Even Dogs in the Wild

21

‘It’s not every day someone offers to buy me breakfast,’ Doug Maxtone said, sliding into the booth. Fox was stirring a latte in a tall glass. ‘What happened to your face?’

‘I tried breaking up a fight. They ended up swinging at me instead.’

‘Did you report it?’

Fox shook his head and lifted the glass. Maxtone ordered a bacon roll and ‘some good strong tea’, then clasped his hands on the table in front of him.

‘What’s on your mind, Malcolm?’

The café was on Newington Road. It had been a bank or something. Fox had parked down a side street, across from a garage filled with hearses. He stared out through the window as he spoke.

‘I can’t do it any more, sir. Compston and his crew, I mean.’

‘Has there been a falling-out?’

‘They didn’t do this, if that’s what you mean.’ Fox pointed towards his fading bruises. ‘But there has been an incident — not with Compston himself, but a couple of his officers.’

‘Does he know?’ Fox shook his head. ‘Want me to speak to him?’

‘That’s the last thing I want, sir. Besides which, they’ll be on their way soon surely? With the son dead, some haulier and his ill-gotten gains will drop off Joe Stark’s radar.’

‘You might well be right. I’ve got a meeting with Ricky Compston this morning, as it happens. I’ll be sure to put it to him.’

‘You won’t say anything about me, though?’

‘Soul of discretion,’ Maxtone assured him. Then, as his tea arrived: ‘Did you hear about the pub getting torched?’

‘No.’

‘Some dive called the Gimlet, out Calder Road way. Insurance job, I suppose.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure.’ Maxtone looked up at him. ‘It was owned until recently by Darryl Christie. He sold it on to a friend.’

‘Well, somebody doused it in petrol last night and left not much more than a shell.’

‘Sounds like a message to me.’

‘From Joe Stark?’

‘The man’s spoiling for a fight.’

‘They need to be told they’re not welcome here. If you’re right, and they’ve lost interest in the missing trucker, we can kick them back to Glasgow without upsetting the Chief Constable too much.’

Fox nodded, but without real enthusiasm. ‘Joe Stark’s grieving, though. That gives him good reason to hang around the investigation. If we chase him out of town, we’re going to get called callous.’

‘By our friends in the media? I think our skins are thick enough, don’t you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The bacon roll was arriving. ‘Looks good,’ Maxtone said, taking a bite. ‘You not eating, Malcolm?’

‘Coffee does me most mornings.’

‘So if you’re not babysitting Compston’s team, what am I going to do with you?’

‘The Minton investigation could probably use another body.’

‘Not the best turn of phrase,’ Maxtone chided him. ‘But you’re right, it does seem to be growing into a monster. Want me to have a word with James Page?’

‘I’d appreciate it.’

‘Leave it with me.’

‘And all for the price of a bacon roll,’ Fox commented.

‘We can always be bought, Malcolm,’ Maxtone said with a wink. ‘Some of us more cheaply than others…’

Fox sat in his car. A hearse was being valeted to within an inch of its life, two more having already left the premises at the start of another busy day. He pressed his phone to his ear and waited for an answer.

‘John Rebus, Consulting Detective,’ Rebus’s voice sang out. ‘What can I do for you this fine morning, Malcolm?’

‘You at the Big House?’

‘I’m in the flat, though I suppose technically that means I’m also in the office.’

‘Any clients?’

‘I’m a bit particular.’

‘Mind if I drop by?’

‘For a consultation? I don’t come cheap, you know.’

‘Need anything from the shops? Milk? Bread?’

‘You silver-tongued devil — all right then, bring me some milk and we’ll call it quits.’

‘There was a time,’ Fox said as they took their drinks through to the living room, ‘when you wouldn’t have let me past the front door.’

‘Wasn’t too long ago either,’ Rebus agreed, settling in his chair. Fox made for the sofa, but then took a detour to the hi-fi instead, crouching down to flick through the albums.

‘Getting pretty collectable, some of this stuff,’ he commented. ‘Or it would be if it was in better condition.’

‘You suddenly an expert?’

‘I’ve been known to browse eBay of an evening.’ He got back to his feet and headed to the sofa, placing the mug on the carpet.

‘Coffee not up to your usual high standards?’ Rebus enquired.

‘To be honest, I’m jangling enough as it is.’

‘And why’s that?’

‘Remember I told you about Beth Hastie? Not being at her post when Dennis Stark left the guest house?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well I happened to mention to your old pal Alec Bell that her story rang false. Guess what he did next.’

‘I’d imagine he told her.’ Rebus lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair, blowing smoke towards the discoloured ceiling. He had a sudden thought. ‘If this is my office, am I even allowed to smoke? Government legislation and all that?’

‘So then Hastie paid me a visit,’ Fox ploughed on. ‘She was in a right strop, too. Ended up kneeing me in the balls.’

Rebus winced in sympathy.

‘Alec Bell practically had to drag her off me.’

‘Not having much luck, are you?’

‘No,’ Fox was forced to agree. Then, after a pause: ‘Can I try you with a wild theory?’

‘You think Compston’s team assassinated Dennis Stark?’

‘Is it beyond the realms of possibility?’

‘I’ve seen plenty in my time that would have seemed more outlandish.’

‘So what do I do about it?’

‘Find some cast-iron evidence. Failing which, get one of them to talk. Think you’re up to accomplishing either of those?’

Fox bristled. ‘You saying I’m not?’

‘I’m saying you’re all riled up. First Alec Bell watches you take a pasting and doesn’t wade in to help, then Beth Hastie gets torn in about your gonads. You said it yourself — you’re jangling. That’s fine, means your juices are flowing. But you’re supposed to be the rational one, the one who’s always Mr Calm. Going into something because you’re emotional… well, it’s hardly playing to your strengths.’

‘Are you saying I should drop it?’

‘I’m saying take a step back. All you know right now is that Hastie lied to her boss, and that could be something or nothing. She could have been off shagging Alec Bell or gone back to her scratcher for a kip.’

‘Funny she’s not around when Dennis gets whacked, though.’

‘I don’t disagree. But what you’re saying is — she was around, and maybe she even did it.’ Rebus paused. ‘Is that right? Is that the way you’re thinking? You’re saying she didn’t lie to Compston, she only lied to you in front of him because the team had to have a story to feed you.’

‘Maybe.’ Fox lifted the mug for want of anything else to do.

‘Alec Bell and me, we’re not mates,’ Rebus said. ‘I knew him for a short time too many years back. He’s not going to confide in me.’

‘He did, though — he told you there was a mole.’

‘He was showing off, wanting you and me both to see how important he’s become. He’s not likely to do that again, not when there’s a murder case at the back of it.’

‘I suppose not.’ Fox took a sip of coffee, trying to hide his disappointment.

‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t follow this up, Malcolm. Sometimes your first instinct is the right one. But you need to be careful. Ricky Compston has a mean streak — trust me, it takes one to know one. And he’s surrounded himself with people who share at least some of his traits. I said you’d need cast-iron evidence, but let me put it another way: make sure it’s bulletproof.’

Fox nodded slowly. ‘Well, thanks for seeing me. And for the coffee.’

‘The coffee you’ve barely touched.’

Fox got to his feet. ‘Do you need a lift to Fettes?’

‘Is that where you’re headed?’

‘Doug Maxtone’s going to get me attached to Siobhan’s team.’

‘Thanks for the offer, but I’ll go in later.’

Fox made to leave, but paused before reaching the hall. ‘You heard about the Gimlet?’

‘What about it?’

‘Someone torched it last night.’

‘Anybody hurt?’

‘I think it was after hours. A message from Joe Stark to Darryl Christie, maybe?’

‘In which case his hotel might be next.’

‘We always knew it would get messy. Maxtone reckons it’s high time we ordered Stark and his thugs back to Glasgow.’

‘He’s got a point. Say hello to Siobhan for me — and bear in mind what I said.’ Rebus was holding out a hand towards Fox. The two men shook. Having seen him out, Rebus went into the kitchen. His phone was charging on the worktop. He’d set it to silent. Two missed calls, both from Cafferty. He tapped callback and Cafferty answered almost immediately.

‘Is this about the Gimlet?’ Rebus asked.

‘The Gimlet?’

‘It got torched last night.’

‘Nothing to do with that.’

‘What then?’

‘I need a favour. Can you meet me? Twenty minutes?’

‘Where?’

‘The G and V hotel.’

‘Used to be the Missoni? Twenty minutes it is. Want to give me a clue what this is about?’

But Cafferty had already rung off.

As Rebus walked into the hotel, Cafferty waved to catch his attention. He was seated in the bar area, nursing a tall glass of tomato juice.

‘This where you’re holing up?’ Rebus asked, sliding on to the banquette. Cafferty just tapped the side of his nose. ‘Credit me with at least half a brain,’ Rebus went on. ‘The very fact that we’re meeting here rules it out as your cave.’

‘You know I’m not in the house, though?’

‘Happened to be passing. Tried phoning you a couple of times too. Have you been on to Joe Stark to offer condolences?’

‘He’d tell me where to stuff them.’

‘What about Darryl Christie — spoken to him at all?’

Cafferty made show of checking his surroundings. ‘Am I in an interview room here?’

‘Whoever set light to the Gimlet had Darryl in mind.’

‘Unless he did it himself for the insurance — you know he wants to sell the site?’

‘I’d heard a whisper. I dare say you have an alibi for last night, just in case?’

‘Why would I need one?’

‘Because if Darryl didn’t do it, he’s obviously going to read it as a message from Joe Stark, and a dogfight between the two of them would make your year.’

‘And I torched his place to ensure that came about?’ Cafferty shook his head. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’ He tipped the glass to his mouth.

‘Any vodka in that?’ Rebus asked.

‘Enough to take the edge off.’

‘It’s early in the day, even for you.’ A waiter was hovering, but Rebus waved him away. He noticed not just how tired Cafferty looked — there was something else there. The word ‘haunted’ sprang to mind. ‘So what’s this favour you need from me?’ he asked, his tone a little softer.

‘I don’t want to get you into trouble,’ Cafferty said. ‘Not this sort of trouble. But I need to find these men.’ He slid a paper drinks coaster towards Rebus. Two names written there in blue ink.

