by Ian Rankin
The door to the guest house was yanked open from within, and Fox just had time to crouch behind a parked VW Polo as Dennis’s gang emerged, Joe Stark bringing up the rear. The others carried overnight bags and backpacks. They stuffed everything into the boot of a Chrysler Voyager and got in, Jackie Dyson driving. The vehicle sped off, and five seconds later was joined by another car, driven by the unmistakable form of Alec Bell. Was the gang bound for Glasgow? They were certainly in a hurry. Looking towards the guest house again, Fox saw that the NO VACANCIES sign had been tossed to the ground.
And the front door was ajar.
He crossed the street and opened the gate, walking up the path and calling out a greeting as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. There was a man lying on the floor of the chintzy living room. Ornaments lay smashed in the fireplace.
The man’s hands had been tied behind his back. He’d been seated on a dining chair, which had toppled on to its side. He was conscious, bleeding from nose and mouth. Fox knelt beside him and undid the knots.
‘I’m a police officer,’ he assured the trembling figure. The man was in his mid fifties, overweight and breathing hard.
‘You’re in shock, but are you otherwise hurt? Anything broken, or are you okay to sit up?’
‘I’ll be all right.’
‘Should I call an ambulance?’
‘I’m fine, really.’ The man was sitting on the floor, rubbing his wrists.
‘The men who did this, they’ve driven off, so don’t worry.’
‘What men?’
Fox stared at him. ‘You might be concussed.’
‘No men, no men.’ The man was shaking his head.
‘Maybe some boxes fell on you, eh? And tied your hands behind you while they were at it?’ Fox patted the man’s arm reassuringly. ‘Don’t fret about it. But did you tell them anything?’
‘Nothing to tell.’
‘Sure you’re going to be all right?’
‘Moira will have a fit, you know.’
‘Will she?’
The man was looking at the smashed ornaments. ‘Her pride and joy those were . . .’
‘Let me help you to your feet. I want to check you’re able to walk.’
The man accepted Fox’s assistance. He wobbled a little, but regained most of his equilibrium.
‘You know Dennis Stark has been killed?’ Fox asked. ‘I’m guessing they want to know who knew he was staying here.’
The man nodded slowly, then his eyes widened. ‘They’ll come back, won’t they? They’ll want to hear it from Moira.’
Fox considered this. ‘Might be wise to pack a few things for you and Moira. Go elsewhere for a day or two.’
‘Yes,’ the man agreed, nodding again.
‘And maybe wash the blood off, so she doesn’t get a bigger shock than is already coming to her.’
‘Thank you,’ the man said. He insisted on seeing Fox to the door. Fox stopped on the path, picked up the sign and reinstated it.
He walked back to Constitution Street, unsure what to do next. Carnage seemed to follow the Starks. It made sense that they should be sent packing. But how? He waved a goodbye towards the officer on cordon duty and unlocked his car. There was just under a quarter of a tank of petrol, and he had a sudden craving for something sweet, so he filled up on the nearest forecourt. Entering the shop, he noted that the place closed at ten in the evening. He selected a Bounty and a Mars bar and took out his debit card.
‘Where’s the nearest all-night garage?’ he asked the assistant.
‘Used to be one not far from here, but it went belly up – hard to compete with the supermarkets.’
Fox nodded sympathetically. ‘So to answer my question . . .?’
‘Canonmills maybe.’
‘Canonmills? That’s a fair distance.’
The assistant just shrugged. Fox retrieved his card from the machine and got into his car. He stayed at the pump, engine off, as he chewed on the Mars bar. Then he got back out of the car and returned to the cash desk.
‘Something wrong?’ the assistant asked, looking distinctly wary.
‘This is the only petrol station on Leith Walk, right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Any others nearby?’
‘One, maybe two.’
‘But in the middle of the night?’
‘I told you, Canonmills.’
