Even dogs in the wild (13 page)

junction. Fox sat back and admired the view, wondering how

long it would take Hughes to work out they were headed in the

wrong direction.

*

Clarke had reported to James Page in person, delivering both

note and bullet. Afterwards, he had folded his arms and,

transfixed by the two items on his desk, told her to give him ten

minutes, which was why she was back in the body of the kirk

with Esson, Ogilvie and the rest of the team. There was no sign

of DS Charlie Sykes, and Clarke said as much.

‘The Invisible Man,’ Esson commented.

‘He had something he needed to do in Leith,’ Ogilvie added.

He had pulled his chair over to Esson’s desk so she could give

him the news, having been briefed by Clarke on the drive back

from Cafferty’s house.

‘Boss is deciding next steps,’ Clarke told them now.

‘Changes things a bit, doesn’t it?’ Ogilvie offered.

‘Maybe – John Rebus isn’t sure there’s a solid connection. I

mean, the notes, yes, but not the murder and the shooting.’

‘What’s Rebus got to do with it?’ Ogilvie queried with a

frown.

‘Nothing,’ Clarke conceded. ‘He’s just the one who

persuaded Cafferty to come to us rather than start enquiries of

his own.’ Clarke rubbed at her eyes. ‘Did Christine mention

Linlithgow?’

Ogilvie nodded. ‘Though again . . .’

‘I know: barely any connection worth the name.’

‘Tea would cheer us up,’ Esson declared. ‘And I’m buying.’

‘That would be great,’ Clarke said.

Esson grabbed her purse and headed off to the canteen,

Clarke taking her seat next to Ogilvie. She asked him what he’d

been working on.

‘Not much. Collating various reports and interviews, looking

at the crime scene stuff.’

‘Anything I need to know?’

‘Well . . .’

‘No matter how fanciful or thin it’s going to sound,’ Clarke

assured him.

‘I was reading through the scene of crime report, plus the

two interviews conducted with Lord Minton’s housekeeper.’

‘Jean Marischal? More of a cleaner, wasn’t she?’

‘If you like. But here’s the thing.’ Ogilvie pulled out photos

from the crime scene. ‘First officers to arrive state that the desk

drawer was open a couple of inches.’

‘Yes, Deborah Quant said the same,’ Clarke remembered.

‘You can see it here.’ Ogilvie slid a photo towards her.

‘Then later, the SOCOs pulled the drawer all the way open to

get shots of the contents. Mrs Marischal tells us she cleaned in

the den but that the desk drawer was seldom unlocked. Lord

Minton kept the key on him – and it was found in his pocket

after his death. What does a locked drawer suggest to you?’

‘That there was something he didn’t want her to see.’

‘And you’d guess that to be . . .?’

‘Well, he was seated at the desk paying bills, so maybe his

chequebook?’

‘That’s what I thought too. But look at the contents of the

drawer again.’

Clarke saw stationery, a second chequebook,

correspondence, various paper clips and bulldog clips and even

a bottle of Tippex.

‘What is it I’m not seeing?’

‘Something that isn’t there. I’m guessing he was the tidy

sort, and that the chequebook he’d taken out of the drawer

usually sat on top of the other one.’ Ogilvie traced a finger over

an empty section of the drawer. ‘But what was it that used to be

in this space here?’

‘Stuff could have shifted around when the SOCOs pulled it

open.’

‘Except they tell me they used extreme care.’

‘You’re saying the intruder took something?’

‘Desk drawer was open a couple of inches. I doubt that

would have been comfortable for anyone sitting there trying to

do some work.’

‘True,’ Clarke said.

‘So either the intruder took it, or Lord Minton had opened it

himself and was taking something out when he heard a noise.’

Clarke was peering more closely at the photo. ‘Couldn’t just

have been the other chequebook?’

‘No way of telling for sure.’

‘Did Jean Marischal ever see the drawer when it was open?

Never so much as a glimpse?’

‘Worth talking to her again?’

‘Maybe.’

Page was standing in the doorway. He signalled for Clarke

to join him. She patted Ogilvie on the shoulder as she got up.

