Exit Music (A Rebus Novel)
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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?
Twice in the space of half an hour he’d asked her what she was working on. “Going through the Riordan tapes,” she’d explained. Not a word of truth in it—Todd Goodyear was typing up the last batch of transcripts, looking worn down by the whole experience. He kept staring into space, as if thinking himself into a better place. Clarke, meantime, was waiting for Stone to get back to her, having left a message on his mobile. She was still wondering if it was such a good idea. Stone and Starr seemed
through a Goth stage.” Meaning the hair suddenly turning jet black, the heavily kohled eyes. “Again, Inspector,” Roger Anderson interceded, “I don’t see what possible bearing any of this —” Rebus waved the objection aside. Clarke looked up from the notes she’d been pretending to read. “I know it’s a stupid question,” she said with a smile, “but you’ve had time to think back over everything, so is there anything you can add? You didn’t see anyone else, or hear anything?” “Nothing,” Mr.
turned to face the outer door, which was being hauled open by a puffy-eyed Professor Gates. Only a couple of steps behind him was Dr. Curt—the two pathologists had worked together so frequently that they often seemed to Rebus a single unit. Hard to imagine that outside of work they could ever lead separate, distinguishable lives. “Ah, John,” Gates said, proffering a hand as chilled as the room. “The night’s grown bitter. And here’s DS Clarke, too—looking forward, no doubt, to stepping out from
patchouli oil—been awhile since Rebus had come across that particular scent. He wandered over to the window and peered down onto Blair Street. “Tell you a funny story,” he said, back still to Eddie Gentry. “There’s a warren of basements across the way where bands used to practice. Owner was thinking of redeveloping, so he got some builders in. They were working in these tunnels—miles and miles of them—and they started to hear unearthly groans . . .” “The massage parlor next door,” Gentry said,
despite Macrae’s spirited defense. “Let’s get DI Starr back from Fettes,” Corbyn had insisted. “Yes, sir,” Macrae had said, capitulating at the last. Afterwards, he’d sighed and told Clarke the Chief Constable was right. Clarke had just shrugged and watched him pick up the phone, asking to be connected to Derek Starr. Within half an hour, Starr himself, coiffeured and cuff-linked, was in the CID suite and gathering the team together for what he termed “a pep talk.” “Isn’t a PEP a pension