Even dogs in the wild

by Ian Rankin

  Stark’s coffee had arrived, along with an amaretto biscuit that he dunked and then held between his lips, sucking the thick black liquid from it.

  ‘I’ll have one of those too, actually,’ Christie told the retreating manager. And he returned Joe Stark’s smile, the two men readying to get down to business.

  Anthony Wright had been in trouble a few times – speeding offences, one very minor drugs bust and a breach of the peace.

  Which was how Fox managed to track down his home address.

  It was a maisonette in Murrayburn, not a million miles from his place of work. Anthony had the upper floor. His downstairs neighbours hadn’t washed their windows in a while, and the slatted blinds needed replacing. From what he could see of the upstairs dwelling, the owner was a tad more house proud: the curtains looked new, as did the front door with its fan-shaped frosted window and brass fittings. Fox, knowing that Anthony wasn’t yet home from work, peered through the letter box, discovering little – a flight of red-carpeted stairs filled his field

  of vision. Framed prints on the walls of motorbikes and their leather-clad riders.

  He returned to his car and waited, the radio playing at low volume. It was a quiet street, though far from gentrification. He got the feeling that if he sat there much longer, an inquisitive local would emerge to check him out. One thing he had noted: no bikes on the roadway outside the maisonette, or in the flagstoned front garden. How many had Anthony said? Five?

  He got out of the car again and did a little circuit, establishing that the maisonette backed on to an enclosed drying green, which boasted no enclosure larger than a garden shed. There was a park beyond, really just a stretch of well-trodden grass that could accommodate a makeshift game of football, plus a graffiti-covered set of concrete ramps, presumably for use by skateboarders. On the other side of the park sat three high-rise blocks, and next to those, two rows of lock-up garages.

  Buttoning up his coat, Fox started walking, sticking to the paved route so as to save his shoes getting muddied. A cheap souped-up saloon car passed him, its occupants barely out of their teens. Both front windows were down so the world outside could share their taste in what they presumably thought was music. They paid Fox no heed though. He wasn’t like Rebus – he didn’t look like a cop. A detective he’d once investigated when in Complaints had described him as resembling ‘a soulless, spunkless middle manager from the most boring company on the planet’. Which was fine – he’d been called worse. It usually meant he was closing in on a result. And the fact that he didn’t stand out from the crowd could be useful. As far as the kids in the car were concerned, he barely existed – if they’d thought him a threat, the car would have stopped and a

  scene of sorts would have ensued. Instead of which, he arrived at the lock-ups without incident.

  There were a dozen of them, all but one with its doors locked tight. A car was jutting out from the twelfth, jacked up while a wheel was changed. The lock-up had power, and a radio had been plugged in, Radio 2 providing the soundtrack while a man in presentable blue overalls did his chores.

  ‘Nice car,’ Fox commented. The man had wiry silver hair and a stubbled face, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. ‘Ford Capri, right? Don’t see many these days.’

  ‘Because they’re rustbuckets. Dodgy engines, too.’

  The bonnet was up, so Fox took a look. He had scant knowledge of cars, and to his eyes the engine looked much like any other.

  ‘You in the market?’ the man asked. ‘Only I know there are collectors out there – I’ve had offers.’

  ‘Motorbikes are more my thing,’ Fox said. ‘Friend of mine lives near here. He’s got a nice collection.’

  ‘Anthony?’ The man nodded towards the lock-up opposite.

  ‘That’s where he keeps them.’ Fox turned his head towards the graffiti-covered rollover door. There was the usual turn-handle with its central lock, but heavy-duty bolts and padlocks had also been added to either edge of the door.

  ‘He was supposed to be showing me them,’ Fox explained, ‘but he’s not home.’

  ‘He’s often here – takes one out for a run, brings it back, swaps to another. What’s your favourite?’

  ‘I like Moto Guzzis,’ Fox said, remembering the brand from one of the prints on the staircase.

  ‘About as reliable as my Capri,’ the man snorted, flicking away the stub of his cigarette. ‘The older ones, at any rate.’

