Even Dogs in the Wild

14

Siobhan Clarke pressed the intercom half a dozen times before receiving a growled answer.

‘It’s Siobhan. Don’t tell me you’re not up yet.’

‘Privilege of the consulting detective.’ He buzzed her in and she climbed the stairwell to his floor. He had left the door open for her.

‘I’m in the bathroom,’ he called. ‘Kettle’s on.’

She was not alone in the kitchen. A dog was there, eating chopped-up sausages from a plate. There was the aroma of recent frying, and an unwashed pan sat in the sink.

Rebus emerged, towelling dry his hair, shirt untucked and open at the neck.

‘No vegetables in your fridge,’ she said. ‘But good to see it’s not jam-packed with booze either.’

‘You applying for the post of carer?’ He took the mug from her and sipped.

‘Thought you were heading straight home from the Ox?’

Rebus rolled his bloodshot eyes. ‘And now she’s my mother.’

‘It’s the dog from Cafferty’s street, am I right?’

‘Sharp as ever.’

‘And it’s here because…?’

‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’ He fixed her with a look but she shook her head.

‘No way, Jose,’ she said.

‘Think of the exercise you’d get, not to mention the companionship.’

‘My answer’s the same.’

With a sigh, Rebus led her through to the living room. ‘The plot thickens,’ Clarke said. ‘Two used glasses, and perfume lingering amid the fug.’ She walked over to the hi-fi and lifted a CD. ‘Did she do a runner when you stuck this on?’

‘That’s the Steve Miller Band. Put on track seven while I find a tie.’

Rebus left the room and Clarke did as she was told. The song was called ‘Quicksilver Girl’. The volume was turned down low, low enough for late-night conversation.

‘I quite like it,’ she said on Rebus’s return. ‘Like a laid-back Beach Boys. But there’s something wrong with the speakers.’

‘I know.’

‘So how was Professor Quant?’

‘She’s not allergic to dogs.’

‘Does it have a name?’ Clarke said, watching as the terrier padded in from the kitchen, licking its chops.

‘I thought I’d call it The Dog From Cafferty’s Street.’

Clarke reached down to scratch the terrier behind its ears. ‘I saw Deborah a couple of days back. We were discussing Lord Minton.’

Rebus took another slug of coffee. ‘The Prof seems to like you.’

‘You were talking about me last night? Doesn’t exactly sound like a romantic tête-à-tête. Then again, from your music choices…’

‘What about them?’

Clarke checked the pile of CDs. ‘Van Morrison maybe, but Rory Gallagher and Tom Waits are hardly the stuff of serenades. On the other hand…’

‘What?’

‘You played CDs rather than your vinyl.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You didn’t want to be interrupted every fifteen or twenty minutes to turn the record over.’

‘We’ll make a detective of you yet. So what’s the plan for today?’

Clarke turned away from the hi-fi and checked the time. ‘The Hermitage. Meeting the dog-walker there, the one who found the bullet.’

‘Right.’

‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? I told you about her when you came back in after your cigarette. You said you were interested in tagging along.’

‘In which case, I am interested. And after the Hermitage?’

‘Howden Hall for the ballistics report.’

‘Followed by?’

She stared at him. ‘You’re angling to sit in on the interview with Cafferty — that’s not going to happen.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re not part of the official inquiry and nor are you his lawyer. Procurator fiscal isn’t going to sanction a civilian being present.’

‘You could always ask…’

‘Despite already knowing the answer?’ She shook her head. ‘You can listen to the recording afterwards, if that’ll make you happy.’

‘I’m always happy.’

‘Your taste in music says otherwise.’

Rebus had donned his suit jacket and was patting his pockets, making sure he had everything. ‘Can we make a detour first?’

‘Where?’

‘I’ve got the address of a vet. They said I could drop by.’

‘Is this us saying a fond farewell to our new friend?’

‘Your car or mine?’ Rebus asked.

‘Mine — if you promise he won’t pee on the seats.’

‘But I can smoke if I roll the window down?’

‘Absolutely not.’

Rebus expelled some air. ‘And she wonders why I’m not always Mr Sunshine,’ he muttered, draining the mug.

The vet made his inspection on a stainless-steel examination table.

‘No bones broken… teeth seem fine.’ He felt at the neck, pinching and rubbing at the skin. ‘Doesn’t appear to be chipped, which is a pity.’

‘I thought it was compulsory.’

‘Not quite yet.’

‘You think he’s been abandoned?’

‘He may just have been lost — got out of the house and found himself too far from home to retrace his steps.’

‘People sometimes put up posters, don’t they?’ Clarke commented.

‘They do. You could do something like that yourself — a photograph on Facebook or Twitter.’

Clarke took out her phone and snapped a few pictures.

‘So what happens now?’ Rebus asked.

‘You don’t want to keep him?’

Rebus checked with Clarke and Clarke with Rebus. Both shook their heads. The vet sighed and ran his hands over the small terrier again. ‘There’s a database I can check,’ he said. ‘Just in case someone is looking for him. But the most likely scenario is simply that the owner was finding it hard to cope. I’ve seen it a lot these past few years — unemployment or maybe a benefits cut, and suddenly the family pet becomes a luxury too far. I’ll contact the cat and dog home.’

‘If it’s a question of money…’ Rebus began.

‘It’s more that there are too many unwanted pets and not enough potential takers.’

‘So they’ll keep him for a while, and then…?’

‘He’ll be put to sleep, most probably. Though I assure you, that’s a measure of last resort.’

The dog was looking at Rebus as if it trusted him to make the right decision.

