Even Dogs in the Wild

36

Mid morning, Rebus met Cafferty in a café on George IV Bridge.

‘Are we still keeping up the pretence that you’re staying at the G and V?’ he asked.

Cafferty just stirred his coffee. He had secured a large table by a window looking out across Candlemaker Row to Greyfriars Kirkyard. Rebus, arriving late, hadn’t bothered joining the long queue at the counter.

‘I should have got you one,’ Cafferty said by way of apology, lifting the cup to his lips. ‘I take it you’ve news?’

‘The kid who died — Bryan Holroyd — didn’t really die.’

Cafferty choked the mouthful of coffee down and lowered the cup back on to its saucer.

‘That’s why I wanted us to meet somewhere nice and public,’ Rebus went on. ‘Less chance of you throwing a fit.’

‘What the hell do you mean, he didn’t die?’

‘Miraculous recovery in the boot of the car. When Dave Ritter opened it, Holroyd leapt out and ran into the woods. Ritter and Jeffries went after him but had to give up eventually. They reckoned he would freeze to death.’

‘Bastards, the pair of them.’

‘They were bricking it for weeks in case you found out.’

‘You got this from Ritter? Where’s he holed up? I want a nice long word with him.’

Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Not going to happen.’

‘So this Holroyd kid’s coming after us? After all these years?’ Cafferty didn’t sound convinced.

‘Unless you’ve got a better theory.’

Cafferty was gripping the edge of the table with both hands, as though he might tip it over at any moment. His eyes flitted around the room as his thoughts tumbled, his breathing growing hoarse.

‘No coronaries, please,’ Rebus advised him.

‘There’s got to be a reckoning, John. No way I can let those two shits get away with it.’

‘At least now we have a line on the person we’re looking for. Only problem is, Holroyd seems to have gone off-grid — no sign of a conviction, or a National Insurance number, or taxes being paid.’

‘You sure of that?’

‘Christine Esson did the digging — she’s thorough as any gold miner.’

‘He fled the country then, and has only just come back?’

‘No passport in his name.’

‘Then he’s changed it.’

‘Which makes our job all the harder. Doesn’t help that I’ve only the vaguest physical description, and he’ll have changed a bit in thirty years. There is one thing, though — we’ve got a live one right here in Edinburgh. Or Portobello, if you want to be precise.’

‘Who?’

‘Todd Dalrymple — Ritter told me he was there that night.’

‘But Todd always had an eye for the ladies — the man’s been married three decades or more.’

‘Chief Constable was married too,’ Rebus said.

‘Do we go talk to Dalrymple?’

‘I certainly do, and you’re invited if you think you can refrain from doing any major structural damage.’ Rebus’s phone was ringing: Siobhan. He got up from the table. ‘Got to take this,’ he said, making for the door. He pressed the phone to his ear as he passed the queue at the counter, a queue that now stretched the length of the café. ‘Yes?’ he said, pulling open the door and emerging on to George IV Bridge.

‘We missed you last night.’

‘That was always a probability. How was the grub?’

‘Good as ever. But here’s the thing — one of their takeaway menus was in Minton’s downstairs hall.’

‘And?’

‘They say they don’t flyer that far from the restaurant. So it’s a bit odd, wouldn’t you say, that there was also one in Michael Tolland’s kitchen?’

‘In Linlithgow?’ Rebus had been wrestling a cigarette out of the packet, but her words stopped him.

‘I had local CID go check,’ she was saying.

‘So what’s your thinking?’

‘If you were scoping a street out, or a particular house, and you didn’t want to look suspicious…’

‘Nobody pays much attention to someone sticking leaflets through doors.’ Rebus put the cigarette packet back in his pocket. ‘You might well be on to something.’

‘I’m heading to Newington Spice to ask the boss a few questions. But in the meantime…’

‘You’re wondering if Cafferty got one too? Easy enough to check — he’s right here with me.’

‘Great.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Malcolm’s dad’s unchanged.’

‘And Malcolm himself?’

‘Isn’t saying much of anything.’

‘Oh?’

‘I get the feeling he’s working on his own theories. I might have to remind him he’s supposed to be a team player.’

‘Do I detect a hint of jealousy?’

‘Your phone must be on the blink. Talk to you later.’

She ended the call. Rebus considered contacting Fox, but what would he say? So he headed back into the café instead. Cafferty had nearly finished the coffee. A couple of female students, one carrying a tray, had paused in front of the table and were sizing up the empty chairs. Cafferty’s glare was deflecting them so far, and when Rebus squeezed past, they shuffled off in search of easier prey.

‘Well?’ Cafferty enquired.

‘Takeaway menus,’ Rebus said. ‘You get them through the door, right?’

‘Pain in the arse they are too.’

‘Ever had any from Newington Spice?’

‘How the hell should I know?’

‘Could we go take a look?’

‘Why?’

‘Siobhan Clarke has a theory she wants to test to destruction.’

‘A theory about Indian restaurants?’

‘And the man who took that shot at you.’

Cafferty considered for a moment, then started getting to his feet. ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘I was enjoying repelling all boarders.’

The two students were retracing their steps, trying not to look too obvious, as Cafferty and Rebus made their exit.

‘So what does it mean?’ Cafferty asked.

They were in Rebus’s Saab, heading from Merchiston to Portobello through sluggish mid-morning traffic. Cafferty was studying the menu from Newington Spice. It had taken them only a couple of minutes sifting through the recycling bin to uncover it.

