Even Dogs in the Wild

27

Alec Bell and Jake Emerson were on duty in the unmarked Vauxhall Insignia, engine running so the cabin stayed above freezing. They each held a beaker of coffee, having taken over the watch only twenty minutes previously. Emerson was not Bell’s favoured partner, but Beth Hastie had been banished into the wilderness. Emerson was young and a fast learner, but always ready to show off. The music he liked meant nothing to Bell, and his personal life — most of it revolving around social media — made almost less sense to the older man.

‘Will Beth face a disciplinary?’ he was asking now. Bell shrugged. ‘Leaves us one short — will there be a new recruit? I can suggest a couple of names.’

‘Way Ricky’s talking, we’ll all be going home sooner rather than later.’ Bell craned his neck to see the front door of the modern hotel. It was part of a new development close by Haymarket station. You could hear the trains chuntering past, and every now and then a tram signalled its presence with an old-fashioned clang that Emerson had suggested had to be digitised.

‘No way that’s the real thing.’

The gang had moved into four rooms in the hotel — six sharing, and a single room for Joe Stark. The place had a glass front, with sliding doors leading to the reception area. There were a few trendy-looking chairs and sofas there, along with a flat-screen TV tuned to Sky News. The breakfast room was on the same floor, with a bar on the mezzanine above. This much the team knew, but they had precious little else. Joe and his men had enjoyed a quiet evening — dinner at an Indian place nearby, then a couple of pints at Ryrie’s. No meetings, clandestine or otherwise, and no trouble. The log from the previous six-hour shift was almost completely blank.

The Insignia was parked in a metered bay behind a taxi rank, not more than fifty feet from the hotel steps. Jake Emerson yawned noisily and tried shaking some life into himself.

‘Me, I love this part of the job,’ he drawled. ‘It’s why I joined CID in the first place.’

‘We’ll try to arrange for a car chase later if you like.’

‘Only if we get some decent wheels.’ He drummed his fingers against the dashboard. ‘This thing couldn’t outgun a Segway.’

‘Hang on,’ Bell interrupted him. ‘Bit of movement. Looks like Walter Grieve’s come outside for a smoke.’

Grieve was turning up the collar of his coat. He took in the scenery as he lit a cigarette, then crossed the road towards the station.

‘Do I follow on foot?’ Emerson asked.

‘Not till I say so.’ Bell watched as Grieve walked past the station entrance. ‘Where’s he off to?’ he said. ‘Maybe just stretching his legs…’

Yes, because Grieve was crossing the street again. He was on the pavement behind them now, sauntering back to the hotel. He passed the car, stopped to drop his cigarette on the ground, and stubbed it out. Then he turned, a gotcha smile on his face. He came over to the passenger-side window and rapped on it with his knuckles.

‘What do I do?’ Emerson asked.

But Bell was already pressing the button, the window sliding halfway open. Grieve rested both hands on it and leaned down, his face almost inside the car.

‘All right, officers?’ he said. ‘Bit of information for you from Mr Stark. Most of us are heading back to Glasgow, there being a funeral to organise. Couple of the lads might stick around a day or so — they hear there’s a castle worth seeing. Should make things a bit easier for you. Okay?’

Still beaming the same false smile, he straightened up, thumped one meaty fist on the car roof and continued on his way.

‘Jesus,’ Emerson muttered, his hand trembling a fraction as he lifted the coffee cup to his mouth. Bell had his phone out. He pressed it to his ear and waited for Ricky Compston to pick up.

‘News?’ Compston said, sounding almost painfully hopeful.

‘Just a confirmation, really.’

‘Confirmation of what?’

‘That Operation Junior is toast.’

Albert Stout lived in the village of Gullane, in a detached Edwardian house looking on to a golf course. There were hardy souls out there already, just about visible through the morning haar, as Rebus closed the door of his Saab. He had phoned ahead and Stout was waiting for him. Rebus didn’t like the old bugger — as a journalist he had been devious, crooked and a thorn in the side of Lothian and Borders Police. The house was cold and smelled of damp. Mouldering piles of newsprint sat in the hall, while the staircase was mostly covered in books. The carpeting was threadbare, as was its owner. Moths had been at the saggy oatmeal cardigan, and there was a three-day growth of grey stubble on Stout’s chin and cheeks.

‘Well, well,’ the man cackled. ‘Didn’t think I’d ever clap eyes on you again.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you.’ Rebus was ushered into a space that doubled as sitting room and office. ‘Still writing your memoirs?’

‘Keeps me out of mischief.’ Stout gestured for Rebus to sit. The sofa was a sprawl of paperwork, so Rebus lowered himself on to an arm, while Stout took the leather-bound chair behind his work desk. ‘Tell me, is young Laura still in work?’

‘Laura Smith?’ Rebus watched the old man nod. ‘She’s hanging in there.’ Until his retirement, Stout had been chief crime correspondent for the Scotsman, a role Laura Smith now occupied.

‘Good luck to her — the industry’s on its last legs.’

‘You’ve been saying that for twenty years.’

‘That’s often the way of it when the patient’s on life support — sometimes it’s kinder to switch off the machines.’ Stout peered at his guest, hands clasped across his stomach. He belied his surname these days, and Rebus wondered about the weight loss. Though he’d been nicknamed The Ghoul back in the day for his ability suddenly to appear at crime scenes, he had always been overweight, belt straining at its final notch. He wasn’t quite cadaverous now, but he was on his way.

‘Still,’ Stout mused, ‘Laura’s stuck at it, which speaks of tenacity if nothing else.’ He broke off. ‘You weren’t expecting a cup of tea, I hope?’

‘Don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘Well that’s something we’re agreed on. So what’s on your mind, Inspector?’ He stopped again. ‘No, you must be retired by now, surely?’

‘As a matter of fact, I am. But Police Scotland have offered me a bit of work, so…’

‘Work of an archaeological nature, I’m guessing.’

