by Ian Rankin
‘John’s one of the good guys, despite all appearances,’ Bell confirmed.
‘The Starks,’ Compston began, after a further moment’s consideration, ‘are looking for a man called Hamish Wright.
He’s a haulage contractor, used to deliver drugs around the country in his containers. We’ve been watching the Starks for a while, and when they left Glasgow for Inverness and visited
Wright’s yard there, we knew something was up. Aberdeen and Dundee after that, and now here.’
‘Have you tried looking for Wright yourselves?’
‘He’s definitely done a flit. Wife is covering his arse, says he’s in London on business, but he’s not made any calls on his phone and there’s nothing to show he’s there.’
‘What about his car?’
‘Parked in the garage at his home.’
‘Does the wife seem spooked?’
‘I’d say so.’
‘He’s got something belonging to the Starks?’ Rebus speculated.
‘Drugs and cash, probably,’ Bell offered.
Compston’s phone was buzzing – incoming call. ‘It’s Beth,’
he said, pressing the phone to one ear while covering the other with his free hand. But the noise in the bar proved too much, so he began making for the door. Once he was outside, Rebus focused on Bell.
‘What’s he like then, Alec?’
‘He’s all right.’
‘Better than you?’ Rebus didn’t sound convinced.
‘Just different. It is drugs and cash, by the way. Plenty of both. All this stuff about muscling in on your man Christie is wrong. Or them going after Big Ger Cafferty, for that matter.’
‘You got wire taps or something?’ Rebus mused.
‘Better than that.’ Bell turned his attention towards Fox, checking that the door was still closed and stabbing a finger at him. ‘This goes no further.’
Fox held up his hands in a show of appeasement.
‘We’ve got a man on the inside. Deep cover.’
‘Bob Selway?’ Fox guessed, but Bell shook his head.
‘No names. He’s been undercover for more than three years, worming his way closer and closer to the Starks.’
‘Takes a bit of stamina,’ Rebus said, impressed.
‘Explains why my boss thought we were welcoming a team of six,’ Fox added.
‘Aye, someone at Gartcosh bolloxed that up – and got Ricky Compston raging at them for their efforts.’
‘Three years – is that how long the team’s been together?’
Bell shook his head again. ‘There’ve been others before us. The Starks are behind half the crime in Glasgow and beyond – so far no operation’s been able to nail down their coffin.’
‘Sounds like your mole’s not exactly earning his keep,’ Fox commented. Bell scowled at him.
‘So what’s the story with this haulage contractor?’ Rebus hoisted his pint to his mouth.
‘Wasn’t happy moving stuff for the Starks. Wanted to be more of a freelance operator, you might say. He was talking to people in Aberdeen and elsewhere.’
‘Including here?’ Rebus watched as Alec Bell nodded slowly. ‘Meaning Darryl Christie?’
‘Very possibly.’
‘So the Starks will want a face-to-face with Darryl.’
‘They might, but they’d rather find Hamish Wright first, if he’s sitting on half a million in coke and eccies and the same in lovely hard cash.’
‘Your man’s told you this?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve got enough to take to trial?’
‘Just about.’
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‘But you want more.’
Bell gave a wide smile. ‘Always.’
‘The longer your man is embedded, though, the more risk there is of him being rumbled.’
‘He’s aware of that.’
‘Deserves a medal, whatever happens.’
Bell was nodding as Compston pushed open the door and strode towards the group, rubbing his hands to warm them.
‘The Starks have been meeting a man called Andrew Goodman.’
‘He runs a stable of nightclub bouncers,’ Rebus said.
‘That’s right. Which means he has a say in what gets into pubs and clubs.’
‘His boys do,’ Rebus corrected.
‘Including illegal substances,’ Fox added, ‘and those carrying them with intent to sell.’
‘Very good,’ Compston said.
‘He knows Hamish Wright?’ Rebus asked.
Compston shrugged. ‘This is a long game we’re playing. But eventually all the bits of the jigsaw will fit together.’
