Even Dogs in the Wild

31

Rebus held the box out towards Christine Esson. She was seated at her computer and looked wary.

‘From the baker’s,’ he said, placing it on the desk. She opened it and peered inside.

‘Jam doughnuts,’ she said.

‘My way of saying sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘Not telling you I’d found Paul Jeffries all on my own.’

Ronnie Ogilvie approached the desk and lifted out one of the pastries, holding it in his teeth as he headed back to his own chair. Esson glowered at him, but he seemed impervious.

‘The other three are yours, if you’re quick,’ Rebus told her.

She closed the box and slipped it into her drawer. ‘Thank you,’ she said. Then she noticed he was holding out a slip of paper, expecting her to take it.

‘Bryan Holroyd,’ he explained. ‘I’ve not got much for you to go on — and I’m sorry about that, too. He was a teenager in the eighties, spent a bit of time at an assessment centre called Acorn House. It’s been shut for years, but the fact he was there at all means he probably had a criminal record…’

‘You think there’ll be something in the archive? Doesn’t stuff get expunged after a time?’

Rebus just shrugged. ‘There may even be information on Acorn House — it was a remand home before they changed the wording. But whatever you do, tread softly.’

‘Oh?’

‘Alarm bells may sound.’

‘And they’d do that because…?’

‘They probably won’t.’

‘Which doesn’t answer my question.’

He gave the slip of paper a little wave. ‘I brought doughnuts,’ he reminded her.

After a further ten seconds of stand-off, she sighed and snatched the details from him. ‘Which is more likely to trigger an alarm — online search or me traipsing to the records office?’

‘Only one way to find out.’ Rebus offered what he hoped was a winning smile. ‘Siobhan not in yet?’

‘As you can see.’ Esson gestured towards the empty desk.

‘Maybe she spent the night consoling Malcolm…’

‘And why would I be doing that?’

The voice had come from the doorway. Clarke stepped into the office and lifted her laptop from her bag, placing it on her desk.

‘His dad’s still in hospital,’ Rebus explained. ‘I told him to phone you.’

‘He didn’t.’

‘It was getting late, to be fair. Though you don’t exactly look like you’ve had much in the way of beauty sleep.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ She was shrugging out of her coat and unwinding a long red woollen scarf from around her neck.

Esson had brought the box back out. ‘Doughnut?’ she suggested.

‘Just the job,’ Clarke said, plucking one out with a nod of thanks. Esson took one herself before returning the box to its drawer.

‘One spare,’ Rebus hinted.

‘For later,’ she retorted.

‘I’ve given Bryan Holroyd’s name to Christine,’ Rebus explained to Clarke. ‘I reckon she’s got more diplomacy than me.’

Clarke nodded. ‘Though if it’s the same groper in charge of the archive as when I last had cause to visit, diplomacy might have to take second place to pepper spray.’

‘I can handle myself,’ Esson assured her. ‘Just need to handle the final doughnut first.’

‘Thanks for rubbing it in,’ Rebus muttered, heading for the door. He was halfway there when Esson called him back.

‘Yes?’ he said, sounding hopeful.

‘Are you not going to ask me about Dave Ritter?’

‘I was surmising you didn’t have anything.’

‘You’d be wrong.’ She paused. ‘Sort of wrong, anyway. The forces of law and order in Ullapool have never had dealings with him, nor is there any record of him living in Scotland at the current time.’

‘Well, thanks for sharing.’

‘There is, however, a man called David Ratner. Known all too well by the local constabulary.’

‘In Ullapool?’

‘In Ullapool,’ she confirmed. Now it was her turn to hand a slip of paper out for Rebus to take. He digested the details as she went on. ‘Arrests for minor offences — drunk and disorderly, brawling in the street…’

‘Might be him, then.’

‘Might be.’

He stared at her. ‘When were you going to tell me this?’

‘It was on the tip of my tongue, until you produced yet another favour you wanted me to do.’

‘What’s this?’ Clarke enquired, her mouth full of pastry, sprinkles of sugar on her lips.

‘One of Cafferty’s goons,’ Rebus reminded her. ‘The one we didn’t manhandle in front of his carers.’

‘He’s living in the Highlands under an assumed name?’

‘Could be.’

‘You going to head up there?’

Rebus nodded thoughtfully. ‘If only to protect him from Cafferty.’

‘You’re all heart,’ Clarke said. Rebus turned back towards Esson.

‘I’m all heart,’ he told her. ‘Official confirmation.’

With a sigh and a rolling of the eyes, Esson held the box out towards him.

It had taken Rebus only a couple of minutes with a map to work out that the quickest route to Ullapool was the A9 to Inverness, then the A835 heading west. He filled the Saab with petrol, offered up a prayer that the old crate would survive the journey, and piled water, cigarettes and crisps on the passenger seat, along with a cut-price CD that promised him the best rock songs of the seventies and eighties.

The A9 was not a road he relished. He had driven up and down it several times a couple of years back on a previous case. Some of it was dualled, but long, winding stretches weren’t, and those were where you tended to get stuck behind a convoy of lorries or venerable caravans towed by underpowered saloon cars. Inverness was 150 miles from Edinburgh, but it would take him three hours, and maybe half that again to reach his final destination.

Having witnessed Cafferty’s reaction at the nursing home, he had decided to say nothing about this trip. Not until he was safely back in Edinburgh. As he crossed the Forth Road Bridge, he saw its replacement taking shape over to the west. The project was apparently on time and under budget, unlike the Edinburgh tram route. He had yet to take a tram anywhere in the city. At his age, buses were free to use, but he never took those either.

‘Me and you,’ he told his Saab, giving the steering wheel a reassuring pat.

North as far as Perth was dual carriageway and relatively quiet, but once past Perth the road narrowed and new average-speed cameras didn’t help. He began to wish he had commandeered a patrol car and driver, with blue lights and siren. But then he would have had to explain the purpose of the trip.

A kid was killed and I need to talk to the man who took him away and buried him…

The fact that David Ratner had been in trouble recently meant that he might at least be available to answer a few questions. On the other hand, how willing would he be? Rebus mulled that over as he drove. Cafferty had helped cover up a crime — possibly a murder. In the scheme of things, he should already be in custody, but that wouldn’t help solve the mystery. He would clam up, and his lawyer would have him back on the street in no time. This way, as Rebus had argued to Siobhan Clarke, at least there was the possibility of closure — retribution could come later, if the Fiscal’s office decided it was feasible. Rebus was a realist if nothing else. Down the years he had seen the guilty walk free and the (relatively) innocent suffer punishment. He had watched — as furiously impotent as Albert Stout or Patrick Spiers — as the rich and powerful played the system. He had come to appreciate that those with influence could be more cunning and ruthless than those with none.

‘The overworld and the underworld,’ he muttered to himself, pulling out to overtake an artic. Having done so, he found himself stuck behind a Megabus with a smiling cartoon character waving at him from its rear end, advertising the cheap fares. Five slow miles later, he was imagining himself beating his cheery tormentor with a stick. The CD wasn’t helping either — he didn’t recognise most of the tunes, and power ballads coupled with big hair had never been his thing. He changed to the radio, until the reception died as white-capped mountains began to rise either side of the road. There was snow on the verges, turned grey from exhaust fumes, but the day was overcast and a couple of degrees above zero. He hadn’t entertained the possibility that the route might become difficult or impassable. How good were his tyres? When had he last checked them? He glanced towards his passenger-seat supplies.