‘Fine then,’ Rebus said. ‘We’ll leave you to it. Hang on to him a few days, though, will you? We’ll do a bit of searching.’

‘Fingers crossed,’ the vet said, as Rebus opened the door to leave, knowing it was best not to look back.

Outside, Clarke got busy on her phone. ‘Christine’s the social media hotshot. I’ll get her to post the photo everywhere she can think of.’

‘Better still, ask her if she wants a dog.’

‘Getting soft in your old age, John?’

‘Soft as nails,’ Rebus said, climbing into the Astra.

The Hermitage was a woodland walk to the south of Morningside, hemmed in by Braid Hills on one side and Blackford Hill on the other. A burn ran through the gorge, crossed here and there by wooden bridges, some in better repair than others. Dog-walkers were the main clientele, along with families with wellingtoned children, plus occasional cyclists. In spring, the air carried the pungency of wild garlic, but in winter the compressed leaves on the path froze and became treacherous.

‘I never come here,’ Clarke said as they walked from the car. They’d had to park on the main road, just down from the Braid Hills Hotel. Clarke had been given instructions to leave the main path as soon as possible and head into the woods along a muddier, narrower route, climbing up a steepening gradient. Rebus was a few yards behind her, his breathing laboured.

‘Keep up, Grandad,’ she couldn’t help teasing.

‘You might have warned me to bring boots,’ he complained; Clarke had changed into hers at the kerbside.

‘Do you even own any boots?’

‘That’s not the point.’

The barking of a stout yellow Labrador announced their arrival.

‘Mrs Jenkins?’ Clarke checked.

The woman who nodded was in her sixties, hair tucked under the rim of a knitted hat, matching scarf around her neck. She wore a green Puffa jacket and faded denims tucked into green wellies.

‘Detective Inspector Clarke?’ she confirmed. The dog was off its lead but she was gripping it by the collar. Clarke held her ungloved palm out and the dog gave it a sniff and a lick.

‘This is Godfrey,’ Mrs Jenkins informed them. She released her grip, allowing the dog to bound into the woods, following some trail only it could sense.

‘He’ll be fine,’ she said with a smile, as if the two detectives had shown qualms about her companion’s well-being.

‘This is where it happened?’ Clarke asked.

The woman nodded. ‘Just over here.’ She led them a short distance. ‘This is the least used of the various paths,’ she informed them. ‘Godfrey and I were a bit further uphill; we’d gone as far as the perimeter of the golf course. I heard the sound and knew it was a shot. My husband, Archie, used to shoot — grouse and pheasant. Horrible job plucking and cleaning them…’

‘You didn’t see anyone?’

‘Sorry.’ The smile this time was thinner. ‘Whoever it was must have headed down the trail sharpish.’

They had stopped beside a young conifer. Some of the bark had been dislodged, and there was splintering, either from the impact of the bullet or more likely from its subsequent removal.

‘A miserable winter’s afternoon,’ the woman continued. ‘Whoever it was probably thought they had the place to themselves.’

‘There are a lot of trees here, Mrs Jenkins,’ Rebus said. ‘How did you happen to spot that this was the target?’

‘Smell of… what is it? Gunpowder? Cordite? It was in the air, strongest right here, and there was even a wisp of smoke drifting upwards — I must have missed the culprit by seconds.’ She looked from one detective to the other. ‘The police officer said it was probably just a prank of some kind, but from your faces… well, I’m guessing perhaps I had a narrow escape.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Clarke sought to reassure her. ‘But there’s been a shooting in the city — nothing fatal, just damage to property — and we’re looking at a possible connection. You don’t happen to remember seeing anyone on your walk?’

‘Baby buggies, other dog-walkers, but no one who didn’t look as if they belonged. I mean, no one Arabic.’

‘Arabic?’ Clarke echoed.

‘Mrs Jenkins,’ Rebus advised, ‘has got it into her head that this may be linked to terrorism.’

‘Well, these days…’ Mrs Jenkins’ voice trailed off.

‘It categorically isn’t,’ Clarke stressed.

‘You’ll forgive me, dear, but as a woman once said: you would say that, wouldn’t you?’

Godfrey was circling them, nose to the ground.

‘Any room at home for another dog, Mrs Jenkins?’ Rebus asked.

‘I’m afraid Godfrey would eat it alive.’

Godfrey, drool hanging from his jaws, didn’t appear inclined to disagree.

The forensic science lab was situated in an unassuming building just off Howden Hall Road, on the south side of the city. Security had been ramped up since an arson attack a few years back that had successfully destroyed some crucial trial evidence. Once inside, Clarke and Rebus had to wait in reception, cameras peering down at them.

‘If she talks to the press…’ Clarke commented, not for the first time.

‘I doubt even the Fourth Estate would go along with it.’

‘No, but the Fifth might.’

‘Meaning?’

‘The internet. Bloggers and the like. Their creed is: print anything, just make sure you’re the first.’

‘And retract at leisure?’

‘If at all.’

The man descending the stairs had a photographic identity card hanging around his neck from a lanyard. He was short, squat and bald, and his rolled-up sleeves marked him out as someone perennially busy.

‘DI Clarke?’ he said, making to shake hands. ‘I’m Colin Blunt — no relation, alas.’

‘To the spy?’ Rebus guessed.

‘The singer,’ Blunt corrected him with a frown. He led them upstairs and into a bright subdivided room. There was a table in the middle, and worktops stretching along three walls.

‘Not much equipment,’ Clarke commented.

‘Under-resourced, you might say,’ Blunt offered.

He told them to sit down, and pushed a sheet of paper towards Clarke, apologising to Rebus that he’d only made one copy.

