Even dogs in the wild (29 page)

‘Page!’ Stark snapped. ‘I need to talk to you!’

‘How did you get in?’

‘Do we do it here, or somewhere a bit more private? Either’s

fine by me.’

Officers had appeared at the end of the corridor behind Stark

and his men. They looked ready to intervene, but Page waved

them away.

‘My office,’ he said to Stark. ‘Just you and me, though.’ He

led the way through the incident room while the squad gawped

from their desks, all except Charlie Sykes, who was busy

composing a text on his phone. Grieve and Dyson looked set to

linger in the outer office, but Clarke ushered them back into the

corridor, closing the door on them.

‘Charming,’ Grieve said.

‘I’m going for a piss,’ Dyson told him. There was a toilet a

few yards away, and he walked in. Just the two urinals and one

cubicle. He unzipped and started whistling tunelessly, stopping

when the door opened. The new arrival took the urinal next to

him and uttered a greeting. Then the two men’s eyes met.

‘I know you,’ Dyson said. ‘Flattened you outside that

pub . . . You’re a
cop
?’

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Malcolm Fox

exclaimed, zipping himself back up and taking a pace back

towards the sink.

‘Mr Stark has something he needs to get off his chest.

Brought me along for company.’

‘I saw Walter Grieve outside, but I never thought . . .’

‘You seem to know all about us,’ Dyson said slyly, finishing

up and turning towards Fox. ‘All I know about you is I almost

broke your face. I’m wondering now why you didn’t identify

yourself as filth at the time. And also why I’m still on the street

– you didn’t report it?’

He moved past Fox and started washing his hands.

‘Compston didn’t tell you about me?’ Fox asked. ‘I’m

Malcolm Fox. Local liaison.’

‘Compston? I heard that name outside just now. It’s true,

then? There’s a team from Gartcosh over here to put the screws

on us?’

‘Look, I know who you are. You’re Jackie Dyson. I mean, I

know that’s the name you’re using—’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about keeping in character. I can appreciate you

have to, but—’

Dyson spun around from the sink and shoved Fox so hard he

went through the unlocked cubicle door.

‘Am I hearing you right?’ he snarled. ‘You saying the cops

have got someone in our team?’

Fox swallowed. ‘No,’ he managed to say. ‘That’s not what

I—’

But Dyson wasn’t listening. Hands still dripping, he had

hauled open the door to the corridor and was gone. Fox lowered

himself on to the toilet seat. His heart was racing.

It’s the right guy, he said to himself. It’s got to be. Alec Bell

told me as much . . . He broke off, swallowing hard.
Could Alec

Bell have lied?

Ricky Compston was pummelling the steering wheel with the

heel of one hand as he drove.

‘All that work, all that planning . . .’

‘You really think we’re screwed?’

‘Reason I’ve been doing minimal stake-outs is that I’m the

one person Joe might have clocked. Then we walk right into

him.’ He shook his head, anger fighting despair. ‘And we

should
never
even have been there in the first place! I blame Page, and above all I blame Malcolm Arsehole Fox.’

‘Person you should really be blaming is me,’ Hastie said

quietly. There was silence in the car for a moment. Then

Compston glanced at her.

‘What did you tell them back there?’

‘The truth.’

‘Same as you told me?’

‘Not quite. I went for a longer drive than I said. Needed to

clear my head.’

‘Christ’s sake, Beth . . .’

‘So what happens now?’

‘We either wrap this up pronto or pack our bags and ride

into the sunset.’

‘I meant to me.’

‘Dereliction of duty.’ Compston looked at her again. She

was grim-faced but not about to protest. ‘I’m assuming that’s

the least of it?’

‘Sir?’

‘You didn’t actually shoot Dennis Stark?’

‘No.’ Accompanied by a short bark of laughter.

‘And you’re not covering for Alec Bell?’

‘I’m not sure I . . .’

‘I know you think the sun shines out of Alec’s arsehole, and

if he told you to do something, you’d probably never think to

question it.’ Compston paused. ‘So did he tell you to bunk off

that night?’