‘When did it arrive?’ Rebus asked.

‘You’re joking, aren’t you — how am I supposed to know that?’

‘Don’t suppose it matters. Siobhan’s thinking is that the gunman does a recce of each property before making his move.’

‘So we’re looking for a white male in his forties who doles out leaflets for a living?’

‘See? Already we’re hacking away at the undergrowth.’

Cafferty managed a grim smile. ‘Are we headed to Dalrymple’s house?’

‘This time of day, we might have more luck at the beach.’

‘You want witnesses around to stop me decking him?’

‘I hadn’t considered it.’ The smile this time came from Rebus.

‘I’m glad, actually — relieved is maybe the word.’

‘That Bryan Holroyd lived?’

‘Aye.’

‘You think his “death” put the fear of God into Howard Champ and the others?’

‘Maybe. It certainly had a knock-on effect. From the moment it happened, Acorn House’s days were numbered.’

‘There were a lot of Acorn Houses out there though — London, Northern Ireland, all over…’

‘You’ve been doing your reading?’

‘Patrick Spiers had a few things to say on the subject.’ Rebus glanced at his passenger. ‘Any idea who might have turned his place over and lifted his files?’

‘Wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘So your best guess would be…?’

‘Special Branch,’ Cafferty stated. ‘An MP, a senior lawyer and the police chief? No way they’d want any of that coming to light.’

Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘And after all these years, think they’ll still have an interest?’

‘Those files will have been shredded — where’s the evidence?’

‘Bryan Holroyd is evidence.’

‘Only if people stop to listen.’

‘After everything that’s crawled from the woodwork these past few years, I think they might.’

‘Then it’ll be court appearances for the likes of me and Dave Ritter, eh?’

‘I’d say your own role was minimal.’

‘I doubt anyone else will see it that way,’ Cafferty stated grimly, as Rebus neared the Sir Harry Lauder roundabout.

They parked on James Street and headed for the Promenade, buttoning their coats against the fierce North Sea wind. There were fewer walkers and dogs than before, but Rebus spotted Todd Dalrymple by the water’s edge, putting the lead back on John B.

‘We’ll wait here,’ he told Cafferty as they stood at the sea wall.

‘Is that him?’ Cafferty was peering into the distance.

‘That’s him,’ Rebus confirmed with a nod.

It was a further three or four minutes before Dalrymple was close enough to recognise Rebus. He had been happy enough on the beach, but when he saw Cafferty, it was as though a weight had descended.

‘Big Ger,’ he said, managing a queasy smile as he held out a hand. But Cafferty’s own hands didn’t emerge from their pockets, and when John B showed an interest, Cafferty pushed him away with his foot, Dalrymple reining the dog in.

‘We need a word, Todd,’ Rebus said.

‘Here?’

‘Back at the house.’

Dalrymple’s eyes flitted between the two men. ‘Is that strictly necessary?’

‘Scared what your wife will think?’ Cafferty sneered.

Dalrymple’s lip trembled. ‘No, I just… What do you mean?’

‘It’s about Acorn House,’ Rebus stated.

‘Acorn House?’

‘We know you were there the night Bryan Holroyd was taken away.’

‘Who?’

Cafferty lunged at the man, gripping him by both lapels. John B started barking, backing off but baring his teeth.

‘I’ll wring that dog’s neck if it tries anything,’ Cafferty snarled.

‘It’s all right, John B! Easy, boy!’

Cafferty’s face was no more than an inch from Dalrymple’s. ‘You’re going to tell us everything, you fat fuck.’

‘What am I supposed to have done?’

‘For starters,’ Rebus broke in, ‘you were witness to a huge cover-up.’

‘Orchestrated by him,’ Dalrymple protested as Cafferty’s grip tightened. The dog was still barking and looking primed to pounce.

‘Abetted rather than orchestrated,’ Rebus said. ‘But here’s the thing, Todd — you might well be next on his list.’

‘Whose list?’

‘The man who shot at me,’ Cafferty informed him.

‘And killed Lord Minton and Michael Tolland,’ Rebus added. ‘Which is why we need to go to your house.’ He dug a hand into Cafferty’s coat pocket and drew out the takeaway menu. ‘To see whether you’ve had one of these.’

‘Wh-what?’ Dalrymple looked utterly lost. Cafferty released him by giving him the slightest shove. Even so, Dalrymple barely kept upright. His eyes were on the menu Rebus was holding. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

‘How amused do we look right now?’ Cafferty asked back.

Having given the man a moment or two to recover, Rebus gestured with his arm.

‘We’ll follow you,’ he said.

They walked the short distance to Argyle Crescent, John B straining at the leash, keen to get home. Dalrymple unlocked the door and called out the name Margaret, but there was no response.

‘She must be out,’ he said, relief in his voice. He unhooked the lead from John B’s collar and the dog made for its bed in a corner of the living room, eyeing the visitors warily.

‘No flyers in the hall,’ Rebus commented.

‘We toss them straight into the recycling.’

‘Which is kept where?’

‘A box in the kitchen. I’ll fetch it through.’

Cafferty had settled on the edge of the sofa, while Rebus stayed standing in front of the fireplace. It was a cramped room, boasting too much furniture, from the grandfather clock in one corner to the footstool Rebus had been forced to step over. There were bright paintings of harbour scenes on a couple of walls — Rebus guessed they were by John Bellany. When Dalrymple arrived back with the recycling box, he placed it on the footstool and began sifting. Rebus decided to help by bending down and tipping the box up, strewing its contents across the carpet.