Paul Jeffries.

Dave Ritter.

Neither, at first glance, meant anything to Rebus. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘give me a clue.’

‘They did a bit of work for me back in the eighties.’

‘And they were last heard of when?’

‘I bumped into Jeffries maybe fifteen years ago at a casino here in town. Just a couple of words in passing. Asked him what he was up to and he said something about driving. I had a taxi firm at the time so I said as much.’ Cafferty paused. ‘That was the extent of our chat.’

‘Did he seem interested in the taxis?’ Cafferty shook his head. ‘Another kind of driving, then — lorries, deliveries…?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘Was he a regular at this casino?’

‘He might have been — I wasn’t.’ Cafferty gestured towards the bar for another drink.

‘And which casino was it?’

‘Milligan’s.’

‘In Leith? Is that still there?’

‘It’s one of those super-pubs these days. Three floors of cheap booze.’

‘Milligan’s was run by Todd Dalrymple, wasn’t it?’

‘You’ve a good memory.’

‘Wonder if he’s still around.’ Rebus scratched at the underside of his jaw. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘description of Mr Jeffries…’

‘Five-ten, maybe, short fair hair going grey at the temples, a gold tooth right at the front of his mouth.’

‘Would he have a criminal record?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘But nothing from when you knew him?’

‘No.’

‘Age?’

‘By now he’d be in his mid fifties.’

‘Last known address?’

‘Thirty years ago he was with a bidie-in somewhere in Granton.’

‘Name of bidie-in?’

‘I’ve honestly been trying to remember.’

Rebus picked up the coaster and studied it. ‘Then let’s move on to Dave Ritter.’

‘The two of them were old pals. I think they were maybe at school together.’

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere in Fife.’ Cafferty paused. ‘They knew Fife pretty well.’

‘Description.’

‘Shorter than Paul. Maybe five-six or seven. Bit of a belly on him. Never far from a bag of chips. Longish straight hair, brown. Looked like a bad wig. He’d be the same sort of age, meaning mid fifties now. Don’t remember anything about his love life. Didn’t live too far from Paul either.’

Rebus waited, but Cafferty could offer only a shrug.

‘That’s all you’ve got?’ he said as the fresh drink arrived and with it an unblemished coaster.

‘Haven’t seen Dave in nearly thirty years and didn’t get round to asking Paul about him. To be honest, I probably only remembered him afterwards — he was the quiet one. It was Paul who did the talking.’

‘How long did they work for you?’

‘Three, four years.’

‘In what capacity? Foot soldiers?’

‘It’s as good a phrase as any,’ Cafferty conceded. ‘I just thought — police computers, public registrar… maybe you could track them down.’

‘And why would I bother doing that?’

‘Because they might explain what’s going on here.’ Cafferty saw that Rebus didn’t quite get it. ‘The notes — me and Minton. Plus that care worker in Linlithgow, the one Siobhan Clarke was talking about.’

‘You reckon he’s part of it? And Dennis Stark too?’

‘Stark?’ Cafferty seemed genuinely confused.

‘Dennis got a note. Add that to the nine-mil bullet hole…’

But Cafferty was shaking his head again. ‘Nothing to do with him,’ he muttered as if to himself. ‘Joe maybe? No, not Joe either.’ He regained focus, his eyes meeting Rebus’s. ‘That’s got to be a mistake,’ he said.

Rebus nodded. ‘My thinking exactly. So maybe tell me your theory and let me be the judge.’

Cafferty ignored this. ‘I had a quick look online but I didn’t spot either Jeffries or Ritter. Phoned a couple of old lags, but they weren’t any help.’

‘What makes you think I can do better?’

‘You’re the straw I’m clutching at.’ Cafferty managed a smile. ‘That was my nickname for you — Strawman. Do you remember?’

‘I remember.’

‘You were giving evidence against me that one time in Glasgow, and they got you mixed up with another witness called Stroman.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I really need to know what you want with those two men.’

‘And I’ve told you.’

‘Not enough for me to be convinced. Is there an angle here, something to do with Joe Stark?’

‘Forget him.’ Cafferty screwed up his face.

‘Not easy when he’s on the rampage. How long till he comes hard up against Darryl Christie?’

‘Joe needs to be covering his own arse rather than kicking anyone else’s.’ Cafferty savoured a mouthful of the Bloody Mary. ‘With Dennis gone, there’s bound to be some jockeying. Joe’s surrounded himself with old-timers. They had reputations once, but they’d be no match for the lads on Dennis’s payroll. Added to which, I can think of people in Aberdeen and elsewhere who might fancy a crack at Glasgow, now that a tin-opener’s been taken to Joe’s armour.’

‘You’ve heard mutterings?’

‘Didn’t even need my ear trumpet.’ He made eye contact with Rebus again and held it. ‘You’ll do this for me, John?’ Pointing at the coaster Rebus was holding between thumb and forefinger.

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you’ll have to, because otherwise those names will go on bugging you all the way to the grave.’

Rebus got to his feet. ‘What did you mean, back at the start of our little chat? Something about not wanting to get me into trouble?’

‘It’s honestly best you don’t know. Trust me — just this once. Will you do that?’

Rebus had seen much in his old foe’s eyes down the years — guile, venom, darkness. But now he saw something else: uncertainty, tinged by fear. The glass was being raised again, its contents a prayed-for analgesic.

‘You’ll answer the phone when I call?’ Rebus checked.

Cafferty nodded as he drained his drink.

22

‘We should bring Beth Hastie in for questioning,’ Fox told Clarke. They were in the incident room at Fettes, standing in the middle of the office, surrounded by an investigation that was all heat and no light. Clarke folded her arms, which Fox interpreted as a sign that he could continue. ‘She was on surveillance outside the guest house. Her story is, she took a toilet break that just happened to coincide with Dennis Stark heading out. I don’t buy it.’

‘Why not?’

‘She says she went to a nearby garage, but it’s not open all night, and those that are don’t let punters over the threshold past eleven or midnight. In any event, with Dennis murdered, shouldn’t we be interviewing Compston’s lot anyway? They’ve spent weeks tailing his every move. Might be they know something we need to know.’

‘Malcolm, you’ve been attached to this inquiry five bloody minutes — tell me this isn’t just payback of some kind.’

‘It’s not.’ He nodded towards the door to Page’s inner sanctum. ‘At least take it to him, Siobhan. Not because it’s me, but because it’s the right thing to do.’ He looked around the office. ‘Unless there’s some hot tip you’re busy following up.’

‘You know damned fine there isn’t. But James is up to his eyes — we’ve no idea if we should open a separate case for Dennis Stark. Soon as we do, his father’s going to know there’s another killer out there.’

‘Well maybe I should just let you get back to finding the owner of Rebus’s stray dog.’ Fox waited, watching as Clarke deliberated.

‘Okay then,’ she said at last with a sigh, heading for the door.

‘Should I…?’

‘Oh, you’re coming too, Malcolm. This is your game plan, not mine.’ As she knocked on the door, she saw Rebus enter the room from the corridor. She held up a finger to indicate that she was busy. Page called out from behind the door, and she opened it.

Rebus watched as the door closed on Clarke and Fox. He wandered over to Christine Esson’s desk.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘DI Fox has climbed aboard,’ she explained.

‘Looks like he’s already making waves.’

‘Choppy waters, at any rate.’ She was chewing on the end of a ballpoint pen.

‘How’s the case?’

‘You know what doldrums are?’

‘Aren’t they the opposite of choppy waters?’ He watched her smile. ‘So you’re not too busy, then?’

‘I’ve got no news about the dog, if that’s what’s on your mind.’

‘It isn’t.’

She leaned back in her chair to study him. ‘Do I detect another favour in the offing?’

He placed a slip of paper on her desk. It detailed what little he knew about Cafferty’s two names.

‘I need anything you can get — police records; births, marriages and deaths; anything.’

She touched the note with her pen, as if reluctant to pick it up. ‘How much trouble is this going to get me in?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘But it’s not connected to the Minton/Stark investigation?’

‘It might be.’

‘Care to elucidate?’

‘The problem is, I can’t. Not until I know a bit more about these two.’ He patted the names with his finger.

‘Why me?’

‘Because you’re IT-savvy. Me, I wouldn’t know the first place to start.’

‘Judging by the dates, this is going to wear out my shoe leather rather than my computer mouse. Old records, maybe not digitised yet…’

‘Get Ronnie to help you.’ Ogilvie was at a desk across the room, busy on a telephone but his eyes were on Esson and Rebus, curiosity piqued.

‘And what do we say to Siobhan when she asks?’

‘You’re following up potential leads.’ Rebus paused. ‘No need to say they came from me.’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Finally she picked up the note and studied it. ‘Leave it with me, then.’

‘Magic,’ Rebus said. ‘When Siobhan comes out, tell her I’m in the cafeteria.’

Esson watched him as he retraced his steps, disappearing into the corridor. ‘No, that’s all right,’ she muttered. ‘I didn’t want anything bringing back.’ Then she turned her attention to her monitor and got to work.

Rebus was halfway down the corridor when he bumped into Detective Sergeant Charlie Sykes. A digestive biscuit was protruding from his mouth as he carried a pile of box files between offices. Rebus stopped in front of him, blocking his route. Reaching up a hand, he snapped off the visible section of biscuit and laid it on top of the uppermost box. Sykes scowled, chewing hard to try to free up his mouth.

‘Still on the health kick, eh, Charlie?’ Rebus enquired.

‘Thought you were retired.’

‘They’ve discovered that nothing gets done without me, which makes me almost your exact opposite.’ Rebus studied the man. ‘Nice suit, though — who’s greasing your palm these days? Used to be Big Ger, didn’t it?’

Sykes scowled. ‘Everyone on the force knows who Cafferty’s real friend around these parts was.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I’d better let you get on, Charlie. You’ll want to keep looking like you’re almost doing something useful.’ He lifted the remaining sliver of biscuit and pushed it into Sykes’s mouth, so that the man’s curses were muffled as Rebus continued on his way.