‘We’re just grateful you’ve still got a photocopier somewhere,’ Rebus commented. ‘Maybe you can sum up for me while DI Clarke digests all that.’

‘Well, it’s preliminary stuff — both bullets were pretty mashed up. The impact has a concertina effect, you see.’

‘I do.’

Blunt produced a pair of spectacles and a clean handkerchief, and started polishing as he spoke. ‘There’s a facility we use at Gartcosh for more detailed ballistics, but we’d have to get the okay for that — it doesn’t come cheap. But from the look we’ve taken under our own microscope, I’d say there’s an eighty to ninety per cent chance the bullets were fired from the same gun. The bullets themselves are of American manufacture, for what it’s worth — nine millimetre. Rifling looks similar…’ He broke off. ‘I’m referring to the striations.’

‘I know,’ Rebus said. ‘So how many registered users of nine-mil pistols might there be in Scotland?’

‘A handful.’

‘And unregistered?’

‘Who knows?’

‘Not you, obviously, Mr Blunt.’

‘Find us the gun and we’ll tell you if it fired these bullets.’

‘The more we know about the bullets, the better the chance of that happening.’ Rebus paused. ‘To be blunt.’

Blunt pretended to appreciate the joke, managing a weak smile.

Clarke looked up. ‘Want to see?’ she asked Rebus. He shook his head.

‘So we’ve got the attack on Lord Minton,’ Rebus said. ‘Which involved a blow to the head—’

‘Professor Quant has us looking at that,’ Blunt interrupted. ‘We’ve a database here of head injuries caused by hammers and other tools.’

‘Good for you,’ Rebus said, turning his attention back to Clarke. ‘Then the afternoon after Minton’s killed, someone discharges a firearm into a tree, and that same night a shot is fired, presumably at Cafferty’s head.’ He pointed a finger at Blunt. ‘Which goes no further than this room, understood?’

‘Understood,’ Blunt spluttered.

‘The gunman was doing a bit of target practice,’ Clarke surmised.

‘Hardly,’ Rebus said. ‘He fired at a tree. It’s not like he placed tin cans on fence posts or pinned up the outline of a human.’

‘Like when they go to a shooting range in the movies,’ Blunt piped up. The look from Rebus silenced him.

‘So what are you saying?’ Clarke asked.

‘I’m saying this was more like someone who just needed to know they could handle the rudiments.’

‘Point and squeeze.’

‘Exactly. What would the recoil be like? How far could they be from their intended target and still hit it?’

‘Are you saying our guy’s a beginner or a pro?’

‘One or the other, certainly.’

‘Great — I’ll stick that in the computer and see what we get.’

‘No need to be sarky.’ Rebus turned his head towards Blunt. ‘That’s what she’s being, isn’t it? My ears aren’t deceiving me?’

Blunt decided that a shrug was the only appropriate response. But Clarke had a question of her own for him.

‘The drawer from Lord Minton’s desk?’

‘What drawer?’ Rebus interrupted.

‘You’d know if your need for a cigarette last night hadn’t been so urgent.’

‘Ah yes,’ Blunt was saying. ‘Well, again it’s only preliminary…’

‘I’ll settle for that.’

‘The stain is an oil of some kind, probably a lubricant. Hard to tell its age or exact make-up without specialised equipment, and again—’

‘It would cost money?’ Clarke nodded. ‘But?’

‘But we also found a few fibres from some loose-woven material, probably predominantly grey in colour. Muslin, maybe.’

‘Something nine inches by six, wrapped in muslin…’ Clarke’s eyes were on Rebus. He was folding his arms slowly.

‘Pistol,’ he said.

‘Makes sense. Minton hears a noise downstairs. Unlocks the drawer and takes out the gun. But before he can use it, he’s bludgeoned.’

‘Attacker pockets the gun, but hasn’t used one before.’

‘Or one like it, at any rate. Maybe he’s a bit rusty.’

‘So he reckons he’d better test it before he goes after his next victim. Probably knew Minton was a cinch compared to Cafferty — better to go at Cafferty from a safe distance. Gun must have seemed like a godsend.’

‘But somehow he missed.’

‘He missed,’ Rebus agreed.

‘So he will try again?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Could be Cafferty’s dropped down his list.’

‘No one else has come forward to say they’ve had the warning.’

‘Maybe it’s a really short list,’ Rebus offered. Then, turning to Blunt: ‘What do you think, Colin?’

‘I try to deal with physical data rather than speculation.’

‘Tell me,’ Clarke asked him, ‘did the evidence from the Michael Tolland murder come here?’

The scientist thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘The back door, yes.’

‘And?’

‘And it was prised open by some sort of tool. A crowbar or the corner of a spade. No trace evidence, unfortunately.’

‘Pity,’ Clarke said, the corners of her mouth turning down.

Rebus laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. ‘That’s precisely why you need people like us, Colin — for when your physical data just isn’t there. Now tell me — because you seem like the caring, sensible sort — have you ever considered owning a lovely wee dog?’

15

Not wanting to risk being seen at a computer terminal by Compston and the others, Fox had ended up at the old Lothian and Borders Police HQ on Fettes Avenue. He showed his warrant card at reception and asked for the whereabouts of the Minton inquiry. Same floor as the old Chief Constable’s lair, and not far from where Fox and his Complaints team had worked, back when the Big House had been his hunting ground and errant cops his prey. There were a few nods of recognition as he moved through the building. James Page, crossing the corridor from one room to another, spotted him.

‘I’m looking for Siobhan,’ Fox said, pre-empting any question Page might have.

‘She’s out at Howden Hall, I think.’

‘Okay if I leave her a note?’

