Even Dogs in the Wild

9

Having stopped at a newsagent’s to buy a paper, Fox got back in his car and phoned Siobhan Clarke. She answered on the sixth ring.

‘I was wondering why I couldn’t reach you last night,’ Fox said, staring at the front-page headline.

‘Got a bit hectic, I admit.’

‘You gave the story to your pal Laura.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m guessing today will be busy too.’

‘Actually, I’m happy for James to hog the limelight. I’m heading to Linlithgow with Christine. We’re just about there.’

‘Oh?’

‘Anyway, what are you up to?’

‘Those visitors I mentioned, the ones from Gartcosh? I’m acting as liaison, sort of.’

‘Keeping an eye on them for Maxtone?’

‘Pretty much. They’re in town because a Glasgow gangster’s—’

‘Sorry, Malcolm, you’re breaking up. And I need to start looking for the turn-off.’

‘Maybe speak to you later then?’

But the signal had gone. Fox turned off the phone and skimmed the news story again, before placing the paper on the passenger seat, on top of a bulging folder. There had been a lot about the Stark family on the internet. He’d printed off much of it and taken everything to bed with him, along with a pad of lined A4 paper. Joe Stark’s wife had died young, leaving him to bring up their only child, Dennis. Fox reckoned Joe had lacked any but the most basic parenting skills. He’d been too busy extending his empire and consolidating his reputation as one of the most ruthless thugs in Glasgow gangland — which was no mean feat, considering the competition. Dennis had been trouble from his earliest days in primary school. Bullied (and maybe worse, ignored) by his father, he’d become a bully himself. It helped that he’d grown up fast, building muscle to go with his threats. In his early teens, only a wily lawyer had stopped him doing time for an attack outside a football ground.

He had used an open razor — similar to Joe’s weapon of choice in the 1970s. That interested Fox — the son imitating the father, hoping to gain his approbation. In his twenties, Dennis had served two stretches in HMP Barlinnie, which did little to curb his excesses while at the same time making him new allies. Fox hadn’t been able to find out a whole lot about this coterie. Joe’s men were in their fifties and sixties predominantly, and tales from the Glasgow badlands featured them regularly. But Dennis’s cohorts were a generation younger and had learned the art of subterfuge. They appeared on no front pages, and in precious few court reports. Driving to St Leonard’s, Fox wondered if, shown photos, he would be able to pick out the undercover cop.

The only person in the office was Alec Bell. He yawned a greeting and stirred his coffee.

‘Ricky’s having a lie-in,’ he explained.

‘He took the dawn shift?’ Fox guessed.

Bell nodded and rubbed at his eyes. ‘He’s not keen, though — there’s half a chance old Joe could place him.’

‘They know one another?’

‘A couple of run-ins back in the day. But seeing how Joe is in Glasgow right now…’

‘Compston reckons he’s safe enough taking a shift?’ Fox nodded his understanding. ‘Anything else I need to know?’ he asked, hanging up his coat.

‘Not really, unless you happen to have the name of a good curry house — so far, Glasgow beats your overpriced city into a cocked hat.’

‘I’ll have a think. Meantime, I was wondering if you had a file on the Starks — something I can pass the time with.’

‘It’s mostly on computer.’

‘Any surveillance pics?’

‘Why would you want those?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Just occurred to me last night that I’ve no idea what the entourage looks like.’

Bell got busy on his laptop and crooked a finger. Fox walked over to the desk and studied the screen from behind the older man’s shoulder.

‘That’s Joe,’ Bell said, using the cursor to circle Joe Stark’s face. The photo showed a group of men walking down a pavement. ‘To his left is Walter Grieve, and to his right Len Parker. Those three have known each other for ever — Joe probably trusts Walter and Len more than he does Dennis.’

‘Bit of tension between father and son?’

‘You know how Prince Charles has spent his whole life waiting to take over the family firm?’

‘For Charles read Dennis.’ Fox nodded his understanding. He was studying Joe Stark. Of course, he’d seen plenty of photos of the man during his previous evening’s excavation of the internet, but this photo was recent. Stark’s face was more heavily lined, his hair thinner, slicked back from his forehead.

‘Looks a bit like Ray Reardon, no?’ Alec Bell commented.

‘The snooker player?’ Fox considered this. ‘Maybe.’ Though in truth he didn’t see it. There had always been a twinkle in Ray Reardon’s eyes. All he could see in Joe Stark’s face was cold malice.

Bell had reduced the photograph to a thumbnail and was poring over the others on his screen. He clicked on one. The inside of a busy pub. Five men seated at a table.

‘Dennis and his crew,’ Bell said, pointing at each man as he named them. ‘Rob Simpson, Callum Andrews, Jackie Dyson, Tommy Rae, and Dennis himself.’

‘Doesn’t look much like his dad.’

‘Takes after his mum, apparently,’ Bell said.

‘Big bastard, though. Does he go to the gym?’

‘Addicted to the weights. Uses all the bodybuilding potions and powders.’

‘Is his hair permed, or are the curls natural?’

‘God-given, far as I know.’

‘You ever talked with him?’

Bell shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t be on the team if I had. Can’t have anyone from the Stark gang clocking us.’

‘Doesn’t seem to apply to your boss,’ Fox mused.

‘Special dispensation — Ricky pushed hard to bring Operation Junior into the world.’ Bell turned his head to study Fox. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘You’re bursting to ask.’

‘Well, if you insist — is your guy one of the four with Dennis?’

‘What do you think?’

‘None of them looks like a cop.’

‘How far would our man get if he did? Or if he spoke or acted like one?’

‘I take it he’s not using his real name.’

‘Course not.’

‘And you’ve built a life story for him, just in case someone checks?’

‘We have.’

‘How long did you say he’d been in the gang?’

‘I don’t think I did say.’ Bell was suddenly cagey. Rather than open any of the other photos in the album, he closed the lid of his laptop and took another slug of coffee.

Well, that was fine. Fox had names now. Given a bit of privacy, he would run another internet search, just on the off chance.

‘News from Glasgow?’ he asked, moving into the middle of the room.

‘Joe’s still there.’

‘He took both his lieutenants with him when he went?’

‘Yes.’

‘So it’s just Dennis and his gang of four left here? Any idea what they’ll be doing today?’

‘Looking for Hamish Wright.’

‘Have they stuck around longer than in Aberdeen or Dundee?’

‘Seems that way.’

‘That might mean something — maybe they’re convinced he’s here.’

‘Maybe,’ Bell conceded.

‘Your man on the inside hasn’t said?’

Bell gave him a hard stare. ‘He doesn’t often get the chance to update us.’

‘When did you last hear from him?’

‘Five days ago.’

‘Before you came to Edinburgh?’

‘That’s right. If and when the Starks get hold of Wright, that’s when he’ll make the call.’

‘How long’s he been—’

‘Enough fucking questions, Fox. I wish I’d never opened my mouth in the first place.’

‘Ah, but you did — I think you were trying to show off in front of Rebus. Is that a fair reading?’

‘Get lost.’

‘Hard to do in my own office.’ Fox stretched out both arms to reinforce the point. ‘And you did let slip last night that your mole’s been in character for over three years.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘Thing about not drinking is, I tend to remember things.’

‘Then you’ll not have forgotten what Ricky said to you that first day — you’re on probation. And after that trick you pulled, going to Rebus behind our backs…’ Bell shook his head slowly. ‘How’s your dad, by the way?’

Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘My dad?’

‘And your sister, Jude. Not too close to her, are you?’ Bell gave a sly smile. ‘Ricky needed certain assurances that he knew the kind of man he was getting. Your boss came through with a potted biography. Now if that had been Ricky, he’d have handed over a minimum of detail with a few howlers mixed in. DCI Maxtone proved to be a lot more accommodating. Remember that when you make your next report. Some chiefs are better than others, and some teams really are teams. The sooner you stop acting as Maxtone’s snitch, the sooner you’ll find that out.’

‘Is that a fact?’

‘Think about it. You said yourself you’re one step above pariah status here. Maybe we can offer you something better for a time.’

‘Better than Angry Birds?’

