Even Dogs in the Wild

39

Siobhan Clarke had fallen asleep on her bed, still in her clothes. They’d decided to quit at 6.45 a.m. She’d managed a few brief naps in the Dalrymples’ guest bedroom, and had driven home with a head that felt like glue had been poured into it. Now it was just after nine and her phone was ringing. She staggered over to the wall socket where it was charging, arriving just as the call ended. She didn’t recognise the number. The phone was fully charged, so she unplugged it and took it with her as she retreated to her bed. But she was awake now and knew she wouldn’t get back to sleep.

‘Shower,’ she muttered, rising once more to her feet.

There was a café she liked just around the corner from her flat, and she headed out afterwards for the strongest coffee they could muster — a flat white with three shots of espresso. She perched on a stool by the window and watched the traffic crawl uphill towards the Leith Street roundabout. When her phone rang again, it was the same number. This time she answered. It was Sanjeev Patel from Newington Spice.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting you,’ he said.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Patel?’

‘I have been giving the matter some thought, and have spoken to my staff about the mystery, and I think I may have made progress.’

‘Yes?’

‘One of our regular customers often takes a batch of menus with him to distribute among his friends and acquaintances. Is it possible these may have made their way to the person you are looking for?’

‘I suppose so.’ Clarke stifled a yawn. ‘What can you tell me about this customer?’

‘His name is Jordan. That’s his Christian name, I’m afraid I don’t have a surname. I think he lives in Newington, but as he always collects his order, I don’t have the actual address.’

‘How old would he be?’

‘Early twenties.’

‘We’re looking for someone a good bit older.’

‘I see.’ Patel paused. ‘There’s no point in sending you his photo then?’

‘You have a photo?’

‘The restaurant’s tenth anniversary — we invited some of our regulars to join us. I was thinking I could send it to you in a text.’

‘Might as well, and I appreciate you going to the trouble.’

‘No trouble, Inspector. Tell me, did you gain anything from speaking to our printer and distributor?’

‘Not a great deal, if I’m being honest.’

‘Honesty is the best policy, I’m told. So let me say something — you sound exhausted.’

Clarke managed a smile. ‘I’ve got caffeine on an intravenous drip.’

‘Caffeine is a false god — fresh air and exercise, trust me.’

‘I’ll bear those in mind. Meantime, do send me that picture.’

‘As soon as we finish speaking. I look forward to seeing you at Newington Spice soon — and Mr Rebus too.’

Clarke ended the call and drained her cup. She was heading to the counter for a refill when her phone alerted her to a message. It was the photo, showing a group of half a dozen men gathered around a table groaning with food. All looked like staff with one exception. Yes, Jordan was in his early to mid twenties. Close-cropped hair and small, deep-set eyes, his bare arms tattooed with what looked like Celtic symbols. Clarke used thumb and forefinger to zoom in on him. She knew him from somewhere. Then she remembered — he worked at the mortuary. She closed the photo and found Deborah Quant in her contacts list, tapping her number and holding the phone to her ear.

‘I never did thank you,’ Quant answered.

‘For what?’

‘Phoning me at that dinner so I could make my excuses.’

‘Time to repay the favour then — you’ve got a mortuary attendant, first name Jordan. In his twenties, tattoos on his arms…’

‘Jordan Foyle, yes.’

‘Worked there long?’

‘Almost a year. He was in the army before that — found it hard to adjust to Civvy Street, I think.’

‘Will he be at work today?’

‘No reason to think he won’t — is he in trouble?’

‘Probably not. I just need a word with him.’

‘Well I’m headed there right now. I’ll be on cadaver duty until two. After that I’m teaching a path class.’

‘I’ll pop in and say hello then.’

‘You might have to wave from the viewing room — today’s a busy one.’

‘Fair enough. Catch you later.’

Clarke ended the call and tapped the phone against her teeth. She had decided against a second coffee — she was starting to jangle as it was. Walking back to her flat, she considered contacting Rebus — he might fancy the detour. Then again, the poor sod had been stuck in Argyle Crescent all night. He would almost certainly be asleep. Besides, Jordan Foyle wasn’t Holroyd, not unless he had a portrait in his attic. Ex-army — she’d heard that it could be difficult for squaddies. They returned home from places like Afghanistan and never quite adjusted. Plenty passed through the police cells and prison service. She hoped Jordan Foyle was one of the luckier ones.

Five minutes later, she found herself passing the café, this time as part of the stream of slow-moving traffic. She had her window down a couple of inches, as per Sanjeev Patel’s advice about fresh air — not that the rush-hour air was especially fresh. Once past the roundabout, she headed for North Bridge, signalling right on to Blair Street and down the slope to Cowgate, where the mortuary sat. It was an anonymous grey box with a few similarly anonymous black vans outside its loading bay doors. Clarke made sure she wasn’t blocking any of them as she parked. The public entrance was around the other side of the building, but she opened the staff door and walked down the short corridor — the same one where she’d encountered Jordan Foyle — climbing the stairs from the storage area to the autopsy suite. The viewing room was separated from the autopsy room by a glass partition. There was a row of chairs, and she took one of these, waving to Quant, who waved back and indicated to her fellow pathologist that they had a guest.

