Even dogs in the wild (17 page)

as he moved through the building. James Page, crossing the

corridor from one room to another, spotted him.

‘I’m looking for Siobhan,’ Fox said, pre-empting any

question Page might have.

‘She’s out at Howden Hall, I think.’

‘Okay if I leave her a note?’

Page nodded distractedly and moved off. The room he’d just

been in was now home to the Minton team, including Christine

Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie. Fox nodded a greeting.

‘Just trying to catch Siobhan,’ he explained. ‘DCI Page told

me to wait. Is this her desk?’

Fox sat down in the empty chair. He waited a full half-

minute, then mumbled something about doing a check and got

busy at the computer. Siobhan had confided to him one night

that despite hating the nickname, she used ‘Shiv’ as her

password. Once in, Fox started checking names. He had four –

Simpson, Andrews, Dyson, and Rae – and he wanted to know

what Police Scotland had on them.

After ten minutes, Esson asked him if he wanted tea or

coffee, but he shook his head.

‘Should I phone her and see how long she’ll be?’

Fox shook his head again. ‘Just sending her an email.’

‘Using telepathy?’ When Fox looked puzzled, Esson

explained. ‘Not very many keystrokes, DI Fox.’

For want of any lie she would be likely to accept, he just

smiled and got back to work.

Rob Simpson had been part of the Stark ‘family’ for almost

a decade, so scratch him. Callum Andrews had a criminal

record stretching back to juvenile days, so Fox reckoned he

couldn’t be the mole. That left Jackie Dyson and Tommy Rae.

Both men had seen the inside of a courtroom in the past three

years, but for minor misdemeanours. As far as he could tell,

both had grown up in Glasgow, leaving school at sixteen and

drifting into lawlessness from there. Looked as though neither

had joined the gang until a year or so ago. Fox remembered

them from the beating outside the storage facility. Dyson

scrawny, shaven-headed, whey-faced. Rae maybe a year or two

older, with more heft to him and a scar down one cheek. A cop

with scars? Well, it happened, but not often, and rarely the

visible kind. A scar on your cheek came from a knife, razor or

bottle. It was as if the street had given you a tattoo. No, Fox’s

money was on Jackie Dyson.

Alec Bell had said the mole had been working undercover

for more than three years. Some of that would have been spent

getting known, establishing a reputation, moving closer to the

seat of power. Two years of graft before acceptance into the

fold. Having worked surveillance himself, he was intrigued by

the type of officer who could immerse himself so thoroughly.

Friends and family would have to be discarded for the duration,

the new identity learned by rote, old haunts shunned for fear of

recognition. Fox thought back to the beating, Dyson hauling

Chick Carpenter back to his feet for a headbutt, then pissing on

the man’s car. Meantime Tommy Rae had been content to hold

Carpenter’s companion at bay – so did that tip the scales back

towards him? Rae content to remain on the periphery, unwilling

to cause harm . . . Rae with his facial disfigurement . . . Call it

seventy–thirty – seventy per cent Jackie Dyson against thirty

for Rae. Fox closed down the various windows and made sure

to delete his search history. His phone was buzzing, so he

answered.

‘Fox?’ a female voice asked.

‘Hello, Hastie. Do I call you Hastie or Beth?’

‘If you’re not already there, just to say you’ll find the office

empty.’ All businesslike. ‘Don’t know when we’ll be back,

okay?’

‘Surveillance again? A return trip to the Gimlet?’

‘Bright boy. Later.’ The phone went dead, and Fox got to his

feet, nearly bumping into a man in a suit who was toting a box

file. The man was ruddy-faced, his breathing ragged. Fox

muttered an apology.

‘No problem,’ the man said, making his exit.

‘You’re honoured,’ Christine Esson drawled. ‘That’s a rare

sighting of the Charlie Sykes in its native environment.’

‘He seemed busy.’

‘He does a good impression. Carries that box around all day

without ever feeling the need to open it.’ She paused, tapping a

pen against her chin. ‘Do you do any impressions yourself, DI

Fox?’

‘Such as?’

‘Man sending email.’

