Even dogs in the wild (33 page)

‘I’ve not spoken to anyone yet.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

‘Aye. Maybe.’ Fox cleared his throat. ‘Listen, Joe Stark has

left town. Taking all but two of the gang with him.’

‘Oh?’

‘Might put your chum Cafferty’s mind at rest – plus Darryl

Christie.’

‘It might,’ Rebus seemed to agree. ‘Speaking of Cafferty,

which care home was your dad in again? Wasn’t

Meadowlea?’

‘Isn’t that more of a medical place? Like a hospice?’ Fox

saw a white coat approaching. The doctor looked only just

out of her teens, but she lifted the clipboard with confidence

and studied it with deep concentration. ‘Got to go,’ Fox told

Rebus.

‘Call me if you need anything.’

‘Thanks.’ Fox put the phone away and rose to his feet. ‘I’m

his son,’ he told the doctor. She had finished reading the notes

and acknowledged him with a nod, squeezing past to check the

readouts, the drip, the oxygen. ‘Is there anything you can tell

me?’

‘We’ll be running tests later today.’

‘I was told he’d had a seizure – could it be a stroke? He

doesn’t look like he’s coming round any time soon.’

‘Sometimes the body shuts down so it can repair itself.’

‘But what about the other times?’

The doctor glanced at her patient’s face. ‘We’ll know more

in a short while. Your father’s a good age, Mr Fox . . .’

‘Meaning what?’

‘You said it yourself – brain and body can just decide it’s

time.’

And there was that smile again, the same one the nurse in

A&E had offered. He watched the doctor as she moved to the

next bed. A bit of him wanted to confront her, drag her back to

this
bed. But to what end? Instead he sat back down, feeling a weight pressing upon him. It was time to phone Jude. It was

time to start preparing.

Patrick Spiers didn’t own a detached house in Gullane. The

address Stout had given Rebus led to a 1960s high-rise in

Wester Hailes. It was one of those times he was thankful his

car didn’t look worth stealing. On the other hand, the jazz

musician Tommy Smith had grown up in this environment, so

anything was possible. Maybe the kids scowling from their

BMXs would grow up to be artists and musicians. Or hospital

consultants. Or care workers. When Rebus gave one group an

encouraging smile, however, he received only unblinking

scowls in reply.

The lift was working, so Rebus took it to the sixth floor,

trying not to think about what might be in the polythene carrier

bag that sat in one corner, its handles tied together to create a

seal.

He didn’t know what he was expecting on the sixth floor

of the tower block. Stout had mentioned a grown-up daughter,

but he hadn’t thought she lived with her father. There had

never been a wife, just a string of ‘significant others’. The

old journalist had confirmed that Spiers had succumbed to

cirrhosis of the liver – ‘and probably a host of other ailments

besides’.

Rebus stood on the walkway. It was only partially glassed

in, the glass itself scored with graffiti. But he had a view south

to where snow lay on the Pentlands, just beyond the bypass.

The street lights were already on, though the sun was just

barely below the horizon. Long shadows at ground level.

Rebus tried thinking how many hours of daylight there had

been – not quite eight, maybe seven and a half. At this time

of year, kids went to school in the dark and came home at

twilight. He’d often wondered if crime rose in the winter –

darkness changed people’s mood; darkness changed everything.

And under cover of darkness, anything might happen

undetected.

He found himself standing outside flat 6/6. The window was

curtained but there was a light on beyond the frosted-glass

panel in the front door. Neighbours had added iron gates to

theirs, creating a better barrier against incursion. Either Patrick

Spiers had had more faith in his fellow humans, or there was

nothing inside worth stealing.

The doorbell worked, so Rebus waited. A woman’s voice

called out from within.

‘Who is it?’

‘I’m with the police,’ Rebus called back. ‘Any chance of a

word?’

He heard a chain being attached to the door before it was

pulled open an inch.

‘ID?’ the young woman said. He could see only half her

face.

