Even dogs in the wild (4 page)

‘Congratulations on your retirement,’ Cafferty drawled.

‘You didn’t think to invite me to the party. Hang on, though – I

hear there
was
no party. Not enough friends left to even fill the back room at the Ox?’ He made show of shaking his head in

sympathy.

‘The bullet didn’t hit you then?’ Rebus retorted. ‘More’s the

pity.’

‘Everyone seems to be talking about this mysterious bullet.’

‘I just wish we still had a tap on your phone. I’m betting that

in the minutes after, you were shouting the odds at every villain

in the city.’

‘Look around you, Rebus. Do you see bodyguards? Do you

see protection? I’m too long out of the game to have enemies.’

‘It’s true plenty of people you hate have predeceased you –

one way or another. But I still reckon there are enough to make

a decent-sized list.’

Cafferty smiled eventually and gestured towards the

doorway. ‘Come into the kitchen. I’ll pour us a drink.’

‘I’ll take mine in here, thanks.’

Cafferty sighed and shrugged, turning to leave. Rebus did a

quick circuit of the room and was by the fireplace when

Cafferty returned. It was not an overly generous helping, but

Rebus’s nose told him it was malt. He took a sip and rolled it

around his mouth before swallowing, Cafferty opting to knock

his back in one gulp.

‘Nerves still jangling?’ Rebus guessed. ‘Don’t blame you for

that. So you didn’t have the curtains closed. Probably reckon

you don’t need them – nice big hedge between house and

pavement. But that means he was standing on the lawn, directly

outside. What were you doing? Crossing the room to find the

TV remote, maybe? At which point he’s not more than eight or

ten feet away. You still can’t see him, though – lights on in

here, darkness out there. Yet somehow he misses. Meaning it’s

either a warning or he’s some kind of rookie.’ Rebus paused.

‘Which would you guess? Maybe you don’t need to – could be

you already know.’ He took another sip of whisky and watched

Cafferty ease himself on to the leather sofa.

‘Say someone
was
trying to kill me, would I be daft enough

to stay put? Wouldn’t I be heading for the hills?’

‘You might. But if you’ve no idea who’s behind it, that isn’t

going to help you find them. Maybe you get tooled up, call in

some favours and bide your time until he tries again. Morris

Gerald Cafferty prepared is a very different creature from one

who’s been caught on the hop.’

‘So when I tell you that I’d had a nip too many and tripped

over my own feet, smacking the window . . .’

‘You’ve every right to stick to your story. I’m not a

detective these days; nothing I can do one way or the other. But

if you did feel you needed some help, Siobhan’s right outside

and I’d trust her with your life. I’d probably even trust her with

mine.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind. Meantime, I hope I’ve not taken you

away from whatever it is cops like you do when they’re put out

to pasture.’

‘We tend to spend our days reminiscing about the scum

we’ve put in jail.’

‘And the ones who got away too, no doubt.’ Cafferty pulled

himself back to his feet. He acted like an old man, but Rebus

felt sure he could be dangerous when cornered or threatened.

The eyes were still hard and cold, mirroring the calculating

intelligence behind them. ‘Tell Siobhan to go home,’ Cafferty

was saying. ‘And the door-to-door is wasting time and effort.

It’s just one broken window, easily fixed.’

‘It’s not, though, is it?’ Rebus had followed Cafferty for a

few steps but then stopped by the wall opposite the bay

window. There was a framed painting there, and as Cafferty

turned towards him, he dabbed at it with the tip of one finger.

‘This painting used to be over there.’ He nodded towards

another wall. ‘And the wee painting hanging there used to be

here. You can tell from where the emulsion has faded – means

they’ve been swapped over recently.’

‘I like them better this way.’ Cafferty’s jaw had tightened.

Rebus gave a thin smile as he reached out with both hands and

lifted the larger painting from its hook. It had been covering a

small, near-circular indentation in the plaster. He shut one eye

and took a closer look.

‘You’ve prised out the bullet,’ he commented. ‘Nine mil,

was it?’ He dug in his pocket for his phone. ‘Mind if I take a

snap for my scrapbook?’