‘Absolutely not. But what about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve a handy alibi?’

‘Fuck you, DC Hastie. End of.’

‘Nice to see none of us have lost our team spirit.’

Compston had gone from slapping the steering wheel to

throttling it. ‘You didn’t just step over the line there, you

paused to take a dump on it. Far as I’m concerned, that’s that –

you’re getting tossed back to your old duties.’

‘For the record, sir, can I just say something?’

‘If you must.’

‘You’re the worst, most useless, clueless boss I’ve ever had

– and trust me, that puts you at the top of a really long list.’

Twenty Five

They sat in Rebus’s living room, Cafferty sucking on a bottle of

beer. Rebus stuck to instant coffee. He wanted the clearest of

heads, while Cafferty looked in a mood to move on to whisky

once he’d finished his aperitif.

‘Acorn House,’ Rebus nudged. ‘A secure environment for

toerags and scumbags up to the age of – what? Sixteen?’

‘They were different times. People’s definition of what was

acceptable . . .’ Cafferty was staring at the carpet. ‘You’ve seen

it recently: all those stories about celebrities back in the day and

politicians who thought it was perfectly fine to rub shoulders

with paedos.’

‘Christ almighty . . .’

Cafferty met Rebus’s stare. ‘Not
me
! Hell’s teeth, credit me

with that at least!’

‘Okay, you weren’t fiddling with the kids at Acorn House.’

Rebus paused. ‘But somebody was? Michael Tolland?’

‘Far as I know, Tolland was just the guy with the keys. He

kept his eye on comings and goings. The place had a reputation.

The kids would leg it, cars waiting for them outside. They’d be

back next day wearing new clothes, money in their pockets.’

Rebus was trying to remember if there had been whispers at

the time. Maybe – somewhere above his pay grade . . .

‘They closed the place before it ever got to an inquiry,’

Cafferty went on.

‘Are we talking about something specific? Something

involving your pals Jeffries and Ritter?’

‘I wasn’t quite the biggest player in the city back then – I’m

talking 1985 – but I was making my move . . .’ The man

seemed lost in memories. He sat on the edge of the sofa, legs

splayed, elbows on knees, one mitt wrapped around the beer

bottle. ‘There was that no-man’s-land, that sort of grey area

where people like me got to know the movers and shakers.’

‘People like David Minton?’

Cafferty shook his head. ‘I never knew Minton. But he was

friends with an MP called Howard Champ. Remember him?’

‘I know the name. Died a few years back.’

‘I only knew him vaguely. Then one night I get a phone call.

There’s been an incident – I think the word used was

“accident”.’

‘At Acorn House?’

‘In one of the bedrooms. And now there’s a dead kid

complicating the situation.’

Rebus found he was holding his breath as he listened.

‘Something had gone wrong. A lad in his early teens had

expired.’

‘Howard Champ phoned you?’

‘He got someone else to do it,’ Cafferty corrected him. ‘I’m

guessing that was Tolland, though I didn’t know his name back

then.’

‘Did he say what had happened?’

‘Just that Howard Champ needed my help.’

‘You went to Acorn House?’

‘No way I was setting foot in that place!’

‘So you sent a couple of your men – Jeffries and Ritter?’

Cafferty nodded slowly.

‘And they dealt with the problem?’ Rebus could hear the

blood pounding in his ears as he spoke. ‘How did they do that?’

‘Took the body away.’

‘Away where?’

‘Some woods near where they’d grown up.’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘No repercussions?’

‘Kids went AWOL all the time. This one had no family to

speak of, just an overstretched social worker who ended up

getting a holiday cruise and a new kitchen.’

‘He had a name though, right, the lad who died?’

‘I never heard it.’

Rebus exhaled loudly, then got to his feet, leaving the room

for a minute. He returned with two glasses of malt. Cafferty

took one with a nod of thanks. Rebus walked to the window and

stared out at the silent, well-ordered world.

‘What the hell do we do with this?’ he asked.

