Even dogs in the wild (10 page)

said, staring at the front-page headline.

‘Got a bit hectic, I admit.’

‘You gave the story to your pal Laura.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m guessing today will be busy too.’

‘Actually, I’m happy for James to hog the limelight. I’m

heading to Linlithgow with Christine. We’re just about there.’

‘Oh?’

‘Anyway, what are you up to?’

‘Those visitors I mentioned, the ones from Gartcosh? I’m

acting as liaison, sort of.’

‘Keeping an eye on them for Maxtone?’

‘Pretty much. They’re in town because a Glasgow

gangster’s—’

‘Sorry, Malcolm, you’re breaking up. And I need to start

looking for the turn-off.’

‘Maybe speak to you later then?’

But the signal had gone. Fox turned off the phone and

skimmed the news story again, before placing the paper on the

passenger seat, on top of a bulging folder. There had been a
lot

about the Stark family on the internet. He’d printed off much of

it and taken everything to bed with him, along with a pad of

lined A4 paper. Joe Stark’s wife had died young, leaving him to

bring up their only child, Dennis. Fox reckoned Joe had lacked

any but the most basic parenting skills. He’d been too busy

extending his empire and consolidating his reputation as one of

the most ruthless thugs in Glasgow gangland – which was no

mean feat, considering the competition. Dennis had been

trouble from his earliest days in primary school. Bullied (and

maybe worse, ignored) by his father, he’d become a bully

himself. It helped that he’d grown up fast, building muscle to

go with his threats. In his early teens, only a wily lawyer had

stopped him doing time for an attack outside a football ground.

He had used an open razor – similar to Joe’s weapon of

choice in the 1970s. That interested Fox – the son imitating the

father, hoping to gain his approbation. In his twenties, Dennis

had served two stretches in HMP Barlinnie, which did little to

curb his excesses while at the same time making him new allies.

Fox hadn’t been able to find out a whole lot about this coterie.

Joe’s men were in their fifties and sixties predominantly, and

tales from the Glasgow badlands featured them regularly. But

Dennis’s cohorts were a generation younger and had learned the

art of subterfuge. They appeared on no front pages, and in

precious few court reports. Driving to St Leonard’s, Fox

wondered if, shown photos, he would be able to pick out the

undercover cop.

The only person in the office was Alec Bell. He yawned a

greeting and stirred his coffee.

‘Ricky’s having a lie-in,’ he explained.

‘He took the dawn shift?’ Fox guessed.

Bell nodded and rubbed at his eyes. ‘He’s not keen, though –

there’s half a chance old Joe could place him.’

‘They know one another?’

‘A couple of run-ins back in the day. But seeing how Joe is

in Glasgow right now . . .’

‘Compston reckons he’s safe enough taking a shift?’ Fox

nodded his understanding. ‘Anything else I need to know?’ he

asked, hanging up his coat.

‘Not really, unless you happen to have the name of a good

curry house – so far, Glasgow beats your overpriced city into a

cocked hat.’

‘I’ll have a think. Meantime, I was wondering if you had a

file on the Starks – something I can pass the time with.’

‘It’s mostly on computer.’

‘Any surveillance pics?’

‘Why would you want those?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Just occurred to me last night that I’ve no

idea what the entourage looks like.’

Bell got busy on his laptop and crooked a finger. Fox walked

over to the desk and studied the screen from behind the older

man’s shoulder.

‘That’s Joe,’ Bell said, using the cursor to circle Joe Stark’s

face. The photo showed a group of men walking down a

pavement. ‘To his left is Walter Grieve, and to his right Len

Parker. Those three have known each other forever – Joe

probably trusts Walter and Len more than he does Dennis.’

‘Bit of tension between father and son?’

‘You know how Prince Charles has spent his whole life

waiting to take over the family firm?’

‘For Charles read Dennis.’ Fox nodded his understanding.

He was studying Joe Stark. Of course, he’d seen plenty of

photos of the man during his previous evening’s excavation of

the internet, but this photo was recent. Stark’s face was more

heavily lined, his hair thinner, slicked back from his forehead.