‘Afraid not,’ he apologised. ‘But I can give you a number to

call.’

‘And how will I know I’m talking to the police and not just

some crony of yours?’

‘You sound like your father’s daughter all right.’ Rebus gave

a friendly smile. ‘I don’t suppose he was the trusting type

either.’

‘And with good reason.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘What kind of cop doesn’t carry ID?’

‘The kind who retired recently but is working in a civilian

capacity.’

‘For the police?’

‘That’s right.’ Rebus made show of blowing on his hands

and rubbing them together, but he hadn’t quite gained her trust

yet.

‘How did you get this address?’

‘Albert Stout.’

‘That old sleazebag.’

‘The very same.’

‘He used to follow my dad around – did you know that? Just

in case there was a story he could steal from him.’

‘You’re not endearing him to me.’

‘But he’s a friend of yours?’

‘Not at all. I went to ask him a few questions as part of an

inquiry I’m involved in, and he—’ Rebus broke off. ‘It really is

perishing out here.’

‘You know we just buried my dad?’

‘Yes, I was sorry to hear it.’

‘Sorry why? Did you know him?’

‘I was just hoping he could help me.’

‘And that’s why you’re sorry?’ She watched Rebus nod.

‘Well that’s honest, I suppose.’ A few seconds later, having

made her mind up, she unhooked the chain and let him in.

Rebus stood in the living room doorway, surveying the

carnage.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said.

‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’

Floor-to-ceiling box files, bulging manuscripts tied with

string, and three old-fashioned manual typewriters placed

around a drop-leaf table, each with a sheet of paper

inserted, half a page typed. There was a venerable-looking

computer too, complete with a slot for the floppy disks that

sat stacked next to it. A TV set in one corner – not the latest

model, but at least it wasn’t black and white. The posters

pinned to the walls were mostly obscured by boxes, but

Rebus could make out Muhammad Ali, Bob Dylan and John

Lennon.

‘Your dad was old school,’ Rebus commented.

‘Even when it came to porn.’ Spiers’s daughter lifted a

magazine and waved it in front of Rebus – a bare-breasted

blonde with unfeasibly white teeth.

‘Couple more years, you could put that on
Antiques

Roadshow
.’

She looked at him and burst out laughing, covering her eyes

with her free hand. She was close to tears, he could tell.

‘Where do I even
begin
?’ she said, dropping the porn mag to

the floor.

Rebus was studying the writing on the spines of some of the

box files. They seemed to be in chronological sequence.

Various newspapers and magazines were mentioned, sometimes

with a couple of lines about the stories Spiers had contributed

and even the fee received.

‘I didn’t get your name,’ he said as he looked.

‘Molly.’ He turned towards her and they shook hands. She

was in her early thirties, about five and a half feet tall with curly

black hair and a prominent mole on her chin. She wore a

wedding band on her left hand.

‘I’m John Rebus,’ he said. ‘Your husband’s not with you,

Molly?’

‘You
are
a detective, then?’ She played with the ring. ‘We

broke up a couple of months back.’

‘Do you live in Edinburgh?’

‘Glasgow,’ she corrected him. ‘Dad used to live there

too.’

‘How long was he in Edinburgh?’

‘Best part of a decade.’

‘And your mum?’

‘Left me so she could go “find herself” in India.’

‘Oh aye? How’s that working out?’

‘Horribly, I hope.’ She laughed again.

‘You the only child?’

‘That we know about. Dad was quite the rogue in his day.’

She examined Rebus as he scanned the boxes. ‘What is it

you’re looking for?’

‘An acorn in a forest,’ he muttered.

‘People usually say needle, don’t they? A needle in a

haystack?’

‘Your father wrote about a place called Acorn House,’

Rebus explained.

‘That rings a bell.’ Rebus watched as she went to another

teetering tower of box files. ‘Help me with this,’ she said. There

were two boxes marked Acorn House, halfway down the pile.

