Even dogs in the wild (19 page)

passed it along. Ask him if you don’t believe me. And if you’re

not minded to believe him, try Siobhan Clarke.’

‘Okay, so you got a note.’

‘I’ve been wondering if the Starks sent it, along with the

bullet that came a few days later.’

Christie sat silently for fifteen seconds, deep in thought.

‘Doesn’t sound their style,’ he concluded.

‘Maybe.’

‘How do you connect to this guy Minton?’

‘He was a prosecutor. Not that he ever worked a trial

involving me or one of mine, not that I can find. You ever met

him?’

‘No.’

Cafferty shrugged and lifted his glass again.

‘I’m still not sure why you’re telling me any of this,’

Christie said.

‘I just thought you might be concerned for my welfare.’

Cafferty waited for Christie to realise he was joking. The

younger man did eventually manage half a smile. ‘But the truth

is,’ Cafferty continued, ‘I can see a time coming when you

might need me and I might need you.’

‘To kick the Starks out of town?’

‘Something like that.’

‘And what do you bring to that particular fight?’ Christie

stared hard at him. It was a serious question.

‘Whatever you might feel you need.’

‘They were going to stick a knife into Davie Dunn.’

‘And Chick Carpenter ended up in hospital,’ Cafferty

agreed.

‘With you or without you, I’m having them.’

‘You know why they’re here?’

‘Supposedly looking for a trucker and some missing merch.’

‘You’re not convinced?’

‘I’m convinced they’re asking.’ Christie had finished his

drink in three swallows.

‘Want another?’ Cafferty asked. Christie shook his head.

‘I need to be elsewhere.’ He peered at Cafferty. ‘Who do

you really think took that shot at you?’

‘I’ll admit you were on the list for a while.’

‘And now?’

‘It’s been a long time since I pissed anyone off – apart from

you, obviously.’

‘So if it’s a grudge, they’ve been nurturing it?’ Christie was

rising to his feet and sending another text, presumably to the

same destination as before. ‘All those bodies you’ve buried

down the years, all those families left wondering . . .’

‘Business like ours, Darryl, it’s dog-eat-dog.’ Cafferty was

standing now too.

‘Dog-eat-dog,’ Christie agreed. He looked around for their

waiter.

‘I’ve got these,’ Cafferty assured him. A car was drawing up

outside. Cafferty recognised the white Range Rover Evoque.

‘Your carriage awaits.’ He extended his hand. The two men

shook. ‘I’d been told you had a swagger to you these days,’

Cafferty commented, releasing his grip. ‘But attitude will only

take you so far. When I was your age, I was getting dirty, and to

be honest, I’m still that way inclined.’ He paused, locking eyes

with the younger man. ‘Whereas you . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘All I can really see is a shiny fucking suit.’ Cafferty

shrugged and offered a thin smile. ‘No offence, son.’

Christie’s face grew thunderous. ‘See you around,’ he

snarled, stalking towards the exit. Still smiling, Cafferty

signalled for the bill. He signed for it, then walked towards the

lift, taking out the keycard to his room, making sure it was nice

and visible. He knew the white car was still outside, probably

with the window nearest the hotel lowered so its occupants

could get a better view. They would think they knew where to

find Cafferty should they want him.

Let them think.

Let them share, if it came to that.

He stayed half an hour in the room on the second floor,

using the toilet and shower, the latter only because of the

quality of towels in the bathroom – better than those in his

Quartermile flat. Descending in coat and hat, he saw that the car

was long gone. He pulled the brim down low and stepped out

into the evening. He had more digging to do on the internet.

And Scotch broth for his supper.

Malcolm Fox was sitting in his car outside his father’s care

home. He had swallowed half a dozen painkillers and was

feeling both numb and queasy. His plan had been to visit Mitch

just to sit by his bed and wait for him to ask how he’d come by

the bruises.

‘In the line of duty.’

Yes, that was what he’d have said – or something along

those lines.

Proper police work, Dad, the kind you always say I’d be

rubbish at.

