Even dogs in the wild

by Ian Rankin

  ‘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.

  DAY NINE

  Thirty Six

  Mid morning, Rebus met Cafferty in a café on George IV

  Bridge.

  ‘Are we still keeping up the pretence that you’re staying at the G and V?’ he asked.

  Cafferty just stirred his coffee. He had secured a large table by a window looking out across Candlemaker Row to Greyfriars Kirkyard. Rebus, arriving late, hadn’t bothered joining the long queue at the counter.

  ‘I should have got you one,’ Cafferty said by way of apology, lifting the cup to his lips. ‘I take it you’ve news?’

  ‘The kid who died – Bryan Holroyd – didn’t really die.’

  Cafferty choked the mouthful of coffee down and lowered the cup back on to its saucer.

  ‘That’s why I wanted us to meet somewhere nice and public,’ Rebus went on. ‘Less chance of you throwing a fit.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean, he didn’t die?’

  ‘Miraculous recovery in the boot of the car. When Dave Ritter opened it, Holroyd leapt out and ran into the woods.

  Ritter and Jeffries went after him but had to give up eventually.

  They reckoned he would freeze to death.’

  ‘Bastards, the pair of them.’

  ‘They were bricking it for weeks in case you found out.’

  ‘You got this from Ritter? Where’s he holed up? I want a nice long word with him.’

  Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Not goi
ng to happen.’

  ‘So this Holroyd kid’s coming after us? After all these years?’ Cafferty didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘Unless you’ve got a better theory.’

  Cafferty was gripping the edge of the table with both hands, as though he might tip it over at any moment. His eyes flitted around the room as his thoughts tumbled, his breathing growing hoarse.

  ‘No coronaries, please,’ Rebus advised him.

  ‘There’s got to be a reckoning, John. No way I can let those two shits get away with it.’

  ‘At least now we have a line on the person we’re looking for. Only problem is, Holroyd seems to have gone off-grid – no sign of a conviction, or a National Insurance number, or taxes being paid.’

  ‘You sure of that?’

  ‘Christine Esson did the digging – she’s thorough as any gold miner.’

  ‘He fled the country then, and has only just come back?’

  ‘No passport in his name.’

  ‘Then he’s changed it.’

  ‘Which makes our job all the harder. Doesn’t help that I’ve only the vaguest physical description, and he’ll have changed a bit in thirty years. There is one thing, though – we’ve got a live one right here in Edinburgh. Or Portobello, if you want to be precise.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Todd Dalrymple – Ritter told me he was there that night.’

  ‘But Todd always had an eye for the ladies – the man’s been married three decades or more.’

  ‘Chief Constable was married too,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Do we go talk to Dalrymple?’

  ‘ I certainly do, and you’re invited if you think you can refrain from doing any major structural damage.’ Rebus’s phone was ringing: Siobhan. He got up from the table. ‘Got to take this,’ he said, making for the door. He pressed the phone to his ear as he passed the queue at the counter, a queue that now stretched the length of the café. ‘Yes?’ he said, pulling open the door and emerging on to George IV Bridge.

  ‘We missed you last night.’

  ‘That was always a probability. How was the grub?’

  ‘Good as ever. But here’s the thing – one of their takeaway menus was in Minton’s downstairs hall.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They say they don’t flyer that far from the restaurant. So it’s a bit odd, wouldn’t you say, that there was also one in Michael Tolland’s kitchen?’

  ‘In Linlithgow?’ Rebus had been wrestling a cigarette out of the packet, but her words stopped him.

  ‘I had local CID go check,’ she was saying.

  ‘So what’s your thinking?’

  ‘If you were scoping a street out, or a particular house, and you didn’t want to look suspicious . . .’

  ‘Nobody pays much attention to someone sticking leaflets through doors.’ Rebus put the cigarette packet back in his pocket. ‘You might well be on to something.’

  ‘I’m heading to Newington Spice to ask the boss a few questions. But in the meantime . . .’

  ‘You’re wondering if Cafferty got one too? Easy enough to check – he’s right here with me.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Malcolm’s dad’s unchanged.’

  ‘And Malcolm himself?’

  ‘Isn’t saying much of anything.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I get the feeling he’s working on his own theories. I might have to remind him he’s supposed to be a team player.’

  ‘Do I detect a hint of jealousy?’

  ‘Your phone must be on the blink. Talk to you later.’

  She ended the call. Rebus considered contacting Fox, but what would he say? So he headed back into the café instead.

  Cafferty had nearly finished the coffee. A couple of female students, one carrying a tray, had paused in front of the table and were sizing up the empty chairs. Cafferty’s glare was deflecting them so far, and when Rebus squeezed past, they shuffled off in search of easier prey.

  ‘Well?’ Cafferty enquired.

  ‘Takeaway menus,’ Rebus said. ‘You get them through the door, right?’

  ‘Pain in the arse they are too.’

  ‘Ever had any from Newington Spice?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  ‘Could we go take a look?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Siobhan Clarke has a theory she wants to test to destruction.’

  ‘A theory about Indian restaurants?’

  ‘And the man who took that shot at you.’

  Cafferty considered for a moment, then started getting to his feet. ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘I was enjoying repelling all boarders.’

