Exit Music (2007) by Ian Rankin Page B

executor?”
    “Not that we know of.”
    “Which branch was his account with?”
    Clarke stretched out her arms and gave a shrug and a hopeful smile.
    “I’ll see what I can do.”
    “We appreciate it, sir,” Rebus told him. “We’re based at Gayfield Square.” He made show of studying his surroundings. “Not quite as grand as this, but then it didn’t bankrupt the taxpayer either . . .”

9
    I t was a quick run from the Parliament to the City Chambers. Rebus told the staff at reception that they had a 2:00 p.m. appointment with the Lord Provost and were hellish early, but could they leave their car parked outside anyway? Everyone seemed to think that was fine, which caused Rebus to beam a smile and ask if they could fill in the time by saying hello to Graeme MacLeod. More passes, another security check, and they were in. As they waited for the lift, Clarke turned to Rebus.
    “I meant to say, you handled Macfarlane and Janney pretty well.”
    “I guessed as much from the way you let me do most of the work.”
    “Is it too late for me to withdraw the compliment?” But they were both smiling. “How long till they find out we’ve nicked a parking space under false pretenses?”
    “Depends whether they bother to ask the Lord Prov’s secretary.” The lift arrived and they got in, descending two stories below ground level to where a man was waiting. Rebus introduced him to Clarke as Graeme MacLeod, and MacLeod led them into the CMF Room, explaining that CMF stood for Central Monitoring Facility. Rebus had been there before, but Clarke hadn’t, and her eyes widened a little as she saw the array of closed-circuit monitors, dozens of them, three deep and with staff manning desks of computers in front of them.
    MacLeod liked it when visitors were impressed and needed no prompting to give his little speech.
    “Ten years the city’s had CCTV,” he began. “Started with a dozen cameras in the center, now we’ve got over a hundred and thirty, with more due to be introduced shortly. We maintain a direct link to the Police Control Center at Bilston, and about twelve hundred arrests a year are down to things we spot in this stuffy wee room.”
    The room was certainly warm—heat from all the monitors—and Clarke was shrugging off her coat.
    “We’re open 24/7,” MacLeod went on, “and can track a suspect while telling the police where to find them.” The monitors had numbers above them, and MacLeod pointed to one. “That’s the Grassmarket. And if Jenny here”—meaning the woman seated at the desk—“uses the little keypad in front of her we can swivel the camera and zoom in on anyone parking their car or coming out of a shop or pub.”
    Jenny showed how it was done, and Clarke nodded slowly.
    “The picture’s very clear,” she commented. “And in color—I was expecting black and white. Don’t suppose you’ve any cameras on King’s Stables Road?”
    MacLeod gave a dry chuckle. “I knew that’s what you’d be after.” He reached for a logbook and flicked back a couple of pages. “Martin was manning the decks that night. He tracked the police cars and ambulance.” MacLeod ran a finger along the relevant entry. “Even had a look back at what footage there was but didn’t spot anything conclusive.”
    “Doesn’t mean there’s nothing there.”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Siobhan here,” Rebus said, “was telling me there’s more CCTV in the UK than any other country.”
    “Twenty percent of all the closed-circuit cameras in the world, one for each and every dozen of us.”
    “So quite a lot then?” Rebus muttered.
    “You save all the footage?” Clarke asked.
    “We do what we can. It goes onto hard disk and video, but there are guidelines we have to follow . . .”
    “What Graeme means,” Rebus explained for Clarke’s benefit, “is that he can’t just go handing material to us—Data Protection Act, 1997.”
    MacLeod was nodding. “Ninety-eight actually, John. We can give you what