‘Bingo,’ he said, after a minute or two of crouching next to the drift of paper. He lifted up the menu from Newington Spice.

‘What does it mean, though?’ Dalrymple asked.

‘The killer poses as someone putting flyers through doors. Gets to know the house and street, then makes his move. I don’t suppose you can remember when this arrived?’

‘A few days back?’ Dalrymple guessed, his face turning bloodless as Rebus’s words sank in.

‘But you’ve not had a note?’ Cafferty demanded.

‘A note? Like the one they showed in the papers?’ Dalrymple was shaking his head.

‘He means like this,’ Rebus broke in. He was lifting the folded piece of white notepaper. It had obviously not been noticed and had been dumped into the recycling along with everything else. He unfolded it and held it up.

Same message. Same hand.

‘Fuck,’ Big Ger Cafferty said.

The restaurant owner, Sanjeev Patel, was waiting for Siobhan Clarke, unlocking the door from the inside. Staff were busy in the kitchen, and Clarke could smell onions frying and a mixture of spices. The voices were loud but good-natured. Meanwhile, a waiter was laying tablecloths and cutlery in the main room. Patel led Clarke to the bar area, where takeaway customers could wait of an evening to collect their food. He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and navy tie, and looked every inch the businessman, but Clarke knew he had worked his way up from a teenage kitchen porter. He was Edinburgh born and bred and, like her, supported Hibernian FC, the walls above the bar filled with autographed photos of players past and present.

‘We definitely don’t flyer in Linlithgow or the New Town,’ he said, after she had turned down the offer of coffee.

‘Is there a specific firm you use?’

Patel nodded. ‘Want me to fetch you their details.’

‘Please.’

He got up and went behind the counter, studying the screen of a laptop computer that sat there. He jotted a few lines on to one of the restaurant’s order pads and tore off the sheet, handing it to her as he sat down again.

‘You think maybe a member of their workforce…?’

‘This has got to stay confidential, Mr Patel,’ Clarke warned him.

‘Absolutely.’

She remembered the stack of menus in the loo, and mentioned them. Patel nodded.

‘In the Gents too,’ he said.

‘So I suppose anyone could have filled their pockets?’

Patel shrugged. ‘I’m not aware of them suddenly disappearing.’

‘You’re probably not the one cleaning the toilets, though.’

‘That’s true — not these days. Do you want me to ask the staff?’

Clarke nodded. ‘Plus if anyone suspicious has come in — maybe they took some menus but didn’t stay to eat, or asked to use the toilet even though they weren’t ordering food.’

‘Understood.’ He paused. ‘Could there be another explanation?’

‘I’m struggling to think of one.’

‘You’ll appreciate I don’t want the restaurant’s reputation sullied.’

‘I thought there was no such thing as bad advertising.’

‘It’s not a theory I’m keen to test,’ Patel said with a smile.

‘I’ll try to be diplomatic,’ Clarke assured him, standing up. There was a display of menus on the table, next to a large bowl of Bombay mix. ‘How often do you reprint, by the way?’

‘Maybe once a year — to reflect changing prices. Last time we added online ordering — very popular with students.’

‘So these menus came into effect…?’

‘At the start of November.’

‘Only three months back? Well that’s something at least.’ She picked up one of the menus and studied the information on the back.

‘Have you always used VampPrint?’

‘For the past couple of years.’

‘Got a phone number for them?’

Patel went off to the laptop again and fetched it. Clarke thanked him and he held open the door for her. There was a shop across the road, and she headed in for some gum and a bottle of water.

‘Cheaper out of the tap, love,’ the woman on the till warned her.

Clarke’s phone was ringing, so she pulled it from her bag: John Rebus.

‘What can I do for you?’ she asked, breaking the seal on the bottle as she exited the shop.

‘I’m in Portobello with a man called Todd Dalrymple.’ Rebus’s tone told her to keep listening. ‘He got one of the flyers and a note. Put both in the recycling so he’s just finding out. Dalrymple’s understandably up to high doh and I think we need to get him and his wife out of here. Which gives us the opportunity to bait a trap for our killer.’

Clarke had almost walked under a bus. She retreated to the edge of the pavement and waited for a gap in the traffic.

‘You might have to start from the beginning,’ she said.

‘Best done face-to-face. How soon can you get here?’

‘Twenty minutes?’

‘I might get them to start packing in the meantime.’

Clarke could hear a woman wailing in the background. ‘Mrs Dalrymple?’ she guessed.

‘She didn’t take it terribly well. I’m not sure Cafferty would know subtlety if it stood in front of him holding up its own dictionary entry.’

‘Cafferty’s there?’

‘Didn’t I just say so?’

‘Twenty minutes,’ Clarke repeated, belting across the carriageway to her waiting car.

Once she had pulled out into traffic, she called Christine Esson.

‘Yes, guv?’ Esson said.

‘Promise never to use that phrase again.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Is Ronnie in the office?’

‘He is.’

‘And are you busy?’

‘I’m still trying to cough the dust out of my lungs after a day in the archives.’

‘Was the groper on duty?’

‘Fortunately not.’

‘Well, I’ve got something that requires your attention.’

‘Fire away.’ Clarke could hear Esson summoning Ogilvie to her desk while simultaneously readying a pen and notepad. She took her eyes off the road long enough to reel off the information Sanjeev Patel had given her.

