Even dogs in the wild (46 page)

‘I
know
what it is, Malcolm! But this is our dad we’re

talking about – the only one we get. And if we put our names

on that form, we lose him.’

‘You don’t think he’s already lost?’

‘Miracles can happen.’

‘I’ve not seen too many recently.’

‘I spent half the night on the internet reading up on them.

Patients waking from a coma after years, suddenly ravenous

and asking what’s for breakfast. It
happens
, Malcolm.’ She

drew on the cigarette again.

‘They’ve run every test, Jude.’

‘Not
every
test – I looked that up too. All I’m saying is . . .’

She started coughing, head bowed. The coughing stopped,

but her shoulders still shuddered, and Fox realised she was

sobbing. He grabbed her in an embrace. Her scalp was oily, her

hair needing a wash, but he planted a kiss on the crown of her

head.

‘We’ll go in when you’re ready,’ he said. ‘And not before.’

‘We’ll be out here till we freeze then.’

But he knew she didn’t mean it.

It was a manhunt now. Photos of Jordan Foyle had been

distributed to the media, who were clamouring for more

information. All they’d been told was that he was armed and

potentially dangerous. The story of the hijacked patrol car had

got out, however, and the Chief Constable had been on the

phone demanding answers. James Page wanted answers too,

and didn’t seem even half satisfied at the end of the briefing by

Clarke and Rebus.

‘You think Mark Foyle was Bryan Holroyd, is that what I’m

hearing? But you’ve no actual evidence?’

‘It makes sense,’ Rebus argued. ‘Father dies, son decides to

avenge him for the hurt he endured.’

‘The son who never had the closest relationship with his

father? Did the family even
know
about the abuse Bryan

Holroyd suffered?’

Clarke and Rebus shared a look.

‘Wife seems in the dark,’ Clarke eventually conceded.

‘But you’re saying somehow the son knew?’

‘The restaurant menus, the muslin from Minton’s desk

drawer. This is our guy,’ Rebus stressed.

‘My point is, there could be a dozen other reasons why he’s

set out on this particular path.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Page sat in thoughtful silence, sizing up Rebus and Clarke. ‘I

had to tell the Chief about your involvement, John. Needless to

say, that’s a rocket waiting for me when the dust settles.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

Page sighed. ‘One thing’s clear – Portobello is a bust.’

‘Are you sure?’

Page gave Rebus a hard look. ‘He’s on the run, John. What

would a good soldier do?’

‘Abort the mission,’ Rebus admitted.

‘Plus, those two firearms officers have already been

redeployed. Everyone’s on their toes – checking trains,

buses, routes out of the city. Even the airport. Does he have

money?’

‘Debit and credit cards,’ Clarke said. ‘We’re asking his bank

to alert us to any new transactions. Same goes for his mobile

phone provider. His mum thinks his passport is gone, along

with a laptop and maybe some clothes.’

‘Are we interviewing her formally?’

‘She’s in an interview room at St Leonard’s. Jordan’s

girlfriend is being fetched there too. I’ve put Esson and Ogilvie

on it. They’ll also check social media sites, see if he’s talking to

anyone.’

‘Are Christine and Ronnie compos mentis?’

‘We’re all tired, sir,’ Clarke said with a smile.

‘You should get some rest then. We’ve got half the force out

looking for the target. Not much else to be done until he’s

brought in.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Clarke said, turning to go. But Rebus was

standing his ground.

‘About tonight . . .’

‘I said no, John. Can I make myself any clearer?’ Page

peered up at him.

‘Fair enough,’ Rebus said, making to follow Clarke. Page

probably thought he was stuffing his hands into the pockets of

his jacket to show how fed up he felt. But he was actually

checking.

Yes, he still had the keys to Argyle Crescent . . .

Anthony Wright had his key out and was about to put it in the

lock when he saw that his front door had actually been forced

open and then pulled closed again.

