Even Dogs in the Wild

17

It was still dark when Rebus’s phone woke him. He wrestled with it while trying to switch on the bedside lamp.

‘Hello?’

‘John, it’s Siobhan.’

‘You’re making a habit of this — what time is it?’

‘Almost six. You need to come down to Leith.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Another shooting. Target wasn’t so lucky this time.’

‘Who?’

‘Dennis Stark.’

Rebus had swung his legs out from beneath the duvet, feet touching the floor. ‘Dead?’ he asked.

‘Dead,’ Siobhan Clarke confirmed.

An alley off Constitution Street. The main road had been cordoned, officers in high-vis jackets detouring traffic and pedestrians. Mostly black cabs and shift workers, the rush hour still some way off. The media were there too, along with a few ghouls, who craned their necks, trying to get a better look.

Dennis Stark’s body had been removed. The alley was just that: high walls, strewn rubbish and a couple of industrial-sized bins, one reinforced door providing the back entrance to an office. No CCTV, minimal street lighting. The scene of crime team were suited up and busy. A bleary-looking James Page was rubbing his gloved hands together as he gathered information from a SOCO. Rebus caught Siobhan Clarke’s eye and she walked towards him, stony-faced and professional in protective overalls, hood and overshoes.

‘They weren’t going to let me through,’ Rebus said, nodding in the direction of the cordon. ‘Thought I was going to have to phone you to come get me.’

‘The call came from one of the nearby flats,’ Clarke informed him, sliding her face mask down to her throat. ‘Three separate calls, actually, which is probably why the patrol took it seriously. Report of what sounded like a single gunshot. One of the callers was ex-army, said he knew for a fact that was what he’d heard. Calls came in at around three forty-five, and by four fifteen the body had been found.’ She gestured towards the relevant spot. ‘Slumped against the wall. Gunshot wound to the chest.’

‘Nine mil?’

‘Not sure yet.’

‘Any note?’

‘Same wording as before.’

Rebus puffed out his cheeks. ‘Does Joe Stark know?’

‘Someone was due to call Glasgow.’

‘And Dennis’s men?’

‘We’ve got officers at the guest house. They’ll be taken in for questioning.’

‘How far is the guest house from here?’

‘It’s on Leith Links.’

‘A two-minute walk, then — and with Leith police station halfway between the two.’

‘But no one on duty that time of night.’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘This is bad, Siobhan.’

‘I know.’

‘Lord Minton, Cafferty, and now Dennis Stark.’

‘We just need to find the connection.’

‘What about Compston? Does he know?’

‘Haven’t seen him.’

‘His team are supposed to be on the Starks twenty-four/seven.’

‘I know, and I’m just about to break the news to Page.’ She paused. ‘While I do that, I thought you could have a word with Compston.’

‘Why not Malcolm?’

‘He’s not answering his phone.’

‘Okay, leave it with me.’ Rebus watched the SOCOs as they shone their torches over the ground. ‘Found the bullet yet?’

‘No.’

‘Still in the body, maybe?’

‘Entry and exit wounds, according to the doc.’

‘So the bullet’s here somewhere?’

‘It either is or it isn’t.’

‘Our shooter seems a bit more confident, doesn’t he? Didn’t want to get too close to Cafferty, yet he’s no qualms about coming face to face with Dennis Stark.’

Clarke nodded her agreement.

‘And what was Stark doing here anyway?’

‘Right now your guess is as good as mine.’

Page called Clarke’s name. She turned away from Rebus and marched towards him, pulling the mask back up. Rebus took his phone out and called Fox’s mobile and home numbers. No answer. He took one last long look at the alley before heading back towards the cordon and his car.

Traffic was light as he drove across town to Oxgangs. He rang Fox’s doorbell and then banged the door with his fist a couple of times for good measure. Moments later, he heard movement, and the door cracked open a couple of inches. Fox was dressed in a pair of dark blue pyjamas, groggy from sleep.

‘Don’t tell me you’re here to sell me a dog?’ he muttered.

‘What the hell happened to you?’ Rebus said, noticing Fox’s face.

‘I tried breaking up a fight outside the Gimlet.’

‘The Starks?’ Rebus guessed. ‘And you just waded in?’

‘Can we maybe discuss this in daylight hours?’ Fox was blinking his eyes into focus as he assessed his bruises with the tips of his fingers.

‘You got an alibi for quarter to four?’

‘What am I supposed to have done?’

‘That’s pretty much the exact time someone shot and killed Dennis Stark.’

‘Christ,’ Fox said.

‘As you say,’ Rebus concurred.

While Fox was washing and getting dressed, Rebus made them a cafetière of coffee. Fox walked into the kitchen knotting his tie. He had obviously been thinking.

‘Cafferty and Christie, Chick Carpenter and Davie Dunn — they’ll all have to be questioned.’ He accepted the mug from Rebus and took a slurp. ‘And what about Operation Junior?’

‘That’s why I’m here. No one’s seen or heard from Compston and his crew — you got a number for them?’

‘Should probably be Doug Maxtone actually — we tell Maxtone, he tells Compston.’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’

‘Fun?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I suppose I do.’

‘There was a note left with Dennis.’

Fox’s eyes widened above the rim of his mug. ‘Same message?’

‘Same message.’

‘So it’s our guy then, rather than any of those names I mentioned.’

‘They all had reason to want Dennis punished — we’ll still need to talk to them.’

‘Joe Stark is going to be incandescent.’

‘I’d think.’

‘And why didn’t Dennis’s men stop it happening?’

‘We need to find that out.’ Rebus paused. ‘You discovered who the mole is yet?’

‘What makes you think I’m interested?’

Rebus smiled. ‘The way you reacted when Alec Bell told us. You’re a born spy, Malcolm — it’s why you were so well suited to Complaints. I got the notion you’d want to test yourself.’

‘Well, it so happens…’

‘Go on then, impress me.’

‘Jackie Dyson’s the clear favourite.’

‘And he didn’t step in when you were getting that kicking?’

‘He’s the one who doled it out.’

‘Knowing you’re a cop?’

Fox shook his head.

‘So is the operation compromised?’

Fox shook his head again. ‘I didn’t identify myself at any point.’ He had broken open a fresh packet of paracetamol and was readying to swallow a couple.

‘Still, probably not Compston’s star pupil, unless he doesn’t know?’

‘He knows.’

‘So maybe I should be the one to phone him?’

Fox considered this. ‘Maybe you should.’ He got busy with his own phone, reeling off Compston’s number for Rebus.

‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘I woke up in hospital and the owner of the Gimlet was there, ready to thank me for stepping in. He’d brought along a mate of his…’

‘Darryl Christie?’

‘Who worked out straight away that it was no accident I was in the area.’

‘And does Ricky Compston know about that?’ Rebus watched as Fox nodded. ‘Yet I’m the one everybody says is a troublemaker. Sounds as if you could teach me a thing or two.’