‘I need you to visit both. Ask about the people who go door-to-door with leaflets, then the people who print them and look after their storage.’

‘And this is because…?’

‘Flyers from Newington Spice were found in Lord Minton’s home, plus those of Big Ger Cafferty and the victim of that attack in Linlithgow.’

‘Got you,’ Esson said. ‘Should we split it between us?’

‘That would be quicker.’

‘Any description to go on?’

‘Absolutely none.’

‘Male? Female?’

‘One or the other, certainly. Get back to me once you’ve finished.’

‘Yes, guv,’ Esson said, ending the call before Clarke could respond.

Todd and Margaret Dalrymple were upstairs filling a suitcase. Cafferty was standing by the living-room window, his back to the room. Rebus had brought Clarke indoors and she was now taking in her surroundings, including the carpet, which was still strewn with recycling.

‘He won’t come in daylight,’ Rebus reminded Cafferty, receiving only a grunt in response. ‘But feel free to make yourself a nice big target in case he does.’

He handed Clarke the note along with the takeaway menu. ‘Like I say, we don’t know for sure when it arrived. They put it straight in the recycling without even noticing.’

‘And Cafferty got a menu too?’

Rebus nodded slowly. There was a gleam in his eyes Clarke hadn’t seen in a while — alive to all manner of challenges and possibilities.

‘So you went to Ullapool,’ she nudged him.

Rebus kept nodding. ‘And spoke to a guy called Dave Ritter. He was at Acorn House that night and was supposed to dump the body in a grave in some forest in Fife. Thing is, Bryan Holroyd wasn’t dead. He’d been putting on an act. He ran for it and they couldn’t find him.’

‘So Holroyd’s behind this?’ She held up the note.

‘I’d say there’s a good chance.’

‘And how does upstairs fit in?’ She gestured towards the ceiling.

‘Dalrymple was another of Acorn House’s clients. Ritter told me as much, which is why Cafferty and I decided to come visit.’

‘Does his wife know?’

‘Like I said, Big Ger lacks a certain diplomacy…’

‘Bit of marriage guidance needed.’

‘Not our problem.’

‘I’m just wondering if we need one place of safety or two.’

‘I see what you mean.’

Clarke thought for a moment. ‘I’ve got to tell Page all this.’

‘Of course. But bear in mind what I said — this is our one chance at catching him. We’ve no idea where Holroyd is or what he looks like. All we do know is that he’ll be coming here very soon.’ Rebus paused. ‘Which is why I’m offering myself as bait. I’m much the same age and build as Dalrymple. Enough to fool Holroyd until he gets up close.’

‘And then what? He’s going to have a gun, remember.’

‘Firearms officers stationed outside in an unmarked car. First sign of trouble, they come running.’

Clarke pointed towards the corner of the room, where John B was asleep in his basket.

‘Will Holroyd know the Dalrymples have a dog?’

‘He well might. But then I’ve got access to one too, remember.’

‘I don’t think Page will agree to it, John — you’re not a police officer.’

‘You can fight my corner, though.’

‘I can try — I’m just not sure I want to.’

Fresh wailing had started upstairs, penetrating the ceiling and causing John B to prick up his ears and look concerned.

‘And what about him?’ Clarke added, gesturing towards Cafferty.

‘He doesn’t want Holroyd dead, if that’s what you mean.’

Cafferty turned towards them. His face looked solemn rather than angry.

‘What I want,’ he stated, eyes boring into Clarke’s, ‘is to say sorry to the man.’

Clarke met his gaze for a moment before turning her attention back to Rebus.

‘I need you to take me through this one more time,’ she said. ‘As slowly and methodically as you can…’

37

Darryl Christie wasn’t a huge fan of Glasgow. It sprawled in a way his own city didn’t. And there were still traces of the old enmity between Catholic and Protestant — of course that existed in Edinburgh too, but it had never quite defined the place the way it did Glasgow. The people spoke differently here, and had a garrulousness to them that spilled over into physical swagger. They were, as they chanted on the football terraces, ‘the people’. But they were not Darryl Christie’s people. Edinburgh could seem tame by comparison, head always below the parapet, keeping itself to itself. In the independence referendum, Edinburgh had voted No and Glasgow Yes, the latter parading its saltired allegiance around George Square night after night, or else protesting media bias outside the BBC headquarters. The political debate had melted into a blend of carnival and stairheid rammy, so that you never knew if people were joyous or furious.

Darryl Christie had considered all the implications for his various business interests and come to the conclusion that either outcome would probably suit him just fine, so in the end he hadn’t voted at all.

The place he was looking for was a restaurant off Buchanan Street. The lunchtime rush was ebbing, and as he peered through the window, he could see empty tables waiting to be cleared. Joe Stark was seated alone in one corner, his white cotton napkin tucked into his shirt collar, mopping up sauce with a hunk of bread. The other diners looked like just that, which was what had been agreed. Yes, there was a BMW outside with a couple of lookouts in the front, but that was fine too. Christie returned to the Range Rover, told his own men to stay there unless the occupants of the Beemer headed inside. Then he pushed open the door to the restaurant.

‘Mr Christie?’ the manager said. ‘Such a pleasure. Mr Stark is waiting. Would you like to see a menu?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Just a drink, then?’

‘No thanks.’

Christie walked up to Joe Stark’s table, pulled out a chair and sat down. Then, realising he now had his back to the room, he got up again and made to settle next to the older man on the banquette.