  ‘I’m surprised he doesn’t keep them at that self-storage place where he works.’ Fox was studying the surroundings. ‘Bit more security than here.’

  ‘This is handier, though, and he’s careful – never leaves the doors open long enough for anyone to get a good look.’

  Fox nodded his understanding. ‘Ever meet his uncle?’ he asked casually.

  ‘Uncle?’

  ‘Uncle Hamish – he was down here a few weeks ago from Inverness. I just thought Anthony might want to show off his collection.’

  ‘Chubby? Fiftyish? Red hair and freckles?’

  Fox thought of the photographs he’d seen. ‘Sounds about right,’ he said.

  ‘Anthony didn’t introduce us, but aye, he was here.’ The man was wiping his hands on a rag. ‘I’ve got to say, you don’t look like one of Anthony’s mates.’

  ‘What do they look like?’

  ‘Younger than you, for a start.’

  ‘We drink together at the Gifford.’

  The man’s suspicions eased. ‘He’s mentioned the place – seems to like it there.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  The man gave a lopsided smile. ‘I thought maybe you were a cop or something – sorry about that.’

  ‘No problem,’ Fox assured him.

  ‘Not that you look like one, mind.’

  Fox nodded slowly. ‘My name’s Malcolm,’ he said.’

  ‘George Jones. I’d offer a handshake, but . . .’ He showed Fox his oil-stained fingers.

  ‘No problem – I better get back and see if he’s turned up.

  Good luck getting your Capri back on the road.’

  ‘No chance of that,’ Jones said, patting its roof. ‘This isn’t so much a garage as a hospice – I’m just keeping the patient comfortable until the end.’

  Fox’s face tightened. He offered a half-hearted wave as he turned and started to walk, pulling out his phone to call Jude.

  He would take over from her for an hour or two, but he knew he might well be back here later. He imagined himself calling Ricky Compston with the news – I’ve got Hamish Wright and his booty. Both are here when you want them . . .

  He was almost smiling to himself as Jude answered his call.

  ‘About bloody time you checked in,’ she announced.

  ‘Doctors want a word with us.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘If you want my best guess, they’re readying to pull the plug.’

  ‘What?’

  But Jude was too busy sobbing to say any more.

  Thirty Eight

  Esson and Ogilvie stood in front of Siobhan Clarke’s desk as they delivered their report, the conclusion of which was that they had found nothing much of interest.

  ‘Nothing?’ Clarke felt it necessary to check.

  Ogilvie stood with his hands behind his back, happy to let his partner do the talking.

  ‘We’ve got a list of everyone who works for the two companies, and we’ll run it to see if anyone rings alarm bells, but I’m not hugely hopeful.’

  ‘The company that does the flyering . . .’

  ‘Higher Flyer,’ Esson reminded Clarke.

  ‘Higher Flyer, yes – do they do any work in and around Linlithgow?’

  ‘Strictly Edinburgh and Glasgow. They actually don’t have many restaurants on their books. Mostly they do comedy shows and that sort of thing – stocking pubs and clubs with flyers.

  They would certainly cover the areas where Minton and Cafferty live, but it would depend on the client. Newington Spice specified the loc
al neighbourhood.’

  ‘Most of the people doing the flyering are students,’ Ogilvie chipped in.

  ‘Our guy would be in his forties,’ Clarke commented. Her eyes drifted towards the closed door of James Page’s office.

  ‘Always supposing John’s theory is correct.’

  ‘What’s he doing in there?’ Esson asked, nodding towards the door.

  ‘Trying to persuade DCI Page that a retired detective, now a civilian, should become bait for an armed serial killer.’

  ‘Not going to happen, is it?’

  Clarke stared at Esson. ‘John can be quite persuasive.’

  ‘As I’ve found to my cost. It would be nice now and again to go on a wild goose chase that actually had a goose at the end of it.’

  ‘Wild or otherwise,’ Ogilvie added.

  Clarke pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘What about VampPrint?’ she asked.

  ‘They do have a storage facility for everything they print,’

  Esson answered, ‘but in the case of Newington Spice, all their stock went either to Higher Flyer or to the restaurant itself.