‘Christie told me he was going to take the Starks out of the game. He said the best thing the rest of us could do was keep well out of the way.’

Rebus thought about this for a moment, then made the call, holding the phone to his ear. ‘Here goes,’ he said. ‘Wish me luck…’

Having identified his only son at the mortuary, Joe Stark was in a room at Fettes, answering a few questions with his lawyer present.

That had interested Rebus — not too many parents of murder victims turned up with a solicitor in tow. But then Joe Stark was no ordinary parent. The media had upped camp from Constitution Street and were now on Fettes Avenue, their numbers swelling as the sky got lighter.

Compston had wanted to come to Fettes too, but Rebus had cautioned against it — ‘unless you’re winding down Operation Junior’.

His reasoning: the place would be crawling with members of the Stark crew. And sure enough, Joe’s trusted lieutenants — Walter Grieve and Len Parker — were in the reception area, awaiting their boss. Rebus had even had a word with them.

‘Are you members of the family?’ he had asked, sounding sympathetic.

‘As good as.’

‘Well, I just wanted to say how sorry we all are. Hellish thing to happen to a young man, especially when he’s a visitor to the city.’

‘Aye, thanks.’

They had twitched in their seats, unable to work out how to react. Probably the only time they ever talked to cops was when under caution or slipping a bung beneath a pub table.

‘If there’s anything we can do for you gentlemen…’ Rebus had left them there, nodding and frowning.

Elsewhere in the building, Dennis Stark’s men were being questioned or were waiting their turn. Rebus wondered if Jackie Dyson would come out of character. He doubted it. Always supposing Fox had got the right man. Fox himself was in the incident room, committing to memory the various items pinned to one wall — crime-scene photos, maps, newspaper clippings.

‘Page and Siobhan are putting together a media release,’ he told Rebus. ‘You spoken to Cafferty?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘He’s like you were earlier — not answering his phone.’

‘Thumping on the front door sometimes works.’

‘I was there two nights back. He’s done a flit.’

‘Oh?’

‘Self-preservation, most likely.’

‘Surely he’ll be in touch when he hears.’

‘Who knows what he’ll do — this is Cafferty we’re talking about.’

Siobhan Clarke emerged from Page’s office but walked straight past them without noticing, her mind elsewhere. She had paperwork in one hand and her phone in the other as she disappeared into the corridor.

‘I thought she might have said something about my bruises,’ Fox commented. Then, his eyes on Rebus: ‘Are we doing any good here?’

‘Not a lot.’

‘Where are you meeting Compston?’

‘St Leonard’s. You coming along for the ride?’

‘I suppose I might.’

‘You scared I won’t play nice?’

‘I’ve often been told I’m a civilising influence.’

‘Tell that to the guys who jumped you.’

‘One lucky punch, that’s all…’

18

‘Well if it isn’t De Niro’s stunt double from Raging Bull,’ Compston announced as Fox walked into the room, Rebus right behind him. The mood was sombre, weeks and months of work most likely just flushed down the toilet.

Fox was ready with a question: ‘Where was the overnight surveillance?’

‘We all have to sleep sometime,’ Alec Bell complained.

‘From which I take it you were the one napping in the car?’

‘Actually, it was me,’ Beth Hastie piped up. ‘I needed petrol, a hot drink and the loo, so I took twenty minutes out at an all-night garage on Leith Walk. First I knew we had a problem was when uniforms turned up at the guest house.’

‘Wouldn’t have been an issue,’ Compston added, ‘if we hadn’t lost Selway and Emerson, but they were still in Glasgow keeping an eye on the dad.’

‘Chief Constable’s not going to be happy with you, Ricky,’ Rebus said.

‘My problem, not yours. But at least I’m not the one failing to apprehend some nutcase serial killer.’

‘Anyway,’ Fox chipped in, ‘with Dennis gone, I dare say the others will want to go back to Glasgow.’

Compston gave him a hard stare. ‘Are you off your head? Why would they do that?’ Then, to Rebus: ‘Tell him.’

Rebus obliged. ‘Joe’s the Old Testament sort, an eye for an eye and all that. He’d raze Edinburgh to the ground to find who killed his son. DI Compston here probably relishes that prospect, because Joe’s not going to hold back and that means he’ll start to make mistakes. The more he does that, the easier it is to catch him in the act and put him and his boys away.’

‘So you see,’ Compston told Fox, ‘nobody’s going anywhere. And we’re all going to have front-row seats. Trust me, Edinburgh doesn’t know what’s about to hit it.’

Cafferty’s heart was pounding as he stood at the window of his Quartermile flat, looking down on to the Meadows. Students were striding and cycling down Jawbone Walk, full of confidence and vitality. He felt nothing but a sweeping dissociation — what was this other world like, the one most people seemed to inhabit? Why were they happy? He couldn’t remember ever feeling carefree. Always alert to possible attack, surrounded by those he could not risk trusting, new threats piling on top of old. He had clambered his way to the top, trampling those he needed to, gouging and scratching and kicking, making a slew of enemies but ensuring, too, that those enemies would lack the strength to topple him.

Was that any sort of kingdom?

Joe Stark had done much the same in Glasgow, ruling by fearful reputation, reinforced in time by son Dennis. But Dennis had lacked his father’s guile and innate canniness, and this surely had contributed to his downfall. Cafferty pressed his forehead against the tinted glass as he made the call. Darryl Christie picked up immediately.

‘I was about to call you,’ Christie announced.

‘Christ, Darryl, you don’t hang about, do you?’

‘I knew that’s what you’d be thinking.’

‘It’s what everyone’s going to be thinking — especially the forces of law and order.’

‘The very fact you say that tells me something interesting.’

‘What?’

‘You no longer have friends on the force.’

‘And you do?’

‘Which is why I know about the note.’

‘They found a note?’

‘It’s not been reported yet, but yes, same as you got. So this wasn’t some isolated hit — and it certainly wasn’t me or mine pulling the trigger.’

‘Two gangsters targeted…’

‘Agreed — the cops are going to want to question me. And I’d be hard pressed to lie and say I’m sorry that bawbag’s been eliminated. I could kiss whoever did it.’

‘Joe’s going to come gunning for you — maybe for me too. He won’t believe it was random, and even if he did, he’d still need revenge on somebody.’

‘Well he knows where to find me. You, on the other hand…’

‘What?’

‘You’re hiding out, and that’s bound to make you look guilty in his eyes.’

‘I hope I can trust you to put him right on that score.’

Christie just laughed and hung up. Cafferty stepped away from the window and considered phoning Rebus, but ended up sitting down with his laptop instead, knowing he would have to add Dennis Stark to his search list. It was going to be a long day.

Joseph Stark stood in the alley while his men formed a line behind the cordon, scowling at the officer on duty who had refused to let them through.

‘Immediate family only,’ the officer had stipulated.

