Even dogs in the wild

by Ian Rankin

  what?’ He paused, running his hands around the steering wheel as he thought. ‘It closed down, didn’t it? Acorn House?

  Sometime in the late eighties.’ He turned to look at Cafferty.

  ‘What is it I’m not seeing? David Minton, he’d have been an advocate back then, wouldn’t he? Running for Parliament but not getting in.’

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

  Twenty Four

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

  ‘You’re not stopping the surveillance?’ James Page asked.

  He had slipped out of his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, to show that he meant business. Paperwork was heaped in front of him, topped by crime scene photos and post-mortem shots of the victims.

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

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

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

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

  Clarke commented.

  ‘Thanks, I hadn’t noticed.’

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

  ‘Ideally she’d have had company.’

  ‘Why didn’t she?’

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

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

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

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

  ‘It was the middle of the night. We were exhausted.

  Probably no one would have answered anyway.’

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

  Compston looked from Clarke to Page and back again.

  ‘Hell’s going on here?’ he demanded.

  ‘A murder inquiry.’

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

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

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

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

  she asked.

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

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

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

  ‘One way or another?’

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

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

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Not the same handwriting,’ Page revealed.

  ‘Copycat?’ Compston mused.

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

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

  ‘I’d say I don’t believe you.’

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

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

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

  ‘So?’

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

  ‘I’m none the wiser.’

  ‘Whoever followed Dennis Stark to that alley, they knew there was a chance he’d be out and about at that time, but they

  couldn’t know the surveillance wasn’t operational.’ Clarke paused. ‘Could they?’

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

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

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

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

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she doesn’t seem to have been entirely truthful.

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

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

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

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

  A five-minute break between interviews, just long enough for a quick coffee and confab. They’d stuck Hastie in the room and confiscated her phone so she wouldn’t have a chance to be

  briefed by her boss. Compston was in the waiting area, having given orders to his troops and dispatched them.

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

  Clarke offered a shrug.

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

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

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

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

  ‘I got bored and went for a drive, that’s the truth of it.

  Thought half an hour wouldn’t hurt and it would help me stay awake.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

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

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

  ‘That’s right.’

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

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

  ‘Have you owned up to DI Compston?’

  ‘I will, soon as I get out of here.’

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

  274

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

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

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

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

  Page guessed.

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

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

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

  Yes, Joe knew these were delicate days. Dyson and the rest would be starting to wonder where their loyalties lay. Did they team up against the old order, or did they fall into line? He’d already given them a few quid to tide them over, promising them strengthened roles in the organisation. All the same, it didn’t hurt to bring Dyson along, get to know him a bit better during the car ride, massage his ego. Then the punchline: 275

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

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

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

  ‘Thought I knew him.’

  ‘Who’s Ricky Compston?’ Dyson asked.

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

  ‘Serious and Organised Crime . . .’

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

  ‘Bastards are after us,’ Stark stated, baring his teeth. ‘Heard about Dennis and think we’re vulnerable.’ He exited the building again and cried out to the rapidly retreating figures.

  ‘Hey! Compston!’ The woman half turned but the man did not.

  Stark flicked the Vs anyway and stomped inside.

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

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

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

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

  276

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

  ‘You can’t do that!’ she said.

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

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

  ‘Next floor up.’

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

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

  ‘How did you get in?’

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

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

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

  ‘Charming,’ Grieve said.

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

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

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

  ‘Mr Stark has something he needs to get off his chest.

  Brought me along for company.’

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

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

  He moved past Fox and started washing his hands.

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

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

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

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘All that work, all that planning . . .’

  ‘You really think we’re screwed?’

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

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

  ‘What did you tell them back there?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘Same as you told me?’

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

  ‘Christ’s sake, Beth . . .’

  ‘So what happens now?’

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

  ‘I meant to me.’

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

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You didn’t actually shoot Dennis Stark?’

  ‘No.’ Acco
mpanied by a short bark of laughter.

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

  ‘I’m not sure I . . .’

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

  ‘Absolutely not. But what about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

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

  ‘Fuck you, DC Hastie. End of.’

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

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

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

  ‘If you must.’

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

  Twenty Five

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

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

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

  ‘Christ almighty . . .’

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

  ‘Okay, you weren’t fiddling with the kids at Acorn House.’

  Rebus paused. ‘But somebody was? Michael Tolland?’

  ‘Far as I know, Tolland was just the guy with the keys. He kept his eye on comings and goings. The place had a reputation.

  The kids would leg it, cars waiting for them outside. They’d be back next day wearing new clothes, money in their pockets.’