Even dogs in the wild (3 page)

already be there if Page could have organised it – budget’s in

place for seven-day weeks and as much overtime as we need.’

‘Happy days.’ Fox toasted her with his water. Clarke’s

phone started vibrating. She had placed it on the table next to

her wine glass. She checked the screen and decided to answer.

‘It’s Christine Esson,’ she explained to Fox, lifting the

phone to her ear. ‘Shouldn’t you be at home with your feet up,

Christine?’ But as she listened, her eyes narrowed a little. Her

free hand reached for the wine glass as if on instinct, but the

glass was still empty, as was the carafe. ‘Okay,’ she announced

eventually. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ She ended the call

and tapped the phone against her lips.

‘Well?’ Fox prompted.

‘Reports of a gunshot in Merchiston. Christine just heard

from a pal of hers at the control room. Someone who lives on

the street called it in. A patrol car’s on its way to the scene.’

‘Some old banger backfiring?’

‘Caller heard breaking glass – living room window,

apparently.’ She paused. ‘The window of a house belonging to

a Mr Cafferty.’

‘Big Ger Cafferty?’

‘The very same.’

‘Well that’s interesting, isn’t it?’

‘Thank God we’re off duty.’

‘Absolutely. Perish the thought we’d want to take a look.’

‘Quite right.’ Clarke cut off a chunk of hake with the side of

her fork. Fox was studying her over the rim of his glass.

‘Whose turn to pay?’ he asked.

‘Mine,’ Clarke replied, dropping the fork on the plate and

signalling for a waiter.

The patrol car sat kerbside with its roof lights flashing. It was a

wide street of detached late-Victorian houses. The gates to

Cafferty’s driveway were open and a white van was parked

there. A couple of neighbours had come out to spectate. They

looked cold, and would probably head in again soon. The two

uniformed officers – one male, one female – were known to

Clarke. She introduced Fox, then asked what had happened.

‘Lady across the street heard a bang. There was a flash too,

apparently, and the sound of glass shattering. She went to her

window but couldn’t see any sign of life. The living room lights

went off, but she could see the window was smashed. Curtains

were open, she says.’

‘He’s been quick enough getting a glazier.’ Fox nodded

towards Cafferty’s house, where a man was busy fitting a

plywood covering over the window.

‘What does the occupant say?’ Clarke asked the uniforms.

‘He’s not opening his door. Tells us it was an accident.

Denies there was anything like a shot.’

‘And he told you this by . . .?’

‘Shouting at us through his letter box when we were trying

to get him to open up.’

‘You know who he is, right?’

‘He’s Big Ger Cafferty. Gangster sort of character, or at

least used to be.’

Clarke nodded slowly and noticed that a dog – some kind of

terrier – was standing next to her and giving one of her legs an

exploratory sniff. She shooed it, but it sat back on its haunches,

staring up at her quizzically.

‘Must belong to a neighbour,’ one of the uniforms surmised.

‘It was padding up and down the pavement when we got here.’

He bent down to scratch the dog behind one ear.

‘Check the rest of the street,’ Clarke said. ‘See if there are

any more witnesses.’

She headed up the path towards the front door, taking a

detour to where the glazier was nailing the panelling into the

window frame.

‘Everything okay here?’ she asked him. As far as she could

tell, the living room curtains were now closed, the room behind

them in darkness.

‘Just about finished.’

‘We’re police officers. Can you tell us what happened?’

‘Accidental breakage. I’ve measured up and it’ll be good as

new tomorrow.’

‘You know neighbours are saying a bullet did this?’

‘In Edinburgh?’ The man shook his head.

‘You’ll need to give your details to my colleagues before

you leave.’

‘Fine by me.’

‘Have you done work for Mr Cafferty before?’

The man shook his head again.

‘But you know who he is? So it’s not beyond the realms of

fantasy that there was a gunshot of some kind?’

‘Tells me he tripped and fell against the pane. I’ve seen it

happen plenty times.’