This hadn’t bothered Joe Stark unduly — he’d wanted the place to himself anyway, to see if any trace of his son could still be found there. He remembered that Cath had wanted the name Dennis — her own father’s name. So Joe had nodded away his preference for Joseph Junior. Then Cath had gone and died, leaving Joe to try running the show while bringing up the kid. His friends had told him to marry again, but he knew he wouldn’t. Cath had been the woman for him. He was trying now to bring back memories of Dennis’s childhood, but there were huge gaps. First day at school? A neighbour had taken him, Joe away on business. Playing football for the youth club, Halloween dressing-up, end-of-term reports… What stuck in the father’s mind were the summonses to the head’s office. After a while, they’d realised he wasn’t the kind of man to be given bad news in person. Letters after that, torn up and binned.

His own father had been handy with his trouser belt, delivering it to ears, hands, backside. Fists later on. Joe had behaved in much the same way, until Dennis grew to be a couple of inches taller than him and learned to resist. Good times too, though, surely: dinner and drinks at some fancy new place; a drive in the Jag to the seaside for ice cream; passing on knowledge about the way the world really worked.

It was the gaps that gnawed at him, however — those huge chunks of time spent away from one another. When Dennis had gone to jail, Joe had preferred not to visit. Leave the lad alone, let him learn. He knew that when he went home to Glasgow, he’d find precious few photos of the two of them together. But then what was the point of all that? What was the point of standing in a freezing alley in a strange city when your son was in a drawer at the mortuary? The formal identification had been hard, but he’d insisted on seeing the bullet hole. Small it was, in comparison to the rest of the unharmed torso. A couple of tattoos Joe couldn’t remember having been told about — one a purple thistle, the other a lion rampant. He’d winced — he bore near-identical markings on his own arms. Why had the boy never said?

He crouched down, placing the palm of one hand against the wall and one on the rough ground. Then he closed his eyes, trying to feel something, anything. When he opened his eyes again, the world seemed unchanged. The six men were focused on him as he walked towards them: Dennis’s four, plus Walter and Len. Joe Stark made silent eye contact with each one of them in turn. Len Parker gave him a handkerchief so he could wipe his hands clean. Stark nodded his thanks before handing it back, then led them away from the uniform and the locals who had come to gawp.

‘Whoever did this,’ he began, keeping his voice low, ‘knew about the guest house. So I need you to give me names, and then we’re going to have a talk with each and every one of them, see who they maybe spilled the beans to. Cops will be doing their own thing, but I doubt they’ll be busting a gut — CID in Glasgow are probably opening the champagne as I speak. But my boy’s dead and I want to know why and I need to know who. Until then, no rest, no jokes, no fun. Understood? If I’m in hell, you lot are too. Anyone want to say anything?’

There was a shuffling of feet, but then Rob Simpson cleared his throat. ‘I know one of us should have been with him, but it was just something he did. Only seemed to need four hours’ sleep a night, and he’d go out for a stroll. Never woke us up to go with him. He knew he could if he wanted to.’

‘You all knew about this?’ Joe Stark waited until Dyson, Andrews and Rae all nodded. ‘Then you should have talked sense into him. Or one of you should have taken the night shift, so he wouldn’t be on his own.’

They looked at the ground and shuffled uneasily.

‘I hold all four of you personally responsible,’ Stark went on, stabbing with his finger. ‘You want me in your corner when this is done? You’ll get me some answers.’

‘Whatever it takes?’ Jackie Dyson queried.

‘Take a wild fucking guess, son,’ came the ice-cold reply.

19

James Page listened as Rebus and Clarke told him their theory.

‘So our killer doesn’t have a gun,’ Page said, ‘until he takes one from Lord Minton’s house? He then tests it, shoots at Cafferty and misses, and a few days later takes down Dennis Stark at point-blank range?’

‘Do we know it was point blank?’ Rebus asked.

‘Powder burns on the deceased’s jacket,’ Page confirmed.

‘And no bullet yet?’ Clarke checked.

‘No.’

‘So what happened to it?’

‘We don’t know.’ Page folded his arms. He was seated behind his desk, his phone lying in front of him. Every five or ten seconds there was another incoming text for him to ignore.

‘Looks like the killer maybe took it away with him,’ Rebus commented.

‘Why, though?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Pity, mind — be good to verify all three bullets came from the same weapon.’

‘Three?’

‘The tree in the Hermitage, plus Cafferty and Stark.’

Page stared at him. ‘You think there’s more than one maniac out there?’

‘Copycats have been known to happen.’

Page dismissed this with a scowl. ‘This team who’ve been keeping the Starks under observation…’

‘Red faces all round.’

Page’s nostrils flared. ‘And just how did Lord Minton get a gun in the first place?’

‘Not legally,’ Clarke said. ‘No firearms certificate ever issued to him.’

‘But with him being a lawyer and all,’ Rebus added, ‘he probably got to know one or two people down the years who could find him what he wanted. Thing is: why did he want it?’

‘He’d been sent a threatening note,’ Page reminded him.

‘He’d probably had threats in the past, though. For some reason, this latest one got to him.’

‘Because it had merit?’ Page guessed. ‘You think the gun was a recent purchase?’

‘I phoned his bank and managed to get a few details,’ Clarke said. ‘A couple of weeks ago he took out five hundred pounds a day on four consecutive days. Normally he made do with withdrawals of a hundred or two hundred twice a week. In his wallet at time of death he had exactly thirty-five pounds.’

Page’s eyes were on Rebus. ‘Would two grand buy him a handgun?’

‘Probably.’

‘Why in batches of five hundred?’

‘Maximum he could take from a cash machine each day,’ Clarke explained.

‘We’re sure he had a gun in his desk drawer?’

‘It’s feasible.’

‘So who sold it to him? Is there anyone in the city we know of?’

‘We can make enquiries,’ Rebus stated.

‘Let’s do that then.’

‘Probably best not to say anything to the grieving father,’ Rebus cautioned.

Page nodded his understanding and picked up his phone. ‘I wonder how many of these texts are from the boss,’ he said.

‘We’re not going public with the note to Stark, are we, sir?’ Clarke asked.

‘Not just yet.’

‘And forensics are checking it?’

‘For what it’s worth.’ But Page’s attention was now firmly on the contents of his phone’s screen. Rebus gestured to Clarke that it was time to go. Outside in the main office, she asked him about the pistol.

‘You still have snitches working for you?’

‘No,’ he stated. ‘But Darryl Christie might put the word out if we ask nicely.’

‘And why would he do that?’

‘Because right now he needs all the friends he can get.’

Clarke considered this, eventually nodding her agreement. ‘You okay to talk to him?’

‘In my consultative capacity, DI Clarke?’

‘In your consultative capacity, Mr Rebus.’

Fox had listened to the interviews with Dennis Stark’s associates.