‘I’ll let you be the judge of that,’ Bell said, opening the lid of his laptop again.

‘Papers called him the “tragic lottery victim”,’ Christine Esson said. ‘Makes it sound as if it was the lottery that did for him.’

‘Which, if someone killed him for his money, is almost true,’ Clarke replied. The new-build two-storey brick house was surrounded by a high wall and electric gates. These gates had been left open for them. The driveway was short and led to a paved parking circle. To the right of the house stood a three-car garage. Clarke stopped her Astra in front of it, next to a BMW 3 Series. The man who got out of the Beemer straightened his tie and did up a button on his suit.

‘DS Grant?’ Clarke checked. The man nodded. ‘I’m DI Clarke, this is DC Esson. Thanks for meeting us.’

‘No trouble at all.’ Grant ducked back into his car long enough to produce a folder, which he handed over.

‘Post-mortem examination, crime scene stuff and the forensic report.’

‘Much appreciated. The case is still active, yes?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I’m not a reporter, Jim. You can tell the truth here.’

Grant gave a thin smile. ‘I suppose we’ve reached the treading-water stage. Team’s been cut to the bare minimum. We’ve interviewed everyone we can think of, put feelers out, studied CCTV from the town centre and the routes in and out of Linlithgow…’

‘Much the same as we’ve been doing in Edinburgh.’

‘High-profile victims, that’s the only solid connection that I can see.’

‘And men who lived alone,’ Esson chipped in.

‘Michael Tolland wasn’t a bachelor like your Lord Minton, though,’ Grant countered. ‘Married quarter of a century. Wife was already ill when they scooped the lottery. Liver cancer. Didn’t live long enough to get any good from it, but her husband wrote a six-figure cheque to charity after she passed on.’

‘Between that and the house, he wouldn’t have had a lot left over.’

‘About two hundred and seventy-five thousand.’

‘Any children?’

Grant shook his head. ‘His sister’s kids look like getting the lot. Sister passed away eight months ago.’

‘Not the luckiest of families, despite appearances.’ Clarke was studying the front of the house.

‘Want to go inside?’ Grant jangled a key chain.

‘Lead the way.’

There were still bloodstains on the beige hall carpet. Clarke took out the crime scene photos, sharing them with Esson. Beyond the hall there was a large living room, dominated by an oversized TV screen and surround-sound speakers. There were a few ornaments, but not many. A single framed photo of husband and wife at their registry office wedding. Ella Tolland had worked as an administrator for the local council. A decade younger than her husband. In the photo she was managing to smile, but her mouth was closed, in contrast to her husband’s toothy grin. He gripped her upper arm as if to stop her heading for the hills.

‘Happy marriage, was it?’ Clarke enquired.

‘No reason to think otherwise. I’ve stuck a DVD in the folder, a couple of interviews they did after hitting the jackpot.’

‘Thanks.’

Grant led them through to the kitchen, showing them where the door had been forced. The door itself had been removed as evidence and replaced with something more basic.

‘We’re thinking a crowbar or similar.’

‘And that’s what was used to attack the victim?’

‘No weapon recovered, so we can only speculate, but the pathologist reckoned it would be consistent. You said on the phone, though — you think a hammer in Edinburgh?’

‘Now you’ve brought up the crowbar, we may revisit that.’

‘No weapon found?’

‘We’ve searched the streets nearby, back gardens, communal bins, even the Water of Leith.’

‘Same here. We had a dozen men walk the road between here and the highway — fields, ditches, you name it.’

‘Any thoughts, Christine?’ Clarke said.

‘Does DS Grant know about the note?’

Grant himself decided to answer. ‘Yes, but there was nothing like that found here.’

Clarke had opened the fridge. ‘Wasn’t much of a cook, was he?’

‘From talking to friends, he seemed to eat in the pub a lot, or else grab takeaway.’ Grant opened a drawer and lifted out a pile of menus. ‘Preference for Chinese and Indian — and not all local, either. Then again, if you’ve got money, distance is no object.’

‘You’ve searched the house from top to bottom?’ Clarke checked. ‘The note would’ve been easy to miss.’

‘I could see about giving it another go, if my boss will lend me the bodies.’

Clarke looked to Esson. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think the chances of the two cases being linked are slim.’

‘How slim?’

‘Catwalk supermodel. We’ve got two victims with nothing to connect them — they didn’t know one another and moved in very different social circles.’

Clarke was sifting through the contents of the file. ‘Mr Tolland was never in trouble with the law? No court appearances?’

‘Clean as a whistle, though I dare say some of the people he looked after might not be strangers to a summons.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He was a care worker — people with problems, that sort of thing.’

‘Could any of them have carried a grudge?’

‘Lord Minton never handled that sort of case,’ Esson cautioned.

‘Maybe back in the day he did,’ Clarke replied.

‘I don’t think this was personal,’ Grant stated. ‘Breaking and entering gone wrong, rather than hamesucken.’

Clarke almost smiled at his use of the word — the Scots legal term for breaking into someone’s house with intent to harm them.

‘So what did they take?’ she asked, closing the file once more. ‘Not even his laptop or iPhone is missing. Credit cards, cash, Breitling watch — all still here, same as in Lord Minton’s house. Why didn’t the perpetrator just wait till the place was empty? Not another house for half a mile — nobody to hear anything. For some reason, the victim has to be home.’ She paused. ‘Who found the body, by the way?’

‘An old friend. Tolland had missed a pub quiz — he was team captain and he took it seriously. When he didn’t answer his phone, the friend dropped round. Gates locked, but when he hoisted himself up on to the wall, he could see the TV was on. Eventually he wandered around the back and found the door open.’

‘How old a friend?’

‘Since school, I think.’

‘Maybe talk to him again. If Tolland had received any kind of threat, he might have confided. At the very least, he’d probably have appeared anxious or out of sorts.’

‘Okay,’ Grant said.

‘In which case, I think we’re done here.’ Clarke shook Grant’s hand. ‘And thanks again for meeting us.’

‘My pleasure,’ Grant said.

As the Astra turned back down the driveway, Clarke asked Esson what she thought.

‘Not really my type — probably irons his underpants.’

‘He did have a look of the tailor’s dummy about him, didn’t he? Reckon he really will talk to the friend again?’

‘Yes, but only because it gives him an excuse to get back to us. When you turned away to open the fridge…’

‘What?’

‘His eyes were doing everything short of stripping the clothes off you.’

Clarke squirmed. ‘I thought you were the one he liked.’

‘I’d say the man’s not had a woman for a while. Has he got your mobile number?’

‘Yes.’

‘Probably not the very next text, then, but the one after that.’

‘What?’

‘It won’t be about work — trust me.’

Clarke made a face.

‘If you’re the betting type, I’ll gladly take your money,’ Esson teased.

‘Not the next text but the one after? A text rather than an actual phone call?’

‘Twenty quid says one or the other.’

‘Twenty quid it is.’ Clarke took her hand off the steering wheel long enough for the two women to shake on it.

10

Rebus drove past Cafferty’s house and saw the car in the driveway, just inside the open gates. Two men in the front, watching him as he watched them. He parked on a meter and walked back to the house. The men didn’t move as he passed them, but he felt their eyes on him as he walked up to the front door and rang the bell. The living-room window had been replaced, but the brick-coloured putty had yet to be painted. Cafferty opened the door.

‘I take it you told them I was coming?’ Rebus nodded towards the car. ‘Wise to get a bit of security.’

‘Come in.’ Cafferty led the way into the living room. The painting hiding the bullet hole had been removed, the hole filled in. The plaster looked fresh, but would need repainting.

‘You sounded a bit frazzled on the phone,’ Rebus said. ‘Has something happened?’

Cafferty had settled on the edge of an armchair. Rebus sat down opposite him.

‘You seen the paper?’ The Scotsman was on the coffee table. Cafferty turned it round so it faced Rebus. There was a photo of David Minton, and a headline about the threat on his life.

‘I’ve seen it.’

Cafferty eased something from his trouser pocket and placed it on the coffee table. It was the bullet prised from the wall, half wrapped in a piece of paper.

‘What am I supposed to do with that? I’m not a cop, remember.’