Page nodded distractedly and moved off. The room he’d just been in was now home to the Minton team, including Christine Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie. Fox nodded a greeting.

‘Just trying to catch Siobhan,’ he explained. ‘DCI Page told me to wait. Is this her desk?’

Fox sat down in the empty chair. He waited a full half-minute, then mumbled something about doing a check and got busy at the computer. Siobhan had confided to him one night that despite hating the nickname, she used ‘Shiv’ as her password. Once in, Fox started checking names. He had four — Simpson, Andrews, Dyson, and Rae — and he wanted to know what Police Scotland had on them.

After ten minutes, Esson asked him if he wanted tea or coffee, but he shook his head.

‘Should I phone her and see how long she’ll be?’

Fox shook his head again. ‘Just sending her an email.’

‘Using telepathy?’ When Fox looked puzzled, Esson explained. ‘Not very many keystrokes, DI Fox.’

For want of any lie she would be likely to accept, he just smiled and got back to work.

Rob Simpson had been part of the Stark ‘family’ for almost a decade, so scratch him. Callum Andrews had a criminal record stretching back to juvenile days, so Fox reckoned he couldn’t be the mole. That left Jackie Dyson and Tommy Rae. Both men had seen the inside of a courtroom in the past three years, but for minor misdemeanours. As far as he could tell, both had grown up in Glasgow, leaving school at sixteen and drifting into lawlessness from there. Looked as though neither had joined the gang until a year or so ago. Fox remembered them from the beating outside the storage facility. Dyson scrawny, shaven-headed, whey-faced. Rae maybe a year or two older, with more heft to him and a scar down one cheek. A cop with scars? Well, it happened, but not often, and rarely the visible kind. A scar on your cheek came from a knife, razor or bottle. It was as if the street had given you a tattoo. No, Fox’s money was on Jackie Dyson.

Alec Bell had said the mole had been working undercover for more than three years. Some of that would have been spent getting known, establishing a reputation, moving closer to the seat of power. Two years of graft before acceptance into the fold. Having worked surveillance himself, he was intrigued by the type of officer who could immerse himself so thoroughly. Friends and family would have to be discarded for the duration, the new identity learned by rote, old haunts shunned for fear of recognition. Fox thought back to the beating, Dyson hauling Chick Carpenter back to his feet for a headbutt, then pissing on the man’s car. Meantime Tommy Rae had been content to hold Carpenter’s companion at bay — so did that tip the scales back towards him? Rae content to remain on the periphery, unwilling to cause harm… Rae with his facial disfigurement… Call it seventy — thirty — seventy per cent Jackie Dyson against thirty for Rae. Fox closed down the various windows and made sure to delete his search history. His phone was buzzing, so he answered.

‘Fox?’ a female voice asked.

‘Hello, Hastie. Do I call you Hastie or Beth?’

‘If you’re not already there, just to say you’ll find the office empty.’ All businesslike. ‘Don’t know when we’ll be back, okay?’

‘Surveillance again? A return trip to the Gimlet?’

‘Bright boy. Later.’ The phone went dead, and Fox got to his feet, nearly bumping into a man in a suit who was toting a box file. The man was ruddy-faced, his breathing ragged. Fox muttered an apology.

‘No problem,’ the man said, making his exit.

‘You’re honoured,’ Christine Esson drawled. ‘That’s a rare sighting of the Charlie Sykes in its native environment.’

‘He seemed busy.’

‘He does a good impression. Carries that box around all day without ever feeling the need to open it.’ She paused, tapping a pen against her chin. ‘Do you do any impressions yourself, DI Fox?’

‘Such as?’

‘Man sending email.’

Fox gave a sheepish smile. ‘Busted,’ he said, heading for the door.

He drove to the Gimlet, unsure why. He wasn’t going to get in the way, wasn’t going to get close enough to be spotted by Compston’s team. But maybe if there was violence, he would phone it in anonymously. Rebus had been right to castigate him, but would Rebus himself have acted differently? Fox doubted it.

The street the Gimlet sat on, an unlovely passageway between Slateford Road and Calder Road, was lined with parked cars, putting paid to his idea of finding a kerbside spot. He had a choice: reverse, or keep going? Keeping going meant passing the surveillance vehicle and maybe being spotted. But reversing would look suspicious. Biting down hard on his bottom lip, he pressed the accelerator.

He was almost level with the bar when its door burst open, men spilling out. Dennis was first, then his gang. There was blood on Rob Simpson’s white shirt, and he was holding a hand over his nose. And here came the reason — a hulk of a man in a stained T-shirt two sizes too small, his biceps bulging, arms tattooed. He was shouting the odds and swinging a baseball bat. But it was one against five, and the Stark gang were beginning to circle their prey. Fox noted that up close, Tommy Rae’s scar was almost as red and angry as the tattooed man’s face. Dyson’s hand was going into his pocket, presumably for a knife. Fox gritted his teeth and pulled on the handbrake. Undoing his seat belt, he sounded his horn, got out and strode towards the melee.

‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘Stay out of this, pal!’ Dyson spat, the blade concealed in his fist.

‘Not a fair fight,’ Fox persisted. ‘I’m calling the—’

Dyson pounced, his fist proving the perfect fit for Fox’s unprepared jaw. Another swipe connected with the side of his face, and he could feel his knees buckling, the world spinning. As his vision started to blur, his last sight was of Alec Bell, hands glued to the surveillance car’s steering wheel, mouth making the shapes of words that would probably not be welcome in church.

There was an angel peering down at him. Shrouded in white, cheeks rose-tinged.

‘You’re awake,’ the angel said, turning into a nurse.