Actually, that wasn’t strictly true — he had skimmed three of them, but listened to the fourth in full. Jackie Dyson was good, very good, not once letting the mask slip. He was belligerent, obstructive, and grudging in his answers.

‘You’re here as a friend of the deceased, Mr Dyson,’ he was reminded at one point. ‘We’re just looking for anything that can help us track down his killer.’

‘Then get out and look,’ Dyson had snarled in response. ‘Because as soon as you let me out of here, that’s what I’m doing.’

Fox wondered: would Dyson want to be brought in, mission scuppered? At the very least, he would be looking to talk to Compston, just to get some pointers.

Or was he beyond all that? Was he self-sufficient and comfortable in his new skin?

Was there even an opportunity for advancement, now that Dennis was gone?

Fox looked at his phone — nothing from Siobhan or Rebus. For want of anything better to do, he decided to head back to St Leonard’s. But once in his car, he opted for a quick detour first. He parked kerbside on Constitution Street and walked to the alleyway’s opening. It was protected by police tape. A couple of elderly shoppers had stopped for a gawp, while the uniform on duty did his best to ignore them. He recognised Fox and lifted the tape. But having ducked beneath it, Fox paused.

‘Anyone else been along?’ he asked.

‘Victim’s father.’

‘Plus entourage?’

The officer nodded. ‘I only let the father through, though.’

‘Bet that made you popular.’ Fox smiled and headed deeper into the alley. Forensics had picked it clean, not even a bloodstain visible. Dennis liked to go for a night-time walk, always unaccompanied — that much had been gleaned from the interviews. Fair enough, but the guest house sat on the edge of Leith Links, a much more congenial spot than this. Had he arranged some sort of meeting? There was nothing on his phone, no texts or late-night calls. Yet something or someone had brought him here. Ducking back below the tape, Fox thanked the uniform and retraced the route Dennis had most likely taken. It was a short walk past Leith police station, and yes, there were the Links, with a kids’ park visible beyond the fenced-off allotments. A large wooden board was hanging from a post in the small front garden of the guest house: LABURNUM — NO VACANCIES.

The door to the guest house was yanked open from within, and Fox just had time to crouch behind a parked VW Polo as Dennis’s gang emerged, Joe Stark bringing up the rear. The others carried overnight bags and backpacks. They stuffed everything into the boot of a Chrysler Voyager and got in, Jackie Dyson driving. The vehicle sped off, and five seconds later was joined by another car, driven by the unmistakable form of Alec Bell. Was the gang bound for Glasgow? They were certainly in a hurry. Looking towards the guest house again, Fox saw that the NO VACANCIES sign had been tossed to the ground.

And the front door was ajar.

He crossed the street and opened the gate, walking up the path and calling out a greeting as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. There was a man lying on the floor of the chintzy living room. Ornaments lay smashed in the fireplace. The man’s hands had been tied behind his back. He’d been seated on a dining chair, which had toppled on to its side. He was conscious, bleeding from nose and mouth. Fox knelt beside him and undid the knots.

‘I’m a police officer,’ he assured the trembling figure. The man was in his mid fifties, overweight and breathing hard. ‘You’re in shock, but are you otherwise hurt? Anything broken, or are you okay to sit up?’

‘I’ll be all right.’

‘Should I call an ambulance?’

‘I’m fine, really.’ The man was sitting on the floor, rubbing his wrists.

‘The men who did this, they’ve driven off, so don’t worry.’

‘What men?’

Fox stared at him. ‘You might be concussed.’

‘No men, no men.’ The man was shaking his head.

‘Maybe some boxes fell on you, eh? And tied your hands behind you while they were at it?’ Fox patted the man’s arm reassuringly. ‘Don’t fret about it. But did you tell them anything?’

‘Nothing to tell.’

‘Sure you’re going to be all right?’

‘Moira will have a fit, you know.’

‘Will she?’

The man was looking at the smashed ornaments. ‘Her pride and joy those were…’

‘Let me help you to your feet. I want to check you’re able to walk.’

The man accepted Fox’s assistance. He wobbled a little, but regained most of his equilibrium.

‘You know Dennis Stark has been killed?’ Fox asked. ‘I’m guessing they want to know who knew he was staying here.’

The man nodded slowly, then his eyes widened. ‘They’ll come back, won’t they? They’ll want to hear it from Moira.’

Fox considered this. ‘Might be wise to pack a few things for you and Moira. Go elsewhere for a day or two.’

‘Yes,’ the man agreed, nodding again.

‘And maybe wash the blood off, so she doesn’t get a bigger shock than is already coming to her.’

‘Thank you,’ the man said. He insisted on seeing Fox to the door. Fox stopped on the path, picked up the sign and reinstated it.

He walked back to Constitution Street, unsure what to do next. Carnage seemed to follow the Starks. It made sense that they should be sent packing. But how? He waved a goodbye towards the officer on cordon duty and unlocked his car. There was just under a quarter of a tank of petrol, and he had a sudden craving for something sweet, so he filled up on the nearest forecourt. Entering the shop, he noted that the place closed at ten in the evening. He selected a Bounty and a Mars bar and took out his debit card.

‘Where’s the nearest all-night garage?’ he asked the assistant.

‘Used to be one not far from here, but it went belly up — hard to compete with the supermarkets.’

Fox nodded sympathetically. ‘So to answer my question…?’

‘Canonmills, maybe.’

‘Canonmills? That’s a fair distance.’

The assistant just shrugged. Fox retrieved his card from the machine and got into his car. He stayed at the pump, engine off, as he chewed on the Mars bar. Then he got back out of the car and returned to the cash desk.

‘Something wrong?’ the assistant asked, looking distinctly wary.

‘This is the only petrol station on Leith Walk, right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Any others nearby?’

‘One, maybe two.’

‘But in the middle of the night?’

‘I told you, Canonmills.’

‘You did,’ Fox was forced to agree. He walked outside again. Why had Beth Hastie lied? Had she decided the surveillance wasn’t worth her time, opted for a good night’s sleep instead? He shut the driver’s-side door, started the engine, and tore open the Bounty, stuffing the first segment into his mouth as he drove off the forecourt.

There were two smartly dressed and well-built doormen on the steps outside Darryl Christie’s hotel — a sensible addition to the staff roster, given the circumstances. Rebus stopped in front of them and nodded a greeting.

‘Remember me?’ he said to the one he’d spoken with in the driveway of Cafferty’s house.

‘I never forget a face.’

‘I notice Big Ger’s no longer at home. Good to see you weren’t out of work for long.’

‘We get around almost as much as you do.’

‘I assume you’ve heard the news about Dennis Stark? If his crew turns up here, you better have reinforcements on speed-dial. Unless you’re tooled up, of course — because trust me, after what just happened to their boss, they’ll be locked and loaded.’

‘Just as well we’ve a police force to take care of all these shady characters.’