You’ll be fine, he told himself as a BMW flew past, squeezing past the bus as an approaching lorry sounded its horn in annoyance.

There was nowhere to park in Corstorphine, so Fox ended up behind the McDonald’s at Drum Brae roundabout. Fringing the car park were a few stores, with a huge Tesco beyond. He reckoned the Gifford Inn would open at eleven, and it was now five to. Walking back along St John’s Road, he stopped at a guitar shop and studied the window display. Jude had always wanted a guitar, but their father had never allowed it.

‘Soon as I move out, I’m getting one,’ she had yelled, aged fourteen.

‘Leave the key on the table,’ Mitch had replied.

Fox himself had surprised her a decade later by buying her one for her birthday — acoustic rather than electric, and with a teach-yourself book and CD. The guitar had sat in a corner of her room for a year or two, until he visited one day and noticed it was no longer there. Nothing had ever been said.

There were no early customers at the Gifford when he pushed open the door. It looked the sort of place that catered to a lunchtime trade. Each table boasted a laminated menu, and the daily specials were on a chalkboard next to the bar. Stripped wooden floorboards, plenty of mirrors, and gleaming brass bar taps. A man in his twenties was rearranging the bar stools.

‘I’ll be with you in a second,’ he announced.

‘No real rush — I’m not drinking anything.’

‘If you’re a rep, you need to phone the boss and book a slot.’

‘I’m a detective.’ Fox showed the man his warrant card.

‘Has something happened?’

‘Just checking a couple of things.’

‘Sure you don’t want a drink — on the house?’

‘Maybe an Appletiser then.’

‘No problem.’ The barman checked he was happy with the stools and went around to the other side of the bar, pulling a bottle from the chiller cabinet. ‘Ice?’

‘No thanks.’ Fox eased himself on to a stool and took out his phone, finding the photo of Hamish Wright’s phone bill. He reeled off the number.

‘That’s us all right,’ the barman agreed.

‘Is it a payphone?’

‘Not really.’ He indicated the landline. It was between the gantry and the access hatch.

‘It’s for staff use only?’

The barman shrugged. ‘Sometimes a regular will need a taxi or to place a bet. Usually they have their own phones, but if not…’

‘And do they get calls too?’

‘Wives looking for their husbands, you mean?’ The barman smiled. ‘It happens.’

‘Three weeks back, a man called Hamish Wright phoned here. It was a Monday evening. Call lasted a couple of minutes.’

‘I don’t know anyone called Hamish Wright.’

‘He lives in Inverness, runs a haulage company.’

‘Still doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘Who else might have been on duty that night?’

‘Sandra, maybe. Or Denise. Jeff ’s on holiday and Ben was sick around then — winter flu, also known as skiving.’

‘Could you maybe ask Sandra and Denise?’

The barman nodded.

‘As in — now,’ Fox added.

Fox sipped his drink while the barman made the calls. The result was another shrug. ‘Sandra remembers your lot phoning to ask. She told them it was probably a wrong number.’

‘But she doesn’t remember the call?’

‘We do get more than a few phone calls, you know. When the bar’s busy, you’ve got a lot going on…’

‘Hamish Wright has never had a drink in here?’

‘What does he look like?’

Fox took a moment on his phone to find an internet photo of Wright. It was from an Inverness newspaper and showed him in front of one of his lorries. The barman narrowed his eyes as he studied it.

‘I’d have to say he seems familiar,’ he admitted. ‘But that’s probably because he looks much the same as most of the men we get in here.’

‘Take another look,’ Fox urged. But the door was opening, an elderly man shuffling in carrying a folded newspaper.

‘Morning, Arthur,’ the barman called out. The customer nodded a reply. ‘Cold one again, eh?’

‘Bitter,’ the regular agreed.

The barman was placing a glass under one of the whisky optics while the customer counted out coins on to the bar. Fox turned to the new arrival. ‘Does the name Hamish Wright mean anything to you?’

‘Does he have two legs?’ the old man enquired.

‘I think so — why?’

‘Because if he does, he could probably get a game for Rangers, the way they’re playing.’

The barman gave a snort of laughter as he handed over the drink. Fox decided he was wasting his time. He drained his glass and headed to the Gents, passing a jukebox and a noticeboard. There was a cutting from the Evening News about money the bar had raised for charity, alongside cards from local businesses advertising their services. On his way back from the toilet, Fox paused again at the board and removed one of the cards. He showed it to the barman.

‘CC Self Storage,’ he commented.

‘What of it?’

‘Named after its owner, Chick Carpenter. Know him?’

‘No.’

‘It’s in Broomhouse, not exactly on your doorstep — so why the advert?’

The barman offered a non-committal shrug.

‘Does Wee Anthony not work there?’ the whisky drinker called out as he seated himself at what was presumably his customary table.

Fox stared at the barman. ‘Did Wee Anthony put this card up?’

‘Maybe.’

‘He’s a regular, I’m guessing?’

Another shrug.

‘And do people ever phone for him?’

‘I suppose so, on rare occasions.’

‘Including three weeks ago?’

‘That’s something you’d have to ask him yourself.’

‘Then that’s what I’ll do,’ Fox said, tucking the card into his top pocket. He dug in his trousers for change, placing a couple of pound coins on the bar.

‘The drink was on the house,’ the barman reminded him.

‘I’m choosy about who I take freebies from,’ Fox retorted, turning to leave.

He called Siobhan Clarke from the car park and asked her what she thought.

‘Whose case is it, Malcolm?’ she asked.

‘Somebody gunned down Dennis Stark.’

‘And where’s the connection?’

‘Stark was looking for Hamish Wright — what if Wright or one of his friends decided to turn the tables?’

‘Okay…’

‘Wright phoned the Gifford, a guy who drinks there works for Chick Carpenter, Carpenter got a doing by Dennis Stark…’

‘Any number of people held a grudge against the victim. But we’re looking for someone who tried to make it appear like part of a pattern.’

‘To throw us off the scent, yes. Last thing they’d want is Joe Stark coming after them.’

‘That’s a fair point.’ Clarke thought for a moment. ‘Where are you now?’

‘Parked outside a pet shop.’

‘Thinking of taking up John’s offer of a free dog?’

‘Perish the thought.’

‘I thought you might be at the hospital.’

‘I popped in first thing. Jude told me to swap with her later on.’

‘Any news?’

‘No change from last night.’

‘You know, nobody would blame you for taking some time off…’

Fox ignored this. ‘I’m considering dropping in on CC Self Storage — unless you think I shouldn’t.’

‘There’s not a whole lot you can be doing here,’ she admitted. ‘Though we’re one down.’

‘Oh?’

‘Christine’s gone off to the archive on an errand for John.’

‘He’s a one-man job-creation scheme.’

‘Want to guess where he is right now?’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘Driving to Ullapool.’

‘What’s in Ullapool?’

‘Last time I went, I remember fish and chips and a ferry.’

‘And which of those is he interested in?’

‘There’s someone he needs to talk to.’

‘You sound like you don’t want to tell me much more.’

‘One day soon, maybe.’

‘But not now?’ Fox was starting the ignition. ‘Should I report back after the storage place?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘That’s what I’ll do then.’