‘Where am I?’ Fox looked around. He was lying on a trolley in a white booth with a curtain draped across. He was still in his clothes. His face hurt and he had a blinding headache, which the strip lighting was doing its best to exacerbate.

‘Royal Infirmary — A and E, to be precise. How are you feeling?’

Fox tried to sit up. It only took him ten or so seconds. His vision was still a bit blurry and his face felt swollen.

‘How did I get here?’

‘Your friend drove you.’

‘Did he?’

‘He did.’

Fox remembered Alec Bell’s face. Oh, but they’d be furious with him for this. ‘Just dumped me here?’

‘Not a bit of it. He’s in the waiting area. Doctor will want to take a look at you.’

‘Why?’

‘To check for concussion.’

‘I’m fine.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Did you have a guy in here yesterday from CC Self Storage? Name of Chick Carpenter?’

‘Rings a bell. He said some packing cases fell on him. What about you?’

‘Believe it or not, the selfsame thing.’

‘Get away. And these packing cases wore a ring of some kind?’ She nodded towards his face. ‘It’s left an indentation. Yesterday, it was a size nine boot.’

Fox pressed a finger to the area indicated and wished he hadn’t. ‘Fancy that.’ He winced, struggling to get to his feet, then patted his pockets to ensure nothing had been removed. ‘Am I right in thinking you can’t stop me leaving?’

‘Only an idiot would walk out of here in your state.’

‘That may well be true.’ Fox smiled and gave a little bow.

‘Men your age shouldn’t be fighting.’

‘I was trying to referee,’ he told her.

‘Will you take one bit of advice at least?’ He paused, waiting. ‘A bag of frozen peas will bring down the swelling.’

Nodding, he shuffled out of the cubicle and into the waiting area.

He had expected to see Alec Bell or another of the team, but it was the man from the bar, the one with the bat.

‘What did they say?’ the man asked.

‘That fools rush in.’

‘I don’t know about that, mate. I’d say you were bloody brave.’

‘What happened? After I conked out, I mean.’

‘Seemed to quieten them a bit — there you were, sparked out in the road, and with traffic coming from both directions. Got to tell you, you’re on free drinks for life in my place.’

‘I don’t drink.’

‘Thank God for that — saves me a few bob. I’m Davie Dunn, by the way. I drove you here in your car. Need to get that clutch seen to.’

‘Thanks for the tip.’

‘I know a guy. I’ll fix you up with him.’

‘So they just left, did they?’

‘There’d have been a few cracked skulls in here if they hadn’t.’

‘I thought one of them was pulling a knife.’

Dunn nodded. ‘One of those thin blades from the DIY stores. But Stark gave the word and that was that.’

‘Stark?’ Fox asked, fishing.

‘Don’t be fooled, Davie — he knows fine well who Stark is.’

The voice had come from behind Fox. He turned too quickly, almost losing his balance as the world spun. Darryl Christie had emerged from the toilet and was wiping his hands dry with a handkerchief. ‘This is Detective Inspector Fox, Davie. And suddenly it all makes sense. There’s a surveillance operation on the Starks, yes? After the stunt they pulled yesterday with Chick Carpenter?’

‘Is there?’ Fox countered, dry-mouthed.

‘You know one another?’ Dunn was asking.

‘DI Fox came to see me a couple of days back. He’s been to the Gimlet, too, back in the days when I owned it.’ Christie focused his attention on Fox. ‘Davie here is a good friend of mine. That’s why I sold him my pride and joy. The Gimlet taught me a lot of lessons — hard knocks, you might call them. So when Davie tells me the Starks have been threatening him, well… I listen. And that’s what brought me running.’ He had folded the handkerchief back into his pocket. ‘Now, here’s the message I want you to take back to Rebus or whoever else is involved in this surveillance of yours — the Starks are going down, end of. You can save us all a lot of grief by walking away and letting me get on with it.’

‘What if I’d walked away today, though?’ Fox gestured towards Davie Dunn. ‘What then?’

‘I’m just saying, best if your lot steer clear.’ Christie looked around the waiting area. ‘Where are your buddies anyway? I know Police Scotland are stretched, but a one-man surveillance?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘They let you take that beating, didn’t they? Is that because they didn’t want the surveillance compromised? Or maybe they just liked seeing someone who used to be in Professional Standards get a doing?’ Christie smiled, watching Fox try to formulate an answer. Then he patted Fox’s forearm. ‘Don’t go straining yourself. Got all your stuff? Davie here will take you home.’

And Fox did want to go home. It didn’t even bother him that both Christie and Dunn would then know where he lived. Chances were, Christie either already knew, or could find out in five minutes. So Dunn drove, while Fox sat in the passenger seat, still in pain. Christie was behind them all the way in a Range Rover Evoque.

‘You’ve known Darryl a while, then?’ Fox asked.

‘Probably best we don’t talk about any of that — now I know you’re police.’

‘Does the drinks-for-life offer still stand?’

‘Of course. Thing is, once my regulars get a whiff of you, you’re not going to want to linger.’

‘Which might temper the enjoyment.’

‘It might.’ Dunn glanced at him. ‘No offence, but you don’t look like the kind of cop who’d do surveillance.’

‘Oh?’

‘You seem more of a pen-pusher.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you.’ Fox paused. ‘Will they come back, do you think?’

‘Stark and his posse? I suppose they might.’

‘You used to drive lorries, didn’t you?’

‘Europe, Ireland, all over.’ Dunn paused. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Secret of a good surveillance — know everything. You drove for Hamish Wright?’

‘Haven’t seen him in years.’

‘I’m guessing the Starks think otherwise.’

