Even dogs in the wild (12 page)

the day, no forms to fill in. How’s the Minton case, by the

way?’

‘We’re just back from Linlithgow. Lottery winner got done

in a couple of weeks back.’

‘I remember that. Siobhan thinks there might be a

connection?’

‘Tenuous at best.’

‘No note left at the scene?’

‘Local team’s going to give the house another search.’

‘Your priorities may be about to change,’ Rebus warned her.

‘Why’s that?’

But Rebus just smiled and walked on, crushing the remains

of his cigarette underfoot and paying for a new parking ticket at

the machine. She was playing with the dog again as he passed

her on his way back to the house.

He had left the front door unlocked so he could let himself

in. Clarke was seated in the chair Rebus had vacated, Cafferty

across from her. She was studying the note.

‘Whose is the dog?’ Rebus asked Cafferty.

‘What dog?’

‘The one that’s always outside.’

‘Turned up a week or so back. I think it’s a stray.’

‘Looks like someone’s feeding it, though.’

‘A lot of soft touches on this street – present company

aside.’

Rebus turned his attention to Clarke. ‘What’s the thinking?’

he asked.

‘Mr Cafferty is unwilling for this to be made public,’ Clarke

answered. ‘I’ve told him that will be DCI Page’s decision.

Meantime, I want the bullet taken to the forensic lab for

analysis – they might want to send it elsewhere if their

equipment isn’t up to the job. Could be a while before we get

any results.’

‘And the note?’

‘Looks like the same pen, probably the same hand. Again,

I’d like an expert to give us an opinion.’

‘Reckon it adds up?’ Rebus folded his arms. ‘Minton was

attacked inside his home by someone who broke in. Not nearly

the same MO as standing on somebody’s lawn and shooting

through a window.’

‘You think the notes and the shooting are unconnected?’

‘I’m just raising a doubt. The murder in Linlithgow has

more in common with Minton than this does.’

‘What murder in Linlithgow?’ Cafferty interrupted.

‘Not important,’ Clarke told him.

‘Lottery winner a few weeks back,’ Rebus added, earning a

glare of disapproval from Clarke for his efforts.

‘I remember hearing about that,’ Cafferty said.

‘It’s really not important,’ Clarke stressed.

‘So what’s next?’ Rebus asked.

‘Mr Cafferty needs to come to HQ and give a statement.’

‘No way,’ Cafferty stated, raising a hand. ‘I walk in there,

it’s going to be all over the news.’

‘We could bring the recording equipment here,’ Rebus

suggested. Clarke gave him another look. ‘And by “we”, of

course I mean Police Scotland.’

‘I’m not sure the Fiscal’s office would go for it,’ Clarke

said.

‘But you could ask?’

‘I need to take this to DCI Page first.’ Clarke was digging in

her pocket for her phone.

‘I don’t want any more cops in here,’ Cafferty warned her.

‘You, I’ll just about tolerate.’

‘And John?’

Cafferty stared at Rebus. ‘For now, I suppose,’ he conceded.

‘Well, I need to speak to Page anyway.’ Clarke got to her

feet and moved towards the door, making the call as she went.

Cafferty stood up and found himself face to face with Rebus.

‘The crew outside,’ Rebus said. ‘Two-by-two, twelve-hour

shifts . . .’

‘What about them?’

‘Where did they come from?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean, are they part of Andrew Goodman’s show?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘Just that Goodman’s been in at least one meeting with the

Starks since they hit town.’

‘I know – Andrew told me. He’s a good guy.’

‘And did Andrew happen to say what the Starks wanted

from him?’

‘A guy from the Highlands called Hamish Wright was

mentioned, but only in passing. Seemed it wasn’t him they were

looking for so much as something he’s got hidden away

somewhere.’

‘And we both know what that will be.’

‘Thing is, we’re talking a commodity of some considerable

bulk.’

‘Not easy to hide?’

‘And difficult to move without someone noticing. No way

Wright can use one of his own lorries.’

‘So he’ll be in touch with other hauliers maybe?’

‘If he feels he needs to move it. Then again, it may be

stowed away somewhere he reckons no one can find it.’