‘Semper Vigilo — that’s our motto,’ Rebus said, passing between the two men and pushing open the glass door. The same barman as before was on duty, but there was no offer of a drink, just a quick phone call to some other part of the building. The street outside the large Georgian sash windows seemed calm enough. Maybe that had always been the Edinburgh way, or at least the polite New Town way. Long gone were the days when a rabble could be roused by imprisoning someone unfairly or raising the price of bread. But he knew people would be talking, neighbours gossiping about the most recent murderous assault, shopkeepers agreeing with customers that it was both shocking and rare.

Darryl Christie walked into the room briskly, sitting down across from Rebus as if ready for only the briefest of dialogues.

‘Wasn’t me,’ he said.

‘Okay.’

‘Whoever did it left a note — am I right?’

‘I was under the impression we were keeping that away from the public.’

‘I’m not the public, though, am I?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘But it means you’re after the same bastard who did for Minton and tried to do for Cafferty.’

‘Cafferty told you about the note? I suppose that makes sense. And you’re probably right — though we’re keeping an open mind. Have you heard from Joe Stark yet?’

‘No.’

‘Reckon those two lunks on the door will keep the bogeyman away?’

‘Call them an early-warning system.’

‘You’re mates with their boss, then? Andrew Goodman?’

‘We’ve done some business.’

‘Any of it legit, or is that a stupid question?’ Rebus saw that Christie wasn’t about to answer, so gave a thin smile. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘much as I’d like to see you put away, Darryl, I’m actually after a favour — something that could be mutually beneficial.’

Christie looked at him. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.

‘Our thinking is, the gun was taken from Lord Minton’s house by whoever killed him. He didn’t have a licence for it, and it was probably a recent purchase — as in the past couple of weeks.’

Christie scratched at his chin with one fingertip. ‘Sourced locally?’

‘If we’re lucky.’

Christie nodded. ‘Probably only two or three possible sellers. But if we need to extend the search westwards…’ He did the calculation. ‘Add in another ten or twelve. Plus half a dozen elsewhere in Scotland.’

‘If we find the gun, it helps us eliminate you from our enquiries — and might even persuade Joe not to come after you.’

Christie’s face broke into a smile. ‘Listen to you, Rebus — you’re loving this, aren’t you? One last encore before the lights go down…’

‘You’ll put the word out?’

‘I’ll see what I can do. Now, tell me about Joe Stark — how’s he taking it?’

‘How do you think?’

‘He’ll be wondering why Dennis went to that alley in the first place.’

‘Man liked a nocturnal daunder, apparently.’ Christie didn’t look convinced. ‘How about you?’ Rebus asked. ‘You taking all the necessary precautions? Not just those two bodybuilders at the door?’ Christie offered a shrug as he rose to his feet. His phone buzzed. He checked the screen before answering.

‘Yes, Bernard?’ he listened, his eyes narrowing and coming to rest on Rebus’s. ‘You’re okay, though?’ Another pause while the caller spoke. Then: ‘That’s probably good advice. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. And phone me again later. I owe you.’

He ended the call and turned the phone over in his hand.

‘Owner of the guest house where the Starks were holed up,’ he explained. ‘They’ve just given him a beating, wanted to know who he’d told about them.’

‘Well, we know he told you.’

‘But he didn’t tell them that.’

‘Then you really do owe him.’

‘They’ve packed their bags now, though.’

‘Almost sounds like they’re burning bridges.’

‘Aye,’ Christie agreed.

‘Bernard or no Bernard, you know they’ll come for you eventually.’ Rebus paused to let his words sink in. Then: ‘You’ll phone me if you get anything?’

‘Let’s wait and see.’ Christie turned and started making a call as he walked with purpose towards the staircase.

Fox called Alec Bell on his mobile.

‘Can you talk?’ he asked.

‘What do you want?’

‘Not that you’ll be interested, but Stark and his boys roughed up the owner of the guest house before they left.’

Bell took a moment to work it out. ‘You were there?’

‘Happened to be passing, saw you set off in pursuit.’

‘Is the guy okay?’

‘Yet again, I don’t see him pressing charges. This better all be worth it.’

‘I’m beginning to wonder.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘On my way back to St Leonard’s. Joe and his lads seem to be checking into a hotel at Haymarket. Beth’s taken up position.’

‘Is she…?’ Fox tried to find the right words. ‘Do you trust her? I mean, is she a team player?’

‘Look, she took her bollocking off Ricky. She knows she fucked up.’

‘Does she?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘That part of town, there’s no all-night garage.’

‘So?’

‘And the closest doesn’t let anyone over the threshold after eleven, so she couldn’t use their loos.’

‘You saying she’s lying?’

‘I’m not sure what I’m saying. Maybe you could have a think, though.’

‘Still got a bit of your old job stuck to the sole of your shoe, Fox?’

‘I’m just wondering why she’d lie, that’s all.’

The phone went dead. Fox stared at it. You did your best, he told himself, deciding to steer clear of St Leonard’s for the time being and pointing the car in the direction of Fettes instead.

Rebus was in the canteen when Fox walked in. He gave a wave, and Fox, having bought a mug of tea and a sandwich, joined him.

‘Want anything?’ Fox asked.

‘I’m fine. Been keeping your nose clean?’

‘Not exactly. I decided to walk the route from the alley back to the guest house.’

‘And?’

‘Joe Stark and the others were just departing, leaving behind one bruised and bloodied proprietor.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing.’ Fox looked grim-faced. ‘But we need to stamp on them eventually, don’t we?’

‘We do,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Even if it means getting them for something minor. Chief Constable won’t be happy, but then it’s not our job to keep a big cheery smile on his coupon.’ Rebus paused. ‘I get the feeling there’s more. Cough up, Malcolm.’

‘Beth Hastie was supposed to be on surveillance when Dennis took that walk. Her story is, she headed off for petrol and a call of nature. Only there’s no all-night petrol station, meaning her story doesn’t stick.’

‘Maybe she did her business behind some bins and is too ladylike to admit it.’ Rebus watched Fox’s expression. ‘You don’t see her as ladylike? Okay then, she was tucked up in bed and can’t say as much or she’d be consigned to one of those bins she didn’t pee behind.’

‘Maybe.’ Fox bit into his sandwich. Tuna and sweetcorn. One kernel dropped on to the plate. He picked it up delicately and pushed it back between the two triangles of thin white bread. ‘Anyway, I hope your day’s been more fruitful.’

‘I’m waiting for Darryl Christie to tell me who sold Lord Minton an illegal handgun. We’re thinking the killer took it from him.’

‘To use on Cafferty and Dennis Stark? Have you talked with Cafferty yet?’

‘The man is proving elusive.’

‘Oh?’

‘He’s moved out of his house for the duration.’

‘Isn’t that suspicious in itself?’

‘It’s what I’d do.’

‘They didn’t find the bullet, did they?’

