Even Dogs in the Wild

4

Next morning, Doug Maxtone gestured for Fox to follow him out of the cramped office into the empty corridor of St Leonard’s police station.

‘I’ve just been briefed,’ Maxtone said, ‘by our friends from the west.’

‘Anything you can share?’

‘We discussed their request for that “ancillary support” I mentioned yesterday…’ Maxtone broke off and waited.

Fox tapped a finger against his own chest and watched his boss nod slowly.

‘You worked Professional Standards, Malcolm, so you know all about keeping your mouth shut.’ Maxtone paused. ‘But you also know about spying. You’re going to be my eyes and ears in there, understood? I’ll want regular updates.’ He checked his watch. ‘In a minute, you’re going to go knock on the door. By then they’ll have decided how much they need to tell you and how much they think they can get away with not sharing.’

‘I seem to remember they wanted to vet potential candidates.’

Maxtone shook his head. ‘I’ve made it pretty clear you’re what’s on offer.’

‘Do they know I used to work Complaints?’

‘Yes.’

‘In which case I expect I’ll be welcomed with open arms. Any other advice?’

‘The boss is called Ricky Compston. Big wide bastard with a shaved head. Typical Glasgow — thinks he’s seen it all while we spend our days directing tourists to the castle.’ Maxtone paused. ‘None of the others bothered with introductions.’

‘But they did tell you why they’re here?’

‘It’s to do with a—’ Maxtone broke off as the door to the CID suite swung open. A face appeared, glowering.

‘That him?’ a voice barked. ‘When you’re ready…’

The head disappeared, the door remaining ajar.

‘I better go say hello,’ Fox told his boss.

‘We’ll talk at the end of the day.’

Fox nodded and moved off, standing in front of the door, giving himself a moment before pushing it all the way open. There were five of them, all standing, mostly with arms folded.

‘Shut the door then,’ the man who had originally opened it said. Fox reckoned this must be Compston. He had the rough dimensions and general demeanour of a prize bull. No handshakes, just down to business.

‘For the record,’ Compston said, ‘we know this is shite, yes?’

He seemed to require an answer, so Fox gave something that could have been construed as a nod of agreement.

‘But in the spirit of cooperation, here we all are.’ Compston stretched out an arm, taking in the room. The desks were sparsely furnished — just laptops and mobile phones, plugged into chargers. Almost no paperwork and nothing pinned to the walls. Compston took a step forward, filling Fox’s field of vision, so he knew who was in charge. ‘Now I know what your boss is thinking: he’s thinking you’re going to run straight back to him every five minutes with the latest gossip. But that wouldn’t be very wise, Detective Inspector Fox. Because if anything leaks, I know for a fact as hard as my last shit that it won’t have come from my team. Is that clear?’

‘I think I’ve some lactulose in my drawer, if that would help.’

One of the detectives gave a snort of laughter, and even Compston eventually broke into a brief smile.

‘You know I used to be Professional Standards,’ Fox ploughed on. ‘That means I’ve got a fan club here with precisely no members. Probably explains why Maxtone chose me — keeps me out of his hair. Besides which, I don’t expect he thinks this is going to be a laugh a minute. You might need me and you might not. I’m happy to sit on my arse playing Angry Birds for the duration — salary still goes into my bank.’

Compston studied the man in front of him, then turned his head towards his team.

‘Initial assessment?’

‘Standard Complaints wanker,’ a man in a light blue shirt said, seeming to act as the voice of the group.

Compston raised an eyebrow. ‘Alec isn’t usually so effusive. On the other hand, he seldom gets people wrong. Standard Complaints wanker it is. So let’s all sit down and get uncomfortable.’

They did, and introductions were finally made. The blue shirt was Alec Bell. He was probably in his early fifties, a good five or six years older than Compston. A taller, younger, undernourished-looking officer went by the name of Jake Emerson. The only woman present was called Beth Hastie. She reminded Fox a little of the First Minister — similar age, haircut and facial shape. Finally there was Peter Hughes, probably the youngest of the team, dressed for the street in a padded denim jacket and black jeans.

‘I thought there were six of you,’ Fox commented.

‘Bob Selway’s otherwise engaged,’ Compston explained. Fox waited for more.

‘That makes five,’ he said.

The group shared a look. Compston sniffed and shifted a little in his chair.

‘Five it is,’ he stated.

Fox noted that no ranks had been mentioned. It was clear Compston was in charge, with Bell as his trusted lieutenant. The others seemed like foot soldiers. If he had to guess, he’d say they hadn’t known each other for any great length of time.

‘Whatever it is you’re up to, there’s a surveillance element,’ Fox said. ‘You’ll appreciate that surveillance used to be a big part of my job, so that might be the one skill I have that’d be useful to you.’

‘Okay, smart-arse, how did you work that out?’

Fox’s eyes met Compston’s and stayed there. ‘Selway is “otherwise engaged”. Meantime Hughes is dressed so he doesn’t stand out in certain situations. He looks fairly comfortable, too, which means he’s done it before.’ Fox paused. ‘How am I doing?’

‘Maxtone really didn’t tell you?’

Fox shook his head, and Compston took a deep breath.

‘You’ll have heard of Joseph Stark?’

‘Let’s pretend I haven’t.’

‘Your boss hadn’t heard of him either. Unbelievable.’ Compston made show of shaking his head. ‘Joe Stark is a Glasgow gangster of long and ugly standing. He’s sixty-three years old and not quite ready to pass the baton to his son—’

‘Dennis,’ Alec Bell interrupted. ‘Otherwise known as a nasty little turd.’

‘With you so far,’ Fox said.

‘Joe and Dennis, along with some of their crew, have been enjoying a wee road trip of late. Inverness first, then Aberdeen and Dundee.’

‘And now they’re in Edinburgh?’

‘Been here a couple of days and don’t look like budging.’

‘And you’ve had them under surveillance throughout?’ Fox surmised.

‘We want to know what they’re doing.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘We’ve got an inkling.’

‘Do I get to hear it?’

‘They might be looking for a guy called Hamish Wright. He’s based in Inverness but has friends in Aberdeen, Dundee…’

‘And here.’

‘I say “friends”, but contacts might be a better description. Wright runs a haulage business, which means he has lorries crossing to the Western Isles, Orkney and Shetland, even Ireland and the Continent.’

‘Could be useful if there was something illegal that needed distributing.’ A head-and-shoulders shot of Wright had been handed to Fox. He studied the face. It was chubby and freckled and topped by curly red hair. ‘Looks like a Hamish,’ he commented.

‘Right.’

‘Would it be drugs he’s moving?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘For the Starks?’ Fox watched Compston nod. ‘So why haven’t you busted him?’

‘We were about to.’

‘And we reckoned we’d take down Stark and his son too,’ Bell added. ‘But then Wright went AWOL.’

‘And Stark’s your best chance of finding him?’ Fox nodded his understanding. ‘But why’s Stark so interested?’

‘There’ll be reasons,’ Compston said.

‘To do with money?’

‘Money and goods, yes.’

‘So where are Stark and his men? Who are they talking to?’

‘Right now, they’re in a café in Leith. They’re staying at a bed and breakfast nearby.’

‘Bob Selway’s watching them?’

‘Until I relieve him in forty minutes,’ Peter Hughes broke in.

‘Reckon young Peter will blend in?’ Compston asked Fox. ‘We did wonder if these days he’d need one of those hipster beards, seeing how Leith is going up in the world.’

‘Like he’s old enough to grow a beard,’ Alec Bell snorted.

Hughes made a single-digit gesture but looked as though he’d heard all the jokes before. Fox could sense the team softening a little. He wasn’t being accepted, but they were ceasing to see him as an immediate threat.

