Even dogs in the wild (32 page)

and I’ll tell you what I think.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘That doesn’t work for me.’

‘I don’t work for you either, so do me the courtesy of

answering just one question – are you here to uncover the truth,

or to ensure it stays hidden?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘When the lottery millionaire was killed, did the attacker

maybe take something – journals or a confession?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘And that’s not what you’re worried about?’

‘No.’

‘How do I know you’re not lying?’

‘You don’t.’

Stout gave him a hard stare, but Rebus didn’t blink.

‘Hmmm,’ the old man eventually said. He unclasped his hands

and pressed them to his desk. ‘What happened in that place was

a scandal – or should have been. But there was never any hard

evidence. I twice asked my editor for money so we could set up

a watch on the comings and goings, maybe grease a few palms.’

‘He said no?’

‘Actually, he said yes, but then his mind was changed for

him.’

‘Somebody had a word?’

‘The proprietor at that time liked nothing better than rubbing

shoulders with the great and the good. They’d invite him to

dinners, pour him the best brandy and light a cigar for him. And

then they’d whisper that certain things were never to be

followed up.’

‘Including Acorn House?’

‘Especially Acorn House. Story after story found itself

spiked.’

‘How about other papers?’

‘Same thing. You heard no end of rumours, but you couldn’t

print them.’

‘Did none of the staff or kids ever come forward?’

‘One or two,’ Stout admitted. ‘They talked to me and to

others, but we needed something concrete.’

‘What are my chances after all these years?’

‘Pretty much non-existent.’

‘But there’ll be people out there who were resident at Acorn

House?’

‘Undoubtedly. They probably won’t talk, though, even

though the climate these days is more sympathetic to victims.

Either they’ll be too scared, or they won’t want to deal with the

memories. Even if they
do
talk, they’d be incriminating the

dead and the nearly dead, and it would be one person’s word

against another’s.’

Rebus’s eyes swept the room – so many books, magazines

and newspapers, so much investigation . . . ‘Did you print

anything
?’

‘A satirical magazine ran a couple of pieces, no names

mentioned. It would be different these days. Someone on the

internet would publish, and damn the lawsuits. Besides, every

kid has a phone – there’d be texts and photos. Back then,

secrets could always be kept.’

‘David Minton,’ Rebus said suddenly, awaiting Stout’s

reaction.

‘Lord Minton, recently deceased? What of him?’

‘One of his closest friends was Howard Champ.’

Stout gave the thinnest of smiles. ‘You’re handing me

names,’ he said.

‘And wanting to know what you make of them.’

‘Add in the lottery millionaire and I’m seeing two men who

died after being attacked in their homes, and one who

succumbed to natural causes. Are you saying our lottery winner

and his lordship were killed by the same person? And the link is

Acorn House? So maybe one of the victims, now grown-up and

seething . . .’ Stout rasped his hands down his face. ‘Well, well,

well.’

‘None of this is for general consumption,’ Rebus warned.

‘You’ll have to forgive an old hack’s instincts – I can’t help

myself.’

‘Is there anything at all you can give me? I’m struggling

here.’

Stout studied his visitor closely, and Rebus remembered

what it was like to be questioned by the man – the forensic level

of inquisition, each error or inconsistency dissected. ‘I know

you don’t like me, Rebus,’ he was saying now. ‘The feeling is

entirely mutual, I assure you. But it always did rankle that

certain men could get away with . . . well, with
anything
. All down to status. All down to pecking order and privilege.’

‘I’m not looking to cover anything up, Albert. Quite the

opposite.’

‘I can see that.’ Stout sighed. ‘The person you want is

Patrick Spiers.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘He was freelance – bloody-minded, but bloody good.

Couldn’t bring himself to work for any one organisation, liked

his freedom too much. What he relished was a nice knotty

investigation that would lend itself to a long-form essay – five

or ten thousand words. But then the Fourth Estate started giving

less space to those and more to bingo cards and celebrity

gossip. Poor Patrick faded.’

