Even dogs in the wild (16 page)

‘So what happens now?’ Rebus asked.

‘You don’t want to keep him?’

Rebus checked with Clarke and Clarke with Rebus. Both

shook their heads. The vet sighed and ran his hands over the

small terrier again. ‘There’s a database I can check,’ he said.

‘Just in case someone
is
looking for him. But the most likely scenario is simply that the owner was finding it hard to cope.

I’ve seen it a lot these past few years – unemployment or maybe

a benefits cut, and suddenly the family pet becomes a luxury

too far. I’ll contact the cat and dog home.’

‘If it’s a question of money . . .’ Rebus began.

‘It’s more that there are too many unwanted pets and not

enough potential takers.’

‘So they’ll keep him for a while, and then . . .?’

‘He’ll be put to sleep, most probably. Though I assure you,

that’s a measure of last resort.’

The dog was looking at Rebus as if it trusted him to make

the right decision.

‘Fine then,’ Rebus said. ‘We’ll leave you to it. Hang on to

him a few days, though, will you? We’ll do a bit of searching.’

‘Fingers crossed,’ the vet said, as Rebus opened the door to

leave, knowing it was best not to look back.

Outside, Clarke got busy on her phone. ‘Christine’s the

social media hotshot. I’ll get her to post the photo everywhere

she can think of.’

‘Better still, ask her if she wants a dog.’

‘Getting soft in your old age, John?’

‘Soft as nails,’ Rebus said, climbing into the Astra.

*

The Hermitage was a woodland walk to the south of

Morningside, hemmed in by Braid Hills on one side and

Blackford Hill on the other. A burn ran through the gorge,

crossed here and there by wooden bridges, some in better repair

than others. Dog-walkers were the main clientele, along with

families with wellingtoned children, plus occasional cyclists. In

spring, the air carried the pungency of wild garlic, but in winter

the compressed leaves on the path froze and became

treacherous.

‘I never come here,’ Clarke said as they walked from the

car. They’d had to park on the main road, just down from the

Braid Hills Hotel. Clarke had been given instructions to leave

the main path as soon as possible and head into the woods along

a muddier, narrower route, climbing up a steepening gradient.

Rebus was a few yards behind her, his breathing laboured.

‘Keep up, Grandad,’ she couldn’t help teasing.

‘You might have warned me to bring boots,’ he complained;

Clarke had changed into hers at the kerbside.

‘Do you even own any boots?’

‘That’s not the point.’

The barking of a stout yellow Labrador announced their

arrival.

‘Mrs Jenkins?’ Clarke checked.

The woman who nodded was in her sixties, hair tucked

under the rim of a knitted hat, matching scarf around her neck.

She wore a green puffa jacket and faded denims tucked into

green wellies.

‘Detective Inspector Clarke?’ she confirmed. The dog was

off its lead but she was gripping it by the collar. Clarke held her

ungloved palm out and the dog gave a sniff and a lick.

‘This is Godfrey,’ Mrs Jenkins informed them. She released

her grip, allowing the dog to bound into the woods, following

some trail only it could sense.

‘He’ll be fine,’ she said with a smile, as if the two detectives

had shown qualms about her companion’s well-being.

‘This is where it happened?’ Clarke asked.

The woman nodded. ‘Just over here.’ She led them a short

distance. ‘This is the least used of the various paths,’ she

informed them. ‘Godfrey and I were a bit further uphill; we’d

gone as far as the perimeter of the golf course. I heard the

sound and knew it was a shot. My husband Archie used to

shoot – grouse and pheasant. Horrible job plucking and

cleaning them . . .’

‘You didn’t see anyone?’

‘Sorry.’ The smile this time was thinner. ‘Whoever it was

must have headed down the trail sharpish.’

They had stopped beside a young conifer. Some of the bark

had been dislodged, and there was splintering, either from the

impact of the bullet or more likely from its subsequent removal.

‘A miserable winter’s afternoon,’ the woman continued.

‘Whoever it was probably thought they had the place to

themselves.

‘There are a lot of trees here, Mrs Jenkins,’ Rebus said.

‘How did you happen to spot that this was the target?’

