torphichen, just before his promotion to CID, and asked about old colleagues.