Exit Music (2007) by Ian Rankin Page A

Scotland. The TV adverts showed FAB as an extended family, and were filmed almost as mini-soaps, while the bank’s brand-new corporate HQ—built on greenbelt land, despite the protests—was a city in miniature, complete with shopping arcade and cafés. Staff could get their hair done there, or buy food for the evening meal. They could use the gym or play a round of golf on the company’s own nine-hole course.
    “So if you’re looking for someone to manage that overdraft . . .” Janney handed out business cards. Macfarlane laughed when she saw it, before passing him his black coffee. Interesting, Rebus thought: he takes it the same way she does. But he’d bet that if Janney was out with an important customer, whatever the customer ordered would be Janney’s drink of choice, too. The Police College at Tulliallan had run a course on it a year or two back: Empathic Interviewing Techniques. When questioning a witness or a suspect, you tried to find things you had in common, even if that meant lying. Rebus had never really got round to trying it, but he could tell that someone like Janney would be a natural.
    “Stuart’s incorrigible,” the MSP was saying. “What have I told you about touting for business? It’s unethical.” But she was smiling as she spoke, and Janney gave a quiet chuckle, while sliding his business cards closer to Rebus and Clarke.
    “Mr. Janney,” Clarke began, “tells us the pair of you were discussing Alexander Todorov.”
    Megan Macfarlane nodded slowly. “Stuart has an advisory role in the URC.”
    “I didn’t think FAB would be pro-Nationalist, Mr. Janney,” Rebus said.
    “Completely neutral,” Janney stressed. “There are twelve members of the Urban Regeneration Committee, Inspector, representing five political parties.”
    “And how many of them did you speak to on the phone today?”
    “So far, only Megan,” the banker admitted, “but then it’s not quite lunchtime.” He made show of checking his watch.
    “Stuart is our three-I consultant,” Macfarlane was saying. “Inward Investment Initiatives.”
    Rebus ignored this. “Did Ms. Macfarlane ask you to drop by, Mr. Janney?” he asked. When the banker looked to the MSP, Rebus had his answer. He turned his attention to Macfarlane herself. “Which businessman was it?”
    She blinked. “Sorry?”
    “Which one was it who seemed so concerned about Alexander Todorov?”
    “Why do you want to know?”
    “Is there any reason I shouldn’t know?” Rebus raised an eyebrow for effect.
    “The Inspector’s got you cornered, Megan,” Janney was saying with a lopsided smile. He got a baleful look in return, which had gone by the time Macfarlane turned towards Rebus.
    “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 as if 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