‘Would he know people in the city?’

‘I’d say so.’

‘You wouldn’t be one of them?’

‘I’m not of a mind to get into that sort of discussion.’

‘Which sort of answers my question. Do you know where

Hamish Wright is?’

‘I’d be surprised if he’s anywhere – anywhere above ground,

that is.’

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then why are the Starks looking

for him?’

‘What makes you think they are?’

‘What do you mean?’ But Cafferty just shook his head and

placed a hand on Rebus’s shoulder, steering him towards the

door. ‘How much of this did you already know when Fox and I

spoke to you?’

‘You worried I’m not being honest with you, John?’

‘I suppose there’s a first time for everything.’

‘To put your mind at rest, I only heard from Goodman after

you and I had our little chinwag in the Golden Rule.’

‘I’ll get you to a safe house,’ Rebus said, stopping just inside

the front door. ‘It’s yours as soon as you tell me what’s really

going on.’

‘Go find a dominoes game or something. If I want advice on

protection, I’ll consult the police rather than a pensioner.’

‘I wish that bullet had done some damage to your thick

fucking skull.’

Cafferty paused at the front door and thought for a moment.

‘No you don’t,’ he said, pulling open the door and ushering

Rebus outside. The terrier was at the gate, watching both men,

its tail wagging.

Eleven

Fox was in the back of the Audi A4, Bell driving and Compston

in the passenger seat. Bell and Compston were readying to

relieve Hastie and Hughes. They hadn’t wanted to bring Fox,

but he’d insisted, threatening to take it to Doug Maxtone. And

he had proved useful, since the satnav seemed singularly ill-

equipped to deal with traffic snarl-ups, roadworks, and

prospective short cuts.

‘Piece of shit,’ Compston had decided, flicking a finger

against its screen.

Now they were driving along a road on an industrial estate.

Car dealerships, a scrapyard and a self-storage facility.

‘Where are you?’ Compston asked into his phone. Then he

cursed. ‘We just passed them,’ he told Bell. Fox turned to look

through the rear window. Hastie and Hughes were in the parked

Vauxhall Insignia. Opposite stood CC Self Storage, an

anonymous slab of a building behind high metal railings.

Dennis Stark and his team were somewhere within, presumably

talking to the boss.

‘We’ll do a circuit and come round again,’ Compston was

telling his phone. ‘You pull out, we pull into your space, and

you give Fox a ride back to base.’ Then, turning towards Fox:

‘CC Self Storage belongs to Chick Carpenter. It’s his Aston

parked behind the fence. Pulled some information on him from

the system. Bit too chummy with your pal Darryl Christie.

Christ knows who’s got stuff hidden away in that unit.’

‘Makes sense for the Starks to be paying a visit,’ Fox

commented. They were approaching a T-junction, Bell

signalling left.

‘Plenty other storage units in the city,’ Compston continued,

‘not all of them owned by Carpenter. The Starks have already

visited two that are, on the face of it at least, more legit than

this.’

‘I’d have thought this a more obvious target.’

‘You and me both. Maybe they were stocking up on info

from Carpenter’s competitors.’

‘Plus, if he’s friends with Christie and the Starks know

it . . .’

‘Softly softly,’ Compston agreed with a nod.

Left and left again . . . more industrial facilities, some with

vans and lorries outside. A fast-food kiosk selling burgers and

hot drinks. Kerbside was busy with parked vehicles, which was

good – less chance of the surveillance being noticed.

‘How long will they keep at it?’ Fox asked. ‘In Edinburgh, I

mean?’

‘They do seem to be lingering.’

‘Meaning they’ve got a whiff of something?’

‘Maybe.’ Compston had an incoming call. He put it on

speakerphone. ‘What is it, Beth?’

‘Bit of an argument in the car park. Pointed fingers getting

pointier.’ Alec Bell pressed his foot more firmly on the

accelerator. ‘Carpenter has a mate with him, but it’s two against

five.’

‘We’re just about back with you.’

‘Do we intervene if things get—’

‘We do nothing,’ Compston stressed. ‘The pair of you are

bystanders. You stay in the car – understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Compston turned towards Bell. ‘Slow down. Don’t want to

draw attention.’

