The condemned ate a hearty meal,' Gates had eventually rerked, opening the stomach. 'Prawn bhuna, if I'm not mistaken, rashed down with lager. And do you detect a whiff of brandy or rhisky, Dr Curt?'

Unmistakably.'

And so it had progressed, with Siobhan Clarke fighting to stay irake and Rebus seated next to her, watching as the pathologists it about their business.

fNo grazes on the knuckles or shreds of skin under the finger

nails – nothing to suggest that the victim had been able to defend himself. The clothing was chain-store stuff and would be sent to the forensic lab. With the blood washed off, the face more clearly resembled the one on the poetry book. During one of her short naps, Rebus had removed the volume from Siobhan Clarke's pocket and found a potted biography of Todorov on the flyleaf. Born 1960 in the Zhdanov district of Moscow, former literature lecturer, winner of numerous awards and prizes, author of six poetry collections for adults and one for children.

Seated now in his chair by the window, Rebus tried to think of Indian restaurants near King's Stables Road. Tomorrow, he would try looking in the phone book.

'No, John,' he told himself, 'it's already tomorrow.'

He'd picked up an Evening News at the all-night petrol station, so he could check the headlines again. The Marmion trial was continuing at the Crown Court – pub shooting in Gracemount, one dead, one lucky to be alive. The Sikh teenager had escaped with bumps and bruises, but hair was sacred to his religion, something the attackers must have known or guessed.

And Jack Palance was dead. Rebus didn't know what he'd been like in real life, but he'd always played tough guys in his films.

Rebus poured another Highland Park and raised his glass in a toast.

'Here's to the hard men,' he said, knocking the drink back in one.

Siobhan Clarke got to the end of the phone book's listing for restaurants.

She'd underlined half a dozen possibles, though really all the Indian restaurants were possible – Edinburgh was a small city and easy to get around. But they would start with the ones closest to the locus and work their way outwards. She had logged on to her laptop and searched the Web for mentions of Todorov – there were thousands of hits. He even featured in Wikipedia. Some of the stuff she found was written in Russian. A few essays came from the USA, where the poet featured on various college syllabuses. There were also reviews of Astapovo Blues, so she knew now that the poems were about Russian authors of the past, but also critiques of the current political scene in Todorov's home country – not that Mother Russia had actually been his home, not for the past decade.

He'd been right to term himself an exile, and his views on post glasnost Russia had earned him a good deal of Politburo anger and

derision. In one interview, he'd been asked if he considered himself a dissident. 'A constructive dissident,' he had replied.

Clarke took another gulp of lukewarm coffee. This is your case, girl, she told herself. Rebus would soon be gone. She was trying not to think about it too much. All these years they'd worked together, to the point where they could almost read one another's mind. She knew she would miss him, but knew, too, that she had to start planning for a future without him. Oh, they would meet for drinks and the occasional dinner. She'd share gossip and titbits with him.

Maybe he would nag her about those cold cases, the ones he was trying to dump on her…

BBC News 24 was playing on the TV, but with the sound turned off. She'd made a couple of calls to check that no one as yet had reported the poet missing. Not much else to be done, so eventually she turned off the TV and computer both, and went through to the bathroom. The lightbulb needed changing, so she undressed in the dark, brushed her teeth, and found she was rinsing the brush under the hot tap instead of the cold. With her bedside light on, a pale pink scarf draped over it, she plumped up the pillows, and raised her knees so she could rest Astapovo Blues against them.

It was only forty-odd pages, but had still cost Chris Simpson a tenner.

Keep the faith, as I have and have not…

The first poem in the collection ended with the lines:

As the country bled and wept, wept and bled, He averted his eyes, Ensuring he would not have to testify.

Flicking back to the title page, she saw that the collection had been translated from the Russian by Todorov himself, 'with the assistance of Scarlett Colwell'. Clarke settled back and turned to the second poem. By the third of its four stanzas, she was asleep.

The Scottish Poetry Library was located down one of innumerable pends and wynds leading off the Canongate. Rebus and Clarke managed to miss it, and ended up at the Parliament and the Palace of Holyrood. Driving more slowly back uphill, they missed it again.

'There's nowhere to park anyway,' Clarke complained. They were in her car this morning, and therefore dependent on Rebus to spot Crighton's Close.

'I think it was back there,' he said, craning his neck. 'Pull up on to the pavement and we'll take a look.'

Clarke left the hazard lights on when she locked the car, and folded her wing mirror in so it wouldn't get side-swiped. 'If I get a ticket, you're paying,' she warned Rebus.

'Police business, Shiv. We'll appeal it.'

The Poetry Library was a modern building cleverly concealed amidst the tenements. A member of staff sat behind the counter and beamed a smile in their direction. The smile evaporated when Rebus showed her his warrant card.

'Poetry reading a couple of nights back – Alexander Todorov.'

'Oh yes,' she said, 'quite marvellous. We have some of his books I for sale.'

“Was he in Edinburgh on his own? Any family, that sort of thing…?'

The woman's eyes narrowed, and she clutched a hand to her iigan. 'Has something happened?'

It was Clarke who answered. 'I'm afraid Mr Todorov was attacked st night.'

'Gracious,' the librarian gasped, 'is he…?'

'As a doornail,' Rebus supplied. 'We need to speak to next of kin, or at the very least someone who can identify him.'

'Alexander was here as a guest of PEN and the university. He's been in the city a couple of months…' The librarian's voice was trembling, along with the rest of her.

TEN?'

'It's a writers' group… very big on human rights.'

'So where was he staying?'

'The university provided a flat in Buccleuch Place.'

'Family? A wife maybe…?'

But the woman shook her head. 'I think his wife died. I don't recall them having any children – a blessing, I suppose.'

Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. 'So who organised his event here? Was it the university, the consulate…?'

'It was Scarlett Colwell.'

'His translator?' Clarke asked, gaining a nod of confirmation.

'Scarlett works in the Russian department.' The librarian started sifting the slips of paper on her desk. 'I've got her number here somewhere… What a terrible thing to have happened. I can't tell you how upsetting it is.'

'No trouble at the reading itself?' Rebus asked, trying to make the question seem casual.

'Trouble?' When she saw he wasn't about to elucidate, she shook her head. 'It all went swimmingly. Terrific use of metaphor and rhythm… even when he recited in Russian, you could feel the passion.' She was lost for a moment in reminiscence. Then, with a sigh: 'Alexander was happy to sign books afterwards.'

Tou make it sound,' Clarke pointed out, 'as if that might not always have been the case.'

'Alexander Todorov was a poet, a very considerable poet.' As if this explained everything. 'Ah, here it is.' She held up the piece of paper but seemed unwilling to relinquish it. Instead, Clarke entered the number into her own mobile, before thanking the librarian for taking the trouble.