Darryl Christie was dressed as though impervious to cold — well-tailored suit, open-necked shirt. The two men he had brought with him were swaddled in black zip-up jackets, gloves and baseball caps. West Parliament Square was the usual tourist bustle. St Giles’ Cathedral loomed above Christie and his minders. Nearby stood the law courts and the City Chambers. This was the Edinburgh visitors craved, with the castle just up the hill and plenty of shops selling tartan and whisky. Joe Stark emerged from the direction of George IV Bridge. He wore a dark green raincoat and a red woollen scarf, with a white shirt and black tie beneath. Christie recognised the figures flanking him — Walter Grieve and Len Parker, both of them sporting a black tie. He gave a signal to his own men and they retreated towards the door of the Signet Library. Christie had peered through the door’s glass panels earlier, noting legal types pacing to and fro, in whispered discussions with colleagues. The High Court of Justiciary was a one-minute walk away, not that Christie had ever been inside it.

Not yet.

Stark walked towards him, leaving his two old lieutenants behind. When he was a couple of feet from Christie, he nodded the curtest of greetings.

‘Thanks for meeting me,’ Christie said.

‘Why here?’

Christie looked around. ‘Nice and public,’ he ventured. ‘Reckoned we’d both feel safer.’

Stark just grunted.

‘I’m sorry about what happened to your son,’ Christie went on, having more or less rehearsed these first few minutes. Stark glowered.

‘What did happen to him?’

‘Nothing I had any part of, I promise you. I’ve been keeping my distance, even though Dennis was trampling all over my territory.’ Christie paused. ‘That was out of respect for you, Mr Stark.’

‘We’re here until someone gives us a reason not to be,’ Stark said. He had an old man’s slightly milky blue eyes, but they contained plenty of menace still.

‘You mean until someone hands you Hamish Wright?’

‘It’s what Wright took from us — that’s what matters.’

‘Plus finding whoever did for Dennis?’

‘Police think it’s a serial killer maybe.’

‘Is that what you think?’

‘Someone topped a lawyer. Not sure what that’s got to do with my son.’

‘They took a potshot at Cafferty, too. Did you know that? And I’m told Cafferty got a note.’

Stark’s eyes narrowed a little further.

‘Did Dennis know Cafferty at all?’ Christie asked into the silence.

Stark shook his head.

‘One more thing I need to tell you — I hear from one of my sources that the note left next to Dennis is a fake.’ Christie paused to let this sink in.

‘Are you fucking about with me?’

‘I wouldn’t dare. No bullet was recovered either, meaning the gunman almost certainly took it with him.’

‘Why?’

‘So it couldn’t be checked against the one fired at Cafferty.’

‘Different guns?’ The old man nodded his understanding. ‘Cops are keeping that quiet.’

‘They’ll have their reasons.’

‘The fucker who did Dennis wanted it to look connected,’ Stark mused, scratching at his cheek. ‘But if it isn’t…’

‘You’re looking for someone with a grudge.’

Stark peered at him. ‘I’d have to put you on that list.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Dennis and his boys weren’t very nice to my friends. Then my old pub gets torched just last night…’

‘If you did put a bullet in my son, you’d have to have balls of granite to meet me like this.’

Christie offered a shrug. ‘I’m telling you the truth, Mr Stark. But here’s a thing — Dennis arrives in town, and almost immediately someone takes aim at Big Ger Cafferty.’

‘That wasn’t Dennis.’

‘Big Ger may think differently.’ Christie stretched out his arms. ‘I’m just saying. You know he’s gone AWOL?’

‘What?’

‘Not at his house. Not anywhere to be found, though he may be holing up in a hotel not a million miles from this very spot.’

Stark took a single step closer. ‘You trying to pit me against him, son? Cafferty’s not a serious proposition these days.’

‘Is that what you hear in Glasgow?’ Christie smiled almost ruefully. ‘Maybe he’s just got better camouflage. Trust me on this — he’s still in the jungle. All you have to do is ask around.’

Stark took a few seconds to digest everything he’d been told. Christie held out a hand for him to shake.

‘Thank you for meeting me, sir. I meant what I said about respect.’ When Stark’s own hand was enveloped by the younger man’s, the clasp turned into something more vice-like. Christie’s eyes had darkened, his voice becoming steelier. ‘But respect or not, if you have any thoughts about making a move on me or my city, best think again. There’s no For Sale sign when you exit the M8.’

Stark snatched his hand away. He was rubbing it as Christie turned to go.

‘Torching your pub,’ Stark called out to him, ‘was nothing to do with me — or with Dennis’s lot. I asked them.’

Christie didn’t look back. His minders fell into step beside him as he started to pass the law courts. His brow was furrowing, and he stabbed his hands into his trouser pockets for warmth.

‘Everything sorted?’ one of his men enquired.

‘Getting there,’ Christie replied after a moment’s consideration, though he wasn’t entirely sure he believed it.

Or Joe Stark.

Rebus sat in the Fettes canteen with tea and a ham-salad roll, his phone in his hand. His call to Milligan’s Casino had been met with bemusement — nobody on duty had heard of Todd Dalrymple. But someone had laid hands on a telephone directory and a single Dalrymple T. had been found, along with an address — Argyle Crescent, in Portobello. Rebus was about to ring the number when Siobhan Clarke appeared. She got herself some coffee and a caramel wafer and pulled out the chair next to him.

‘What was happening upstairs?’ he asked.

‘Malcolm thinks we should be interviewing Compston’s team.’

‘He’s probably not wrong.’ Rebus looked at her. ‘But you’re worried about his motives?’

‘A little, yes.’ She bit into the biscuit and started chewing.

‘Is Page still going along with the plan?’ Rebus asked.

‘What plan?’

‘Pretending the same attacker did for Minton and Dennis Stark both.’

‘I’m not sure the Fiscal’s office is enthusiastic — they see it as unfair on the family.’

‘Thing is, family in this case means Joe Stark.’

‘I know…’ She broke off, staring into the distance. Then: ‘Any joy from the internet?’

It took Rebus a moment to work out that she meant the dog rather than the two names he’d given to Christine Esson. He shook his head.

‘So what’s keeping you busy today?’

‘Couple of wee things,’ he lied. ‘Might be something or nothing.’ He placed his phone on the table and lifted the tea. ‘By the way, have you dismissed the possibility of a link between Minton and that Linlithgow attack?’

‘Pretty much. Why do you ask?’

‘Because Cafferty happened to mention it.’

‘Oh?’

‘The attacks on Minton, Cafferty himself and the guy in Linlithgow — he mentioned them in the same breath. And something else…’

‘What?’

‘The victim in Linlithgow…’

‘Michael Tolland?’

Rebus nodded. ‘Cafferty said something about him being a care worker.’

‘He was.’

‘Yes, but not knowing him, is that how you would describe him?’

‘No,’ she conceded.

Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘You’d say “millionaire”, or “lottery winner”, right?’

‘Right.’

‘So why didn’t Cafferty? It was like that wasn’t what was important.’

Clarke thought for a moment. ‘You think I should dig a little deeper?’

Rebus shrugged, but he knew the seed had been planted. ‘So you’re bringing in Compston and his crew, eh? Are there still tickets available?’

‘I can probably get you on the guest list.’ Her phone pinged, telling her she had a text. She checked her screen. ‘Talk of the devil,’ she said. ‘Boss wants me in his office.’

‘He can be a fast worker when necessary.’

She got to her feet, pushing away her coffee. ‘You really think they’ll give us anything?’

‘Compston’s gang?’ Rebus pondered this. ‘I very much doubt it.’

‘Then why are we bothering?’

‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’

‘That’s pretty much word for word what Malcolm said.’ Clarke smiled tiredly, gave a little wave and was gone.

Rebus turned his attention to his own phone. Should have looked in the phone book, John, he chided himself. Maybe Jeffries and Ritter were in there too…

‘Hello?’ The voice was deep and throaty. There was a dog barking somewhere behind it.

‘Mr Dalrymple? My name’s John Rebus. I’m calling from the police.’

‘Oh aye?’ Then: ‘John B! Will you be quiet!’

‘I was wondering if I could talk to you.’

The dog’s barking had grown more insistent.

‘He’s wanting his walk,’ Dalrymple apologised. ‘I need to take him out.’

‘I have a few questions about your time at Milligan’s Casino,’ Rebus ploughed on.

‘Sorry, son, I can’t hear a thing.’

‘Maybe you could shut the dog in another room.’

‘Give me your number and I’ll phone you back. I’ll only be an hour or two.’

‘Where do you take him?’

‘Eh?’

‘John B — where do you go walking?’

‘The Promenade usually.’

‘I’ll meet you there.’

‘I’ll be at the Joppa end, just down from James Street. John B is hard to miss — twice the energy of any other dog on the beach. Just look for the doddery old bastard failing to keep up with him…’

23

The wind had died down and the temperature was a few degrees above freezing. The Promenade was a wide walkway which, towards Portobello, was fronted by fast-food takeaways, gaming arcades and bars. At the Joppa end, however, it was much quieter, with houses and flats facing the estuary. The tide was halfway out and the sand damp and pale yellow. There were views across to Fife, Cockenzie and Berwick Law. Plenty of dog-walkers. Rebus watched a huddle of dogs as they leapt at and past each other down near the surf. One was barking enthusiastically. It was a cross-breed with a short black coat, and seemed almost to be grinning in wonder at the world. A man a few years older than Rebus and dressed in tan cords and a Barbour jacket watched from the other side of the wall, whistling and calling out occasionally, to no effect whatsoever.

‘Come here, John B! Come on, boy!’

Rebus took up a position next to Todd Dalrymple, facing the water. Dalrymple glanced at him.

‘You the cop?’

‘Why John B?’

‘For John Bellany.’

‘The painter?’

‘He grew up in Port Seton. I always loved his fishing boats…’ Dalrymple blew his nose noisily. ‘You got a dog?’ He watched Rebus shake his head. ‘You should. They’re proven to add years to your life — if they don’t give you a heart attack first.’

‘They need exercise, though. I’m not really the type.’

‘Good excuse to get away from the wife for an hour — and plenty of pubs accept dogs.’

‘I’m suddenly warming to the notion.’

Dalrymple’s eyes creased in a smile. ‘So what can I do for you, officer?’

‘It’s a bit of a long shot. You’ll know Big Ger Cafferty?’

‘I know the name.’

‘He used to drop by Milligan’s.’

‘Not too often.’