  The two students were retracing their steps, trying not to look too obvious, as Cafferty and Rebus made their exit.

  ‘So what does it mean?’ Cafferty asked.

  They were in Rebus’s Saab, heading from Merchiston to Portobello through sluggish mid-morning traffic. Cafferty was studying the menu from Newington Spice. It had taken them only a couple of minutes sifting through the recycling bin to uncover it.

  ‘When did it arrive?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘You’re joking, aren’t you – how am I supposed to know that?’

  ‘Don’t suppose it matters. Siobhan’s thinking is that the gunman does a recce of each property before making his move.’

  ‘So we’re looking for a white male in his forties who doles out leaflets for a living?’

  ‘See? Already we’re hacking away at the undergrowth.’

  Cafferty managed a grim smile. ‘Are we headed to Dalrymple’s house?’

  ‘This time of day, we might have more luck at the beach.’

  ‘You want witnesses around to stop me decking him?’

  ‘I hadn’t considered it.’ The smile this time came from Rebus.

  ‘I’m glad actually – relieved is maybe the word.’

  ‘That Bryan Holroyd lived?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You think his “death” put the fear of God into Howard Champ and the others?’

  ‘Maybe. It certainly had a knock-on effect. From the moment it happened, Acorn House’s days were numbered.’

  ‘There were a lot of Acorn Houses out there though – London, Northern Ireland, all over . . .’

  ‘You’ve been doing your reading?’

  ‘Patrick Spiers had a few things to say on the subject.’

  Rebus glanced at his passenger. ‘Any idea who might have turned his place over and lifted his files?’

  ‘Wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘So your best guess would be . . .?’

  ‘Special Branch,’ Cafferty stated. ‘An MP, a senior lawyer and the police chief? No way they’d want any of that coming to light.’

  Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘And after all these years, think they’ll still have an interest?’

  ‘Those files will have been shredded – where’s the evidence?’

  ‘Bryan Holroyd is evidence.’

  ‘Only if people stop to listen.’

  ‘After everything that’s crawled from the woodwork these past few years, I think they might.’

  ‘Then it’ll be court appearances for the likes of me and Dave Ritter, eh?’

  ‘I’d say your own role was minimal.’

  ‘I doubt anyone else will see it that way,’ Cafferty stated grimly, as Rebus neared the Sir Harry Lauder roundabout.

  They parked on James Street and headed for the Promenade, buttoning their coats against the fierce North Sea wind. There were fewer walkers and dogs than before, but Rebus spotted Todd Dalrymple by the water’s edge, putting the lead back on John B.

  ‘We’ll wait here,’ he told Cafferty as they stood at the sea wall.

  ‘Is that him?’ Cafferty was peering into the distance.

  ‘That’s him,’ Rebus confirmed with a nod.

  It was a further three or four minutes before Dalrymple was close enough to recognise Rebus. He had been happy enough on the bea
ch, but when he saw Cafferty, it was as though a weight had descended.

  ‘Big Ger,’ he said, managing a queasy smile as he held out a hand. But Cafferty’s own hands didn’t emerge from their pockets, and when John B showed an interest, Cafferty pushed him away with his foot, Dalrymple reining the dog in.

  ‘We need a word, Todd,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Back at the house.’

  Dalrymple’s eyes flitted between the two men. ‘Is that strictly necessary?’

  ‘Scared what your wife will think?’ Cafferty sneered.

  Dalrymple’s lip trembled. ‘No, I just . . . What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s about Acorn House,’ Rebus stated.

  ‘Acorn House?’

  ‘We know you were there the night Bryan Holroyd was taken away.’

  ‘Who?’

  Cafferty lunged at the man, gripping him by both lapels.

  John B started barking, backing off but baring his teeth.

  ‘I’ll wring that dog’s neck if it tries anything,’ Cafferty snarled.

  ‘It’s all right, John B! Easy, boy!’

  Cafferty’s face was no more than an inch from Dalrymple’s.

  ‘You’re going to tell us everything, you fat fuck.’

  ‘What am I supposed to have done?’

  ‘For starters,’ Rebus broke in, ‘you were witness to a huge cover-up.’

  ‘Orchestrated by him,’ Dalrymple protested as Cafferty’s grip tightened. The dog was still barking and looking primed to pounce.

  ‘Abetted rather than orchestrated,’ Rebus said. ‘But here’s the thing, Todd – you might well be next on his list.’

  ‘Whose list?’

  ‘The man who shot at me,’ Cafferty informed him.

  ‘And killed Lord Minton and Michael Tolland,’ Rebus added. ‘Which is why we need to go to your house.’ He dug a hand into Cafferty’s coat pocket and drew out the takeaway menu. ‘To see whether you’ve had one of these.’

  ‘Wh-what?’ Dalrymple looked utterly lost. Cafferty released him by giving him the slightest shove. Even so, Dalrymple barely kept upright. His eyes were on the menu Rebus was holding. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  ‘How amused do we look right now?’ Cafferty asked back.

  Having given the man a moment or two to recover, Rebus gestured with his arm.

  ‘We’ll follow you,’ he said.

  They walked the short distance to Argyle Crescent, John B