32

Ullapool nestled under thick banks of bruised cloud. Rebus drove slowly along the waterfront, then uphill from the harbour. Soon enough he reached a sign thanking him for having visited, so he did a U-turn. Rows of terraced houses hid a large Tesco store from general view. A tour bus had stopped outside a pub that seemed to be serving warming drinks and hot takeaway food. Rebus pulled into a parking place and got out, stretching his spine and rolling his shoulders. He had stopped for petrol at a retail park on the outskirts of Inverness and topped up his provisions with a microwaved bridie and a bottle of Irn-Bru. He wished now that he had waited and eaten in Ullapool. Instead, he lit a cigarette and headed to the harbour. Gulls were bobbing in the water, seemingly immune to the biting wind. Rebus buttoned his coat and finished his cigarette before heading into a shop. Its wares included shrimping nets and buckets and spades — despite the season being a way off — plus newspapers and groceries. The shopkeeper seemed to size him up, realising he wasn’t in the market to buy.

‘I’m looking for this address.’ Rebus handed across the slip of paper Christine Esson had given him.

‘Did you see the Tesco?’ the shopkeeper enquired.

‘I did.’

‘Next road on the left.’ The man handed back the piece of paper. Rebus waited for more, then managed a thin smile.

‘You saw the name next to the address?’

‘Aye.’

‘So you know why I’m here.’

‘I dare say you’re some kind of policeman.’

‘Mr Ratner’s got a bit of a rep?’

‘He likes the drink more than it seems to like him.’

‘How long has he lived here?’

‘Six or seven years. He was dating a local lass, but that didn’t come to anything. We thought he would move on, but he’s still here.’

‘Does he have a job?’

‘I think he’s on the dole. Used to do some building work, when it was offered.’

Rebus nodded his gratitude. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

‘You know he has a temper?’

‘Yes.’

‘But that’s mostly after closing time. He should be fine just now.’

‘And I’ll probably find him at home?’

‘If you don’t, it won’t take long to check out the nearby watering holes.’

Rebus thanked the man, bought an unneeded packet of cigarettes and walked back up the slope to his car.

‘Next road on the left,’ he recited as he passed the Tesco. He pulled up outside a terraced house and pushed open the knee-high metal gate. The garden was neither manicured nor a wasteland. The curtains at the downstairs window were open, those upstairs closed. He looked in vain for a doorbell, then banged with his fist instead. No answer, so he thumped again. Coughing from inside. He got the feeling someone was descending from the upper floor. The door opened an inch, the eyes squinting as they adjusted to the weak daylight.

‘Mr Ratner?’ Rebus asked. ‘David Ratner?’

‘Who’s asking?’

Rebus had already decided how to play it. ‘An old pal of yours,’ he said, shoving at the door with his shoulder. Ratner staggered backwards against the bottom two steps of the staircase. By the time he’d recovered, Rebus was inside and the door was closed.

‘Hell’s going on?’ the man yelped, voice filled with grievance.

Rebus examined the hallway. Bare linoleum, walls that had last seen a coat of paint in the eighties, a threadbare stair carpet. The place held an aroma of single unwashed male.

‘Living room,’ he announced, making it sound like an order.

Cafferty’s description of Dave Ritter had been sketchy, but it did fit the man in front of Rebus, the one who was wondering how best to get rid of this unwelcome guest so a courtship with cheap booze could be resumed. The good news was, Ratner/Ritter had no heft to him. He was almost as shrunken as his friend Paul Jeffries. Rebus began to wonder if the enormity of just one crime had ground both men down.

Without saying anything, the man led the way into a room containing two charity-shop armchairs and a newish-looking TV. There were bottles and cans too, with empty fast-food containers providing extra ornamentation.

‘Does your cleaner come tomorrow?’ Rebus asked.

‘Funny.’ The man was testing a few of the cans, without finding a drop to drink in any.

‘Do I call you Ratner or Ritter?’

The freeze was momentary, but enough to convince Rebus.

‘Who sent you?’

‘Big Ger.’ Rebus was standing in front of the door to the hall, a door he had pushed closed. If the man in front of him wanted an exit, he was going to have to use the window.

‘A name from the past. And I prefer Ratner.’ He slumped into one of the armchairs.

‘Here’s another name from the past.’ Rebus paused for effect. ‘Acorn House.’

Ratner seemed to slump further, shoulders hunched. He cursed under his breath.

‘Nothing to say?’ Rebus prompted. ‘Well that’s too bad, because you’re the one who’s going to have to spit it out…’

Ratner looked at him. ‘You’ve seen Paul?’ he guessed.

‘Not got much repartee these days, has he?’

‘Poor bugger. At least I’ve still got a few brain cells. What did Cafferty tell you?’

‘That you both worked for him back in the day — disposing of problems. A patch of woodland in Fife was mentioned.’

‘Ancient history.’

‘It was until recently. Things have changed.’

‘Oh?’

Rebus decided to take the other chair. He pulled his cigarettes out and gestured with them. Ratner took one and allowed Rebus to light it.

‘Ta,’ he said.

Rebus lit one for himself and blew the smoke ceilingwards.

‘Are you here to terminate me?’ Ratner asked.

‘I hate to break it to you, Dave, but you’re not that important.’

‘I never told another living soul, you know. So if someone’s been blabbing, you need to look elsewhere.’

‘Do you remember Michael Tolland?’

Ratner mouthed the name silently a couple of times. ‘Was he the one who opened the door to us?’

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Who else was inside?’

‘The MP guy…’

‘Howard Champ?’

It was Ratner’s turn to nod. ‘And his pal Minton — a bloody QC. Spent his days putting folk like me and Paul away, and then headed out of an evening to bugger young boys at Acorn House. Afterwards, I cursed if I ever had to as much as drive past the place. There was talk of an inquiry at one point, but I’m guessing Minton put the lid on that and screwed it down tight.’

‘Wasn’t the only job you did for Big Ger, though — the only disposal, I mean?’

‘There were a few, but never kids. Just that one time. I doubt a day goes by when I don’t think of it. Those men climbing back into their suits, sorting their cufflinks, shaking and pale-faced, not from shame, but because they might be found out.’ He shook his head slowly.

‘Cafferty wasn’t there?’

‘God, no.’

‘But it meant they owed him.’

Ratner nodded. ‘I’m sure he pulled a few favours. Except from—’ He broke off, his eyes fixing on Rebus. ‘Don’t suppose it matters now, does it?’

‘Who else was there?’

‘He was just arriving as we left. Tried mumbling some excuse, but Paul and I knew what he’d come for — same thing as the rest of them.’

‘Was it the Chief Constable?’

‘Broadfoot, you mean? Oh, his name was mentioned — they’d thought of phoning him to get rid of the body, until Champ mentioned Big Ger.’

‘But he wasn’t actually there?’

‘Guy who turned up was Todd Dalrymple.’

‘From Milligan’s Casino?’

‘That’s the one. Happily married, but that didn’t mean much to some of them — Chief Constable had a wife too, didn’t he?’

‘Did Cafferty know?’

‘About Dalrymple?’ Ratner shook his head again. ‘He peeled off a roll of fifties and split it between us.’

‘Paul Jeffries ended up driving for him.’

‘He did, yes.’

‘And Dalrymple still visits him.’

Ratner’s face twisted into a sour smile. ‘To make sure Paul hasn’t got mouthy as well as senile.’