But then he would have fed Mitch an obvious comeback:

Those bruises prove I was right . . .

So instead of the bedside vigil, he was staying in the car,

hands resting on the steering wheel, head beginning to thrum

again. He reckoned it was the caffeine in the tablets, mixed with

adrenalin – the aftershock from his beating. He had been

thumped before, but not for some time. Last fight he’d almost

been in had been with Rebus a year or so back, until they’d

realised how ridiculously it would have played out. He checked

the damage in the rear-view mirror. He couldn’t believe he’d

been about to barge in on his father like a kid wanting sympathy

for a grazed knee. After a fight one time at school, all Mitch

had wanted to know was how much damage Malcolm had

managed to inflict on his opponent. Sensing this, Malcolm had

brought his imagination into play, until he could see that his

father had stopped believing.

All fun and games, eh? he told himself now, studying his

reflection. Picking up his phone, he saw that the incoming call

was from Siobhan again. He was worried she’d be requesting a

meet-up, and he wasn’t quite ready for her sympathy. No, it was

his father’s sour realism he’d reached out for – and part of him

still wanted it. Instead of which, he turned the key in the

ignition and decided to drive himself home to his bed.

His bed – and another bag of frozen peas.

DAY FIVE

Seventeen

It was still dark when Rebus’s phone woke him. He wrestled

with it while trying to switch on the bedside lamp.

‘Hello?’

‘John, it’s Siobhan.’

‘You’re making a habit of this – what time is it?’

‘Almost six. You need to come down to Leith.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Another shooting. Target wasn’t so lucky this time.’

‘Who?’

‘Dennis Stark.’

Rebus had swung his legs out from beneath the duvet, feet

touching the floor. ‘Dead?’ he asked.

‘Dead,’ Siobhan Clarke confirmed.

An alley off Constitution Street. The main road had been

cordoned, officers in high-vis jackets detouring traffic and

pedestrians. Mostly black cabs and shift workers, the rush hour

still some way off. The media were there too, along with a few

ghouls, who craned their necks, trying to get a better look.

Dennis Stark’s body had been removed. The alley was just

that: high walls, strewn rubbish and a couple of industrial-sized

bins, one reinforced door providing the back entrance to an

office. No CCTV, minimal street lighting. The scene of crime

team were suited up and busy. A bleary-looking James Page

was rubbing his gloved hands together as he gathered

information from a SOCO. Rebus caught Siobhan Clarke’s eye

and she walked towards him, stony-faced and professional in

protective overalls, hood and overshoes.

‘They weren’t going to let me through,’ Rebus said, nodding

in the direction of the cordon. ‘Thought I was going to have to

phone you to come get me.’

‘The call came from one of the nearby flats,’ Clarke

informed him, sliding her face mask down to her throat. ‘Three

separate calls, actually, which is probably why the patrol took it

seriously. Report of what sounded like a single gunshot. One of

the callers was ex-army, said he knew for a fact that was what

he’d heard. Calls came in at around three forty-five, and by four

fifteen the body had been found.’ She gestured towards the

relevant spot. ‘Slumped against the wall. Gunshot wound to the

chest.’

‘Nine mil?’

‘Not sure yet.’

‘Any note?’

‘Same wording as before.’

Rebus puffed out his cheeks. ‘Does Joe Stark know?’

‘Someone was due to call Glasgow.’

‘And Dennis’s men?’

‘We’ve got officers at the guest house. They’ll be taken in

for questioning.’

‘How far is the guest house from here?’

‘It’s on Leith Links.’

‘A two-minute walk, then – and with Leith police station

halfway between the two.’

‘But no one on duty that time of night.’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘This is bad, Siobhan.’

‘I know.’

‘Lord Minton, Cafferty, and now Dennis Stark.’

‘We just need to find the connection.’

‘What about Compston? Does he know?’

‘Haven’t seen him.’

‘His team are supposed to be on the Starks twenty-

four/seven.’

‘I know, and I’m just about to break the news to Page.’ She

paused. ‘While I do that, I thought you could have a word with

Compston.’