‘He bumped into an old acquaintance there fifteen years or so back, guy called Paul Jeffries.’

Dalrymple started calling for John B again. Rebus got the feeling he was playing for time while he considered his response. Eventually he turned his head towards Rebus.

‘I knew Paul,’ he said. ‘He worked for me.’

Rebus tried not to show his surprise. ‘In what capacity?’

‘Driver. I’d lost my licence, and he offered.’

‘You knew he used to do jobs for Cafferty?’

‘He told me.’

‘Any idea what sort of jobs?’

‘Driving. Why the sudden interest?’

‘When did you last see him, Mr Dalrymple?’

‘Three weeks back.’

Rebus gave a little cough as he tried to hide his surprise.

‘He’s in a care home — actually more of a hospice. Not much left up here.’ Dalrymple tapped his forehead with a gloved finger.

‘I’m sorry to hear that. He’s still in the city, then?’

Dalrymple nodded. ‘You’ve not said what’s going on.’

‘Does the name Dave Ritter mean anything to you?’

‘Pal of Paul’s, wasn’t he? Remember him being mentioned.’

‘You didn’t meet him, though?’

‘Don’t think so. Did you ever go to Milligan’s in its heyday?’ He watched Rebus shake his head. ‘Some wild nights we had. Place heaving, tables full and punters waiting their turn. Off the oil rigs and pockets full of cash, plus workers from the Chinese restaurants — those guys knew what they were up to; they’d watch a new croupier to see if they had any weaknesses. Beautiful women visited too, dressed to the nines — not too many of them on the game. Businessmen ordering champagne and expensive cigars…’

‘I’m surprised Cafferty never tried getting his feet under the table.’

‘He made overtures. But he soon realised I was no slouch.’

‘I knew you ran the place — but you owned it, too?’

‘Started off with loans from my family — not that they necessarily liked the business. I cleared those debts soon enough, though. Aye, it was my place all right.’

‘How long did Paul Jeffries drive for you?’

‘Two, three years.’

‘Then what?’

Dalrymple shrugged. ‘He still came by. Bit of a rough diamond, our Paul. He never divulged how he was making a crust.’

‘He left or you fired him?’

‘I think the job just wasn’t as exciting as he’d hoped for.’

Rebus looked Dalrymple up and down. ‘You’re well-educated, I can tell, and you come from money. No disrespect, sir, but I’d say you wouldn’t have had much in your arsenal if Cafferty had really wanted to put the moves on you.’

Dalrymple offered the thinnest of smiles. ‘I had friends, officer. Quite a lot of friends. They gambled, ended up owing money. I’m talking about people of influence, politicians and the like. Maybe even a Chief Constable or two…’

‘Making you untouchable?’

‘I was able to persuade Big Ger that it would be more trouble than it was worth, should he attempt to unseat me.’

Rebus nodded his understanding. ‘I don’t suppose David Minton was one of your punters?’

‘He came in a couple of times — always with a gorgeous young woman on his arm, as if that would stop us noticing that the fairer sex weren’t his primary interest.’ John B was in the water now, but unable to persuade the other dogs to follow. ‘I think we might need to make an intervention,’ Dalrymple said with a sigh. He led Rebus through a gap in the wall on to the sand, tugging a dog lead from the pocket of his coat.

‘Can you give me the name of the care home?’ Rebus was asking. ‘The one Mr Jeffries is in?’

‘Absolutely. But I’d be grateful for some sort of thread through the labyrinth.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning what the hell is this all about?’

‘I’m unable to say at present.’

‘You almost sound as if you don’t know.’

Rebus didn’t like to admit that this wasn’t exactly wide of the mark. John B meantime had decided to welcome his owner’s new friend by shaking himself free of seawater in Rebus’s vicinity.

‘Probably should have warned you about that,’ Dalrymple said as Rebus glared at the dog.

‘Compston refused point blank,’ Clarke told Fox. ‘You can imagine how that went down. Give James Page his due, he got straight on to the Chief Constable.’

‘And?’

‘Told him it wouldn’t look good if it got out to the media — police surveillance on Dennis Stark and the officers involved are refusing to cooperate with the murder inquiry.’

‘Not that the news would ever leak.’

‘Perish the thought,’ Clarke said.

‘I’m sure DCI Page said as much.’

She nodded slowly. ‘So now Compston and the others are on their way here.’

‘No more mayhem to report in the interim?’

‘Not that I’ve heard.’

‘What do you think Joe Stark is doing?’

‘Seething.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And plotting. He’s already given an interview to a tame Glasgow journalist. Accuses us of sitting on our hands.’

‘I’ve not seen much evidence of that.’

They were at the bottom of the staircase now, on the ground floor of Fettes. They emerged from behind the reception desk into the waiting area. Glass walls gave a view on to Fettes Avenue. Clarke checked the time on her phone.

‘By the way,’ she said, ‘James isn’t happy about you taking part in the interviews.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because until this morning you were attached to Compston’s team. You’re just too close to it all.’

‘That’s precisely why I should be in the room!’

‘You can listen to the recordings. Anyone tells me something you know to be a lie, you let me know.’

‘That’s hardly the same thing.’

‘I know, Malcolm, but James is right.’ She stared him out. He exhaled and slumped on to one of the seats. Clarke touched her hand to the back of his neck. ‘You know he’s right,’ she went on.

‘Don’t tell me John bloody Rebus is invited, though?’ Fox folded his arms, defying her to give him bad news.

‘He’ll be backstage, same as you. In fact, I should let him know they’re on their way.’

But when she called, Rebus didn’t pick up.

‘Here they come,’ Fox warned her, as two cars he recognised roared into the driveway. ‘And while I’m no expert in automotive technique, I’d say they’re not at their sunniest…’

Rebus had phoned Cafferty with the news, mostly because he felt smug. It had taken him only a couple of hours of old-fashioned detective work. The online world could stuff that in its pipe and vape it. But when Cafferty had asked for the address, Rebus had backed off a little.

‘I need to be there when you see him,’ he had demanded.

‘No you don’t,’ Cafferty had countered. ‘You know I’ll track him down by myself if I have to. It’ll take time, though, time that could see the mortuary filling up…’

Rebus dismissed the threat. ‘I go with you, or I end this call right now.’

He waited, letting the silence build. He imagined Milligan’s at the height of its popularity, a poker game in progress, everything in and just two players left. Fine clothes, laughter and swirling smoke, all rendered meaningless in the moment.

The phone went dead. Rebus stared at it and gave a rueful smile. His Saab was on one of the side streets off the Promenade. He smoked a cigarette as he walked in that direction, keeping the phone in his other hand. With the cigarette clamped in his mouth, stinging his eyes, he dug out his car key and unlocked the doors. Got in and slid the key into the ignition. Sat there with the door open until he had finished the cigarette. He stubbed it into the ashtray and closed the door, starting the engine.

His phone started ringing. He checked who was calling. Siobhan Clarke. He let it ring. The road was a dead end, so he did a three-point turn and headed away from the beach, towards Portobello High Street, thinking maybe he should have treated himself to a fish supper. His phone rang again as he was turning right, entering the stream of traffic heading towards the city.

Bingo.

‘Yes?’ he said, answering.

‘Fine,’ Big Ger Cafferty spat. ‘Let’s do it your way. Give me the address and I’ll meet you there.’

Rebus calculated that it would take him twenty or thirty minutes to get to the care home. ‘I’ll phone you back in ten with the details,’ he advised. ‘Make sure you’re ready.’

‘I’ve already got my coat on.’

Rebus ended the call.

He was actually only five minutes away from his destination when he sent Cafferty the text. Meadowlea was a modern single-storey building in the Grange, within tottering distance of Astley Ainsley hospital. A phone call had confirmed that Paul Jeffries was both a resident and in a bad way.

‘Early-onset dementia with a host of complications — we’re more what you might call a hospice than a regular residence,’ Rebus was informed.

He waited in the car park for almost fifteen minutes before the black taxi chugged through the gateway, depositing a scowling Cafferty.

‘You waiting for a proficiency badge or something?’ Cafferty said.

‘A word of thanks might be in order. But I’ll settle for an explanation.’

‘Here’s what you get instead — you get to stand outside the room while I have a word.’

But Rebus shook his head. Cafferty made an exasperated sound and stepped past him. He tried yanking the glass door open, but it was locked tight. Rebus pressed the buzzer and waited.

‘Yes?’

He leaned in towards the intercom. ‘I phoned earlier. We’re here to see Mr Paul Jeffries.’

‘In you come, then.’

This time the door opened for Cafferty. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, looking to left and right. There were long corridors, protected by further doors. Rebus could smell disinfectant. The antechamber they were in held two chairs and one oversized pot plant. It looked to Rebus like a palm tree of some kind, its thick leaves dark green and shiny.

One of the doors opened and a staff member dressed in white gestured for them to follow her.

‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘Paul doesn’t get many visitors.’ She took one look at Cafferty’s face and became less certain. ‘You are friends of his?’

‘I’m just a sherpa,’ Rebus explained. ‘But Mr Cafferty here knew Paul some years back.’

They stopped outside a door with the name ‘Paul’ on it. The attendant knocked and turned the handle. It was a self-contained space with a bathroom off. A hospital-style bed against one wall, but also a fireplace with two chairs and a TV/DVD. A man was seated in one of the chairs, staring at a darts match but with the sound turned off.

‘You were told he might not say anything?’

Rebus nodded and thanked the woman, ushering her out and closing the door on her offer to bring some tea. Cafferty stood in front of Paul Jeffries, then bent down so his face was at eye level.

‘All right, Paul?’ he said.

The room was stifling. Rebus removed his coat and took a look around. No mementoes from the resident’s life. Just a few films and TV shows on DVD, and some fake flowers in a vase. There were no paintings or photos on the walls. A radio sat on a bedside cabinet, along with a jug of water and a glass.

Cafferty was waving a hand in front of the man’s face. The eyes blinked without evident recognition. Cafferty clicked his fingers a few times, then clapped his hands together. The seated man flinched, but tried seeing past the blockage to where the darts match was still being played. Cafferty straightened up, picked up the remote and killed the picture.

‘Paul, you prick, it’s me,’ he rasped.