‘That’s why I’m here, talking to a fossil.’

Stout looked ready to take offence, but changed his mind and chuckled. ‘Don’t let me stop you,’ he said.

‘I’m looking into an assessment centre called Acorn House.’ Stout’s mouth formed an O. ‘Particularly the mid 1980s. You remember that lottery winner, the one who was killed a few weeks back? He’d worked there.’

‘Had he now?’ Stout’s chair protested as he leaned back in it.

‘And we’re just checking his background, looking for anyone who might have had a grudge…’

Stout gave a thin smile, his eyes suddenly alive and boring into Rebus’s. ‘I think you’re doing more than that. Tell me I’m wrong.’

Rebus considered his options. ‘You’re not,’ he eventually conceded. ‘I’ve been hearing stuff about Acorn House, stuff that makes me think it should have been taken apart at the time and people sent to jail.’

‘It did have a certain reputation.’

‘How much did you know back then?’

‘Rumours mostly, winks and nudges. Lawyers, MPs, public figures… taxis dropping them off late at night and returning to fetch them before dawn. Children — children, mind — in hotel rooms with men old enough to be their fathers and grandfathers… walked in on by unsuspecting housemaids who then felt an urgent need to unburden themselves on someone like me for the price of a drink.’

‘Any names?’

‘Names?’

‘These public figures.’

‘Plenty of names, Rebus. Plenty of interesting names.’

‘Care to share a few?’

Stout studied him. ‘Maybe you should be giving the names and I’ll tell you what I think.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘That doesn’t work for me.’

‘I don’t work for you either, so do me the courtesy of answering just one question — are you here to uncover the truth, or to ensure it stays hidden?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘When the lottery millionaire was killed, did the attacker maybe take something — journals or a confession?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘And that’s not what you’re worried about?’

‘No.’

‘How do I know you’re not lying?’

‘You don’t.’

Stout gave him a hard stare, but Rebus didn’t blink. ‘Hmmm,’ the old man eventually said. He unclasped his hands and pressed them to his desk. ‘What happened in that place was a scandal — or should have been. But there was never any hard evidence. I twice asked my editor for money so we could set up a watch on the comings and goings, maybe grease a few palms.’

‘He said no?’

‘Actually, he said yes, but then his mind was changed for him.’

‘Somebody had a word?’

‘The proprietor at that time liked nothing better than rubbing shoulders with the great and the good. They’d invite him to dinners, pour him the best brandy and light a cigar for him. And then they’d whisper that certain things were never to be followed up.’

‘Including Acorn House?’

‘Especially Acorn House. Story after story found itself spiked.’

‘How about other papers?’

‘Same thing. You heard no end of rumours, but you couldn’t print them.’

‘Did none of the staff or kids ever come forward?’

‘One or two,’ Stout admitted. ‘They talked to me and to others, but we needed something concrete.’

‘What are my chances after all these years?’

‘Pretty much non-existent.’

‘But there’ll be people out there who were resident at Acorn House?’

‘Undoubtedly. They probably won’t talk, though, even though the climate these days is more sympathetic to victims. Either they’ll be too scared, or they won’t want to deal with the memories. Even if they do talk, they’d be incriminating the dead and the nearly dead, and it would be one person’s word against another’s.’

Rebus’s eyes swept the room — so many books, magazines and newspapers, so much investigation… ‘Did you print anything?’

‘A satirical magazine ran a couple of pieces, no names mentioned. It would be different these days. Someone on the internet would publish, and damn the lawsuits. Besides, every kid has a phone — there’d be texts and photos. Back then, secrets could always be kept.’

‘David Minton,’ Rebus said suddenly, awaiting Stout’s reaction.

‘Lord Minton, recently deceased? What of him?’

‘One of his closest friends was Howard Champ.’

Stout gave the thinnest of smiles. ‘You’re handing me names,’ he said.

‘And wanting to know what you make of them.’

‘Add in the lottery millionaire and I’m seeing two men who died after being attacked in their homes, and one who succumbed to natural causes. Are you saying our lottery winner and his lordship were killed by the same person? And the link is Acorn House? So maybe one of the victims, now grown-up and seething…’ Stout rasped his hands down his face. ‘Well, well, well.’

‘None of this is for general consumption,’ Rebus warned.

‘You’ll have to forgive an old hack’s instincts — I can’t help myself.’

‘Is there anything at all you can give me? I’m struggling here.’

Stout studied his visitor closely, and Rebus remembered what it was like to be questioned by the man — the forensic level of inquisition, each error or inconsistency dissected. ‘I know you don’t like me, Rebus,’ he was saying now. ‘The feeling is entirely mutual, I assure you. But it always did rankle that certain men could get away with… well, with anything. All down to status. All down to pecking order and privilege.’

‘I’m not looking to cover anything up, Albert. Quite the opposite.’

‘I can see that.’ Stout sighed. ‘The person you want is Patrick Spiers.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘He was freelance — bloody-minded, but bloody good. Couldn’t bring himself to work for any one organisation, liked his freedom too much. What he relished was a nice knotty investigation that would lend itself to a long-form essay — five or ten thousand words. But then the Fourth Estate started giving less space to those and more to bingo cards and celebrity gossip. Poor Patrick faded.’

‘He did a story on Acorn House?’

‘Yes — not that I ever saw it. He wouldn’t have shown it to a rival newshound before it was published.’

‘And it was never published?’

Stout shook his head.

‘Where can I find him?’

Stout smiled ruefully. ‘Do you have a ouija board? I was at his funeral not three weeks back…’

‘The good news is, we’re getting our desks back,’ Doug Maxtone was telling Fox. Fox was climbing the stairs at Fettes, phone at his ear while he wrestled with a cardboard cup of scalding tea and a cling-film-wrapped tuna sandwich.

‘They’re shipping out?’

‘Seems Joe Stark and his men are heading back to Glasgow — all apart from a couple.’