Rebus shook his head and waved again, this time towards Siobhan Clarke. She marched up to the table brandishing a sheet of paper. It was a photocopy of the note found in the alley. She slapped it down between the two men.

‘Doesn’t match,’ she stated.

‘Doesn’t it?’ Fox turned the note ninety degrees so it faced him.

‘Howden Hall pinged it to a handwriting expert. Their best guess is, someone saw the Minton note in one of the papers or online…’

‘And copied it?’ Rebus concluded, sitting back in his chair.

‘Meaning what?’ Fox enquired. ‘Another gunman? That hardly sounds likely. How many nine-millimetre pistols are being lugged around the city?’

‘At least two?’ Rebus pretended to guess.

Clarke was staring at Fox’s bruised face. ‘What the hell happened to you?’

‘John did it when I wouldn’t take the dog he was offering.’

‘Seriously, though.’

‘I got in a fight with one of Dennis Stark’s bandits.’

‘When?’

‘Should I have a lawyer present before answering?’

Clarke turned her focus back to Rebus. ‘You think it fits?’

‘The two-gun theory? It fits with the bullet not being found. Couldn’t be left behind or we’d have known straight away we were talking about a different gun.’

‘And the note?’

‘Was a fair copy. Whoever wrote it took a chance we’d not spot the differences — or else that it would take us a while to.’

‘To what end?’

‘To make Dennis Stark look like part of the pattern,’ Fox said, realisation dawning.

‘So everyone’s back in the game,’ Clarke added. ‘Christie, Cafferty…’ She caught the look on Rebus’s face. ‘What?’

‘I’ve asked Darryl Christie who might have sold a pistol to Lord Minton.’

‘And now you’re thinking it could have been Christie himself?’

‘We’re in danger of getting tied in knots here,’ Fox complained.

‘Because that’s what someone wants, Malcolm,’ Rebus agreed. As if on cue, his phone started vibrating. ‘And here’s Darryl himself.’ He got up and walked over to the windows. They were large, and if not covered in grime would have given him a clear view out on to the adjacent playing fields.

‘Yes, Mr Christie?’ he began, pressing the phone to his ear.

‘Didn’t take as long as it could have,’ Darryl Christie said, sounding pleased with himself.

‘You’ve got a name for me?’

‘He says he’ll talk to you only because you’re not a cop.’

‘Will he do it in person?’

‘At the Gimlet.’

‘What time?’

‘Eight tonight.’

‘I’ll be there. Does he have a name?’

‘You can call him Roddy.’

‘Then that’s what I’ll do.’ Rebus ended the call and went back to the table. ‘Eight tonight at the Gimlet.’

‘Are we invited?’ Clarke asked.

‘Might bring back painful memories for Malcolm. Besides, our merchant of death doesn’t want anyone with a warrant card.’

‘Are you okay about that?’

Rebus nodded. ‘But I’m happy to rendezvous with the pair of you later, if you like.’

‘Oxford Bar at nine?’ Clarke offered.

‘Delightful,’ Rebus replied.

20

It was as if the Gimlet had been vacated for their meeting, like an office with an IN USE sign placed on its door. There was a young woman behind the bar. Her bare arms were tattooed, as was her neck, and Rebus quickly lost count of her various piercings. She poured him a pint of heavy without being asked and placed it on the bar.

‘First one is on Mr Dunn,’ she announced. ‘There won’t be a second.’

‘Cheers anyway,’ Rebus said, hoisting the glass. There was a man seated at a table in the far corner of the large room. Sticky floor underfoot, a silent jukebox with its lights flashing, a puggy unplugged from the electrical socket. The TV on the wall above the sole occupied table was switched on and even boasted a tiny bit of volume. Sports chat, with the latest news scrolling beneath the seated presenters. Rebus wondered if its purpose was to stop the barmaid hearing anything that was said.

‘Roddy?’ he asked, approaching the table.

‘If you like.’ The man was shrunken, missing a few teeth. He could have been anywhere from mid forties to early sixties. Diet, alongside drink and smokes, had sucked the life from him. Ink stains on the back of his hands showed where ancient self-inflicted tattoos had faded. The blue veins stood out like cords. There was a packet of Silk Cut on one corner of the table, the table itself next to a solid door that Rebus knew led to a rear courtyard, an unloved concrete space used by only the most dedicated nicotine addicts.

‘Thanks for meeting me,’ Rebus said as he pulled out a chair. Its cheap vinyl covering had been patched with silver insulating tape. ‘Nice place, eh?’ He made show of inspecting the decor. ‘Your local, is it?’

The man stared at him with milky, uncertain eyes.

‘Get you a refill?’ Rebus persisted, gesturing towards what he took to be a rum and black. He was already wishing he’d exchanged the watery pint in front of him for a nip of whisky.

‘One drink and I’m out of here, same as you.’

Rebus nodded his acceptance of this. ‘New owner seems to be running the place down.’ He looked around again. ‘Word is, a supermarket’ll buy the site. Davie Dunn fronting the deal so Darryl’s name doesn’t come up.’ He winked, as if he were sharing gossip with an old confidant.

‘Just ask your questions,’ his companion muttered.

No more games, then. Rebus’s face tightened, his eyes hardening. Hands on knees, he leaned in towards the man whose name was not Roddy.

‘You sold a gun to Lord Minton.’

‘Aye.’

‘You knew who he was?’

‘Not until I saw him in the papers.’

‘How long after you met with him was that?’

‘Less than a week.’

‘Did he say why he needed a gun?’

‘That’s not how it works. He got word to me via an intermediary, I passed back the instructions. Two grand in a Lidl bag, put in the bin by the pond in Inverleith Park. Two hours later, he retrieves the same bag.’

‘Containing a nine-mil pistol wrapped in muslin?’

The man nodded slowly and without emotion.

‘How many bullets?’

‘Seven or eight — not quite a full clip.’

Rebus studied him for a moment. ‘Have you and me ever had dealings?’ Roddy shook his head.

‘You don’t look familiar,’ Rebus admitted.

‘Biggest pat on the back I give myself — keeping under the radar as far as you lot are concerned.’ His eyes met Rebus’s. ‘Know who you are, though. Know the sort of bastard you used to be.’

‘Not so much of the past tense,’ Rebus chided him.

‘We done?’

‘Not quite. You didn’t speak to Minton? How did he find you in the first place?’

‘Friend of a friend of a friend — that’s how it usually works.’

‘Someone he maybe put away in the past?’

‘You tell me.’

Rebus wasn’t sure it mattered. ‘So he didn’t say why he wanted a gun, but did he seem nervous?’

‘I heard he was twitchy. He seemed fine when he dropped the money off, though.’

‘You were watching?’

‘Other side of the boating pond. Nice and casual on one of the benches. Waited till he was out of sight, then got over there pronto.’

‘Did you hang around to see him come back?’

Roddy nodded slowly. ‘I was curious, I suppose. He looked like a toff. Shiny shoes, expensive coat. And the way he carried himself — out of the top drawer, you could tell.’

