Even dogs in the wild (11 page)

Clarke had opened the fridge. ‘Wasn’t much of a cook,

was he?’

‘From talking to friends, he seemed to eat in the pub a lot, or

else grab takeaway.’ Grant opened a drawer and lifted out a pile

of menus. ‘Preference for Chinese and Indian – and not all

local, either. Then again, if you’ve got money, distance is no

object.’

‘You’ve searched the house from top to bottom?’ Clarke

checked. ‘The note would’ve been easy to miss.’

‘I could see about giving it another go, if my boss will lend

me the bodies.’

Clarke looked to Esson. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think the chances of the two cases being linked are slim.’

‘How slim?’

‘Catwalk supermodel. We’ve got two victims with nothing

to connect them – they didn’t know one another and moved in

very different social circles.’

Clarke was sifting through the contents of the file. ‘Mr

Tolland was never in trouble with the law? No court

appearances?’

‘Clean as a whistle, though I dare say some of the people he

looked after might not be strangers to a summons.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He was a care worker – people with problems, that sort of

thing.’

‘Could any of them have carried a grudge?’

‘Lord Minton never handled that sort of case,’ Esson

cautioned.

‘Maybe back in the day he did,’ Clarke replied.

‘I don’t think this was personal,’ Grant stated. ‘Breaking and

entering gone wrong, rather than hamesucken.’

Clarke almost smiled at his use of the word – the Scots legal

term for breaking into someone’s house with intent to harm

them.

‘So what did they take?’ she asked, closing the file once

more. ‘Not even his laptop or iPhone is missing. Credit cards,

cash, Breitling watch – all still here, same as in Lord Minton’s

house. Why didn’t the perpetrator just wait till the place was

empty? Not another house for half a mile – nobody to hear

anything. For some reason, the victim has to be home.’ She

paused. ‘Who found the body, by the way?’

‘An old friend. Tolland had missed a pub quiz – he was team

captain and he took it seriously. When he didn’t answer his

phone, the friend dropped round. Gates locked, but when he

hoisted himself up on to the wall, he could see the TV was on.

Eventually he wandered around the back and found the door

open.’

‘How old a friend?’

‘Since school, I think.’

‘Maybe talk to him again. If Tolland
had
received any kind

of threat, he might have confided. At the very least, he’d

probably have appeared anxious or out of sorts.’

‘Okay,’ Grant said.

‘In which case, I think we’re done here.’ Clarke shook

Grant’s hand. ‘And thanks again for meeting us.’

‘My pleasure,’ Grant said.

As the Astra turned back down the driveway, Clarke asked

Esson what she thought.

‘Not really my type – probably irons his underpants.’

‘He did have a look of the tailor’s dummy about him, didn’t

he? Reckon he really will talk to the friend again?’

‘Yes, but only because it gives him an excuse to get back to

us. When you turned away to open the fridge . . .’

‘What?’

‘His eyes were doing everything short of stripping the

clothes off you.’

Clarke squirmed. ‘I thought you were the one he liked.’

‘I’d say the man’s not had a woman for a while. Has he got

your mobile number?’

‘Yes.’

‘Probably not the very next text, then, but the one after that.’

‘What?’

‘It won’t be about work – trust me.’

Clarke made a face.

‘If you’re the betting type, I’ll gladly take your money,’

Esson teased.

‘Not the next text but the one after? A text rather than an

actual phone call?’

‘Twenty quid says one or the other.’

‘Twenty quid it is.’ Clarke took her hand off the steering

wheel long enough for the two women to shake on it.

Ten

Rebus drove past Cafferty’s house and saw the car in the

driveway, just inside the open gates. Two men in the front,

watching him as he watched them. He parked on a meter and

walked back to the house. The men didn’t move as he passed

them, but he felt their eyes on him as he walked up to the front

door and rang the bell. The living room window had been

replaced, but the brick-coloured putty had yet to be painted.

Cafferty opened the door.

‘I take it you told them I was coming?’ Rebus nodded

towards the car. ‘Wise to get a bit of security.’