‘Do you think we’ve seen the last of them?’

‘Maybe they’re satisfied Hamish Wright isn’t in the city.’

Fox cursed silently as a splash of liquid landed on his lapel. ‘Do we know who’s staying put?’

‘Compston gave me the names — Callum Andrews and Jackie Dyson. Said we should keep half an eye on them, just in case.’

‘But not a full-blown surveillance?’

‘On what grounds? Thing is, it makes war on the streets less likely.’

‘Unless Joe Stark’s just gone home to regroup.’

‘Well anyway, when James Page gets fed up of you, your chair’s waiting here.’

‘Thanks for letting me know.’

Fox had reached the incident room. Esson and Ogilvie were at their desks. He nodded a greeting as he put his phone away, then started dabbing at his lapel with a handkerchief.

‘Accident?’ Esson asked.

‘I was never much good at juggling. You keeping busy?’

‘Couple of names Rebus wanted me to check. Can’t say I’m making much headway.’

‘Seen Siobhan?’

‘In a meeting with the boss.’

‘Any idea what it’s about?’

Esson shook her head. Fox’s phone was ringing again. He saw that it was his father’s care home, so headed into the corridor for some privacy.

‘Malcolm Fox,’ he said, answering.

‘It’s about your father, Mr Fox.’ The tone told him almost everything he needed to know.

‘Yes?’

‘He’s been taken to the Infirmary.’

‘What happened?’

‘He just… he’s fading, Mr Fox.’

‘Fading?’ But Fox knew what she meant — the body shutting down bit by bit, preparing for finality. He ended the call and walked back into the office. Esson saw the look on his face. He lifted the tea from his desk and placed it on hers.

‘I have to go out. Be a shame to waste it,’ he explained.

‘You okay, Malcolm?’

He nodded uncertainly and turned to leave. Then he noticed he had picked up the tuna sandwich. He sat it next to the tea and got going.

He had to drive all the way through town, which gave him plenty of time to think. Problem was, he felt numb, his thought processes fuzzy and incoherent, like the hum of conversation in a busy café, none of it quite intelligible. He switched the radio to Classic FM and let the music wash over him, oblivious to anything other than the need to maintain a safe distance from the vehicle in front. A different person — Rebus, or maybe even Siobhan — would have put the foot down, overtaking recklessly, impelled to make haste, but that wasn’t him. He considered calling Jude but thought it could wait. He had scant news, after all, and she would only panic.

The Infirmary was a grey new-build on the south-eastern outskirts of the city. He found a parking space and walked in through the main doors. The woman at the help desk directed him to another woman at a different desk, who sent him to A&E. He remembered waking up there after Jackie Dyson had knocked him unconscious. Dyson was one of the two soldiers staying put. That was curious. If Dyson’s job was to stay close to the action, surely that action had now moved to Glasgow. Away from the gang, how could he gather intelligence? Then again, maybe he was under orders from Joe Stark, and to argue would be to invite suspicion.

As Fox waited at the reception desk, a passing nurse smiled a greeting, then stopped and retraced her steps.

‘You were here the other day,’ she stated.

‘And you were the first thing I saw when I woke up,’ he acknowledged.

‘Feeling the after-effects?’ she enquired. ‘Of the injuries, I mean.’

‘That’s not why I’m here. I got a call from my dad’s nursing home. He’s been brought in.’

‘What’s the name?’

‘Mitchell Fox — Mitchell or Mitch.’

She went around the desk and checked the computer screen, then announced the number of the ward.

Fox nodded his thanks. ‘Does it say what’s wrong with him?’

‘Looks like he had a seizure of some kind.’

‘That doesn’t sound good.’

‘They’ll know more upstairs,’ she said. This time her smile was that of the health professional — textbook evasive.

He returned to the main concourse and took the lift, following the signs along the corridor and pushing open the doors to the high-dependency unit. He explained who he was and why he was there, and was taken to a bed where his father lay, his face the same cement-grey colour as the building’s exterior, monitors connected to him and an oxygen mask strapped across his mouth and nose. His clothes had been removed and replaced with a pale green gown. Fox looked to left and right, but there didn’t seem to be any doctors around.

‘Someone will be along to talk to you soon,’ the nurse said, checking the monitors before moving to the next patient.

A name tag had been attached to Mitch Fox’s left wrist, and there was a sensor clamped to the tip of a finger. A chart at the foot of the bed told Fox nothing. He sought in vain for a vacant chair. Eventually a visitor at one of the other beds got up to leave and Fox took his chance. Seated next to the machines, registering their rhythmic beeps and subtly changing displays, he rested a hand on his father’s uncovered forearm.

And waited.

28

Rebus ran into Siobhan Clarke as she emerged from the loo nearest the incident room. She was puffing out her cheeks and expelling air.

‘As bad as that?’ Rebus said.

‘Investigation’s stalled,’ she explained. ‘We’re waiting for something to happen. And meantime the Fiscal’s office wants a separate team attached to the Stark shooting.’

Rebus nodded slowly, wondering how much, if anything, he could tell her. Then he thought of something. ‘Did you ever take a closer look at Michael Tolland?’

‘It’s ongoing.’ She stared at him. ‘Why?’

‘I just get the feeling there’s something there. Definitely no note hidden away somewhere in his house?’

‘Linlithgow picked the place apart.’ Her eyes were still locked on his. ‘Is there something you should be telling me?’

He shook his head and followed her into the office. Ronnie Ogilvie and Christine Esson looked to be sharing a sandwich. Clarke headed to her own desk to check her messages, while Rebus stood in front of Esson’s.

‘I’ve got nothing on those two names,’ she warned him.

‘I’ve found Paul Jeffries,’ he told her quietly, checking that Clarke was out of earshot. Esson glowered at him.

‘When were you going to tell me?’