But the blank screen was now enjoying the seated figure’s attention. The man was dressed in jogging pants and top, maybe with a T-shirt beneath. Disposable clothes — cheap; easy to get on and off. There were food stains down the front, and one of Jeffries’ hands cupped his groin. Facially, the man was as Cafferty had described him, but older, almost drained of vigour, and his shrunken cheeks indicated that he had lost his teeth at some point and was not currently bothering with dentures. Cafferty looked at Rebus.

‘Early-onset dementia,’ Rebus explained.

‘Maybe a slap would jolt him out of it.’

‘I doubt it’s a recognised medical technique.’

Cafferty too was feeling the heat. He kept his coat on, but mopped his brow with the sleeve.

‘It’s about Acorn House, Paul,’ he told the seated figure. ‘Remember Acorn House? Remember what happened? Don’t think you can just sit there, you bastard!’ He grabbed Jeffries by the shoulders and shook him. There was no resistance, and Rebus feared the man’s neck might snap. He stepped forward and pulled Cafferty away.

‘Christ’s sake,’ he said.

Cafferty looked as if someone had hooked him up to the mains. ‘There’s no way he doesn’t know we’re here or what this is about,’ he spat. ‘Fucker’s just putting on a show!’

He wrestled free of Rebus and was hauling Jeffries to his feet when the door opened.

‘Brought some tea anyway,’ the attendant was saying. She dropped the tray when she took in the scene, her mouth opening in a silent gasp.

‘It’s not what you think,’ Rebus said, knowing how ridiculous he sounded. The woman had fled back into the corridor, presumably to fetch the cavalry. ‘We’ve got to go,’ he told Cafferty.

‘Not yet.’

‘Look at him, for God’s sake. That’s an empty shell you’re holding.’

Cafferty relented and dropped Jeffries back into his chair. But he had the man’s slack-jawed attention now. Cafferty got in so close they were almost touching noses. ‘Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me, Paul. I’ll be dropping by one of these nights, and we’ll have our little chat then. Just the two of us.’

Rebus, coat tucked under one arm, led Cafferty out of the room and back down the corridor. They had reached the vestibule by the time the attendant hove into view from the opposite direction, bringing a good-sized male colleague with her. Rebus pulled open the front door and shoved Cafferty out, then closed it again so that the lock clicked, leaving him still inside.

By the time it dawned on Cafferty, it was too late. Rebus turned to face the two attendants, hands held up in appeasement.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Just a bit of rough and tumble to try and shake him out of whatever torpor he’s in.’

‘We have CCTV,’ the male said, pointing towards the cameras on the ceiling. ‘We’ll be reporting this.’

‘As is right and proper,’ Rebus said. Cafferty started shaking the door, trying to force it open. ‘But if you want me to calm that beast out there, just tell me if Mr Jeffries gets any other visitors.’

The man and woman shared a look, flinching when Cafferty’s foot connected with the door.

‘Mr Dalrymple’s not been in for a few weeks,’ the male blurted out.

‘But then there’s the other gentleman,’ his colleague added. ‘Only comes by once or twice a year. They used to be at school together, I think. Lives in Ullapool.’

‘Does he have a name?’ Rebus asked. ‘Dave Ritter, maybe?’

‘Ritter?’ Nods from both heads. ‘Sounds about right.’

Rebus turned and unlocked the door, blocking Cafferty from going back in. Once outside, he closed it again and started leading Cafferty towards his car.

‘I’ve got something,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Calm down and I’ll tell you.’

‘Tell me now.’

‘Get in,’ Rebus said instead, unlocking the Saab. He rolled the window down and lit a cigarette.

‘Give me one,’ Cafferty demanded from the passenger seat.

‘You don’t smoke.’

‘Never too late to start.’ Cafferty gestured with his fingers, but Rebus showed him that the pack was empty. Cafferty cursed under his breath. ‘So tell me what you got.’

‘You first — what’s Acorn House? And why does it ring a bell?’

Cafferty leaned back against the headrest. ‘I’m going to say it just once more — you don’t want to know.’

But Rebus knew now. ‘It was some sort of remand home, wasn’t it? I remember going once with a posse from Summerhall. Couple of kids there thought they were the pickpocket equivalent of Butch and Sundance.’ He stared at Cafferty. ‘That’s the place we’re talking about, yes?’

Cafferty was scowling at the windscreen as if ready to punch it. ‘Yes,’ he eventually conceded.

‘Michael Tolland used to work there?’ Rebus guessed. ‘That’s why him being a care worker clicked with you?’ He nodded to himself. ‘And Jeffries and his pal Ritter — they… what?’ He paused, running his hands around the steering wheel as he thought. ‘It closed down, didn’t it? Acorn House? Sometime in the late eighties.’ He turned to look at Cafferty. ‘What is it I’m not seeing? David Minton, he’d have been an advocate back then, wouldn’t he? Running for Parliament but not getting in.’

‘You’re seeing all the small stuff,’ Cafferty said, pressing his thumbs to his temples. ‘Let’s go have a drink somewhere so I can start to tell you the rest…’

24

‘I don’t want this taped,’ were Ricky Compston’s first words as he sat down in the makeshift interview room. Fettes, having been Lothian and Borders’ HQ, had always been an admin base rather than a working police station — no cells, no IRs. Siobhan Clarke had borrowed some recording equipment and set it up on the table. But now Compston was folding his arms in a show of defiance. ‘I’m running a covert operation,’ he went on, ‘and that could be put in jeopardy by the smallest leak.’

‘You’re not stopping the surveillance?’ James Page asked. He had slipped out of his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, to show that he meant business. Paperwork was heaped in front of him, topped by crime scene photos and post-mortem shots of the victims.

‘Not until the boss gives the word.’ Compston turned his attention to Clarke. ‘That machine goes on, I walk — don’t say you weren’t warned.’

‘This is your idea of cooperation?’ she shot back.

Compston fixed her with a stare. ‘Joe Stark has just had a meeting with Darryl Christie. What happens next I can’t tell you, because you’ve pulled my team in here, which is the last place they should be. So yes, DI Clarke, to answer your snotty little question, I’d say I’m cooperating.’

‘Dennis Stark managed to get himself killed on your watch,’ Clarke commented.

‘Thanks, I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Beth Hastie had the surveillance on her own — is that standard practice?’

‘Ideally she’d have had company.’

‘Why didn’t she?’

‘Joe and his cronies had gone to Glasgow. I had to split the team. Left us a bit short.’

‘But she wasn’t outside the guest house when Dennis went for his stroll. His colleagues tell us it was something he often did.’

Compston nodded. ‘Happened a couple of times,’ he agreed.

‘Yet Hastie still deserted her post? She didn’t bother phoning to try and arrange cover?’

‘It was the middle of the night. We were exhausted. Probably no one would have answered anyway.’

‘But she didn’t try,’ Clarke persisted.

Compston looked from Clarke to Page and back again. ‘Hell’s going on here?’ he demanded.

‘A murder inquiry.’

‘Gobby little thing, isn’t she?’ Compston said to Page.

‘DI Clarke is a bit more than that, I think you’ll find,’ Page retorted.

Compston gave a theatrical sigh. ‘We screwed up, and don’t think we don’t know it. I take full responsibility and have already told the Chief Constable as much.’

Clarke was tapping her pen lightly against a fresh pad of lined paper. ‘How do you reckon Dennis Stark ended up dead?’ she asked.

‘A nine-mil bullet, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Did he just get unlucky, though? Goes for a stroll, ends up bumping into a stranger who shoots him? How likely is that?’

‘Not very,’ Compston conceded. ‘One way or another, he was targeted.’

‘One way or another?’

‘Well, you’ve got this killer leaving notes next to his victims…’

‘Actually, the victims usually receive the notes well beforehand. That was one mistake Stark’s killer made.’

‘Oh?’

‘Not the same handwriting,’ Page revealed.

‘Copycat?’ Compston mused.

‘Someone with a grudge,’ Clarke said, ‘who thought they could make us think it was the same person who killed Lord Minton.’

‘Which partly explains our interest in your team,’ Page added. ‘What would you say if I told you Detective Constable Hastie had lied to you?’

‘I’d say I don’t believe you.’

‘She had to answer a call of nature, yes? At a nearby petrol station?’

Compston rolled his eyes. ‘This is that sneaky fucker Fox, isn’t it?’

‘There are no all-night garages nearby,’ Clarke went on.

‘So?’

‘And the ones that are open don’t let customers use the loos.’

‘I’m none the wiser.’

‘Whoever followed Dennis Stark to that alley, they knew there was a chance he’d be out and about at that time, but they couldn’t know the surveillance wasn’t operational.’ Clarke paused. ‘Could they?’

Compston got her meaning and guffawed. ‘You’re saying we did it? After years of concerted operations to bring down the whole gang, my team suddenly decides on drastic action that’ll result in anything but?’ His eyes flitted between Clarke and Page. ‘Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?’

‘It’s just a coincidence, then? Hastie does a vanishing act, Dennis goes for a walk, and the killer is waiting for him?’

‘Makes a damn sight more sense than what you’re suggesting.’ Compston was getting to his feet. ‘I’ve had more than enough of this. There’s work waiting for me in the real world. I’ll leave you to your unicorns and marshmallow skies.’

‘We need to talk to Beth Hastie first,’ Clarke stated.

‘Why?’

‘Because she doesn’t seem to have been entirely truthful. That story she spun might have been for your benefit. Then again, maybe it was only meant for DI Fox. Maybe you already knew she wasn’t going to be outside the guest house.’

Compston was shaking his head, but he gave another theatrical sigh. ‘If Beth stays, can the rest of the team get back on duty?’

‘I’d like you to wait behind,’ Page said. ‘We may have a couple more questions.’

‘Absolute waste of time,’ Compston muttered, which Clarke took as agreement.

A five-minute break between interviews, just long enough for a quick coffee and confab. They’d stuck Hastie in the room and confiscated her phone so she wouldn’t have a chance to be briefed by her boss. Compston was in the waiting area, having given orders to his troops and dispatched them.

‘Is this getting us anywhere?’ Page asked. ‘I’d hate to think we’re rattling their cages just for the hell of it.’

Clarke offered a shrug.