Clarke tried not to look at the body on the metal trolley, or at the various basins filled with viscera and organs, or at the drainage channels down which liquids ran. There was a loudspeaker in the ceiling, allowing her to hear what was being said. The atmosphere was calm and professional, Quant recording her findings as the examination continued. The attendant on duty, dressed in scrubs and short green rubber boots, face masked, was not Jordan Foyle. He was a good decade older and had been with the mortuary as long as Clarke could remember. But then the door swung open and Foyle himself entered, carrying a tray of implements and a stack of disposable containers. He laid these out, his back to Clarke. When he turned again, he asked Quant if there was anything else she needed.

‘That’s fine, Jordan. But DI Clarke would like a word.’

She gestured towards the viewing room, and Foyle’s eyes met Clarke’s. He nodded slowly and made to leave. Clarke headed out to meet him. He was walking down the corridor away from her, pulling off his protective gloves.

‘Jordan?’ she called.

Rather than stop, he broke into a run. Clarke took a second to realise what was happening, then set off after him. He was down the stairs by now, and she lost sight of him. As she emerged into the car park, he was rounding a corner of the building, shrugging off his scrubs. He began to run up High School Wynd, while Clarke faltered. On foot or in her car?

‘Shit,’ she said, making up her mind. She set off in pursuit but he was already at the top of the hill and heading for the Infirmary Lane steps. Clarke took out her phone and got through to the area control room, identifying herself and asking for assistance.

The steps almost defeated her and she ended up using the handrail as she heaved her way to the top, where she had a decision to make: left or right along Drummond Street? Towards the Pleasance or Nicolson Street? No sign of Foyle and no one she could ask for guidance. She swore under her breath and placed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart pounding. Her phone was ringing — a patrol car was two minutes away, its occupants wanting to know who they were looking for. Clarke started to give them a description, focusing on the tattoos and the rubber boots. Then she headed back down the steps, retracing her route to the mortuary. Quant was still in the autopsy suite. Clarke thumped on the glass and gestured that she needed a word. Quant met her in the corridor as Clarke was wiping sweat from her face.

‘Foyle did a runner,’ she explained between breaths.

‘Really?’ Quant still wore her face mask and was holding her viscera-stained gloved hands out in front of her, unwilling to touch anything.

‘I need his address.’

‘He lives with his parents,’ Quant said. ‘His mother, I should say. His father passed away a month or two back.’

‘The address,’ Clarke repeated.

‘It’ll be with his personnel file. You’ll need to phone the admin office.’

‘Do you know their number?’ Clarke had her phone out. She tapped it in as Quant recited it.

‘You might want to sit down and catch your breath,’ Quant cautioned. But Clarke was already walking away, waiting for someone to pick up at the other end.

By the time she reached her car, she had the address: Upper Gray Street in Newington. She called the officers in the patrol car.

‘We’re still on the lookout,’ one of them said. Clarke gave them the address and said she would meet them there. Once on the road, she phoned Rebus. He sounded rightly groggy.

‘I might have something,’ she told him, explaining about Foyle.

‘Can’t be Holroyd.’

‘I know that.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘Foyle’s father died a couple of months back. Interesting timing, don’t you think?’

‘I’ve had barely three hours’ sleep — thinking isn’t top of my list of priorities.’

‘He did a runner, John.’

‘Could be any number of reasons for that. Bit of dope in his pocket, parking fines he’s been ignoring…’

‘Can you meet me at his house anyway? I’m nearly there.’ She gave him the address. ‘It’s hardly any distance from yours.’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘You think that’s where he’ll be headed?’

‘It’s the direction he was going. And he’s on foot. Have to admit, for someone in galoshes, he had a turn of speed.’

‘If you’ve ever tried running from enemy gunfire in army-issue boots, I’d think a pair of green wellies would feel like kit from the Olympics.’

‘I bow to your superior knowledge.’

‘If it is him, you’re going to have to be careful.’

‘I know.’ Clarke signalled off Newington Road into Salisbury Place and took a left into Upper Gray Street. She could see two uniformed officers standing in the middle of the road ahead of her. One was busy making a call, while the other looked ready to explode. They moved out of the way as Clarke squealed to a stop. She wound down her window, her phone held in her free hand.

‘Bugger’s got a gun,’ the ruddy-faced officer said.

‘You let him take your car?’

‘He was running out of the house as we got here. Changed his shoes and with a backpack over one shoulder. Then the gun came out, could have been fake but impossible to tell.’

‘You hearing this?’ Clarke said into her phone.

‘I’m on my way,’ Rebus replied.

Denise Foyle sat at the kitchen table with a mug of sweetened tea. There was a laptop on the table, with a printer on the floor beneath. She made a bit of money as an eBay trader, as she had explained to Siobhan Clarke.

‘But I just don’t understand,’ she was repeating for the sixth or seventh time. ‘I can’t get my head round what you’re telling me.’

She was in her late forties, with dyed ash-blonde hair. She wore jewellery round her neck and on her wrists, plus a pair of large earrings that resembled peacock feathers. Though she worked from home, her make-up was immaculate, as were her painted and manicured nails.