‘I’m telling you now, so you can focus on Dave Ritter. He might be living in Ullapool. Do a check, maybe get in touch with the force up there — could be a bothy with only PC Murdoch minding the desk, but make sure they know it’s urgent.’ He saw the look she was still giving him. ‘Okay, Christine, I’m sorry you’re only hearing this now. My mind’s been elsewhere.’ He saw the tea on the corner of her desk. ‘This going spare?’

‘It’s cold.’

‘I’ll settle for that.’ Rebus took a mouthful.

‘Malcolm put it there.’

‘Oh?’

‘He got a phone call and left in a hurry.’

‘When was this?’

‘Maybe three quarters of a tuna sandwich back.’

Rebus frowned in thought, then retreated to the corridor to make the call.

‘Yes, John?’ Fox said, answering. He kept his voice low, uncertain about the protocol regarding mobile phones. Time was, there were signs everywhere warning that they could interfere with the machines, so he kept his eye on the readouts, without noting any sudden peaks or troughs.

‘Where are you, Malcolm?’

‘The Infirmary — my dad’s taken a turn for the worse.’

‘Sorry to hear that. Is he going to be okay?’

‘I’ve not spoken to anyone yet.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

‘Aye. Maybe.’ Fox cleared his throat. ‘Listen, Joe Stark has left town. Taking all but two of the gang with him.’

‘Oh?’

‘Might put your chum Cafferty’s mind at rest — plus Darryl Christie.’

‘It might,’ Rebus seemed to agree. ‘Speaking of Cafferty, which care home was your dad in again? Wasn’t Meadowlea?’

‘Isn’t that more of a medical place? Like a hospice?’ Fox saw a white coat approaching. The doctor looked only just out of her teens, but she lifted the clipboard with confidence and studied it with deep concentration. ‘Got to go,’ Fox told Rebus.

‘Call me if you need anything.’

‘Thanks.’ Fox put the phone away and rose to his feet. ‘I’m his son,’ he told the doctor. She had finished reading the notes and acknowledged him with a nod, squeezing past to check the readouts, the drip, the oxygen. ‘Is there anything you can tell me?’

‘We’ll be running tests later today.’

‘I was told he’d had a seizure — could it be a stroke? He doesn’t look like he’s coming round any time soon.’

‘Sometimes the body shuts down so it can repair itself.’

‘But what about the other times?’

The doctor glanced at her patient’s face. ‘We’ll know more in a short while. Your father’s a good age, Mr Fox…’

‘Meaning what?’

‘You said it yourself — brain and body can just decide it’s time.’

And there was that smile again, the same one the nurse in A&E had offered. He watched the doctor as she moved to the next bed. A bit of him wanted to confront her, drag her back to this bed. But to what end? Instead he sat back down, feeling a weight pressing upon him. It was time to phone Jude. It was time to start preparing.

Patrick Spiers didn’t own a detached house in Gullane. The address Stout had given Rebus led to a 1960s high-rise in Wester Hailes. It was one of those times he was thankful his car didn’t look worth stealing. On the other hand, the jazz musician Tommy Smith had grown up in this environment, so anything was possible. Maybe the kids scowling from their BMXs would grow up to be artists and musicians. Or hospital consultants. Or care workers. When Rebus gave one group an encouraging smile, however, he received only unblinking scowls in reply.

The lift was working, so Rebus took it to the sixth floor, trying not to think about what might be in the polythene carrier bag that sat in one corner, its handles tied together to create a seal.

He didn’t know what he was expecting on the sixth floor of the tower block. Stout had mentioned a grown-up daughter, but he hadn’t thought she lived with her father. There had never been a wife, just a string of ‘significant others’. The old journalist had confirmed that Spiers had succumbed to cirrhosis of the liver — ‘and probably a host of other ailments besides’.

Rebus stood on the walkway. It was only partially glassed in, the glass itself scored with graffiti. But he had a view south to where snow lay on the Pentlands, just beyond the bypass. The street lights were already on, though the sun was just barely below the horizon. Long shadows at ground level. Rebus tried thinking how many hours of daylight there had been — not quite eight, maybe seven and a half. At this time of year, kids went to school in the dark and came home at twilight. He’d often wondered if crime rose in the winter — darkness changed people’s mood; darkness changed everything. And under cover of darkness, anything might happen undetected.

He found himself standing outside flat 6/6. The window was curtained but there was a light on beyond the frosted-glass panel in the front door. Neighbours had added iron gates to theirs, creating a better barrier against incursion. Either Patrick Spiers had had more faith in his fellow humans, or there was nothing inside worth stealing.

The doorbell worked, so Rebus waited. A woman’s voice called out from within.

‘Who is it?’

‘I’m with the police,’ Rebus called back. ‘Any chance of a word?’

He heard a chain being attached to the door before it was pulled open an inch.

‘ID?’ the young woman said. He could see only half her face.

‘Afraid not,’ he apologised. ‘But I can give you a number to call.’

‘And how will I know I’m talking to the police and not just some crony of yours?’

‘You sound like your father’s daughter all right.’ Rebus gave a friendly smile. ‘I don’t suppose he was the trusting type either.’

‘And with good reason.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘What kind of cop doesn’t carry ID?’

‘The kind who retired recently but is working in a civilian capacity.’

‘For the police?’

‘That’s right.’ Rebus made show of blowing on his hands and rubbing them together, but he hadn’t quite gained her trust yet.

‘How did you get this address?’

‘Albert Stout.’

‘That old sleazebag.’

‘The very same.’

‘He used to follow my dad around — did you know that? Just in case there was a story he could steal from him.’

‘You’re not endearing him to me.’

‘But he’s a friend of yours?’

‘Not at all. I went to ask him a few questions as part of an inquiry I’m involved in, and he—’ Rebus broke off. ‘It really is perishing out here.’

‘You know we just buried my dad?’

‘Yes, I was sorry to hear it.’

‘Sorry why? Did you know him?’