Fox gave a sheepish smile. ‘Busted,’ he said, heading for the

door.

He drove to the Gimlet, unsure why. He wasn’t going to get in

the way, wasn’t going to get close enough to be spotted by

Compston’s team. But maybe if there was violence, he would

phone it in anonymously. Rebus had been right to castigate him,

but would Rebus himself have acted differently? Fox doubted

it.

The street the Gimlet sat on, an unlovely passageway

between Slateford Road and Calder Road, was lined with

parked cars, putting paid to his idea of finding a kerbside spot.

He had a choice: reverse, or keep going? Keeping going meant

passing the surveillance vehicle and maybe being spotted. But

reversing would look suspicious. Biting down hard on his

bottom lip, he pressed the accelerator.

He was almost level with the bar when its door burst open,

men spilling out. Dennis was first, then his gang. There was

blood on Rob Simpson’s white shirt, and he was holding a hand

over his nose. And here came the reason – a hulk of a man in a

stained T-shirt two sizes too small, his biceps bulging, arms

tattooed. He was shouting the odds and swinging a baseball bat.

But it was one against five, and the Stark gang were beginning

to circle their prey. Fox noted that up close, Tommy Rae’s scar

was almost as red and angry as the tattooed man’s face.

Dyson’s hand was going into his pocket, presumably for a

knife. Fox gritted his teeth and pulled on the handbrake.

Undoing his seat belt, he sounded his horn, got out and strode

towards the melee.

‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘Stay out of this, pal!’ Dyson spat, the blade concealed in his

fist.

‘Not a fair fight,’ Fox persisted. ‘I’m calling the—’

Dyson pounced, his fist proving the perfect fit for Fox’s

unprepared jaw. Another swipe connected with the side of his

face, and he could feel his knees buckling, the world spinning.

As his vision started to blur, his last sight was of Alec Bell,

hands glued to the surveillance car’s steering wheel, mouth

making the shapes of words that would probably not be

welcome in church.

There was an angel peering down at him. Shrouded in white,

cheeks rose-tinged.

‘You’re awake,’ the angel said, turning into a nurse.

‘Where am I?’ Fox looked around. He was lying on a trolley

in a white booth with a curtain draped across. He was still in his

clothes. His face hurt and he had a blinding headache, which

the strip lighting was doing its best to exacerbate.

‘Royal Infirmary – A and E, to be precise. How are you

feeling?’

Fox tried to sit up. It only took him ten or so seconds. His

vision was still a bit blurry and his face felt swollen.

‘How did I get here?’

‘Your friend drove you.’

‘Did he?’

‘He did.’

Fox remembered Alec Bell’s face. Oh, but they’d be furious

with him for this. ‘Just dumped me here?’

‘Not a bit of it. He’s in the waiting area. Doctor will want to

take a look at you.’

‘Why?’

‘To check for concussion.’

‘I’m fine.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Did you have a guy in

here yesterday from CC Self Storage? Name of Chick

Carpenter?’

‘Rings a bell. He said some packing cases fell on him. What

about you?’

‘Believe it or not, the self-same thing.’

‘Get away. And these packing cases wore a ring of some

kind?’ She nodded towards his face. ‘It’s left an indentation.

Yesterday, it was a size nine boot.’

Fox pressed a finger to the area indicated and wished he

hadn’t. ‘Fancy that.’ He winced, struggling to get to his feet,

then patted his pockets to ensure nothing had been removed.

‘Am I right in thinking you can’t stop me leaving?’

‘Only an idiot would walk out of here in your state.’

‘That may well be true.’ Fox smiled and gave a little bow.

‘Men your age shouldn’t be fighting.’

‘I was trying to referee,’ he told her.

‘Will you take one bit of advice at least?’ He paused,

waiting. ‘A bag of frozen peas will bring down the swelling.’

Nodding, he shuffled out of the cubicle and into the waiting

area.

He had expected to see Alec Bell or another of the team, but

it was the man from the bar, the one with the bat.

‘What did they say?’ the man asked.

‘That fools rush in.’

‘I don’t know about that, mate. I’d say you were bloody

brave.’