Clarke was perched on the edge of a chair opposite while Rebus stood with his back to the sink. He hadn’t shaved and was in the same clothes as the previous day.

‘Where did he get a gun?’ Denise Foyle was asking.

‘We have a theory,’ Clarke told her. ‘But right now, our main concern is to bring Jordan in safely.’

‘Safely?’

‘He’s carrying a firearm, Mrs Foyle. And he brandished it at two unarmed officers. That means we have to take this very seriously. Our own armed response team has been put on alert.’ She paused meaningfully. ‘We don’t want anything to happen to him, so it would be helpful if you could answer a few questions. Do you have any idea where he might go?’

‘He has friends.’

‘Details would be good.’

‘I’ve probably got a few phone numbers.’

Clarke nodded her satisfaction. ‘Also, a recent photo of Jordan. We’ve got one, but it’s not the greatest quality.’

‘There’ll be some on here from Christmas.’ Foyle pointed to her laptop. ‘Not that it was very festive…’

‘Your husband passed away?’ Rebus asked. She turned her head towards him.

‘At the beginning of December,’ she explained. ‘We’d driven out to Chesser Avenue. We always get a tree from the same charity, Bethany Trust. They have a site there. Mark had just stopped the engine when he slumped forward.’ Her eyes were filling with tears. ‘There’d been a few warning signs — he’d been to the doctor with chest pains, apparently. Again, I only found out after…’

‘Would you have a photo somewhere?’

‘On the mantelpiece.’

‘Do you mind if I…?’

She shook her head and Rebus exited the kitchen, turning right into the living room. There were half a dozen condolence cards still displayed on the mantelpiece, along with a selection of photos of the deceased. The most recent showed a man in his mid forties with salt-and-pepper hair and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, not even in a much earlier photo taken on his wedding day. Rebus focused on this picture, since it was the one that showed Mark Foyle at his youngest. He lifted it up and studied the face, though he was not sure what he was seeking. He photographed it with his own camera. When he’d left Ullapool, he had taken Dave Ritter’s mobile number with him. Now he added the photo to a text — Long shot, but could this be the same kid? — and sent it.

On a corner unit sat further framed family photos, mostly of Jordan Foyle — at primary and secondary schools, then as a teenage army recruit. He had his arms folded and was grinning fit to burst. A later snap had been taken by one of his comrades and showed him in the desert somewhere, his convoy having come to a halt, a fellow soldier holding him in a playful headlock. Rebus wandered back through to the kitchen. Denise Foyle was blowing her nose into a square of kitchen towel, Clarke handing her another so she could dab her eyes.

‘Jordan and his dad had a difficult relationship,’ Clarke explained to Rebus. ‘Mark wasn’t exactly touchy-feely modern-father material.’

‘How did you meet your husband, Mrs Foyle?’ Rebus asked.

‘At a nightclub, like you do.’

‘Here in Edinburgh?’

She shook her head. ‘Glasgow — he was living there at the time.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Car mechanic.’

‘But he was from Edinburgh?’

She shook her head. ‘He grew up in Glasgow.’

‘So he had family there?’

‘I got the feeling there’d been a falling-out. He never spoke about them.’

‘Never?’

She shook her head again. ‘Not one of them came to the wedding.’

‘You never met them?’

‘His parents were already dead, I think.’

‘He had school friends though?’

‘Not by the time I met him.’ She paused. ‘What are you getting at? What does this have to do with Jordan?’

‘Why did you move through here?’

‘I lived here. Worked as a secretary. Mark wasn’t keen, but I talked him round.’ She broke off again. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have. I don’t think he ever really settled.’

‘Would you mind if I took a look at Jordan’s room?’ Rebus asked.

She shook her head slowly as she dabbed at her eyes.

Rebus headed upstairs. Jordan Foyle’s bedroom bore a poster of a supermodel from yesteryear on its door. Inside, the bed was messy, clothes spewing from a chest of drawers and a narrow wardrobe. Photos from his army days stuck to the walls, plus more pictures of large-breasted women. There probably should have been a laptop of some kind, but it was missing. In amongst the clothes spilling from the wardrobe, Rebus spotted a rectangle of muslin, stained with oil. And beneath the bed, a small pile of menus from Newington Spice. Back downstairs, Denise Foyle was telling Clarke why her son had left the army.

‘Afghanistan destroyed him. I’ll probably never know what he saw there, but he came back looking like a ghost. Used to wake up screaming in the night, or I’d hear him sobbing in the bathroom at three in the morning. I don’t know if they offered him counselling, but he certainly never got any, and if I tried suggesting it, he would jump down my throat. But he looked like he was coming out the other side. He’d got himself a job, and even an on-off girlfriend—’

‘We’ll need her number too,’ Clarke interrupted.

‘But then when Mark died… I mean, they’d never been close. Quite the opposite. But something happened. Don’t ask me what.’

The front doorbell sounded. Rebus went to answer, and found the two officers from the patrol car standing there.

‘He dumped it,’ one of them stated.

‘Where?’

‘Cameron Toll car park. Took the bloody keys with him, though.’