‘So that’s where we are and why we’re here,’ Compston said with a shrug. ‘And if you’ll let us get on with it, we’ll leave you to your Angry Birds.’

But Fox had a question. ‘Stark and his men were in town last night? What did they get up to?’

‘Dinner and a few drinks.’

‘You had eyes on them all evening?’

‘Pretty much. Why?’

Fox gave a twitch of the mouth. ‘You’ll have heard of Morris Gerald Cafferty, known as Big Ger?’

‘Let’s pretend I haven’t.’

‘Unbelievable,’ Fox echoed. ‘He was a major player on the east coast until recently. Similar age to your Joe Stark.’

‘And?’

‘Someone decided to take a potshot at him yesterday evening around eight o’clock.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘At his home. Shooter was outside, Cafferty was inside, meaning it might have been a warning of some kind.’

Compston ran a hand across his jaw. ‘Interesting.’ He looked to Alec Bell, who offered a shrug.

‘Seven till nine they were in the Abbotsford,’ Bell recited. ‘Drink at the bar, meal in the upstairs restaurant.’

‘And where were we?’

‘Peter was at the bar throughout.’

Hughes nodded his agreement. ‘Apart from a quick break for a slash. But Beth was posted outside.’

‘At the end of Rose Street, not more than twenty yards away,’ Beth Hastie confirmed.

‘Probably nothing to it then,’ Compston said, not quite managing to sound as if he meant it. Then, to Fox: ‘Would your man Cafferty have had dealings with the Starks?’

‘I can try to find out.’ Fox paused. ‘Always supposing you’re willing to trust me that far.’

‘You know Cafferty to talk to?’

‘Yes.’ Fox managed not to blink.

‘You can bring up the Starks without him getting wind of the surveillance?’

‘Absolutely.’

Compston looked at the other members of his team. ‘What do we think?’

‘Risky,’ Hastie offered.

‘Agreed,’ Alec Bell muttered.

‘Fox is right about one thing, though,’ Compston said, rising to his feet. ‘Starks hit town and almost immediately someone fires a shot across the bows of the competition. Could well be a message.’ His eyes were boring into Fox’s. ‘You reckon you’re up to this?’

‘Yes.’

‘How will you do it?’

Fox shrugged. ‘We just chat. I’m pretty good at reading people. If he suspects the Starks, he may let something slip.’ He paused. ‘I’m assuming they’d have access to a gun?’

Alec Bell snorted.

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ Then, to Compston: ‘So do I talk to him or not?’

‘You don’t so much as hint at the surveillance.’

Fox nodded, then gestured towards the silent, cadaverous figure of Jake Emerson. ‘Doesn’t say much, does he?’

‘Not in front of Complaints he doesn’t,’ Emerson sneered. ‘Scumbuckets, the lot of you.’

‘See?’ Compston said with a smile. ‘Jake keeps his counsel mostly, but when he does speak, it’s always worth hearing.’ He held out a hand for Fox to take. ‘You’re on probation, but for what it’s worth — welcome to Operation Junior.’

‘Junior?’

Compston gave a cold smile. ‘If you’re any kind of detective, you’ll work it out,’ he said, releasing his grip.

5

Fox stood on the pavement outside the four-storey tenement on Arden Street and made the call, his eyes fixed on one of the second-floor windows.

‘What do you want?’ Rebus’s voice asked.

‘You at home?’

‘Bowls game doesn’t start for another hour.’

‘Using your bus pass to get there?’

‘You’re sharper than you used to be — that’s what a spell in CID does for you.’

‘Can I come up?’

Rebus’s face appeared at the window. ‘I was just nipping out to the shop.’

‘I’ll walk with you. I thought we could talk about Cafferty.’

‘Why would we want to do that?’

‘I’ll tell you when you come down.’ Fox ended the call, holding the phone away from him for effect. Rebus remained at the window for a moment, then disappeared. Two minutes later, wrapped in a three-quarter-length black woollen coat, he emerged into the street, turning left and heading uphill, Fox at his heels.

‘Before you ask, I’ve cut back,’ he informed Fox as he lifted a cigarette from a near-empty packet.

‘Have you tried vaping?’

‘I hate that word.’

‘Have you, though?’

‘A couple of times. It’s just not the same.’ Rebus stopped briefly to get the cigarette lit. ‘There’s some news on Cafferty?’

‘Not exactly.’

Rebus looked at Fox for the first time since coming out of the tenement. ‘So I’m here under false pretences?’ He started walking again.

‘Do the names Joe and Dennis Stark mean anything to you?’

‘Joe’s an old-time Glasgow thug. His son didn’t fall far from the tree.’

‘Ever had dealings with either of them?’

‘No.’

‘Might Cafferty?’

‘Almost certainly. You couldn’t have one city tramping on the other’s turf, not without war breaking out.’

‘So there’d have been powwows between the two?’

‘And their equivalents in Aberdeen, maybe Dundee…’

‘That’s interesting.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the Starks visited both those places recently.’

‘What’s your thinking, Malcolm?’ Rebus glanced in Fox’s direction. ‘And by the way, are you and Siobhan sleeping together?’

‘Would it bother you if we were?’

‘I’ll always look out for her. Anyone hurts her, it’ll be me they answer to.’

‘She’s an adult, John. She might even be tougher than either you or me.’

‘Maybe, but just so you know.’

‘We’re friends — that’s as far as it goes.’

They had turned the corner at the top of the street. There was a Sainsbury’s across the road, and Rebus stopped by its door, taking a final couple of drags on his cigarette before stubbing it out.

‘Didn’t even smoke the whole thing,’ he said. ‘Be sure and tell her that. You never did answer my question.’

Fox followed him into the shop. ‘What question?’

‘Why do you want to know about the Starks?’

‘They arrived in town a couple of days back. Just wondered if there might be a reason for them to target Cafferty.’

Rebus’s eyes narrowed as he picked up a basket. He was silent while they perused the first aisle. Instant coffee, a small loaf, a litre of milk, packets of link sausages and bacon. As they passed by the wine and beer, Rebus gestured with his free hand.

‘Tell her I didn’t buy a single can or bottle.’

At the counter, however, he added a fresh pack of cigarettes to his purchases, along with a sausage roll from the hotplate.

‘A man has to have some vices,’ he said as they made for the exit. Outside, he slid the first inch from its paper bag and took a bite. Flecks of pastry broke off and peppered the lapels of his coat.

‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.

Fox slipped his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the stiff breeze. ‘Would Cafferty talk to me about the Starks?’

‘You think Joe Stark is responsible for last night?’

‘Maybe the son. Revenge for some grievance.’

‘I’m not sure Dennis would have missed. He’ll have had a bit of practice down the years.’

‘So it was a warning of some kind, somebody trying to put the wind up Cafferty. You have to admit, it’s odd how this happens the day after the Starks hit town.’

‘There is that,’ Rebus conceded. ‘But say we mention as much to Cafferty…’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, he might want to explore the possibility.’

‘He might,’ Fox agreed.

‘And that could get ugly.’

Fox was nodding slowly as Rebus chewed on another mouthful of food. When the chewing stopped, replaced by a widening smile, Fox knew he’d done his job.

Lunchtime, and the Golden Rule was almost empty. The main bar was connected by a set of steps to a larger seated area that boasted another bar, only open when the place got busy. They had this room to themselves. Cafferty looked comfortable, seated at a corner table well away from the window. He had a double whisky in front of him. Rebus carried a pint through, while Fox, a couple of steps behind him, brought nothing at all.

‘Malcolm Fox, isn’t it?’ Cafferty reached out a hand, which Fox shook. ‘Out of the Complaints these days, I hear. I suppose with John heading into the wilderness, you felt the job had lost any sense of challenge.’ He toasted both men and took a sip from his glass.

‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me,’ Fox said.

‘It’s not you I’m meeting, son — it’s your ex-colleague. Always worth finding out what’s going on in that head of his.’

‘Be that as it may…’

Cafferty was flapping one hand, signalling for Fox to stop. There was silence around the table, broken only by the sounds of the TV from the distant bar. Eventually Rebus put down his glass and spoke.

‘A shot was fired at you last night — we all know it. Most of your obvious enemies are long gone—’

‘Present company excepted,’ Cafferty interrupted, making another toast.

‘But then DI Fox discovers that Joe Stark is in town, along with his son.’

‘They’ve not sectioned Dennis yet?’ Cafferty feigned surprise.

‘We’re wondering if there’s any possible connection,’ Rebus continued. ‘I’ve spent half the night turning it over, and I’m not coming up with more than two or three names.’

‘Ah, now you’ve got me interested. What names?’

‘Billy Jones.

‘Living in Florida, as far as I know.’

‘Eck Hendry.’

‘Went to stay with his daughter in Australia. I think he suffered a stroke a couple of months back.’

‘Darryl Christie.’

Cafferty’s lips formed an O. ‘Ah, young Darryl.’

‘Your protégé back in the day.’

‘Never that. Darryl’s always been his own man. Doing well too, I hear. Business expanding, never a blemish on his character.’ His eyes met Rebus’s. ‘Almost as if he had the law on his side.’

‘Maybe he’s just always been that bit cannier than you.’

‘That must be it,’ Cafferty pretended to agree. ‘But I doubt he sees me as any sort of threat to his various interests, not these days.’

‘You don’t sound a hundred per cent sure,’ Fox couldn’t help interrupting.

‘We live in uncertain times. Not six months ago, we thought we were soon going to be an independent country.’

‘We still might be.’

‘And wouldn’t that be a grand scheme?’ Cafferty smiled behind his glass and tipped it to his mouth.

‘Thing you need to know about Big Ger,’ Rebus began for Fox’s benefit, ‘is that if he seems to be offering you something, there’s a game being played. He doesn’t rule out Darryl Christie, maybe in the hope we’ll go looking at Darryl and turn up something — something advantageous to Big Ger himself.’

Cafferty winked at Fox. ‘It’s like he knows me better than I know myself — saves me a fortune in therapy.’ Then, turning his attention back to Rebus: ‘But you’ve got me intrigued — why is Joe Stark here?’

‘Whatever it is, he’s obviously not sharing it with you.’

‘That son of his will be in charge of things soon. Maybe Joe’s introducing him to society.’

‘It’s a theory,’ Rebus acknowledged.

‘Everything is, until there’s proof. Will you go ask Darryl?’

Rebus met Cafferty’s stare. ‘You forgetting I’m retired?’

‘What do you think, DI Fox? Does Rebus here act like someone on the scrapheap? He will talk to Darryl, you know. Him and Darryl are old pals — didn’t you do one another a favour not so long back?’

‘Don’t believe all the stories,’ Rebus advised. He got to his feet, pulling his coat around him.

‘Not finishing your drink?’ Cafferty gestured towards the half-full pint. ‘I suppose there’s a first time for everything.’ Then, stretching out his hand again, ‘Nice to see you, DI Fox. Say hello to the fragrant Siobhan for me. And be sure to tell her you’re hanging on to Rebus’s coat-tails. She might well have some sage advice on the subject.’ He gave a little chuckle, which only intensified when Fox snubbed the handshake and instead began following Rebus towards the exit.

6

Clarke pinched the bridge of her nose, screwing her eyes shut. For almost three hours she had been reading about David Minton — his upbringing, education, career in the law, failed attempt to become a Conservative MP, and eventual peerage. As Lord Advocate, he had been able to speak in the Scottish Parliament, though the current administration had changed the role so that Lords Advocate no longer attended cabinet meetings. Minton’s closest colleague had been the Crown Agent, Kathryn Young. Young was putting pressure on Page and his team, phoning four times and turning up unannounced twice. Same went for the Solicitor General, who at least had one of her flunkeys act as inquisitor — easier to dismiss than the actual Crown Agent.

Clarke had thought she knew a bit about the legal profession — in her line of work, she spent a good deal of time with lawyers from the Procurator Fiscal’s department. But this was above her pay-scale and she was having trouble clarifying the role of the Lord Advocate. He was of the government but not in the government. He was in charge of the prosecution service, but his role as chief legal adviser to the government of the day made for complications in the form of potential conflicts of interest. Post-devolution, the position of Lord Advocate no longer came with the sinecure of a life peerage, but Minton’s appointment had pre-dated the opening of the Scottish Parliament. He was unusual in one respect, having decided against becoming a judge after his role as Lord Advocate ended, something he shared with only one other colleague, Lord Fraser of Carmyllie.

And hang on, what did the Solicitor General do again?

Then there was the Advocate General for Scotland, who advised the UK government on matters of Scots law. He was based in London but had an office in Edinburgh — and there had been phone calls from both to add to the mix. The procurator fiscal (actually a fiscal depute) attached to the Minton case was called Shona MacBryer. Clarke had worked with her before and liked her a lot. She was sharp, thorough, but relaxed enough so you could joke with her. She’d been in to see Page several times, but Clarke hadn’t as yet slumped to her knees and begged for a two-line explanation of the Scottish legal hierarchy. No detective wanted a lawyer to think they were more stupid than most lawyers already considered them to be.

With nothing better to do, Clarke wandered along to the cafeteria — one thing about Fettes, it at least had a cafeteria — and settled at a table with a mug of tea and a Twix. She was remembering that Malcolm Fox had been based here throughout his time in Professional Standards. She wasn’t sure he had found his feet yet in CID. He was a nice guy, maybe too nice. Visited his dad in the nursing home most weekends, and phoned his sister from time to time in failed attempts to mend fences. Clarke liked hanging out with him — it wasn’t that she thought him a charity case. She’d told him as much a few weeks back. His response — ‘Absolutely, and don’t think I see you as one either’ — had caused her to bristle, saying nothing for the rest of the DVD they’d been watching. Later that night she had stared at her reflection in her bathroom mirror.

‘Cheeky sod,’ she’d said out loud. ‘I’m a catch.’

And she’d punched her pillows a few times for good measure before settling down to sleep.

‘Mind if I join you?’

She looked up to see James Page standing there, coffee mug in hand.

‘Of course not,’ she said.

‘You looked like you were thinking great things.’

‘Always.’

He took a slurp from his mug. ‘Are we making headway?’ he asked.

‘We’re doing what we can. Every housebreaker in the city is under orders — if they give us a name, they’ll have a friend when they next need one.’

‘So far to no effect.’

‘X snitches on Y, Y on Z, and Z on X.’

‘In other words, you’re not hopeful.’

‘Hopeful, no; curious, yes.’

‘Go on.’ Another slurp of coffee. The few dates they’d gone on — some time back — he had done the same thing, whether the drink was hot, tepid or cold. She’d asked him to stop, but he had seemed incapable, and couldn’t see the problem.

‘First you have to put that mug down until I’ve left the table.’

He tried staring her out, then complied.

‘To begin with,’ Clarke went on, ‘we shied away from Minton’s private life. Break-in gone wrong, we thought. But the note changes that. The deceased did something to annoy someone.’

‘Probably in his professional rather than private life,’ Page cautioned.

‘Which is why you’ve got Esson and Ogilvie digging back through several years’ worth of cases and judgments. Thing is, it would have to have been a really big case, right? For someone to decide that the perceived injustice merited a death threat. And also, wouldn’t it need to be something recent, or else why are they suddenly so riled?’

