Exit Music (2007) by Ian Rankin

Author:Ian Rankin [Rankin, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

24

Nancy at home?” Rebus asked Sievewright’s flatmate when the young man answered the door.

“No.”

No, because she’d been walking up Leith Street when Rebus had passed her in his Saab. Meaning he had maybe a twenty-minute start on her, always supposing she’d head straight for her flat.

“It’s Eddie, right?” Rebus said. “I was here a few days ago.”

“I remember.”

“Didn’t catch your surname, though.”

“Gentry.”

“As in Bobbie Gentry.”

“Not many people know her these days.”

“I’m older than most people—got a couple of her albums at home. Mind if I come in?” Rebus noted that Gentry had lost his bandanna but still wore the smudgy eyeliner. “She told me to be here at three,” he lied blithely.

“Someone was at the door for her a while back . . .” Gentry was reluctant, but Rebus’s stare told him resistance was futile. He opened the door a little wider, and Rebus gave a little bow of the head as he walked in. The living room smelled of stale tobacco and something that could have been 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, cutting to the punch line.

“You’ve heard it.” Rebus turned from the window and studied some of the album sleeves—actual LPs rather than CDs. “Caravan,” he commented. “Canterbury’s finest . . . didn’t know people still listened to them.” There were other sleeves he recognized: the Fairports and Davey Graham and Pentangle.

“Somebody studying archaeology?” he guessed.

“I like a lot of the old stuff,” Gentry explained. He nodded towards the corner of the room. “I play guitar.”

“So you do,” Rebus agreed, seeing a six-string acoustic nestling on its stand, a twelve-string lying on the floor behind it. “Any good?”

In answer, Gentry picked up the six-string and settled on the sofa, legs crossed beneath him. He started to play, and Rebus realized that he’d grown the fingernails long on his right hand, each one a readymade plectrum. Rebus knew the tune, even if he couldn’t place it.

“Bert Jansch?” he guessed over the closing chord.

“From that album he did with John Renbourn.”

“Haven’t listened to it in years.” Rebus nodded his appreciation. “You’re pretty good, son. Shame you can’t make a living from it, eh? Might have stopped you from dealing drugs.”

“What?”

“Nancy’s told us all about it.”

“Whoa, wait a minute.” Gentry put his guitar aside and rose to his feet. “What’s that you’re saying?”

“A deaf musician?” Rebus sounded impressed.

“I heard the words, I just don’t know why she would say that.”

“Night the poet was killed, she was picking up a delivery from the guy you introduced her to.”

“She didn’t say that.” Gentry was trying to sound confident, but his eyes told Rebus a different story.

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