‘It’s going to be fun writing up your report, isn’t it?’ Rebus allowed a smile to flit across his face. ‘We’ll have a recent photo of him in a few minutes. Need to get it distributed along with his description. You better get busy with that, since you two are the only ones who know how he’s dressed.’

‘Shouldn’t we be getting checked over?’ the other uniform enquired.

Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘For what?’

‘Post-traumatic stress — we had a gun pulled on us.’

‘By a lad who served at least one tour of duty in a war zone,’ Rebus retorted. ‘Anyone should be getting looked at, it’s him.’

And he slammed the door shut on the pair of them.

40

‘You look like hell,’ Jude said when Fox found her sucking on a cigarette in the hospital grounds.

‘Well, if we’re being frank with one another…’

She looked down at her unwashed clothes. ‘Okay, it was a low blow. I’m sorry.’ She tried not to shiver.

‘Want my coat?’ Fox was already shrugging out of it.

‘Very noble of you.’ She allowed him to place it over her shoulders.

‘Just don’t get ash on it.’

This almost merited a smile, until she remembered why they were there. ‘So, do we sign the death warrant or not?’

‘It’s a Do Not Resuscitate agreement…’

‘I know what it is, Malcolm! But this is our dad we’re talking about — the only one we get. And if we put our names on that form, we lose him.’

‘You don’t think he’s already lost?’

‘Miracles can happen.’

‘I’ve not seen too many recently.’

‘I spent half the night on the internet reading up on them. Patients waking from a coma after years, suddenly ravenous and asking what’s for breakfast. It happens, Malcolm.’ She drew on the cigarette again.

‘They’ve run every test, Jude.’

‘Not every test — I looked that up too. All I’m saying is…’ She started coughing, head bowed. The coughing stopped, but her shoulders still shuddered, and Fox realised she was sobbing. He grabbed her in an embrace. Her scalp was oily, her hair needing a wash, but he planted a kiss on the crown of her head.

‘We’ll go in when you’re ready,’ he said. ‘And not before.’

‘We’ll be out here till we freeze then.’

But he knew she didn’t mean it.

It was a manhunt now. Photos of Jordan Foyle had been distributed to the media, who were clamouring for more information. All they’d been told was that he was armed and potentially dangerous. The story of the hijacked patrol car had got out, however, and the Chief Constable had been on the phone demanding answers. James Page wanted answers too, and didn’t seem even half satisfied at the end of the briefing by Clarke and Rebus.

‘You think Mark Foyle was Bryan Holroyd, is that what I’m hearing? But you’ve no actual evidence?’

‘It makes sense,’ Rebus argued. ‘Father dies, son decides to avenge him for the hurt he endured.’

‘The son who never had the closest relationship with his father? Did the family even know about the abuse Bryan Holroyd suffered?’

Clarke and Rebus shared a look.

‘Wife seems in the dark,’ Clarke eventually conceded.

‘But you’re saying somehow the son knew?’

‘The restaurant menus, the muslin from Minton’s desk drawer. This is our guy,’ Rebus stressed.

‘My point is, there could be a dozen other reasons why he’s set out on this particular path.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Page sat in thoughtful silence, sizing up Rebus and Clarke. ‘I had to tell the Chief about your involvement, John. Needless to say, that’s a rocket waiting for me when the dust settles.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

Page sighed. ‘One thing’s clear — Portobello is a bust.’

‘Are you sure?’

Page gave Rebus a hard look. ‘He’s on the run, John. What would a good soldier do?’

‘Abort the mission,’ Rebus admitted.

‘Plus, those two firearms officers have already been redeployed. Everyone’s on their toes — checking trains, buses, routes out of the city. Even the airport. Does he have money?’

‘Debit and credit cards,’ Clarke said. ‘We’re asking his bank to alert us to any new transactions. Same goes for his mobile phone provider. His mum thinks his passport is gone, along with a laptop and maybe some clothes.’

‘Are we interviewing her formally?’

‘She’s in an interview room at St Leonard’s. Jordan’s girlfriend is being fetched there too. I’ve put Esson and Ogilvie on it. They’ll also check social media sites, see if he’s talking to anyone.’

‘Are Christine and Ronnie compos mentis?’

‘We’re all tired, sir,’ Clarke said with a smile.

‘You should get some rest then. We’ve got half the force out looking for the target. Not much else to be done until he’s brought in.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Clarke said, turning to go. But Rebus was standing his ground.

‘About tonight…’

‘I said no, John. Can I make myself any clearer?’ Page peered up at him.

‘Fair enough,’ Rebus said, making to follow Clarke. Page probably thought he was stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket to show how fed up he felt. But he was actually checking.

Yes, he still had the keys to Argyle Crescent…

Anthony Wright had his key out and was about to put it in the lock when he saw that his front door had actually been forced open and then pulled closed again.

