Exit Music (A Rebus Novel)
It's late in the fall in
Rebus discovers that an elite delegation of Russian businessmen is in town, looking to expand its interests. And as Rebus's investigation gains ground, someone brutally assaults a local gangster with whom he has a long history.
Has Rebus overstepped his bounds for the last time? Only a few days shy of the end to his long, controversial career, will Rebus even make it that far?
Starr stated icily. “Well, that’s something you’re going to have a great deal of trouble proving, since it happens to be untrue.” “Why did you go to the recital?” Clarke asked. Andropov stared at her and decided he had nothing to lose from answering. “Boris told me he’d been to one a few weeks before. I was intrigued. I had never seen Alexander read in public.” “Mr. Aksanov didn’t strike me as a poetry buff.” Andropov shrugged. “Maybe the consulate asked him to go.” “Why would they do
time, and he doubted it would be the last. Wasn’t drunk enough for it to be a problem. He locked the flat and headed down the stairwell, out into the night. Unlocked the Saab and got in. It was only a five-minute drive, and took him past Montpelier’s again. A right-hand turn off Bruntsfield Place, then one more right and he was parking in a quiet street of detached Victorian-era houses. He’d been here so often, he’d started to notice changes: new lampposts or new pavements. Signs had gone up
it makes.” The TVR’s windscreen was shrouded in ash. Rebus watched two more firemen step gingerly over some timbers on their way into what was left of the house. Some of the shelves were still visible in the hallway, though most had been destroyed. “Fire investigator on his way?” Rebus asked. “On her way,” Clarke corrected him. “The march of progress . . .” An ambulance crew had turned up, too, but were now checking their watches, unwilling to waste much more time. Todd Goodyear came bounding
Tibbet’s forehead was creased in thought. “Doesn’t mean you can persuade her to put your name forward for promotion.” “That’s not what I was thinking,” Tibbet assured her. He looked through the windscreen. “It’s next right, isn’t it?” Hawes refused to signal, and crossed the traffic only when there was a bus bearing down on them. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Tibbet said. “I know,” Phyllida replied with a thin-lipped smile. “But when you’re driving a car you’ve just nicked from a forecourt
little recorder from his pocket and played it back to the staff, proving it was them to blame.” She was smiling at the memory. “There’ve been times I’d have done the same,” Clarke acknowledged. “Me, too. Plumbers who promise to be there at eleven . . . people on the phone who say the check’s in the post . . .” Clarke was smiling now, too. But Harmison’s face fell again. “I feel so sorry for Terry. He’s worked every bit as hard as Charlie, probably put in more hours, truth be told.” “What