‘He did a story on Acorn House?’

‘Yes – not that I ever saw it. He wouldn’t have shown it to a

rival newshound before it was published.’

‘And it was never published?’

Stout shook his head.

‘Where can I find him?’

Stout smiled ruefully. ‘Do you have a ouija board, John? I

was at his funeral not three weeks back . . .’

‘The good news is, we’re getting our desks back,’ Doug

Maxtone was telling Fox. Fox was climbing the stairs at Fettes,

phone at his ear while he wrestled with a cardboard cup of

scalding tea and a cling-film-wrapped tuna sandwich.

‘They’re shipping out?’

‘Seems Joe Stark and his men are heading back to

Glasgow – all apart from a couple.’

‘Do you think we’ve seen the last of them?’

‘Maybe they’re satisfied Hamish Wright isn’t in the city.’

Fox cursed silently as a splash of liquid landed on his lapel.

‘Do we know who’s staying put?’

‘Compston gave me the names – Callum Andrews and

Jackie Dyson. Said we should keep half an eye on them, just in

case.’

‘But not a full-blown surveillance?’

‘On what grounds? Thing is, it makes war on the streets less

likely.’

‘Unless Joe Stark’s just gone home to regroup.’

‘Well anyway, when James Page gets fed up of you, your

chair’s waiting here.’

‘Thanks for letting me know.’

Fox had reached the incident room. Esson and Ogilvie were

at their desks. He nodded a greeting as he put his phone away,

then started dabbing at his lapel with a handkerchief.

‘Accident?’ Esson asked.

‘I was never much good at juggling. You keeping busy?’

‘Couple of names Rebus wanted me to check. Can’t say I’m

making much headway.’

‘Seen Siobhan?’

‘In a meeting with the boss.’

‘Any idea what it’s about?’

Esson shook her head. Fox’s phone was ringing again. He

saw that it was his father’s care home, so headed into the

corridor for some privacy.

‘Malcolm Fox,’ he said, answering.

‘It’s about your father, Mr Fox.’ The tone told him almost

everything he needed to know.

‘Yes?’

‘He’s been taken to the Infirmary.’

‘What happened?’

‘He just . . . he’s fading, Mr Fox.’

‘Fading?’ But Fox knew what she meant – the body shutting

down bit by bit, preparing for finality. He ended the call and

walked back into the office. Esson saw the look on his face. He

lifted the tea from his desk and placed it on hers.

‘I have to go out. Be a shame to waste it,’ he explained.

‘You okay, Malcolm?’

He nodded uncertainly and turned to leave. Then he noticed

he had picked up the tuna sandwich. He sat it next to the tea and

got going.

He had to drive all the way through town, which gave him

plenty of time to think. Problem was, he felt numb, his thought

processes fuzzy and incoherent, like the hum of conversation in

a busy café, none of it quite intelligible. He switched the radio

to Classic FM and let the music wash over him, oblivious to

anything other than the need to maintain a safe distance from

the vehicle in front. A different person – Rebus, or maybe even

Siobhan – would have put the foot down, overtaking recklessly,

impelled to make haste, but that wasn’t him. He considered

calling Jude but thought it could wait. He had scant news, after

all, and she would only panic.

The Infirmary was a grey new-build on the south-eastern

outskirts of the city. He found a parking space and walked in

through the main doors. The woman at the help desk directed

him to another woman at a different desk, who sent him to

A&E. He remembered waking up there after Jackie Dyson had

knocked him unconscious. Dyson was one of the two soldiers

staying put. That was curious. If Dyson’s job was to stay close

to the action, surely that action had now moved to Glasgow.

Away from the gang, how could he gather intelligence? Then

again, maybe he was under orders from Joe Stark, and to argue

would be to invite suspicion.

As Fox waited at the reception desk, a passing nurse smiled

a greeting, then stopped and retraced her steps.

‘You were here the other day,’ she stated.

‘And you were the first thing I saw when I woke up,’ he

acknowledged.