‘I don’t even let hoors get that close,’ Stark warned him. ‘Go sit the fuck down and I swear no one’ll come up behind you with a cleaver.’

Christie did as he was told, but moved the chair until it was at a right angle to the table.

‘How’s the food?’ he asked.

‘Not bad. You know they’re not releasing my son’s body yet? Is that them taking the piss or what?’

‘It’s a murder inquiry — that’s the way it goes.’

‘You ready to give me a name?’ Stark pushed aside his plate, but continued chewing on the wad of bread.

‘A name?’

‘I assume that’s why you’re here.’

‘I still don’t know who killed Dennis.’

‘Then what possible use are you to me?’ Stark whipped away the napkin and threw it on to the plate.

‘The last time we met, I told you I respected you — do you remember that?’

‘I’m getting it tattooed on my bollocks.’

Christie stared at the man. Stark was avoiding eye contact, finishing his glass of red wine and searching between his teeth with the tip of his tongue.

‘This is useless,’ Christie said, making to get up. But Stark reached over, gripping him by the forearm.

‘Sit down, son. You’ve come all the way from Edinburgh. Might as well say your piece.’

Christie made show of considering his options, then eased back down on to the chair. He was about to start speaking when Stark gestured for the manager, who came bounding over.

‘Double espresso for me, Jerry. And whatever my guest is having.’

‘I’m fine,’ Christie stated.

The manager bowed and scurried away. Another table was settling up and leaving. Christie realised that the caricatures on the walls represented Scottish pop stars, though he only recognised a few.

‘Well?’ Stark said, leaning back and giving the young man his full attention.

‘You were in Edinburgh looking for Hamish Wright, because he’d taken something that you felt belonged to you.’

‘Aye?’

‘And as part of that search, you went to CC Self Storage.’

‘Dennis and his boys went to at least three of those places.’

‘But what Dennis didn’t know, I’m guessing, is that Wright’s nephew works there.’

‘Is that so?’ Stark couldn’t help looking suddenly more interested.

‘And my thinking is, the nephew might know the whereabouts of the uncle.’

Stark gave a thin smile. ‘Son, I know where the uncle is.’

‘You do?’

‘He’s buried in a field somewhere outside Inverness. Dennis let Jackie Dyson have his way with him — reckoned nobody was as good at wringing the truth out of a man as Jackie. Fucker made Dennis look like Greenpeace.’

‘Wright died?’

‘He did, aye.’ Christie watched the old man nod. He didn’t look in the least concerned. ‘We didn’t want anyone getting wind of it — best thing was to make the cops and anyone else think we were still on the hunt.’

‘So they wouldn’t think you’d killed him?’ It was Christie’s turn to nod. ‘So why tell me?’

Stark fixed him with a look. ‘Because that’s twice now you’ve come to me. Makes me think we might be able to help one another — now, and in the future. A sort of alliance against the jackals in Aberdeen and Dundee.’

‘Are they starting to circle?’

‘They smell blood, son. I can offer Dennis’s crew the moon, but somebody out there’s going to offer one of them Mars or Venus as a bonus. If they knew I had friends… well…’ Stark shrugged.

‘How would it work?’

‘Plenty of time for that later.’ Stark patted Christie’s leg. ‘For now, you’ve got me interested in this nephew.’

‘And you’ve got me interested — you really think we could work together?’

‘Only one way to find out. Dennis was gearing up to push me aside. Everyone knew it — Len and Walter were always bending my ear about it. Either his boys will make a move on me anyway, or they’ll decide they need reinforcements from outside the city. It’s either you with me, or you with them. But look at me, son. I’m not going to last much longer — and when I croak, a good-sized chunk of Glasgow would be yours. If you take my side. On the other hand, team up with them, and you’ll be surrounded by wild animals — young, hungry and stupid.’

Stark’s coffee had arrived, along with an amaretto biscuit that he dunked and then held between his lips, sucking the thick black liquid from it.

‘I’ll have one of those too, actually,’ Christie told the retreating manager. And he returned Joe Stark’s smile, the two men readying to get down to business.

Anthony Wright had been in trouble a few times — speeding offences, one very minor drugs bust and a breach of the peace. Which was how Fox managed to track down his home address. It was a maisonette in Murrayburn, not a million miles from his place of work. Anthony had the upper floor. His downstairs neighbours hadn’t washed their windows in a while, and the slatted blinds needed replacing. From what he could see of the upstairs dwelling, the owner was a tad more house-proud: the curtains looked new, as did the front door with its fan-shaped frosted window and brass fittings. Fox, knowing that Anthony wasn’t yet home from work, peered through the letter box, discovering little — a flight of red-carpeted stairs filled his field of vision. Framed prints of motorbikes and their leather-clad riders on the walls.

He returned to his car and waited, the radio playing at low volume. It was a quiet street, though far from gentrification. He got the feeling that if he sat there much longer, an inquisitive local would emerge to check him out. One thing he had noted: no bikes on the roadway outside the maisonette, or in the flagstoned front garden. How many had Anthony said? Five? He got out of the car again and did a little circuit, establishing that the maisonette backed on to an enclosed drying green, which boasted no enclosure larger than a garden shed. There was a park beyond, really just a stretch of well-trodden grass that could accommodate a makeshift game of football, plus a graffiti-covered set of concrete ramps, presumably for use by skateboarders. On the other side of the park sat three high-rise blocks, and next to those, two rows of lock-up garages.