‘I’m guessing,’ Fox interrupted, ‘he made it worth your

while to come out straight away.’

‘It says “Emergency” on my van because that’s what I do –

emergency repairs. Immediate response whenever possible.’

The man hammered the final nail into place and checked his

handiwork. There was a toolbox on the ground next to him,

along with a portable workbench where he had sawn the

plywood to size. The shards of glass had been swept up into a

dustpan, larger pieces placed one on top of the other. Fox had

crouched down to examine them, but when he stood up, the

look he gave Clarke told her he hadn’t gleaned anything. She

turned towards the solid-looking door, pressing the bell half a

dozen times. When there was no response, she bent down and

pushed open the letter box.

‘It’s DI Clarke,’ she called out. ‘Siobhan Clarke. Any

chance of a word, Mr Cafferty?’

‘Come back with a warrant!’ a voice from within yelled. She

put her eyes to the letter box and could see his shadowy bulk in

the darkened hall.

‘It’s good you’ve turned the lights off,’ she said. ‘Makes you

less of a target. Do you reckon they’ll come back?’

‘What are you on about? You been on the sauce again? I

hear you’re getting too fond of it.’

Clarke could feel the blood rising to her cheeks. She

managed to stop herself checking Fox’s reaction. ‘You could be

endangering your neighbours’ lives as well as your own –

please think about that.’

‘You’re dreaming, woman. I knocked against the glass and it

broke. End of story.’

‘If it’s a warrant you want, I can fetch one.’

‘Bugger off and do that then, and leave me in peace!’

She let the flap of the letter box clack shut and straightened

up, fixing her eyes on Fox.

‘You reckon you’ve got something better than a warrant,

don’t you?’ he said. ‘Go on then.’ He motioned towards the

phone she was clutching in her right hand. ‘Give him a bell . . .’

Three

The Oxford Bar was almost empty, and John Rebus had the

back room to himself. He sat in the corner with a view of the

doorway. It was something you learned to do as a cop – anyone

coming in who might mean trouble, you wanted as much

warning as you could get. Not that Rebus was expecting

trouble, not here.

And besides, he was no longer a cop.

A month since his retirement. He had gone quietly in the

end, demanding no fanfare, and turning down the offer of a

drink with Clarke and Fox. Siobhan had phoned him a few

times since, on various pretexts. He’d always managed to find

some excuse not to meet up. Even Fox had got in touch – Fox!

Ex-Professional Standards, a man who had tried snaring Rebus

many a time – calling in an awkward attempt to share gossip

before getting to the point.

How was Rebus doing?

Was he coping?

Did he want to hook up some time?

‘Bugger that,’ Rebus muttered to himself, finishing the dregs

of his fourth IPA. Time to call it a night. Four was plenty. His

doctor had told him: best cut it out altogether. Rebus had asked

for a second opinion.

‘Here it is then,’ the doctor had said: ‘You should stop

smoking too.’

Rebus smiled at the memory and rose from his pew, taking

the empty glass with him to the bar.

‘One for the road?’ he was asked.

‘That’s me done.’ But as he stepped outside, he paused to

get a cigarette lit. Maybe one more, eh? Freezing outside, and a

wind that could slice bacon. Quick cigarette and back inside.

There was a coal fire burning. He could see it through the

window, sharing its warmth with no one now he was out here.

He looked at his watch. What else was he going to do? Walk

the streets? Take a taxi home and sit in his living room, failing

to pick up any of the books he’d promised himself he would

read? Bit of music and maybe a bath and then bed. His life was

turning into a track on a CD with the repeat function engaged,

each new day the same as the one before.

He’d made a little list at the kitchen table: join the library,

explore the city, take a holiday, see films, start going to

concerts. There was a coffee ring on the list, and soon he would

crumple it into the bin. One thing he had done was sort out his

record collection, finding a few dozen albums he hadn’t played

in years. But there was a problem with one of the speakers – the

treble kept coming and going. So he’d have to add that to the

list, or else start a new one.

