Even dogs in the wild

by Ian Rankin

  ‘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 shut the door.

  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.’

  Thirty Five

  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: Long day in the salt mines – you owe me a whole bakery. Didn’t find much & drew a blank w/

  Holroyd. Internet search etc. and it’s like he never existed. Did get a hit on one name – David Dunn.

  Surprised you don’t know him. Ran the Gimlet till it burned down.

  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.