Even dogs in the wild (18 page)

or the darknet? They’re a market stall in the age of Amazon.’

‘Yet still a threat.’

‘Because they’re panicking.’

‘Last time I saw Darryl, at his hotel, he seemed to be

heading that way too.’

‘Panicking, you mean? Maybe he was putting on a show for

you.’ Dunn glanced towards his passenger again. ‘Besides,

we’re not talking about that, remember? Want me to drop you

home and take your car to my mate’s? He’d have this clutch

fixed by day’s end.’

Fox shook his head. As they entered Oxgangs, he had to

start giving directions.

‘Nice and peaceful around these parts?’ Dunn enquired.

‘So far,’ Fox replied. ‘Just here will do, thanks.’

The car drew up by the kerb, both men getting out. Fox took

the keys from Dunn, who gave a wave rather than a handshake

as he got into the Range Rover. Christie did a three-point turn

and drove off, and Fox headed indoors. He thought about

running a bath. A nice long soak. He had no messages on his

phone, no missed calls. He plugged the phone in to charge and

poured a big glass of tap water, gulping it down. Only then did

he wander into the bathroom to check the damage in the mirror.

Bruising down one side of his face. His chin hurt, and he’d

obviously fallen on his arm as he hit the carriageway.

You’ll live, he told himself. Not that anyone’s bothered.

The doorbell went. He peered through the spyhole before

opening up to Compston and Bell. Compston stormed inside

without invitation, Bell fixing Fox with a look before following.

Compston stood in the centre of the living room, feet apart,

arms folded. ‘Nice of them to drop you home,’ he growled.

‘Your new friends, I mean.’

‘You’d have left me lying in the road, right?’ Fox retorted.

‘Didn’t you learn
anything
from yesterday?’

‘I wasn’t going to let them stab anyone.’

Compston turned his attention to Bell. ‘Knives?’

‘I didn’t see any.’

‘Jackie Dyson was getting ready to pull one out.’ Fox

studied both men’s reaction, but they were giving nothing

away.

‘Nevertheless,’ Compston eventually said. Then: ‘Did you

identify yourself as the law?’

‘I didn’t need to – Darryl Christie knows me, remember.’

‘I meant Stark and his boys.’

Fox shook his head.

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure. But meantime, Christie has put two and two

together – he knows there’s surveillance on the Starks.’ Fox

raised a hand as Compston bared his teeth. ‘Before you go the

full Hannibal Lecter, he thinks it’s locally sourced and all down

to the attack at the storage unit.’

‘Will he tell the Starks?’

‘Why the hell should he? It gives him something over them.

And incidentally, he tells me he’s going to take them out of the

game. Didn’t sound like he was joking.’

‘We’ll deal with that as and when.’

‘By sitting back and watching?’

Compston’s face hardened. ‘You used to run surveillance

operations against your own kind, Fox. Like I said yesterday,

I’m guessing sometimes you’d have to sit and watch.’ He took a

step forward, arms by his sides now. ‘In fact, from what little I

know of you, I’d say you enjoyed watching, and those bruises

of yours tell me you’d do well to stick to what you’re best at.’

He paused, face inches from Fox’s. ‘Understood?’ Without

waiting for an answer, he stalked towards the front door, Alec

Bell at his heels. This time, Bell kept his gaze directed at the

floor. When the door had closed, Fox went back into the

bathroom, intent on some paracetamol and that long soak he

had promised himself.

When he emerged almost an hour later, having changed into

fresh clothes, he had one missed call and one text, both from

Bell. The text told him to send a message saying when would

be a good time to talk.

Right now
, Fox replied. Sixty seconds later, his phone rang.

‘Sorry about all that,’ Bell said. His voice had a bit of echo

to it.

‘Where are you?’

‘The bogs at St Leonard’s. Listen, I felt hellish, not stepping

in – I just wanted you to know that. I mean, Ricky’s right, of

course, but all the same . . .’

‘You saw the blade, didn’t you?’

‘He put it away sharpish.’