Buttoning up his coat, Fox started walking, sticking to the paved route so as to save his shoes getting muddied. A cheap souped-up saloon car passed him, its occupants barely out of their teens. Both front windows were down so the world outside could share their taste in what they presumably thought was music. They paid Fox no heed though. He wasn’t like Rebus — he didn’t look like a cop. A detective he’d once investigated when in Complaints had described him as resembling ‘a soulless, spunkless middle manager from the most boring company on the planet’. Which was fine — he’d been called worse. It usually meant he was closing in on a result. And the fact that he didn’t stand out from the crowd could be useful. As far as the kids in the car were concerned, he barely existed — if they’d thought him a threat, the car would have stopped and a scene of sorts would have ensued. Instead of which, he arrived at the lock-ups without incident.

There were a dozen of them, all but one with its doors locked tight. A car was jutting out from the twelfth, jacked up while a wheel was changed. The lock-up had power, and a radio had been plugged in, Radio 2 providing the soundtrack while a man in presentable blue overalls did his chores.

‘Nice car,’ Fox commented. The man had wiry silver hair and a stubbled face, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. ‘Ford Capri, right? Don’t see many these days.’

‘Because they’re rustbuckets. Dodgy engines, too.’

The bonnet was up, so Fox took a look. He had scant knowledge of cars, and to his eyes the engine looked much like any other.

‘You in the market?’ the man asked. ‘Only I know there are collectors out there — I’ve had offers.’

‘Motorbikes are more my thing,’ Fox said. ‘Friend of mine lives near here. He’s got a nice collection.’

‘Anthony?’ The man nodded towards the lock-up opposite. ‘That’s where he keeps them.’ Fox turned his head towards the graffiti-covered rollover door. There was the usual turn-handle with its central lock, but heavy-duty bolts and padlocks had also been added to either edge of the door.

‘He was supposed to be showing me them,’ Fox explained, ‘but he’s not home.’

‘He’s often here — takes one out for a run, brings it back, swaps to another. What’s your favourite?’

‘I like Moto Guzzis,’ Fox said, remembering the brand from one of the prints on the staircase.

‘About as reliable as my Capri,’ the man snorted, flicking away the stub of his cigarette. ‘The older ones, at any rate.’

‘I’m surprised he doesn’t keep them at that self-storage place where he works.’ Fox was studying the surroundings. ‘Bit more security than here.’

‘This is handier, though, and he’s careful — never leaves the doors open long enough for anyone to get a good look.’

Fox nodded his understanding. ‘Ever meet his uncle?’ he asked casually.

‘Uncle?’

‘Uncle Hamish — he was down here a few weeks ago from Inverness. I just thought Anthony might want to show off his collection.’

‘Chubby? Fiftyish? Red hair and freckles?’

Fox thought of the photographs he’d seen. ‘Sounds about right,’ he said.

‘Anthony didn’t introduce us, but aye, he was here.’ The man was wiping his hands on a rag. ‘I’ve got to say, you don’t look like one of Anthony’s mates.’

‘What do they look like?’

‘Younger than you, for a start.’

‘We drink together at the Gifford.’

The man’s suspicions eased. ‘He’s mentioned the place — seems to like it there.’

‘It’s all right.’

The man gave a lopsided smile. ‘I thought maybe you were a cop or something — sorry about that.’

‘No problem,’ Fox assured him.

‘Not that you look like one, mind.’

Fox nodded slowly. ‘My name’s Malcolm,’ he said.

‘George Jones. I’d offer a handshake, but…’ He showed Fox his oil-stained fingers.

‘No problem — I better get back and see if he’s turned up. Good luck getting your Capri back on the road.’

‘No chance of that,’ Jones said, patting its roof. ‘This isn’t so much a garage as a hospice — I’m just keeping the patient comfortable until the end.’

Fox’s face tightened. He offered a half-hearted wave as he turned and started to walk, pulling out his phone to call Jude. He would take over from her for an hour or two, but he knew he might well be back here later. He imagined himself calling Ricky Compston with the news — I’ve got Hamish Wright and his booty. Both are here when you want them…

He was almost smiling to himself as Jude answered his call.

‘About bloody time you checked in,’ she announced. ‘Doctors want a word with us.’

‘What about?’

‘If you want my best guess, they’re readying to pull the plug.’

‘What?’

But Jude was too busy sobbing to say any more.

38

Esson and Ogilvie stood in front of Siobhan Clarke’s desk as they delivered their report, the conclusion of which was that they had found nothing much of interest.

‘Nothing?’ Clarke felt it necessary to check.

Ogilvie stood with his hands behind his back, happy to let his partner do the talking.

‘We’ve got a list of everyone who works for the two companies, and we’ll run it to see if anyone rings alarm bells, but I’m not hugely hopeful.’

‘The company that does the flyering…’

‘Higher Flyer,’ Esson reminded Clarke.

‘Higher Flyer, yes — do they do any work in and around Linlithgow?’

‘Strictly Edinburgh and Glasgow. They actually don’t have many restaurants on their books. Mostly they do comedy shows and that sort of thing — stocking pubs and clubs with flyers. They would certainly cover the areas where Minton and Cafferty live, but it would depend on the client. Newington Spice specified the local neighbourhood.’

‘Most of the people doing the flyering are students,’ Ogilvie chipped in.

‘Our guy would be in his forties,’ Clarke commented. Her eyes drifted towards the closed door of James Page’s office. ‘Always supposing John’s theory is correct.’