But Cafferty’s hand had gripped him by the forearm.

‘John,’ he said. ‘Just leave it, okay? I know what I’m doing.’

‘Then tell me. Tell me what’s going on here.’

But Cafferty shook his head and relaxed his vice-like grip.

‘Just go,’ he said, his voice softening. ‘Enjoy the days and

the hours. None of this is yours any more.’

‘Then why let me in?’

‘I’m wishing I hadn’t.’ Cafferty gestured towards the hole. ‘I

thought I was being clever.’

‘We’re both clever, it’s why we’ve lasted as long as we

have.’

‘You going to tell Clarke about this?’ Meaning the bullet

hole.

‘Maybe. And maybe she’ll go get that warrant.’

‘None of which will get her any further forward.’

‘At least the hole rules out one theory.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘That you fired the gun yourself from in here.’ Rebus

nodded towards the window. ‘At someone out there.’

‘That’s some imagination you’ve got.’

The two men stared at one another until Rebus exhaled

loudly. ‘I might as well head off then. You know where to find

me if you need me.’ He got the painting back on its hook and

accepted the handshake that Cafferty was offering.

Outside, Clarke and Fox were waiting in Fox’s car. Rebus

climbed into the back.

‘Well?’ Clarke asked.

‘There’s a bullet hole in the far wall. He’s got the bullet out

and won’t be handing it over to us any time soon.’

‘You think he knows who did it?’

‘I’d say he hasn’t a clue – that’s what’s got him spooked.’

‘So what now?’

‘Now,’ Rebus said, reaching forward to pat Fox on the

shoulder, ‘I get a lift home.’

‘Are we invited in for coffee?’

‘It’s a flat, not a fucking Costa. Once you’ve dropped me,

you young things can finish the evening doing whatever takes

your fancy.’ Rebus looked towards where the terrier was sitting

on the pavement, watching the occupants of the car, its head

cocked. ‘Whose is the mutt?’

‘Not sure. The uniforms asked around, but nobody’s missing

a pet. Couldn’t be Cafferty’s, could it?’

‘Unlikely. Pets need looking after, and that’s not the man’s

style.’ Rebus had dug his cigarettes out of his pocket. ‘Mind if I

smoke in here?’

‘Yes,’ came the chorus from the front.

The dog was still watching as the car moved off. Rebus

feared it was about to try following them. Clarke swivelled

around so she was facing the rear seat.

‘I’m fine,’ Rebus told her. ‘Thanks for asking.’

‘I hadn’t quite got round to it.’

‘No, but you were going to.’

‘It’s good to see you.’

‘Aye, you too,’ Rebus conceded. ‘Now is there any chance

you can get Jackie Stewart here to put the foot down? There’s a

cigarette with my name on it waiting at the other end . . .’

*

In his kitchen, Cafferty poured another whisky, adding a drop

of water from the cold tap and finishing it in two swallows. He

expelled air through his teeth and slammed the empty glass on

to the table before running his hands down his face. The house

was locked, all doors and windows checked. From his pocket he

took the bullet, compressed from impact. Nine mil, just as

Rebus had surmised. Once upon a time, Cafferty had kept a

nine-mil pistol in the safe in his den, but he’d had to ditch it

after having had recourse to use it. He placed the misshapen

bullet next to the empty whisky glass, then opened a drawer and

found what he was looking for, tucked away near the back. The

note that had been shoved through his letter box a few days

before. He unfolded it and examined the words again:

I’M GOING TO KILL YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID.

But what
had
Cafferty done? He pulled out a chair, sat

down, and began to consider.

DAY TWO

Four

Next morning, Doug Maxtone gestured for Fox to follow him

out of the cramped office into the empty corridor of St

Leonard’s police station.

‘I’ve just been briefed,’ Maxtone said, ‘by our friends from

the west.’

‘Anything you can share?’

‘We discussed their request for that “ancillary support” I

mentioned yesterday . . .’ Maxtone broke off and waited.