‘Fox has some sort of grievance, doesn’t he? That smack on the face he got…’

‘He may have a grievance, but he also has a point. The story he was given doesn’t quite chime. Besides which, it makes perfect sense for us to want to question the team who supposedly had eyes and ears on the victim.’

‘Fair enough.’ But Page didn’t sound wholly convinced. He drained his cardboard cup. ‘Let’s get back, then.’

Beth Hastie did not object to a recording being made. Clarke quickly realised that this was because she had come prepared with a script.

‘I got bored and went for a drive, that’s the truth of it. Thought half an hour wouldn’t hurt and it would help me stay awake.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Down to the waterfront, along the coast a little ways, then back.’

‘And this just happened to coincide with Dennis Stark leaving the guest house?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You can see that might look like an almighty coincidence?’

‘I suppose. Doesn’t mean it’s not what happened, though.’

‘Have you owned up to DI Compston?’

‘I will, soon as I get out of here.’

‘You knew Dennis had trouble sleeping? That he sometimes took a night-time walk?’

Hastie shook her head. ‘Nobody’d mentioned it. That was my first time on the all-nighter.’

‘Nobody’d mentioned it?’ Clarke sounded disbelieving, but Hastie was shaking her head again to stress the point.

‘Here’s the thing I keep thinking, though,’ she went on. ‘If I had been there, I’d have followed him on foot. And if I’d done that…’

‘You’d have maybe stopped the killing from happening?’ Page guessed.

She stared at him. ‘No,’ she said. ‘What I mean is, maybe he’d have had to shoot me too. Which is why I’m actually bloody relieved I took that drive. If I hadn’t, I might be on a shelf in the mortuary, right next to Dennis Stark.’

She sat back in her chair, almost shivering at the thought.

Joe Stark arrived at Fettes with one of his own men — Walter Grieve — and one of Dennis’s. It had been Grieve’s idea to bring Dennis’s lads into the fold — last thing they needed now was bad blood. Jackie Dyson had been chosen because he was the only one Joe hadn’t had cause to bad-mouth or hand a slap to in the past. A relative newcomer, which, Grieve argued, meant he might be more approachable, ‘if you get my drift’.

Yes, Joe knew these were delicate days. Dyson and the rest would be starting to wonder where their loyalties lay. Did they team up against the old order, or did they fall into line? He’d already given them a few quid to tide them over, promising them strengthened roles in the organisation. All the same, it didn’t hurt to bring Dyson along, get to know him a bit better during the car ride, massage his ego. Then the punchline:

‘If you want to see gratitude, son, I’ll show it to you. You hear whispers or mutterings, you bring them to me. That’s when you’ll see me at my best.’ Accompanied by a wink and a pat on the knee.

They parked in front of the main building and got out, Stark and Grieve in suits fit for a funeral, Dyson in scuffed denim and leather. As they reached the door, a couple emerged. Stark met the man’s eyes but said nothing. But he watched as the pair headed towards their own car.

‘That’s Ricky Compston,’ he told Grieve.

‘Thought I knew him.’

‘Who’s Ricky Compston?’ Dyson asked.

‘Used to be Glasgow CID. Last I heard, he was being promoted to a desk at Gartcosh.’ Halfway through the door, Stark stopped again. ‘Gartcosh,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Serious and Organised Crime…’

‘Are we wondering what he’s doing across this side of the country?’ Walter Grieve asked, without really needing an answer.

‘Bastards are after us,’ Stark stated, baring his teeth. ‘Heard about Dennis and think we’re vulnerable.’ He exited the building again and cried out to the rapidly retreating figures. ‘Hey! Compston!’ The woman half turned but the man did not. Stark flicked the Vs anyway and stomped inside.

The civilian on the reception desk recognised him and tried to smile.

‘We’re here to see Page,’ Stark demanded.

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘My son’s been murdered — what good is a fucking appointment to me?’

The woman flushed. ‘I think he’s busy,’ she eventually managed to say. But by then it was too late. Stark had walked around the desk and was making for the stairs beyond.

‘You can’t do that!’ she said.

‘He already has,’ Dyson informed her, making to follow.

The group of three reached the first floor and asked the first person they saw where Page was.

‘Next floor up.’

So that was where they went. Page was in the corridor ahead of them, talking to a woman weighed down by case notes.

‘Page!’ Stark snapped. ‘I need to talk to you!’

‘How did you get in?’

‘Do we do it here, or somewhere a bit more private? Either’s fine by me.’

Officers had appeared at the end of the corridor behind Stark and his men. They looked ready to intervene, but Page waved them away.

‘My office,’ he said to Stark. ‘Just you and me, though.’ He led the way through the incident room while the squad gawped from their desks, all except Charlie Sykes, who was busy composing a text on his phone. Grieve and Dyson looked set to linger in the outer office, but Clarke ushered them back into the corridor, closing the door on them.

‘Charming,’ Grieve said.

‘I’m going for a piss,’ Dyson told him. There was a toilet a few yards away, and he walked in. Just the two urinals and one cubicle. He unzipped and started whistling tunelessly, stopping when the door opened. The new arrival took the urinal next to him and uttered a greeting. Then the two men’s eyes met.

‘I know you,’ Dyson said. ‘Flattened you outside that pub… You’re a cop?’

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Malcolm Fox exclaimed, zipping himself up and taking a pace back towards the sink.

‘Mr Stark has something he needs to get off his chest. Brought me along for company.’

‘I saw Walter Grieve outside, but I never thought…’

‘You seem to know all about us,’ Dyson said slyly, finishing up and turning towards Fox. ‘All I know about you is I almost broke your face. I’m wondering now why you didn’t identify yourself as filth at the time. And also why I’m still on the street — you didn’t report it?’

He moved past Fox and started washing his hands.

‘Compston didn’t tell you about me?’ Fox asked. ‘I’m Malcolm Fox. Local liaison.’

‘Compston? I heard that name outside just now. It’s true, then? There’s a team from Gartcosh over here to put the screws on us?’

‘Look, I know who you are. You’re Jackie Dyson. I mean, I know that’s the name you’re using—’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about keeping in character. I can appreciate you have to, but—’

Dyson spun around from the sink and shoved Fox so hard he went through the unlocked cubicle door.

‘Am I hearing you right?’ he snarled. ‘You saying the cops have got someone in our team?’

Fox swallowed. ‘No,’ he managed to say. ‘That’s not what I—’

But Dyson wasn’t listening. Hands still dripping, he had hauled open the door to the corridor and was gone. Fox lowered himself on to the toilet seat. His heart was racing.

It’s the right guy, he said to himself. It’s got to be. Alec Bell told me as much… He broke off, swallowing hard. Could Alec Bell have lied?

Ricky Compston was pummelling the steering wheel with the heel of one hand as he drove.

‘All that work, all that planning…’

‘You really think we’re screwed?’

‘Reason I’ve been doing minimal stake-outs is that I’m the one person Joe might have clocked. Then we walk right into him.’ He shook his head, anger fighting despair. ‘And we should never even have been there in the first place! I blame Page, and above all I blame Malcolm Arsehole Fox.’

‘Person you should really be blaming is me,’ Hastie said quietly. There was silence in the car for a moment. Then Compston glanced at her.

‘What did you tell them back there?’

‘The truth.’

‘Same as you told me?’

‘Not quite. I went for a longer drive than I said. Needed to clear my head.’

‘Christ’s sake, Beth…’

‘So what happens now?’

‘We either wrap this up pronto or pack our bags and ride into the sunset.’

‘I meant to me.’

‘Dereliction of duty.’ Compston looked at her again. She was grim-faced but not about to protest. ‘I’m assuming that’s the least of it?’

‘Sir?’

‘You didn’t actually shoot Dennis Stark?’

‘No.’ Accompanied by a short bark of laughter.

‘And you’re not covering for Alec Bell?’

‘I’m not sure I…’

‘I know you think the sun shines out of Alec’s rear end, and if he told you to do something, you’d probably never think to question it.’ Compston paused. ‘So did he tell you to bunk off that night?’

‘Absolutely not. But what about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve a handy alibi?’

‘Fuck you, DC Hastie. End of.’

‘Nice to see none of us have lost our team spirit.’

Compston had gone from slapping the steering wheel to throttling it. ‘You didn’t just step over the line there, you paused to take a dump on it. Far as I’m concerned, that’s that — you’re getting tossed back to your old duties.’

‘For the record, sir, can I just say something?’

‘If you must.’

‘You’re the worst, most useless, clueless boss I’ve ever had — and trust me, that puts you at the top of a really long list.’

25

They sat in Rebus’s living room, Cafferty sucking on a bottle of beer. Rebus stuck to instant coffee. He wanted the clearest of heads, while Cafferty looked in a mood to move on to whisky once he’d finished his aperitif.

‘Acorn House,’ Rebus nudged. ‘A secure environment for toerags and scumbags up to the age of — what? Sixteen?’

‘They were different times. People’s definition of what was acceptable…’ Cafferty was staring at the carpet. ‘You’ve seen it recently: all those stories about celebrities back in the day and politicians who thought it was perfectly fine to rub shoulders with paedos.’

‘Christ almighty…’

Cafferty met Rebus’s stare. ‘Not me! Hell’s teeth, credit me with that at least!’

‘Okay, you weren’t fiddling with the kids at Acorn House.’ Rebus paused. ‘But somebody was? Michael Tolland?’

‘Far as I know, Tolland was just the guy with the keys. He kept his eye on comings and goings. The place had a reputation. The kids would leg it, cars waiting for them outside. They’d be back next day wearing new clothes, money in their pockets.’

Rebus was trying to remember if there had been whispers at the time. Maybe — somewhere above his pay grade…

‘They closed the place before it ever got to an inquiry,’ Cafferty went on.

‘Are we talking about something specific? Something involving your pals Jeffries and Ritter?’

‘I wasn’t quite the biggest player in the city back then — I’m talking 1985 — but I was making my move…’ The man seemed lost in memories. He sat on the edge of the sofa, legs splayed, elbows on knees, one mitt wrapped around the beer bottle. ‘There was that no-man’s-land, that sort of grey area where people like me got to know the movers and shakers.’

‘People like David Minton?’

Cafferty shook his head. ‘I never knew Minton. But he was friends with an MP called Howard Champ. Remember him?’

