Even dogs in the wild (47 page)

Fox felt the tape being wrapped around the hems of his

trousers. He tried flexing his wrists, but she’d done a good job,

leaving almost no play at all.

‘Now take the covering off one of those bikes,’ Dyson was

saying. ‘We’re going to wrap you up nice and neat like a

mummy, Fox.’

The bike, when revealed, was a gleaming red model,

streamlined and built for speed. Dyson muttered his

appreciation while the sheet was laid out on the ground. Hastie

gave Fox a shove and he could do nothing other than topple on

to it. She crouched and wound the tape around his mouth. Then,

with her lover’s help, she started covering Fox in his makeshift

shroud. As more tape was applied, he realised he would

suffocate unless they left a gap somewhere.

And a gap didn’t seem to be part of their plan.

He began to strain against his bonds, his cries for help

muffled. Dyson was grinning as he finished the job. The

covering was translucent, and Fox watched as the pair

clambered to their feet again. They got to work emptying the

crate of its contents, transferring everything to the back of their

vehicle. Fox was trying not to panic, trying to keep his

breathing shallow. There
was
a bit of give at his wrists, but not as yet enough. He was working his lips and jaw too, trying to

break the seal on the tape, rubbing his face against the thin

plastic sheeting but failing to find an edge that might help shift

the gag.

Despite himself, his breathing was growing ragged,

adrenalin surging through his body.

Yet all the time he watched.

To and fro they went until they were satisfied. Then they

paused for a moment to embrace and kiss, only a few feet away

from his prone, writhing figure. Dyson squeezed Hastie’s hand

and she headed outside, Dyson pausing for a moment, his eyes

on Fox. Then he switched off the ceiling light and started to

leave. Fox’s makeshift shroud was beginning to steam up, but

he could make out Dyson’s figure silhouetted against the night

as he stretched up to grab the door and pull it down, locking

Fox in his tomb.

Sudden movement.

A woman’s shriek.

Someone had come up behind Dyson and hit him with

something. Fox thought he could make out a hammer. The

pistol clattered to the ground and another figure picked it up.

The attacker was delivering a second blow, and then a third and

a fourth. Dyson fell to his knees, then on to his front, face

against tarmac. Fox had the impression that a second shriek was

coming from a distance – Beth Hastie was making a run for it.

He found that he was almost holding his breath, the blood

pounding in his ears. And now Dyson – unconscious at the very

least – was being dragged along the ground by his feet,

disappearing from view. Fox got the feeling he was being lifted

into the boot of his car. He heard the boot lid slam in

confirmation. And now there was a shadowy figure standing at

the threshold to the lock-up, as if taking stock. It moved

forward into the gloom and knelt in front of Fox, for all the

world as if it might be about to pray. But then there was a glint

of steel and a knife began to slice through the covering. The

figure prised the polythene apart, exposing Fox’s face.

Darryl Christie.

He looked Fox up and down, then got his fingernails under

the tape and pulled it free of his mouth. Fox took in gulps of air,

feeling he might be sick at any moment.

‘Dyson killed Dennis,’ he blurted out. And was rewarded

with a slow nod.

‘Anthony told us. They trussed
him
up too.’

The second figure was waiting a couple of yards away, and

Fox realised it was Joe Stark.

‘Joe’s a traditionalist,’ Christie explained. ‘No shooters

needed – just a nice big claw hammer. I find that admirable.’

‘We need to go,’ Stark growled.

Christie got back to his feet, brushing dust from the knees of

his trousers. ‘I’ll call it in,’ he told Fox. ‘The cavalry’ll come

for you soon.’

‘Hastie . . .?’

‘She’s running like her life depends on it. Which it probably

does. She might actually never
stop
running.’ He began to walk away, pausing only to admire the red motorbike. Then he got

into the car and started reversing out of Fox’s field of vision.