‘The Starks haven’t got the brains they were born with.’

‘Doesn’t seem to have held them back.’

‘It’ll be their downfall, though. This is 2015. Stanley knives and fifty-quid drug deals? Reckon they’ve ever heard of Bitcoin or the darknet? They’re a market stall in the age of Amazon.’

‘Yet still a threat.’

‘Because they’re panicking.’

‘Last time I saw Darryl, at his hotel, he seemed to be heading that way too.’

‘Panicking, you mean? Maybe he was putting on a show for you.’ Dunn glanced towards his passenger again. ‘Besides, we’re not talking about that, remember? Want me to drop you home and take your car to my mate’s? He’d have this clutch fixed by day’s end.’

Fox shook his head. As they entered Oxgangs, he had to start giving directions.

‘Nice and peaceful around these parts?’ Dunn enquired.

‘So far,’ Fox replied. ‘Just here will do, thanks.’

The car drew up by the kerb, both men getting out. Fox took the keys from Dunn, who gave a wave rather than a handshake as he got into the Range Rover. Christie did a three-point turn and drove off, and Fox headed indoors. He thought about running a bath. A nice long soak. He had no messages on his phone, no missed calls. He plugged the phone in to charge and poured a big glass of tap water, gulping it down. Only then did he wander into the bathroom to check the damage in the mirror. Bruising down one side of his face. His chin hurt, and he’d obviously fallen on his arm as he hit the carriageway.

You’ll live, he told himself. Not that anyone’s bothered.

The doorbell went. He peered through the spyhole before opening up to Compston and Bell. Compston stormed inside without invitation, Bell fixing Fox with a look before following.

Compston stood in the centre of the living room, feet apart, arms folded. ‘Nice of them to drop you home,’ he growled. ‘Your new friends, I mean.’

‘You’d have left me lying in the road, right?’ Fox retorted.

‘Didn’t you learn anything from yesterday?’

‘I wasn’t going to let them stab anyone.’

Compston turned his attention to Bell. ‘Knives?’

‘I didn’t see any.’

‘Jackie Dyson was getting ready to pull one out.’ Fox studied both men’s reaction, but they were giving nothing away.

‘Nevertheless,’ Compston eventually said. Then: ‘Did you identify yourself as the law?’

‘I didn’t need to — Darryl Christie knows me, remember.’

‘I meant Stark and his boys.’

Fox shook his head.

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure. But meantime, Christie has put two and two together — he knows there’s surveillance on the Starks.’ Fox raised a hand as Compston bared his teeth. ‘Before you go the full Hannibal Lecter, he thinks it’s locally sourced and all down to the attack at the storage unit.’

‘Will he tell the Starks?’

‘Why the hell should he? It gives him something over them. And incidentally, he tells me he’s going to take them out of the game. Didn’t sound like he was joking.’

‘We’ll deal with that as and when.’

‘By sitting back and watching?’

Compston’s face hardened. ‘You used to run surveillance operations against your own kind, Fox. Like I said yesterday, I’m guessing sometimes you’d have to sit and watch.’ He took a step forward, arms by his sides now. ‘In fact, from what little I know of you, I’d say you enjoyed watching, and those bruises of yours tell me you’d do well to stick to what you’re best at.’ He paused, face inches from Fox’s. ‘Understood?’ Without waiting for an answer, he stalked towards the front door, Alec Bell at his heels. This time, Bell kept his gaze directed at the floor. When the door had closed, Fox went back into the bathroom, intent on some paracetamol and that long soak he had promised himself.

When he emerged almost an hour later, having changed into fresh clothes, he had one missed call and one text, both from Bell. The text told him to send a message saying when would be a good time to talk.

Right now, Fox replied. Sixty seconds later, his phone rang.

‘Sorry about all that,’ Bell said. His voice had a bit of echo to it.

‘Where are you?’

‘The bogs at St Leonard’s. Listen, I felt hellish, not stepping in — I just wanted you to know that. I mean, Ricky’s right, of course, but all the same…’

‘You saw the blade, didn’t you?’

‘He put it away sharpish.’

‘Jackie Dyson, though — who also didn’t hold back when it came to giving Chick Carpenter a doing.’

‘So?’

‘My gut feeling is, Dyson’s your mole. If I’m right, doesn’t it look to you like he might have gone native?’

There was silence on the line.

‘Well?’ Fox persisted.

‘You know I can’t say anything.’

‘You owe me this much at least, Alec. I went to the ground and you just sat in your damned car…’

‘Malcolm—’

‘And here’s the thing — I’ve had your back throughout, haven’t I? I’ve not told Compston you blabbed about the mole. So just tell me — it’s Dyson, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe.’

‘And could he be getting too much in character? We’ve both heard of it happening.’

‘Our boy knows what he’s doing.’

‘You sure about that? How often do you talk to him?’

‘Not in a while. That’s how it has to work.’

‘But have you noticed any change in him?’

‘He has to look committed, Malcolm — that’s how those guys get where they are and then stay there once they’ve arrived.’ Fox heard the man give a sigh. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. You should take tomorrow off, get some ice on those bruises.’

‘Nice of you to show such belated concern.’

‘Two final words, then, Malcolm — Fuck. You.’

The phone went dead, but then suddenly vibrated. Another incoming message, this time from Rebus:

Want a dog?

Fox shut the phone down and trekked to the fridge, in search of frozen veg.

‘You coming in?’ Davie Dunn asked. Christie had pulled up in front of the Gimlet. He gazed out at the pub’s uninviting exterior and shook his head, but as Dunn made to get out, he grabbed him by the arm.

‘Talked to your old employer recently?’ he enquired.

