Even dogs in the wild (42 page)

‘I’m in Portobello with a man called Todd Dalrymple.’

Rebus’s tone told her to keep listening. ‘He got one of the flyers

and
a note. Put both in the recycling so he’s just finding out.

Dalrymple’s understandably up to high doh and I think we need

to get him and his wife out of here. Which gives us the

opportunity to bait a trap for our killer.’

Clarke had almost walked under a bus. She retreated to the

edge of the pavement and waited for a gap in the traffic.

‘You might have to start from the beginning,’ she said.

‘Best done face-to-face. How soon can you get here?’

‘Twenty minutes?’

‘I might get them to start packing in the meantime.’

Clarke could hear a woman wailing in the background. ‘Mrs

Dalrymple?’ she guessed.

‘She didn’t take it terribly well. I’m not sure Cafferty would

know subtlety if it stood in front of him holding up its own

dictionary entry.’

‘Cafferty’s there?’

‘Didn’t I just say so?’

‘Twenty minutes,’ Clarke repeated, belting across the

carriageway to her waiting car.

Once she had pulled out into traffic, she called Christine

Esson.

‘Yes, guv?’ Esson said.

‘Promise never to use that phrase again.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Is Ronnie in the office?’

‘He is.’

‘And are you busy?’

‘I’m still trying to cough the dust out of my lungs after a day

in the archives.’

‘Was the groper on duty?’

‘Fortunately not.’

‘Well I’ve got something that requires your attention.’

‘Fire away.’ Clarke could hear Esson summoning Ogilvie to

her desk while simultaneously readying a pen and notepad. She

took her eyes off the road long enough to reel off the

information Sanjeev Patel had given her.

‘I need you to visit both. Ask about the people who go door-

to-door with leaflets, then the people who print them and look

after their storage.’

‘And this is because . . .?’

‘Flyers from Newington Spice were found in Lord Minton’s

home, plus those of Big Ger Cafferty and the victim of that

attack in Linlithgow.’

‘Got you,’ Esson said. ‘Should we split it between us?’

‘That would be quicker.’

‘Any description to go on?’

‘Absolutely none.’

‘Male? Female?’

‘One or the other, certainly. Get back to me once you’ve

finished.’

‘Yes, guv,’ Esson said, ending the call before Clarke could

respond.

*

Todd and Margaret Dalrymple were upstairs filling a suitcase.

Cafferty was standing by the living room window, his back to

the room. Rebus had brought Clarke indoors and she was now

taking in her surroundings, including the carpet, which was still

strewn with recycling.

‘He won’t come in daylight,’ Rebus reminded Cafferty,

receiving only a grunt in response. ‘But feel free to make

yourself a nice big target in case he does.’

He handed Clarke the note along with the takeaway menu.

‘Like I say, we don’t know for sure when it arrived. They put it

straight in the recycling without even noticing.’

‘And Cafferty got a menu too?’

Rebus nodded slowly. There was a gleam in his eyes Clarke

hadn’t seen in a while – alive to all manner of challenges and

possibilities.

‘So you went to Ullapool,’ she nudged him.

Rebus kept nodding. ‘And spoke to a guy called Dave Ritter.

He was at Acorn House that night and was supposed to dump

the body in a grave in some forest in Fife. Thing is, Bryan

Holroyd wasn’t dead. He’d been putting on an act. He ran for it

and they couldn’t find him.’

‘So Holroyd’s behind this?’ She held up the note.

‘I’d say there’s a good chance.’

‘And how does upstairs fit in?’ She gestured towards the

ceiling.

‘Dalrymple was another of Acorn House’s clients. Ritter

told me as much, which is why Cafferty and I decided to come

visit.’

‘Does his wife know?’

‘Like I said, Big Ger lacks a certain diplomacy . . .’

‘Bit of marriage guidance needed.’

‘Not our problem.’

‘I’m just wondering if we need one place of safety or two.’

‘I see what you mean.’

