Even dogs in the wild (20 page)

‘Darryl Christie?’

‘Who worked out straight away that it was no accident I was

in the area.’

‘And does Ricky Compston know about
that
?’ Rebus

watched as Fox nodded. ‘Yet I’m the one everybody says is a

troublemaker. Sounds as if you could teach me a thing or two.’

‘Christie told me he was going to take the Starks out of the

game. He said the best thing the rest of us could do was keep

well out of the way.’

Rebus thought about this for a moment, then made the call,

holding the phone to his ear. ‘Here goes,’ he said. ‘Wish me

luck . . .’

Having identified his only son at the mortuary, Joe Stark was in

a room at Fettes, answering a few questions with his lawyer

present.

That had interested Rebus – not too many parents of murder

victims turned up with a solicitor in tow. But then Joe Stark was

no ordinary parent. The media had upped camp from

Constitution Street and were now on Fettes Avenue, their

numbers swelling as the sky got lighter.

Compston had wanted to come to Fettes too, but Rebus had

cautioned against it – ‘unless you’re winding down Operation

Junior’.

His reasoning: the place would be crawling with members of

the Stark crew. And sure enough, Joe’s trusted lieutenants –

Walter Grieve and Len Parker – were in the reception area,

awaiting their boss. Rebus had even had a word with them.

‘Are you members of the family?’ he had asked, sounding

sympathetic.

‘As good as.’

‘Well, I just wanted to say how sorry we all are. Hellish

thing to happen to a young man, especially when he’s a visitor

to the city.’

‘Aye, thanks.’

They had twitched in their seats, unable to work out how to

react. Probably the only time they ever talked to cops was when

under caution or slipping a bung beneath a pub table.

‘If there’s anything we can do for you gentlemen . . .’ Rebus

had left them there, nodding and frowning.

Elsewhere in the building, Dennis Stark’s men were being

questioned or were waiting their turn. Rebus wondered if Jackie

Dyson would come out of character. He doubted it. Always

supposing Fox had got the right man. Fox himself was in the

incident room, committing to memory the various items pinned

to one wall – crime scene photos, maps, newspaper clippings.

‘Page and Siobhan are putting together a media release,’ he

told Rebus. ‘You spoken to Cafferty?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘He’s like you were earlier – not answering his phone.’

‘Thumping on the front door sometimes works.’

‘I was there two nights back. He’s done a flit.’

‘Oh?’

‘Self-preservation, most likely.’

‘Surely he’ll be in touch when he hears.’

‘Who knows what he’ll do – this is Cafferty we’re talking

about.’

Siobhan Clarke emerged from Page’s office but walked

straight past them without noticing, her mind elsewhere. She

had paperwork in one hand and her phone in the other as she

disappeared into the corridor.

‘I thought she might have said something about my bruises,’

Fox commented. Then, his eyes on Rebus: ‘Are we doing any

good here?’

‘Not a lot.’

‘Where are you meeting Compston?’

‘St Leonard’s. You coming along for the ride?’

‘I suppose I might.’

‘You scared I won’t play nice?’

‘I’ve often been told I’m a civilising influence.’

‘Tell that to the guys who jumped you.’

‘One lucky punch, that’s all . . .’

Eighteen

‘Well if it isn’t De Niro’s stunt double from
Raging Bull
,’

Compston announced as Fox walked into the room, Rebus right

behind him. The mood was sombre, weeks and months of work

most likely just flushed down the toilet.

Fox was ready with a question: ‘Where was the overnight

surveillance?’

‘We all have to sleep sometime,’ Alec Bell complained.

‘From which I take it you were the one napping in the car?’

‘Actually it was me,’ Beth Hastie piped up. ‘I needed petrol,

a hot drink and the loo, so I took twenty minutes out at an all-

night garage on Leith Walk. First I knew we had a problem was

when uniforms turned up at the guest house.’

‘Wouldn’t have been an issue,’ Compston added, ‘if we

hadn’t lost Selway and Emerson, but they were still in Glasgow

keeping an eye on the dad.’