‘Maybe they just got out of jail.’

‘And again, you’ve got someone checking the files. But we may be looking at this whole thing the wrong way. From what I’ve discovered about Lord Minton, he’s almost too perfect. Everyone’s got secrets.’

‘We’ve examined his house, been through the contents of his personal and work computers. No weird or accusatory emails. His office say they’ve received no letters out of the ordinary. I’ve asked — even if the mail was marked Private or Personal, they were instructed by Lord Minton to open it. No phone calls — we’ve checked his home number and mobile. There’s nothing there, Siobhan.’

‘What are we talking about then? A case of mistaken identity? Note sent to the wrong person, window of the wrong house’s laundry room broken?’ She couldn’t help thinking about the previous night at Cafferty’s. ‘He hung on to the note, James. More than that, he kept it close to him. To my mind, he knew it meant something.’

‘Why didn’t he tell anyone, then?’

‘I don’t know.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Maybe we need to talk to his friends again, starting with the closest.’

‘That would be Kathryn Young, wouldn’t it?’

‘From what I hear.’

Page sat in silence for a moment. ‘I’m still not convinced, Siobhan. The attacker broke in — it’s not as if Minton opened the door to someone he knew.’

‘Front door’s dangerous, though — whole streetful of potential witnesses.’

‘But to clamber over walls, sneak through back gardens…’

‘I doubt we’re looking for someone of the victim’s generation, though you never can tell.’

Page gave a loud sigh. ‘Can I drink my coffee now?’

Clarke smiled, rising from her seat. ‘I’ll see you upstairs,’ she said.

There was a Starbuck’s on Canongate, and Kathryn Young had agreed to meet them there. She had a forty-minute window between meetings at the Scottish Parliament, so she placed her order with Clarke by text. The tables were small and fairly public, but Page had done his best. They were in an alcove near the back of the room, and he reckoned the regular noises of milk being frothed and beans being ground would mask their conversation from the other customers.

Young carried with her a heavy-looking satchel. It made one of Scotland’s most senior lawyers resemble a teacher encumbered by a week’s unmarked homework. She was well-dressed, but the wind howling down towards the Parliament had messed up her shoulder-length brown hair and put a glow in her cheeks.

‘Small latte,’ Clarke said, pushing the mug towards her. Young nodded her thanks and removed her coat and scarf.

‘Any news?’ she said.

‘There’s something we’d like to share with you,’ Page said quietly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands pressed together as if in prayer. ‘We’ve been debating motive.’

‘I thought it was a straightforward housebreaking.’

‘So did we, until we found this.’ He gestured towards Clarke, who handed over a photocopy of the note. Young’s brow furrowed as she read.

‘Someone sent it to Lord Minton,’ Clarke explained, ‘and Lord Minton kept it in his wallet. To my mind, that means he didn’t just dismiss it as some kind of prank. We’re wondering who his enemies might have been.’

‘I’m at a loss.’ Young handed the note back. ‘You’ve not made this public?’

‘We didn’t see how it could help — not just yet,’ Page explained.

‘You knew the man as well as anybody,’ Clarke said, making eye contact and noting that Young’s eyes were the same shade of brown as her hair. ‘So we’re wondering if you can shed any light. Did he ever mention anything about threats, or someone who had a grudge against him, real or perceived?’

The Crown Agent was shaking her head. ‘We weren’t close in that way. I’d known David maybe twelve or thirteen years. But his real friends — the ones he spoke about — they’re mostly dead, I think. Other lawyers, at least one MP, businessmen…’ She was shaking her head again. ‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t think of anyone who’d want to harm him.’

‘Maybe a case he’d prosecuted?’ Clarke persisted.

‘He was always very guarded. I mean, he would talk in general terms, or discuss matters of procedure, diligence, precedence. He had memorised famous trials of the past…’

‘And you hadn’t noticed a change in him recently? More guarded, maybe? On edge?’

Young concentrated on her coffee while she pondered this. ‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘Nothing. Mrs Marischal would know before I did, though — she spent more time sharing a cuppa with him than dusting anything. Or else whoever works in his office these days — have you asked them?’

‘We have, though we might try again.’

‘You can’t be sure the person who sent that note is the same one who broke in,’ Young stated.

‘We’re aware of that.’

‘You should make it public — the note, I mean. Someone out there might recognise the writing.’ She glanced at her watch and took another swig of coffee. ‘I’m afraid I have to get back. I’m sorry I haven’t been much use.’

‘Do you think it’s worth our while talking to anyone at the New Club? He used to go there most days.’

Young shrugged her way back into her coat and picked up her scarf. ‘I’ve honestly no idea.’ She bent at the knees to retrieve her satchel. ‘So much for the paperless office,’ she said with a grim smile, making her way towards the door.

‘That was time well spent,’ Page said to Clarke through gritted teeth.

‘Maybe she’s right about the note, though. It’s all we’ve got; be a shame not to use it.’

‘The press will blow it out of all proportion,’ Page cautioned. ‘We’ll have people scared to leave their houses because there’s a killer out there and anyone could be his next target. Plus the nutters will come out of the woodwork with the usual premonitions and theories.’

‘And our killer, knowing we’re no longer treating it as a break-in gone wrong, has plenty of time to pack his bags and head elsewhere.’ Clarke was nodding her agreement. ‘All of that’s true, James.’

He looked at her. ‘But you still think we should do it?’

‘Do you know what a soft launch is? No press conference. We give it to one outlet, someone who’ll report it without the sensationalism. Social media will spread the story, but it’ll be our version. By the time the other papers get hold of it, the fire will have died back a bit.’

‘I assume you’ve a journalist in mind?’

Clarke nodded and lifted her phone, angling it towards him. ‘Soon as you give the word.’

Page leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. The nod he gave was half-hearted at best. Clarke made the call anyway.

Laura Smith was at the café twenty minutes later, by which time Page had headed back to the office. He’d used the excuse of a meeting, but Clarke knew he was putting distance between himself and the plan. If it blew up in their faces in any way, Clarke would be the one left explaining to the Chief.

‘You’ve grown your hair,’ Clarke said, after Smith had paid for a bottle of water and seated herself in Page’s chair.

‘And you’ve had yours cut — it suits you.’ Smith broke the seal on the bottle and tipped it to her mouth.

‘How’s the newspaper business?’

Still drinking, Smith rolled her eyes. She was just over five feet in height, but every inch of her was focused on getting ahead, which was tough when your chosen profession seemed to be in its death throes. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand and screwed the top back on the bottle.

‘More redundancies in the offing,’ she said.

‘You should be safe though, no?’

‘Well, I’m the only crime reporter they’ve got, and last time I looked, crime still sold papers, so…’ She gave a huge shrug of the shoulders and concentrated her attention on Clarke. ‘Is it about Lord Minton?’

‘Yes.’

‘On the record?’

‘Sort of. Though I’d prefer it if “police sources” was the phrase of choice — and I’ll need to see what you write before your editor does.’

Smith puffed out her cheeks. ‘Is that non-negotiable?’

‘Afraid so.’

Smith gave a twitch of the mouth and dug her phone out of her pocket. ‘Can I record this anyway, just as a memo to myself?’

‘I don’t see why not. But I’m going to be showing rather than telling.’

Smith was busying herself with her phone’s recording function. When she eventually looked up, Clarke was holding out the photocopied note.

‘From Lord Minton’s wallet,’ she stated.

The noise Laura Smith made — as captured by her phone — was pitched somewhere between a squeal and a whoop.

7

‘Is this where you ask me about the favour I’m supposed to have done Darryl Christie?’ Rebus asked Fox. They were in the Saab, Rebus driving. Fox was gripping his seat belt with one hand and the door handle with the other.