‘Look at the paper.’

Rebus narrowed his eyes, then reached forward and unfolded the note.

‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Siobhan needs to see this.’

‘Is she working the Minton case?’ Cafferty watched as Rebus nodded, his eyes still on the note and its bald threat:

‘Where did it come from?’ Rebus asked.

‘It was just lying inside the front door one morning.’

‘Folded like this?’

‘No. It was lying flat, message-side up, like someone had pushed it under the door rather than using the letter box. Meant I’d see it straight off.’

‘You don’t have any cameras?’

‘CCTV, you mean? Any idea how useless that is?’

Rebus looked at the note again. ‘How long ago?’

‘Five days back.’

Handwritten capitals in what looked like black biro.

‘So who sent it?’

‘The same person who took a shot at me.’

‘You know that for sure, or are you just guessing?’

‘I’m putting two and two together.’

‘Guy who killed Lord Minton didn’t use a gun.’

‘And yet we both got identical notes. You saying the shooter may not be the same person?’

‘I’m not saying anything…’ Rebus had been about to call Cafferty by his first name, but stopped himself. Big Ger? Morris? Gerald? He was Morris Gerald Cafferty. He was Big Ger. Nothing would have sounded quite right.

‘John,’ Cafferty said quietly. ‘What the hell is this about?’

‘Someone thinks you and David Minton wronged them in some way, and they’re intent on making you pay.’

‘I didn’t know who Minton was until the news told me he was dead.’

‘You never faced him across a courtroom? He never locked up any of your men?’

‘No.’

‘He’s the law, you’re a gangster — already there’s a connection.’ Rebus realised he had taken out his cigarettes, the pack and a lighter clutched in the same hand.

‘Go ahead if you really need to,’ Cafferty said.

‘I can wait.’ Rebus put them away again. ‘The bullet will go to ballistics. It’s pretty beaten up, but if the gun’s been used before, we might get a match.’

‘Okay.’

‘And Siobhan’s going to need a proper interview with you — on the record.’

‘She has to promise the news won’t leak. Last thing I need is reporters climbing over me.’

‘You know what investigations are like.’

‘I know they’re about as watertight as a paper boat.’

‘Meaning you’ll have to take your chances. Siobhan will do what she can. But if she thinks it’ll help the inquiry to go public…’

‘Aye, fair enough.’ Cafferty looked suddenly tired and old.

‘Those two gorillas out front may not be enough. If I were you, I’d find somewhere with a bit more anonymity.’

‘Maybe a guest house, eh? With the Starks along the corridor.’

‘You know where they are?’

‘I made a few calls — know thy enemy and all that.’

‘You think they…?’

‘How the hell do I know what I think? I think everything. Every bastard I ever did wrong to — know how long that list is?’

‘A good few of them must be dead — some, only you’ll know where the bodies are.’

‘You’re about as funny as a coronary.’

‘I’d say you’re well on your way to one of those. But getting riled isn’t going to help. You’ve really no idea why someone would send you that note?’

‘No.’

‘And when the shot was fired, you didn’t see whoever did it?’

‘I saw… maybe the vaguest shape. A padded coat with a hood pulled down low over the head.’

‘Male?’

‘Judging by the build.’

‘Age?’

‘No idea. Maybe six foot tall. Just a glimpse as the window smashed. But I was ducking, too, and making for the door. I wanted to get out of that bloody room.’

‘Twenty years ago, you’d have been out of the house and chasing him down the street.’

Cafferty managed a smile. ‘With a cleaver in my hand.’

‘If we were to get to the bottom of this, I’d want it to go to trial. Wouldn’t look good if the suspect died while on remand.’

‘Might be a deal-breaker.’

Rebus was holding up his phone. ‘Before I call Siobhan, I need you to promise.’

‘That I won’t whack whoever tried to whack me? I’ll promise that if you promise the media won’t get wind of that note.’

‘Why is it such a problem?’

‘Use your loaf, John. With the Starks circling the city? And Darryl Christie — I’m assuming you talked to him?’

‘He said the bullet was nothing to do with him. He seemed antsy, though.’

‘Because of the Starks?’

‘He seems to think they might try muscling in — with your blessing.’

Cafferty shook his head slowly. ‘Whatever’s going on, I can’t afford to look weak, or like I’m suddenly cosying up to the law and order brigade.’

‘You’ve not completely left the game, then?’

‘Neither of us has — or ever could.’ Cafferty managed another smile.

‘You still reckon one or the other might be behind this?’

‘Everything is possible.’

‘So where does Lord Minton fit in?’

‘Maybe he’d taken backhanders somewhere down the line — let off the Starks’ men, or Christie’s. Thinking of making a clean breast of it towards the end of his life…’ Cafferty shrugged. ‘I’m not the detective here.’

‘Then maybe it’s time I called one,’ Rebus suggested.

‘Maybe it is,’ Cafferty conceded, leaning back in his chair.

Clarke arrived with Christine Esson. This, too, was apparently a deal-breaker, and Esson was sent to wait in the car. Both note and bullet still sat on the coffee table, and Clarke noted them immediately.

‘Okay,’ she said, exchanging looks with both men. ‘Which one of you wants to do the talking?’

‘He does,’ Rebus said, nodding towards Cafferty. ‘I need to feed the meter and have a smoke.’

He headed back outdoors, passing the bodyguards’ car. Only one of them was inside. The other had his back to Rebus as he walked sentry-style towards the rear garden. Rebus tapped on the window and the man in the driver’s seat obliged by lowering it an inch.

‘Just the two of you?’ Rebus enquired.

‘We’re working shifts with another pair. Mr Cafferty tells us you used to be a cop.’ He watched as Rebus got a cigarette going.

‘I was army before that — Parachute Regiment.’ Rebus exhaled smoke. ‘How about you?’

The man gave a slow nod.

‘I can usually tell.’

‘Same way I can usually spot a cop. Is it serious, what’s happening with Mr Cafferty?’

‘Might be.’

‘He’s a sitting target as long as he stays here.’

‘Just what I’ve been telling him.’ Rebus flicked ash on the driveway. ‘Keep up the good work, eh?’

As he walked up the road, digging change from his pocket, he saw Christine Esson crouched on the pavement next to Clarke’s Astra. She was patting the wire-haired terrier.

‘Looks like you’ve made a friend,’ Rebus commented.

She straightened up. ‘It’s nice to feel wanted.’ Then, with a gesture towards Cafferty’s house: ‘I’m not happy about being shut out.’

‘Siobhan will tell you all about it.’

‘So why am I not in there?’

‘Because Cafferty’s hardly a major contributor to the Police Benevolent Fund.’

‘Exactly — yet here we are offering our help.’

Rebus watched as the dog sniffed his shoes before returning to the more attentive Esson. ‘That’s what we do, Christine, sometimes whether people want it or not.’

‘Are you forgetting you’ve retired?’

Rebus looked at her. ‘You know, for a second there, it actually had slipped my mind. But being a civilian has its advantages.’

‘Such as?’

‘Not answering to anyone, just for starters. And at the end of the day, no forms to fill in. How’s the Minton case, by the way?’

‘We’re just back from Linlithgow. Lottery winner got done in a couple of weeks back.’

‘I remember that. Siobhan thinks there might be a connection?’

‘Tenuous at best.’

‘No note left at the scene?’

‘Local team’s going to give the house another search.’

‘Your priorities may be about to change,’ Rebus warned her.

‘Why’s that?’

But Rebus just smiled and walked on, crushing the remains of his cigarette underfoot and paying for a new parking ticket at the machine. She was playing with the dog again as he passed her on his way back to the house.

He had left the front door unlocked so he could let himself in. Clarke was seated in the chair Rebus had vacated, Cafferty across from her. She was studying the note.

‘Whose is the dog?’ Rebus asked Cafferty.

‘What dog?’

‘The one that’s always outside.’

‘Turned up a week or so back. I think it’s a stray.’

‘Looks like someone’s feeding it, though.’

‘A lot of soft touches on this street — present company aside.’

Rebus turned his attention to Clarke. ‘What’s the thinking?’ he asked.