  That’s not to say someone on the staff couldn’t have helped themselves, and again we’ll run all the employee names through the system.’

  ‘One thing we do know is that no one with the surname Holroyd works for either firm,’ Ogilvie stated. Esson was about to add something, but broke off as the door to Page’s office opened. Rebus marched past Clarke’s desk without saying anything or making eye contact. The door remained open, and a few moments later Page was standing there, indicating that Clarke should join him. She headed in, closing the door again after her. Page was back behind his desk, twisting a pen in both hands.

  ‘At least there were no raised voices,’ she commented. ‘John must be disappointed, though . . .’ She saw the look on Page’s face. ‘You gave him the okay?’

  ‘With the proviso that members of our team will be nearby, as well as two firearms officers. As John says, he’s been on top of this throughout, putting our own efforts to shame in certain respects.’

  Clarke bristled. ‘I’m not sure that’s entirely fair.’

  ‘Me neither. On the other hand, we’d have known nothing about Acorn House if John hadn’t told us.’

  ‘How much did he tell you, sir?’

  ‘Men in positions of authority abusing kids, the whole thing covered up, one young lad thought to be dead after some sex game or other . . .’ Page gave a pained look. ‘Bloody horrible to contemplate, every single bit of it.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘And after this is over, we need to make sure something’s done – the Chief has to be amenable to an inquiry of some kind.’

  ‘An inquiry flagging up one of our own as a paedophile?’

  Page gave another grimace. ‘What’s the alternative?’

  ‘I’m fairly sure the Chief will present you with some.’

  ‘Sweep everything back under the carpet, you mean? The world’s changed, Siobhan. This’ll get out there one way or another.’

  ‘Well, if we need a friendly crime reporter . . .’

  ‘Your chum Laura Smith? Maybe it’ll come to that. Not that the media seemed to do much of anything last time round.’

  ‘One or two tried.’ Clarke shrugged.

  Page was thoughtful, eyes on his pen as he played with it. ‘I need to authorise the firearms.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll let you get on with it.’ She turned to leave.

  ‘You’ll be there too, of course – John more or less insisted.’

  Clarke paused in the doorway, turned and nodded her acceptance, then headed back into the main office.

  Rebus was there, talking with Esson and Ogilvie. His eyes met Clarke’s, and he gave a wink as he grinned.

  Rebus had stocked up on supplies – a couple of sandwiches, newspaper, several CDs to pass the time. But it turned out he couldn’t work the hi-fi – it didn’t have a CD slot, for one thing.

  There was a remote, and when he pressed it, music emerged from speakers in the corners of the ceiling, but it was nothing he wanted to listen to. Even the dog looked unimpressed. The terrier had been wary at first, especially after picking up the scent of another canine. The Dalrymples had taken basket and John B both, along with food and water bowls. But Rebus had found some dry stuff in a cupboard and tipped a helping into a soup bowl, placing it on the kitchen floor for the terrier. It had been quite the reunion when he had arrived at the cat and dog home.

  ‘We’ve been calling him Brillo,’ one of the staff had explained, bringing the dog into the reception area. Recognising Rebus, Brillo had strained at the leash. ‘You sure you only need him for a day or two?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Rebus had said, avoiding the staff member’s eyes.

  He got up every ten minutes or so and looked out of the window. It was just before ten, and he’d been there almost four hours. The unmarked car was not quite directly outside – they

  didn’t want to scare Holroyd away. Two officers in the car, though they hadn’t been especially keen when told they might be pulling an all-nighter. Rebus took out his mobile and checked it. The officers had his number and he had theirs. First sign of anything, either they would call or he would. Esson and Ogilvie were out there somewhere too, traipsing the neighbouring streets in the guise of lovers on their way home.

  Esson had already sent one text to complain of impending blisters, to which Rebus had responded that she should get a piggyback from her colleague.

  With no bed, Brillo had settled on the sofa, but every time Rebus moved, he looked interested, in case a walk was in the offing.

  ‘Sorry, pal,’ Rebus said, not for the first time.

