Even dogs in the wild (7 page)

there might recognise the writing.’ She glanced at her watch

and took another swig of coffee. ‘I’m afraid I have to get back.

I’m sorry I haven’t been much use.’

‘Do you think it’s worth our while talking to anyone at the

New Club? He used to go there most days.’

Young shrugged her way back into her coat and picked up

her scarf. ‘I’ve honestly no idea.’ She bent at the knees to

retrieve her satchel. ‘So much for the paperless office,’ she said

with a grim smile, making her way towards the door.

‘That was time well spent,’ Page said to Clarke through

gritted teeth.

‘Maybe she’s right about the note, though. It’s all we’ve got;

be a shame not to use it.’

‘The press will blow it out of all proportion,’ Page

cautioned. ‘We’ll have people scared to leave their houses

because there’s a killer out there and anyone could be his next

target. Plus the nutters will come out of the woodwork with the

usual premonitions and theories.’

‘And our killer, knowing we’re no longer treating it as a

break-in gone wrong, has plenty of time to pack his bags and

head elsewhere.’ Clarke was nodding her agreement. ‘All of

that’s true, James.’

He looked at her. ‘But you still think we should do it?’

‘Do you know what a soft launch is? No press conference.

We give it to one outlet, someone who’ll report it without the

sensationalism. Social media will spread the story, but it’ll be

our
version. By the time the other papers get hold of it, the fire will have died back a bit.’

‘I assume you’ve a journalist in mind?’

Clarke nodded and lifted her phone, angling it towards him.

‘Soon as you give the word.’

Page leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. The nod

he gave was half-hearted at best. Clarke made the call anyway.

Laura Smith was at the café twenty minutes later, by which

time Page had headed back to the office. He’d used the excuse

of a meeting, but Clarke knew he was putting distance between

himself and the plan. If it blew up in their faces in any way,

Clarke would be the one left explaining to the Chief.

‘You’ve grown your hair,’ Clarke said, after Smith had paid

for a bottle of water and seated herself in Page’s chair.

‘And you’ve had yours cut – it suits you.’ Smith broke the

seal on the bottle and tipped it to her mouth.

‘How’s the newspaper business?’

Still drinking, Smith rolled her eyes. She was just over five

feet in height, but every inch of her was focused on getting

ahead, which was tough when your chosen profession seemed

to be in its death throes. She wiped her lips with the back of her

hand and screwed the top back on the bottle.

‘More redundancies in the offing,’ she said.

‘You should be safe though, no?’

‘Well, I’m the only crime reporter they’ve got, and last time

I looked, crime still sold papers, so . . .’ She gave a huge shrug

of the shoulders and concentrated her attention on Clarke. ‘Is it

about Lord Minton?’

‘Yes.’

‘On the record?’

‘Sort of. Though I’d prefer it if “police sources” was the

phrase of choice – and I’ll need to see what you write before

your editor does.’

Smith puffed out her cheeks. ‘Is that non-negotiable?’

‘Afraid so.’

Smith gave a twitch of the mouth and dug her phone out of

her pocket. ‘Can I record this anyway, just as a memo to

myself?’

‘I don’t see why not. But I’m going to be showing rather

than telling.’

Smith was busying herself with her phone’s recording

function. When she eventually looked up, Clarke was holding

out the photocopied note.

‘From Lord Minton’s wallet,’ she stated.

The noise Laura Smith made – as captured by her phone –

was pitched somewhere between a squeal and a whoop.

Seven

‘Is this where you ask me about the favour I’m supposed to

have done Darryl Christie?’ Rebus asked Fox. They were in the

Saab, Rebus driving. Fox was gripping his seat belt with one

hand and the door handle with the other.

‘I’m not Complaints any more.’

‘Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t shop a bent cop though, right?’

‘As you keep reminding me, you’re not a cop these days.

We headed to the Gimlet?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I forgot – I took you there once to

see Darryl. But he’s long finished hanging out at dives like that.

He owns a couple of nightclubs in the city centre, along with a

casino and “boutique” hotel, whatever that means.’

‘It usually means expensive.’

‘Well, we’re about to find out.’

‘What makes you think we’ll find him there?’

Rebus glanced towards his passenger. ‘People tell me

things.’

‘Even though you’ve retired from the police?’

‘Even so.’

The car had made its descent from Queen Street into the

heart of the New Town. Just before reaching Royal Circus,

Rebus pulled over to the kerb. He applied the brake but the car

crept forward.

‘Keep forgetting it does that.’ He shifted the gearstick into

first before turning off the engine.

‘Ever thought about trading up to the twenty-first century?’

Fox was having trouble with the seat belt. Eventually he got it

unlocked and clambered out, while Rebus rubbed the Saab’s

roof and told it not to listen to the nasty man.

The hotel was part of a typical Georgian terrace, its signage

discreet. Inside there was a hallway containing nothing as

obvious as a reception desk. Rebus turned left into a plush

cocktail bar. A slim young Asian man in a bright red waistcoat

was ready with a smile.

‘Checking in, gentlemen? Take a seat and someone will be

with you in a trice.’

‘We’re here to see Darryl,’ Rebus corrected him.

‘Darryl . . .?’ The smile was hardening.

‘Darryl Christie, son,’ Rebus barked. ‘I know he doesn’t like

visitors, but he’ll make an exception. Just tell him it’s Rebus.’

‘Rebus?’

Rebus nodded and sank back into a heavily padded black

velour sofa. Fox stayed on his feet, studying the furnishings.

Thick velvet curtains tied back with plaited golden ropes. Odd-

shaped mirrors. Jelly beans and rice crackers in little bowls on

each glass-topped table. Rebus was helping himself to a scoop

of each.