They were almost at the storage unit.

‘Try not to gawp,’ Compston warned. ‘Eyes front.’

But Fox couldn’t help himself. He watched as the argument

turned suddenly physical, Dennis Stark aiming a kick and a

punch at one of the men, at which point his posse made sure the

second man didn’t do anything stupid. The punched man had

dropped to one knee. He wore a suit and tie, and Fox assumed

this was Carpenter. His companion, the one being cautioned by

Stark’s men, was a couple of decades younger and dressed in T-

shirt and denim jacket. Jackie Dyson hauled Carpenter back to

his feet and smacked his forehead into Carpenter’s unprotected

nose. The man’s knees buckled and he was on all fours as

Dennis Stark squatted in front of him, grabbing him by the hair

and yelling into his bloodied face. Dyson meantime had

unzipped himself and was aiming a stream of urine over the

Aston Martin’s driver’s-side door.

‘We can’t just do nothing,’ Fox said.

‘Watch us,’ Compston told him. They were past the

altercation, heading for the T-junction again. ‘U-turn this time,

Alec,’ Compston ordered. Then, into his phone: ‘Everything

okay there?’

‘We’re sitting tight.’

‘Well done.’

‘Broad daylight,’ Fox offered. ‘Not exactly low-profile any

more.’

‘Joe will be furious,’ Compston agreed.

‘Smacking of desperation?’

‘Old man’s back in Glasgow. That means two things: Dennis

wants a result, so he can brag about it to his dad. But he’s also

off the leash, and this is the kind of thing that happens when

he’s given his freedom. Take it nice and easy, Alec . . .’

They were passing the altercation again, but it was winding

down. The prone and blood-spattered Carpenter was being

tended by the younger man, while Dennis and crew walked

nonchalantly in the direction of their people carrier. Fox was

getting his first real look at them in the flesh. He still wouldn’t

put money on spotting the undercover cop. Simpson, Andrews,

Dyson, Rae – none of them looked in the least fazed by what

had just come to pass. Stark walked slightly ahead of them,

clenching and unclenching his fists.

‘Any idea where they’ll be headed next?’ Compston asked

into his phone.

‘We think a pub called the Gimlet.’

‘I know that place,’ Fox interrupted. ‘Used to be owned by

Darryl Christie.’

‘Well,’ Hastie’s voice continued, ‘it’s now owned by a man

called Davie Dunn, who used to drive long-distance lorries.’

‘For Hamish Wright?’

‘Back in the day.’

‘Okay, Beth,’ Compston said. ‘Alec and me will park at the

end of the road here. You come and get Fox.’

‘Running surveillance needs more than just the four of us.’

‘I know – hopefully the Glasgow contingent won’t be much

longer.’ Compston ended the call.

‘We could phone for an ambulance,’ Fox suggested.

‘There’s an injured man back there.’

‘Fuck him,’ Compston said. ‘If he needs sorting out, his

stooge is there with him.’

Alec Bell’s eyes met Fox’s in the rear-view mirror. Bell

shook his head almost imperceptibly – warning Fox to drop the

subject? Or ashamed of his boss’s reaction? Fox couldn’t tell.

‘A surveillance is just that,’ Compston was saying airily.

‘Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have said the same when you were

in Complaints.’

‘Never had cause to find out,’ Fox replied, as Bell pulled the

car over.

‘So the Gimlet used to be owned by Darryl Christie, eh?’

Compston mused, rubbing a hand across his chin. ‘Problem

with a wee town like this – everyone’s connected.’

‘Meaning Christie won’t be happy if Dennis starts kicking

off anywhere in the vicinity.’

Compston nodded slowly as the people carrier roared past.

They watched it round a corner.

‘Out you get then,’ Compston said. Fox did as he was told,

watching the Audi head off. The Vauxhall Insignia drew level

with him and he climbed into the back.

‘I’m not happy about what just happened back there,’ he

commented.

‘We’re not in the business of keeping you happy,’ Beth

Hastie said from the passenger seat.

Peter Hughes gave a dry chuckle as he signalled right at the