‘You did,’ Fox was forced to agree. He walked outside again. Why had Beth Hastie lied? Had she decided the surveillance wasn’t worth her time, opted for a good night’s sleep instead? He shut the driver’s-side door, started the engine, and tore open the Bounty, stuffing the first segment into his mouth as he drove off the forecourt.
There were two smartly dressed and well-built doormen on the steps outside Darryl Christie’s hotel – a sensible addition to the staff roster, given the circumstances. Rebus stopped in front of them and nodded a greeting.
‘Remember me?’ he said to the one he’d spoken with in the driveway of Cafferty’s house.
‘I never forget a face.’
‘I notice Big Ger’s no longer at home. Good to see you weren’t out of work for long.’
‘We get around almost as much as you do.’
‘I assume you’ve heard the news about Dennis Stark? If his crew turns up here, you better have reinforcements on speed-dial. Unless you’re tooled up, of course – because trust me, after what just happened to their boss, they’ll be locked and loaded.’
‘Just as well we’ve a police force to take care of all these shady characters.’
‘ Semper Vigilo – that’s our motto,’ Rebus said, passing between the two men and pushing open the glass door. The same barman as before was on duty, but there was no offer of a
drink, just a quick phone call to some other part of the building.
The street outside the large Georgian sash windows seemed calm enough. Maybe that had always been the Edinburgh way, or at least the polite New Town way. Long gone were the days when a rabble could be roused by imprisoning someone unfairly or raising the price of bread. But he knew people would be talking, neighbours gossiping about the most recent murderous assault, shopkeepers agreeing with customers that it was both shocking and rare.
Darryl Christie walked into the room briskly, sitting down across from Rebus as if ready for only the briefest of dialogues.
‘Wasn’t me,’ he said.
‘Okay.’
‘Whoever did it left a note – am I right?’
‘I was under the impression we were keeping that away from the public.’
‘I’m not the public, though, am I?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘But it means you’re after the same bastard who did for Minton and tried to do for Cafferty.’
‘Cafferty told you about the note? I suppose that makes sense. And you’re probably right – though we’re keeping an open mind. Have you heard from Joe Stark yet?’
‘No.’
‘Reckon those two lunks on the door will keep the bogeyman away?’
‘Call them an early-warning system.’
‘You’re mates with their boss, then? Andrew Goodman?’
‘We’ve done some business.’
‘Any of it legit, or is that a stupid question?’ Rebus saw that Christie wasn’t about to answer, so gave a thin smile. ‘Well,’ he
said, ‘much as I’d like to see you put away, Darryl, I’m actually after a favour – something that could be mutually beneficial.’
Christie looked at him. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.
‘Our thinking is, the gun was taken from Lord Minton’s house by whoever killed him. He didn’t have a licence for it, and it was probably a recent purchase – as in the past couple of weeks.’
Christie scratched at his chin with one fingertip. ‘Sourced locally?’
‘If we’re lucky.’
Christie nodded. ‘Probably only two or three possible sellers. But if we need to extend the search westwar
ds . . .’ He did the calculation. ‘Add in another ten or twelve. Plus half a dozen elsewhere in Scotland.’
‘If we find the gun, it helps us eliminate you from our enquiries – and might even persuade Joe not to come after you.’
Christie’s face broke into a smile. ‘Listen to you, Rebus – you’re loving this, aren’t you? One last encore before the lights go down . . .’
‘You’ll put the word out?’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Now, tell me about Joe Stark – how’s he taking it?’
‘How do you think?’
‘He’ll be wondering why Dennis went to that alley in the first place.’
‘Man liked a nocturnal daunder, apparently.’ Christie didn’t look convinced. ‘How about you?’ Rebus asked. ‘You taking all the necessary precautions? Not just those two bodybuilders at the door?’ Christie offered a shrug as he rose to his feet. His phone buzzed. He checked the screen before answering.
‘Yes, Bernard?’ he said. He listened, his eyes narrowing and coming to rest on Rebus’s. ‘You’re okay, though?’ Another pause while the caller spoke. Then: ‘That’s probably good advice. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. And phone me again later. I owe you.’
