Free Exit Music (2007) by Ian Rankin

one, as so often before—her “southern” accent had been easy prey for Rebus since the moment they’d met. This time, she’d refused to rise to him.
    “This one,” she’d said at another point, “is called ‘Raskolnikov’—I remember it from the book. Raskolnikov’s a character in Crime and Punishment .”
    “A book I’d probably read before you were even born.”
    “You’ve read Dostoevsky?”
    “You think I’d lie about something like that?”
    “What’s it about, then?”
    “It’s about guilt. One of the great Russian novels, in my opinion.”
    “How many others have you read?”
    “That’s neither here nor there.”
    Now, as she turned the CD off, he swiveled towards her. “You’ve listened to the show, you’ve been through Todorov’s book—have you found anything resembling a motive for his killing?”
    “No,” she conceded. “And I know what you’re thinking—Macrae’s going to treat it as a mugging gone wrong.”
    “Which is pretty well how the consulate wants to see it handled, too.”
    She gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “So who did he have sex with?” she eventually asked.
    “Is it relevant?”
    “We won’t know till we know. Most likely candidate is Scarlett Colwell.”
    “Because she’s a stunner?” Rebus sounded dubious.
    “Can’t bear to think of her with anyone else?” Clarke teased.
    “What about Miss Thomas at the Poetry Library?” But this time Clarke gave a snort.
    “I don’t see her as a contender,” she explained.
    “Dr. Colwell didn’t seem so sure.”
    “Which probably says more about Dr. Colwell than Ms. Thomas.”
    “Maybe young Colin had a point,” Rebus plowed on. “Or it’s just as likely our red-blooded poet picked up a tart in Glasgow.” He saw Clarke’s look. “Sorry, I should have said ‘sex worker’—or has the terminology changed again since I last got my knuckles rapped?”
    “Keep going and I’ll rap them again.” She paused for a moment, eyes still fixed on him. “Funny to think of you reading Crime and Punishment .” She took a deep breath. “I did a search on Harry Goodyear.”
    “Thought you might.” He turned his attention to the windscreen and the bleak car park beyond. Clarke could see that he wanted to wind down the window so he could smoke. But the smell was out there, lying in wait just above the level of the tarmac.
    “He was a pub landlord in Rose Street, mid-eighties,” she said. “You were a detective sergeant. You helped put him away.”
    “He was dealing drugs from the premises.”
    “He died in jail, didn’t he? Just a year or two after . . . bad heart or something. Todd Goodyear wouldn’t long have been out of nappies.” She paused in case he had anything to add, then went on. “Todd’s got a brother, did you know that? Name’s Sol, been on our radar a few times. I say that, but actually he lives in Dalkeith, making him E Division’s problem. Guess what he’s been in trouble for.”
    “Drugs?”
    “So you know about him?”
    Rebus shook his head. “Educated guess.”
    “And you didn’t know Todd Goodyear was in the police?”
    “Believe it or not, Shiv, I don’t keep tabs on the grandkids of villains I locked up two decades back.”
    “Thing is, we didn’t just get Sol for possession—we tried to have him for dealing, too. Court gave him the benefit of the doubt.”
    Rebus turned towards her. “How do you know all this?”
    “I was in the office before you this morning. Few minutes on the computer and one phone call to Dalkeith CID. Rumor at the time was Sol Goodyear was dealing on behalf of Big Ger Cafferty.”
    She could see straightaway that she’d struck a nerve: Cafferty was unfinished business— big unfinished business—his name top of Rebus’s to-do list. Cafferty had made a decent fist of looking like a retired villain, but Rebus and Clarke knew better.
    Cafferty still ran Edinburgh.
    And had found himself a place at the top of her list, too.
    “Is any of this