‘You tell me.’

‘Tolland was there . . . you arranged the burial . . . Howard

Champ was the culprit. Where does David Minton fit in?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘If it’s some kind of payback . . . they’ve waited thirty years.

I don’t get it.’

‘Me neither.’

‘And Jeffries and Ritter – they’re the obvious targets, yet

nothing’s happened to them.’

‘Agreed.’

The slight chuckle Rebus gave had no humour in it

whatsoever. ‘I’m completely and utterly stumped for something

to say.’

‘Maybe I shouldn’t have told you. Could be I’m reading too

much into it, seeing ghosts that aren’t there . . .’

‘Maybe.’

‘But you don’t think so?’

‘The boy didn’t have close family?’

‘No.’

‘There’ll still be records somewhere, though.’

‘Will there?’

‘Damned if I know.’ Rebus ran his hand through his hair.

‘There must be people around who worked at Acorn House, or

were kept there.’

‘But as of right now, you’ve only got my word for it – and

you’re the only one I’m telling.’ The two men’s eyes met. ‘I’m

serious. It’s not a can of worms your lot would be opening, it’s

a room full of snakes. Everything got kept quiet, Acorn House

was shut down without a murmur. I can’t think of anyone

who’d thank you for shining a torch on any of it.’

‘You won’t talk to the police?’

‘An official investigation isn’t going to get anywhere.’

Rebus sipped his whisky while he gathered his thoughts.

‘What did you get out of it at the time?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Howard Champ – did he pay you off?’

‘He offered.’

‘You declined?’

‘He knew he owed me – that was more important.’

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘A gangster scaling the ladder –

handy to have a local MP in your pocket. You never spoke

about it to anyone?’

‘No.’

‘How about Jeffries and Ritter?’

‘They knew better than to go blabbing.’

‘Well someone knew – either all along, or they found out

about it later. Tolland was the first to die – maybe his

conscience got the better of him.’

‘Who would he tell?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘But with Howard Champ long deceased,

the wanted list was pretty small: Tolland himself, then Minton,

then you.’ Rebus paused. ‘Who do you think would be next?’

‘Apart from Jeffries and Ritter?’ Cafferty shrugged. ‘Other

staff, maybe, or kids who knew but kept quiet.’

‘Some easier to trace than others. Minton had been a public

figure . . . You too, for that matter . . . And Tolland was all over

the papers when he won the lottery.’

‘The money he had, why didn’t they blackmail him rather

than do him in?’

‘Because money doesn’t interest them, I suppose.’ Rebus

turned back towards the window and the view.

‘Can you do anything with this?’ Cafferty asked.

‘On my own? I really don’t know.’

‘Will you try?’

‘It’s not like I’ve got anything else on my plate, is it?’ When

Rebus turned his head towards his guest, Cafferty rewarded him

with a smile that mixed relief and gratitude.

‘Remember,’ he said after a moment, the smile fading.

‘There may well be people who don’t want Acorn House dusted

off.’

Rebus nodded solemnly, raising the glass to his lips again.

*

Fox paced the corridor, his phone pressed to his ear. It was the

third time he had tried Alec Bell, and this time the man decided

to answer.

‘What’s the panic?’ Bell said.

‘Took your time getting back to me.’

‘Big powwow with Ricky. What can I do for you, Fox?’

‘You told me Jackie Dyson is your mole.’

‘Did I?’

‘You know you did. I need to know if you were spinning me

a line.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I ran into him at Fettes.’

‘Running into him’s one thing . . .’

‘He knows I’m a cop now. None of your lot seemed to have

told him.’

‘You talked to him?’

‘So he also knows
I
know about the mole.’ Fox could hear

Bell sucking air through his teeth. ‘Meaning that if you lied to

me . . .’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Sure about that?’

‘He’s not going to be too happy that anyone outside the team

knows about him. Don’t suppose it matters, though.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘The meeting we just had – Joe Stark clocked the boss.

Means we’re packing up.’

‘You’ll be replaced with another team?’

‘Who knows.’