Even dogs in the wild (21 page)

‘Looks like the killer maybe took it away with him,’ Rebus

commented.

‘Why, though?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Pity, mind – be good to verify all three

bullets came from the same weapon.’

‘Three?’

‘The tree in the Hermitage, plus Cafferty and Stark.’

Page stared at him. ‘You think there’s more than one maniac

out there?’

‘Copycats have been known to happen.’

Page dismissed this with a scowl. ‘This team who’ve been

keeping the Starks under observation . . .’

‘Red faces all round.’

Page’s nostrils flared. ‘And just how did Lord Minton get a

gun in the first place?’

‘Not legally,’ Clarke said. ‘No firearms certificate ever

issued to him.’

‘But with him being a lawyer and all,’ Rebus added, ‘he

probably got to know one or two people down the years who

could find him what he wanted. Thing is: why did he want it?’

‘He’d been sent a threatening note,’ Page reminded him.

‘He’d probably had threats in the past, though. For some

reason, this latest one got to him.’

‘Because it had merit?’ Page guessed. ‘You think the gun

was a recent purchase?’

‘I phoned his bank and managed to get a few details,’ Clarke

said. ‘A couple of weeks ago he took out five hundred pounds a

day on four consecutive days. Normally he made do with

withdrawals of a hundred or two hundred twice a week. In his

wallet at time of death he had exactly thirty-five pounds.’

Page’s eyes were on Rebus. ‘Would two grand buy him a

handgun?’

‘Probably.’

‘Why in batches of five hundred?’

‘Maximum he could take from a cash machine each day,’

Clarke explained.

‘We’re
sure
he had a gun in his desk drawer?’

‘It’s feasible.’

‘So who sold it to him? Is there anyone in the city we

know of?’

‘We can make enquiries,’ Rebus stated.

‘Let’s do that then.’

‘Probably best not to say anything to the grieving father,’

Rebus cautioned.

Page nodded his understanding and picked up his phone. ‘I

wonder how many of these texts are from the boss,’ he said.

‘We’re not going public with the note to Stark, are we, sir?’

Clarke asked.

‘Not just yet.’

‘And forensics are checking it?’

‘For what it’s worth.’ But Page’s attention was now firmly

on the contents of his phone’s screen. Rebus gestured to Clarke

that it was time to go. Outside in the main office, she asked him

about the pistol.

‘You still have snitches working for you?’

‘No,’ he stated. ‘But Darryl Christie might put the word out

if we ask nicely.’

‘And why would he do that?’

‘Because right now he needs all the friends he can get.’

Clarke considered this, eventually nodding her agreement.

‘You okay to talk to him?’

‘In my consultative capacity, DI Clarke?’

‘In your consultative capacity,
Mr
Rebus.

Fox had listened to the interviews with Dennis Stark’s

associates.

Actually, that wasn’t strictly true – he had skimmed three of

them, but listened to the fourth in full. Jackie Dyson was good,

very good, not once letting the mask slip. He was belligerent,

obstructive, and grudging in his answers.

‘You’re here as a friend of the deceased, Mr Dyson,’ he was

reminded at one point. ‘We’re just looking for anything that can

help us track down his killer.’

‘Then get out and look,’ Dyson had snarled in response.

‘Because as soon as you let me out of here, that’s what I’m

doing.’

Fox wondered: would Dyson want to be brought in, mission

scuppered? At the very least, he would be looking to talk to

Compston, just to get some pointers.

Or was he beyond all that? Was he self-sufficient and

comfortable in his new skin?

Was there even an opportunity for advancement, now that

Dennis was gone?

Fox looked at his phone – nothing from Siobhan or Rebus.

For want of anything better to do, he decided to head back to St

Leonard’s. But once in his car, he opted for a quick detour first.

He parked kerbside on Constitution Street and walked to the

alleyway’s opening. It was protected by police tape. A couple

of elderly shoppers had stopped for a gawp, while the uniform

on duty did his best to ignore them. He recognised Fox and

lifted the tape. But having ducked beneath it, Fox paused.