Rebus nodded his understanding. Silence fell over the room. Ratner rose slowly to his feet, but only to switch on the ceiling light.

‘You’re sure you’re not here to do me in?’ he asked as he sat down again. ‘Because to be honest, I’m not sure I wouldn’t welcome it — maybe you can tell. I was a vicious little sod back then, I admit. People can change, though…’

‘Felt good to get it off your chest after all these years?’ Rebus nodded again. ‘Aye, I can see that, but to answer your question — I’m not going to kill you, but someone else might.’

‘Oh?’

‘Somebody fired a shot at Big Ger. Somebody also killed Minton and Tolland.’

‘Bit of a coincidence.’ Having finished the cigarette, Ratner dropped its remains into one of the empty cans. A few moments later, Rebus did the same with his.

‘Acorn House seems to be the connection, wouldn’t you say? Which is why we’re thinking about the victim — his name was Bryan Holroyd, by the way.’

‘Ah, the victim…’ Ratner went silent again. He rose slowly to his feet and stood by the window, his hands sliding into his trouser pockets. Eventually he turned his head towards Rebus. ‘Has Cafferty worked it out then?’

‘Worked what out?’

‘We told him it was job done. What else were we going to do? We knew he’d go mental, probably bury the pair of us with his bare hands.’

Rebus sat forward a little. ‘What are you saying?’

‘The kid wasn’t dead. Everybody acted like he was and told us he was, and we took that at face value. Picked him up and he was all floppy, like a corpse would be. Stuffed him in the car and drove to Fife, got out and opened the boot…’

‘And?’

‘And he flew past me like a banshee! I nearly died on the spot. He was hardly dressed at all, but he was off and running.’

‘You went after him?’

‘We scoured that bloody forest until dawn, frozen to the marrow.’

‘He got away?’ Rebus’s voice was a fraction above a whisper.

‘No way he could have survived out there, all but naked and no shelter for miles. We kept an eye on the news, but there was never a report of a body being found. We reckoned he had lain down, covered himself with leaves and died like that, decomposing and gone for ever.’

‘But supposing he didn’t — he would have names, wouldn’t he? Maybe not yours, but Minton and Tolland. He was probably lying there while they talked about fetching Cafferty. Those three names.’

‘Is Champ dead too?’ Ratner asked.

Rebus nodded. ‘Natural causes, a few years back.’

‘Doesn’t make sense then — wouldn’t the main grudge be against him? And why take so long to do something about it?’

‘I don’t know.’ But Rebus knew the man had a point. ‘Nor do I know what Holroyd looked like.’

‘Skinny, pale, dark hair, young-looking face… Hardly likely to help you after all this time.’ Ratner paused. ‘You think it’s really him?’

‘It might be.’

‘And you’ll be telling Cafferty?’

‘I have to.’

‘You know he’ll kill me?’

‘Not if I don’t tell him where to find you.’

Ratner was staring at him. ‘You’d do that?’

‘Maybe. But I need a statement from you — I need everything you’ve just told me.’

‘A statement? So you’re a cop?’

‘I used to be.’

Ratner slumped back into his chair. ‘That kid haunted us, you know. I think he’s what did for Paul’s marbles in the end. And look how great my life turned out…’

Rebus was searching his phone for the recording function. He glanced up at Ratner for a second.

‘No less than you fucking deserve,’ he said.

33

‘Are you Anthony?’ Fox asked. ‘Or is it Wee Anthony?’ He had parked in one of the bays in front of CC Self Storage. Chick Carpenter’s Aston Martin wasn’t there. The two-storey building’s frontage included a loading bay, protected by a roll-down grille, plus a solid wooden door with the word RECEPTION on it. The man walking towards him had emerged from this door, obviously in response to the sound of Fox’s car. He stood just under five and a half feet high, and Fox recognised him as the colleague who had watched Carpenter take a beating at the hands of Dennis Stark and Jackie Dyson.

The man had reckoned on greeting a new customer, but now he wasn’t so sure. He looked right and left, as if fearing Fox might have brought back-up. Fox produced his warrant card, which did little to calm the man’s nerves.

‘You’re not in trouble,’ Fox assured him. ‘Just need a quick word. How’s your boss doing, by the way?’

‘My boss?’

‘I heard he got a thumping.’

‘Did he?’

Fox smiled. ‘You heard Dennis Stark got himself killed?’

‘Who’s Dennis Stark?’

Fox made show of folding his arms. ‘This really the way you want to play it, Anthony? You are Anthony?’

Eventually the man nodded.

‘And did they manage to give you a surname at the christening, Anthony?’

‘Wright.’

Fox could feel cogs beginning to turn. ‘Well, Mr Wright,’ he said, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox.’

‘Whoever did him in, it had nothing to do with us,’ Wright blurted out, a tremor in his voice.

‘You’ll appreciate we have to ask the questions, though. Here or in the office — your choice.’

‘Do I need a lawyer or anything?’

Fox tried for a dumbfounded look. ‘Why would you need a lawyer? This is just us having a chat.’

‘I should phone Chick…’

‘I’d rather you didn’t — we’ll be talking to him separately.’

‘What’s it got to do with me anyway?’

‘You were present when your employer was attacked, yes?’

‘How do you know that?’

Fox found that he was enjoying thinking on his feet. ‘Dennis Stark’s pals are obviously keen that we find his killer. They’ve been talking freely.’

‘I’ve told you it was nothing to do with us, though.’

Fox nodded. ‘You know why they were in town in the first place?’

‘Looking for someone.’

‘Do you know who?’

‘Some guy with a haulage business.’

‘His name’s Hamish Wright. Same surname as you.’

Wright licked his lips, looking again to left and right, as though seeking an escape route. Fox took a step towards him.

‘Do you drink at the Gifford Inn, Anthony?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Three weeks back, Hamish Wright called that pub. He spoke to you.’

‘Not true.’

‘Staff say differently.’ Fox took out his phone and got the shot of the haulier’s phone bill onscreen. ‘Plus there are calls here from Hamish Wright to his nephew. What would happen if I phoned that particular number?’

‘Search me.’

Fox tapped the number in and waited. The phone in Wright’s pocket had been set to silent, but both men could hear it as it vibrated.

‘Want to answer that?’ Fox said.

‘What the hell is it you want?’

Fox ended the call and slid his phone back into his pocket. ‘You’re Hamish Wright’s nephew,’ he stated. ‘Close to your uncle, are you?’

‘What of it?’

‘Why did he call you on the pub landline?’

‘Can’t always get a signal in there.’

Fox nodded. ‘Must have been important, though. This wasn’t long before he went missing.’

‘He’s not missing — he’s away on business.’

‘That’s the story your aunt gave, but we both know she’s lying.’ Fox paused. ‘I’m assuming all this would come as news to the Stark gang. But does your employer know?’

Wright shook his head.

‘Sure about that?’

‘Positive.’

‘You know it’s not just your uncle they were looking for? He has something they think belongs to them.’

‘Oh?’

‘Are we back to playing games, Anthony? Do you know where Hamish is? Is he somewhere in the city?’

‘Haven’t a clue.’

‘Because he’s high on our list of suspects, as you can imagine.’

‘My uncle couldn’t kill anyone.’

‘He worked for the Starks, peddled drugs and who knows what else around the country for them — he’s not exactly Mother Teresa.’

‘I don’t know anything about that.’