‘What’s he doing in there?’ Esson asked, nodding towards the door.

‘Trying to persuade DCI Page that a retired detective, now a civilian, should become bait for an armed serial killer.’

‘Not going to happen, is it?’

Clarke stared at Esson. ‘John can be quite persuasive.’

‘As I’ve found to my cost. It would be nice now and again to go on a wild goose chase that actually had a goose at the end of it.’

‘Wild or otherwise,’ Ogilvie added.

Clarke pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘What about VampPrint?’ she asked.

‘They do have a storage facility for everything they print,’ Esson answered, ‘but in the case of Newington Spice, all their stock went either to Higher Flyer or to the restaurant itself. That’s not to say someone on the staff couldn’t have helped themselves, and again we’ll run all the employee names through the system.’

‘One thing we do know is that no one with the surname Holroyd works for either firm,’ Ogilvie stated. Esson was about to add something, but broke off as the door to Page’s office opened. Rebus marched past Clarke’s desk without saying anything or making eye contact. The door remained open, and a few moments later Page was standing there, indicating that Clarke should join him. She headed in, closing the door again after her. Page was back behind his desk, twisting a pen in both hands.

‘At least there were no raised voices,’ she commented. ‘John must be disappointed, though…’ She saw the look on Page’s face. ‘You gave him the okay?’

‘With the proviso that members of our team will be nearby, as well as two firearms officers. As John says, he’s been on top of this throughout, putting our own efforts to shame in certain respects.’

Clarke bristled. ‘I’m not sure that’s entirely fair.’

‘Me neither. On the other hand, we’d have known nothing about Acorn House if John hadn’t told us.’

‘How much did he tell you, sir?’

‘Men in positions of authority abusing kids, the whole thing covered up, one young lad thought to be dead after some sex game or other…’ Page gave a pained look. ‘Bloody horrible to contemplate, every single bit of it.’

‘I agree.’

‘And after this is over, we need to make sure something’s done — the Chief has to be amenable to an inquiry of some kind.’

‘An inquiry flagging up one of our own as a paedophile?’

Page gave another grimace. ‘What’s the alternative?’

‘I’m fairly sure the Chief will present you with some.’

‘Sweep everything back under the carpet, you mean? The world’s changed, Siobhan. This’ll get out there one way or another.’

‘Well, if we need a friendly crime reporter…’

‘Your chum Laura Smith? Maybe it’ll come to that. Not that the media seemed to do much of anything last time round.’

‘One or two tried.’ Clarke shrugged.

Page was thoughtful, eyes on his pen as he played with it. ‘I need to authorise the firearms.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll let you get on with it.’ She turned to leave.

‘You’ll be there too, of course — John more or less insisted.’

Clarke paused in the doorway, turned and nodded her acceptance, then headed back into the main office.

Rebus was there, talking with Esson and Ogilvie. His eyes met Clarke’s, and he gave a wink as he grinned.

Rebus had stocked up on supplies — a couple of sandwiches, newspaper, several CDs to pass the time. But it turned out he couldn’t work the hi-fi — it didn’t have a CD slot, for one thing. There was a remote, and when he pressed it, music emerged from speakers in the corners of the ceiling, but it was nothing he wanted to listen to. Even the dog looked unimpressed. The terrier had been wary at first, especially after picking up the scent of another canine. The Dalrymples had taken basket and John B both, along with food and water bowls. But Rebus had found some dry stuff in a cupboard and tipped a helping into a soup bowl, placing it on the kitchen floor for the terrier. It had been quite the reunion when he had arrived at the cat and dog home.

‘We’ve been calling him Brillo,’ one of the staff had explained, bringing the dog into the reception area. Recognising Rebus, Brillo had strained at the leash. ‘You sure you only need him for a day or two?’

‘That’s right,’ Rebus had said, avoiding the staff member’s eyes.

He got up every ten minutes or so and looked out of the window. It was just before ten, and he’d been there almost four hours. The unmarked car was not quite directly outside — they didn’t want to scare Holroyd away. Two officers in the car, though they hadn’t been especially keen when told they might be pulling an all-nighter. Rebus took out his mobile and checked it. The officers had his number and he had theirs. First sign of anything, either they would call or he would. Esson and Ogilvie were out there somewhere too, traipsing the neighbouring streets in the guise of lovers on their way home. Esson had already sent one text to complain of impending blisters, to which Rebus had responded that she should get a piggyback from her colleague.

With no bed, Brillo had settled on the sofa, but every time Rebus moved, he looked interested, in case a walk was in the offing.

‘Sorry, pal,’ Rebus said, not for the first time.

He climbed the stairs and used the loo, then walked into the spare bedroom. Siobhan Clarke lay stretched out on the narrow single bed, reading a book by the light of a bedside lamp.

‘I hope you put the seat down this time,’ she admonished him.

‘This is why I never remarried.’

She smiled tiredly. ‘Get any pictures while you were up north?’

‘No.’

‘Some grandfather you are.’

‘Sam took one of me and Carrie — maybe she’ll email it.’

‘She will if you ask her.’

Rebus nodded. ‘What’s the book?’

‘He said, changing the subject. It’s Kate Atkinson.’

‘Any good?’

‘Someone keeps coming back from the dead.’

‘Not a bad fit for this evening, then.’

‘I suppose. You really think he’ll come?’

‘Maybe not tonight.’