He ended the call and turned the phone over in his hand.
‘Owner of the guest house where the Starks were holed up,’
he explained. ‘They’ve just given him a beating, wanted to know who he’d told about them.’
‘Well, we know he told you.’
‘But he didn’t tell them that.’
‘Then you really do owe him.’
‘They’ve packed their bags now, though.’
‘Almost sounds like they’re burning bridges.’
‘Aye,’ Christie agreed.
‘Bernard or no Bernard, you know they’ll come for you eventually.’ Rebus paused to let his words sink in. Then: ‘You’ll phone me if you get anything?’
‘Let’s wait and see.’ Christie turned and started making a call as he walked with purpose towards the staircase.
Fox called Alec Bell on his mobile.
‘Can you talk?’ he asked.
‘What do you want?’
‘Not that you’ll be interested, but Stark and his boys roughed up the owner of the guest house before they left.’
Bell took a moment to work it out. ‘You were there?’
‘Happened to be passing, saw you set off in pursuit.’
‘Is the guy okay?’
‘Yet again, I don’t see him pressing charges. This better all be worth it.’
‘I’m beginning to wonder.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘On my way back to St Leonard’s. Joe and his lads seem to be checking into a hotel at Haymarket. Beth’s taken up position.’
‘Is she . . .?’ Fox tried to find the right words. ‘Do you trust her? I mean, is she a team player?’
‘Look, she took her bollocking off Ricky. She knows she fucked up.’
‘Does she?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘That part of town, there’s no all-night garage.’
‘So?’
‘And the closest doesn’t let anyone over the threshold after eleven, so she couldn’t use their loos.’
‘You saying she’s lying?’
‘I’m not sure what I’m saying. Maybe you could have a think, though.’
‘Still got a bit of your old job stuck to the sole of your shoe, Fox?’
‘I’m just wondering why she’d lie, that’s all.’
The phone went dead. Fox stared at it. You did your best, he told himself, deciding to steer clear of St Leonard’s for the time being and pointing the car in the direction of Fettes instead.
Rebus was in the canteen when Fox walked in. He gave a wave, and Fox, having bought a mug of tea and a sandwich, joined him.
‘Want anything?’ Fox asked.
‘I’m fine. Been keeping your nose clean?’
‘Not exactly. I decided to walk the route from the alley back to the guest house.’
‘And?’
‘Joe Stark and the others were just departing, leaving behind one bruised and bloodied proprietor.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing.’ Fox looked grim-faced. ‘But we need to stamp on them eventually, don’t we?’
‘We do,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Even if it means getting them for something minor. Chief Constable won’t be happy, but then it’s not our job to keep a big cheery smile on his coupon.’ Rebus paused. ‘I get the feeling there’s more. Cough up, Malcolm.’
‘Beth Hastie was supposed to be on surveillance when Dennis took that walk. Her story is, she headed off for petrol and a call of nature. Only there’s no all-night petrol station, meaning her story doesn’t stick.’
‘Maybe she did her business behind some bins and is too ladylike to admit it.’ Rebus watched Fox’s expression. ‘You don’t see her as ladylike? Okay then, she was tucked up in bed and can’t say as much or she’d be consigned to one of those bins she didn’t pee behind.’
‘Maybe.’ Fox bit into his sandwich. Tuna and sweetcorn.
One kernel dropped on to the plate. He picked it up delicately and pushed it back between the two triangles of thin white bread. ‘Anyway, I hope your day’s been more fruitful.’
‘I’m waiting for Darryl Christie to tell me who sold Lord Minton an illegal handgun. We’re thinking the killer took it from him.’
‘To use on Cafferty and Dennis Stark? Have you talked with Cafferty yet?’
‘The man is proving elusive.’
‘Oh?’
‘He’s moved out of his house for the duration.’
‘Isn’t that suspicious in itself?’