‘Mr Cafferty is unwilling for this to be made public,’ Clarke answered. ‘I’ve told him that will be DCI Page’s decision. Meantime, I want the bullet taken to the forensic lab for analysis — they might want to send it elsewhere if their equipment isn’t up to the job. Could be a while before we get any results.’

‘And the note?’

‘Looks like the same pen, probably the same hand. Again, I’d like an expert to give us an opinion.’

‘Reckon it adds up?’ Rebus folded his arms. ‘Minton was attacked inside his home by someone who broke in. Not nearly the same MO as standing on somebody’s lawn and shooting through a window.’

‘You think the notes and the shooting are unconnected?’

‘I’m just raising a doubt. The murder in Linlithgow has more in common with Minton than this does.’

‘What murder in Linlithgow?’ Cafferty interrupted.

‘Not important,’ Clarke told him.

‘Lottery winner a few weeks back,’ Rebus added, earning a glare of disapproval from Clarke for his efforts.

‘I remember hearing about that,’ Cafferty said.

‘It’s really not important,’ Clarke stressed.

‘So what’s next?’ Rebus asked.

‘Mr Cafferty needs to come to HQ and give a statement.’

‘No way,’ Cafferty stated, raising a hand. ‘I walk in there, it’s going to be all over the news.’

‘We could bring the recording equipment here,’ Rebus suggested. Clarke gave him another look. ‘And by “we”, of course, I mean Police Scotland.’

‘I’m not sure the Fiscal’s office would go for it,’ Clarke said.

‘But you could ask?’

‘I need to take this to DCI Page first.’ Clarke was digging in her pocket for her phone.

‘I don’t want any more cops in here,’ Cafferty warned her. ‘You, I’ll just about tolerate.’

‘And John?’

Cafferty stared at Rebus. ‘For now, I suppose,’ he conceded.

‘Well, I need to speak to Page anyway.’ Clarke got to her feet and moved towards the door, making the call as she went. Cafferty stood up and found himself face to face with Rebus.

‘The crew outside,’ Rebus said. ‘Two-by-two, twelve-hour shifts…’

‘What about them?’

‘Where did they come from?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean, are they part of Andrew Goodman’s show?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘Just that Goodman’s been in at least one meeting with the Starks since they hit town.’

‘I know — Andrew told me. He’s a good guy.’

‘And did Andrew happen to say what the Starks wanted from him?’

‘A guy from the Highlands called Hamish Wright was mentioned, but only in passing. Seemed it wasn’t him they were looking for so much as something he’s got hidden away somewhere.’

‘And we both know what that will be.’

‘Thing is, we’re talking a commodity of some considerable bulk.’

‘Not easy to hide?’

‘And difficult to move without someone noticing. No way Wright can use one of his own lorries.’

‘So he’ll be in touch with other hauliers maybe?’

‘If he feels he needs to move it. Then again, it may be stowed away somewhere he reckons no one can find it.’

‘Would he know people in the city?’

‘I’d say so.’

‘You wouldn’t be one of them?’

‘I’m not of a mind to get into that sort of discussion.’

‘Which sort of answers my question. Do you know where Hamish Wright is?’

‘I’d be surprised if he’s anywhere — anywhere above ground, that is.’

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then why are the Starks looking for him?’

‘What makes you think they are?’

‘What do you mean?’ But Cafferty just shook his head and placed a hand on Rebus’s shoulder, steering him towards the door. ‘How much of this did you already know when Fox and I spoke to you?’

‘You worried I’m not being honest with you, John?’

‘I suppose there’s a first time for everything.’

‘To put your mind at rest, I only heard from Goodman after you and I had our little chinwag in the Golden Rule.’

‘I’ll get you to a safe house,’ Rebus said, stopping just inside the front door. ‘It’s yours as soon as you tell me what’s really going on.’

‘Go find a dominoes game or something. If I want advice on protection, I’ll consult the police rather than a pensioner.’

‘I wish that bullet had done some damage to your thick fucking skull.’

Cafferty paused at the front door and thought for a moment.

‘No you don’t,’ he said, pulling open the door and ushering Rebus outside. The terrier was at the gate, watching both men, its tail wagging.

11

Fox was in the back of the Audi A4, Bell driving and Compston in the passenger seat. Bell and Compston were readying to relieve Hastie and Hughes. They hadn’t wanted to bring Fox, but he’d insisted, threatening to take it to Doug Maxtone. And he had proved useful, since the satnav seemed singularly ill-equipped to deal with traffic snarl-ups, roadworks, and prospective short cuts.

‘Piece of shit,’ Compston had decided, flicking a finger against its screen.

Now they were driving along a road on an industrial estate. Car dealerships, a scrapyard and a self-storage facility.

‘Where are you?’ Compston asked into his phone. Then he cursed. ‘We just passed them,’ he told Bell. Fox turned to look through the rear window. Hastie and Hughes were in the parked Vauxhall Insignia. Opposite stood CC Self Storage, an anonymous slab of a building. Dennis Stark and his team were somewhere within, presumably talking to the boss.

‘We’ll do a circuit and come round again,’ Compston was telling his phone. ‘You pull out, we pull into your space, and you give Fox a ride back to base.’ Then, turning towards Fox: ‘CC Self Storage belongs to Chick Carpenter. It’s his Aston parked behind the fence. Pulled some information on him from the system. Bit too chummy with your pal Darryl Christie. Christ knows who’s got stuff hidden away in that unit.’

‘Makes sense for the Starks to be paying a visit,’ Fox commented. They were approaching a T-junction, Bell signalling left.

‘Plenty other storage units in the city,’ Compston continued, ‘not all of them owned by Carpenter. The Starks have already visited two that are, on the face of it at least, more legit than this.’

‘I’d have thought this a more obvious target.’

‘You and me both. Maybe they were stocking up on info from Carpenter’s competitors.’

‘Plus, if he’s friends with Christie and the Starks know it…’

‘Softly softly,’ Compston agreed with a nod.

Left and left again… more industrial facilities, some with vans and lorries outside. A fast-food kiosk selling burgers and hot drinks. Kerbside was busy with parked vehicles, which was good — less chance of the surveillance being noticed.

‘How long will they keep at it?’ Fox asked. ‘In Edinburgh, I mean?’

‘They do seem to be lingering.’

‘Meaning they’ve got a whiff of something?’

‘Maybe.’ Compston had an incoming call. He put it on speakerphone. ‘What is it, Beth?’

‘Bit of an argument in the car park. Pointed fingers getting pointier.’ Alec Bell pressed his foot more firmly on the accelerator. ‘Carpenter has a mate with him, but it’s two against five.’

‘We’re just about back with you.’

‘Do we intervene if things get—’

‘We do nothing,’ Compston stressed. ‘The pair of you are bystanders. You stay in the car — understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Compston turned towards Bell. ‘Slow down. Don’t want to draw attention.’

They were almost at the storage unit.

‘Try not to gawp,’ Compston warned. ‘Eyes front.’

But Fox couldn’t help himself. He watched as the argument turned suddenly physical, Dennis Stark aiming a kick and a punch at one of the men, at which point his posse made sure the second man didn’t do anything stupid. The punched man had dropped to one knee. He wore a suit and tie, and Fox assumed this was Carpenter. His companion, the one being cautioned by Stark’s men, was a couple of decades younger and dressed in a T-shirt and denim jacket. Jackie Dyson hauled Carpenter back to his feet and smacked his forehead into Carpenter’s unprotected nose. The man’s knees buckled and he was on all fours as Dennis Stark squatted in front of him, grabbing him by the hair and yelling into his bloodied face. Dyson meantime had unzipped himself and was aiming a stream of urine over the Aston Martin’s driver’s-side door.

‘We can’t just do nothing,’ Fox said.

‘Watch us,’ Compston told him. They were past the altercation, heading for the T-junction again. ‘U-turn this time, Alec,’ Compston ordered. Then, into his phone: ‘Everything okay there?’

‘We’re sitting tight.’

‘Well done.’

‘Broad daylight,’ Fox offered. ‘Not exactly low-profile any more.’

‘Joe will be furious,’ Compston agreed.