Joe Stark hadn’t got into the passenger seat – presumably the

car they had come in was nearby. A small pool of liquid shone

in the moonlight, all that remained of Jackie Dyson. Fox

wondered if he would ever come to learn his real name, the

name of the man he had been before he’d been sent into the

underworld as a mole.

He didn’t suppose it mattered.

The first youth appeared a few minutes later, hood pulled low

over his head, a scarf masking the lower half of his face. He

studied the prone figure and listened as Fox asked for help. But,

saying nothing, all he did was wheel away the red motorcycle.

A couple of minutes after that, more hooded figures arrived and

took the rest of the haul, leaving Fox to wait for the patrol car

with its flashing lights. Siobhan Clarke was there too, helping to

cut him free and listening to his story.

‘We better check Anthony’s okay,’ he said, rubbing the

circulation back into his hands.

‘We’ll do that.’

His phone had fallen from his pocket and she picked it up,

handing it to him. ‘You’ve got a text,’ she said.

He looked at the screen. At the two words written there.

He’s gone
.

Forty Two

Rebus sat in the living room. It was lit by a single standard

lamp in the opposite corner. The curtains were open a few

inches and the back door was unlocked. Brillo was curled at his

feet as he held the phone to his ear, waiting for it to be

answered. He had already had one text from Dave Ritter to the

effect that he couldn’t say for sure the photo had been of Bryan

Holroyd, plus a long call from Deborah Quant expressing her

disbelief that the killer had been under her nose the whole time.

‘It’s often the way, Deb,’ Rebus had told her, thinking of

how the Acorn House abusers had carried on with their lives

undetected.

The ringing tone stopped, replaced by Malcolm Fox’s voice.

‘Not really a good time, John.’

‘Siobhan just told me. Sorry about your father.’

‘I’m at the hospital right now.’

‘How’s Jude?’

‘Weirdly calm.’

‘And you?’

‘Most of me’s still lying cocooned in that lock-up.’

‘It was Jackie Dyson then?’

‘With a little help from his lover. We need to bring in

Christie and Stark.’

‘It’ll happen. Though I don’t suppose we’ll ever find a body

or the car they took it away in.’

‘It was still murder.’

‘You sure he was dead?’

‘He had to be.’

‘I know what a good advocate would do with that in court.’

‘Nevertheless.’

‘Chief Constable’s not going to want it getting out –

undercover officer goes feral, kills two.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Fox repeated. Then: ‘I would have died back

there if Christie hadn’t come to my rescue. I was stupid not to

take back-up.’

‘Welcome to my world – it’s taken you long enough.’

‘I really don’t know if I can do this.’

‘Go easy on yourself, Malcolm – your dad’s just died. Of

course you’re feeling low. You need to focus on the funeral

now. Give it a week or two before you decide to chuck in a job

you’re just starting to get good at.’

‘Aye, maybe.’ Fox expelled air loudly. ‘Are you at home?’

‘Where else?’

‘Finally got a suspect for the Minton murder, I hear.’

‘City’s locked down tight. He won’t be going anywhere.’

Rebus paused. ‘I better let you go – sorry again about your

dad.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Anything I can do, you only have to say. We’ll have a bit of

a wake, see how you’re feeling by then.’ Rebus turned his head

towards the open doorway. Jordan Foyle was standing there, a

crowbar in his hand. ‘Talk to you later,’ Rebus said, ending the

call. Brillo had woken up and was taking an interest in the new

arrival.

‘You’re not Dalrymple,’ Foyle said, taking a couple of steps

into the room. He was wearing a thin cotton camouflage jacket

over a hooded sweatshirt.

‘Not brought the gun?’ Rebus commented.

‘Who are you?’ Foyle was standing in front of him, half

brandishing the crowbar. Rebus rested his hands on the arms of

his chair, presenting no threat whatsoever. ‘Haven’t I seen you

at the mortuary? You’re the guy Professor Quant goes out

with.’

Rebus acknowledged the fact with a slight bow of the head.

‘My name’s John Rebus. I’ve been looking into Acorn House.

Your father changed his name from Bryan Holroyd, didn’t he?’