‘Come in.’ Cafferty led the way into the living room. The

painting hiding the bullet hole had been removed, the hole filled

in. The plaster looked fresh, but would need repainting.

‘You sounded a bit frazzled on the phone,’ Rebus said. ‘Has

something happened?’

Cafferty had settled on the edge of an armchair. Rebus sat

down opposite him.

‘You seen the paper?’ The
Scotsman
was on the coffee table.

Cafferty turned it round so it faced Rebus. There was a photo of

David Minton, and a headline about the threat on his life.

‘I’ve seen it.’

Cafferty eased something from his trouser pocket and placed

it on the coffee table. It was the bullet prised from the wall, half

wrapped in a piece of paper.

‘What am I supposed to do with that? I’m not a cop,

remember.’

‘Look at the paper.’

Rebus narrowed his eyes, then reached forward and

unfolded the note.

‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Siobhan needs to see this.’

‘Is she working the Minton case?’ Cafferty watched as

Rebus nodded, his eyes still on the note and its bald threat:

I’M GOING TO KILL YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID.

‘Where did it come from?’ Rebus asked.

‘It was just lying inside the front door one morning.’

‘Folded like this?’

‘No. It was lying flat, message-side up, like someone had

pushed it under the door rather than using the letter box. Meant

I’d see it straight off.’

‘You don’t have any cameras?’

‘CCTV, you mean? Any idea how useless that is?’

Rebus looked at the note again. ‘How long ago?’

‘Five days back.’

Handwritten capitals in what looked like black biro.

‘So who sent it?’

‘The same person who took a shot at me.’

‘You know that for sure, or are you just guessing?’

‘I’m putting two and two together.’

‘Guy who killed Lord Minton didn’t use a gun.’

‘And yet we both got identical notes. You saying the shooter

may not be the same person?’

‘I’m not saying anything . . .’ Rebus had been about to call

Cafferty by his first name, but stopped himself. Big Ger?

Morris? Gerald? He was Morris Gerald Cafferty. He was Big

Ger. Nothing would have sounded quite right.

‘John,’ Cafferty said quietly. ‘What the hell is this about?’

‘Someone thinks you and David Minton wronged them in

some way, and they’re intent on making you pay.’

‘I didn’t know who Minton was until the news told me he

was dead.’

‘You never faced him across a courtroom? He never locked

up any of your men?’

‘No.’

‘He’s the law, you’re a gangster – already there’s a

connection.’ Rebus realised he had taken out his cigarettes, the

pack and a lighter clutched in the same hand.

‘Go ahead if you really need to,’ Cafferty said.

‘I can wait.’ Rebus put them away again. ‘The bullet will go

to ballistics. It’s pretty beaten up, but if the gun’s been used

before, we might get a match.’

‘Okay.’

‘And Siobhan’s going to need a proper interview with you –

on the record.’

‘She has to promise the news won’t leak. Last thing I need is

reporters climbing over me.’

‘You know what investigations are like.’

‘I know they’re about as watertight as a paper boat.’

‘Meaning you’ll have to take your chances. Siobhan will do

what she can. But if she thinks it’ll help the inquiry to go

public . . .’

‘Aye, fair enough.’ Cafferty looked suddenly tired and old.

‘Those two gorillas out front may not be enough. If I were

you, I’d find somewhere with a bit more anonymity.’

‘Maybe a guest house, eh? With the Starks along the

corridor.’

‘You know where they are?’

‘I made a few calls – know thy enemy and all that.’

‘You think they . . .?’

‘How the hell do I know what I think? I think
everything
.

Every bastard I ever did wrong to – know how long that list is?’

‘A good few of them must be dead – some, only you’ll know

where the bodies are.’

‘You’re about as funny as a coronary.’

‘I’d say you’re well on your way to one of those. But getting

riled isn’t going to help. You’ve really no idea why someone

would send you that note?’

‘No.’

‘And when the shot was fired, you didn’t see whoever did

it?’

‘I saw . . . maybe the vaguest shape. A padded coat with a

hood pulled down low over the head.’

‘Male?’