‘So you wouldn’t object to me looking at your client records?’

‘Soon as you get a warrant.’

‘Mind you, nobody says it has to go through the books, eh?’

‘Come back with a warrant and you can look all you like.’ It was Wright’s turn to fold his arms. He looked almost smug, which told Fox he was on the wrong trail.

‘What was it he needed to talk to you about, Anthony? Did he tell you he was about to make a run for it?’

‘Nothing like that — just family stuff.’

Fox was growing exasperated, his stock of ammo running low. ‘Be a shame if Joe Stark did find out who you really are…’ He turned and opened his car door.

‘You wouldn’t do that.’

‘Then tell me the truth, Anthony.’ Fox looked back over his shoulder and watched as Wright’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

‘He’ll come out of hiding once this has blown over.’

‘Have you talked to him? You know where he is?’

Wright shook his head. ‘But that was always the plan, once he knew they were on to him. Less his family knew, the better.’

‘You know it’s not going to blow over, right? Not until Joe Stark knows who killed his son. Your uncle is going to be living in fear until the whole gang’s put away.’

Wright nodded his understanding.

Fox made to get into the car, but then paused. ‘Your dad is Hamish’s brother? Have you talked it over with him?’

‘He passed away last year. Maybe you saw it in the paper — Dad loved his motorbikes, so we got a dozen bikers as a cortège.’

Fox gestured towards a gleaming bike parked near the loading bay. ‘Yours?’ he guessed.

‘And my dad’s before me — he left me five in his will.’

‘Lucky you,’ Fox said quietly, wondering suddenly about his own father’s will — did one even exist?

Beth Hastie watched him from her unmarked car. She had slid down low in her seat, but she doubted he would have noticed her if she’d been standing naked on the roof. Malcolm Fox was a man with things on his mind. She knew who he’d been talking to, too — the same man who had been present when Chick Carpenter had taken a beating. Why the sudden interest? After Fox had gone, the guy had approached a parked motorbike, taking out a handkerchief to polish its chrome. Hastie lifted her phone and called CC Self Storage. A woman’s voice answered.

‘Hello,’ Hastie said. ‘This is going to sound really daft, but I answered an ad from a guy selling a spare crash helmet and I’ve gone and lost his details. All I remember is he said he worked for you. Could that be right?’

‘Must be Anthony — he’s bike-daft.’

‘Anthony, yes. And his surname’s…?’

‘Wright. Anthony Wright. If you hold on, I can probably fetch him—’

But Hastie had already ended the call. She narrowed her eyes and ran her bottom lip between her teeth. Then she made another call.

‘Yes?’ the voice on the other end said.

‘Can you talk?’

‘Make it quick.’

‘I’m at the self-storage place.’

‘And?’

‘I still think it needs to be done in daylight. But here’s the thing — the employee who was there that day with Carpenter?’

‘Yes?’

‘His name’s Anthony Wright.’

‘Okay.’

‘Any connection?’

‘Could you check?’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Make it quick.’

The phone went dead. She stared at it, then pressed her lips to the screen before putting it away and starting the engine.

34

Rebus had known ever since setting out from Edinburgh that he was going to continue north from Ullapool. His daughter Samantha lived in a house on the jagged north coast, on the Kyle of Tongue. He had phoned ahead and checked she would be home, though he’d been necessarily vague about his arrival time. The road from Ullapool was spectacular, though the sky started to darken long before he neared his destination. As he stopped his car outside the bungalow, she appeared in the doorway. Her daughter, Carrie, was almost two now. Rebus had only met her twice — once in the hospital in Inverness the day after her birth, and once in Edinburgh. She shied away from him as he tried to kiss her, and he realised he hadn’t thought to bring a gift. He embraced Samantha and she led him inside to the cosy living room with its toy-strewn floor and three-piece suite.

‘Is Keith not here?’ Rebus asked.

‘He’s got some overtime.’

‘That’s good.’ Her partner had a job as part of the team decommissioning the Dounreay nuclear reactor. ‘And has he started glowing in the dark yet?’

‘You asked me that last time — and the time before.’

He had taken the proffered seat while his daughter stayed standing. Carrie meantime was back amongst her toys, the adult world none of her concern. Samantha had streaks of silver in her hair, and she had lost weight.

‘You look good,’ he said dutifully.

‘You too,’ she felt obliged to respond. ‘I’ll just put the kettle on.’

So Rebus sat there, eyes on the child, not sure what to say or do. He was thinking of Malcolm Fox and his father, and of his own parents. There were framed photos on one wall, including one of him cradling the sleeping newborn. He felt a slight ache in his chest, which he was rubbing away with a thumb when Samantha returned.

‘So you’ve been to Ullapool,’ she said, waiting in the doorway while the kettle boiled. ‘Thought you were retired.’

‘Police Scotland have discovered the hard way that they can’t live without me.’

‘And vice versa, I dare say. How was the drive up?’

‘Fine.’

‘But you need to get back?’

He gave a shrug. ‘I’m here now, though. I really wanted to see you.’

She nodded slowly and headed to the kitchen once more, this time returning with a tray. Tea in two floral mugs, a beaker of juice for Carrie, and a plate of digestive biscuits, one of them lightly buttered. This she handed to Carrie, who began to devour it.

‘I think we used to have the same when you were young,’ Rebus said. ‘Digestives or Rich Tea, but with a smear of Lurpak as a treat.’

She handed him his tea and sat down on the chair opposite. ‘Everything okay with you?’ she asked, unable to mask the concern on her face.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You sure?’

‘I’m not here to deliver bad news.’

‘I was a bit worried that maybe…’

‘Nothing’s wrong, cross my heart.’

‘You’re still drinking and smoking, though.’

‘Only medicinally.’

She managed a smile and turned her attention to her daughter. ‘Go and sit beside Grandad, Carrie — let him see how you’ve grown.’

The little girl made a show of reluctance, then crawled over to Rebus’s feet and scrambled up his legs until she was in his lap.

‘Don’t squash me,’ he teased, while Samantha took a photo on her phone.

Carrie, having rewarded Rebus with a chuckle, then became engrossed in the two toys she was clutching.

And stayed there, quite happily, while father and daughter caught up.

He decided to drive back by way of Inverness. Having been out of range for a while, his phone finally pinged to let him know he had missed a couple of calls, from Siobhan Clarke and Malcolm Fox. Stopping for petrol and coffee at the same retail park on the outskirts of Inverness, he took out his phone.

‘Hey, you,’ he told Clarke. ‘What’s up?’

‘Malcolm and I were thinking of grabbing a curry — wondered if you wanted to join us.’

‘I won’t be back until late.’

‘We might still be there. We were thinking of the place you like.’

‘Newington Spice? Well, I’ll try to make it, but I’m not promising.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Inverness.’

‘How was Ullapool?’

‘I have stuff to tell you. Best said in person, though, after I’ve checked a couple of things.’

‘I’ve been thinking about Tolland’s wife — I’m pretty sure she knew. I feel sorry for her.’

‘I thought she was dead.’

‘That doesn’t seem to be stopping me.’

‘Each to their own. Any idea why Malcolm wanted to speak to me?’

‘I haven’t seen him today. He was going to take a shift at his dad’s bedside.’

‘Any change?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Okay, I’ll maybe give him a call.’

‘I’m guessing we’ll be gone from the restaurant by eleven.’