‘Chief Constable’s not going to be happy with you, Ricky,’

Rebus said.

‘My problem, not yours. But at least I’m not the one failing

to apprehend some nutcase serial killer.’

‘Anyway,’ Fox chipped in, ‘with Dennis gone, I dare say the

others will want to go back to Glasgow.’

Compston gave him a hard stare. ‘Are you off your head?

Why would they do that?’ Then, to Rebus: ‘Tell him.’

Rebus obliged. ‘Joe’s the Old Testament sort, an eye for an

eye and all that. He’d raze Edinburgh to the ground to find who

killed his son. DI Compston here probably relishes that

prospect, because Joe’s not going to hold back and that means

he’ll start to make mistakes. The more he does that, the easier it

is to catch him in the act and put him and his boys away.’

‘So you see,’ Compston told Fox, ‘nobody’s going

anywhere. And we’re all going to have front-row seats. Trust

me, Edinburgh doesn’t know what’s about to hit it.’

Cafferty’s heart was pounding as he stood at the window of his

Quartermile flat, looking down on to the Meadows. Students

were striding and cycling down Jawbone Walk, full of

confidence and vitality. He felt nothing but a sweeping

dissociation – what was this other world like, the one most

people seemed to inhabit? Why were they happy? He couldn’t

remember ever feeling carefree. Always alert to possible attack,

surrounded by those he could not risk trusting, new threats

piling on top of old. He had clambered his way to the top,

trampling those he needed to, gouging and scratching and

kicking, making a slew of enemies but ensuring, too, that those

enemies would lack the strength to topple him.

Was that any sort of kingdom?

Joe Stark had done much the same in Glasgow, ruling by

fearful reputation, reinforced in time by son Dennis. But Dennis

had lacked his father’s guile and innate canniness, and this

surely had contributed to his downfall. Cafferty pressed his

forehead against the tinted glass as he made the call. Darryl

Christie picked up immediately.

‘I was about to call
you
,’ Christie announced.

‘Christ, Darryl, you don’t hang about, do you?’

‘I knew that’s what you’d be thinking.’

‘It’s what
everyone’s
going to be thinking – especially the forces of law and order.’

‘The very fact you say that tells me something interesting.’

‘What?’

‘You no longer have friends on the force.’

‘And you do?’

‘Which is why I know about the note.’

‘They found a note?’

‘It’s not been reported yet, but yes, same as you got. So this

wasn’t some isolated hit – and it certainly wasn’t me or mine

pulling the trigger.’

‘Two gangsters targeted . . .’

‘Agreed – the cops are going to want to question me. And

I’d be hard pressed to lie and say I’m sorry that bawbag’s been

eliminated. I could kiss whoever did it.’

‘Joe’s going to come gunning for you – maybe for me too.

He won’t believe it was random, and even if he did, he’d still

need revenge on somebody.’

‘Well he knows where to find me. You, on the other

hand . . .’

‘What?’

‘You’re hiding out, and that’s bound to make you look

guilty in his eyes.’

‘I hope I can trust you to put him right on that score.’

Christie just laughed and hung up. Cafferty stepped away

from the window and considered phoning Rebus, but ended up

sitting down with his laptop instead, knowing he would have to

add Dennis Stark to his search list. It was going to be a long

day.

Joseph Stark stood in the alley while his men formed a line

behind the cordon, scowling at the officer on duty who had

refused to let them through.

‘Immediate family only,’ the officer had stipulated.

This hadn’t bothered Joe Stark unduly – he’d wanted the

place to himself anyway, to see if any trace of his son could still

be found there. He remembered that Cath had wanted the name

Dennis – her own father’s name. So Joe had nodded away his

preference for Joseph Junior. Then Cath had gone and died,

leaving Joe to try running the show while bringing up the kid.