‘Bollocks,’ he said. A break-in was all he needed after the past week or two. He pushed at the door and listened to the silence. He had a decision to make — stomp upstairs in the hope of scaring anyone who might be there, or move on tiptoe so as to surprise them? Having opted for the latter, he took the steps quietly, eyes alert in case a figure should suddenly loom in front of him. He paused in the narrow upstairs hall and listened again. What would they have taken? His laptop and CD player for definite. He didn’t have insurance, but someone at the Gifford would sort him out with replacements. Then he remembered the keys to his motorbikes, kept in a drawer in the kitchen, along with others for the garage’s various locks. When he thought of what else was in the garage, his stomach flipped. He placed his crash helmet on the floor and padded towards the open door of his living room.

Where a man and a woman waited.

The man sat in the only armchair, legs spread, a pistol of some kind resting against his crotch. The woman stood to one side of the doorway, and hauled him into the centre of the room.

‘You’ll be Anthony then?’ the man said.

‘I know you.’ Wright’s eyes narrowed as he tried to remember.

‘Let me give you a clue.’ The man jabbed his head forward, miming a butt.

‘Dennis Stark — you were with him that day. Nearly broke my boss’s nose.’

The man nodded. ‘Might have saved us all a lot of grief if I’d known then who you are.’

‘Who am I?’

‘You’re Hamish Wright’s nephew. I just looked at the photos from your dad’s funeral — it was all over the papers — and there was Uncle Hamish. Explains why he told me the stuff was in the self-storage. I ninety per cent believed him, and it turns out he was telling about ninety per cent of the truth — isn’t that right?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m talking about these.’ The man dug in his pocket, producing key after key, tossing them on to the carpet at Wright’s feet. ‘Four motorbikes, Anthony. Plus the one you rocked up here on. Keys to padlocks, too. So now I need to know where you keep the bikes.’ He paused. ‘Your uncle wasn’t easy to break, but I broke him. And then he snuffed it. Sometimes pain can do that. The body just decides it’s had enough. I can do the same to you, Anthony. Or we can make it nice and straightforward.’

‘I’m honestly telling you—’

Before he’d ended the sentence, they were on him. Packing tape binding his legs at the ankles, and his hands behind his back. The man held him down, a knee on his throat, almost crushing his windpipe, and a hand clamped over his mouth, removed only to be replaced by more of the silver tape, which was wound around his head a couple of times.

They stood over him when they were finished, while he wriggled on the floor. The man aimed a kick at his midriff, causing him to groan, eyes screwed shut in pain. The woman had yet to speak. She left the room and returned with items from his kitchen drawers — knives, scissors, kebab skewers.

‘Nice,’ the man said, appraising the haul as she laid them out on the floor. He lifted her face towards his and kissed her on the lips. Wright wanted to tell them they were crazy, but all he could do was moan behind the gag. And now the man was crouching in front of him, and the barrel of the gun was pressing into his forehead, so that he felt compelled to screw his eyes shut again.

‘I killed Dennis, you know,’ the man drawled. ‘It wasn’t just that I hated his guts. I had to focus everyone’s minds elsewhere. Plus he was talking about paying your place of work another visit, and since that was where I’d been told the stuff was stashed…’ He paused and scratched one cheek thoughtfully. ‘But now Joe’s back in Glasgow, meaning I can get my hands on it without anyone knowing.’ He glanced around and snatched up the padlock keys in his free hand. ‘A garage would be the obvious answer. Nod if I’m warm.’

Wright shook his head and felt a fresh blast of pain as the barrel of the pistol connected with his left temple, slicing it open. With the keys clamped between his teeth, the man picked up one of the knives and pushed it with slow deliberation three quarters of an inch into his victim’s shoulder. Behind the gag, Anthony Wright tried to scream.

41

Malcolm Fox was back at the same spot, on the road leading to the lock-ups. Jude had sent him half a dozen texts telling him how callous he was. They’d been at Mitch’s bedside when he’d told her he had to go out for a while.

‘How long?’

‘A few hours.’

‘A few hours?’ Because they’d been told by the consultant that their father might only have a few hours.

A few hours.

A few days.

Maybe a week.

This before they’d signed the forms, Jude sobbing all the while. The consultant had asked her if she wanted a sedative, but she’d shaken her head. Her texts were now arriving like blows every twenty minutes or so. Fox sat with his hands resting on the steering wheel, Classic FM at just audible volume on the stereo. A kid on a BMX had ridden past four times, eyeing him inquisitively without stopping. George Jones — the man with the Capri — had worked on it again, reversing it back inside and locking the garage door only quarter of an hour back, after which, rubbing oil from his hands with a rag, he had headed on foot towards one of the tower blocks. Fox popped a mint into his mouth and sucked on it, hoping it might clear his head. He dropped the packet on the floor and was reaching down to retrieve it when a car passed him. He watched as it crawled towards the lock-ups, coming to a stop between the two rows. Both front doors opened. Female driver, male passenger. In the gathering gloom, he couldn’t make out their faces. The man walked down one line of garages and up the other, not pausing until he finally reached the one owned by Anthony Wright.

‘Well now,’ Fox murmured. He got out of his own car, closing its door quietly, and made his approach on foot, trying to look like a worker slouching homewards. He could hear a metal door shuddering open. Both figures had moved out of his sight line, so he speeded up. When he was close enough to make out the car’s number plate, he decided to commit it to memory, but quickly realised he already knew it.

One of the cars from Operation Junior.