Rebus wrinkled his nose. ‘Sometimes a bit gets lost between the floorboards, though. Or it wasn’t in the box from the get-go.’
‘Cheery bastard, aren’t you? Whose round is it?’
‘I need to be going,’ Fox apologised.
‘Back across the road to report to your boss? Decided yet how much you’re going to spill?’ When Fox didn’t answer, Compston made a shooing motion, dismissing him, but Fox lingered.
‘I know why it’s called Operation Junior,’ he stated.
Compston lifted an eyebrow. ‘Go on then.’
‘The Iron Man films – Robert Downey Junior plays a character called Stark.’
Compston was miming a round of applause as Fox made his exit.
‘Same again, John?’ Bell was asking. Rebus nodded, watching the retreating figure. Then he turned towards Compston.
‘Malcolm’s all right, but the one thing he’s not is dirty. So if you start crossing the line, that may be when he sounds the alarm. Up until then, he’ll be fine.’
‘I’m not happy he brought you in.’
‘He told me the bare minimum. Until I walked into St Leonard’s, I didn’t know what I was going to find.’
‘But you’d sussed there was something he was holding back.’
‘Only because I’m good at this. So where are the Starks now?’
‘Dennis and his boys are eating a curry somewhere on Leith Walk, and the dad’s on his way back to Glasgow – got a bit of business there, apparently.’
‘With one or two of your team on his tail?’
‘Jake and Bob,’ Compston confirmed, more for Bell’s benefit than Rebus’s. ‘Means you and me might have to spell for Beth and Peter a bit later.’
‘Fine by me,’ Bell said.
Compston turned his attention back to Rebus, making show of looking him up and down.
‘So what do we do with you, Mr Rebus?’
‘Apart from getting the next round in, you mean?’
‘Apart from that, yes.’
‘Well, I suppose I could tell you a bit about Cafferty and Christie. Just to pass the time.’ Rebus gestured towards one of the tables where two students were finishing a board game and rising to leave. ‘Or I could tan your arse at draughts – I’ll leave it to you to choose.’
Doug Maxtone was walking down the corridor, shrugging his shoulders into his overcoat, when Fox reached the top of the stairs.
‘Thought I was being stood up,’ Maxtone said. ‘Went to the office, but it’s in darkness.’
‘Sorry, sir. Some of them are on surveillance and the others went for a drink.’
Maxtone stopped walking, adjusting his scarf. ‘Well then?’
he said.
‘How much did they share at the briefing – just so I’m not telling you what you already know?’
‘Compston and his team are in town to keep tabs on a gang run by Joe and Dennis Stark.’
‘And the Starks are here . . .?’
‘Because someone’s done a bunk and they want to find him.’ Maxtone paused. ‘I thought you were the one making the report?’
‘To be honest, there’s not a lot I can add. Compston’s team are keeping watch, but so far the man being sought hasn’t turned up.’
‘And Edinburgh’s just one stop, yes?’
‘That’s right, sir. They’ve alr
eady looked for him in other cities.’
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‘So if they don’t find him soon, they’ll move on elsewhere?’
‘I’d presume so.’
‘Fine then.’ Maxtone made to move off, but paused.
‘Compston’s behaving himself? No regulations being broken, no toes trampled?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘But would you be aware of it?’
‘I think so.’
‘Fine then,’ Maxtone repeated. ‘See you tomorrow, Malcolm.’
‘Absolutely.’
Fox watched as his boss began to descend the stairs. No reason the man had to know anything – about Cafferty and Christie or the missing drugs or the cop who had infiltrated the Stark gang. No reason for any of that to trouble Doug Maxtone’s evening.
He walked to the door of the Operation Junior office and turned the handle. Sure enough, it wasn’t locked. He switched on the lights and went in. There were two laptops, both in sleep mode. He dabbed a finger against both trackpads, waking them and confirming that they were password-protected. A few sheets of paper lay on one desk, including the photo of Hamish Wright. Beneath it was a copy of a phone bill – Wright’s most recent mobile bill, to be precise. Someone had checked the numbers, the details scribbled in the margin. Fox took his own phone out and snapped a picture, then put everything back in order, padding back to the door and switching off the light once more.