His friends had told him to marry again, but he knew he

wouldn’t. Cath had been the woman for him. He was trying

now to bring back memories of Dennis’s childhood, but there

were huge gaps. First day at school? A neighbour had taken

him, Joe away on business. Playing football for the youth club,

Halloween dressing-up, end-of-term reports . . . What stuck in

the father’s mind were the summonses to the head’s office.

After a while, they’d realised he wasn’t the kind of man to be

given bad news in person. Letters after that, torn up and binned.

His own father had been handy with his trouser belt,

delivering it to ears, hands, backside. Fists later on. Joe had

behaved in much the same way, until Dennis grew to be a

couple of inches taller than him and learned to resist. Good

times too, though, surely: dinner and drinks at some fancy new

place; a drive in the Jag to the seaside for ice cream; passing on

knowledge about the way the world really worked.

It was the gaps that gnawed at him, however – those huge

chunks of time spent away from one another. When Dennis had

gone to jail, Joe had preferred not to visit. Leave the lad alone,

let him learn. He knew that when he went home to Glasgow,

he’d find precious few photos of the two of them together. But

then what was the point of all that? What was the point of

standing in a freezing alley in a strange city when your son was

in a drawer at the mortuary? The formal identification had been

hard, but he’d insisted on seeing the bullet hole. Small it was, in

comparison to the rest of the unharmed torso. A couple of

tattoos Joe couldn’t remember having been told about – one a

purple thistle, the other a lion rampant. He’d winced – he bore

near-identical markings on his own arms. Why had the boy

never said?

He crouched down, placing the palm of one hand against the

wall and one on the rough ground. Then he closed his eyes,

trying to feel something,
anything
. When he opened his eyes

again, the world seemed unchanged. The six men were focused

on him as he walked towards them: Dennis’s four, plus Walter

and Len. Joe Stark made silent eye contact with each one of

them in turn. Len Parker gave him a handkerchief so he could

wipe his hands clean. Stark nodded his thanks before handing it

back, then led them away from the uniform and the locals who

had come to gawp.

‘Whoever did this,’ he began, keeping his voice low, ‘knew

about the guest house. So I need you to give me names, and

then we’re going to have a talk with each and every one of

them, see who
they
maybe spilled the beans to. Cops will be

doing their own thing, but I doubt they’ll be busting a gut – CID

in Glasgow are probably opening the champagne as I speak.

But my boy’s dead and I want to know why and I need to know

who. Until then, no rest, no jokes, no fun. Understood? If I’m in

hell, you lot are too. Anyone want to say anything?’

There was a shuffling of feet, but then Rob Simpson cleared

his throat. ‘I know one of us should have been with him, but it

was just something he did. Only seemed to need four hours’

sleep a night, and he’d go out for a stroll. Never woke us up to

go with him. He knew he could if he wanted to.’

‘You all knew about this?’ Joe Stark waited until Dyson,

Andrews and Rae all nodded. ‘Then you should have talked

sense into him. Or one of you should have taken the night shift,

so he wouldn’t be on his own.’

They looked at the ground and shuffled uneasily.

‘I hold all four of you personally responsible,’ Stark went

on, stabbing with his finger. ‘You want me in your corner when

this is done? You’ll get me some answers.’

‘Whatever it takes?’ Jackie Dyson queried.

‘Take a wild fucking guess, son,’ came the ice-cold reply.

Nineteen

James Page listened as Rebus and Clarke told him their theory.

‘So our killer doesn’t have a gun,’ Page said, ‘until he takes

one from Lord Minton’s house? He then tests it, shoots at

Cafferty and misses, and a few days later takes down Dennis

Stark at point-blank range?’

‘Do we know it was point blank?’ Rebus asked.

‘Powder burns on the deceased’s jacket,’ Page confirmed.

‘And no bullet yet?’ Clarke checked.

‘No.’

‘So what happened to it?’

‘We don’t know.’ Page folded his arms. He was seated

behind his desk, his phone lying in front of him. Every five or

ten seconds there was another incoming text for him to ignore.