He cursed beneath his breath and steadied his pace. A light had gone on inside the lock-up. As Fox approached, he could see that the motorbikes were draped with polythene dust sheets. The two figures, however, were standing by the rear wall, intent on the contents of what looked like a packing crate. Even from behind, he recognised Beth Hastie. When the man half turned, he saw it was Jackie Dyson. Dyson planted a kiss on Hastie’s cheek, stopping Fox in his tracks. Too late, though — Dyson had spotted him out of the corner of his eye. He spun around, pointing the pistol at Fox’s chest.

‘Don’t be shy then,’ he said. ‘In you come.’

‘Fuck’s he doing here?’ Beth Hastie spat.

‘It all makes sense,’ Fox said, holding up his hands as he took a few steps forward.

‘Is that right?’

‘Hastie covered for you while you followed Dennis that night to the alley. How long have you two been an item?’

‘What are we going to do with him?’ Hastie was asking Dyson.

‘I’ll need to think. Meantime, fetch the roll of tape from the car.’

Hastie did as she was told, giving Fox a cold stare as she passed him.

‘So it’s true what they say,’ Fox commented to Dyson. ‘Undercover cops do get turned. I fail to see how you’re going to get away with it, though.’

‘Is that right?’

‘I’m hardly the brightest, and I worked it out.’

‘Seems to me you worked out hee fucking haw until we were standing right in front of you.’ Hastie had returned with the tape. ‘Hands behind your back,’ Dyson ordered. Fox did as he was told, his eyes on the man as he spoke.

‘That note you left next to Dennis was hardly proof of smart thinking — it didn’t have us fooled more than half a day.’

‘Muddied the water, though, didn’t it? Less chance of Joe cottoning on. Just like torching that pub, giving Darryl Christie something to chew over so he didn’t get too interested in Wright’s stash.’ Dyson examined Hastie’s handiwork. ‘Do his ankles next,’ he commanded her.

‘How long have you had the gun?’ Fox was asking.

Dyson gave a cold smile. ‘Insurance in case the Starks ever rumbled me. When Compston told me there was another nine mil doing the rounds, well, it seemed like kismet.’

Fox felt the tape being wrapped around the hems of his trousers. He tried flexing his wrists, but she’d done a good job, leaving almost no play at all.

‘Now take the covering off one of those bikes,’ Dyson was saying. ‘We’re going to wrap you up nice and neat like a mummy, Fox.’

The bike, when revealed, was a gleaming red model, streamlined and built for speed. Dyson muttered his appreciation while the sheet was laid out on the ground. Hastie gave Fox a shove and he could do nothing other than topple on to it. She crouched and wound the tape around his mouth. Then, with her lover’s help, she started covering Fox in his makeshift shroud. As more tape was applied, he realised he would suffocate unless they left a gap somewhere.

And a gap didn’t seem to be part of their plan.

He began to strain against his bonds, his cries for help muffled. Dyson was grinning as he finished the job. The covering was translucent, and Fox watched as the pair clambered to their feet again. They got to work emptying the crate of its contents, transferring everything to the back of their vehicle. Fox was trying not to panic, trying to keep his breathing shallow. There was a bit of give at his wrists, but not as yet enough. He was working his lips and jaw too, trying to break the seal on the tape, rubbing his face against the thin plastic sheeting but failing to find an edge that might help shift the gag.

Despite himself, his breathing was growing ragged, adrenalin surging through his body.

Yet all the time he watched.

To and fro they went until they were satisfied. Then they paused for a moment to embrace and kiss, only a few feet away from his prone, writhing figure. Dyson squeezed Hastie’s hand and she headed outside, Dyson pausing for a moment, his eyes on Fox. Then he switched off the ceiling light and started to leave. Fox’s makeshift shroud was beginning to steam up, but he could make out Dyson’s figure silhouetted against the night as he stretched up to grab the door and pull it down, locking Fox in his tomb.

Sudden movement.

A woman’s shriek.

Someone had come up behind Dyson and hit him with something. Fox thought he could make out a hammer. The pistol clattered to the ground and another figure picked it up. The attacker was delivering a second blow, and then a third and a fourth. Dyson fell to his knees, then on to his front, face against tarmac. Fox had the impression that a second shriek was coming from a distance — Beth Hastie was making a run for it. He found that he was almost holding his breath, the blood pounding in his ears. And now Dyson — unconscious at the very least — was being dragged along the ground by his feet, disappearing from view. Fox got the feeling he was being lifted into the boot of his car. He heard the boot lid slam in confirmation. And now there was a shadowy figure standing at the threshold to the lock-up, as if taking stock. It moved forward into the gloom and knelt in front of Fox, for all the world as if it might be about to pray. But then there was a glint of steel and a knife began to slice through the covering. The figure prised the polythene apart, exposing Fox’s face.

Darryl Christie.

He looked Fox up and down, then got his fingernails under the tape and pulled it free of his mouth. Fox took in gulps of air, feeling he might be sick at any moment.

‘Dyson killed Dennis,’ he blurted out. And was rewarded with a slow nod.

‘Anthony told us. They trussed him up too.’

The second figure was waiting a couple of yards away, and Fox realised it was Joe Stark.