It was his night to phone his sister, and he would take care of that as soon as he got home. After which he planned to fire up
his computer and see what he could glean about the Starks and their cohorts.
And if that didn’t take as long as he feared it well might, he’d call Siobhan just prior to bedtime to ask how her day had gone and maybe tell her a little of his.
DAY THREE
Nine
Having stopped at a newsagent’s to buy a paper, Fox got back in his car and phoned Siobhan Clarke. She answered on the sixth ring.
‘I was wondering why I couldn’t reach you last night,’ Fox said, staring at the front-page headline.
‘Got a bit hectic, I admit.’
‘You gave the story to your pal Laura.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m guessing today will be busy too.’
‘Actually, I’m happy for James to hog the limelight. I’m heading to Linlithgow with Christine. We’re just about there.’
‘Oh?’
‘Anyway, what are you up to?’
‘Those visitors I mentioned, the ones from Gartcosh? I’m acting as liaison, sort of.’
‘Keeping an eye on them for Maxtone?’
‘Pretty much. They’re in town because a Glasgow gangster’s—’
‘Sorry, Malcolm, you’re breaking up. And I need to start looking for the turn-off.’
‘Maybe speak to you later then?’
But the signal had gone. Fox turned off the phone and skimmed the news story again, before placing the paper on the passenger seat, on top of a bulging folder. There had been a lot about the Stark family on the internet. He’d printed off much of it and taken everything to bed with him, along with a pad of lined A4 paper. Joe Stark’s wife had died young, leaving him to bring up their only child, Dennis. Fox reckoned Joe had lacked any but the most basic parenting skills. He’d been too busy extending his empire and consolidating his reputation as one of the most ruthless thugs in Glasgow gangland – which was no mean feat, considering the competition. Dennis had been trouble from his earliest days in primary school. Bullied (and maybe worse, ignored) by his father, he’d become a bully himself. It helped that he’d grown up fast, building muscle to go with his threats. In his early teens, only a wily lawyer had stopped him doing time for an attack outside a football ground.
He had used an open razor – similar to Joe’s weapon of choice in the 1970s. That interested Fox – the son imitating the father, hoping to gain his approbation. In his twenties, Dennis had served two stretches in HMP Barlinnie, which did little to curb his excesses while at the same time making him new allies.
Fox hadn’t been able to find out a whole lot about this coterie.
Joe’s men were in their fifties and sixties predominantly, and tales from the Glasgow badlands featured them regularly. But Dennis’s cohorts were a generation younger and had learned the art of subterfuge. They appeared on no front pages, and in precious few court reports. Driving to St Leonard’s, Fox wondered if, shown photos, he would be able to pick out the undercover cop.
The only person in the office was Alec Bell. He yawned a greeting and stirred his coffee.
‘Ricky’s having a lie-in,’ he explained.
‘He took the dawn shift?’ Fox guessed.
Bell nodded and rubbed at his eyes. ‘He’s not keen, though – there’s half a chance old Joe could place him.’
‘They know one another?’
‘A couple of run-ins back in the day. But seeing how Joe is in Glasgow right now . . .’
‘Compston reckons he’s safe enough taking a shift?’ Fox nodded his understanding. ‘Anything else I need to know?’ he asked, hanging up his coat.
‘Not really, unless you happen to have the name of a good curry house – so far, Glasgow beats your overpriced city into a cocked hat.’
‘I’ll have a think. Meantime, I was wondering if you had a file on the Starks – something I can pass the time with.’
‘It’s mostly on computer.’
‘Any surveillance pics?’
‘Why would you want those?’
Fox shrugged. ‘Just occurred to me last night that I’ve no idea what the entourage looks like.’
Bell got busy on his laptop and crooked a finger. Fox walked over to the desk and studied the screen from behind the older man’s shoulder.