‘I know the name. Died a few years back.’

‘I only knew him vaguely. Then one night I get a phone call. There’s been an incident — I think the word used was “accident”.’

‘At Acorn House?’

‘In one of the bedrooms. And now there’s a dead kid complicating the situation.’

Rebus found he was holding his breath as he listened.

‘Something had gone wrong. A lad in his early teens had expired.’

‘Howard Champ phoned you?’

‘He got someone else to do it,’ Cafferty corrected him. ‘I’m guessing that was Tolland, though I didn’t know his name back then.’

‘Did he say what had happened?’

‘Just that Howard Champ needed my help.’

‘You went to Acorn House?’

‘No way I was setting foot in that place!’

‘So you sent a couple of your men — Jeffries and Ritter?’

Cafferty nodded slowly.

‘And they dealt with the problem?’ Rebus could hear the blood pounding in his ears as he spoke. ‘How did they do that?’

‘Took the body away.’

‘Away where?’

‘Some woods near where they’d grown up.’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘No repercussions?’

‘Kids went AWOL all the time. This one had no family to speak of, just an overstretched social worker who ended up getting a holiday cruise and a new kitchen.’

‘He had a name though, right, the lad who died?’

‘I never heard it.’

Rebus exhaled loudly, then got to his feet, leaving the room for a minute. He returned with two glasses of malt. Cafferty took one with a nod of thanks. Rebus walked to the window and stared out at the silent, well-ordered world.

‘What the hell do we do with this?’ he asked.

‘You tell me.’

‘Tolland was there… you arranged the burial… Howard Champ was the culprit. Where does David Minton fit in?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘If it’s some kind of payback… they’ve waited thirty years. I don’t get it.’

‘Me neither.’

‘And Jeffries and Ritter — they’re the obvious targets, yet nothing’s happened to them.’

‘Agreed.’

The slight chuckle Rebus gave had no humour in it whatsoever. ‘I’m completely and utterly stumped for something to say.’

‘Maybe I shouldn’t have told you. Could be I’m reading too much into it, seeing ghosts that aren’t there…’

‘Maybe.’

‘But you don’t think so?’

‘The boy didn’t have close family?’

‘No.’

‘There’ll still be records somewhere, though.’

‘Will there?’

‘Damned if I know.’ Rebus ran his hand through his hair. ‘There must be people around who worked at Acorn House, or were kept there.’

‘But as of right now, you’ve only got my word for it — and you’re the only one I’m telling.’ The two men’s eyes met. ‘I’m serious. It’s not a can of worms your lot would be opening, it’s a room full of snakes. Everything got kept quiet, Acorn House was shut down without a murmur. I can’t think of anyone who’d thank you for shining a torch on any of it.’

‘You won’t talk to the police?’

‘An official investigation isn’t going to get anywhere.’

Rebus sipped his whisky while he gathered his thoughts. ‘What did you get out of it at the time?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Howard Champ — did he pay you off?’

‘He offered.’

‘You declined?’

‘He knew he owed me — that was more important.’

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘A gangster scaling the ladder — handy to have a local MP in your pocket. You never spoke about it to anyone?’

‘No.’

‘How about Jeffries and Ritter?’

‘They knew better than to go blabbing.’

‘Well someone knew — either all along, or they found out about it later. Tolland was the first to die — maybe his conscience got the better of him.’

‘Who would he tell?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘But with Howard Champ long deceased, the wanted list was pretty small: Tolland himself, then Minton, then you.’ Rebus paused. ‘Who do you think would be next?’

‘Apart from Jeffries and Ritter?’ Cafferty shrugged. ‘Other staff, maybe, or kids who knew but kept quiet.’

‘Some easier to trace than others. Minton had been a public figure… you too, for that matter… And Tolland was all over the papers when he won the lottery.’

‘The money he had, why didn’t they blackmail him rather than do him in?’

‘Because money doesn’t interest them, I suppose.’ Rebus turned back towards the window and the view.

‘Can you do anything with this?’ Cafferty asked.

‘On my own? I really don’t know.’

‘Will you try?’

‘It’s not like I’ve got anything else on my plate, is it?’ When Rebus turned his head towards his guest, Cafferty rewarded him with a smile that mixed relief and gratitude.

‘Remember,’ he said after a moment, the smile fading. ‘There may well be people who don’t want Acorn House dusted off.’

Rebus nodded solemnly, raising the glass to his lips again.

Fox paced the corridor, his phone pressed to his ear. It was the third time he had tried Alec Bell, and this time the man decided to answer.

‘What’s the panic?’ Bell said.

‘Took your time getting back to me.’

‘Big powwow with Ricky. What can I do for you, Fox?’

‘You told me Jackie Dyson is your mole.’

‘Did I?’

‘You know you did. I need to know if you were spinning me a line.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I ran into him at Fettes.’

‘Running into him’s one thing…’

‘He knows I’m a cop now. None of your lot seemed to have told him.’

‘You talked to him?’

‘So he also knows I know about the mole.’ Fox could hear Bell sucking air through his teeth. ‘Meaning that if you lied to me…’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Sure about that?’

‘He’s not going to be too happy that anyone outside the team knows about him. Don’t suppose it matters, though.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘The meeting we just had — Joe Stark clocked the boss. Means we’re on borrowed time.’

‘You’ll be replaced with another team?’

‘Who knows.’

‘And Dyson?’

‘Will be considering his options. He was embedded in the gang long before Operation Junior got green-lit.’

‘It really is him, isn’t it?’ Fox pressed. ‘The mole, I mean?’

‘I’m guessing the mask didn’t slip…’

‘Firmly glued on. He didn’t even say sorry for knocking me out. Reckon he’d have used that blade if I hadn’t intervened?’

‘You said earlier you were worried he’s gone native — I can assure you he hasn’t. Ricky spoke to him a day or so back.’

Fox digested this. ‘So that’s that, then? Back to Gartcosh?’

‘I wish I could say it’s been fun.’

‘Or even productive. You think the gang will keep looking?’

‘Joe’s got a bit of juggling to do. Dennis’s goons were just that — who knows how they’ll fit in with the old man. Joe had a meeting with Darryl Christie earlier. All seemed amicable enough. No idea what they were talking about, though. Lip-reader’s what we need, next time round. Not that there’ll be a next time. One thing that’ll probably gladden your heart — Beth’s been sent packing. She blew up at Ricky and that’s that. Feel free to gloat.’

‘Not my style.’

Alec Bell gave a loud sigh. ‘Beth had it tough in her early years. Joining the police was the making of her. Never any love in her family — mum and dad drinking and fighting. She had to look after herself, her brother and her gran. That’s the calibre of person you just shat on — hope the thought keeps you warm at night.’

‘What about Beth, Alec? Does she keep you warm at night?’

The phone went dead, just as Siobhan Clarke appeared at the top of the stairs. Fox squeezed it tight in his hand and caught up with her.

‘How did the interviews go?’ he asked.

‘Compston wouldn’t let us record him. I’ve got notes to write up.’

‘And the others?’

‘We settled for the boss man and Hastie herself.’

‘Did she give you anything?’

Clarke nodded. ‘Whether I believe it or not is another matter. Do you want to listen?’

Fox nodded. ‘And if there’s anything else I can be doing…’

‘I’ll have a think.’ Clarke sounded distracted. She was looking at her own phone’s screen. ‘Thought John wanted in on this, but he’s gone silent all of a sudden.’

‘Should we be worried about that?’

‘Usually means trouble for somebody.’ She gave a fatigued smile. ‘Is the day nearly over? I could use a drink.’

‘I heard the Gimlet went up in smoke.’

‘Fire investigators say arson.’

‘Might explain why Christie and Stark met up.’

‘You heard about that?’ She nodded. ‘I suppose it might.’

‘Both of them very well-behaved, too — what does that tell us?’

‘If I’m being honest, Malcolm, it tells me the square root of zero. How about you?’

‘I forget the Starks aren’t really your bailiwick.’

She smiled at the word. ‘Only the son. And then only if he really does tie in to Lord Minton.’

‘Which seems less likely now, correct? So a separate inquiry’s going to have to be launched?’

‘Probably — now that Joe Stark’s been apprised that the note was probably a red herring.’

‘That’s why he stormed in here? How did he find out?’

‘You’ve just told me he had a meeting earlier with Darryl Christie…’

‘Christie’s got someone at Fettes?’

‘This is Police Scotland we’re talking about, Malcolm. There’ll always be someone who likes to talk.’ Clarke had her phone to her ear, trying Rebus again.

‘Text him instead,’ Fox advised. ‘Tell him we’ll be at the Ox later — and we’re buying.’

‘It might come to that.’ She looked at him. ‘How are you doing anyway?’

‘I’m okay.’

‘Nice bit of drama at lunchtime, wasn’t it? Joe Stark and his heavies barging in.’

‘I missed all the action,’ Fox lied. ‘Pretty typical, eh?’

‘Were you serious about the Ox later?’

‘Only if you really want to catch John.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘There are other places. Some of them even serve food.’

‘Sounds good to me.’

‘I’ll maybe bide my time till then listening to that Beth Hastie recording,’ Fox said. ‘Just out of interest, you understand…’

26

Acorn House wasn’t Acorn House any more. The one-time borstal was still standing, but it had become a private health clinic, specialising in cosmetic procedures. This much Rebus gleaned from the large sign fixed to the red-brick wall. The detached Victorian house was constructed of the same material. It stood on the edge of Colinton Village, a well-heeled suburb of the city whose sign welcomed visitors to ‘A Historic Conservation Village’. The main road was busy with commuters heading home, so Rebus pulled his Saab up on to the pavement, leaving just about enough room for pedestrians to get past. His phone told him Siobhan Clarke had tried calling again. He knew he couldn’t speak to her, not quite yet. She was quick, and would sense something was up. He could lie to her, but she wouldn’t be happy until she knew what was troubling him.

He had no intention of entering the building — what would be the point? It would have changed, and he barely recalled its interior anyway from his one and only visit. He really just wanted a sense of the place. Whatever garden had once lain in front of the house had been replaced with loose chippings, to create a car park capable of accommodating half a dozen clients and as many staff members. The houses to either side sat at a good distance. He imagined the windows covered in net curtains — maybe even the original wooden shutters, the kind that could be locked from the inside. A big, anonymous place of detention where pretty much anything could happen without society outside knowing or — very possibly — caring. Kids who had pilfered, or set fire to things, or carried out muggings and housebreakings. Kids who were quick to anger, lacking empathy and good breeding. Kids gone feral.