‘I’m not Complaints any more.’

‘Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t shop a bent cop though, right?’

‘As you keep reminding me, you’re not a cop these days. We headed to the Gimlet?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I forgot — I took you there once to see Darryl. But he’s long finished hanging out at dives like that. He owns a couple of nightclubs in the city centre, along with a casino and “boutique” hotel, whatever that means.’

‘It usually means expensive.’

‘Well, we’re about to find out.’

‘What makes you think we’ll find him there?’

Rebus glanced towards his passenger. ‘People tell me things.’

‘Even though you’ve retired from the police?’

‘Even so.’

The car had made its descent from Queen Street into the heart of the New Town. Just before reaching Royal Circus, Rebus pulled over to the kerb. He applied the brake but the car crept forward.

‘Keep forgetting it does that.’ He shifted the gearstick into first before turning off the engine.

‘Ever thought about trading up to the twenty-first century?’ Fox was having trouble with the seat belt. Eventually he got it unlocked and clambered out, while Rebus rubbed the Saab’s roof and told it not to listen to the nasty man.

The hotel was part of a typical Georgian terrace, its signage discreet. Inside there was a hallway containing nothing as obvious as a reception desk. Rebus turned left into a plush cocktail bar. A slim young Asian man in a bright red waistcoat was ready with a smile.

‘Checking in, gentlemen? Take a seat and someone will be with you in a trice.’

‘We’re here to see Darryl,’ Rebus corrected him.

‘Darryl…?’ The smile was hardening.

‘Darryl Christie, son,’ Rebus barked. ‘I know he doesn’t like visitors, but he’ll make an exception. Just tell him it’s Rebus.’

‘Rebus?’

Rebus nodded and sank back into a heavily padded black velour sofa. Fox stayed on his feet, studying the furnishings. Thick velvet curtains tied back with plaited golden ropes. Odd-shaped mirrors. Jelly beans and rice crackers in little bowls on each glass-topped table. Rebus was helping himself to a scoop of each.

The barman had disappeared around the back of the gantry and was making a muffled phone call. There was music playing, but not obtrusively. Something electronic.

‘Doing all right for himself, then,’ Fox commented.

‘And as Cafferty said, all of it looking above board to the naked eye.’

‘But he’s dirty nevertheless?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And we’ve not done anything because…?’ Fox sat down opposite Rebus.

‘Because he’s been lucky. Because he’s clever. Because maybe he has friends in the right places.’

‘What would your guess be?’

Rebus swallowed the last of the snack and began picking between his teeth with a fingernail. ‘Sometimes there’s such a thing as a responsible criminal.’

‘Explain.’ Fox sat forward a little, ready to learn.

‘Well, there’s always going to be organised crime — we know that. All over the world, society’s tried shutting it down and it never quite happens. As long as there are things we judge illegal, and people out there who want those things, someone will come along to provide them. In a place the size of Edinburgh — small city, crime not a huge problem for most of the residents — you might have room for one decent-sized player. And as long as that player doesn’t get too greedy, too cocky or too violent…’

‘They’ll likely be tolerated? Because they do some of the policing for us?’

‘It’s all about control, Malcolm. That and acting responsibly.’

‘What was Cafferty like when this was his playground?’

Rebus took a moment to form his answer. ‘He was the school bully. It was all about muscle, and not giving a damn about the consequences.’

‘And Christie?’

‘Darryl’s a negotiator. If he’d gone into stockbroking or flogging Bentleys to bankers, he’d have made his fortune. But he chose this instead.’

The barman had reappeared. He tried for another smile but didn’t quite manage it. ‘Mr Christie says he’ll be with you shortly. He also said to order drinks while you’re waiting.’

‘Well that’s very kind of him,’ Rebus said. ‘Do you want anything, DI Fox?’

‘Maybe an Appletiser?’

‘So that’s an Appletiser for my colleague and a Laphroaig for me.’ Rebus nodded towards the shelf of malt whiskies. ‘In fact, make it a double.’

‘You remembering the drink-drive limit?’ Fox warned.

‘It’s tattooed on my forearm.’

‘Water or ice on the side, sir?’ the barman was asking.

‘Is that question for me or him?’ Rebus enquired.

Taking the hint, the barman got to work.

Their drinks had just arrived at the table when Darryl Christie appeared in the doorway. He waved away the barman and settled himself on the sofa next to Fox and facing Rebus. Rebus had known him since he was a teenager, but Christie was in his early twenties now, and all trace of acne and youth had gone. His face had hardened, his hair was professionally groomed. The suit didn’t look cheap and neither did the shoes. He sported an open-necked shirt with cufflinks prominent at either wrist. The watch, at a guess, was worth more than Rebus’s car, even with a few thousand miles removed from its clock.

‘How’s business?’ Rebus asked.

‘On the up. It’s been a difficult few years for everyone.’

‘It’s certainly aged you, Darryl. Is that a bit of grey at your temples?’

‘Said the man in the twilight zone.’

‘You heard I’ve left the force?’

‘Did you not see the fireworks? We had quite the celebration here, trust me.’ Christie draped his arms over the back of the sofa and gestured towards Fox. ‘This you training your replacement? We’ve met before, haven’t we?’

‘Briefly,’ Fox said.

‘I think I remember congratulating you on your manners.’ Christie nodded to himself.

‘We’re here because of what happened to Big Ger Cafferty last night,’ Rebus said.

‘Namely?’

‘Someone put a bullet through his living-room window.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘Shooter missed.’

‘Dearie me.’

‘Maybe deliberately, who knows?’ Rebus placed his empty glass on the table with a clunk.

‘Cafferty’s told you it was my doing?’

‘You know what he’s like.’

‘I know he hates my guts. It’s why he’s talking to the Starks.’

‘Joe Stark?’ Rebus asked, feigning surprise.

‘Came into town a couple of days back. Booked into a B and B and the owner thought I’d be interested.’

‘You’re sure Joe’s here to see Cafferty?’

‘Not Joe so much as Dennis. Cafferty wants him put in charge.’

‘Of what?’ Fox asked, not quite understanding.

‘Of this!’ Christie was on his feet, arms outstretched. ‘The city — my city.’

‘You sure you’ve not watched Scarface one too many times?’ Rebus asked.

Christie sat down again, but the agitation he had been hiding was now evident in his posture. He pumped one of his knees as he spoke. ‘It’s the old story — my enemy’s enemy is my friend. Cafferty’s not got much more than a couple of years left in him. Last thing he wants is to be on his deathbed knowing I’m still around. Dennis Stark is the perfect choice. Guy’s crazy, for a start. Tell him to take me down and he’ll make sure it’s messy. And who else is there? Cafferty doesn’t know the new regimes in Aberdeen and Dundee. But he knows Joe Stark. They’re like two sides of the same piece of bog paper.’

‘I think you might be misreading the situation,’ Fox said.

‘Besides,’ Rebus broke in, ‘if Cafferty’s getting all chummy with the Starks, that gives you all the more reason to warn him off with a bullet.’

‘I’ve found, contrary to appearances, that a bullet is a pretty blunt instrument,’ Christie said. ‘Credit me with a bit more subtlety.’ He was regaining his composure. ‘And if shooters are involved, I’d put the Starks in the frame every single time. Could be they want to make sure Cafferty’s compliant — so he knows he can’t muck about with them. World they live in, that’s the way they do business.’

‘Have you met with them?’ Fox asked. ‘Spoken to them?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Cafferty thinks Dennis is maybe being toured around the country so he can get to know the various people he needs to know — people just like you.’