‘Anyone else been along?’ he asked.

‘Victim’s father.’

‘Plus entourage?’

The officer nodded. ‘I only let the father through, though.’

‘Bet that made you popular.’ Fox smiled and headed deeper

into the alley. Forensics had picked it clean, not even a

bloodstain visible. Dennis liked to go for a night-time walk,

always unaccompanied – that much had been gleaned from the

interviews. Fair enough, but the guest house sat on the edge of

Leith Links, a much more congenial spot than this. Had he

arranged some sort of meeting? There was nothing on his

phone, no texts or late-night calls. Yet something or someone

had brought him here. Ducking back below the tape, Fox

thanked the uniform and retraced the route Dennis had most

likely taken. It was a short walk past Leith police station, and

yes, there were the Links, with a kids’ park visible beyond the

fenced-off allotments. A large wooden board was hanging from

a post in the small front garden of the guest house:

LABURNUM – NO VACANCIES.

The door to the guest house was yanked open from within,

and Fox just had time to crouch behind a parked VW Polo as

Dennis’s gang emerged, Joe Stark bringing up the rear. The

others carried overnight bags and backpacks. They stuffed

everything into the boot of a Chrysler Voyager and got in,

Jackie Dyson driving. The vehicle sped off, and five seconds

later was joined by another car, driven by the unmistakable

form of Alec Bell. Was the gang bound for Glasgow? They

were certainly in a hurry. Looking towards the guest house

again, Fox saw that the NO VACANCIES sign had been tossed

to the ground.

And the front door was ajar.

He crossed the street and opened the gate, walking up the

path and calling out a greeting as he pushed the door open and

stepped inside. There was a man lying on the floor of the

chintzy living room. Ornaments lay smashed in the fireplace.

The man’s hands had been tied behind his back. He’d been

seated on a dining chair, which had toppled on to its side. He

was conscious, bleeding from nose and mouth. Fox knelt beside

him and undid the knots.

‘I’m a police officer,’ he assured the trembling figure. The

man was in his mid fifties, overweight and breathing hard.

‘You’re in shock, but are you otherwise hurt? Anything broken,

or are you okay to sit up?’

‘I’ll be all right.’

‘Should I call an ambulance?’

‘I’m fine, really.’ The man was sitting on the floor, rubbing

his wrists.

‘The men who did this, they’ve driven off, so don’t worry.’

‘What men?’

Fox stared at him. ‘You might be concussed.’

‘No men, no men.’ The man was shaking his head.

‘Maybe some boxes fell on you, eh? And tied your hands

behind you while they were at it?’ Fox patted the man’s arm

reassuringly. ‘Don’t fret about it. But did you tell them

anything?’

‘Nothing to tell.’

‘Sure you’re going to be all right?’

‘Moira will have a fit, you know.’

‘Will she?’

The man was looking at the smashed ornaments. ‘Her pride

and joy those were . . .’

‘Let me help you to your feet. I want to check you’re able to

walk.’

The man accepted Fox’s assistance. He wobbled a little, but

regained most of his equilibrium.

‘You know Dennis Stark has been killed?’ Fox asked. ‘I’m

guessing they want to know who knew he was staying here.’

The man nodded slowly, then his eyes widened. ‘They’ll

come back, won’t they? They’ll want to hear it from Moira.’

Fox considered this. ‘Might be wise to pack a few things for

you and Moira. Go elsewhere for a day or two.’

‘Yes,’ the man agreed, nodding again.

‘And maybe wash the blood off, so she doesn’t get a bigger

shock than is already coming to her.’

‘Thank you,’ the man said. He insisted on seeing Fox to the

door. Fox stopped on the path, picked up the sign and reinstated

it.