  He climbed the stairs and used the loo, then walked into the spare bedroom. Siobhan Clarke lay stretched out on the narrow single bed, reading a book by the light of a bedside lamp.

  ‘I hope you put the seat down this time,’ she admonished him.

  ‘This is why I never remarried.’

  She smiled tiredly. ‘Get any pictures while you were up north?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Some grandfather you are.’

  ‘Sam took one of me and Carrie – maybe she’ll email it.’

  ‘She will if you ask her.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘What’s the book?’

  ‘He said, changing the subject. It’s Kate Atkinson.’

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘Someone keeps coming back from the dead.’

  ‘Not a bad fit for this evening, then.’

  ‘I suppose. You really think he’ll come?’

  ‘Maybe not tonight.’

  ‘Know the grief we’re going to get if we need to keep requisitioning those gun-slingers?’

  ‘Cheery pair, though, weren’t they?’

  ‘Rays of sunshine.’ She smiled again.

  ‘I should go downstairs.’

  ‘I keep thinking of Little Red Riding Hood. You’re the wolf dressed as Grandma.’

  ‘I don’t remember Red Riding Hood killing anyone, though.’

  ‘Fair point. Stick the kettle on then, Grandma.’

  Rebus headed to the kitchen, where Brillo was waiting, ever hopeful. He gave the dog a pat and filled the kettle. He looked at the kitchen door. It led, he knew, to a well-tended garden with the usual area of decking. There was a security light above the back door, but the bulb had given up and not been replaced.

  That was fine by Rebus. He opened the door and breathed the night air. He couldn’t quite smell or hear the sea, and there was too much light pollution for any but the brightest stars to be visible. He remembered the drive south from Tongue to Inverness, the road winding and narrow at first, and not another vehicle for tens of miles. The sky had been studded with stars, and he’d seen one owl and several deer along the route, none of which had meant very much to him – he’d still been busy with thoughts of Carrie.

  Brillo had headed into the garden to do his business, so Rebus left the door ajar while he p
oured the tea. He took one mug upstairs, and Brillo was in the kitchen on his return, fretting over his absence.

  ‘Here I am,’ Rebus said, closing the back door and leaving it unlocked. No point complicating things unnecessarily.

  Fox was in his car when Clarke rang.

  ‘Hiya,’ he said.

  ‘Hope I didn’t disturb you.’

  ‘I’m outside the hospital,’ he lied. ‘Just about to head home.’

  ‘How’s Mitch?’

  ‘Pretty bad. Jude phoned to tell me they were readying to pull the plug. She was exaggerating, but not by much. They’re talking about a “persistent vegetative state”.’

  ‘Bit soon for that, isn’t it? You sure you’re okay to drive home?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Are you at the flat?’

  ‘I’m in the lavender-scented spare room of a Mr and Mrs Dalrymple.’

  ‘Do Mr and Mrs Dalrymple know?’

  Clarke explained the situation to him. ‘John’s downstairs filling the condemned man’s shoes, and we’ve a couple of sharpshooters outside.’

  ‘John’s a civilian.’

  ‘Try telling him that. He convinced James Page that this was the only game plan worth the name . . . Hang on, I’ve got a text I need to check . . . Shit, got to go.’

  The phone went dead in Fox’s hand. He placed it on the passenger seat and popped a fresh piece of gum into his mouth.

  He was parked on the road leading into the high-rise estate, halfway between Anthony Wright’s home and the lock-up.

  There was no sign of life and the temperature was dropping. He

  was glad Siobhan hadn’t dug too deep – this was his case and no one else’s. Not just because of Compston, Bell and Hastie, but for his father, too, who had always thought him better suited to an office than the street. Yet here he was, watching and waiting.

  ‘My score,’ he said quietly to himself.

  And a few scores to settle as well.

  Rebus took the call from the firearms duo.

  ‘Someone’s coming. Big guy, looks like he means business.’

  ‘You only step in when you get the word,’ Rebus reminded them, ending the call. The doorbell rang and he went into the hall. Clarke was already halfway down the stairs, but he shooed her away. Only when she had disappeared from sight did he open the door.