‘There’s nothing in my diary, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘Word to the wise, Darryl,’ Rebus said. ‘You know yourself they’re old school. You’ve just said as much. Subtlety isn’t going to play well with them.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

‘Fox and a couple of his colleagues could maybe talk to them, let them know they’re not welcome.’

‘DI Fox doesn’t look too sure about that.’

‘No… it’s just… maybe I…’

‘Well anyway,’ Christie said, slapping both his knees before rising to his feet again. ‘Thanks for stopping by. We both know it was a waste of time — Cafferty playing his usual games — but all the same…’

‘Just wish I could have put a bigger dent in your profits.’ Rebus gestured towards his empty whisky glass. ‘And remember what I said about the Starks. Dennis might be the mad dog, but it’s Joe who controls the leash.’

Christie gave a slow nod and preceded them into the hallway, bounding up the staircase two steps at a time.

‘A young man in a hurry,’ Fox commented as they left the building.

‘Taking its toll, though,’ Rebus said thoughtfully. ‘I don’t like my gangsters jumpy.’ He lit a cigarette. Fox was preparing to walk to the car, but Rebus stood his ground. ‘What did you mean in there? When you said he was misreading the situation?’

‘Nothing.’

‘There’s something you know, something you’re not telling. How did you find out the Starks were in town? And that they’d stopped off in Aberdeen and Dundee? I doubt you’ve any grasses worth the name.’

‘It was mentioned at St Leonard’s.’

‘Why, though? The Starks have probably been over here a dozen times this past year without a red flag being raised. And Christie was right about the look on your face when I said CID could go warn the Starks off. Why isn’t that a good idea, Malcolm?’

‘I’m not allowed to tell you.’

‘Why not?’

‘That’s just the way it is.’

‘We’re not in a Bruce Hornsby song here — you want my help but you won’t tell me anything? Well thanks a bunch, pal, but don’t go thinking I’ll ever be giving you my last Rolo again.’

Having said which, Rebus flicked his half-smoked cigarette at Fox’s feet and stomped off towards the car.

Cafferty sat at his kitchen table. The wooden shutters had been pulled across the windows, meaning no one could see in. He’d phoned a guy he knew — ex-army, ran half the city’s nightclub doormen — and now there were two well-built young men stationed in a car on the driveway, just inside the gates. The car was facing the pavement, so that anyone walking past could see them. And every ten minutes, one of them would make a circuit of the property, peering over the wall at the back to make sure no one was in a neighbouring garden. It wasn’t much, but it was something. In the past, Cafferty had employed a bodyguard, who slept in a room above the garage, but that had become an extravagance. Years before that, of course, he’d had half a dozen guys around him at all hours — used to drive his wife of the time demented. She’d get up in the night to go to the toilet, and find one of them watching her from the staircase. And when she went shopping or to meet friends, there would be the mandatory driver, who was under orders never to let her out of his sight.

Different these days, or so Cafferty had thought.

He had spent the past hour and a half making calls. Problem was, a lot of the people he’d known in the past were now reduced to ash, or had moved halfway across the world. Still, he’d put the word out — he was willing to pay top dollar for up-to-date information on the Starks, father and son, plus their associates, close or otherwise. He’d already learned that they had visited certain businesses in Aberdeen and Dundee in the previous week, which backed up his theory that Dennis was being introduced to people prior to taking over from his old man. The phone was lying on the table, fully charged and waiting for news. Next to it sat the squashed bullet. Cafferty pushed it around with a fingertip. Time was there’d have been someone in his pocket, someone from CID or the forensic lab. He would have handed it over and found out what he could. These days he hardly knew where to start, though again he had mentioned his interest to a few of the people he’d called. Maybe there was someone who knew someone.

There was Rebus, of course. But why would Rebus take it to the lab on the quiet rather than handing it over to CID?

What did it matter anyway? Had to be the Starks or Darryl Christie — the Starks for the sheer hell of it, Darryl Christie as a way of welcoming them to the city and showing them the new pecking order.

Whichever it was, he would find out. And they would pay.

There was nothing for Siobhan Clarke to do now but wait. The Scotsman would run the story online in the evening, flagging it up on its Twitter feed. Probably wouldn’t be until nine or ten o’clock, though, so that when the morning edition appeared they still had the print exclusive. Smith had texted to assure her that it was a front-page splash, unless one of the royals died or was caught on camera with a line of coke.

‘Perish the thought,’ Clarke had muttered to herself.

Esson and Ogilvie had been busy. They’d compiled a list stretching back half a decade of deaths occurring during break-ins — not just private homes, but workplaces too: security guards hit with crowbars, elderly couples threatened with torture if they didn’t say where their valuables were. Around three quarters of the cases had been solved.

‘Or at least someone went to jail,’ Esson had said, half joking.

There was one from the previous year — a woman attacked in her bedroom in Edinburgh. Her ex-husband was suspected, but there had never been enough evidence to satisfy the procurator fiscal that a guilty verdict would be reached. Another piqued Clarke’s interest — just a fortnight back, in Linlithgow. Retired care worker who had, three years before, scooped a million pounds on the lottery. Spent half the money on a big new house with a view of Linlithgow Palace. The man lived alone, his wife having predeceased him. Found in his downstairs hall, skull caved in, hit from behind. Kitchen door forced open from the outside. The case was still active. Clarke had asked Esson and Ogilvie what they thought.

‘Worth comparing notes?’ Esson had asked in turn.

‘It was news at the time,’ Ogilvie added. ‘The lottery win, I mean.’

‘Someone knows he’s got a few bob, so they burst in thinking it’ll be piled up on the coffee table?’ But Clarke had told them to make enquiries anyway, then had driven to the city mortuary, where, entering by the staff door, she surprised one of the assistants as he was removing his scrubs in the deserted corridor.

‘Just here to see Professor Quant,’ she explained.

‘Upstairs.’

Clarke managed a smile of apology as she squeezed past. ‘Nice tats, by the way,’ she said, watching the young man starting to blush.

Deborah Quant was in her well-lit, tidy office. There was a shower cubicle behind one of the doors and Clarke could smell soap and shampoo.

‘Not disturbing you?’

‘Come in, Siobhan. Take a seat.’

Quant had pulled back her long red hair, fixing it with a band. ‘Just finished up,’ she explained. ‘But I’ve a function this evening, so…’

Clarke had noticed the dress hanging from a hook. ‘Looks lovely,’ she commented.

‘Better than most of the guests will deserve — academics and senior medics.’

‘Taking a date?’

‘Got anyone in mind?’

‘I heard you’d been out a couple of times with a recent retiree.’

Quant smiled. ‘Drinks and dinner only. But can you really see John sitting through a black-tie event with a load of superannuated surgeons and professors?’

‘Did you ask him?’

‘Actually, I did. He declined.’

‘Gracefully, I’m sure.’

‘The swearing was minimal. So what can I do for you, Siobhan?’

‘It’s the Minton inquiry. You did the autopsy.’

‘I did.’

‘I’ve looked at your report. I was just wondering if anything else had come to mind.’

‘About what?’

‘Lord Minton had received a threatening letter — well, just a note really.’ Clarke handed over another photocopy. ‘I’m wondering if that changes your thinking in any way.’

‘Man died from a combination of blunt-force trauma and strangulation — either would probably have been sufficient. Attacked from the front or the side, most probably the front. Victim is on his way to the door of his study, having heard a noise, and the attacker bursts in and hits him with the same hammer he used to smash open the laundry-room window. Marks on the throat tell us the attacker had large hands, probably male.’ Quant shrugged. ‘This note doesn’t alter any of that. Was it found in his drawer?’

‘His wallet — why do you ask?’