‘Joe’s a traditionalist,’ Christie explained. ‘No shooters needed — just a nice big claw hammer. I find that admirable.’

‘We need to go,’ Stark growled.

Christie got back to his feet, brushing dust from the knees of his trousers. ‘I’ll call it in,’ he told Fox. ‘The cavalry’ll come for you soon.’

‘Hastie…?’

‘She’s running like her life depends on it. Which it probably does. She might actually never stop running.’ He began to walk away, pausing only to admire the red motorbike. Then he got into the car and started reversing out of Fox’s field of vision. Joe Stark hadn’t got into the passenger seat — presumably the car they had come in was nearby. A small pool of liquid shone in the moonlight, all that remained of Jackie Dyson. Fox wondered if he would ever come to learn his real name, the name of the man he had been before he’d been sent into the underworld as a mole.

He didn’t suppose it mattered.

The first youth appeared a few minutes later, hood pulled low over his head, a scarf masking the lower half of his face. He studied the prone figure and listened as Fox asked for help. But, saying nothing, all he did was wheel away the red motorcycle. A couple of minutes after that, more hooded figures arrived and took the rest of the haul, leaving Fox to wait for the patrol car with its flashing lights. Siobhan Clarke was there too, helping to cut him free and listening to his story.

‘We better check Anthony’s okay,’ he said, rubbing the circulation back into his hands.

‘We’ll do that.’

His phone had fallen from his pocket and she picked it up, handing it to him. ‘You’ve got a text,’ she said.

He looked at the screen. At the two words written there.

He’s gone.

42

Rebus sat in the living room. It was lit by a single standard lamp in the opposite corner. The curtains were open a few inches and the back door was unlocked. Brillo was curled at his feet as he held the phone to his ear, waiting for it to be answered. He had already had one text from Dave Ritter to the effect that he couldn’t say for sure the photo had been of Bryan Holroyd, plus a long call from Deborah Quant expressing her disbelief that the killer had been under her nose the whole time.

‘It’s often the way, Deb,’ Rebus had told her, thinking of how the Acorn House abusers had carried on with their lives undetected.

The ringing tone stopped, replaced by Malcolm Fox’s voice.

‘Not really a good time, John.’

‘Siobhan just told me. Sorry about your father.’

‘I’m at the hospital right now.’

‘How’s Jude?’

‘Weirdly calm.’

‘And you?’

‘Most of me’s still lying cocooned in that lock-up.’

‘It was Jackie Dyson then?’

‘With a little help from his lover. We need to bring in Christie and Stark.’

‘It’ll happen. Though I don’t suppose we’ll ever find a body or the car they took it away in.’

‘It was still murder.’

‘You sure he was dead?’

‘He had to be.’

‘I know what a good advocate would do with that in court.’

‘Nevertheless.’

‘Chief Constable’s not going to want it getting out — undercover officer goes feral, kills two.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Fox repeated. Then: ‘I would have died back there if Christie hadn’t come to my rescue. I was stupid not to take back-up.’

‘Welcome to my world — it’s taken you long enough.’

‘I really don’t know if I can do this.’

‘Go easy on yourself, Malcolm — your dad’s just died. Of course you’re feeling low. You need to focus on the funeral now. Give it a week or two before you decide to chuck in a job you’re just starting to get good at.’

‘Aye, maybe.’ Fox expelled air loudly. ‘Are you at home?’

‘Where else?’

‘Finally got a suspect for the Minton murder, I hear.’

‘City’s locked down tight. He won’t be going anywhere.’ Rebus paused. ‘I better let you go — sorry again about your dad.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Anything I can do, you only have to say. We’ll have a bit of a wake, see how you’re feeling by then.’ Rebus turned his head towards the open doorway. Jordan Foyle was standing there, a crowbar in his hand. ‘Talk to you later,’ Rebus said, ending the call. Brillo had woken up and was taking an interest in the new arrival.

‘You’re not Dalrymple,’ Foyle said, taking a couple of steps into the room. He was wearing a thin cotton camouflage jacket over a hooded sweatshirt.

‘Not brought the gun?’ Rebus commented.

‘Who are you?’ Foyle was standing in front of him, half brandishing the crowbar. Rebus rested his hands on the arms of his chair, presenting no threat whatsoever. ‘Haven’t I seen you at the mortuary? You’re the guy Professor Quant goes out with.’

Rebus acknowledged the fact with a slight bow of the head. ‘My name’s John Rebus. I’ve been looking into Acorn House. Your father changed his name from Bryan Holroyd, didn’t he?’

Foyle’s eyes widened slightly. ‘How do you know?’

‘More to the point, son, how do you?’

‘Where’s Dalrymple?’

‘It’s finished, Jordan. What we need now is an inquiry into Acorn House. For that to happen, we need at least one of the abusers able to testify — meaning alive. You were in Afghanistan, weren’t you? I served in Northern Ireland during the Troubles. It never quite goes away — you change and you stay changed. I’m not saying I know what you’ve been through…’ Rebus broke off. ‘Look, why don’t you sit yourself down? You seem about ready to keel over. It’s a cold night to be on the run, but you’re safe enough here. There’s a sandwich on the kitchen table and a couple of cans of Irn-Bru. Feel free to help yourself.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I used to be a cop. I’ve known Big Ger Cafferty for years. He wanted me to help find whoever fired that shot.’