‘Judging by the build.’

‘Age?’

‘No idea. Maybe six foot tall. Just a glimpse as the window

smashed. But I was ducking, too, and making for the door. I

wanted to get out of that bloody room.’

‘Twenty years ago, you’d have been out of the house and

chasing him down the street.’

Cafferty managed a smile. ‘With a cleaver in my hand.’

‘If we were to get to the bottom of this, I’d want it to go to

trial. Wouldn’t look good if the suspect died while on remand.’

‘Might be a deal-breaker.’

Rebus was holding up his phone. ‘Before I call Siobhan, I

need you to promise.’

‘That I won’t whack whoever tried to whack me? I’ll

promise that if you promise the media won’t get wind of that

note.’

‘Why is it such a problem?’

‘Use your loaf, John. With the Starks circling the city? And

Darryl Christie – I’m assuming you talked to him?’

‘He said the bullet was nothing to do with him. He seemed

antsy, though.’

‘Because of the Starks?’

‘He seems to think they might try muscling in – with your

blessing.’

Cafferty shook his head slowly. ‘Whatever’s going on, I

can’t afford to look weak, or like I’m suddenly cosying up to

the law and order brigade.’

‘You’ve not completely left the game, then?’

‘Neither of us has – or ever could.’ Cafferty managed

another smile.

‘You still reckon one or the other might be behind this?’

‘Everything is possible.’

‘So where does Lord Minton fit in?’

‘Maybe he’d taken backhanders somewhere down the line –

let off the Starks’ men, or Christie’s. Thinking of making a

clean breast of it towards the end of his life . . .’ Cafferty

shrugged. ‘I’m not the detective here.’

‘Then maybe it’s time I called one,’ Rebus suggested.

‘Maybe it is,’ Cafferty conceded, leaning back in his chair.

*

Clarke arrived with Christine Esson. This, too, was apparently a

deal-breaker, and Esson was sent to wait in the car. Both note

and bullet still sat on the coffee table, and Clarke noted them

immediately.

‘Okay,’ she said, exchanging looks with both men. ‘Which

one of you wants to do the talking?’

‘He does,’ Rebus said, nodding towards Cafferty. ‘I need to

feed the meter and have a smoke.’

He headed back outdoors, passing the bodyguards’ car. Only

one of them was inside. The other had his back to Rebus as he

walked sentry-style towards the rear garden. Rebus tapped on

the window and the man in the driver’s seat obliged by

lowering it an inch.

‘Just the two of you?’ Rebus enquired.

‘We’re working shifts with another pair. Mr Cafferty tells us

you used to be a cop.’ He watched as Rebus got a cigarette

going.

‘I was army before that – Parachute Regiment.’ Rebus

exhaled smoke. ‘How about you?’

The man gave a slow nod.

‘I can usually tell.’

‘Same way I can usually spot a cop. Is it serious, what’s

happening with Mr Cafferty?’

‘Might be.’

‘He’s a sitting target as long as he stays here.’

‘Just what I’ve been telling him.’ Rebus flicked ash on the

driveway. ‘Keep up the good work, eh?’

As he walked up the road, digging change from his pocket,

he saw Christine Esson crouched on the pavement next to

Clarke’s Astra. She was patting the wire-haired terrier.

‘Looks like you’ve made a friend,’ Rebus commented.

She straightened up. ‘It’s nice to feel wanted.’ Then, with a

gesture towards Cafferty’s house: ‘I’m not happy about being

shut out.’

‘Siobhan will tell you all about it.’

‘So why am I not in there?’

‘Because Cafferty’s hardly a major contributor to the Police

Benevolent Fund.’

‘Exactly – yet here we are offering our help.’

Rebus watched as the dog sniffed his shoes before returning

to the more attentive Esson. ‘That’s what we do, Christine,

sometimes whether people want it or not.’

‘Are you forgetting you’ve retired?’

Rebus looked at her. ‘You know, for a second there, it

actually had slipped my mind. But being a civilian has its

advantages.’

‘Such as?’

‘Not answering to anyone, just for starters. And at the end of