‘Smacking of desperation?’

‘Old man’s back in Glasgow. That means two things: Dennis wants a result, so he can brag about it to his dad. But he’s also off the leash, and this is the kind of thing that happens when he’s given his freedom. Take it nice and easy, Alec…’

They were passing the altercation again, but it was winding down. The prone and blood-spattered Carpenter was being tended to by the younger man, while Dennis and crew walked nonchalantly in the direction of their people carrier. Fox was getting his first real look at them in the flesh. He still wouldn’t put money on spotting the undercover cop. Simpson, Andrews, Dyson, Rae — none of them looked in the least fazed by what had just come to pass. Stark walked slightly ahead of them, clenching and unclenching his fists.

‘Any idea where they’ll be headed next?’ Compston asked into his phone.

‘We think a pub called the Gimlet.’

‘I know that place,’ Fox interrupted. ‘Used to be owned by Darryl Christie.’

‘Well,’ Hastie’s voice continued, ‘it’s now owned by a man called Davie Dunn, who used to drive long-distance lorries.’

‘For Hamish Wright?’

‘Back in the day.’

‘Okay, Beth,’ Compston said. ‘Alec and me will park at the end of the road here. You come and get Fox.’

‘Running surveillance needs more than just the four of us.’

‘I know — hopefully the Glasgow contingent won’t be much longer.’ Compston ended the call.

‘We could phone for an ambulance,’ Fox suggested. ‘There’s an injured man back there.’

‘Fuck him,’ Compston said. ‘If he needs sorting out, his stooge is there with him.’

Alec Bell’s eyes met Fox’s in the rear-view mirror. Bell shook his head almost imperceptibly — warning Fox to drop the subject? Or ashamed of his boss’s reaction? Fox couldn’t tell.

‘A surveillance is just that,’ Compston was saying airily. ‘Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have said the same when you were in Complaints.’

‘Never had cause to find out,’ Fox replied, as Bell pulled the car over.

‘So the Gimlet used to be owned by Darryl Christie, eh?’ Compston mused, rubbing a hand across his chin. ‘Problem with a wee town like this — everyone’s connected.’

‘Meaning Christie won’t be happy if Dennis starts kicking off anywhere in the vicinity.’

Compston nodded slowly as the people carrier roared past. They watched it round a corner.

‘Out you get then,’ Compston said. Fox did as he was told, watching the Audi head off. The Vauxhall Insignia drew level with him and he climbed into the back.

‘I’m not happy about what just happened back there,’ he commented.

‘We’re not in the business of keeping you happy,’ Beth Hastie said from the passenger seat.

Peter Hughes gave a dry chuckle as he signalled right at the junction. Fox sat back and admired the view, wondering how long it would take Hughes to work out they were headed in the wrong direction.

Clarke had reported to James Page in person, delivering both note and bullet. Afterwards, he had folded his arms and, transfixed by the two items on his desk, told her to give him ten minutes, which was why she was back in the body of the kirk with Esson, Ogilvie and the rest of the team. There was no sign of DS Charlie Sykes, and Clarke said as much.

‘The Invisible Man,’ Esson commented.

‘He had something he needed to do in Leith,’ Ogilvie added. He had pulled his chair over to Esson’s desk so she could give him the news, having been briefed by Clarke on the drive back from Cafferty’s house.

‘Boss is deciding the next steps,’ Clarke told them now.

‘Changes things a bit, doesn’t it?’ Ogilvie offered.

‘Maybe — John Rebus isn’t sure there’s a solid connection. I mean, the notes, yes, but not the murder and the shooting.’

‘What’s Rebus got to do with it?’ Ogilvie queried with a frown.

‘Nothing,’ Clarke conceded. ‘He’s just the one who persuaded Cafferty to come to us rather than start enquiries of his own.’ Clarke rubbed at her eyes. ‘Did Christine mention Linlithgow?’

Ogilvie nodded. ‘Though again…’

‘I know: barely any connection worth the name.’

‘Tea would cheer us up,’ Esson declared. ‘And I’m buying.’

‘That would be great,’ Clarke said.

Esson grabbed her purse and headed off to the canteen, Clarke taking her seat next to Ogilvie. She asked him what he’d been working on.

‘Not much. Collating various reports and interviews, looking at the crime scene stuff.’

‘Anything I need to know?’

‘Well…’

‘No matter how fanciful or thin it’s going to sound,’ Clarke assured him.

‘I was reading through the scene of crime report, plus the two interviews conducted with Lord Minton’s housekeeper.’

‘Jean Marischal? More of a cleaner, wasn’t she?’

‘If you like. But here’s the thing.’ Ogilvie pulled out photos from the crime scene. ‘First officers to arrive state that the desk drawer was open a couple of inches.’

‘Yes, Deborah Quant said the same,’ Clarke remembered.

‘You can see it here.’ Ogilvie slid a photo towards her. ‘Then later, the SOCOs pulled the drawer all the way open to get shots of the contents. Mrs Marischal tells us she cleaned in the den but that the desk drawer was seldom unlocked. Lord Minton kept the key on him — and it was found in his pocket after his death. What does a locked drawer suggest to you?’

‘That there was something he didn’t want her to see.’

‘And you’d guess that to be…?’

‘Well, he was seated at the desk paying bills, so maybe his chequebook?’

‘That’s what I thought too. But look at the contents of the drawer again.’

Clarke saw stationery, a second chequebook, correspondence, various paper clips and bulldog clips and even a bottle of Tippex.

‘What is it I’m not seeing?’

‘Something that isn’t there. I’m guessing he was the tidy sort, and that the chequebook he’d taken out of the drawer usually sat on top of the other one.’ Ogilvie traced a finger over an empty section of the drawer. ‘But what was it that used to be in this space here?’

‘Stuff could have shifted around when the SOCOs pulled it open.’

‘Except they tell me they used extreme care.’

‘You’re saying the intruder took something?’

‘Desk drawer was open a couple of inches. I doubt that would have been comfortable for anyone sitting there trying to do some work.’

‘True,’ Clarke said.

‘So either the intruder took it, or Lord Minton had opened it himself and was taking something out when he heard a noise.’

Clarke was peering more closely at the photo. ‘Couldn’t just have been the other chequebook?’

‘No way of telling for sure.’

‘Did Jean Marischal ever see the drawer when it was open? Never so much as a glimpse?’

‘Worth talking to her again?’

‘Maybe.’

Page was standing in the doorway. He signalled for Clarke to join him. She patted Ogilvie on the shoulder as she got up.

‘Close the door,’ he told her once she was inside his office. ‘Sit down if you like.’

Clarke remained standing.

‘I’ve already had enough grief since we went public with the Minton note,’ he began. ‘Only effect it seems to have produced is more noise from upstairs. Everyone wants this thing cleared up and no one wants it getting messy.’

‘So we keep the Cafferty note to ourselves?’

‘For the time being. Anything that seems to link a prominent member of the legal establishment to a local thug is hardly going to please the powers above.’

‘You’ll talk to Shona MacBryer?’

‘Fiscal’s office need to know. I’ll make Shona see that a quiet interview with Cafferty at his home is preferable to bringing him in.’

‘How about the team here?’

‘I assume word’s already gone around.’

‘Only Esson and Ogilvie so far. But when we interview Cafferty…’

‘I’ll brief the troops.’

‘And then pray for no leaks.’

‘Indeed.’ He leaned back in his chair and pressed his hands together, the tips of his fingers touching his lips. ‘What’s your gut feeling here, Siobhan?’

‘The attacks themselves are very different, but the notes look identical.’

‘So we should be seeking a connection between Cafferty and Minton?’

‘Cafferty says there isn’t one.’

‘Some sort of vigilante?’

Clarke shrugged and watched as Page pressed the palms of his hands flat on his desk.

‘What about Rebus?’ he asked.

‘What about him?’

‘He’s close to Cafferty, isn’t he?’

‘In a manner of speaking. You think we should attach him to the case?’

‘In a consultative capacity. What’s the old saying about pissing out of the tent rather than in?’

‘Should I talk to him then?’

‘I don’t suppose it can do any harm, can it?’