‘Feeling the after-effects?’ she enquired. ‘Of the injuries, I

mean.’

‘That’s not why I’m here. I got a call from my dad’s nursing

home. He’s been brought in.’

‘What’s the name?’

‘Mitchell Fox – Mitchell or Mitch.’

She went around the desk and checked the computer screen,

then announced the number of the ward.

Fox nodded his thanks. ‘Does it say what’s wrong with

him?’

‘Looks like he had a seizure of some kind.’

‘That doesn’t sound good.’

‘They’ll know more upstairs,’ she said. This time her smile

was that of the health professional – textbook evasive.

He returned to the main concourse and took the lift,

following the signs along the corridor and pushing open the

doors to the high-dependency unit. He explained who he was

and why he was there, and was taken to a bed where his father

lay, his face the same cement-grey colour as the building’s

exterior, monitors connected to him and an oxygen mask

strapped across his mouth and nose. His clothes had been

removed and replaced with a pale green gown. Fox looked to

left and right, but there didn’t seem to be any doctors around.

‘Someone will be along to talk to you soon,’ the nurse said,

checking the monitors before moving to the next patient.

A name tag had been attached to Mitch Fox’s left wrist, and

there was a sensor clamped to the tip of a finger. A chart at the

foot of the bed told Fox nothing. He sought in vain for a vacant

chair. Eventually a visitor at one of the other beds got up to

leave and Fox took his chance. Seated next to the machines,

registering their rhythmic beeps and subtly changing displays,

he rested a hand on his father’s uncovered forearm.

And waited.

Twenty Eight

Rebus ran into Siobhan Clarke as she emerged from the loo

nearest the incident room. She was puffing out her cheeks and

expelling air.

‘As bad as that?’ Rebus said.

‘Investigation’s stalled,’ she explained. ‘We’re waiting for

something to happen. And meantime the Fiscal’s office wants a

separate team attached to the Stark shooting.’

Rebus nodded slowly, wondering how much, if anything, he

could tell her. Then he thought of something. ‘Did you ever

take a closer look at Michael Tolland?’

‘It’s ongoing.’ She stared at him. ‘Why?’

‘I just get the feeling there’s something there. Definitely no

note hidden away somewhere in his house?’

‘Linlithgow picked the place apart.’ Her eyes were

still locked on his. ‘Is there something you should be telling

me?’

He shook his head and followed her into the office. Ronnie

Ogilvie and Christine Esson looked to be sharing a sandwich.

Clarke headed to her own desk to check her messages, while

Rebus stood in front of Esson’s.

‘I’ve got nothing on those two names,’ she warned him.

‘I’ve found Paul Jeffries,’ he told her quietly, checking that

Clarke was out of earshot. Esson glowered at him.

‘When were you going to tell me?’

‘I’m telling you now, so you can focus on Dave Ritter. He

might be living in Ullapool. Do a check, maybe get in touch

with the force up there – could be a bothy with only PC

Murdoch minding the desk, but make sure they know it’s

urgent.’ He saw the look she was still giving him. ‘Okay,

Christine, I’m sorry you’re only hearing this now. My mind’s

been elsewhere.’ He saw the tea on the corner of her desk. ‘This

going spare?’

‘It’s cold.’

‘I’ll settle for that.’ Rebus took a mouthful.

‘Malcolm put it there.’

‘Oh?’

‘He got a phone call and left in a hurry.’

‘When was this?’

‘Maybe three quarters of a tuna sandwich back.’

Rebus frowned in thought, then retreated to the corridor to

make the call.

‘Yes, John?’ Fox said, answering. He kept his voice low,

uncertain about the protocol regarding mobile phones. Time

was, there were signs everywhere warning that they could

interfere with the machines, so he kept his eye on the readouts,

without noting any sudden peaks or troughs.

‘Where are you, Malcolm?’

‘The Infirmary – my dad’s taken a turn for the worse.’

‘Sorry to hear that. Is he going to be okay?’