‘Close the door,’ he told her once she was inside his office.

‘Sit down if you like.’

Clarke remained standing.

‘I’ve already had enough grief since we went public with the

Minton note,’ he began. ‘Only effect it seems to have produced

is more noise from upstairs. Everyone wants this thing cleared

up and no one wants it getting messy.’

‘So we keep the Cafferty note to ourselves?’

‘For the time being. Anything that seems to link a prominent

member of the legal establishment to a local thug is hardly

going to please the powers above.’

‘You’ll talk to Shona MacBryer?’

‘Fiscal’s office need to know. I’ll make Shona see that a

quiet interview with Cafferty at his home is preferable to

bringing him in.’

‘How about the team here?’

‘I assume word’s already gone around.’

‘Only Esson and Ogilvie so far. But when we interview

Cafferty . . .’

‘I’ll brief the troops.’

‘And then pray for no leaks.’

‘Indeed.’ He leaned back in his chair and pressed his hands

together, the tips of his fingers touching his lips. ‘What’s your

gut feeling here, Siobhan?’

‘The attacks themselves are very different, but the notes look

identical.’

‘So we should be seeking a connection between Cafferty and

Minton?’

‘Cafferty says there isn’t one.’

‘Some sort of vigilante?’

Clarke shrugged and watched as Page pressed the palms of

his hands flat on his desk.

‘What about Rebus?’ he asked.

‘What about him?’

‘He’s close to Cafferty, isn’t he?’

‘In a manner of speaking. You think we should attach him to

the case?’

‘In a consultative capacity. What’s the old saying about

pissing out of the tent rather than in?’

‘Should I talk to him then?’

‘I don’t suppose it can do any harm, can it?’

Clarke didn’t know how to answer that, so ran her tongue

across her lips instead and shifted her feet slightly, eyes on the

floor.

‘Very well then,’ Page decided, pressing his hands together

once more as if in prayer. ‘Talk to the man.’

Clarke nodded and made her exit. Christine Esson was

waiting with her tea. Clarke took it and moved into the corridor,

taking out her phone and making the call.

‘Yes, Siobhan?’ Rebus said by way of answer.

‘Page wants you inside the tent rather than out.’

‘Is that even possible?’

‘You’d be acting in a consultative capacity.’

‘Like Sherlock Holmes? Would I need invoices and stuff?

And a housekeeper and a sidekick?’

‘Are you interested or not?’

‘He really wants me because I’m a conduit to Cafferty?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is Cafferty’s note going to be kept out of the public

domain?’

‘For now.’

‘Formal interview with him at his house?’

‘Page thinks he can clear it with Shona MacBryer.’

‘Then what’s left for me to do?’

‘I’m guessing you’ll think of something.’

‘Do I detect a lack of enthusiasm, DI Clarke?’

‘Only because I know what you’re like – put you in a tent,

you start trying to knock the poles down.’

‘Better than peeing on you from outside, though, eh?’

‘Let me think about that for a moment.’ She could almost

hear Rebus break into a smile.

‘Consultative capacity,’ he echoed. ‘I quite like that.’

‘I thought you might. Just remember – you’re still not a cop.

No warrant card, no real powers.’

‘Well, tell Page I’m considering his proposal, but I don’t

come cheap.’

‘You’d do this for no pay at all, John – we both know it.’

‘Maybe we should meet later to compare notes.’

‘The Oxford Bar?’

‘Around nine?’

‘Okay.’

‘And why not bring Malcolm along?’

‘Malcolm’s not part of this case.’

‘I know that, but I’d like him there anyway. The two of you

have gotten so busy, it’ll be nice for you to catch up.’

‘See you at nine, then.’

Clarke ended the call and took a slurp from the cardboard

cup as she walked back into the incident room. Ogilvie seemed

to have been sharing his theory with Esson. Esson was holding

a close-up photo of the desk drawer, peering at it.

‘What do you think?’ Clarke asked her.

‘It’s interesting.’

‘I think so too.’ Clarke looked at Ogilvie. ‘Christine’s

already had a bit of an away day – you ready for yours?’

‘Absolutely,’ Ronnie Ogilvie said.