‘Tell them to keep me a doggy bag.’

‘I will.’

He called Fox’s number and waited.

‘Hiya, John,’ Fox said.

‘How’s your old man?’

‘Stable.’

‘You there with him now?’

‘I’m actually drinking hospital coffee — prior to handing the baton back to Jude.’

‘Freeing you up for curry with Siobhan?’

‘She told you?’

‘Doubt I can make it. I’m up north right now.’

‘Where?’

‘Inverness.’

‘To do with Hamish Wright?’

Rebus took a moment to connect the dots. Wright: the missing haulier, who had brought the Starks to Edinburgh. ‘Just passing through.’

‘Thing is, his nephew works at CC Self Storage.’

‘That’s the place run by Darryl Christie’s pal?’

‘Yes. The Starks gave the owner a bit of a doing, but they didn’t know his right-hand man is related to the very person they’re looking for.’

‘Sounds to me like you’ve been doing proper dogged detective work.’

‘You wouldn’t be far wrong.’

‘So what’s your next move?’

‘I might try for a search warrant, see if Hamish Wright rents one of the units.’

‘Even if he does…’

‘It might not be in his name, yes. Which is why we might require a sniffer dog.’

‘You’ve given it some thought.’

‘Would you play it differently?’

‘Absolutely not.’ Rebus paused. ‘Remember what we were talking about? Parents and kids…?’

‘Yes?’

‘I drove to Tongue to see Sammy.’

‘And it went okay?’

‘It really did.’

‘Then we’ve both had a result today.’

Rebus’s phone had started vibrating, telling him he had another call. ‘Got to go,’ he told Fox. But it was Cafferty’s name on the screen, and Rebus wasn’t ready just yet for that conversation. So instead he looked up Hamish Wright’s details, and found that the petrol station was about a five-minute drive from the haulage yard.

A quick detour, he told himself, fastening his seat belt as he exited the forecourt.

The industrial estate looked like any other — anonymous corrugated structures behind either high walls or higher fences. Hamish Wright Highland Haulage wasn’t hard to spot, boasting a large tartan banner above its gates and the same livery on the trucks parked up behind the razor wire. Floodlights illuminated the scene, and the gates stood open, a laden lorry crawling out. Rebus drove into the compound. A Portakabin seemed to be all the office Hamish Wright needed. The door was closed but its windows were lit. When the door opened, another driver emerged, folding a set of documents and making for his cab. He nodded a greeting at Rebus as Rebus tapped on the Portakabin door.

‘What now?’ a female voice barked from within. Rebus opened the door and walked in. The woman behind the desk was in her mid fifties and stubbing her latest cigarette into a brimming ashtray. There were half a dozen empty coffee takeaways in the bin next to her, and she was busy with a laptop and a stack of paperwork.

‘Mrs Wright?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Who are you?’

‘My name’s Rebus. I’m with Police Scotland.’

The blood drained from her face. ‘Yes?’ she said, in a voice suddenly just above a whisper.

‘Just wondered if your husband had returned from his business trip.’

Her face relaxed a little and she pretended to be interested in the top sheet of paper.

‘Not yet,’ she said.

‘No phone calls? No contact of any kind? Surely you must have an inkling of his movements?’

‘What is it you want?’ She peered at him above her horn-rimmed glasses.

‘You look as though you’re struggling,’ Rebus commented.

‘What business is that of yours?’

Rebus offered a shrug. ‘Have you tried asking your nephew? Maybe he has some ideas.’

‘Nephew?’

‘In Edinburgh.’ He’d been hoping for a reaction, but he was disappointed. She waved a finger to interrupt him as she took a phone call.

‘Just left the yard,’ she informed the caller, checking the clock on the wall. ‘By seven tomorrow, yes.’ She saw that Rebus wasn’t about to make a move. ‘Hang on a sec, will you?’ she told the caller. Then, to Rebus: ‘Was there anything else?’

Rebus gave another shrug. ‘Nothing illegal in the lorries tonight, I hope. Not that I suppose you’ll be doing much business with Joe Stark after the stunt your husband pulled…’

She gave him a look that would have felled lesser mortals, and turned her back on him as she picked up where she’d left off with the caller.

‘Sorry, Timothy,’ she cooed. ‘Thought all the arseholes had clocked off for the night, but there’s always one more…’

Rebus took in the interior — desk, filing cabinets, wall planners. Having gleaned precisely nothing, he made his exit, leaving the door nicely ajar so the night air and diesel could waft in. The HGV driver was giving his vehicle a final check. Rebus crossed the tarmac towards him.

‘Long trip?’ he asked.

‘Aberdeen, Dundee, Newcastle.’

‘Could be worse, eh?’

‘I suppose.’

Rebus gestured towards the office. ‘How’s she really coping with Hamish gone? I mean, I know she puts on a brave face…’

The driver puffed out his cheeks. ‘She’s pedalling pretty hard.’

‘You think she’s up to it?’

‘Time will tell.’

‘And Hamish? Reckon we’ll see him again?’

‘Are you kidding me?’ He straightened up, facing Rebus. Then he drew a finger across his throat.

‘Really?’ Rebus’s eyes widened in what he hoped looked like astonishment. ‘The Starks did him in?’

‘I heard he was driven away from here in a car. Two of them in the front, Hamish and another in the back. Last anyone saw of the poor sod.’

‘Does she know?’ Rebus was gesturing towards the Portakabin again.

‘Everybody knows,’ the driver stated. ‘But nobody’s saying.’

‘You heard what happened to Dennis Stark?’

‘Universe has a way of balancing things out.’ The driver was hauling himself up into his cab. ‘Don’t suppose you need a lift to Aberdeen?’

‘Not right now.’

‘Pity — a bit of company passes the time.’

The man closed the door, revving the engine and making a few more checks. As the lorry began trundling out of the yard, Rebus headed for his car. Wright’s wife was watching from the open doorway. He stopped and began walking in her direction, but she disappeared inside, slamming the door shut.

Chick Carpenter’s home was a modern two-storey detached near the zoo. Other times Darryl Christie had visited, he’d been able to hear and even smell the place — screeches and howls and dung. He remembered being taken on childhood trips, trekking up the steep slope and then back down again, or staring at glass tanks in the reptile house, or waiting with an ice-cream cone for the penguin parade to start. They had a pair of pandas these days, though he hadn’t been to see them. More pandas than Tory MPs, that was the joke made in many a pub. Carpenter and his wife had turned up as pandas at the Halloween party Christie had thrown at the hotel.

Chrissie was waiting behind the door, opening it as soon as he pressed the bell. She wrapped him in an embrace, pecking both cheeks.

‘You’ll catch your death,’ she scolded him, eyeing the black V-neck T-shirt beneath his suit. ‘In you come, quick. Chick’s in the den.’

‘When are you going to cut your losses and run away with me?’ he teased her.

‘I’m old enough to be your mum.’

‘You’re in your prime, Chrissie — even when dressed as a panda.’

She slapped his shoulder playfully and led him to the den. It was off the huge living room, a snug space with dark red walls and oak flooring. Chick Carpenter was stretched out on the sofa, reading a golf magazine.

‘Come in, Darryl, come in,’ he said. ‘Get the man a drink, Chrissie.’

‘Just water, thanks.’

‘You sure?’

‘I’m driving.’