‘Jackie Dyson, though – who also didn’t hold back when it

came to giving Chick Carpenter a doing.’

‘So?’

‘My gut feeling is, Dyson’s your mole. If I’m right, doesn’t

it look to you like he might have gone native?’

There was silence on the line.

‘Well?’ Fox persisted.

‘You know I can’t say anything.’

‘You owe me this much at least, Alec. I went to the ground

and you just sat in your damned car . . .’

‘Malcolm—’

‘And here’s the thing – I’ve had your back throughout,

haven’t I? I’ve not told Compston you blabbed about the mole.

So just tell me – it’s Dyson, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe.’

‘And could he be getting too much in character? We’ve both

heard of it happening.’

‘Our boy knows what he’s doing.’

‘You sure about that? How often do you talk to him?’

‘Not in a while. That’s how it has to work.’

‘But have you noticed any change in him?’

‘He has to look committed, Malcolm – that’s how those

guys get where they are and then stay there once they’ve

arrived.’ Fox heard the man give a sigh. ‘Look, I’ve got to go.

You should take tomorrow off, get some ice on those bruises.’

‘Nice of you to show such belated concern.’

‘Two final words, then, Malcolm – Fuck. You.’

The phone went dead, but then suddenly vibrated. Another

incoming message, this time from Rebus:

Want a dog?

Fox shut the phone down and trekked to the fridge, in search

of frozen veg.

‘You coming in?’ Davie Dunn asked. Christie had pulled up in

front of the Gimlet. He gazed out at the pub’s uninviting

exterior and shook his head, but as Dunn made to get out, he

grabbed him by the arm.

‘Talked to your old employer recently?’ he enquired.

‘I’ll tell you what I told Stark and his gang – I haven’t set

eyes on Hamish Wright in years.’

‘Doesn’t mean you’ve not spoken with him on the phone.’

‘He’s ancient history, Darryl.’

‘You’ll be history too, if you don’t give me a straight

answer.’

‘I’ve not seen him, I’ve not spoken to him.’

‘But have you heard anything about his whereabouts?’

‘Nothing.’

‘He has other old pals in the city, though, yes?’

‘Honest to God, I wouldn’t know.’

‘You’re absolutely sure about that?’

‘On my kids’ lives, Darryl.’

The two men locked eyes, Christie eventually releasing

Dunn’s sleeve. But as Dunn got out of the car and closed the

door, Christie wound down the window and called him back.

Dunn leaned in so his face filled the open window.

‘Your kids are Lottie and Euan. She’s sixteen, he’s eleven.

You split from their mum but I know the address. You swore to

me on their lives, Davie. Bear that in mind . . .’

The window slid back up again, the Evoque moving off,

leaving Davie Dunn standing in the roadway, his legs a little

more leaden than before, his heart pounding and his mouth dry.

A drink, he realised, would fix only one of these, but one out of

three was a start . . .

Sixteen

Christine Esson showed Rebus and Clarke what she’d done.

‘And all of it on company time, so I hope you’ve got my

back covered.’

The terrier looked at its most appealing. A bit of the vet’s

arm and examination table could be seen, though Esson had

managed to crop most of it out. She had provided a brief

description of where the dog had been found, along with an

email address.

‘Whose address is it?’ Rebus enquired.

‘Created specially,’ she informed him.

‘And this is on Facebook?’

‘And Twitter, and a few other places. My friends will make

sure it gets noticed.’

‘How many friends?’

‘Around three and a half thousand.’

Rebus stared at her. ‘Parties at your house must be quite

something.’

‘She means online friends,’ Clarke explained for his benefit.

‘I could set up an account for you if you like,’ Esson teased

him.

Rebus ignored this and instead asked Clarke how many days

they should give it.

‘Up to you,’ she said.

‘Social media usually works fast or not at all,’ Esson

advised.

‘And meantime there’s a vet in Edinburgh getting rich at my

expense,’ Rebus made show of complaining.

‘I don’t see you spending your pension on much else,’

Clarke commented.

‘I still have to count the pennies.’