‘I’ll tell you what I told Stark and his gang — I haven’t set eyes on Hamish Wright in years.’

‘Doesn’t mean you’ve not spoken with him on the phone.’

‘He’s ancient history, Darryl.’

‘You’ll be history too, if you don’t give me a straight answer.’

‘I’ve not seen him, I’ve not spoken to him.’

‘But have you heard anything about his whereabouts?’

‘Nothing.’

‘He has other old pals in the city, though, yes?’

‘Honest to God, I wouldn’t know.’

‘You’re absolutely sure about that?’

‘On my kids’ lives, Darryl.’

The two men locked eyes, Christie eventually releasing Dunn’s sleeve. But as Dunn got out of the car and closed the door, Christie wound down the window and called him back. Dunn leaned in so his face filled the open window.

‘Your kids are Lottie and Euan. She’s sixteen, he’s eleven. You split from their mum but I know the address. You swore to me on their lives, Davie. Bear that in mind…’

The window slid back up again, the Evoque moving off, leaving Davie Dunn standing in the roadway, his legs a little more leaden than before, his heart pounding and his mouth dry. A drink, he realised, would fix only one of these, but one out of three was a start…

16

Christine Esson showed Rebus and Clarke what she’d done.

‘And all of it on company time, so I hope you’ve got my back covered.’

The terrier looked at its most appealing. A bit of the vet’s arm and examination table could be seen, though Esson had managed to crop most of it out. She had provided a brief description of where the dog had been found, along with an email address.

‘Whose address is it?’ Rebus enquired.

‘Created specially,’ she informed him.

‘And this is on Facebook?’

‘And Twitter, and a few other places. My friends will make sure it gets noticed.’

‘How many friends?’

‘Around three and a half thousand.’

Rebus stared at her. ‘Parties at your house must be quite something.’

‘She means online friends,’ Clarke explained for his benefit.

‘I could set up an account for you if you like,’ Esson teased him.

Rebus ignored this and instead asked Clarke how many days they should give it.

‘Up to you,’ she said.

‘Social media usually works fast or not at all,’ Esson advised.

‘And meantime there’s a vet in Edinburgh getting rich at my expense,’ Rebus made show of complaining.

‘I don’t see you spending your pension on much else,’ Clarke commented.

‘I still have to count the pennies.’

‘All the way into the till of the Oxford Bar.’ Clarke was smiling as she tried Malcolm Fox’s number, but he didn’t pick up.

Cafferty hadn’t been answering his phone, but he had made plenty of calls, up and down the country. He’d also had quiet meetings in a bar near Quartermile, exchanging handfuls of banknotes for information or the vow to keep eyes and ears open and report back. He went out wearing a three-quarter-length brown coat (rather than his habitual black) and a cap and scarf (where usually he’d be bare-headed whatever the weather). Having not bothered to shave, he resembled the other old men on the street, especially when, having noted its near-ubiquity, he added a polythene carrier bag to the ensemble. The bag held the local paper and two tins of Scotch broth.

This disguise — fine for the streets around Greyfriars — seemed less appropriate for the bar of the G&V hotel on George IV Bridge, so as soon as he entered, he shed coat, scarf and hat and wrapped the coat around the bag. But then he had another idea. At reception, he enquired about a room. Yes, there was a vacancy. He paid by credit card and headed upstairs. The room was fine. He deposited the bundle there and went back down to the bar, checking that his guest had not yet turned up. He sat in a corner, facing the door to the street. A couple of minutes after his Bloody Mary arrived, Darryl Christie walked in. He wore a suit and open-necked shirt and seemed unconcerned by the outside world’s plummeting temperature.

Christie spotted Cafferty immediately, but kept his distance as he assessed the situation. Cafferty had, as promised, come alone. The other drinkers looked to pose no threat at all. Christie gave the briefest of nods in Cafferty’s direction, took out a phone and tapped in a message — presumably to a man parked outside, a man primed to intervene if his boss sensed trouble.

Finally, he approached the table. Rather than stand up, Cafferty lifted an olive from the bowl in front of him and popped it into his mouth. Christie played with his chair before sitting down, angling it so that he had at least a partial view of what might be happening behind him.

‘I did say there’d be no funny business,’ Cafferty reminded him.

‘Maybe we have different senses of humour.’ A waiter was hovering. Christie ordered a dirty martini.

‘What the hell’s that?’ Cafferty asked, looking bemused.

‘For research purposes. My barman tells me he makes the best in the city — I like to keep testing him.’

‘I forgot you had a hotel.’

‘No you didn’t. And by the way, the drinks would have been gratis if we’d met there.’

‘I thought neutral ground was best. How have you been, Darryl? You don’t look like you’re eating enough.’ Cafferty pushed the olive bowl towards him.

‘You look old,’ Christie countered.

‘That’s because I am. But I’m wise, too.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘I know, for example, what happened at the Gimlet.’

‘The Gimlet’s nothing to do with me these days.’

‘I know someone else runs it, but that’s not quite the same thing.’ Cafferty laid his drink’s straw aside, along with the hunk of celery, and supped from the lip of the glass. ‘Besides which, when Dennis Stark pays a visit, who else is Davie Dunn going to turn to?’

‘You brought me here so you can gloat?’

‘Far from it, Darryl. The way the Starks are going, they’re riling the whole city — my friends as well as yours.’

‘I thought your friends were all headstones.’

‘Not quite.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘I’m saying I’m not on Joe Stark’s side.’

‘Is that right?’