‘Not quite yet above the law, eh?’ Carpenter’s smile became a wince as he swivelled into a seated position. The black eyes were still swollen.

‘Hear you ended up with a cracked rib.’

‘I’m basically wearing a corset under this shirt. Nearly had my nose broken too.’

‘Sorry I’ve not visited sooner…’

Carpenter waved the apology aside. ‘You’ve got a business to run.’

‘All the same.’ Darryl accepted the glass of water Chrissie was holding out to him. When she left, she slid shut the doors. ‘Did they target you to get at me, do you think?’

‘As a message, you mean?’ Carpenter shook his head. ‘They’re looking for stuff Hamish Wright took from them. They’d been to another two storage places in the city. I’d had fair warning they might be paying a visit.’

‘Nobody else ended up in A and E, though.’

‘My own fault for getting mouthy. You know what I’m like. We’d had a day of problems with our computers and I was up for a shouting match.’

‘Dennis didn’t mention me at all?’

Carpenter shook his head. ‘Hamish Wright is all they were interested in.’ He broke off, smiling to himself.

‘What’s the joke?’

‘Not a joke, really. It’s just that Wright’s nephew works for me.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Name’s Anthony Wright — he doesn’t know I know.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Wright’s haulage firm is based in Inverness. Anthony’s often mentioned biking there of a weekend — said he had family up that way.’

‘You put two and two together?’ Christie nodded thoughtfully. ‘The Starks don’t know this, though?’

‘No.’ With effort, Carpenter lifted a glass from the floor. Gin and tonic by the look of it. He sipped, his eyes on his visitor.

‘I’m guessing,’ Christie eventually said, ‘that you’d wonder if Anthony’s uncle had recently rented one of your units.’

‘You’d be right. But his name’s not in the records.’

‘Clever money would be on an alias.’

‘Which is why I made sure I was thorough. Every unit is kosher — for once.’

‘Do you think Anthony might know his uncle’s whereabouts?’

‘He’s a good lad,’ Carpenter cautioned. ‘I wouldn’t like to see him hurt.’

‘Perish the thought.’ Christie drained the glass of tap water and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, his eyes fixed on Carpenter throughout. ‘Here’s what you’re going to do for me, Chick. You’re going to keep a close watch on Anthony. He drops any hints — you let me know. He suddenly needs to go off somewhere — you let me know. Is that understood?’

‘Loud and clear, Darryl.’ Though he had only recently put his own glass down, Carpenter’s mouth sounded parched.

Christie nodded his satisfaction and rose to his feet.

‘Can I just ask one thing?’ Carpenter said, getting up with some effort. ‘Who did kill Dennis Stark? Do you know?’

Christie handed the man his empty glass. ‘Anyone touches me or my friends, there’s a price to be paid,’ he said.

As he pulled the sliding doors open and walked back through the living room, where Chrissie sat watching TV with the sound kept low, Christie knew he was taking a gamble. His parting shot would play well with Carpenter and others like him, but on the other hand, if his words got back to Joe Stark…

‘Night, Chrissie,’ he called.

‘Look after yourself, pet.’

‘I always do.’

35

Siobhan Clarke checked her watch again: almost half past ten.

‘He’s not coming,’ Fox told her.

‘I know.’ She tore off a shred of leftover naan and began chewing it. She and Fox were the last customers left in Newington Spice. ‘You heading back to the hospital?’

‘I might.’

‘Want some company?’

‘You should really get some sleep.’

‘Said the pot to the kettle.’

‘Another tough day?’

‘Page is getting flak for the inquiry stalling. He’s been growing grumpier by the hour. I had to tell him, it’s been over a week now and none of us has managed a day off. Everybody’s exhausted.’ She paused. ‘Plus I gave a bollocking of my own.’

‘Who to?’

‘Charlie Sykes.’

‘For being a waste of space?’

‘For maybe telling tales to Darryl Christie. Charlie wasn’t best pleased.’

‘I’ll bet.’

‘I threatened to take it further unless he owned up. Told him that if I did that, he could kiss his precious pension goodbye.’

‘And?’

‘He’s Christie’s man.’

‘Want me to have a word with Complaints?’

Clarke shook her head. ‘It stays with us, as long as he tells Christie it’s finished between them.’

A waiter was hovering. ‘Gentleman, madam — was everything satisfactory?’

‘Delicious,’ Fox said.

‘Desserts? Coffee?’

‘Maybe a coffee — how about you, Siobhan?’

She nodded and started to get up. ‘Back in a sec,’ she said to Fox, as the waiter pointed her towards the toilets.

While she was washing her hands, she saw that a display of takeaway menus had been positioned on the window ledge next to the sink.

Pays to advertise, she said to herself, remembering that David Minton, over on the other side of town, had been the recipient of a menu from Newington Spice. As she walked past the bar, she stopped and said as much to the waiter.

‘Do you really get people trekking across town?’ she asked.

‘We like to think we are worth a detour,’ the waiter said with a smile. ‘But I doubt we’d pay for someone to flyer quite that far away. Perhaps the menu was taken home after a meal.’

‘Looked like it had been pushed through the door.’

The waiter just shrugged, smile still in place. By the time Clarke reached the table, Fox could see that something had changed.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Probably nothing.’

‘Try me.’

‘There was a menu from here in Minton’s hallway. Waiter says they only flyer locally.’

‘So?’

‘Like I say, it’s probably nothing.’ But she had taken her phone out and was standing up again. ‘I just need to make a call…’

She stepped outside, away from the piped music and the hissing of the espresso machine. Jim Grant’s number was in her list of contacts. When he picked up, she apologised for calling so late.

‘I’m in the pub if you fancy joining me.’

‘Another time maybe. Do you remember us talking in Michael Tolland’s kitchen?’

‘How could I forget?’

‘You said something about him eating out a lot, and using takeaways…’

‘Yes?’

‘And also something about him being rich enough to be able to order from far afield?’

‘Okay.’ His tone told Clarke he was wondering where she was going with this.

‘How did you know that? Was it because of the menus in the kitchen drawer?’

‘Must have been, I suppose.’

‘You don’t remember?’

‘I don’t, to be honest.’

‘Do you think you could go back to his house for me and check?’

‘In the morning, you mean?’

‘Right now would be better.’

‘I’m probably in no fit state to drive.’

‘But you can get someone to take you?’

‘Can I assume you’re not offering?’

She ignored this. ‘I’m interested in a restaurant called Newington Spice on the south side of Edinburgh. Just ping me a text when you’ve checked.’

‘If it’s food you’re after…’

‘Text me,’ Clarke demanded, ending the call.

Rebus was halfway between Perth and Edinburgh when he got a message from Christine Esson:

Cursing under his breath, Rebus called her back.

‘It’s late,’ she told him.

‘Tell me about Davie Dunn.’

‘He was in Acorn House for only a few weeks, not long before it was shut down. Shoplifting, drugs, a bit of gang activity. Cleaned up his act, though. Got a job as a van driver, passed his HGV, started on long distance. Worked for Hamish Wright Highland Haulage for a while.’

‘Anything else?’

‘I’ve got plenty of scrawls and scribbles. I’ll type them up in the morning.’

‘You’re a star, Christine.’

‘The brightest in any constellation.’

He ended the call and made another. Darryl Christie seemed to be driving when he picked up. Rebus could hear a stereo being muted.

‘What do you want?’ Christie asked with minimum politeness.