‘I was just hoping he could help me.’

‘And that’s why you’re sorry?’ She watched Rebus nod. ‘Well that’s honest, I suppose.’ A few seconds later, having made her mind up, she unhooked the chain and let him in.

Rebus stood in the living-room doorway, surveying the carnage.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said.

‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’

Floor-to-ceiling box files, bulging manuscripts tied with string, and three old-fashioned manual typewriters placed around a drop-leaf table, each with a sheet of paper inserted, half a page typed. There was a venerable-looking computer too, complete with a slot for the floppy disks that sat stacked next to it. A TV set in one corner — not the latest model, but at least it wasn’t black and white. The posters pinned to the walls were mostly obscured by boxes, but Rebus could make out Muhammad Ali, Bob Dylan and John Lennon.

‘Your dad was old school,’ Rebus commented.

‘Even when it came to porn.’ Spiers’s daughter lifted a magazine and waved it in front of Rebus — a bare-breasted blonde with unfeasibly white teeth.

‘Couple more years, you could put that on Antiques Roadshow.’

She looked at him and burst out laughing, covering her eyes with her free hand. She was close to tears, he could tell.

‘Where do I even begin?’ she said, dropping the porn mag to the floor.

Rebus was studying the writing on the spines of some of the box files. They seemed to be in chronological sequence. Various newspapers and magazines were mentioned, sometimes with a couple of lines about the stories Spiers had contributed and even the fee received.

‘I didn’t get your name,’ he said as he looked.

‘Molly.’ He turned towards her and they shook hands. She was in her early thirties, about five and a half feet tall with curly black hair and a prominent mole on her chin. She wore a wedding band on her left hand.

‘I’m John Rebus,’ he said. ‘Your husband’s not with you, Molly?’

‘You are a detective, then?’ She played with the ring. ‘We broke up a couple of months back.’

‘Do you live in Edinburgh?’

‘Glasgow,’ she corrected him. ‘Dad used to live there too.’

‘How long was he in Edinburgh?’

‘Best part of a decade.’

‘And your mum?’

‘Left me so she could go “find herself” in India.’

‘Oh aye? How’s that working out?’

‘Horribly, I hope.’ She laughed again.

‘You the only child?’

‘That we know about. Dad was quite the rogue in his day.’ She examined Rebus as he scanned the boxes. ‘What is it you’re looking for?’

‘An acorn in a forest,’ he muttered.

‘People usually say needle, don’t they? A needle in a haystack?’

‘Your father wrote about a place called Acorn House,’ Rebus explained.

‘That rings a bell.’ Rebus watched as she went to another teetering tower of box files. ‘Help me with this,’ she said. There were two boxes marked Acorn House, halfway down the pile. Rebus removed the top three or four, then two more, and Molly lifted the boxes in question.

‘They don’t weigh much,’ she said.

Because they were empty, apart from a single sheet of paper in each. On the first were written words that stopped Rebus dead.

They took the lot! They took the fucking lot!

The second note consisted of a short string of numbers. ‘Any ideas?’ he asked Molly.

‘Dates maybe?’ She shrugged. Then she took another look. ‘Dad has boxes of disks. Some of them have numbers…’

It took a further ten minutes of sifting until she plucked one disk from a box and held it up. ‘This one,’ she said. Rebus took it from her. It was a black plastic square with an index sticker on it. Written in pencil were numerals that matched the note. A thin brushed-metal cover could be pushed to one side, giving a glimpse of the flimsy brown circle within, the recording tape containing the data.

‘“Formatted for IBM PS/2 and compatibles”,’ Rebus recited. ‘“1.44 MB, High Density MFD-2HD”.’

‘Cutting edge at the time, I dare say,’ Molly said, folding her arms.

‘Let’s see what’s on it, then.’

They fell at the first hurdle, however. Patrick Spiers’s computer was password-protected. Molly offered some suggestions, but none proved right. Rebus ejected the disk and cursed silently.

‘Sorry,’ Molly said in sympathy.

‘Not your fault. But I’ll have to take it with me — is that okay?’

She nodded. ‘Is this you making your excuses and your getaway? You don’t want to help me sift through the rest, just in case?’

‘I wish I had time, Molly. But if Acorn House comes up…’ He handed her a business card. ‘In fact, if you see anything you think I might be interested in…’

‘I’ll phone you,’ she agreed.

As Rebus made his exit, he half turned to give her a wave, but she wasn’t paying attention. She just stood there, looking suddenly tiny and exhausted, dwarfed by her father’s life and times, the stories he’d written and the ones he hadn’t lived to tell.

29

Rebus had called Cafferty from his flat, giving him a progress report and asking for help. Just over an hour later, his intercom buzzed. He unlocked the door and waited for the delivery. It was carried in a loose cardboard box by a young man for whom acne was proving a challenge. His head was shaved and he wore a hooded jacket under a black padded gilet.

‘All right?’ he said by way of greeting. Rebus showed him where to put the box, having cleared space on the table in the living room. The computer was not a make Rebus recognised. It comprised a single bulky unit with a fourteen-inch screen.

‘Gold standard at one time,’ the youth assured him, plugging it in. ‘MS Works and Word.’

‘As long as it’ll play this.’ Rebus handed over the floppy. The lad slotted it home and waited while the computer churned and whirred. Then he clicked the mouse.

‘It’s an old Word file by the look of it,’ he mused. ‘And not too much on it.’

‘Could anything be hidden?’

‘Hidden?’

‘It happens,’ Rebus said. ‘Encryption, that sort of thing.’

‘You’re talking to the wrong guy.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Rebus said, knowing he could hand the disk over to the forensic lab if necessary, let them explore it. For now, he had a single file of sixty-five kilobytes, which had been given the catchy title ‘Doc 1’. He showed the youth out, adding a ten-pound note to whatever Cafferty had already paid. He took his time in the kitchen, opening a bottle of IPA and pouring it into a pint glass. Then he wandered through to where the computer sat waiting. Placing his drink on the table near the mouse, he lit a cigarette and took a couple of puffs, then drew his chair in closer and opened the document.