‘It’s what I’d do.’
‘They didn’t find the bullet, did they?’
Rebus shook his head and waved again, this time towards Siobhan Clarke. She marched up to the table brandishing a sheet of paper. It was a photocopy of the note found in the alley. She slapped it down between the two men.
‘Doesn’t match,’ she stated.
‘Doesn’t it?’ Fox turned the note ninety degrees so it faced him.
‘Howden Hall pinged it to a handwriting expert. Their best guess is, someone saw the Minton note in one of the papers or online . . .’
‘And copied it?’ Rebus concluded, sitting back in his chair.
‘Meaning what?’ Fox enquired. ‘Another gunman? That hardly sounds likely. How many nine-millimetre pistols are being lugged around the city?’
‘At least two?’ Rebus pretended to guess.
Clarke was staring at Fox’s bruised face. ‘What the hell happened to you?’
‘John did it when I wouldn’t take the dog he was offering.’
‘Seriously, though.’
‘I got in a fight with one of Dennis Stark’s bandits.’
‘When?’
‘Should I have a lawyer present before answering?’
Clarke turned her focus back to Rebus. ‘You think it fits?’
‘The two-gun theory? It fits with the bullet not being found.
Couldn’t be left behind or we’d have known straight away we were talking about a different gun.’
‘And the note?’
‘Was a fair copy. Whoever wrote it took a chance we’d not spot the differences – or else that it would take us a while to.’
‘To what end?’
‘To make Dennis Stark look like part of the pattern,’ Fox said, realisation dawning.
‘So everyone’s back in the game,’ Clarke added. ‘Christie, Cafferty . . .’ She caught the look on Rebus’s face. ‘What?’
‘I’ve asked Darryl Christie who might have sold a pistol to Lord Minton.’
‘And now you’re thinking it could have been Christie himself?’
‘We’re in danger of getting tied in knots here,’ Fox complained.
‘Because that’s what someone wants, Malcolm,’ Rebus agreed. As if on cue, his phone
started vibrating. ‘And here’s Darryl himself.’ He got up and walked over to the windows.
They were large, and if not covered in grime would have given him a clear view out on to the adjacent playing fields.
‘Yes, Mr Christie?’ he began, pressing the phone to his ear.
‘Didn’t take as long as it could have,’ Darryl Christie said, sounding pleased with himself.
‘You’ve got a name for me?’
‘He says he’ll talk to you only because you’re not a cop.’
‘Will he do it in person?’
‘At the Gimlet.’
‘What time?’
‘Eight tonight.’
‘I’ll be there. Does he have a name?’
‘You can call him Roddy.’
‘Then that’s what I’ll do.’ Rebus ended the call and went back to the table. ‘Eight tonight at the Gimlet.’
‘Are we invited?’ Clarke asked.
‘Might bring back painful memories for Malcolm. Besides, our merchant of death doesn’t want anyone with a warrant card.’
‘Are you okay about that?’
Rebus nodded. ‘But I’m happy to rendezvous with the pair of you later, if you like.’
‘Oxford Bar at nine?’ Clarke offered.
‘Delightful,’ Rebus replied.
Twenty
It was as if the Gimlet had been vacated for their meeting, like an office with an IN USE sign placed on its door. There was a young woman behind the bar. Her bare arms were tattooed, as was her neck, and Rebus quickly lost count of her various piercings. She poured him a pint of heavy without being asked and placed it on the bar.
‘First one is on Mr Dunn,’ she announced. ‘There won’t be a second.’
‘Cheers anyway,’ Rebus said, hoisting the glass. There was a man seated at a table in the far corner of the large room. Sticky floor underfoot, a silent jukebox with its lights flashing, a puggy unplugged from the electrical socket. The TV on the wall above the sole occupied table was switched on and even boasted a tiny bit of volume. Sports chat, with the latest news scrolling beneath the seated figures. Rebus wondered if its purpose was to stop the barmaid hearing anything that was said.