‘Bollocks,’ he said. A break-in was all he needed after the

past week or two. He pushed at the door and listened to the

silence. He had a decision to make – stomp upstairs in the hope

of scaring anyone who might be there, or move on tiptoe so as

to surprise them? Having opted for the latter, he took the steps

quietly, eyes alert in case a figure should suddenly loom in front

of him. He paused in the narrow upstairs hall and listened

again. What would they have taken? His laptop and CD player

for definite. He didn’t have insurance, but someone at the

Gifford would sort him out with replacements. Then he

remembered the keys to his motorbikes, kept in a drawer in the

kitchen, along with others for the garage’s various locks. When

he thought of what else was in the garage, his stomach flipped.

He placed his crash helmet on the floor and padded towards the

open door of his living room.

Where a man and a woman waited.

The man sat in the only armchair, legs spread, a pistol of

some kind resting against his crotch. The woman stood to one

side of the doorway, and hauled him into the centre of the

room.

‘You’ll be Anthony then?’ the man said.

‘I know you.’ Wright’s eyes narrowed as he tried to

remember.

‘Let me give you a clue.’ The man jabbed his head forward,

miming a butt.

‘Dennis Stark – you were with him that day. Nearly broke

my boss’s nose.’

The man nodded. ‘Might have saved us all a lot of grief if

I’d known then who you are.’

‘Who am I?’

‘You’re Hamish Wright’s nephew. I just looked at the

photos from your dad’s funeral – it was all over the papers –

and there was Uncle Hamish. Explains why he told me the stuff

was in the self-storage. I ninety per cent believed him, and it

turns out he was telling about ninety per cent of the truth – isn’t

that right?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m talking about these.’ The man dug in his pocket,

producing key after key, tossing them on to the carpet at

Wright’s feet. ‘Four motorbikes, Anthony. Plus the one you

rocked up here on. Keys to padlocks, too. So now I need to

know where you keep the bikes.’ He paused. ‘Your uncle

wasn’t easy to break, but I broke him. And then he snuffed it.

Sometimes pain can do that. The body just decides it’s had

enough. I can do the same to you, Anthony. Or we can make it

nice and straightforward.’

‘I’m honestly telling you—’

Before he’d ended the sentence, they were on him. Packing

tape binding his legs at the ankles, and his hands behind his

back. The man held him down, a knee on his throat, almost

crushing his windpipe, and a hand clamped over his mouth,

removed only to be replaced by more of the silver tape, which

was wound around his head a couple of times.

They stood over him when they were finished, while he

wriggled on the floor. The man aimed a kick at his midriff,

causing him to groan, eyes screwed shut in pain. The

woman had yet to speak. She left the room and returned with

items from his kitchen drawers – knives, scissors, kebab

skewers.

‘Nice,’ the man said, appraising the haul as she laid them out

on the floor. He lifted her face towards his and kissed her on the

lips. Wright wanted to tell them they were crazy, but all he

could do was moan behind the gag. And now the man was

crouching in front of him, and the barrel of the gun was

pressing into his forehead, so that he felt compelled to screw his

eyes shut again.

‘I killed Dennis, you know,’ the man drawled. ‘It wasn’t just

that I hated his guts. I had to focus everyone’s minds elsewhere.

Plus he was talking about paying your place of work another

visit, and since that was where I’d been told the stuff was

stashed . . .’ He paused and scratched one cheek thoughtfully.

‘But now Joe’s back in Glasgow, meaning I can get my hands

on it without anyone knowing.’ He glanced around and

snatched up the padlock keys in his free hand. ‘A garage would

be the obvious answer. Nod if I’m warm.’

Wright shook his head and felt a fresh blast of pain as the

barrel of the pistol connected with his left temple, slicing it

open. With the keys clamped between his teeth, the man picked

up one of the knives and pushed it with slow deliberation three

quarters of an inch into his victim’s shoulder. Behind the gag,

Anthony Wright tried to scream.