Fox tapped a finger against his own chest and watched his

boss nod slowly.

‘You worked Professional Standards, Malcolm, so you know

all about keeping your mouth shut.’ Maxtone paused. ‘But you

also know about spying. You’re going to be my
eyes and ears in there, understood? I’ll want regular updates.’ He checked his

watch. ‘In a minute, you’re going to go knock on the door. By

then they’ll have decided how much they need to tell you and

how much they think they can get away with
not
sharing.’

‘I seem to remember they wanted to vet potential

candidates.’

Maxtone shook his head. ‘I’ve made it pretty clear you’re

what’s on offer.’

‘Do they know I used to work Complaints?’

‘Yes.’

‘In which case I expect I’ll be welcomed with open arms.

Any other advice?’

‘The boss is called Ricky Compston. Big wide bastard with

a shaved head. Typical Glasgow – thinks he’s seen it all while

we spend our days directing tourists to the castle.’ Maxtone

paused. ‘None of the others bothered with introductions.’

‘But they did tell you why they’re here?’

‘It’s to do with a—’ Maxtone broke off as the door to the

CID suite swung open. A face appeared, glowering.

‘That him?’ a voice barked. ‘When you’re ready . . .’

The head disappeared, the door remaining ajar.

‘I better go say hello,’ Fox told his boss.

‘We’ll talk at the end of the day.’

Fox nodded and moved off, standing in front of the door,

giving himself a moment before pushing it all the way open.

There were five of them, all standing, mostly with arms folded.

‘Shut the door then,’ the man who had originally opened it

said. Fox reckoned this must be Compston. He had the rough

dimensions and general demeanour of a prize bull. No

handshakes, just down to business.

‘For the record,’ Compston said, ‘we know this is shite,

yes?’

He seemed to require an answer, so Fox gave something that

could have been construed as a nod of agreement.

‘But in the spirit of cooperation, here we all are.’ Compston

stretched out an arm, taking in the room. The desks were

sparsely furnished – just laptops and mobile phones, plugged

into chargers. Almost no paperwork and nothing pinned to the

walls. Compston took a step forward, filling Fox’s field of

vision, so he knew who was in charge. ‘Now I know what
your

boss is thinking: he’s thinking you’re going to run straight back

to him every five minutes with the latest gossip. But that

wouldn’t be very wise, Detective Inspector Fox. Because if

anything leaks, I know for a fact as hard as my last shit that it

won’t have come from my team. Is that clear?’

‘I think I’ve some lactulose in my drawer, if that would

help.’

One of the detectives gave a snort of laughter, and even

Compston eventually broke into a brief smile.

‘You know I used to be Professional Standards,’ Fox

ploughed on. ‘That means I’ve got a fan club here with

precisely no members. Probably explains why Maxtone chose

me – keeps me out of his hair. Besides which, I don’t expect he

thinks this is going to be a laugh a minute. You might need me

and you might not. I’m happy to sit on my arse playing Angry

Birds for the duration – salary still goes into my bank.’

Compston studied the man in front of him, then turned his

head towards his team.

‘Initial assessment?’

‘Standard Complaints wanker,’ a man in a light blue shirt

said, seeming to act as the voice of the group.

Compston raised an eyebrow. ‘Alec isn’t usually so effusive.

On the other hand, he seldom gets people wrong. Standard

Complaints wanker it is. So let’s all sit down and get

uncomfortable.’

They did, and introductions were finally made. The blue

shirt was Alec Bell. He was probably in his early fifties, a good

five or six years older than Compston. A taller, younger,

undernourished-looking officer went by the name of Jake

Emerson. The only woman present was called Beth Hastie. She

reminded Fox a little of the First Minister – similar age, haircut

and facial shape. Finally there was Peter Hughes, probably the

youngest of the team, dressed for the street in a padded denim

jacket and black jeans.

‘I thought there were six of you,’ Fox commented.

‘Bob Selway’s otherwise engaged,’ Compston explained.

Fox waited for more.

‘That makes five,’ he said.