Clarke thought for a moment. ‘I need to tell Page all this.’

‘Of course. But bear in mind what I said – this is our one

chance at catching him. We’ve no idea where Holroyd is or

what he looks like. All we do know is that he’ll be coming here

very soon.’ Rebus paused. ‘Which is why I’m offering myself

as bait. I’m much the same age and build as Dalrymple. Enough

to fool Holroyd until he gets up close.’

‘And then what? He’s going to have a gun, remember.’

‘Firearms officers stationed outside in an unmarked car.

First sign of trouble, they come running.’

Clarke pointed towards the corner of the room, where John

B was asleep in his basket.

‘Will Holroyd know the Dalrymples have a dog?’

‘He well might. But then
I’ve
got access to one too,

remember.’

‘I don’t think Page will agree to it, John – you’re not a

police officer.’

‘You can fight my corner, though.’

‘I can try – I’m just not sure I want to.’

Fresh wailing had started upstairs, penetrating the ceiling

and causing John B to prick up his ears and look concerned.

‘And what about him?’ Clarke added, gesturing towards

Cafferty.

‘He doesn’t want Holroyd dead, if that’s what you mean.’

Cafferty turned towards them. His face looked solemn rather

than angry.

‘What I want,’ he stated, eyes boring into Clarke’s, ‘is to say

sorry to the man.’

Clarke met his gaze for a moment before turning her

attention back to Rebus.

‘I need you to take me through this one more time,’ she said.

‘As slowly and methodically as you can . . .’

Thirty Seven

Darryl Christie wasn’t a huge fan of Glasgow. It
sprawled
in a way his own city didn’t. And there were still traces of the old

enmity between Catholic and Protestant – of course that existed

in Edinburgh too, but it had never quite defined the place the

way it did Glasgow. The people spoke differently here, and had

a garrulousness to them that spilled over into physical swagger.

They were, as they chanted on the football terraces, ‘the

people’. But they were not Darryl Christie’s people. Edinburgh

could seem tame by comparison, head always below the

parapet, keeping itself to itself. In the independence

referendum, Edinburgh had voted No and Glasgow Yes, the

latter parading its saltired allegiance around George Square

night after night, or else protesting media bias outside the BBC

headquarters. The political debate had melted into a blend of

carnival and stairheid rammy, so that you never knew if people

were joyous or furious.

Darryl Christie had considered all the implications for his

various business interests and come to the conclusion that either

outcome would probably suit him just fine, so in the end he

hadn’t voted at all.

The place he was looking for was a restaurant off Buchanan

Street. The lunchtime rush was ebbing, and as he peered

through the window, he could see empty tables waiting to be

cleared. Joe Stark was seated alone in one corner, his white

cotton napkin tucked into his shirt collar, mopping up sauce

with a hunk of bread. The other diners looked like just that,

which was what had been agreed. Yes, there was a BMW

outside with a couple of lookouts in the front, but that was fine

too. Christie returned to the Range Rover, told his own men to

stay there unless the occupants of the Beemer headed inside.

Then he pushed open the door to the restaurant.

‘Mr Christie?’ the manager said. ‘Such a pleasure. Mr Stark

is waiting. Would you like to see a menu?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Just a drink, then?’

‘No thanks.’

Christie walked up to Joe Stark’s table, pulled out a chair

and sat down. Then, realising he now had his back to the room,

he got up again and made to settle next to the older man on the

banquette.

‘I don’t even let hoors get that close,’ Stark warned him. ‘Go

sit the fuck down and I swear no one’ll come up behind you

with a cleaver.’

Christie did as he was told, but moved the chair until it was

at a right angle to the table.

‘How’s the food?’ he asked.

‘Not bad. You know they’re not releasing my son’s body

yet? Is that them taking the piss or what?’

‘It’s a murder inquiry – that’s the way it goes.’

‘You ready to give me a name?’ Stark pushed aside his

plate, but continued chewing on the wad of bread.

‘A name?’

‘I assume that’s why you’re here.’