‘In fact, there’s a chance I’m on their hit list, same as you seem to be — maybe even more so.’ Cafferty paused as Christie’s drink arrived. There wasn’t much of it, which usually, in Cafferty’s experience, made it lethal. Christie took a sip. ‘How does it measure up?’

But Christie just shrugged and placed the glass on the table.

‘You’ve heard about the notes?’ Cafferty asked.

‘Notes?’

‘One went to Lord Minton, just before he was killed.’

‘Front-page news.’ Christie nodded.

‘Another came to me.’ He had Christie’s full attention now. ‘I’d show it to you, but the police took it for testing.’

‘You went to the cops?’ Christie sounded disbelieving.

‘Actually, I went to Rebus — not quite the same thing. But he passed it along. Ask him if you don’t believe me. And if you’re not minded to believe him, try Siobhan Clarke.’

‘Okay, so you got a note.’

‘I’ve been wondering if the Starks sent it, along with the bullet that came a few days later.’

Christie sat silently for fifteen seconds, deep in thought. ‘Doesn’t sound their style,’ he concluded.

‘Maybe.’

‘How do you connect to this guy Minton?’

‘He was a prosecutor. Not that he ever worked a trial involving me or one of mine, not that I can find. You ever meet him?’

‘No.’

Cafferty shrugged and lifted his glass again.

‘I’m still not sure why you’re telling me any of this,’ Christie said.

‘I just thought you might be concerned for my welfare.’ Cafferty waited for Christie to realise he was joking. The younger man did eventually manage half a smile. ‘But the truth is,’ Cafferty continued, ‘I can see a time coming when you might need me and I might need you.’

‘To kick the Starks out of town?’

‘Something like that.’

‘And what do you bring to that particular fight?’ Christie stared hard at him. It was a serious question.

‘Whatever you might feel you need.’

‘They were going to stick a knife into Davie Dunn.’

‘And Chick Carpenter ended up in hospital,’ Cafferty agreed.

‘With you or without you, I’m having them.’

‘You know why they’re here?’

‘Supposedly looking for a trucker and some missing merch.’

‘You’re not convinced?’

‘I’m convinced they’re asking.’ Christie had finished his drink in three swallows.

‘Want another?’ Cafferty asked. Christie shook his head.

‘I need to be elsewhere.’ He peered at Cafferty. ‘Who do you really think took that shot at you?’

‘I’ll admit you were on the list for a while.’

‘And now?’

‘It’s been a long time since I pissed anyone off — apart from you, obviously.’

‘So if it’s a grudge, they’ve been nurturing it?’ Christie was rising to his feet and sending another text, presumably to the same destination as before. ‘All those bodies you’ve buried down the years, all those families left wondering…’

‘Business like ours, Darryl, it’s dog-eat-dog.’ Cafferty was standing now too.

‘Dog-eat-dog,’ Christie agreed. He looked around for their waiter.

‘I’ve got these,’ Cafferty assured him. A car was drawing up outside. Cafferty recognised the white Range Rover Evoque. ‘Your carriage awaits.’ He extended his hand. The two men shook. ‘I’d been told you had a swagger to you these days,’ Cafferty commented, releasing his grip. ‘But attitude will only take you so far. When I was your age, I was getting dirty, and to be honest, I’m still that way inclined.’ He paused, locking eyes with the younger man. ‘Whereas you…’

‘Yes?’

‘All I can really see is a shiny fucking suit.’ Cafferty shrugged and offered a thin smile. ‘No offence, son.’

Christie’s face grew thunderous. ‘See you around,’ he snarled, stalking towards the exit. Still smiling, Cafferty signalled for the bill. He signed for it, then walked towards the lift, taking out the keycard to his room, making sure it was nice and visible. He knew the white car was still outside, probably with the window nearest the hotel lowered so its occupants could get a better view. They would think they knew where to find Cafferty should they want him.

Let them think.

Let them share, if it came to that.

He stayed half an hour in the room on the second floor, using the toilet and shower, the latter only because of the quality of towels in the bathroom — better than those in his Quartermile flat. Descending in coat and hat, he saw that the car was long gone. He pulled the brim down low and stepped out into the evening. He had more digging to do on the internet.

And Scotch broth for his supper.

Malcolm Fox was sitting in his car outside his father’s care home. He had swallowed half a dozen painkillers and was feeling both numb and queasy. His plan had been to visit Mitch just to sit by his bed and wait for him to ask how he’d come by the bruises.

‘In the line of duty.’

Yes, that was what he’d have said — or something along those lines.

Proper police work, Dad, the kind you always say I’d be rubbish at.

But then he would have fed Mitch an obvious comeback:

Those bruises prove I was right…

So instead of the bedside vigil, he was staying in the car, hands resting on the steering wheel, head beginning to thrum again. He reckoned it was the caffeine in the tablets, mixed with adrenalin — the aftershock from his beating. He had been thumped before, but not for some time. Last fight he’d almost been in had been with Rebus a year or so back, until they’d realised how ridiculously it would have played out. He checked the damage in the rear-view mirror. He couldn’t believe he’d been about to barge in on his father like a kid wanting sympathy for a grazed knee. After a fight one time at school, all Mitch had wanted to know was how much damage Malcolm had managed to inflict on his opponent. Sensing this, Malcolm had brought his imagination into play, until he could see that his father had stopped believing.

All fun and games, eh? he told himself now, studying his reflection. Picking up his phone, he saw that the incoming call was from Siobhan again. He was worried she’d be requesting a meet-up, and he wasn’t quite ready for her sympathy. No, it was his father’s sour realism he’d reached out for — and part of him still wanted it. Instead of which, he turned the key in the ignition and decided to drive himself home to his bed.

His bed — and another bag of frozen peas.