‘What happened? After I conked out, I mean.’

‘Seemed to quieten them a bit – there you were, sparked out

in the road, and with traffic coming from both directions. Got to

tell you, you’re on free drinks for life in my place.’

‘I don’t drink.’

‘Thank God for that – saves me a few bob. I’m Davie Dunn,

by the way. I drove you here in your car. Need to get that clutch

seen to.’

‘Thanks for the tip.’

‘I know a guy. I’ll fix you up with him.’

‘So they just left, did they?’

‘There’d have been a few cracked skulls in here if they

hadn’t.’

‘I thought one of them was pulling a knife.’

Dunn nodded. ‘One of those thin blades from the DIY

stores. But Stark gave the word and that was that.’

‘Stark?’ Fox asked, fishing.

‘Don’t be fooled, Davie – he knows fine well who Stark is.’

The voice had come from behind Fox. He turned too

quickly, almost losing his balance as the world spun. Darryl

Christie had emerged from the toilet and was wiping his hands

dry with a handkerchief. ‘This is Detective Inspector Fox,

Davie. And suddenly it all makes sense. There’s a surveillance

operation on the Starks, yes? After the stunt they pulled

yesterday with Chick Carpenter?’

‘Is there?’ Fox countered, dry-mouthed.

‘You know one another?’ Dunn was asking.

‘DI Fox came to see me a couple of days back. He’s been to

the Gimlet, too, back in the days when I owned it.’ Christie

focused his attention on Fox. ‘Davie here is a good friend of

mine. That’s why I sold him my pride and joy. The Gimlet

taught me a lot of lessons – hard knocks, you might call them.

So when Davie tells me the Starks have been threatening him,

well . . . I listen. And that’s what brought me running.’ He had

folded the handkerchief back into his pocket. ‘Now, here’s the

message I want you to take back to Rebus or whoever else is

involved in this surveillance of yours – the Starks are going

down, end of. You can save us all a lot of grief by walking

away and letting me get on with it.’

‘What if I’d walked away today, though?’ Fox gestured

towards Davie Dunn. ‘What then?’

‘I’m just saying, best if your lot steer clear.’ Christie looked

around the waiting area. ‘Where are your buddies anyway? I

know Police Scotland are stretched, but a one-man

surveillance?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘They let you

take that beating, didn’t they? Is that because they didn’t want

the surveillance compromised? Or maybe they just liked seeing

someone who used to be in Professional Standards get a doing?’

Christie smiled, watching Fox try to formulate an answer. Then

he patted Fox’s forearm. ‘Don’t go straining yourself. Got all

your stuff? Davie here will take you home.’

And Fox did want to go home. It didn’t even bother him that

both Christie and Dunn would then know where he lived.

Chances were, Christie either already knew, or could find out in

five minutes. So Dunn drove, while Fox sat in the passenger

seat, still in pain. Christie was behind them all the way in a

Range Rover Evoque.

‘You’ve known Darryl a while, then?’ Fox asked.

‘Probably best we don’t talk about any of that – now I know

you’re police.’

‘Does the drinks-for-life offer still stand?’

‘Of course. Thing is, once my regulars get a whiff of you,

you’re not going to want to linger.’

‘Which might temper the enjoyment.’

‘It might.’ Dunn glanced at him. ‘No offence, but you don’t

look like the kind of cop who’d do surveillance.’

‘Oh?’

‘You seem more of a pen-pusher.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you.’ Fox paused. ‘Will they come

back, do you think?’

‘Stark and his posse? I suppose they might.’

‘You used to drive lorries, didn’t you?’

‘Europe, Ireland, all over.’ Dunn paused. ‘How do you know

that?’

‘Secret of a good surveillance – know everything. You drove

for Hamish Wright?’

‘Haven’t seen him in years.’

‘I’m guessing the Starks think otherwise.’

‘The Starks haven’t got the brains they were born with.’

‘Doesn’t seem to have held them back.’

‘It’ll be their downfall, though. This is 2015. Stanley knives

and fifty-quid drug deals? Reckon they’ve ever heard of Bitcoin