‘In the photos from the locus, the desk drawer was open a couple of inches. I thought maybe the first officers on the scene…’

‘They would have known better than to touch anything.’ Clarke narrowed her eyes, trying to remember the crime scene. The drawer had been closed by the time she’d visited. Nothing odd about that. ‘I don’t suppose you carried out another autopsy a couple of weeks back, on that lottery winner?’

‘From Linlithgow?’ Quant shook her head. ‘That was blunt-force trauma too, wasn’t it? During a break-in. No sign of strangulation, though, if I remember correctly.’

‘I wouldn’t mind seeing the report.’

‘That’s easily arranged. But of course there’ll have to be a quid pro quo.’

‘Meaning?’

Quant nodded towards the dress. ‘You have to pretend to be me for the evening. I really just want to go home to bed.’

‘Tell you what I can do,’ Clarke offered. ‘I can phone your mobile after the first hour or so. There’s a situation and you’re urgently needed…’

‘Have you got my number?’ Quant asked with a grin.

‘Give it to me,’ Clarke said.

8

Only Ricky Compston and Alec Bell were in the office when Fox got back. They were eating custard slices and drinking tea, their feet up on their respective desks.

‘Where have you been?’ Compston demanded. ‘Apart from whispering sweet nothings in your boss’s ear.’

‘Actually, I’ve not seen Doug Maxtone. But I did go talk to Big Ger Cafferty.’

‘Feel free to keep us waiting.’

‘Where are the others?’

‘The Starks have been on the move. We’re using two cars so we don’t get clocked. Hence the exodus. That good enough for you, DI Fox?’

Fox lowered himself on to one of the empty chairs. ‘Cafferty seems to think a local criminal called Darryl Christie might have been behind the shooting, maybe to impress the Starks. He reckons the Starks are in town so Dennis can get a feel for the city prior to taking over the family business. It would also explain the stops in Aberdeen and Dundee.’

‘We’ve already told you why the Starks are here.’

‘Be that as it may, I decided to have a word with Darryl Christie. He already knew that the Starks are in town.’

‘Did he bring them up first, or did you?’

‘He didn’t need any prompting.’

‘So you’re telling me two Edinburgh bosses just opened up to you?’

Fox offered a shrug. ‘Do you want to hear what else Christie said?’

‘Go on then, hotshot, impress me.’ Compston brushed pastry flakes from his tie.

‘Christie is of the opinion that the Starks are here to meet Cafferty. Why? So that Cafferty can help them install Dennis as the city’s new boss, in place of Christie. As far as we know, that’s not the case, but it’s what Christie thinks.’

‘How did he know they were in town?’ Alec Bell asked.

‘The B and B owner.’

‘Well, well, well,’ a voice drawled from behind Fox. The door, which he hadn’t quite shut, was wide open now. Rebus stood with a hand resting against either jamb. ‘This isn’t quite what I expected, I have to admit.’

Fox jumped to his feet. ‘How did you get in?’

‘Someone forgot to tell the front desk I’m off the books.’

‘John bloody Rebus,’ Bell said.

‘Hiya, Alec.’ Rebus gave a wave. ‘Not given up the good fight yet, then?’

‘I’ve heard of you,’ Compston said.

‘Then you’re one up on me.’ Rebus stretched out a hand for Compston to shake. Compston complied, introducing himself as he did.

‘Desks for five, meaning we’re a few short,’ Rebus was musing, studying the room. ‘And barely any paperwork. Hush-hush, is it? Here to take down the Starks?’

Compston was staring hard at Fox, waiting for an explanation. Rebus tried to rest a hand on Fox’s shoulder, but Fox twisted away from him.

‘Can’t really blame Malcolm here,’ Rebus said. ‘I was the only way he was getting to Cafferty and Christie.’

‘Is that right?’ Compston’s eyes were still on Fox, while Fox’s were directed at the floor.

‘Chief Constable must really have a stiffy for the Starks — team like this doesn’t come cheap.’ Rebus slid his backside on to a desk, feet waggling. ‘I’m guessing Foxy is your local liaison, and he asked for my help because he wanted to impress you with his gung-ho, can-do attitude. How did he do?’

‘This is no place for a civilian, Rebus,’ Compston said.

‘War breaks out in the city, it’s bad for everyone, whether in a uniform or not. If you’re watching the Starks, you know the score. They might be readying to take down Darryl Christie.’

‘That’s not why they’re here,’ Alec Bell let slip, receiving a withering look from Compston in response.

‘Darryl thinks it is. He’s got it into his head that they’re coming for him, stoked up by Cafferty.’

‘They’ve met neither Cafferty nor this Darryl Christie,’ Compston stated.

‘So Dennis isn’t being introduced to low society?’ Rebus scratched his cheek. ‘You sure about that?’

‘We’ve got our eyes and ears on them.’

‘One of them didn’t happen to mosey over to Cafferty’s neck of the woods last night and point a gun at him?’

‘We don’t think so.’

‘There may have been gaps in the surveillance,’ Fox piped up. ‘Just about big enough to make it a possibility.’

‘I’m wishing now I’d stuck you in a corner with that fucking Angry Birds game,’ Compston snarled, jumping to his feet and pacing the room.

‘For what it’s worth,’ Rebus said, ‘Malcolm didn’t tell me a single thing about the operation here, and nothing he said in front of either Cafferty or Christie will have made them any the wiser.’

‘You found out, though.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘He got me curious, that’s all.’ He glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Now, how about letting me drag you across the road for a drink? It’s not the worst boozer in town, and I’m betting no one’s had the decency to wet the team’s head, as it were.’

‘We’re supposed to be waiting for the lads to report in,’ Bell cautioned.

Compston thought for a moment. ‘Won’t do any harm, though, will it? No more than has already been wreaked by DI Fox. You can man the post here if you like, Alec.’

‘Strength in numbers, Ricky — I better come with you.’

‘It’s unanimous, then.’ Rebus eased himself off the desk. ‘Lead the way, DI Fox — it’s your round, after all.’

The pub was half full of workers on their way home and students playing games of chess and draughts. There being no free tables, the group made for the far end of the bar. Fox bought the drinks — three pints and a sparkling water.

‘If I’d known you didn’t drink,’ Compston admonished him, ‘you’d have been off my team from minute one.’ He took the first of the proffered beers and tried a mouthful, smacking his lips.

‘How have you been, John?’ Bell and Rebus clinked glasses.

‘Mustn’t grumble, Alec. You still in Glasgow?’

‘Attached to Gartcosh these days.’

‘Congratulations. Bit of a step up from busting druggies and wife-beaters.’

‘Aye.’

‘So someone’s running around your city with a firearm?’ Compston interrupted. ‘Doesn’t seem to have made the news.’

‘Cafferty’s saying it was an accident. Tripped and smashed a window. Neighbours say otherwise, and there’s a bullet hole in his living-room wall.’

‘The two of you are cosy, then?’

‘Insofar as I’ve spent half my life trying to put him away.’

‘Any success?’

‘He was released from jail on medical grounds, followed by a miracle cure.’ Rebus placed his glass on the bar. ‘So, are you ready to tell me a story, or do we just keep going around the houses like a taxi driver on his first trip to Livingston?’

Compston looked to Alec Bell.

‘John’s one of the good guys, despite all appearances,’ Bell confirmed.

‘The Starks,’ Compston began, after a further moment’s consideration, ‘are looking for a man called Hamish Wright. He’s a haulage contractor, used to deliver drugs around the country in his containers. We’ve been watching the Starks for a while, and when they left Glasgow for Inverness and visited Wright’s yard there, we knew something was up. Aberdeen and Dundee after that, and now here.’

‘Have you tried looking for Wright yourselves?’

‘He’s definitely done a flit. Wife is covering his arse, says he’s in London on business, but he’s not made any calls on his phone and there’s nothing to show he’s there.’