Clarke didn’t know how to answer that, so ran her tongue across her lips instead and shifted her feet slightly, eyes on the floor.

‘Very well then,’ Page decided, pressing his hands together once more as if in prayer. ‘Talk to the man.’

Clarke nodded and made her exit. Christine Esson was waiting with her tea. Clarke took it and moved into the corridor, taking out her phone and making the call.

‘Yes, Siobhan?’ Rebus said by way of answer.

‘Page wants you inside the tent rather than out.’

‘Is that even possible?’

‘You’d be acting in a consultative capacity.’

‘Like Sherlock Holmes? Would I need invoices and stuff? And a housekeeper and a sidekick?’

‘Are you interested or not?’

‘He really wants me because I’m a conduit to Cafferty?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is Cafferty’s note going to be kept out of the public domain?’

‘For now.’

‘Formal interview with him at his house?’

‘Page thinks he can clear it with Shona MacBryer.’

‘Then what’s left for me to do?’

‘I’m guessing you’ll think of something.’

‘Do I detect a lack of enthusiasm, DI Clarke?’

‘Only because I know what you’re like — put you in a tent, you start trying to knock the poles down.’

‘Better than peeing on you from outside, though, eh?’

‘Let me think about that for a moment.’ She could almost hear Rebus break into a smile.

‘Consultative capacity,’ he echoed. ‘I quite like that.’

‘I thought you might. Just remember — you’re still not a cop. No warrant card, no real powers.’

‘Well, tell Page I’m considering his proposal, but I don’t come cheap.’

‘You’d do this for no pay at all, John — we both know it.’

‘Maybe we should meet later to compare notes.’

‘The Oxford Bar?’

‘Around nine?’

‘Okay.’

‘And why not bring Malcolm along?’

‘Malcolm’s not part of this case.’

‘I know that, but I’d like him there anyway. The two of you have gotten so busy, it’ll be nice for you to catch up.’

‘See you at nine, then.’

Clarke ended the call and took a slurp from the cardboard cup as she walked back into the incident room. Ogilvie seemed to have been sharing his theory with Esson. Esson was holding a close-up photo of the desk drawer, peering at it.

‘What do you think?’ Clarke asked her.

‘It’s interesting.’

‘I think so too.’ Clarke looked at Ogilvie. ‘Christine’s already had a bit of an away day — you ready for yours?’

‘Absolutely,’ Ronnie Ogilvie said.

12

There was no longer anyone keeping guard outside David Minton’s house on St Bernard’s Crescent. A set of keys were being held at HQ, so Clarke had brought those, along with a note of the number for the alarm system. Having unlocked the door, she punched the code in while Ogilvie stooped to pick up the waiting mail.

‘Anything?’ she asked.

‘Mostly flyers.’ He added the collection to a pile on the nearby table.

The house was beginning to smell musty, and with the heating turned off there was a pronounced chill.

‘Hope the pipes don’t freeze,’ Ogilvie commented.

‘Minton’s study is this way,’ Clarke said, leading him past the foot of the imposing staircase. The curtains had been drawn closed, so she yanked them open. The window gave a view down on to the small back garden. The laundry room was directly below. Would Minton have heard the glass breaking? There was a venerable transistor radio on the desk, but no evidence that he’d had it switched on that evening. Clarke settled herself in the chair and slid the drawer open a couple of inches.

‘More or less right?’ she asked.

‘But remember, the deceased had a bit more girth to him…’

‘A bit?’ she chided him. ‘So the chair would have been further out from the desk?’ She pushed it back. ‘About here?’

Ogilvie nodded. ‘From where it’s hellish uncomfortable to write cheques.’

They studied the photos they’d brought with them. The chequebook and pen sat eight inches from the edge of the desk. It would have been almost impossible for Minton to reach either with the drawer open the way it had been.

‘So we’re back where we started,’ Clarke said. ‘Either the victim opened the drawer, or his attacker did.’

The drawer itself had been emptied, everything bagged as evidence and taken away to be examined. Clarke slid it out completely and held it up to the light, then placed it on top of the desk.

‘This is where the gap was?’ she checked with Ogilvie. ‘Where you reckon something might have been removed?’

Ogilvie looked at the area she was circling with her finger.

‘Yes.’

‘Something measuring — what? Nine inches by six? A book of some kind?’

‘Not quite a rectangle, though, is it?’ he qualified, showing Clarke the photo again.

‘Not quite,’ she conceded. ‘And the mark on the base of the drawer?’ Again she pointed to the spot where the putative item had once sat.

‘Grease? Ink, maybe?’

‘Worth getting forensics to take a look?’

‘Maybe, yes.’

Clarke made the call to the lab at Howden Hall. Then, to Ogilvie: ‘They’re asking if we can drop it in, save them the trek.’

Ogilvie shrugged his acquiescence.

‘Fine,’ Clarke said into the phone. Then, again to Ogilvie: ‘Go see if you can find a bin bag for us to carry it in.’ He was heading out of the room as Clarke told the lab they’d be there in half an hour or so. But then she remembered something. ‘Actually, maybe closer to an hour. I need to go back to Fettes first. Got something else I want you to take a look at — bullet, probably nine mil.’

‘You go months and months without seeing a bullet,’ the voice on the other end of the phone told her. ‘And then you get two in one week.’

Clarke blinked twice before finding her voice. ‘Say again?’

‘Another bullet came in a couple of days back.’

‘Came in from where?’

‘Extracted from a tree in the Hermitage.’

‘What happened exactly?’

‘No idea.’

‘So who can I talk to?’

‘I can let you know that when you come in.’

‘Fine. An hour then.’

‘Any later and we’ll have shut up shop for the day.’

‘Justice never sleeps.’

‘Maybe not. But it does have a darts match and a late supper with the girlfriend.’

The phone went dead in her hand just as Ogilvie returned from the kitchen with a large white bin bag.

‘Brabantia,’ he said. ‘Only the best for his lordship.’ Then he saw the look on Clarke’s face.

‘Same day someone took a potshot at Cafferty, a bullet was fired into a tree in The Hermitage. That’s not a million miles from Cafferty’s neighbourhood, is it?’

‘Not a million miles, no. Actually, probably less than two.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Clarke said, helping Ogilvie manoeuvre the drawer into the bag.

Cafferty was in the back seat, the two bodyguards in front of him. Andrew Goodman’s office was above a glazier’s on a narrow street near Haymarket, the drive from Cafferty’s house taking less than seven minutes.

‘Wish I’d known,’ Cafferty said, as Goodman met him at the door. The two men shook hands and Goodman led Cafferty inside.

‘That I’m so close to yours?’

‘That you’re above a glazier’s,’ Cafferty corrected him.

‘Right enough — might have been a deal to be done there. Want a coffee or anything?’

Cafferty shook his head. ‘I’m here to pay what I owe you.’

Goodman raised an eyebrow as he settled himself behind his desk. He was tall and toned and shaven-headed, with piercing blue eyes. ‘You’re finished with my lads?’

‘I’ve an overnight bag in the back of their car. Going to lay low for a bit.’

Goodman was thoughtful. ‘They could still be useful, though.’

But Cafferty shook his head. He pulled a roll of banknotes from his coat and peeled off ten.

‘This enough?’

‘It’ll do. Want a receipt?’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ Cafferty stepped forward and placed the notes on the desk. As Goodman stretched out a hand to take them, Cafferty snatched at the man’s wrist, gripping it hard.

‘What did the Starks say to you, Andrew?’

‘I already told you.’ Goodman’s gaze was steady.

‘But did you tell me the truth?’

‘They’re looking for Hamish Wright. But they’re more interested in something he has that belongs to them — wouldn’t say what, but we can both guess.’

‘Did they mention Darryl Christie at all?’

‘Why should they?’

‘It’s an answer I want, rather than another fucking question.’

‘They didn’t. But I hear they’ve just roughed up Chick Carpenter.’

‘The storage guy?’

Goodman nodded.

‘Used him once or twice myself,’ Cafferty mused. ‘Before he started getting pally with young Darryl.’ He released his grasp. Goodman snatched his hand back.