‘Smell of . . . what is it? Gunpowder? Cordite? It was in the

air, strongest right here, and there was even a wisp of smoke

drifting upwards – I must have missed the culprit by seconds.’

She looked from one detective to the other. ‘The police officer

said it was probably just a prank of some kind, but from your

faces . . . well, I’m guessing perhaps I had a narrow escape.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Clarke sought to reassure her. ‘But

there’s been a shooting in the city – nothing fatal, just damage

to property – and we’re looking at a possible connection. You

don’t happen to remember seeing anyone on your walk?’

‘Baby buggies, other dog-walkers, but no one who didn’t

look as if they belonged. I mean, no one
Arabic
.’

‘Arabic?’ Clarke echoed.

‘Mrs Jenkins,’ Rebus advised, ‘has got it into her head that

this may be linked to terrorism.’

‘Well, these days . . .’ Mrs Jenkins’ voice trailed off.

‘It categorically isn’t,’ Clarke stressed.

‘You’ll forgive me, dear, but as a woman once said: you

would say that, wouldn’t you?’

Godfrey was circling them, nose to the ground.

‘Any room at home for another dog, Mrs Jenkins?’ Rebus

asked.

‘I’m afraid Godfrey would eat it alive.’

Godfrey, drool hanging from his jaws, didn’t appear inclined

to disagree.

The forensic science lab was situated in an unassuming building

just off Howden Hall Road, on the south side of the city.

Security had been ramped up since an arson attack a few years

back that had successfully destroyed some crucial trial

evidence. Once inside, Clarke and Rebus had to wait in

reception, cameras peering down at them.

‘If she talks to the press . . .’ Clarke commented, not for the

first time.

‘I doubt even the Fourth Estate would go along with it.’

‘No, but the
Fifth
might.’

‘Meaning?’

‘The internet. Bloggers and the like. Their creed is: print

anything, just make sure you’re the first.’

‘And retract at leisure?’

‘If at all.’

The man descending the stairs had a photographic identity

card hanging around his neck from a lanyard. He was short,

squat and bald, and his rolled-up sleeves marked him out as

someone perennially busy.

‘DI Clarke?’ he said, making to shake hands. ‘I’m Colin

Blunt – no relation, alas.’

‘To the spy?’ Rebus guessed.

‘The singer,’ Blunt corrected him with a frown. He led them

upstairs and into a bright subdivided room. There was a table in

the middle, and worktops stretching along three walls.

‘Not much equipment,’ Clarke commented.

‘Under-resourced, you might say,’ Blunt offered.

He told them to sit down, and pushed a sheet of paper

towards Clarke, apologising to Rebus that he’d only made one

copy.

‘We’re just grateful you’ve still got a photocopier

somewhere,’ Rebus commented. ‘Maybe you can sum up for

me while DI Clarke digests all that.’

‘Well, it’s preliminary stuff – both bullets were pretty

mashed up. The impact has a concertina effect, you see.’

‘I do.’

Blunt produced a pair of spectacles and a clean

handkerchief, and started polishing as he spoke. ‘There’s a

facility we use in England for more detailed ballistics, but we’d

have to get the okay for that – it doesn’t come cheap. But from

the look we’ve taken under our own microscope, I’d say there’s

an eighty to ninety per cent chance the bullets were fired from

the same gun. The bullets themselves are of American

manufacture, for what it’s worth – nine millimetre. Rifling

looks similar . . .’ He broke off. ‘I’m referring to the striations.’

‘I know,’ Rebus said. ‘So how many registered users of

nine-mil pistols might there be in Scotland?’

‘A handful.’

‘And unregistered?’

‘Who knows?’

‘Not you, obviously, Mr Blunt.’

‘Find us the gun and we’ll tell you if it fired these bullets.’

‘The more we know about the bullets, the better the chance

of that happening.’ Rebus paused. ‘To be blunt.’

Blunt pretended to appreciate the joke, managing a weak

smile.

Clarke looked up. ‘Want to see?’ she asked Rebus. He shook

his head.

‘So we’ve got the attack on Lord Minton,’ Rebus said.