Rebus removed the top three or four, then two more, and Molly

lifted the boxes in question.

‘They don’t weigh much,’ she said.

Because they were empty, apart from a single sheet of paper

in each. On the first were written words that stopped Rebus

dead.

They took the lot! They took the fucking lot!

The second note consisted of a short string of numbers. ‘Any

ideas?’ he asked Molly.

‘Dates maybe?’ She shrugged. Then she took another look.

‘Dad has boxes of disks. Some of them have numbers . . .’

It took a further ten minutes of sifting until she plucked one

disk from a box and held it up. ‘This one,’ she said. Rebus took

it from her. It was a black plastic square with an index sticker

on it. Written in pencil were numerals that matched the note. A

thin brushed-metal cover could be pushed to one side, giving a

glimpse of the flimsy brown circle within, the recording tape

containing the data.

‘“Formatted for IBM PS/2 and compatibles”,’ Rebus recited.

‘“1.44 MB, High Density MFD-2HD”.’

‘Cutting edge at the time, I dare say,’ Molly said, folding her

arms.

‘Let’s see what’s on it, then.’

They fell at the first hurdle, however. Patrick Spiers’s

computer was password-protected. Molly offered some

suggestions, but none proved right. Rebus ejected the disk and

cursed silently.

‘Sorry,’ Molly said in sympathy.

‘Not your fault. But I’ll have to take it with me – is that

okay?’

She nodded. ‘Is this you making your excuses and your

getaway? You don’t want to help me sift through the rest, just

in case?’

‘I wish I had time, Molly. But if Acorn House comes up . . .’

He handed her a business card. ‘In fact, if you see
anything
you think I might be interested in . . .’

‘I’ll phone you,’ she agreed.

As Rebus made his exit, he half turned to give her a wave,

but she wasn’t paying attention. She just stood there, looking

suddenly tiny and exhausted, dwarfed by her father’s life

and times, the stories he’d written and the ones he hadn’t lived

to tell.

Twenty Nine

Rebus had called Cafferty from his flat, giving him a progress

report and asking for help. Just over an hour later, his intercom

buzzed. He unlocked the door and waited for the delivery. It

was carried in a loose cardboard box by a young man for whom

acne was proving a challenge. His head was shaved and he

wore a hooded jacket under a black padded gilet.

‘All right?’ he said by way of greeting. Rebus showed

him where to put the box, having cleared space on the table in

the living room. The computer was not a make Rebus

recognised. It comprised a single bulky unit with a fourteen-

inch screen.

‘Gold standard at one time,’ the youth assured him, plugging

it in. ‘MS Works and Word.’

‘As long as it’ll play this.’ Rebus handed over the floppy.

The lad slotted it home and waited while the computer churned

and whirred. Then he clicked the mouse.

‘It’s an old Word file by the look of it,’ he mused. ‘And not

too much on it.’

‘Could anything be hidden?’

‘Hidden?’

‘It happens,’ Rebus said. ‘Encryption, that sort of thing.’

‘You’re talking to the wrong guy.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Rebus said, knowing he could hand the

disk over to the forensic lab if necessary, let them explore it.

For now, he had a single file of sixty-five kilobytes, which

had been given the catchy title ‘Doc 1’. He showed the youth

out, adding a ten-pound note to whatever Cafferty had

already paid. He took his time in the kitchen, opening a bottle

of IPA and pouring it into a pint glass. Then he wandered

through to where the computer sat waiting. Placing his drink

on the table near the mouse, he lit a cigarette and took a couple

of puffs, then drew his chair in closer and opened the

document.

The bastards took the lot! Every note, every

interview, every bit of wild speculation. Plus the

few photos I had. Every scrap was gone when I

got home. No sign of forced entry, just the two

boxes lying open, so I’d get the message loud

and clear. ‘We can do this, and a lot more

besides.’ That’s what they’re telling me. So here I

am, past midnight and woozy with booze, but

determined to get as much down as I can