Even Dogs in the Wild

Epilogue

The mourners at Mortonhall Crematorium just about filled the smaller of the two chapels. Fox and his sister shared the front pew, with staff and residents from Mitch Fox’s care home in the others and Rebus and Clarke by themselves at the back. The order of service had a photo of the deceased on the front, smiling at whoever had been holding the camera and probably taken two or three decades back.

‘He looks like Malcolm,’ Rebus observed to Clarke.

‘Apparently Jude takes after their mum,’ Clarke whispered back.

The service was brief, just the two hymns and some biographical details from the minister, along with a prayer. Neither Fox nor his sister got up to speak. Everyone stood as the minister led them back out into the sunshine, where a few wreaths lay. Rebus shook Jude’s hand and introduced himself as ‘a friend of Malcolm’s’. Another handshake from Fox himself.

‘Are you coming to the hotel?’ Fox asked.

Rebus shook his head. ‘Things to do — you know what it’s like.’

‘I’m coming,’ Clarke interrupted, giving Fox a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

‘We’re rendezvousing at the Ox later, though?’ Fox checked.

‘Try and stop me,’ Rebus said, digging into his pocket for his cigarettes before heading for the car park. The day was bright, the sun low, casting long shadows. He’d had to scrape ice from the Saab using the edge of a credit card, a move he regretted when the card snapped in two. He would call into his bank on the way home and let them know. Or maybe it could wait until tomorrow.

There was a figure in black standing by the car — Cafferty, in a three-quarter-length coat, its collar turned up.

‘I still want to speak to the lad,’ he said.

‘He already knows what you’ll say.’

‘Even so.’

Rebus offered a shrug and tapped on the car window. Brillo was seated inside, waiting impatiently. ‘I’ve asked Page and he’s said no. You can always visit Jordan in jail.’

‘If I live that long.’ Cafferty looked towards the small crowd outside the crematorium. Fresh mourners were arriving for the next session, mostly in cars, a few on foot. ‘I hate these places,’ he muttered with a shiver.

‘Don’t we all?’

‘It’s in my will that I’m to be buried rather than burned.’

‘In consecrated ground?’ Rebus took one last puff of his cigarette before grinding the stub under his heel.

‘I’m prepared to repent my sins at the last.’

‘Better start now — it’s going to take a while.’

The two men shared a smile. Cafferty examined the tips of his shoes. ‘Christie’s teamed up with Joe Stark,’ he said.

‘So I hear.’

‘Means he might end up running Glasgow.’

‘If we don’t put him away as an accessory to murder.’

‘Good luck with that. Is it true Holroyd left a diary?’ He watched as Rebus nodded. ‘Naming names?’

‘Including yours.’

‘You think the inquiry will get off the ground?’

‘I dare say some will want it strangled at birth.’ Rebus had taken out his car keys. ‘Can I give you a lift?’

Cafferty shook his head and gestured towards the window. ‘You keeping the dog?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Might be a good move, now you’re retired — nice long walks in the fresh air. I find I like walking too.’

‘Now that there’s no one with a gun out there looking for you?’

‘Every car that passes, though… I always wonder if this’ll be the time it stops and Darryl Christie invites me to step in.’

‘If we get him to trial, will you testify?’

‘Absolutely.’ Cafferty paused. ‘But for the defence rather than your lot.’ He gave the briefest of waves as he turned to go.

‘You still reckon you have the beating of him, don’t you?’ Rebus called out. Cafferty paused without looking back and held up a single index finger. Rebus knew what the gesture meant.

One last good fight left in me…

He didn’t doubt it for a minute.

Opening the Saab and getting in, Rebus gave Brillo’s coat a rub before starting the engine. He watched as Cafferty’s figure receded, then lifted a CD from the passenger seat and slotted it home. It had arrived first thing, mail order. The album was called The Affectionate Punch. He skipped through it to track seven and listened as Billy Mackenzie started to sing about a boy, a boy frightened, neglected, abandoned. Sons and fathers, he thought: Malcolm and Mitch Fox, Dennis and Joe Stark, Jordan Foyle and Bryan Holroyd. His phone alerted him to a text. It was from Samantha. She had sent the photo he’d asked for, the one of him and Carrie. He studied it for a moment before showing it to a quizzical Brillo; then, having turned up the volume on the stereo, he reversed out of the parking space and headed back into the city.