Twelve

There was no longer anyone keeping guard outside David

Minton’s house on St Bernard’s Crescent. A set of keys was

being held at HQ, so Clarke had brought those, along with a

note of the number for the alarm system. Having unlocked the

door, she punched the code in while Ogilvie stooped to pick up

waiting mail.

‘Anything?’ she asked.

‘Mostly flyers.’ He added the collection to a pile on the

nearby table.

The house was beginning to smell musty, and with the

heating turned off there was a pronounced chill.

‘Hope the pipes don’t freeze,’ Ogilvie commented.

‘Minton’s study is this way,’ Clarke said, leading him past

the foot of the imposing staircase. The curtains had been drawn

closed, so she yanked them open. The window gave a view

down on to the small back garden. The laundry room was

directly below. Would Minton have heard the glass breaking?

There was a venerable transistor radio on the desk, but no

evidence that he’d had it switched on that evening. Clarke

settled herself in the chair and slid the drawer open a couple of

inches.

‘More or less right?’ she asked.

‘But remember, the deceased had a bit more girth to

him . . .’

‘A bit?’ she chided him. ‘So the chair would have been

further out from the desk?’ She pushed it back. ‘About here?’

Ogilvie nodded. ‘From where it’s hellish uncomfortable to

write cheques.’

They studied the photos they’d brought with them. The

chequebook and pen sat eight inches from the edge of the desk.

It would have been almost impossible for Minton to reach either

with the drawer open the way it had been.

‘So we’re back where we started,’ Clarke said. ‘Either the

victim opened the drawer, or his attacker did.’

The drawer itself had been emptied, everything bagged as

evidence and taken away to be examined. Clarke slid it out

completely and held it up to the light, then placed it on top of

the desk.

‘This is where the gap was?’ she checked with Ogilvie.

‘Where you reckon something might have been removed?’

Ogilvie looked at the area she was circling with her finger.

‘Yes.’

‘Something measuring – what? Nine inches by six? A book

of some kind?’

‘Not quite a rectangle, though, is it?’ he qualified, showing

Clarke the photo again.

‘Not quite,’ she conceded. ‘And the mark on the base of the

drawer?’ Again she pointed to the spot where the putative item

had once sat.

‘Grease? Ink, maybe?’

‘Worth getting forensics to take a look?’

‘Maybe, yes.’

Clarke made the call to the lab at Howden Hall. Then, to

Ogilvie: ‘They’re asking if we can drop it in, save them the

trek.’

Ogilvie shrugged his acquiescence.

‘Fine,’ Clarke said into the phone. Then, again to Ogilvie:

‘Go see if you can find a bin bag for us to carry it in.’ He was

heading out of the room as Clarke told the lab they’d be there in

half an hour or so. But then she remembered something.

‘Actually, maybe closer to an hour. I need to go back to Fettes

first. Got something else I want you to take a look at – bullet,

probably nine mil.’

‘You go months and months without seeing a bullet,’ the

voice on the other end of the phone told her. ‘And then you get

two in one week.’

Clarke blinked twice before finding her voice. ‘Say again?’

‘Another bullet came in a couple of days back.’

‘Came in from where?’

‘Extracted from a tree in the Hermitage.’

‘What happened exactly?’

‘No idea.’

‘So who can I talk to?’

‘I can let you know that when you come in.’

‘Fine. An hour then.’

‘Any later and we’ll have shut up shop for the day.’

‘Justice never sleeps.’

‘Maybe not. But it does
have a darts match and a late supper

with the girlfriend.’

The phone went dead in her hand just as Ogilvie returned

from the kitchen with a large white bin bag.

‘Brabantia,’ he said. ‘Only the best for his lordship.’ Then

he saw the look on Clarke’s face.

‘Same day someone took a potshot at Cafferty, a bullet was

fired into a tree in The Hermitage. That’s not a million miles

from Cafferty’s neighbourhood, is it?’

‘Not a million miles, no. Actually, probably less than two.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Clarke said, helping Ogilvie

manoeuvre the drawer into the bag.

Cafferty was in the back seat, the two bodyguards in front of