Free Exit Music (2007) by Ian Rankin Page B

like yet another arduous task that he’d taken in his stride.
    “Good for you, son,” Rebus told him. The “son” obviously rankled. Liddle was in his early twenties and reckoned he was already well on his way in politics. He looked Rebus up and down before deciding to dismiss him as irrelevant.
    “I’m sure Megan will explain.” Having said which, Liddle turned and led them to the end of the corridor.
    The MSPs’ private offices were well proportioned, with desks for staff as well as the politicians themselves. It was Rebus’s first sighting of one of the infamous “think pods”—little alcoves with curved windows and a cushioned seat. This was where the MSPs were supposed to come up with blue-sky ideas. It was also where they found Megan Macfarlane. She rose to greet them.
    “Glad you could come at such short notice,” she said. “I know you’re busy on the inquiry, so I won’t keep you long.” She was short and slim and impeccably groomed, not a hair out of place and with just the right amount of makeup. She wore half-moon glasses that rested most of the way down her nose, so that she peered over them at the two detectives. “I’m Megan Macfarlane,” she said, inviting them to make introductions of their own. Liddle was back behind his desk, staring at messages on his computer. Rebus and Clarke gave their names, and the MSP looked around for places to sit, before having a better idea.
    “We’ll go downstairs and get a coffee. Roddy, can I bring you one back?”
    “No thanks, Megan. One cup a day’s plenty for me.”
    “Good point—I don’t need to be in the chamber later on?” She waited till he’d shaken his head, then focused her gaze on Clarke. “Diuretic effects, you know, doesn’t do to be caught short when you’re halfway through a point of order . . .”
    They went back the way they’d come and found themselves descending an impressive staircase, Macfarlane announcing that the “Scot Nats” had high hopes for May’s elections.
    “Latest polls put us five points clear of Labour. Blair’s unpopular, and so is Gordon Brown. The Iraq war, cash for peerages—it was one of my colleagues who started that investigation. Labour’s panicking because Scotland Yard say they’ve uncovered ‘significant and valuable material.’” She gave a satisfied smile. “Scandal seems to be our opponents’ middle name.”
    “So it’s the protest vote you’re after?” Rebus asked.
    Macfarlane didn’t seem to feel this merited any sort of reply.
    “If you win in May,” Rebus went on, “do we get a referendum on independence?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “And we suddenly become a Celtic tiger?”
    “The Labour Party has been failing the people of Scotland for fifty years, Inspector. It’s time for a change.”
    Queuing at the counter, she announced that this would be her “treat.” Rebus ordered an espresso, Clarke a small cappuccino. Macfarlane herself opted for a black coffee into which she poured three sachets of sugar. There were tables nearby, and they chose an empty one, pushing aside the leftover crockery.
    “We’re still in the dark,” Rebus said, lifting his cup. “I hope you don’t mind me getting straight to the point, but as you said yourself, we’ve got a murder inquiry waiting for us back at base.”
    “Absolutely,” Macfarlane agreed. Then she paused for a moment, as if to marshal her thoughts. “How much do you know about me?” she began by asking.
    Rebus and Clarke shared a look. “Until we were told to come see you,” Rebus obliged, “neither of us had ever heard of you.”
    The MSP, trying not to show any pain, blew across the surface of her coffee before taking a sip.
    “I’m a Scottish Nationalist,” she said.
    “That much we’d guessed.”
    “And that means I’m passionate about my country. If Scotland is to flourish in this new century—and flourish outside the confines of the UK—we need enterprise, initiative, and investment.” She counted