‘Know the grief we’re going to get if we need to keep requisitioning those gun-slingers?’

‘Cheery pair, though, weren’t they?’

‘Rays of sunshine.’ She smiled again.

‘I should go downstairs.’

‘I keep thinking of Little Red Riding Hood. You’re the wolf dressed as Grandma.’

‘I don’t remember Red Riding Hood killing anyone, though.’

‘Fair point. Stick the kettle on then, Grandma.’

Rebus headed to the kitchen, where Brillo was waiting, ever hopeful. He gave the dog a pat and filled the kettle. He looked at the kitchen door. It led, he knew, to a well-tended garden with the usual area of decking. There was a security light above the back door, but the bulb had given up and not been replaced. That was fine by Rebus. He opened the door and breathed the night air. He couldn’t quite smell or hear the sea, and there was too much light pollution for any but the brightest stars to be visible. He remembered the drive south from Tongue to Inverness, the road winding and narrow at first, and not another vehicle for tens of miles. The sky had been studded with stars, and he’d seen one owl and several deer along the route, none of which had meant very much to him — he’d still been busy with thoughts of Carrie.

Brillo had headed into the garden to do his business, so Rebus left the door ajar while he poured the tea. He took one mug upstairs, and Brillo was in the kitchen on his return, fretting over his absence.

‘Here I am,’ Rebus said, closing the back door and leaving it unlocked. No point complicating things unnecessarily.

Fox was in his car when Clarke rang.

‘Hiya,’ he said.

‘Hope I didn’t disturb you.’

‘I’m outside the hospital,’ he lied. ‘Just about to head home.’

‘How’s Mitch?’

‘Pretty bad. Jude phoned to tell me they were readying to pull the plug. She was exaggerating, but not by much. They’re talking about a “persistent vegetative state”.’

‘Bit soon for that, isn’t it? You sure you’re okay to drive home?’

‘I’ll be fine. Are you at the flat?’

‘I’m in the lavender-scented spare room of a Mr and Mrs Dalrymple.’

‘Do Mr and Mrs Dalrymple know?’

Clarke explained the situation to him. ‘John’s downstairs filling the condemned man’s shoes, and we’ve a couple of sharpshooters outside.’

‘John’s a civilian.’

‘Try telling him that. He convinced James Page that this was the only game plan worth the name… Hang on, I’ve got a text I need to check… Shit, got to go.’

The phone went dead in Fox’s hand. He placed it on the passenger seat and popped a fresh piece of gum into his mouth. He was parked on the road leading into the high-rise estate, halfway between Anthony Wright’s home and the lock-up. There was no sign of life and the temperature was dropping. He was glad Siobhan hadn’t dug too deep — this was his case and no one else’s. Not just because of Compston, Bell and Hastie, but for his father, too, who had always thought him better suited to an office than the street. Yet here he was, watching and waiting.

‘My score,’ he said quietly to himself.

And a few scores to settle as well.

Rebus took the call from the firearms duo.

‘Someone’s coming. Big guy, looks like he means business.’

‘You only step in when you get the word,’ Rebus reminded them, ending the call. The doorbell rang and he went into the hall. Clarke was already halfway down the stairs, but he shooed her away. Only when she had disappeared from sight did he open the door.

‘Hell are you up to?’ he asked.

‘I decided I’ve got the right,’ Cafferty said, barging his way in.

‘The right to screw this whole thing up?’ Rebus snarled, slamming shut the door and pursuing Cafferty into the living room. ‘Holroyd knows what you look like — he saw you through your nice big bay window, remember?’

‘So?’

‘So when he sees you here…’

‘He’s going to think all his Christmases have come a bit late this year.’

‘Forget about it,’ Rebus said. His phone was ringing. He answered. ‘Very much a false alarm,’ he informed the firearms officer.

‘What’s he doing here?’ Clarke asked, joining the party.

‘Says he has the right,’ Rebus explained.

‘You need to leave,’ Clarke told Cafferty. ‘You are jeopardising this inquiry.’

‘I am this inquiry!’ Cafferty spat. ‘I’m the one who’s been in jeopardy.’

‘Which is precisely why you can’t be here. Say a shot goes off and you get hit…’ Clarke was shaking her head.

‘I need to see him.’

‘And so you will — at his trial. But that only happens if we snare him, and you being here makes that impossible. You either leave right now, or I’m pulling my team out.’

Clarke was standing only inches from him, half a foot shorter but not about to falter. Cafferty was breathing heavily, a man locked and loaded. But Rebus watched as he started to calm.

‘Ballsy as ever, Siobhan. John here might not have taught you much, but he taught you that.’

‘Leave now,’ she reiterated. Cafferty held up his hands in a show of surrender. ‘I’ve two detectives outside who’ll make sure you don’t just lurk in the vicinity. They’ll want to see you get into a car or a cab. Is that understood?’

Still holding up his hands, Cafferty started retreating out of the room. Clarke got on her phone and explained things to Esson and Ogilvie. Rebus opened the door for Cafferty. Cafferty paused for a moment, glowering over Rebus’s shoulder towards Clarke.

‘I’ll let you know the minute we have news,’ Rebus said.

Cafferty nodded, without looking in the least convinced. Then he headed down the path towards the gate, where Ogilvie and Esson were waiting. Rebus closed the door again and walked into the living room. Clarke gave him a sharp look. He could only shrug a response, slumping into the chair again and waiting for Brillo to jump on to his lap.