‘Sorry about that,’ Cafferty said. ‘I might be just a bit more on edge than usual. Is Carpenter okay?’

‘I heard he’s in A and E.’

‘Darryl won’t be happy about that.’

‘I wouldn’t think.’

‘Bad times on the horizon.’

‘Thing is, every lowlife in town knows something’s up. If the Starks were clever, they’d have been making daily trips from the west rather than hanging around like a fart under a duvet.’

‘They want to be seen. They want the word out that they’re after someone or something. That way, maybe the right info will come to them rather than them having to hunt it down.’

‘I see that, but it means everyone’s out on the chase — and most will want to keep whatever they find to themselves. It’s turning into a feeding frenzy.’

‘Except without any sign of the actual prey.’ Cafferty dug his hands deep into his pockets and straightened his shoulders. ‘I want you to be my eyes and ears, Andrew. I’ll call you every day.’ He paused. ‘If that’s all right with you.’

‘Fine and dandy. So where will you—’ Goodman broke off. ‘Sorry, stupid question.’

‘I’m going to phone for a taxi and fetch my bag from the car.’

‘Sure thing.’ Goodman got up from the desk.

‘And if word of my little disappearing act gets back to anyone — the Starks or Christie or anyone — I’ll know who to blame. Okay?’

‘You don’t need to worry about me. And remember, I’m ex-army — in your situation, I’d be doing exactly the same. If all you know is that the enemy’s out there somewhere, you keep your head down until it gets close enough to make a target.’

Cafferty was nodding as the two men descended the stairs. He took out his phone and ordered a cab, without giving a precise destination.

‘City centre,’ was all he said.

Meaningless, Goodman knew. Once he was in the cab, he could order the driver anywhere — enough cash on him for a trip to Fife, or maybe even Glasgow. Cafferty shook hands with both bodyguards as they handed him his bag. It was a large brown leather holdall, and it looked laden.

The cab arrived quickly, Cafferty clambering into the back and slamming the door shut. The three men watched it move off.

‘Want us to tail him?’ Goodman was asked.

He shook his head slowly. ‘Did you take a look in the bag, though?’

‘There’s a lock on it. Felt like clothes mostly, plus a laptop.’

Goodman ran his tongue over his lips as the cab disappeared from view. ‘Well, good luck to him,’ he said. ‘By which, of course, I mean the exact bloody opposite.’

He headed back upstairs to make a call.

The flat in Quartermile had been a recent purchase — just one small brick in Cafferty’s property empire. He hadn’t got round to letting it yet. Place was only half furnished, though the developer had added a few nice touches, including a wicker basket of food and drink. Quartermile had been the old infirmary, its original red sandstone blocks now joined by new-build steel and glass towers. The two-bedroom flat was in one of these new additions, and not quite at the penthouse level. But it had views over the Meadows, and there were shops, cafés and pubs nearby. The university was practically next door, meaning lots of students, but that was fine with Cafferty — students wouldn’t know him from any other bugger of an age they could reliably ignore.

The flat had both landline and Wi-Fi, so Cafferty plugged his laptop into a wall socket and booted it up. The password was on a Post-it note attached to one of the kitchen cupboards. He typed it in, loosened his shoulders and got busy.

Lord Minton. David Minton. There had to be something, some criminal trial, some bribe, some cover-up. He stared hard at photos of the man in various stages of his life, but no memories were stirred. The problem was, he couldn’t concentrate — the Starks kept getting in the way. He called a guy he knew in Glasgow, who told him Joe was back in the city but Dennis hadn’t been seen in a while, ‘which is like an unexpected holiday for some of us, so feel free to keep him’. Cafferty considered getting in touch with Joe, maybe telling him to shove his nutjob son back in the kennel. Then again, by putting Chick Carpenter in hospital, Dennis was heading ever closer to a collision with Darryl Christie. If Joe’s intention had been to cosy up to Christie, Dennis was putting that in jeopardy. Dennis against Darryl — Cafferty wouldn’t mind a ringside seat at that particular bout. Dennis all testosterone and big swinging punches; Darryl using brains and guile to plot his opponent’s demise. How many men had Dennis brought with him? Not as many as Darryl would have. If reinforcements were called for from the west coast, well, it really would start to get messy.

‘Good and messy,’ Cafferty muttered to himself.

On the other hand, there was an outside chance that an alliance was in the offing, the Starks showing Darryl how much he needed their friendship, or how chaotic things could become if he didn’t accept that helping hand. Cafferty had long known that the world of the gangster was the world of the capitalist. Markets had to be created, sustained and expanded, competition nullified. Bigger meant safer, and there was definitely shrinkage in Glasgow. The old skills of the moneylender had all but disappeared — or rather had succumbed to legitimate competition. The interest rates advertised on daytime TV weren’t so dissimilar to those offered on the street, but without the threat of a hammer or a nail gun should repayments falter. A lot of the money made from protection and prostitutes had been curtailed too, thanks to the legal system stamping down harder. Drugs were still the safest bet, but bringing them into the country was always fraught.

Cafferty heard the stories from old hands and newer ones — times were tough, meaning the Starks needed either fresh alliances or new realms to conquer. He couldn’t know for sure that the missing haulier and his hidden treasure weren’t a convenient smokescreen. Nor could he say as yet that either Darryl Christie or the Starks had aimed that gun at him. Which was why he turned back to the internet and started loading fresh pages about Lord Minton. If Minton had put away a Stark associate or a friend of Christie’s, he might be on the road to an answer.

The view across the Meadows towards Marchmont faded as the sun dipped below the horizon. Rebus lived in Marchmont. Cafferty knew he could count on the man as an ally only so far. Rebus still had a cop’s instincts, meaning he would take Cafferty down if he thought there was a halfway-decent chance of a conviction. On the other hand, war breaking out on the streets was in no one’s interests. If it were to happen, the police would target both Dennis Stark and Darryl Christie.

And if those pieces were removed from the board, Cafferty would be the only player left.

The only player in town.

13

The back room of the Oxford Bar, the corner table by the fire.

‘I’d like to convene this meeting,’ Rebus announced, placing the three drinks on the table. Fox and Clarke had settled themselves, removing coats and scarves. Fox was on tonic water, Clarke the same but with the addition of two measures of gin. ‘Cheers,’ Rebus said, seating himself opposite them.

‘Have you spoken to Page yet?’ Clarke asked.

‘Give me a chance,’ Rebus answered, taking a sip from his pint. Then, for Fox’s benefit: ‘DCI Page seems to think I might be a valuable addition to the team.’

‘And what’s brought about this miracle?’

Clarke explained about the note Cafferty had received.

‘By the way,’ Rebus added, ‘Big Ger thinks your haulier may be dead and buried.’

‘Not possible — Compston would know.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Maybe Compston does know. Maybe he’s not been entirely frank with you.’

‘Besides,’ Fox went on, ‘Cafferty doesn’t have anyone on the inside, does he?’

Rebus just shrugged again. Clarke was looking from one man to the other.

‘What are you two talking about?’

Rebus raised an eyebrow at Fox. ‘You’ve not said?’

Now it was Fox’s turn to bring Clarke up to date.

‘Hang on,’ Rebus eventually interrupted. ‘They went to the Gimlet?’

Fox nodded. ‘But they were only inside a couple of minutes, meaning Davie Dunn probably wasn’t there.’

‘And this was after they’d given Carpenter a doing outside his own premises?’ Rebus was bristling.

‘Easy, John,’ Clarke advised him. ‘You’re not CID these days.’

‘Everyone keeps telling me that, but I’ll be buggered if I sit around and let my city get turned over by a streak of piss like Dennis Stark.’

‘A noble sentiment,’ Clarke said, attempting levity, ‘but let’s try and keep a sense of perspective. Your job is to advise us, John. The Starks need to be left to Malcolm and his merry men.’

Rebus gave Fox a hard stare, then turned back to Clarke. ‘Thing is, Compston’s men were watching when Dennis Stark thumped the storage guy, and they made no move to step in or break it up. A man could have been killed, and I’m willing to bet Compston would have sat on his hands.’

‘Is that right, Malcolm?’ Clarke asked quietly.