‘What about his car?’

‘Parked in the garage at his home.’

‘Does the wife seem spooked?’

‘I’d say so.’

‘He’s got something belonging to the Starks?’ Rebus speculated.

‘Drugs and cash, probably,’ Bell offered.

Compston’s phone was buzzing — incoming call. ‘It’s Beth,’ he said, pressing the phone to one ear while covering the other with his free hand. But the noise in the bar proved too much, so he began making for the door. Once he was outside, Rebus focused on Bell.

‘What’s he like then, Alec?’

‘He’s all right.’

‘Better than you?’ Rebus didn’t sound convinced.

‘Just different. It is drugs and cash, by the way. Plenty of both. All this stuff about muscling in on your man Christie is wrong. Or them going after Big Ger Cafferty, for that matter.’

‘You got wire taps or something?’ Rebus mused.

‘Better than that.’ Bell turned his attention towards Fox, checking that the door was still closed and stabbing a finger at him. ‘This goes no further.’

Fox held up his hands in a show of appeasement.

‘We’ve got a man on the inside. Deep cover.’

‘Bob Selway?’ Fox guessed, but Bell shook his head.

‘No names. He’s been undercover for more than three years, worming his way closer and closer to the Starks.’

‘Takes a bit of stamina,’ Rebus said, impressed.

‘Explains why my boss thought we were welcoming a team of six,’ Fox added.

‘Aye, someone at Gartcosh bolloxed that up — and got Ricky Compston raging at them for their efforts.’

‘Three years — is that how long the team’s been together?’

Bell shook his head again. ‘There’ve been others before us. The Starks are behind half the crime in Glasgow and beyond — so far no operation’s been able to nail down their coffin.’

‘Sounds like your mole’s not exactly earning his keep,’ Fox commented. Bell scowled at him.

‘So what’s the story with this haulage contractor?’ Rebus hoisted his pint to his mouth.

‘Wasn’t happy moving stuff for the Starks. Wanted to be more of a freelance operator, you might say. He was talking to people in Aberdeen and elsewhere.’

‘Including here?’ Rebus watched as Alec Bell nodded slowly. ‘Meaning Darryl Christie?’

‘Very possibly.’

‘So the Starks will want a face-to-face with Darryl.’

‘They might, but they’d rather find Hamish Wright first, if he’s sitting on half a million in coke and eccies and the same in lovely hard cash.’

‘Your man’s told you this?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve got enough to take to trial?’

‘Just about.’

‘But you want more.’

Bell gave a wide smile. ‘Always.’

‘The longer your man is embedded, though, the more risk there is of him being rumbled.’

‘He’s aware of that.’

‘Deserves a medal, whatever happens.’

Bell was nodding as Compston pushed open the door and strode towards the group, rubbing his hands to warm them.

‘The Starks have been meeting a man called Andrew Goodman.’

‘He runs a stable of nightclub bouncers,’ Rebus said.

‘That’s right. Which means he has a say in what gets into pubs and clubs.’

‘His boys do,’ Rebus corrected.

‘Including illegal substances,’ Fox added, ‘and those carrying them with intent to sell.’

‘Very good,’ Compston said.

‘He knows Hamish Wright?’ Rebus asked.

Compston shrugged. ‘This is a long game we’re playing. But eventually all the bits of the jigsaw will fit together.’

Rebus wrinkled his nose. ‘Sometimes a bit gets lost between the floorboards, though. Or it wasn’t in the box from the get-go.’

‘Cheery bastard, aren’t you? Whose round is it?’

‘I need to be going,’ Fox apologised.

‘Back across the road to report to your boss? Decided yet how much you’re going to spill?’ When Fox didn’t answer, Compston made a shooing motion, dismissing him, but Fox lingered.

‘I know why it’s called Operation Junior,’ he stated.

Compston lifted an eyebrow. ‘Go on then.’

‘The Iron Man films — Robert Downey Junior plays a character called Stark.’

Compston was miming a round of applause as Fox made his exit.

‘Same again, John?’ Bell was asking. Rebus nodded, watching the retreating figure. Then he turned towards Compston.

‘Malcolm’s all right, but the one thing he’s not is dirty. So if you start crossing the line, that may be when he sounds the alarm. Up until then, he’ll be fine.’

‘I’m not happy he brought you in.’

‘He told me the bare minimum. Until I walked into St Leonard’s, I didn’t know what I was going to find.’

‘But you’d sussed there was something he was holding back.’

‘Only because I’m good at this. So where are the Starks now?’

‘Dennis and his boys are eating a curry somewhere on Leith Walk, and the dad’s on his way back to Glasgow — got a bit of business there, apparently.’

‘With one or two of your team on his tail?’

‘Jake and Bob,’ Compston confirmed, more for Bell’s benefit than Rebus’s. ‘Means you and me might have to spell for Beth and Peter a bit later.’

‘Fine by me,’ Bell said.

Compston turned his attention back to Rebus, making a show of looking him up and down.

‘So what do we do with you, Mr Rebus?’

‘Apart from getting the next round in, you mean?’

‘Apart from that, yes.’

‘Well, I suppose I could tell you a bit about Cafferty and Christie. Just to pass the time.’ Rebus gestured towards one of the tables where two students were finishing a board game and rising to leave. ‘Or I could tan your arse at draughts — I’ll leave it to you to choose.’

Doug Maxtone was walking down the corridor, shrugging his shoulders into his overcoat, when Fox reached the top of the stairs.

‘Thought I was being stood up,’ Maxtone said. ‘Went to the office, but it’s in darkness.’

‘Sorry, sir. Some of them are on surveillance and the others went for a drink.’

Maxtone stopped walking, adjusting his scarf. ‘Well then?’ he said.

‘How much did they share at the briefing — just so I’m not telling you what you already know?’

‘Compston and his team are in town to keep tabs on a gang run by Joe and Dennis Stark.’

‘And the Starks are here…?’

‘Because someone’s done a bunk and they want to find him.’ Maxtone paused. ‘I thought you were the one making the report?’

‘To be honest, there’s not a lot I can add. Compston’s team are keeping watch, but so far the man being sought hasn’t turned up.’

‘And Edinburgh’s just one stop, yes?’

‘That’s right, sir. They’ve already looked for him in other cities.’

‘So if they don’t find him soon, they’ll move on elsewhere?’

‘I’d presume so.’

‘Fine then.’ Maxtone made to move off, but paused. ‘Compston’s behaving himself? No regulations being broken, no toes trampled?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘But would you be aware of it?’

‘I think so.’

‘Fine then,’ Maxtone repeated. ‘See you tomorrow, Malcolm.’

‘Absolutely.’

Fox watched as his boss began to descend the stairs. No reason the man had to know anything — about Cafferty and Christie or the missing drugs or the cop who had infiltrated the Stark gang. No reason for any of that to trouble Doug Maxtone’s evening.

He walked to the door of the Operation Junior office and turned the handle. Sure enough, it wasn’t locked. He switched on the lights and went in. There were two laptops, both in sleep mode. He dabbed a finger against both trackpads, waking them and confirming that they were password-protected. A few sheets of paper lay on one desk, including the photo of Hamish Wright. Beneath it was a copy of a phone bill — Wright’s most recent mobile bill, to be precise. Someone had checked the numbers, the details scribbled in the margin. Fox took his own phone out and snapped a picture, then put everything back in order, padding back to the door and switching off the light once more.

It was his night to phone his sister, and he would take care of that as soon as he got home. After which he planned to fire up his computer and see what he could glean about the Starks and their cohorts.

And if that didn’t take as long as he feared it well might, he’d call Siobhan just prior to bedtime to ask how her day had gone and maybe tell her a little of his.