‘All the way into the till of the Oxford Bar.’ Clarke was

smiling as she tried Malcolm Fox’s number, but he didn’t pick

up.

Cafferty hadn’t been answering his phone, but he had made

plenty of calls, up and down the country. He’d also had quiet

meetings in a bar near Quartermile, exchanging handfuls of

banknotes for information or the vow to keep eyes and ears

open and report back. He went out wearing a three-quarter-

length brown coat (rather than his habitual black) and a cap and

scarf (where usually he’d be bare-headed whatever the

weather). Having not bothered to shave, he resembled the other

old men on the street, especially when, having noted its near-

ubiquity, he added a polythene carrier bag to the ensemble. The

bag held the local paper and two tins of Scotch broth.

This disguise – fine for the streets around Greyfriars –

seemed less appropriate for the bar of the G&V hotel on George

IV Bridge, so as soon as he entered, he shed coat, scarf and hat

and wrapped the coat around the bag. But then he had another

idea. At reception, he enquired about a room. Yes, there was a

vacancy. He paid by credit card and headed upstairs. The room

was fine. He deposited the bundle there and went back down to

the bar, checking that his guest had not yet turned up. He sat in

a corner, facing the door to the street. A couple of minutes after

his Bloody Mary arrived, Darryl Christie walked in. He wore a

suit and open-necked shirt and seemed unconcerned by the

outside world’s plummeting temperature.

Christie spotted Cafferty immediately, but kept his distance

as he assessed the situation. Cafferty had, as promised, come

alone. The other drinkers looked to pose no threat at all.

Christie gave the briefest of nods in Cafferty’s direction, took

out a phone and tapped in a message – presumably to a man

parked outside, a man primed to intervene if his boss sensed

trouble.

Finally he approached the table. Rather than stand up,

Cafferty lifted an olive from the bowl in front of him and

popped it into his mouth. Christie played with his chair before

sitting down, angling it so that he had at least a partial view of

what might be happening behind him.

‘I did say there’d be no funny business,’ Cafferty reminded

him.

‘Maybe we have different senses of humour.’ A waiter was

hovering. Christie ordered a dirty martini.

‘What the hell’s that?’ Cafferty asked, looking bemused.

‘For research purposes. My barman tells me he makes the

best in the city – I like to keep testing him.’

‘I forgot you had a hotel.’

‘No you didn’t. And by the way, the drinks would have been

gratis if we’d met there.’

‘I thought neutral ground was best. How have you been,

Darryl? You don’t look like you’re eating enough.’ Cafferty

pushed the olive bowl towards him.

‘
You
look old,’ Christie countered.

‘That’s because I am. But I’m wise, too.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘I know, for example, what happened at the Gimlet.’

‘The Gimlet’s nothing to do with me these days.’

‘I know someone else runs it, but that’s not quite the same

thing.’ Cafferty laid his drink’s straw aside, along with the hunk

of celery, and supped from the lip of the glass. ‘Besides which,

when Dennis Stark pays a visit, who else is Davie Dunn going

to turn to?’

‘You brought me here so you can gloat?’

‘Far from it, Darryl. The way the Starks are going, they’re

riling the whole city – my friends as well as yours.’

‘I thought your friends were all headstones.’

‘Not quite.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘I’m saying I’m not on Joe Stark’s side.’

‘Is that right?’

‘In fact, there’s a chance I’m on their hit list, same as you

seem to be – maybe even more so.’ Cafferty paused as

Christie’s drink arrived. There wasn’t much of it, which

usually, in Cafferty’s experience, made it lethal. Christie took a

sip. ‘How does it measure up?’

But Christie just shrugged and placed the glass on the table.

‘You’ve heard about the notes?’ Cafferty asked.

‘Notes?’

‘One went to Lord Minton, just before he was killed.’

‘Front-page news.’ Christie nodded.

‘Another came to me.’ He had Christie’s full attention now.

‘I’d show it to you, but the police took it for testing.’

‘You went to the cops? Christie sounded disbelieving.

‘Actually I went to Rebus – not quite the same thing. But he