‘Why not Malcolm?’

‘He’s not answering his phone.’

‘Okay, leave it with me.’ Rebus watched the SOCOs as they

shone their torches over the ground. ‘Found the bullet yet?’

‘No.’

‘Still in the body, maybe?’

‘Entry and exit wounds, according to the doc.’

‘So the bullet’s here somewhere?’

‘It either is or it isn’t.’

‘Our shooter seems a bit more confident, doesn’t he? Didn’t

want to get too close to Cafferty, yet he’s no qualms about

coming face to face with Dennis Stark.’

Clarke nodded her agreement.

‘And what was Stark doing here anyway?’

‘Right now your guess is as good as mine.’

Page called Clarke’s name. She turned away from Rebus and

marched towards him, pulling the mask back up. Rebus took his

phone out and called Fox’s mobile and home numbers. No

answer. He took one last long look at the alley before heading

back towards the cordon and his car.

Traffic was light as he drove across town to Oxgangs. He

rang Fox’s doorbell and then banged the door with his fist a

couple of times for good measure. Moments later, he heard

movement, and the door cracked open a couple of inches. Fox

was dressed in a pair of dark blue pyjamas, groggy from sleep.

‘Don’t tell me you’re here to sell me a dog?’ he muttered.

‘What the hell happened to you?’ Rebus said, noticing Fox’s

face.

‘I tried breaking up a fight outside the Gimlet.’

‘The Starks?’ Rebus guessed. ‘And you just waded in?’

‘Can we maybe discuss this in daylight hours?’ Fox was

blinking his eyes into focus as he assessed his bruises with the

tips of his fingers.

‘You got an alibi for quarter to four?’

‘What am I supposed to have done?’

‘That’s pretty much the exact time someone shot and killed

Dennis Stark.’

‘Christ,’ Fox said.

‘As you say,’ Rebus concurred.

While Fox was washing and getting dressed, Rebus made

them a cafetière of coffee. Fox walked into the kitchen knotting

his tie. He had obviously been thinking.

‘Cafferty and Christie, Chick Carpenter and Davie Dunn –

they’ll all have to be questioned.’ He accepted the mug from

Rebus and took a slurp. ‘And what about Operation Junior?’

‘That’s why I’m here. No one’s seen or heard from

Compston and his crew – you got a number for them?’

‘Should probably be Doug Maxtone actually – we tell

Maxtone, he tells Compston.’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’

‘Fun?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I suppose I do.’

‘There was a note left with Dennis.’

Fox’s eyes widened above the rim of his mug. ‘Same

message?’

‘Same message.’

‘So it’s our guy then, rather than any of those names I

mentioned.’

‘They all had reason to want Dennis punished – we’ll still

need to talk to them.’

‘Joe Stark is going to be incandescent.’

‘I’d think.’

‘And why didn’t Dennis’s men stop it happening?’

‘We need to find that out.’ Rebus paused. ‘You discovered

who the mole is yet?’

‘What makes you think I’m interested?’

Rebus smiled. ‘The way you reacted when Alec Bell told us.

You’re a born spy, Malcolm – it’s why you were so well suited

to Complaints. I got the notion you’d want to test yourself.’

‘Well, it so happens . . .’

‘Go on then, impress me.’

‘Jackie Dyson’s the clear favourite.’

‘And he didn’t step in when you were getting that kicking?’

‘He’s the one who doled it out.’

‘Knowing you’re a cop?’

Fox shook his head.

‘So is the operation compromised?’

Fox shook his head again. ‘I didn’t identify myself at any

point.’ He had broken open a fresh packet of paracetamol and

was readying to swallow a couple.

‘Still probably not Compston’s star pupil, unless
he
doesn’t

know?’

‘He knows.’

‘So maybe I should be the one to phone him?’

Fox considered this. ‘Maybe you should.’ He got busy with

his own phone, reeling off Compston’s number for Rebus.

‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘I woke up in hospital and the

owner of the Gimlet was there, ready to thank me for stepping

in. He’d brought along a mate of his . . .’