Rebus read for a further hour. There were only fifteen pages, but fifteen was enough. Booze or no booze, Spiers’s memory had been unimpaired. He remembered dates, names, locations. He had spoken off the record to hotel workers, taxi drivers, and even a couple of kids from Acorn House. No names, though — he hadn’t put their names in print, maybe to protect them? Yes, probably.

There was one name, however: Bryan Holroyd. A kid who had done a bunk, so the other kids said, fed up of being hounded by Howard Champ.

Bryan Holroyd. Rebus felt the temperature in the room drop. The dead kid? The ‘accident’?

When his intercom buzzed, he ignored it, but whoever was outside wasn’t about to give up. He crossed to the window and looked down. Siobhan Clarke had taken a few steps back and was peering up at him. Rebus returned to the intercom and pressed the button to let her in. He turned the PC’s screen off before unlocking the door, listening to her feet as she climbed the stone staircase.

‘Hiya, you,’ he said, ushering her inside. ‘Any news of Malcolm’s dad?’

‘He told you?’ She watched him nod. They were standing in the living room. She noted the computer and knew it was a new addition to the room — the box it had come in was sitting on the floor.

‘Thought it was time to upgrade,’ Rebus joked.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked quietly.

‘One of my private clients.’

‘John…’

‘What?’

She gave a sigh. ‘Never mind. I’m here to deliver a bollocking — do you want to stand or would you rather sit down?’

He grabbed what little was left of his beer and made for his armchair. Clarke took the sofa.

‘Ready when you are,’ he told her.

‘Actually, before that, let me ask you something — what are the odds that Darryl Christie has someone from our side telling him stories?’

‘Telling or selling?’

‘Either.’

Rebus gave a shrug. ‘It’s a racing certainty.’

‘And if I was a punter looking for a hot tip?’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Joe Stark arrived fuming at Fettes because he’d found out the note left with Dennis was a copycat. This after he’d had a powwow with Darryl Christie.’

Rebus nodded his understanding. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you could try asking Charlie Sykes how much that hand-tailored suit of his cost.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘So am I in your good books now? Bollocking deferred?’

‘Afraid not. I had Laura Smith on the phone. She wasn’t happy.’

‘She’s a crime reporter — that probably comes with the territory.’

‘Any idea why she’d be so annoyed with me this time, though?’

‘Do tell.’

‘It’s because she’d had Albert Stout on the phone, teasing her about some huge story that’s brewing and how he knows about it and she doesn’t. He mentioned your name before ringing off. So Laura wanted to know why I hadn’t said anything. Seems to her it’s all one-way traffic between us and we’re supposed to be friends.’

‘It’s a mistake to make friends with reporters — I’ve always told you that.’

‘This isn’t funny, John. Is it to do with that thing?’ She nodded towards the computer.

‘Yes,’ Rebus admitted.

‘And Lord Minton and Michael Tolland?’

‘And Cafferty too.’

‘Then it’s more my business than yours.’

‘You can’t take it to Page, not yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘You just can’t. Fob Laura Smith off with something.’

‘She’ll smell it.’

‘Let her smell it then.’ Rebus leapt from his armchair and paced the room.

‘It’s eating away at you, John — you know it and I know it. Time you opened up, a trouble shared and all that.’

‘Maybe. But I’m not joking about keeping it to yourself — at least for now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s basically plutonium on a floppy disk,’ Rebus said.

And then he told her.

Joe Stark was back home, seated on the bed in what had been, for the first nineteen years of his life, Dennis’s room. Joe remembered the announcement that he was moving into a flat with some pals. A year later, he’d bought a place of his own. Joe had never asked how much it had cost or how Dennis could afford it. He’d always seen that the boy was all right for money without going overboard. Later on, of course, with Dennis part of the company, the spoils had been shared. They had become commercial partners rather than father and son. Joe had taken counsel earlier from Walter Grieve and Len Parker, who had argued that he needed to stamp his authority on the sides of the business that Dennis had overseen. It had to be soon, too, before others stepped in to fill the vacuum.

When Joe’s phone rang, he saw it was Jackie Dyson and decided to answer.

‘Jackie,’ he said. ‘Is this you bringing me an update?’

‘A straight answer’s what I need, Joe.’

‘Depends on the question.’

‘Did you leave a couple of us here so there’s less chance of us making a move against you?’

‘You’ve got brains, son.’ Stark couldn’t help smiling. ‘But there’s another way of looking at it — you might even say I’m protecting you. Things could get ugly at home.’

‘And are we still looking for Wright’s stash?’

‘Reckon we’re ever going to find it? I think our best chance died some time back.’

‘How about whoever did for Dennis?’

‘Got to be down to either Christie or Cafferty, unless you’ve got a better idea. That’s why I want you to keep an eye on them.’

‘Then that’s what I’ll do.’

‘You’ll have to track Cafferty down first — Christie tells me he’s not been seen.’

‘No problem.’

‘And if you get wind of mutterings in the ranks…’

‘I know where my loyalties lie, Mr Stark.’

‘There’s going to be a bit of restructuring, Jackie. By the time you come back to Glasgow, your life’s going to have changed for the better. Majorly for the better, if you take my meaning.’

‘I can’t wait.’

‘Good lad.’ Stark ended the call and stretched himself out on his son’s mattress. There were cracks on the ceiling. As a kid, Dennis had fretted that chunks of plaster might fall off and hit him.

If they do, Joe had advised, hit them back — they’ll break before you do.

And the pair of them had laughed.

Cafferty watched from the corner as Siobhan Clarke drove away from Arden Street in her Astra. She looked distracted, her face pale. Another time, she might have spotted him, but not today, so he started walking again, ending up at the door to Rebus’s tenement and pressing the bell.