‘Which involved a blow to the head—’

‘Professor Quant has us looking at that,’ Blunt interrupted.

‘We’ve a database here of head injuries caused by hammers and

other tools.’

‘Good for you,’ Rebus said, turning his attention back to

Clarke. ‘Then the afternoon after Minton’s killed, someone

discharges a firearm into a tree, and that same night a shot is

fired, presumably at Cafferty’s head.’ He pointed a finger at

Blunt. ‘Which goes no further than this room, understood?’

‘Understood,’ Blunt spluttered.

‘The gunman was doing a bit of target practice,’ Clarke

surmised.

‘Hardly,’ Rebus said. ‘He fired at a tree. It’s not like he

placed tin cans on fence posts or pinned up the outline of a

human.’

‘Like when they go to a shooting range in the movies,’ Blunt

piped up. The look from Rebus silenced him.

‘So what are you saying?’ Clarke asked.

‘I’m saying this was more like someone who just needed to

know they could handle the rudiments.’

‘Point and squeeze.’

‘Exactly. What would the recoil be like? How far could they

be from their intended target and still hit it?’

‘Are you saying our guy’s a beginner or a pro?’

‘One or the other, certainly.’

‘Great – I’ll stick that in the computer and see what we get.’

‘No need to be sarky.’ Rebus turned his head towards Blunt.

‘That’s what she’s being, isn’t it? My ears aren’t deceiving

me?’

Blunt decided that a shrug was the only appropriate

response. But Clarke had a question of her own for him.

‘The drawer from Lord Minton’s desk?’

‘What drawer?’ Rebus interrupted.

‘You’d know if your need for a cigarette last night hadn’t

been so urgent.’

‘Ah yes,’ Blunt was saying. ‘Well, again it’s only

preliminary . . .’

‘I’ll settle for that.’

‘The stain is an oil of some kind, probably a lubricant. Hard

to tell its age or exact make-up without specialised equipment,

and again—’

‘It would cost money?’ Clarke nodded. ‘But?’

‘But we also found a few fibres from some loose-woven

material, probably predominantly grey in colour. Muslin,

maybe.’

‘Something nine inches by six, wrapped in muslin . . .’

Clarke’s eyes were on Rebus. He was folding his arms slowly.

‘Pistol,’ he said.

‘Makes sense. Minton hears a noise downstairs. Unlocks the

drawer and takes out the gun. But before he can use it, he’s

bludgeoned.’

‘Attacker pockets the gun, but hasn’t used one before.’

‘Or one like it, at any rate. Maybe he’s a bit rusty.’

‘So he reckons he’d better test it before he goes after his

next victim. Probably knew Minton was a cinch compared to

Cafferty – better to go at Cafferty from a safe distance. Gun

must have seemed like a godsend.’

‘But somehow he missed.’

‘He missed,’ Rebus agreed.

‘So he
will
try again?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Could be Cafferty’s dropped down his

list.’

‘No one else has come forward to say they’ve had the

warning.’

‘Maybe it’s a really short list,’ Rebus offered. Then, turning

to Blunt: ‘What do you think, Colin?’

‘I try to deal with physical data rather than speculation.’

‘Tell me,’ Clarke asked him, ‘did the evidence from the

Michael Tolland murder come here?’

The scientist thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘The back

door, yes.’

‘And?’

‘And it was prised open by some sort of tool. A crowbar or

the corner of a spade. No trace evidence, unfortunately.’

‘Pity,’ Clarke said, the corners of her mouth turning down.

Rebus laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. ‘That’s

precisely why you need people like us, Colin – for when your

physical data just isn’t there. Now tell me – because you seem

like the caring, sensible sort – have you ever considered owning

a lovely wee dog?’

Fifteen

Not wanting to risk being seen at a computer terminal by

Compston and the others, Fox had ended up at the old Lothian

and Borders Police HQ on Fettes Avenue. He showed his

warrant card at reception and asked for the whereabouts of the

Minton inquiry. Same floor as the old Chief Constable’s lair,

and not far from where Fox and his Complaints team had

worked, back when the Big House had been his hunting ground

and errant cops his prey. There were a few nods of recognition