‘I still don’t know who killed Dennis.’

‘Then what possible use are you to me?’ Stark whipped

away the napkin and threw it on to the plate.

‘The last time we met, I told you I respected you – do you

remember that?’

‘I’m getting it tattooed on my bollocks.’

Christie stared at the man. Stark was avoiding eye contact,

finishing his glass of red wine and searching between his teeth

with the tip of his tongue.

‘This is useless,’ Christie said, making to get up. But Stark

reached over, gripping him by the forearm.

‘Sit down, son. You’ve come all the way from Edinburgh.

Might as well say your piece.’

Christie made show of considering his options, then eased

back down on to the chair. He was about to start speaking when

Stark gestured for the manager, who came bounding over.

‘Double espresso for me, Jerry. And whatever my guest is

having.’

‘I’m fine,’ Christie stated.

The manager bowed and scurried away. Another table was

settling up and leaving. Christie realised that the caricatures on

the walls represented Scottish pop stars, though he only

recognised a few.

‘Well?’ Stark said, leaning back and giving the young man

his full attention.

‘You were in Edinburgh looking for Hamish Wright,

because he’d taken something that you felt belonged to you.’

‘Aye?’

‘And as part of that search, you went to CC Self Storage.’

‘Dennis and his boys went to at least three of those places.’

‘But what Dennis didn’t know, I’m guessing, is that

Wright’s nephew works there.’

‘Is that so?’ Stark couldn’t help looking suddenly more

interested.

‘And my thinking is, the nephew might know the

whereabouts of the uncle.’

Stark gave a thin smile. ‘Son, I
know
where the uncle is.’

‘You do?’

‘He’s buried in a field somewhere outside Inverness. Dennis

let Jackie Dyson have his way with him – reckoned nobody was

as good at wringing the truth out of a man as Jackie. Fucker

made Dennis look like Greenpeace.’

‘Wright died?’

‘He did, aye.’ Christie watched the old man nod. He didn’t

look in the least concerned. ‘We didn’t want anyone getting

wind of it – best thing was to make the cops and anyone else

think we were still on the hunt.’

‘So they wouldn’t think you’d killed him?’ It was Christie’s

turn to nod. ‘So why tell
me
?’

Stark fixed him with a look. ‘Because that’s twice now

you’ve come to me. Makes me think we might be able to help

one another – now and in the future. A sort of alliance against

the jackals in Aberdeen and Dundee.’

‘Are they starting to circle?’

‘They smell blood, son. I can offer Dennis’s crew the moon,

but somebody out there’s going to offer one of them Mars or

Venus as a bonus. If they knew I had friends . . . well . . .’ Stark

shrugged.

‘How would it work?’

‘Plenty of time for that later.’ Stark patted Christie’s leg.

‘For now, you’ve got me interested in this nephew.’

‘And you’ve got
me
interested – you really think we could

work together?’

‘Only one way to find out. Dennis was gearing up to push

me aside. Everyone knew it – Len and Walter were always

bending my ear about it. Either his boys will make a move on

me anyway, or they’ll decide they need reinforcements from

outside the city. It’s either you with me, or you with them. But

look at me, son. I’m not going to last much longer – and when I

croak, a good-sized chunk of Glasgow would be yours.
If
you

take my side. On the other hand, team up with them, and you’ll

be surrounded by wild animals – young, hungry and stupid.’

Stark’s coffee had arrived, along with an amaretto biscuit

that he dunked and then held between his lips, sucking the thick

black liquid from it.

‘I’ll have one of those too, actually,’ Christie told the

retreating manager. And he returned Joe Stark’s smile, the two

men readying to get down to business.

Anthony Wright had been in trouble a few times – speeding

offences, one very minor drugs bust and a breach of the peace.

Which was how Fox managed to track down his home address.

It was a maisonette in Murrayburn, not a million miles from his

place of work. Anthony had the upper floor. His downstairs

neighbours hadn’t washed their windows in a while, and the