Exit Music (2007) by Ian Rankin

these three off on her fingers. “That’s why I’m an active member of the URC—the Urban Regeneration Committee. Not that our remit is purely urban, you understand; in fact, I’ve already proposed a name change in order to make that clear.”
    “Forgive me for interrupting,” Clarke said, having noted Rebus’s agitation, “but can I ask what any of this has to do with us?”
    Macfarlane lowered her eyes and gave a little smile of apology. “I’m afraid when I’m passionate about something, I do tend to rabbit on.”
    Rebus’s glance towards Clarke said it all.
    “This unfortunate incident,” Macfarlane was saying, “involving the Russian poet . . .”
    “What about it?” Rebus prompted.
    “Right now, a group of businessmen is in Scotland—a very prosperous group, and all of them Russian. They represent oil, gas, and steel, and other industries besides. They are looking to the future, Inspector—Scotland’s future. We need to ensure nothing jeopardizes the links and relationships that we’ve painstakingly fostered over the past several years. What we certainly don’t want is anyone thinking we’re not a welcoming country, a country that embraces cultures and nationalities. Look at what happened to that young Sikh lad . . .”
    “You’re asking us,” Clarke summarized, “if this was a racial attack?”
    “One of the group has voiced that concern,” Macfarlane admitted. She looked towards Rebus, but he was staring at the ceiling again, still not sure about it. He’d heard that its concave sections were supposed to look like boats. When he turned his attention back to the MSP, her worried face demanded some reassurance.
    “We can’t rule anything out,” he decided to tell her instead. “Could have been racially motivated. The Russian consulate told us as much this morning—there’ve been attacks on some of the migrant workers from Eastern Europe. So it’s certainly a line we’ll be following.”
    She looked shocked by these words, just as he’d intended. Clarke was hiding her smile behind a raised cup. Rebus decided there was more fun to be had. “Would any of these businessmen have met with Mr. Todorov recently? If so, it would be helpful to talk to them.”
    Macfarlane was saved from answering by the appearance of a new arrival. Like Rebus and Clarke, he wore a badge that proclaimed him a visitor.
    “Megan,” he drawled, “I saw you from the reception desk. Hope I’m not interrupting?”
    “Not at all.” The MSP could hardly disguise her relief. “Let me get you a coffee, Stuart.” Then, to Rebus and Clarke: “This is Stuart Janney, from First Albannach Bank. Stuart, these are the officers in charge of the Todorov case.” Janney shook hands before pulling over a chair.
    “I hope you’re both clients,” he said with a smile.
    “State of my finances,” Rebus informed him, “you should be happy I’m with the competition.”
    Janney made a show of wincing. He’d been carrying his trench coat over one arm, and now folded it across his lap. “Grim news about that murder,” he said, while Macfarlane rejoined the queue at the counter.
    “Grim,” Rebus echoed.
    “From what Ms. Macfarlane just said,” Clarke added, “I’m guessing she’s already spoken with you about it.”
    “Happened to come up in conversation this morning,” Janney acknowledged, running a hand through his blond hair. His face was freckled, the skin pink, reminding Rebus of a younger Colin Montgomerie, and his eyes were the same dark blue as his tie. Janney seemed to have decided that further explanation was needed. “We were on the phone to one another.”
    “Are you something to do with these Russian visitors?” Rebus asked. Janney nodded.
    “FAB never turns away prospective customers, Inspector.”
    FAB: it was how most people referred to the First Albannach Bank. It was a term of affection, but behind it lay one of the biggest employers—and probably the most profitable company—in