He walked back to Constitution Street, unsure what to do

next. Carnage seemed to follow the Starks. It made sense that

they should be sent packing. But how? He waved a goodbye

towards the officer on cordon duty and unlocked his car. There

was just under a quarter of a tank of petrol, and he had a sudden

craving for something sweet, so he filled up on the nearest

forecourt. Entering the shop, he noted that the place closed at

ten in the evening. He selected a Bounty and a Mars bar and

took out his debit card.

‘Where’s the nearest all-night garage?’ he asked the

assistant.

‘Used to be one not far from here, but it went belly up – hard

to compete with the supermarkets.’

Fox nodded sympathetically. ‘So to answer my

question . . .?’

‘Canonmills maybe.’

‘Canonmills? That’s a fair distance.’

The assistant just shrugged. Fox retrieved his card from the

machine and got into his car. He stayed at the pump, engine off,

as he chewed on the Mars bar. Then he got back out of the car

and returned to the cash desk.

‘Something wrong?’ the assistant asked, looking distinctly

wary.

‘This is the only petrol station on Leith Walk, right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Any others nearby?’

‘One, maybe two.’

‘But in the middle of the night?’

‘I told you, Canonmills.’

‘You did,’ Fox was forced to agree. He walked outside

again. Why had Beth Hastie lied? Had she decided the

surveillance wasn’t worth her time, opted for a good night’s

sleep instead? He shut the driver’s-side door, started the engine,

and tore open the Bounty, stuffing the first segment into his

mouth as he drove off the forecourt.

There were two smartly dressed and well-built doormen on the

steps outside Darryl Christie’s hotel – a sensible addition to the

staff roster, given the circumstances. Rebus stopped in front of

them and nodded a greeting.

‘Remember me?’ he said to the one he’d spoken with in the

driveway of Cafferty’s house.

‘I never forget a face.’

‘I notice Big Ger’s no longer at home. Good to see you

weren’t out of work for long.’

‘We get around almost as much as you do.’

‘I assume you’ve heard the news about Dennis Stark? If his

crew turns up here, you better have reinforcements on speed-

dial. Unless you’re tooled up, of course – because trust me,

after what just happened to their boss, they’ll be locked and

loaded.’

‘Just as well we’ve a police force to take care of all these

shady characters.’

‘
Semper Vigilo –
that’s our motto,’ Rebus said, passing

between the two men and pushing open the glass door. The

same barman as before was on duty, but there was no offer of a

drink, just a quick phone call to some other part of the building.

The street outside the large Georgian sash windows seemed

calm enough. Maybe that had always been the Edinburgh way,

or at least the polite New Town way. Long gone were the days

when a rabble could be roused by imprisoning someone

unfairly or raising the price of bread. But he knew people would

be talking, neighbours gossiping about the most recent

murderous assault, shopkeepers agreeing with customers that it

was both shocking and rare.

Darryl Christie walked into the room briskly, sitting down

across from Rebus as if ready for only the briefest of dialogues.

‘Wasn’t me,’ he said.

‘Okay.’

‘Whoever did it left a note – am I right?’

‘I was under the impression we were keeping that away from

the public.’

‘I’m not the public, though, am I?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘But it means you’re after the same bastard who did for

Minton and tried to do for Cafferty.’

‘Cafferty told you about the note? I suppose that makes

sense. And you’re probably right – though we’re keeping an

open mind. Have you heard from Joe Stark yet?’

‘No.’

‘Reckon those two lunks on the door will keep the

bogeyman away?’

‘Call them an early-warning system.’

‘You’re mates with their boss, then? Andrew Goodman?’

‘We’ve done some business.’

‘Any of it legit, or is that a stupid question?’ Rebus saw that

Christie wasn’t about to answer, so gave a thin smile. ‘Well,’ he

said, ‘much as I’d like to see you put away, Darryl, I’m actually

after a favour – something that could be mutually beneficial.’

Christie looked at him. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.

‘Our thinking is, the gun was taken from Lord Minton’s

house by whoever killed him. He didn’t have a licence for it,

and it was probably a recent purchase – as in the past couple of

weeks.’

Christie scratched at his chin with one fingertip. ‘Sourced