Redecorate.

Replace rotting windows.

New bathroom suite.

New bed.

Hall carpet.

‘Easier just to move,’ he said to the empty street. No need to

flick ash from his cigarette – the wind was doing that for him.

Back indoors or taxi home? Toss a coin?

Phone.

He dug it out and peered at the screen.
Caller: Shiv
. Short

for Siobhan. Not that she would countenance being called Shiv

to her face. He considered not answering, but then tapped the

screen and pressed the device to his ear.

‘You’re interrupting my training,’ he complained.

‘What training?’

‘I’m planning on doing the Edinburgh Marathon.’

‘Twenty-six pubs, is that? Sorry to break into your

schedule.’

‘I’m going to have to stop you there, caller. There’s

someone on line two with a less smart mouth.’

‘Fine then – I just thought you might like to know.’

‘Know what? That Police Scotland is falling to pieces

without me?’

‘It’s your old friend Cafferty.’

Rebus paused, his brain switching gears. ‘Keep talking.’

‘Someone might just have taken a potshot at him.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘Hard to say – he’s not letting us in.’

‘Where are you?’

‘His house.’

‘Give me fifteen minutes.’

‘We can come fetch you . . .’

A taxi had turned into Young Street, its orange light on.

Rebus walked into the road and waved for it to stop.

‘Fifteen minutes tops,’ he told Clarke, before ending the call.

*

‘Want me to try the bell for you?’ Fox asked. He was on the

doorstep in front of Cafferty’s home, flanked by Rebus and

Clarke. The glazier had gone, and the officers from the patrol

car were still collecting information from neighbours. The blue

flashing light had been turned off, replaced by the orange

sodium glow of the nearby street lamps.

‘He seems to want to communicate by shouting through the

letter box,’ Clarke added.

‘I think we can do better than that,’ Rebus said. He found

Cafferty’s number on his phone and waited.

‘It’s me,’ he said when the call was picked up. ‘I’m standing

right outside and I’m about to come in. So you can either open

the door, or wait for me to put in another of your windows and

climb in through the wreckage.’ He listened for a moment, eyes

on Clarke. ‘Just me – understood.’ Clarke opened her mouth to

protest, but Rebus shook his head. ‘It’s baltic out here, so quick

as you can and we can all go home.’

He put the phone back in his pocket and offered a shrug.

‘It’s okay for me to go in because I’m not a cop these days.’

‘He said that?’

‘He didn’t need to.’

‘Have you spoken to him recently?’ Fox added.

‘Contrary to received opinion, I don’t spend my days

fraternising with people like Big Ger.’

‘There was a time.’

‘Maybe he’s just more interesting than others I could name,’

Rebus bristled.

Fox looked ready to respond, but the door was being opened.

Cafferty stood behind it, mostly hidden in shadow. Without

another word, Rebus stepped inside and the door closed behind

him. He followed Cafferty from outer hall to inner. Cafferty

walked past the closed door to the living room, turning into the

kitchen instead. Rebus wasn’t about to play that game, so

entered the living room, turning on the light. He’d been in the

room before, but there had been changes. A black leather suite.

A vast flat-screen TV above the fireplace. The curtains in the

bay window had been pulled shut; he was drawing them open

when Cafferty walked in.

‘You’ve tidied most of the glass,’ Rebus commented. ‘Still

wouldn’t risk it in bare feet, mind. But at least floorboards are

better than carpet – the splinters are easier to spot.’

Hands in pockets, he turned to face Cafferty. They were old

men now, similar build, similar background. Sat together in a

pub, they might be mistaken by a casual onlooker for pals

who’d known one another since school. But their history told a

different story: fights and near-deaths, chases and prosecutions.

Cafferty’s last stint in jail had been cut short after a cancer

diagnosis, the patient making a miraculous recovery once free.