‘You forget something?’ Rebus’s voice crackled.

‘She’s skedaddled,’ Cafferty informed him. ‘So you’ll have to put up with me instead.’

The lock clicked and Cafferty pushed the door open, climbing the two flights to Rebus’s flat.

‘You got the computer then,’ he said.

‘I don’t want to know where it came from.’

‘Oliver says you tipped him — that was a nice gesture. What did Siobhan want?’

‘Fox’s dad is at death’s door. She decided to tell me in person.’

‘Might explain why she looked like she’d had bad news. Are her and Fox close then?’ Cafferty had settled in front of the computer. The first page of the document was up on the screen. ‘Juicy stuff?’ he asked.

‘He starts by wondering if maybe you broke into his home and stole the evidence.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘He also says that the Chief Constable of the time, Jim Broadfoot, was up to his eyes.’

‘No doubt about that. Wasn’t he knighted eventually?’

‘Dead now, though.’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s a missing kid mentioned a bit further on — Bryan Holroyd. Could that be him?’

‘No one ever gave me a name.’

‘I’m going to see if I can source a photo.’

‘Will there still be records?’

‘From Acorn House? I doubt it. But the kids who went there had mostly been in trouble.’

‘And the police keep everything?’ Cafferty nodded his understanding. Then he looked at his watch. ‘I think you deserve a drink, and I’m buying.’

‘I don’t feel like a drink.’

‘Words I doubt you’ve uttered before. I did tell you it wasn’t going to be pleasant.’

‘You did,’ Rebus conceded.

‘And drink can do wonderful things to unpleasant memories.’

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Fine then.’ He ejected the floppy from its slot and stuck it in his pocket.

‘Probably an unnecessary precaution,’ Cafferty said.

‘Probably,’ Rebus agreed. ‘But that won’t stop me making copies of it, first chance I get. And speaking of precautions…’

‘Yes?’

‘If I hear that you’ve been back to Meadowlea to visit Paul Jeffries without me…’

‘I admit it’s crossed my mind.’

‘Staff there have my number. If they tell me you’ve as much as paused for breath at the end of the driveway, that’s us finished.’

‘Time was, a man could have some fun…’

‘For the likes of you and me, those days are over.’

‘Then what’s left to look forward to?’

Rebus plucked his house keys from the table. ‘We’re heading there right now,’ he said.

30

Fox’s sister, Jude, lived in a terraced house in Saughtonhall. He’d suggested picking her up, but she’d said she would take a cab.

‘Then I’ll wait outside for you.’

‘Because you want to pick up the tab? I’ve got money of my own, Malcolm.’

He’d waited in the hospital’s main concourse instead, equidistant between the two entrances. Jude had come tottering through the sliding doors on three-inch heels, clad in skin-tight jeans, a shapeless T-shirt and a waist-length fur jacket. There were at least two gossamer-thin scarves wrapped around her neck, and her shoulder-length hair looked lifeless. Her face was pale, cheekbones prominent, eyeshadow overdone.

She stopped a yard or so from him and adjusted her sparkly shoulder bag. No embrace, no peck on the cheek. ‘How’s he doing?’ she enquired.

‘He hasn’t regained consciousness.’

‘And they’re saying it’s a stroke?’

‘Have you been drinking, Jude?’

‘Would you blame me if I had?’

‘We should get you a coffee or something.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Do we take the lift or what?’

‘We take the lift.’

‘Well then.’ She walked over to the wall and pressed the button. Fox had a sudden flashback — Jude as a toddler, dressed in her mother’s clothes and shoes, doing a fashion parade in their parents’ bedroom. Another time it had been make-up and perfume. ‘You coming?’

He joined her in front of the lift. Its doors slid open, revealing an attendant in charge of an empty wheelchair.

‘Kind of you,’ Jude told the man, ‘but I think I can walk.’

Once the wheelchair had gone, they got in and waited for the doors to close.

‘Times like this,’ Fox said, staring at the floor, ‘I wish I’d visited Dad more often.’

Jude glared at him. ‘It’s not the frequency that counts, it’s the intention.’

He met her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Dad always knew you were only there out of a sense of duty.’

‘That’s not true.’

But Jude wasn’t listening. ‘You were there because it was the thing that had to be done, and you could feel all good about yourself afterwards, because you’d done your duty.’ Her gaze was challenging him to deny it. ‘Something you felt was expected, rather than something you did out of love, like paying for your sister’s cab.’

‘Jesus, Jude…’

‘Dad could see it too — how bored you were, just sitting there, trying not to look at your watch too often and too obviously.’

‘You know how to kick a man when he’s down, sis.’

She smiled, not unsympathetically. ‘I do, don’t I? Needed to be said, though, before the full martyr complex kicks in. That was where we were headed next, wasn’t it?’

The bell pinged and the doors slid open, the automated voice telling them they had reached their floor. Fox led the way. The lights had been dimmed. The brightest lamp sat over the nurses’ station. Mitch had been moved into a room of his own. Fox was afraid to ask why — maybe a slow death wasn’t something the other patients and their visitors should have to witness. The breath caught in Jude’s throat when she saw her father. She walked briskly to his bedside while Fox closed the door, giving the three of them a measure of privacy. There was a window on to the main ward, its blinds left open, the room itself unlit. Fox reached for the light switch, but Jude shook her head.

‘It’s fine like this,’ she said, touching a hand to Mitch’s forehead. Her shoulder bag had fallen to the floor, a few items spilling out — phone, lipstick, cigarette lighter. Fox crouched to pick them up.

‘Just leave them,’ she hissed. ‘They’re not what’s important.’

‘But they’re something I can fix,’ her brother said, straightening up, her things gathered in his hand.

Her face softened. ‘I suppose that’s true,’ she said quietly. Then, half turning from the bed, she wrapped her arms around him and began to sob.