Foyle’s eyes widened slightly. ‘How do you know?’

‘More to the point, son, how do
you
?’

‘Where’s Dalrymple?’

‘It’s finished, Jordan. What we need now is an inquiry into

Acorn House. For that to happen, we need at least one of the

abusers able to testify – meaning alive. You were in

Afghanistan, weren’t you? I served in Northern Ireland during

the Troubles. It never quite goes away – you change and you

stay changed. I’m not saying I know what you’ve been through

. . .’ Rebus broke off. ‘Look, why don’t you sit yourself down?

You seem about ready to keel over. It’s a cold night to be on the

run, but you’re safe enough here. There’s a sandwich on the

kitchen table and a couple of cans of Irn-Bru. Feel free to help

yourself.’

‘Who
are
you?’

‘I used to be a cop. I’ve known Big Ger Cafferty for years.

He wanted me to help find whoever fired that shot.’

‘Can’t believe I missed.’

‘Minton got the gun on the black market – sighting’s

probably wonky. Fact he bought it at all means he took your

note seriously. Cafferty’s a bit more used to threats, so he

dismissed it at first. Did Michael Tolland get one too?’ Rebus

watched the young man nod. ‘Must have tossed it then, because

we never found it. Took the inquiry a while to link the cases

because of that.’

‘You know I’m still going to have to kill you?’

‘No you’re not. You’re going to take the weight off your feet

and tell me the whole story. Unless you want a drink first.’

The young man stood there, Rebus allowing the silence to

linger as calculations were made. ‘I need to fetch my

backpack,’ Foyle said eventually.

‘Where is it?’

‘The garden.’

‘Is the gun in it?’

Foyle nodded. ‘But that’s not what I need.’

‘What then?’

‘It’s not my story you need to hear – it’s my dad’s.’

‘And that’s in the backpack?’ Rebus watched the young man

nod. ‘On you go then,’ he said.

‘You’re coming with me – so you don’t try calling anybody.

In fact, give me your phone.’ Foyle stretched out his free hand

and Rebus placed the phone in it. Then he rose slowly to his

feet and preceded Foyle into the kitchen and the garden beyond.

With the backpack retrieved, they headed back indoors, Rebus

suggesting that Foyle could maybe dispense with the crowbar.

‘I don’t think so,’ Foyle said.

‘There are armed officers all across the city, Jordan. They

see you brandishing anything more solid than a white hankie,

they’re going to take you down. There were even a couple of

them here last night, lying in wait.’

Foyle couldn’t help himself. He swivelled towards the

window, peering through the gap in the curtains.

‘They’re not there now,’ Rebus assured him. ‘Nobody

thought you’d be coming. Nobody but me. That’s why I left the

door unlocked.’

After a further check of the street outside, Foyle settled on

the edge of the sofa. As he undid the backpack’s straps, he

studied Brillo.

‘Your dog?’ he asked.

‘Sort of.’

‘I was never allowed a pet. Dad wouldn’t let me.’

‘I spoke with your mother – he seems to have been a piece

of work.’

‘That’s why he wrote the journal – a sort of apology, I

suppose.’

‘Your mum doesn’t know about it?’

Foyle shook his head. ‘He handed it to me one night, told me

to keep it to myself. He knew he was ill by then . . .’ He broke

off. ‘Easier if you see for yourself.’ He got up off the sofa and

crossed the room towards Rebus, handing over a moleskin

notebook, held closed by an elasticated cloth band. ‘I’ll maybe

go get that sandwich,’ the young man said, leaving the room.

Rebus unhooked the band and began to read.

The first thing I need you to know, Jordan, is that I

wasn’t born Mark Foyle. Mark was a lad I got to

know when I was sleeping rough in London. He

was an addict and one winter he just passed away.

Similar age to me and he still had a National

Insurance card, so it was easy enough to take his

identity. Up till then I’d been Bryan Holroyd.

That’s the name I was born with. My real

birthday’s exactly a month before you think it is.