‘Far from your usual client? So what did you think when he was found dead?’

‘I thought he obviously had reason to buy that gun.’

‘Am I allowed to ask where you got it?’

‘No.’

‘What if I insist?’

‘Do what the hell you like.’

Rebus allowed the silence to settle. He took another sip from the stale pint, knowing he wasn’t going to touch it again after that if his life depended on it.

‘Okay then,’ he said eventually. ‘One last thing: similar sales in the recent past.’

‘It’s been months.’

‘How many months?’

‘Seven or eight. Even then, it was a loaner.’

‘So you got it back?’

Roddy nodded again. ‘If it’s been used, I don’t want to know. But if they want to sell it back pristine, I give them a price.’

‘Did Minton know that?’

A shake of the head. ‘His was for keeps, right from the get-go. Are we finished here?’

‘Is it worth my while trawling the records to find who you really are?’

The man tipped the dregs of his drink down his throat. ‘As hobbies go, it would keep you busy — a bit like metal-detecting, but with nothing much to show for the effort.’

‘Not even a few old coins?’

‘Not even a rusty bottle-top, Mr Rebus.’

Cafferty had ventured to the Sainsbury’s on Middle Meadow Walk, queuing behind too many students buying garlic bread and pasta salads. Back in his flat, he had eaten his own supper of cooked chicken slices, followed by a bag of green grapes, washed down with half a bottle of screw-top Valpolicella. He was beginning to wonder about the efficacy of hiding away like this. A decade or two back, he would have been scouring the streets, primed to face any situation that warranted his participation. Had the bullet spooked him? It had, though he was loath to admit the fact. Why was he still breathing? A fluke? A nasty recoil? A beginner’s finger on the trigger? Or because the whole thing had been meant as warning only? Two inches from death, he reckoned he’d been. The zing of the projectile as it passed his head. The thud of impact and the sudden chalky cloud of plaster. And there he stood, numb and unprepared. The gunman could have taken aim and fired again, no problem. But he had run. Why? The obvious answer: it had been a warning. Or the shooter was toying with him, relishing this extended period of fear mixed with uncertainty. And what a time to pick, with Christie on edge and the Starks running amok. Perfect conditions for Cafferty to make his move and reclaim his territory.

Instead of which, he cowered here, laptop open, screen awaiting his next search.

Rebus had been calling, but Cafferty hadn’t answered. Rebus would know by now — know he was no longer at home. Would the investigators be trying to pin him for the murder of Dennis Stark? Unlikely — there had been another note, hadn’t there? Then again, they might see the attack on Cafferty himself as part of the plan, the perpetrator trying to disguise himself as potential victim. No, Rebus would never be that stupid. But that didn’t mean others wouldn’t be taken in. Anything could be happening out there, and he had no means of knowing.

He had brought his passport with him from the house, and it struck him that he could simply jet off somewhere and leave the whole bloody circus behind. He’d been to Barbados, Grand Cayman, Dubai. He had old friends in all three. Warmer climes, where dirty money became clean money. Cafferty had plenty in various accounts. He could live out the remainder of his life very nicely. Then he remembered something Rebus had let slip — a lottery winner in… where? Linlithgow? Why had he mentioned that? He scratched at his forehead, then started a new search. His tongue felt furred from too much red wine, and he knew he’d better drink some water before he went to sleep.

Lottery winner. Linlithgow. Murder.

He clicked on the first result and started reading the news story. Michael Tolland… fortune, followed by double tragedy… wife dies, and then he’s attacked by an intruder…

‘Poor bugger,’ Cafferty said. He stared at the photo of Tolland grinning next to his wife, the outsized cheque held in front of them, champagne at the ready.

‘Michael Tolland,’ he muttered, closing the page and clicking on the next link. Halfway down the screen, two words leapt out at him:

Acorn House.

Acorn House.

His lips formed the words silently and with slow deliberation, his eyes reduced to little more than slits. ‘Is that what this is about? Holy Christ…’

There was still his passport, and the thought of escape. But now he had an inkling — an inkling, and the sudden need to know more.

Rebus was five minutes early getting to the Oxford Bar, but Clarke and Fox were already there. The tables were all taken, so they’d commandeered a space next to the toilets, where no one could listen in.

‘You okay standing?’ Fox asked.

‘I still had the use of my legs last time I looked,’ Rebus muttered. ‘Pair of you on softies tonight?’

They both nodded, so he fetched the drinks: lime and soda, sparkling water, IPA, plus a couple of packets of crisps and some salted nuts.

‘Cheers,’ he said, opening one of the packs and laying it on the high circular table.

‘We’ve already eaten,’ Fox said.

‘Nice, was it?’

‘That tapas place on George Street.’

‘Bit more salubrious than where I’ve just been.’

‘How did it go?’ Clarke enquired.

Rebus told them. He gave as good a description as he could of ‘Roddy’, but neither of them seemed able to place him.

‘You think he’s telling the truth about only selling the one gun?’

Rebus shrugged and dropped more crisps into his mouth. ‘Plenty other dealers out there — doesn’t have to have been local.’

‘On the other hand…’

Rebus nodded. ‘At least we’d know we were dealing with two different guns. Is Page going to go public with the copycat note?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Clarke admitted. ‘It would put the public’s mind at rest that we’re not dealing with some crazed psychopath.’

‘We are, though,’ Fox corrected her. ‘Even leaving Dennis Stark out of the equation.’

‘Only other victim is Minton.’

‘As far as we know.’

‘Here’s what I think,’ Rebus interrupted. ‘If it comes out that Dennis was killed by another hand, the dad is going to go even more berserk. Far as he’s concerned, his son was targeted by the same person who went for Minton and Cafferty.’

‘Except we’re keeping Cafferty’s note quiet,’ Clarke interrupted.

‘Thing is, right now the killer is some anonymous stranger and Joe has no idea how the victims connect. If we suddenly say, oh, Dennis was topped by someone who only wanted it to look like the same killer…’

‘He’ll draw up a list of likely suspects,’ Clarke agreed.

‘And have them dealt with,’ Fox added quietly, taking a sip from his glass.

‘Starting with Christie and Cafferty,’ Rebus said. ‘And that’s when this whole thing goes nuclear.’

‘I need to make sure Page understands this,’ Clarke said.

‘How did he react,’ Fox asked, ‘when you told him about the surveillance?’

‘He was furious that no one had told him earlier.’

‘Detective Chief Super must have been in the loop.’

Clarke nodded. ‘But he’d been told it was to be kept under wraps.’

‘By our imperial overlord?’

‘The very same.’

‘So you’ll talk to Page?’ Rebus asked.

‘I’m doing it right now.’ Clarke brandished her phone and headed for the door.

‘And tell him about the gun,’ Rebus called to her retreating figure, after which he sank another inch of his drink and scooped up a few nuts.