Problem kids.

Rebus had done a quick internet search, turning up almost nothing of value. It was as if Acorn House — existing prior to the World Wide Web — had been not consigned to history but practically erased from it.

He pulled out his phone and rang Meadowlea.

‘My name’s John Rebus. I was there earlier visiting Paul Jeffries — sorry again about my friend. The thing is, we weren’t completely straight with you. I work for the police.’

‘Yes?’

Rebus had recognised the man’s voice, the same one who had spoken to him at the door.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t catch your name earlier.’

‘Trevor.’

‘Well, Trevor, remember you were telling me about the friend who visited Mr Jeffries? I think you said they were at school together?’

‘It was Zoe who mentioned that.’

‘Of course it was,’ Rebus apologised, ‘but the name Dave Ritter rang a bell with both of you.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I was just wondering when Mr Ritter last visited.’

‘A couple of months back.’

‘So he’s not due any time soon? Does he phone ahead?’

‘I think so.’

‘Would you have a contact number for him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Or his address in Ullapool? Would Mr Jeffries have a diary or an address book? Maybe you could take a look.’

‘Is Paul in some sort of trouble?’

‘I won’t lie to you — it’s possible. Any strange visitors? Any letters or notes he’s received that seemed a bit odd? Threatening, even?’

‘Nothing like that.’ Trevor sounded disturbed by the thought.

‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, but maybe you can let me know if anything does arrive. I’ll give you my mobile number.’ He reeled it off. ‘And if you could get me the dates Dave Ritter visited, plus anything about him that might be hidden away in Mr Jeffries’ room…’

‘It’s against the rules to go prying into our residents’ things.’

‘In which case, I might have to get a search warrant.’ Rebus hardened his tone. ‘Ask yourself which is going to be less stressful for your residents.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you. And you’ll call me if anything even the least bit out of the ordinary happens?’

‘Promise.’

‘Fine then. Thanks again.’

‘But you have to give your word…’

‘About what?’

‘You’ll never let that maniac friend of yours come here again.’

Cafferty had brought a curry back to his Quartermile apartment. He ate from the containers — lamb rogan josh, pilau rice, saag aloo, washed down with the remaining half-bottle of Valpolicella. He had half a mind to visit Paul Jeffries again — see how much of the old Paul was still in there, waiting to be awoken by the right trigger.

The right trigger.

That was another thing: he’d been thinking about a gun, wondering if he needed one. Would a gun make him feel any safer? He wasn’t sure. He’d always had muscle around him in the past, but who could he trust? Andrew Goodman would lend him guys. Thing was, they wouldn’t be Cafferty’s men, not the way Dennis had soldiers and Joe his trusted cronies. Darryl Christie had not as yet found a lieutenant — he had infantry, but no one other than himself to marshal them. When his phone buzzed, he saw that it was Christie calling. Despite himself, he smiled, wiping grease from his fingers as he swallowed a final dollop of food.

It was as if they were on the same wavelength.

‘Just thinking about you,’ Cafferty admitted, answering.

‘In a good way, I hope.’

‘Always, Darryl. What’s on your mind?’

‘The police have been stringing Joe Stark along, telling him his son was part of this thing with the notes. Turns out not to be true.’

‘I can see why they’d want to keep Joe in the dark.’ Cafferty was sucking a finger clean. ‘Once he starts to take it personally…’

‘Well that’s the stage we’re entering. So if I were you, I wouldn’t move too far from that hotel room of yours.’

‘There is an alternative, you know.’

‘You and me? We team up and take out the threat?’

‘It’s how wars are often fought.’

‘How about I team up with Joe instead? With Dennis gone, he needs someone to replace him, no?’

‘I doubt Dennis’s men would warm to that scenario. You’d have to go through every single one of them, and that’s not really your style.’

‘Then we’re left with The Good, the Bad and the Ugly — you, me and Joe, standing in a cemetery wondering who to aim at first.’

Cafferty smiled. ‘Wasn’t there buried treasure in that scene too?’

‘There was.’

‘And two out of three alive at the end?’

‘You’re thinking those are pretty good odds?’

‘I prefer not to gamble these days, son. As you get older, you realise just how much you hate losing.’

‘Then walk away. Keep everything you’ve got.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘It’s the only sensible option, I promise you.’

Christie ended the call. Cafferty placed the phone on the worktop and picked up the wine, draining it and stifling a sour belch.

Walk away. Those had been the words, but Cafferty knew that wasn’t how Christie visualised things — at the end of his version of the film, Cafferty had a noose around his neck. Either that, or he was lying cold and dead on the ground.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose.

‘And then there’s Acorn House,’ he muttered to himself, bringing back the memory of the one time he wished he had just walked away…

Joe Stark stared from his hotel window at a passing parade of night-time buses. He could hear trains as they squealed to a halt every few minutes at one of the platforms in the station opposite. There were tannoyed announcements too, and occasional drunken shouts from pedestrians. His home back in Glasgow was a detached 1960s property in a quiet neighbourhood, the same house Dennis had grown up in. Joe had been thinking about the lad with mixed emotions. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t miss him. On the other hand, Dennis had been readying to topple him, Joe knew that for a fact. He’d been greedy, and hungry for it — Walter and Len had said as much on more than one occasion, having picked up whispers from Glasgow’s pubs and clubs. It had only been a matter of time — weeks rather than months. Dennis’s lads were probably gathered in one of the other bedrooms, plotting. Or maybe deciding whether to plot. Joe knew he couldn’t look weak. He had to seem to be filled with bile and ready to wreak revenge.

But who was in the frame? Did it matter? He could strike down Cafferty or Christie or a complete bloody stranger for that matter. What counted was to take out somebody.

He was a good kid, Walter Grieve had said, because it was the sort of sentiment you were duty-bound to express. But one look at Walter had told Joe the man didn’t really believe it — and with good reason. Because in toppling his father, Dennis and his gang would have been obliged to take Walter and Len out of the game too.

Truth was, Joe wished he could feel something other than an echoing emptiness. He’d tried to force a few private tears, but none had come. If his wife were still alive, it would be different. It would all be different. Slowly, as he continued to stare from the window, Joe Stark began replacing images of his son with those of his dear-departed Cath.

And finally his stubborn eyes began to water.

The white car was parked directly outside Rebus’s flat. Having been unable to find a space on Arden Street, Rebus had left his own Saab on the next street over. As he approached the front door of the tenement, the window slid down on the driver’s side of the Evoque.

‘Any chance of a word?’ Darryl Christie said.

‘I’m busy.’

‘It’ll take five minutes. I can come up, if you like.’

‘No way.’

‘Then get in.’

The window slid closed. Christie was starting the engine as Rebus got in. He reversed out of the space and headed downhill towards the Meadows.

‘Taking me somewhere nice?’ Rebus enquired.

‘Driving helps me think. Are you keeping busy?’

‘Not bad.’

‘You heard about the Gimlet?’

‘A sad loss to few.’

‘Maybe so, but it’s where I learned the ropes. You could call that a sentimental attachment.’

‘Any idea who did it?’

Christie gave him a sharp glance. ‘Isn’t that a question for the police? Not that any of your lot seem interested. Wonder why that is.’

‘Probably reckon it’s an insurance job.’

‘You and me know different.’ Christie paused. They were on Melville Drive, heading towards Tollcross. ‘Joe Stark tells me it wasn’t his doing.’

‘You believe him?’

‘Not sure. Here’s the thing, though — Dennis is killed and my pub gets torched. Doesn’t it look to you like the start of a war?’

‘Only if you let it.’

‘Well I know damned fine I didn’t have anything to do with the hit on Dennis, and if his gang didn’t firebomb the Gimlet…’

‘Someone’s doing a bit of stirring?’

‘That’s my best guess, and we both know who’s holding the nice long spoon.’

Rebus gave a half-smile. ‘It’s an old saying, you know: “You need a long spoon to sup with the devil.”’

‘I’ve heard it said about Fifers, too — you grew up in Fife, didn’t you?’

‘This isn’t about me, though, is it?’

‘No.’

‘It’s about Cafferty.’

‘Oh yes.’ They had turned left and were heading for Bruntsfield. Rebus realised it was a circuit. They would take the next fork and end up back in Marchmont. ‘Think about it,’ Christie was saying quietly. ‘Cafferty pits the Stark clan against me, knowing Joe isn’t strong enough to run Edinburgh by himself. The old guard and the new end up battling one another, and Cafferty watches it all happen from the sidelines.’

‘You’re forgetting Cafferty got a note and a bullet both.’

It was Christie’s turn to smile. ‘You don’t see, do you? No one saw who fired that shot. Could easily be a put-up job, Cafferty painting himself as victim so nobody figures him for Dennis’s unfortunate demise.’

Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Look, I can’t tell you what I know that you don’t, but I think you’re in danger of reading this whole thing wrong. Give me a few days and I can maybe prove it.’

‘I’m not sure it’ll wait that long.’

‘I’m asking you, Darryl. You might well be right about there being other forces at work, but Cafferty’s not the man.’

‘Are you his man, though?’

‘Never was, never will be.’

They were approaching Marchmont Road. ‘What makes you so sure about Cafferty?’ Christie asked.

‘Couple of days, I might have an answer for you.’

‘Nothing you can say to me right now that would put my mind at rest?’

‘I think Cafferty’s as nervous as you are. Which makes me grateful neither of you uses a nine-mil pistol.’

‘Don’t tell me Cafferty couldn’t lay his hands on one if he felt the need.’

‘You too, come to that.’

‘And maybe a cop could too, eh?’ They were entering Arden Street. Christie stopped the car in the middle of the road to let Rebus out.

‘A few days,’ Rebus reminded him.

‘We’ll see,’ Darryl Christie said, moving off before Rebus had even managed to get the door fully closed.

He looked to where the Evoque had been parked. A neighbour had grabbed the space already. Cursing under his breath, Rebus dug his house keys out of his pocket.