‘I need to talk to Davie Dunn.’

‘I’m not stopping you.’

‘He’s hardly likely to be at the Gimlet, though.’

‘Rub it in, why don’t you.’

‘We both know you had the place torched, Darryl — easier that way to flog the land to a supermarket.’

‘I really didn’t.’

‘Tell you what, then — give me a number for Davie and I’ll believe you.’

‘Why do you need to speak to him?’

‘That’s between me and him.’

‘He’ll tell me if I ask.’

‘And you’ll be denied that treat unless I speak to him first.’

‘You’ve got a good line in patter, I can’t deny it.’ Then, after a pause: ‘Try Brogan’s.’

Rebus glanced at the time. ‘Will it still be open?’

‘Probably not, but there’s an after-hours card game. When they unlock the door, just mention my name…’

Late night meant no queue at the Forth Road Bridge and a quick drive into town. Brogan’s was a pub in Leith. Rebus felt like death as he parked the Saab and got out. He dreaded to think how many miles he had covered. His neck felt like it was in a vice and his knees were throbbing. What was the name of that film Siobhan had wanted to take him to? No Country for Old Men? No denying he was old, and he doubted he would ever drive as much of the country again. From the outside, Brogan’s looked deserted, but Rebus tried the thick wooden door and then banged on it with a fist.

‘We’re shut,’ a voice barked.

‘Darryl Christie said it would be fine.’

Immediately he could hear bolts being drawn back. The door was pulled open and Rebus stepped inside. The man on guard duty looked like a regular who’d been slipped a couple of free drinks as payment. He was big without being threatening. Rebus nodded a greeting.

‘Back room,’ the man said, sliding the bolts across once more.

Rebus headed past the shuttered bar and down a narrow passageway with pungent toilets off to one side. He could hear low voices, soft laughter. The back room was twelve feet square. One of its circular tables had been placed in a central position, and five men sat in a tight fit around it. Four more were perched on stools at the still-operational bar. There was no barman, and they seemed to be helping themselves. Rebus knew a couple of the faces, and held up his palms to show he wasn’t about to cause a fuss.

‘Join the queue,’ one of the men at the table said, as chips were counted and readied for the next hand.

‘Just need a quick word with Davie,’ Rebus announced.

Davie Dunn turned round and saw the new arrival for the first time. ‘Who are you?’

‘His name’s Rebus,’ one of the others said. ‘CID.’

Dunn considered for a moment, then pushed back his chair and got up. Rebus gestured towards the jacket draped over the chair.

‘Might need that. And your chips as well.’

‘A quick word, you said?’

‘No way of telling,’ Rebus admitted with a shrug.

They headed for the street, the sentry looking aggrieved at being disturbed again so soon. On the pavement, Rebus got a cigarette lit and offered one to Dunn. The man shook his head.

‘Mind if we walk?’ Rebus said. ‘I could do with stretching my legs.’

‘Hell is this all about?’

But Rebus moved off without talking. After a few moments, Dunn caught him up, the two men walking in silence for a few yards, Rebus feeling his joints loosen, glad of the exercise.

‘It’s about Acorn House,’ he eventually admitted.

‘And what’s that when it’s at home?’

‘It’s the assessment centre you were in for a few weeks in the mid eighties.’

‘Ancient history.’

‘It seems to have become current.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Did you ever come across a lad called Bryan Holroyd?’

‘No.’

‘Sure about that?’

‘I really don’t remember much from those days.’

‘Is that because you don’t want to? I’ve heard some of the stories, and I know what went on there.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘Boys used by older men — men who should have known better.’

‘I must have been too ugly then.’

‘It never happened to you?’

Dunn was shaking his head. ‘But I did hear the rumours. Mind, every place like that I ever stayed, there were always rumours — it was a way of putting the fear of God into you so you didn’t step out of line.’

‘Bad stuff definitely did happen at Acorn House, Davie.’

‘And I’m saying I never saw anything — I was only there a month or six weeks.’

‘Your name turned up in dispatches — ever meet a reporter called Patrick Spiers?’

‘I remember the name.’

‘He talked to you?’

‘Not so much talk as pester — I told him the same thing I’ve just told you, but that wasn’t what he wanted to hear.’

‘He was trying to make a case against some very prominent men. I’m assuming he told you their names?’

‘You can also assume I didn’t listen.’

‘How about Michael Tolland — you must remember him?’

Dunn nodded. ‘He was okay. Used to dole out cigarettes and the occasional bottle of cider.’

‘And he never asked for favours in return?’

They were approaching the Shore. A few stragglers from the local bars and restaurants were wending their way home, or waiting to flag down non-existent taxis. Rebus paused on the bridge, waiting for Dunn to answer, the Water of Leith dark and still below them.

‘I got my life back on track, Rebus,’ Dunn eventually stated. ‘Got married, had a couple of kids — that’s the only thing that matters to me.’

‘Nobody ever threatened you? Or paid you to keep quiet?’

‘No.’

‘So you ended up driving HGVs.’

‘That’s right.’

‘For Hamish Wright.’

‘Yes.’

‘Who’s now gone AWOL, leaving behind some very irate Glasgow gangsters.’

‘The same ones who tried beating me up and then torched my pub. How come you’re not going out of your way to catch them?’

‘Because right now I’m interested in Acorn House. On the other hand, if there’s anything you want to tell me about Hamish Wright…’

‘Haven’t had anything to do with him in years.’

‘You’ll have told Darryl that, I dare say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not the sort of person you’d want to lie to.’

‘I don’t see what this has to do with Acorn House.’

Rebus turned to face him. ‘Darryl Christie told me where to find you. He’s going to want to know what we talked about.’

‘So?’

‘So I’m about to tell you something — it’s up to you how much of it you pass on to him.’

Dunn cocked his head. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.

‘What if I were to say that someone seems intent on punishing the men who took part in the abuse at Acorn House?’

It took Dunn a few moments to digest Rebus’s words. ‘Is it true?’ he asked.

‘Might well be.’

‘I heard that Tolland died when someone broke into his house.’

‘Same thing happened to David Minton. He was a pal of Howard Champ, MP. You never met Champ?’

‘Champ used to drop by,’ Dunn stated coldly, leaning over the bridge and spitting into the water.

‘I know this can’t be easy, Davie, but I need to ask if there’s anything you can tell me…’

‘To catch a kid from Acorn House who’s decided at last that it’s Judgement Day?’ Dunn’s mouth twisted in a grim smile. ‘Know what I say to that?’

‘What?’ Rebus asked, already knowing the answer.

‘I’d say fucking good luck to them.’

Dunn turned and began retracing his steps, shoulders slumped, hands in pockets.

Rebus considered trying to stop him, but instead stayed where he was, the filter of his cigarette pressed between two fingers long after the cigarette itself had died. He couldn’t help feeling that the man had a point, and Rebus was no longer a cop. What did it matter if Bryan Holroyd was out there, picking off his abusers and their abettors?

Yet somehow it did — it did matter. Always had, always would. Not because of any of the victims or perpetrators, but for Rebus himself. Because if none of it mattered, then neither did he. A couple of drunks walked past, their gait unsteady but smiles on their faces.

‘Don’t jump!’ one of them called out.

‘Not today,’ Rebus assured the man, taking out his phone to check who was calling him at this godforsaken hour.

The answer: Cafferty, naturally.