‘That’s Joe,’ Bell said, using the cursor to circle Joe Stark’s face. The photo showed a group of men walking down a pavement. ‘To his left is Walter Grieve, and to his right Len Parker. Those three have known each other forever – Joe probably trusts Walter and Len more than he does Dennis.’
‘Bit of tension between father and son?’
‘You know how Prince Charles has spent his whole life waiting to take over the family firm?’
‘For Charles read Dennis.’ Fox nodded his understanding.
He was studying Joe Stark. Of course, he’d seen plenty of photos of the man during his previous evening’s excavation of the internet, but this photo was recent. Stark’s face was more heavily lined, his hair thinner, slicked back from his forehead.
‘Looks a bit like Ray Reardon, no?’ Alec Bell commented.
‘The snooker player?’ Fox considered this. ‘Maybe.’
Though in truth he didn’t see it. There had always been a twinkle in Ray Reardon’s eyes. All he could see in Joe Stark’s face was cold malice.
Bell had reduced the photograph to a thumbnail and was poring over the others on his screen. He clicked on one. The inside of a busy pub. Five men seated at a table.
‘Dennis and his crew,’ Bell said, pointing at each man as he named them. ‘Rob Simpson, Callum Andrews, Jackie Dyson, Tommy Rae, and Dennis himself.’
‘Doesn’t look much like his dad.’
‘Takes after his mum, apparently,’ Bell said.
‘Big bastard, though. Does he go to the gym?’
‘Addicted to the weights. Uses all the bodybuilding potions and powders.’
‘Is his hair permed, or are the curls natural?’
‘God-given, far as I know.’
‘You ever talked with him?’
Bell shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t be on the team if I had.
Can’t have anyone from the Stark gang clocking us.’
‘Doesn’t seem to apply to your boss,’ Fox mused.
‘Special dispensation – Ricky pushed hard to bring Operation Junior into the world.’ Bell turned his head to study Fox. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘You’re bursting to ask.’
‘Wel
l, if you insist – is your guy one of the four with Dennis?’
‘What do you think?’
‘None of them looks like a cop.’
‘How far would our man get if he did? Or if he spoke or acted like one?’
‘I take it he’s not using his real name.’
‘Course not.’
‘And you’ve built a life story for him, just in case someone checks?’
‘We have.’
‘How long did you say he’d been in the gang?’
‘I don’t think I did say.’ Bell was suddenly cagey. Rather than open any of the other photos in the album, he closed the lid of his laptop and took another slug of coffee.
Well, that was fine. Fox had names now. Given a bit of privacy, he would run another internet search, just on the off chance.
‘News from Glasgow?’ he asked, moving into the middle of the room.
‘Joe’s still there.’
‘He took both his lieutenants with him when he went?’
‘Yes.’
‘So it’s just Dennis and his gang of four left here? Any idea what they’ll be doing today?’
‘Looking for Hamish Wright.’
‘Have they stuck around longer than in Aberdeen or Dundee?’
‘Seems that way.’
‘That might mean something – maybe they’re convinced he’s here.’
‘Maybe,’ Bell conceded.
‘Your man on the inside hasn’t said?’
Bell gave him a hard stare. ‘He doesn’t often get the chance to update us.’
‘When did you last hear from him?’
‘Five days ago.’
‘Before you came to Edinburgh?’
‘That’s right. If and when the Starks get hold of Wright, that’s when he’ll make the call.’
‘How long’s he been—’
‘Enough fucking questions, Fox. I wish I’d never opened my mouth in the first place.’
‘Ah, but you did – I think you were trying to show off in front of Rebus. Is that a fair reading?’
‘Get lost.’
‘Hard to do in my own office.’ Fox stretched out both arms to reinforce the point. ‘And you did let slip last night that your mole’s been in character for over three years.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘Thing about not drinking is, I tend to remember things.’
‘Then you’ll not have forgotten what Ricky said to you that first day – you’re on probation. And after that trick you pulled, going to Rebus behind our backs . . .’ Bell shook his head slowly. ‘How’s your dad, by the way?’
