'Music to DS Clarke's ears,' Rebus told the man. He held the paper up so she could see the front page. A Sikh teenager had been attacked in Pilrig Park and his hair lopped off.

'Not our patch, thank God,' she said. At the sound of footsteps, all three of them turned, but it was only Chris Simpson returning with the slim hardback book. Rebus took charge of it and turned to the back cover. The poet's unsmiling face stared back at him.

Rebus showed it to Clarke, who shrugged.

'Looks like the same leather jacket,' Rebus commented. 'But he's got some sort of chain round his neck.'

'He was wearing it at the reading,' Simpson confirmed.

'And the guy you brought in tonight?'

'No chain – I had a quick look. Maybe they took it… whoever mugged him, I mean.'

'Or maybe it's not him. How long was Todorov staying in town?'

'He's here on some sort of scholarship. Hasn't lived in Russia for a while – calls himself an exile.'

Rebus was turning the pages of the book. It was called Astapovo Blues. The poems were in English and called things like 'Raskolnikov', 'Leonid', and 'Mind Gulag1. 'What does the title mean?' he asked Simpson.

'It's the place where Tolstoy died.'

The other attendant chuckled. 'Told you he had a brain on him.'

Rebus handed the book to Clarke, who flicked to the title page.

Todorov had written an inscription, telling 'Dear Chris' to 'keep the faith, as I have and have not'. 'What did he mean?' she asked.

'I said I was trying to be a poet. He told me that meant I already was. I think he's saying he kept faith with poetry, but not with Russia.' The young man was starting to blush.

'Where was this?' Rebus asked.

'The Scottish Poetry Library – just off the Canongate.'

'Was anyone with him? A wife maybe, or someone from the publisher?'