Siobhan Clarke had been sitting on her sofa for the best part of an hour, just staring at the bookshelves opposite. She sat bent forward, elbows on knees, face cupped in her hands. She’d made a mug of tea but it was as yet untouched. Acorn House — those two words kept reverberating, sometimes clashing against names like Champ and Broadfoot and Holroyd. Rebus had made her promise not to take it to James Page, not until he’d had a chance to dig a little deeper. More names: Tolland and Dalrymple, Jeffries and Ritter. Rebus had bombarded her with them, like they were dots that had to be joined together so the picture could emerge.

Tolland…

She still had the file Jim Grant had given her. She remembered the DVD footage, the subdued-looking wife. Ella Tolland, sad-eyed on her wedding day, her husband controlling her, his hand grasping her arm.

‘It wasn’t just shyness, was it, Ella?’ Clarke enquired out loud. ‘I think you knew. He’d said something, or else you’d always suspected.’ She straightened up and looked to left and right, spotting the file on the carpet, half hidden beneath the sofa. She lifted it up and opened it, seeking the various photographs, knowing there was no way to tell for sure, just as there was no hard and fast evidence that Acorn House — whatever horrors it had contained — had anything to do with the attacks on Tolland, Minton and Cafferty.

‘Proof would be nice,’ she mused, knowing she was going to give Rebus another day or so. Because whatever you could say about the man, he clamped his teeth on to a case and didn’t let go. ‘Go get ’em, John,’ she said, yawning as the photographs slid off her lap to the floor.

Fox was in bed when his phone rang. He had plugged it into a wall socket, so padded across the carpet in darkness and peered at the screen before answering.

‘John?’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

‘Just thought I’d see how your dad’s doing.’

‘No real news. What time is it?’

‘Did I wake you? It’s only just gone eleven.’

‘We’re not all nighthawks.’

‘You’ll find you need less sleep as you get older.’

‘Anything happening at your end? Help take my mind off my dad.’

‘He’ll either be fine or he won’t, Malcolm. Nothing you can do except be there for him.’

‘My sister doesn’t think I even do that. I’m dutiful rather than loving, apparently. Look at me — at home in bed rather than keeping vigil at his bedside.’

‘Your sister’s at the hospital?’

‘We decided to take shifts.’ Fox sat on the carpet, back to the wall, knees raised. ‘Do you ever see your daughter?’

‘Once or twice a year.’

‘If I had a grandkid…’

‘You trying to make me feel guilty? Sammy knows she can visit any time she wants.’

‘Does she know you want her to, though? Seems to me we’re not always good at opening up. I mean, we’re fine with friends and strangers; it’s our families we keep stuff from.’

‘You’re wishing you’d said more to your dad?’

‘I said plenty, but Jude might have a point — I skated over the difficult stuff.’

‘He’s your father — he doesn’t need to be told.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He probably reads you better than anyone. He’ll know exactly how you’re feeling and what you’re not saying.’

‘Maybe.’ Fox rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a tightness there. ‘Anyway, I was asking for an update.’

‘Some bad things happened in the past. They may explain the attacks on Cafferty, Minton and our Linlithgow lottery winner.’

‘There is a connection then?’

‘Connection and motive both.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Bit early for that.’

‘But you’re making progress, showing the youngsters a thing or two.’

‘It feels like the end of a long song, though — men like Cafferty and Joe Stark… and me too, come to that… we’re on our last legs. Our way of doing things seems… I don’t know.’

‘Last century?’

‘Aye, maybe.’

‘Footwork still counts for something, John. Add it to gut instinct and you’ve got a formula that works.’ He listened to Rebus drain the dregs from a glass, imagined him at home, one last whisky before bed. Hell, he could almost taste it, oily, copper-coloured, peat-rich.

‘I should let you get back to bed,’ Rebus said, after a satisfied exhalation.

‘Will you pass on the news to Siobhan?’

‘She’d probably rather hear it from you.’

‘You’re right. I’ll send her a text.’

‘You could even call her.’

‘She might be in bed.’

‘Then again, she might not — take a risk for once.’

Fox smiled tiredly. ‘No promises,’ he said, ending the call. Back in bed, he lay on his back, hands clasped across his chest. His eyes remained open as he stared at the ceiling. Sleep, he knew, wasn’t going to come any time soon, so he got up and, grabbing his phone, headed to the kitchen, filling the kettle and switching it on. He dropped a tea bag into a mug and eased himself on to a stool. Yes, he could call Siobhan, but it was late and he really didn’t have any news. Would a text wake her up? He started composing one, then deleted it. When his tea was ready, he picked up the phone again. He had no messages, no unanswered calls. He tapped the photos icon and found a picture he’d taken of Siobhan with the low winter sun behind her, so that her face was mostly in shadow.

‘Don’t give up the day job, Malcolm,’ he muttered to himself. He opened another photo and used his finger and thumb to enlarge it on the screen. It was Hamish Wright’s itemised phone bill. Most of the calls were to other mobiles. One of Compston’s team had added the details in the margin: wife, insurer, client, client, garage, nephew, client, ferry company, restaurant. But there were landline calls too: wife again, and an aunt in Dundee. Plus one 0131 number — Edinburgh. The Gifford Inn. And written next to it: staff never heard of him, reckon a wrong number. A wrong number on a Monday evening, one week prior to his disappearance, and lasting almost three minutes. The Gifford didn’t mean anything to Fox, but he looked it up — it was on St John’s Road in Corstorphine. He had driven along St John’s Road hundreds of times, but then he never really paid attention to pubs — though he’d lay money on John Rebus knowing the place.

Footwork still counts for something… Add it to gut instinct…

Take a risk…

Take a risk…

Take a risk…

‘Well, Malcolm?’ he challenged himself out loud. ‘What about it?’

Half an hour later, he was back in bed, hands under his head, eyes adjusting to the dark as he turned things over in his mind.