‘Looks a bit like Ray Reardon, no?’ Alec Bell commented.

‘The snooker player?’ Fox considered this. ‘Maybe.’

Though in truth he didn’t see it. There had always been a

twinkle in Ray Reardon’s eyes. All he could see in Joe Stark’s

face was cold malice.

Bell had reduced the photograph to a thumbnail and was

poring over the others on his screen. He clicked on one. The

inside of a busy pub. Five men seated at a table.

‘Dennis and his crew,’ Bell said, pointing at each man as he

named them. ‘Rob Simpson, Callum Andrews, Jackie Dyson,

Tommy Rae, and Dennis himself.’

‘Doesn’t look much like his dad.’

‘Takes after his mum, apparently,’ Bell said.

‘Big bastard, though. Does he go to the gym?’

‘Addicted to the weights. Uses all the bodybuilding potions

and powders.’

‘Is his hair permed, or are the curls natural?’

‘God-given, far as I know.’

‘You ever talked with him?’

Bell shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t be on the team if I had.

Can’t have anyone from the Stark gang clocking us.’

‘Doesn’t seem to apply to your boss,’ Fox mused.

‘Special dispensation – Ricky pushed hard to bring

Operation Junior into the world.’ Bell turned his head to study

Fox. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘You’re bursting to ask.’

‘Well, if you insist – is your guy one of the four with

Dennis?’

‘What do you think?’

‘None of them looks like a cop.’

‘How far would our man get if he did? Or if he spoke or

acted like one?’

‘I take it he’s not using his real name.’

‘Course not.’

‘And you’ve built a life story for him, just in case someone

checks?’

‘We have.’

‘How long did you say he’d been in the gang?’

‘I don’t think I did say.’ Bell was suddenly cagey. Rather

than open any of the other photos in the album, he closed the lid

of his laptop and took another slug of coffee.

Well, that was fine. Fox had names now. Given a bit of

privacy, he would run another internet search, just on the off

chance.

‘News from Glasgow?’ he asked, moving into the middle of

the room.

‘Joe’s still there.’

‘He took both his lieutenants with him when he went?’

‘Yes.’

‘So it’s just Dennis and his gang of four left here? Any idea

what they’ll be doing today?’

‘Looking for Hamish Wright.’

‘Have they stuck around longer than in Aberdeen or

Dundee?’

‘Seems that way.’

‘That might mean something – maybe they’re convinced

he’s here.’

‘Maybe,’ Bell conceded.

‘Your man on the inside hasn’t said?’

Bell gave him a hard stare. ‘He doesn’t often get the chance

to update us.’

‘When did you last hear from him?’

‘Five days ago.’

‘Before you came to Edinburgh?’

‘That’s right. If and when the Starks get hold of Wright,

that’s when he’ll make the call.’

‘How long’s he been—’

‘Enough fucking questions, Fox. I wish I’d never opened my

mouth in the first place.’

‘Ah, but you did – I think you were trying to show off in

front of Rebus. Is that a fair reading?’

‘Get lost.’

‘Hard to do in my own office.’ Fox stretched out both arms

to reinforce the point. ‘And you did let slip last night that your

mole’s been in character for over three years.’ He tapped his

forehead. ‘Thing about not drinking is, I tend to remember

things.’

‘Then you’ll not have forgotten what Ricky said to you that

first day – you’re on probation. And after that trick you pulled,

going to Rebus behind our backs . . .’ Bell shook his head

slowly. ‘How’s your dad, by the way?’

Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘My
dad
?’

‘And your sister Jude. Not too close to her, are you?’ Bell

gave a sly smile. ‘Ricky needed certain assurances that he knew

the kind of man he was getting. Your boss came through with a

potted biography. Now if that had been Ricky, he’d have

handed over a minimum of detail with a few howlers mixed in.

DCI Maxtone proved to be a lot more accommodating.

Remember that when you make your next report. Some chiefs

are better than others, and some teams really
are
teams. The

sooner you stop acting as Maxtone’s snitch, the sooner you’ll

find that out.’