‘Of course it’s right,’ Rebus spat. ‘We could have the son in custody right now, charged with assault. But that’s not good enough for Compston: he wants the full set — father and son, drugs and money — so that his boss, our glorious Chief Constable, can look good on TV. Wouldn’t you say that’s the case, DI Fox?’

The table was silent for a moment, Fox concentrating on the ice cubes in his glass.

‘There’s one of our lot on the inside, don’t forget,’ he eventually said. ‘I doubt a fine for Dennis Stark would be seen as recompense for his efforts.’

‘But at least the Starks would have been warned, meaning they’d slope off back to Glasgow. Peace on the streets and good luck to Hamish Wright and his ill-gotten gains.’ Rebus took too swift a gulp from his pint, beer dribbling down one cheek to his chin. He swiped it away with the back of a hand.

‘Have you told Doug Maxtone any of this?’ Clarke asked Fox.

Fox shook his head.

‘Why not?’

‘Maybe because his thinking wouldn’t be dissimilar from John’s.’

‘You’re not Compston’s man, Malcolm. You need to remember that.’

Fox nodded slowly.

‘What do you think Malcolm should do, John?’

Rebus puffed his cheeks and exhaled. ‘Take up drinking, maybe. Because sober, he’s going to be replaying that beating all the sleepless night.’

‘But should he take what he knows to Doug Maxtone?’

‘That’s got to be Malcolm’s call.’

‘You think Chick Carpenter will want to press charges?’ Fox asked.

‘He doesn’t have to — we’ve police witnesses to the assault.’ Rebus paused. ‘On the other hand, you may have a point. Could be he’ll deny there was any assault, just like Cafferty denied he’d been shot at. These are people who don’t trust us and don’t trust our motives.’

‘There’s one further complication,’ Fox added. ‘Chick Carpenter is friends with Darryl Christie.’

‘Then Darryl won’t be happy.’ Rebus paused again. ‘Wait a second — and Dennis went straight from one of Christie’s mates to a pub Christie used to own?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can’t be more than six months since the Gimlet changed hands.’

‘You’re thinking Christie will know the new owner?’ Clarke asked.

‘There’s only a new owner on paper,’ Rebus said. ‘Everybody knows Davie Dunn is fronting the place.’

‘Why?’

‘So it can be run down and sold off to a supermarket who might not want to buy from a known criminal.’

‘It’s getting closer then — some sort of confrontation. And I’m guessing we really don’t want that to happen.’ Clarke turned her head towards Fox. ‘Meaning we maybe do need the Starks sent packing, despite everything.’

Fox finished his drink and got to his feet. ‘My round,’ he said. ‘Same again?’

Rebus nodded, but Clarke demurred. When Fox had gone, she leaned across the table.

‘Last thing we need is Cafferty getting involved. The two cases can’t overlap.’

‘Big Ger’s not the one I’m worried about, Siobhan.’

‘Christie?’ She watched as Rebus gave a slow nod.

‘Big Ger’s the type to meet brute force with a bit more brute force. Darryl, on the other hand… I’ve no idea how he’ll react. Could go one way or the other.’

‘Lucky it’s nothing to do with us then, eh? We just focus on our nice cosy stalker-cum-killer. Speaking of which, have I mentioned the desk drawer?’

‘Sounds riveting,’ Rebus said. ‘Do tell.’

She was opening her mouth as he got to his feet.

‘And while you’re doing that,’ he said, ‘I’ll be outside enjoying a well-earned cigarette.’

The taxi dropped Rebus at the top of Cafferty’s street. A woman was walking her superannuated dog. It was about seven inches high and hugely interested in a lamp post. The roadway and pavement were bathed in sodium orange, the moon overhead illuminating a veil of white cloud. A quiet, orderly part of town. Rebus doubted there had been too many YES posters in the windows here during the independence campaign. The moneyed class here kept its opinions to itself, and didn’t kick up a fuss unless absolutely provoked. Edinburgh had always seemed to Rebus a city that liked to keep its counsel and its secrets. He guessed that most of Cafferty’s neighbours would know his reputation, not that they would ever say anything to his face. Whispers and glances and gossip shared by phone or email or in the privacy of the bedroom or dinner party. The shot fired at the detached Victorian home would have come as a shock. In the Inch maybe, or Niddrie or Sighthill, but not here, not in this Edinburgh.

As Rebus approached the house, he could see that no lights were on. The car and guards had disappeared from their posting. As he walked up the driveway, security lamps were triggered, lighting his way. There was another above the back door, but still no sign of life from within. He did a circuit of the garden and ended up at the front door, ringing the bell twice and, after a wait, squatting to peer through the letter box. Darkness within. He took out his phone and made a call, listening to the eventual ringing indoors. But no one was there to answer, so he called Cafferty’s mobile instead. It rang and rang without going to any kind of answering service. Rebus hung up and sent a text instead:

Where are you?

Then he realised Cafferty might not know it was from him, so he typed in another:

It’s me by the way — John.

Thought for a moment and deleted ‘John’, replacing it with ‘Rebus’. Pressed send.

It was cold, but not quite below zero. He reckoned he could walk to his flat in fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. He had a phrase from the first Godfather film in his head — ‘going to the mattresses’. He wondered if that was what Cafferty was doing: hiding out somewhere while preparing for war. Well, it was time for Rebus to hit his own mattress. But as he walked back down the path, he saw a familiar figure peering through the gate.

‘You again,’ he told the terrier. It seemed to recognise his voice, wagging its tail as he approached. When he leaned down to stroke it, the dog rolled on to its back.

‘Bit chilly for that,’ Rebus said. He could feel its ribs protruding. No collar. The dog got back to its feet and waited.

‘Where do you live, bud?’ Rebus asked, looking up and down the street. Cafferty had seemed to think it a stray. The dog didn’t look feral or maltreated, though. Just lost, maybe. Rebus began walking up the street, trying not to look back. When he did, the dog was right there, just a few steps behind. He tried shooing it away. The look on the terrier’s face told him it was disappointed in him. His phone started buzzing. As he dug it out of his pocket, the dog sidled up and began sniffing his shoes and trouser legs. He had a text — but not from Cafferty.

Hell of a day! Know it’s late, but fancy a drink somewhere in town? Deb

Rebus considered his options for all of five seconds, then made a mental apology to his bed for forsaking it, sent a return text, and phoned for a cab. He lit a cigarette while he was waiting. The dog was sitting on its haunches, quite content to keep him company. When the cab arrived, Rebus got in and closed the door after him.

‘You’ve forgotten your dog,’ the driver told him.

‘It’s not mine.’

‘Fair enough, pal.’ The driver started off, but halfway down the road, Rebus stopped him and told him to back up. When he slid open the door, his new friend bounded in, as if it had never doubted him.

It was past midnight when Siobhan Clarke slid the DVD into the player and retreated to her sofa, remote in hand. She picked up the file on Michael Tolland and skimmed it as she watched the TV interviews with the lottery winner and his wife. Tolland was effusive, grinning from ear to ear, while Ella said hardly a word. Clarke removed a photocopy of the wedding photo from the file. The bride looked soulful, as if having second thoughts. Jim Grant, the cop from Linlithgow, had sent precisely two texts since their meeting. The first had been to inform her that he’d spoken to Tolland’s old school pal, who had confirmed that Tolland had seemed ‘a bit jittery’ at their last few get-togethers but wouldn’t say what the problem was. The house had been scoured again but no note, threatening or otherwise, recovered. The second text had been to suggest they confer over ‘a drink or maybe even dinner’. He had appended to this an emoji of a smiling yellow face, and another that was winking with its tongue protruding — which probably meant Clarke now owed Christine Esson twenty quid. One further text had arrived — from Deborah Quant, regarding the theory that the implement used on Lord Minton could have been a crowbar rather than a hammer. Quant’s reply had been a decidedly tetchy Find me the murder weapon and I’ll be able to answer, probably composed at the end of a long day. It had been a long day for everyone, and Clarke found her eyes closing as Michael Tolland handed an oversized cheque back to the official and opened the magnum of champagne, spraying it around, not least in the direction of his unamused, newly enriched wife.