‘So how are you, Malcolm?’ he asked, chewing.

‘Me?’ Fox sounded taken aback by the question.

‘Recovering from that hiding you took?’

‘It only hurts when I laugh.’

‘Can’t recall seeing you laugh.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And things are going well with Siobhan? I’m only asking because I care.’

‘We don’t always see as much of each other as we’d like.’ Fox paused. ‘Well, as much as I’d like, anyway.’

‘She’s in love with the job, same as I was. How about you?’

‘The job has its moments,’ Fox was forced to concede.

‘Moments aren’t enough, though — everything about it should give you a buzz.’

‘Is that how it was for you?’

Rebus considered this. ‘The deeper into it you go, the more you find out — about yourself as well as everything else.’

‘The miles you’ve got on the clock, you should be on Mastermind.’

‘Pass,’ Rebus said, checking his watch.

‘Somewhere you need to be?’

‘I’m just knackered. I’m not a young thing like you. And I’m not cut out for wallflower duties.’

‘It’s not like we’re going to suddenly start snogging.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Clarke said, standing behind Fox. She was stuffing her phone back into her shoulder bag.

‘How happy was DCI Page to have his supper interrupted?’ Rebus asked.

‘Poor sod’s still in the office. He agrees about the moratorium.’

‘Is that what it is? A moratorium?’

‘It’s as good a word as any,’ Clarke said. ‘You had any joy from Facebook and Twitter?’

‘About the dog?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Vet says space is at a premium in the surgery — he’s all for handing Fido over to the cat and dog home tomorrow.’ He paused. ‘Unless some kind and sympathetic person steps into the breach.’

‘I hate to say it,’ Clarke commented, ‘but you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

‘Aye,’ Rebus conceded, ‘and by no means for the first time in my life.’

Fox drove Clarke back to her flat, just off Broughton Street. She invited him up and they sat together on her sofa, drinking tea and listening to jazz. Eventually she rested her head against his shoulder. When the rhythm of her breathing changed, he realised she was asleep.

‘Time you were in bed,’ he said.

‘Sorry,’ she replied, opening her eyes and smiling. ‘Do you mind?’

He kissed her on the lips, received a perfumed hug, and went back downstairs to his car. He took the road south through the city towards Cameron Toll, then turned right, skirting the Grange. Countless sets of traffic lights, all seemingly in cahoots — red followed by red followed by red. Greenbank Crescent at last, and then Oxgangs Avenue. There was a light on in his bungalow — the one in the hallway, set to a timer. Siobhan had laughed at him about it once — You think a housebreaker’s going to be fooled by that?

But I’ve never been broken into, he said to himself. QED.

He parked on the short, steep driveway and got out, locking the car after him. He was most of the way to his door when he heard another door open and close — a car door. He turned and saw that it was Beth Hastie. She had a face like thunder. He’d seen the car parked kerbside but had thought nothing of it — someone visiting one of his neighbours. She must have laid herself flat across the front seats. Now she was shoving open his gate and striding towards him.

‘Fuck is your problem?’ she snarled.

‘I didn’t know I had one.’

‘That’s because you’re a dickhead. Going behind my back, pouring your pish into Alec’s ear.’

He realised he was studying her almost for the first time. Five-six, neither skinny nor visibly overweight. Looked like there was some muscle there — gym or maybe even a boxing club.

‘Do you want to come in?’ he asked into the silence.

‘I wouldn’t cross your threshold if you paid me.’

‘Probably a no, then.’

She reached out and grabbed a fistful of his coat. ‘I’m just about ready to do some real damage to that ugly puffed-up face of yours.’

The hand Fox placed over hers wasn’t quite twice the size. He began to squeeze. She tried not to let pain show in her eyes, but eventually let go, at which point Fox did the same.

‘You didn’t take any comfort break at a local petrol station,’ he intoned. ‘Took me about five minutes to establish that. I went to Alec Bell with it because that was one way of keeping it from your boss. If you’ve got a different story you want to tell me, I’ll happily listen.’

‘I don’t need to tell you a single solitary thing.’

‘That’s true.’

‘So now you’ll go crying to teacher, grass me up to Ricky?’

‘Will I?’

‘How else are you going to get a hard-on?’

‘Whatever happened last night, Compston is going to work it out eventually — he won’t need help from me or anyone else. He’ll start to think about the coincidence: you leaving your post just before Dennis took his walk.’ Fox paused. ‘That is what happened? Or did you sleep through it?’ He shook his head. ‘No, because why lie? Being asleep is about as much of a lapse as taking a break. Want to tell me the truth, Beth?’

‘You’re screwing with a team, Fox. It’s always going to be you against us — remember that.’

As if on cue, Fox heard another door open. Alec Bell must have been in the Audi with her. He too pushed open the gate, though without his colleague’s pent-up sense of grievance. He was even smiling, sliding his hands into the pockets of his coat.

‘I couldn’t not tell her,’ he announced with a shrug, eyes on Fox.

‘And now the two of you are here to warn me to mind my own business?’

‘We clear up our own mess, no outside help required.’ Another shrug.

Fox turned his attention back to Beth Hastie. ‘I still need to know where you went, and why.’

But Alec Bell shook his head and placed a hand on Hastie’s shoulder. ‘We should be getting back, Beth.’

Her eyes remained fixed on Fox’s. Bell’s hand grew more insistent.

‘Beth,’ he said.

The spell seemed broken. She blinked and half turned towards him.

‘Sure,’ she said.

Then she twisted back towards Fox and flung her knee up into his unprotected groin. He doubled over, swallowing back a sudden urge to vomit. Pain flooded through him.

‘You don’t touch me,’ Beth Hastie said, spitting on the ground in front of him. ‘Nobody touches me.’

Alec just did, Fox would have countered, had he been able to speak. Instead of which, eyes blurred by tears, he watched Bell lead her back to the car. Then, slowly, painfully, and still stooped, he turned towards his own door and tried to find the lock with the key.

Over the wall.

Into a courtyard of some kind. Empty aluminium kegs. A barrel turned into a makeshift table. A single rickety bar stool. Two cheap overflowing ashtrays. Blocks of flats nearby. A dog barking. A starless sky.

The door was wooden and looked solid enough. He got to work on it with the crowbar. Locks top and bottom. Took a bit of effort. The alarm started blaring as he stepped into the narrow, low-ceilinged room. He held the first bottle in one hand, lighter in the other. Got the rag lit and tossed it high into the air. Glass shattering, the petrol spreading instantly across the linoleum floor. Second bottle for luck, aiming for the row of optics behind the bar this time. And then he was out of there, back over the wall to where his car was waiting. Two minutes since the alarm had started, neighbours probably still thinking it a mistake or malfunction, waiting for it to stop. He cruised past the front of the building, seemingly in no particular hurry as the windows of the Gimlet began to glow orange and then fiery red.