‘Is that a fact?’

‘Think about it. You said yourself you’re one step above

pariah status here. Maybe we can offer you something better for

a time.’

‘Better than Angry Birds?’

‘I’ll let you be the judge of that,’ Bell said, opening the lid

of his laptop again.

‘Papers called him the “tragic lottery victim”,’ Christine Esson

said. ‘Makes it sound as if it was the lottery that did for him.’

‘Which, if someone killed him for his money, is almost

true,’ Clarke replied. The new-build two-storey brick house was

surrounded by a high wall and electric gates. These gates had

been left open for them. The driveway was short and led to a

paved parking circle. To the right of the house stood a three-car

garage. Clarke stopped her Astra in front of it, next to a BMW 3

Series. The man who got out of the Beemer straightened his tie

and did up a button on his suit.

‘DS Grant?’ Clarke checked. The man nodded. ‘I’m DI

Clarke, this is DC Esson. Thanks for meeting us.’

‘No trouble at all.’ Grant ducked back into his car long

enough to produce a folder, which he handed over.

‘Post-mortem examination, crime scene stuff and the

forensic report.’

‘Much appreciated. The case is still active, yes?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I’m not a reporter, Jim. You can tell the truth here.’

Grant gave a thin smile. ‘I suppose we’ve reached the

treading water stage. Team’s been cut to the bare minimum.

We’ve interviewed everyone we can think of, put feelers out,

studied CCTV from the town centre and the routes in and out of

Linlithgow . . .’

‘Much the same as we’ve been doing in Edinburgh.’

‘High-profile victims, that’s the only solid connection that I

can see.’

‘And men who lived alone,’ Esson chipped in.

‘Michael Tolland wasn’t a bachelor like your Lord Minton,

though,’ Grant countered. ‘Married quarter of a century. Wife

was already ill when they scooped the lottery. Liver cancer.

Didn’t live long enough to get any good from it, but her

husband wrote a six-figure cheque to charity after she passed

on.’

‘Between that and the house, he wouldn’t have had a lot left

over.’

‘About two hundred and seventy-five thousand.’

‘Any children?’

Grant shook his head. ‘His sister’s kids look like getting the

lot. Sister passed away eight months ago.’

‘Not the luckiest of families, despite appearances.’ Clarke

was studying the front of the house.

‘Want to go inside?’ Grant jangled a key chain.

‘Lead the way.’

There were still bloodstains on the beige hall carpet. Clarke

took out the crime scene photos, sharing them with Esson.

Beyond the hall there was a large living room, dominated by an

oversized TV screen and surround-sound speakers. There were

a few ornaments, but not many. A single framed photo of

husband and wife at their registry office wedding. Ella Tolland

had worked as an administrator for the local council. A decade

younger than her husband. In the photo she was managing to

smile, but her mouth was closed, in contrast to her husband’s

toothy grin. He gripped her upper arm as if to stop her heading

for the hills.

‘Happy marriage, was it?’ Clarke enquired.

‘No reason to think otherwise. I’ve stuck a DVD in the

folder, a couple of interviews they did after hitting the jackpot.’

‘Thanks.’

Grant led them through to the kitchen, showing them where

the door had been forced. The door itself had been removed as

evidence and replaced with something more basic.

‘We’re thinking a crowbar or similar.’

‘And that’s what was used to attack the victim?’

‘No weapon recovered, so we can only speculate, but the

pathologist reckoned it would be consistent. You said on the

phone, though – you think a hammer in Edinburgh?’

‘Now you’ve brought up the crowbar, we may revisit that.’

‘No weapon found?’

‘We’ve searched the streets nearby, back gardens,

communal bins, even the Water of Leith.’

‘Same here. We had a dozen men walk the road between

here and the highway – fields, ditches, you name it.’

‘Any thoughts, Christine?’ Clarke said.

‘Does DS Grant know about the note?’

Grant himself decided to answer. ‘Yes, but there was

nothing like that found here.’