‘Can’t believe I missed.’

‘Minton got the gun on the black market — sighting’s probably wonky. Fact he bought it at all means he took your note seriously. Cafferty’s a bit more used to threats, so he dismissed it at first. Did Michael Tolland get one too?’ Rebus watched the young man nod. ‘Must have tossed it then, because we never found it. Took the inquiry a while to link the cases because of that.’

‘You know I’m still going to have to kill you?’

‘No you’re not. You’re going to take the weight off your feet and tell me the whole story. Unless you want a drink first.’

The young man stood there, Rebus allowing the silence to linger as calculations were made. ‘I need to fetch my backpack,’ Foyle said eventually.

‘Where is it?’

‘The garden.’

‘Is the gun in it?’

Foyle nodded. ‘But that’s not what I need.’

‘What then?’

‘It’s not my story you need to hear — it’s my dad’s.’

‘And that’s in the backpack?’ Rebus watched the young man nod. ‘On you go then,’ he said.

‘You’re coming with me — so you don’t try calling anybody. In fact, give me your phone.’ Foyle stretched out his free hand and Rebus placed the phone in it. Then he rose slowly to his feet and preceded Foyle into the kitchen and the garden beyond. With the backpack retrieved, they headed back indoors, Rebus suggesting that Foyle could maybe dispense with the crowbar.

‘I don’t think so,’ Foyle said.

‘There are armed officers all across the city, Jordan. They see you brandishing anything more solid than a white hankie, they’re going to take you down. There were even a couple of them here last night, lying in wait.’

Foyle couldn’t help himself. He swivelled towards the window, peering through the gap in the curtains.

‘They’re not there now,’ Rebus assured him. ‘Nobody thought you’d be coming. Nobody but me. That’s why I left the door unlocked.’

After a further check of the street outside, Foyle settled on the edge of the sofa. As he undid the backpack’s straps, he studied Brillo.

‘Your dog?’ he asked.

‘Sort of.’

‘I was never allowed a pet. Dad wouldn’t let me.’

‘I spoke with your mother — he seems to have been a piece of work.’

‘That’s why he wrote the journal — a sort of apology, I suppose.’

‘Your mum doesn’t know about it?’

Foyle shook his head. ‘He handed it to me one night, told me to keep it to myself. He knew he was ill by then…’ He broke off. ‘Easier if you see for yourself.’ He got up off the sofa and crossed the room towards Rebus, handing over a moleskin notebook, held closed by an elasticated cloth band. ‘I’ll maybe go get that sandwich,’ the young man said, leaving the room.

Rebus unhooked the band and began to read.

Rebus broke off and watched as Jordan Foyle resumed his perch, the club sandwich in one hand and an open can in the other. The young man chewed, saying nothing, his eyes on Rebus’s. Rebus lowered his own eyes and took up the story again.

‘First few pages are mostly family,’ Jordan Foyle stated, slurping from the can. ‘Bit that might interest you is further on.’

Rebus turned some pages until he saw names he recognised and started to read again.

Rebus looked up again. Lured by the sandwich, Brillo was sitting on the floor at Foyle’s feet. Foyle was feeding him morsels of chicken and bacon and rubbing his coat at the same time.

‘Did you talk to him?’ Rebus asked.

‘He only gave it to me the night before he died. But that morning, I gave him a hug in the upstairs hall. We weren’t great at talking. And all because of what happened in that place. His life ruined, my relationship with him ruined — because of those fuckers.’ Foyle nodded towards the book. ‘He ran for his life and lay shivering in those woods all night, covered with leaves and whatever else he could scoop up. Then he stole clothes and money from a house and got as far away as he could. London for a while, then Glasgow — that’s where he met Mum.’ He paused. ‘Did you mean what you said about an inquiry?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would it do any good?’

‘It might take down a few reputations.’

‘And meanwhile I’ll be doing time for murder?’

‘You’ll plead diminished responsibility. Throw post-traumatic stress into the mix and you should be fine.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You’ll serve a few years, but not many.’

‘If I turn myself in.’

‘What else are you going to do — run away to London?’

‘That man Cafferty — he’ll put a price on my head.’

‘No he won’t. He wanted your dad found so he could say sorry to him. My guess is, the same apology’s coming to you.’

‘Even though I tried to kill him?’

‘Even so,’ Rebus confirmed.

Foyle turned his head towards the backpack sitting next to him on the sofa. ‘I was seriously thinking about blowing my brains out — after I’d settled with Dalrymple.’

‘You shouldn’t do that,’ Rebus said quietly. Then: ‘Any chance I can have my phone back?’

Foyle’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

‘I want to see if I can get on the internet. There’s a song I really need to hear.’

Foyle considered for a moment, then handed the phone over. But before he did anything, Rebus skipped to the end of the journal, reading Bryan Holroyd’s last words.

Silent tears were running down Jordan Foyle’s cheeks as he lifted Brillo up, burying his face in his fur.