Forty One

Malcolm Fox was back at the same spot, on the road leading to

the lock-ups. Jude had sent him half a dozen texts telling him

how callous he was. They’d been at Mitch’s bedside when he’d

told her he had to go out for a while.

‘How long?’

‘A few hours.’

‘A few hours?
’ Because they’d been told by the consultant

that their father might only have a few hours.

A few hours.

A few days.

Maybe a week.

This before they’d signed the forms, Jude sobbing all the

while. The consultant had asked her if she wanted a sedative,

but she’d shaken her head. Her texts were now arriving like

blows every twenty minutes or so. Fox sat with his hands

resting on the steering wheel, Classic FM at just audible volume

on the stereo. A kid on a BMX had ridden past four times,

eyeing him inquisitively without stopping. George Jones – the

man with the Capri – had worked on it again, reversing it back

inside and locking the garage door only quarter of an hour back,

after which, rubbing oil from his hands with a rag, he had

headed on foot towards one of the tower blocks. Fox popped a

mint into his mouth and sucked on it, hoping it might clear his

head. He dropped the packet on the floor and was reaching

down to retrieve it when a car passed him. He watched as it

crawled towards the lock-ups, coming to a stop between the two

rows. Both front doors opened. Female driver, male passenger.

In the gathering gloom, he couldn’t make out their faces. The

man walked down one line of garages and up the other, not

pausing until he finally reached the one owned by Anthony

Wright.

‘Well now,’ Fox murmured. He got out of his own car,

closing its door quietly, and made his approach on foot, trying

to look like a worker slouching homewards. He could hear a

metal door shuddering open. Both figures had moved out of his

sight line, so he speeded up. When he was close enough to

make out the car’s number plate, he decided to commit it to

memory, but quickly realised he already knew it.

One of the cars from Operation Junior.

He cursed beneath his breath and steadied his pace. A light

had gone on inside the lock-up. As Fox approached, he could

see that the motorbikes were draped with polythene dust sheets.

The two figures, however, were standing by the rear wall, intent

on the contents of what looked like a packing crate. Even from

behind, he recognised Beth Hastie. When the man half turned,

he saw it was Jackie Dyson. Dyson planted a kiss on Hastie’s

cheek, stopping Fox in his tracks. Too late, though – Dyson had

spotted him out of the corner of his eye. He spun around,

pointing the pistol at Fox’s chest.

‘Don’t be shy then,’ he said. ‘In you come.’

‘Fuck’s he doing here?’ Beth Hastie spat.

‘It all makes sense,’ Fox said, holding up his hands as he

took a few steps forward.

‘Is that right?’

‘Hastie covered for you while you followed Dennis that

night to the alley. How long have you two been an item?’

‘What are we going to do with him?’ Hastie was asking

Dyson.

‘I’ll need to think. Meantime, fetch the roll of tape from the

car.’

Hastie did as she was told, giving Fox a cold stare as she

passed him.

‘So it’s true what they say,’ Fox commented to Dyson.

‘Undercover cops do get turned. I fail to see how you’re going

to get away with it, though.’

‘Is that right?’

‘I’m hardly the brightest, and I worked it out.’

‘Seems to me you worked out hee fucking haw until we

were standing right in front of you.’ Hastie had returned with

the tape. ‘Hands behind your back,’ Dyson ordered. Fox did as

he was told, his eyes on the man as he spoke.

‘That note you left next to Dennis was hardly proof of smart

thinking – it didn’t have us fooled more than half a day.’

‘Muddied the water, though, didn’t it? Less chance of Joe

cottoning on. Just like torching that pub, giving Darryl Christie

something to chew over so he didn’t get too interested in

Wright’s stash.’ Dyson examined Hastie’s handiwork. ‘Do his

ankles next,’ he commanded her.

‘How long have you had the gun?’ Fox was asking.

Dyson gave a cold smile. ‘Insurance in case the Starks ever

rumbled me. When Compston told me there was another nine

mil doing the rounds, well, it seemed like kismet.’