Exit Music (2007) Read Online Free PDF

sat up sharply in bed and thumped the crown of his head. The whole flat felt not so much empty as utterly desolate, as though marked by the departure of its most recent resident.
    “We’re really sorry about this,” Siobhan Clarke was saying as the three of them stood in the living room. Rebus was looking around him: a wastepaper bin full of crumpled poems, an empty cognac bottle lying next to the battered sofa, an Edinburgh bus map pinned to one wall above a foldaway dining table on which sat an electric typewriter. No sign of a computer or a TV or a music system, just a portable radio whose aerial had been snapped off. Books scattered everywhere, some English, some Russian, plus a few other languages. A Greek dictionary sat on the arm of the sofa. There were empty lager cans on a shelf meant for knickknacks. Invitations on the mantelpiece to parties from the previous month. They had passed a telephone on the floor in the hallway. Rebus asked if the poet had owned such a thing as a mobile. When Colwell shook her head, hair bouncing and swaying, Rebus knew he wanted to ask another question she could answer in the same way. Clarke’s clearing of the throat warned him against it.
    “And no computer either?” he asked anyway.
    “He was welcome to use the one in my office,” Colwell said. “But Alexander mistrusted technology.”
    “You knew him fairly well?”
    “I was his translator. When the scholarship was announced, I petitioned hard on his behalf.”
    “So where was he before Edinburgh?”
    “Paris for a time . . . Cologne before that . . . Stanford, Melbourne, Ottawa . . .” She managed a smile. “He was very proud of the stamps in his passport.”
    “Speaking of which,” Clarke interrupted, “his pockets had been emptied—any idea what he would usually carry around with him?”
    “A notebook and pen . . . some money, I suppose . . .”
    “Any credit cards?”
    “He had a cash card. I think he’d opened an account with First Albannach. Should be some statements around here somewhere.” She looked about her. “You say he was mugged?”
    “Some sort of attack, certainly.”
    “What kind of man was he, Dr. Colwell?” Rebus asked. “If someone confronted him in the street, would he put up a struggle, fight them back?”
    “Oh, I’d think so. He was physically robust. Liked good wine and a good argument.”
    “Did he have a temper?”
    “Not especially.”
    “But you said he liked to argue.”
    “In the sense that he enjoyed debate,” Colwell corrected herself.
    “When did you last see him?”
    “At the Poetry Library. He was headed to the pub afterwards, but I wanted to get home—essays to mark before we break for Christmas.”
    “So who did he go to the pub with?”
    “There were a few local poets in the audience: Ron Butlin, Andrew Greig . . . I’d guess Abigail Thomas would be there, too, if only to pay for the drinks—Alexander wasn’t brilliant with money.”
    Rebus and Clarke shared a look: they’d have to talk to the librarian again. Rebus gave a little cough, playing for time before asking his next question. “Would you be willing to identify the body, Dr. Colwell?”
    The blood drained from Scarlett Colwell’s face.
    “You seem to have known him better than most,” Rebus argued, “unless there’s a next of kin we can approach.”
    But she had already made up her mind. “It’s all right, I’ll do it.”
    “We can take you there now,” Clarke told her, “if that’s okay with you.”
    Colwell nodded slowly, eyes staring into space. Rebus caught Clarke’s attention. “Get on to the station,” he said, “see if Hawes and Tibbet can come give this place a look-see—passport, cash card, notebook. . . . If they’re not here, someone’s either got them or dumped them.”
    “Not forgetting his set of keys,” Clarke added.
    “Good point.” Rebus’s eyes scanned the room again. “Hard to say if this place has been turned over or not—unless you know better,