The barman had disappeared around the back of the gantry

and was making a muffled phone call. There was music

playing, but not obtrusively. Something electronic.

‘Doing all right for himself, then,’ Fox commented.

‘And as Cafferty said, all of it looking above board to the

naked eye.’

‘But he’s dirty nevertheless?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And we’ve not done anything because . . .?’ Fox sat down

opposite Rebus.

‘Because he’s been lucky. Because he’s clever. Because

maybe he has friends in the right places.’

‘What would your guess be?’

Rebus swallowed the last of the snack and began picking

between his teeth with a fingernail. ‘Sometimes there’s such a

thing as a responsible criminal.’

‘Explain.’ Fox sat forward a little, ready to learn.

‘Well, there’s always going to be organised crime – we

know that. All over the world, society’s tried shutting it down

and it never quite happens. As long as there are things we judge

illegal, and people out there who want those things, someone

will come along to provide them. In a place the size of

Edinburgh – small city, crime not a huge problem for most of

the residents – you might have room for one decent-sized

player. And as long as that player doesn’t get too greedy, too

cocky or too violent . . .’

‘They’ll likely be tolerated? Because they do some of the

policing for us?’

‘It’s all about control, Malcolm. That and acting

responsibly.’

‘What was Cafferty like when this was his playground?’

Rebus took a moment to form his answer. ‘He was the

school bully. It was all about muscle, and not giving a damn

about the consequences.’

‘And Christie?’

‘Darryl’s a negotiator. If he’d gone into stockbroking or

flogging Bentleys to bankers, he’d have made his fortune. But

he chose this instead.’

The barman had reappeared. He tried for another smile but

didn’t quite manage it. ‘Mr Christie says he’ll be with you

shortly. He also said to order drinks while you’re waiting.’

‘Well that’s very kind of him,’ Rebus said. ‘Do you want

anything, DI Fox?’

‘Maybe an Appletiser?’

‘So that’s an Appletiser for my colleague and a Laphroaig

for me.’ Rebus nodded towards the shelf of malt whiskies. ‘In

fact, make it a double.’

‘You remembering the drink-drive limit?’ Fox warned.

‘It’s tattooed on my forearm.’

‘Water or ice on the side, sir?’ the barman was asking.

‘Is that question for me or him?’ Rebus enquired.

Taking the hint, the barman got to work.

Their drinks had just arrived at the table when Darryl

Christie appeared in the doorway. He waved away the barman

and settled himself on the sofa next to Fox and facing Rebus.

Rebus had known him since he was a teenager, but Christie was

in his early twenties now, and all trace of acne and youth had

gone. His face had hardened, his hair was professionally

groomed. The suit didn’t look cheap and neither did the shoes.

He sported an open-necked shirt with cufflinks prominent at

either wrist. The watch, at a guess, was worth more than

Rebus’s car, even with a few thousand miles removed from its

clock.

‘How’s business?’ Rebus asked.

‘On the up. It’s been a difficult few years for everyone.’

‘It’s certainly aged you, Darryl. Is that a bit of grey at your

temples?’

‘Said the man in the twilight zone.’

‘You heard I’ve left the force?’

‘Did you not see the fireworks? We had quite the celebration

here, trust me.’ Christie draped his arms over the back of the

sofa and gestured towards Fox. ‘This you training your

replacement? We’ve met before, haven’t we?’

‘Briefly,’ Fox said.

‘I think I remember congratulating you on your manners.’

Christie nodded to himself.

‘We’re here because of what happened to Big Ger Cafferty

last night,’ Rebus said.

‘Namely?’

‘Someone put a bullet through his living room window.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘Shooter missed.’

‘Dearie me.’

‘Maybe deliberately, who knows?’ Rebus placed his empty

glass on the table with a clunk.

‘Cafferty’s told you it was my doing?’

‘You know what he’s like.’

‘I know he hates my guts. It’s why he’s talking to the

Starks.’

‘Joe Stark?’ Rebus asked, feigning surprise.

‘Came into town a couple of days back. Booked into a B and

B and the owner thought I’d be interested.’

‘You’re sure Joe’s here to see Cafferty?’

‘Not Joe so much as Dennis. Cafferty wants him put in

charge.’

‘Of what?’ Fox asked, not quite understanding.

‘Of this!’ Christie was on his feet, arms outstretched. ‘The

city –
my
city.’

‘You sure you’ve not watched
Scarface
one too many

times?’ Rebus asked.

Christie sat down again, but the agitation he had been hiding

was now evident in his posture. He pumped one of his knees as

he spoke. ‘It’s the old story – my enemy’s enemy is my friend.

Cafferty’s not got much more than a couple of years left in him.

Last thing he wants is to be on his deathbed knowing
I’m
still around. Dennis Stark is the perfect choice. Guy’s crazy, for a

start. Tell him to take me down and he’ll make sure it’s messy.

And who else is there? Cafferty doesn’t know the new regimes

in Aberdeen and Dundee. But he knows Joe Stark. They’re like

two sides of the same piece of bog paper.’

‘I think you might be misreading the situation,’ Fox said.

‘Besides,’ Rebus broke in, ‘if Cafferty’s getting all chummy

with the Starks, that gives
you
all the more reason to warn him off with a bullet.’

‘I’ve found, contrary to appearances, that a bullet is a pretty

blunt instrument,’ Christie said. ‘Credit me with a bit more

subtlety.’ He was regaining his composure. ‘And if shooters are

involved, I’d put the Starks in the frame every single time.

Could be they want to make sure Cafferty’s compliant – so he

knows he can’t muck about with them. World they live in,

that’s the way they do business.’

‘Have you met with them?’ Fox asked. ‘Spoken to them?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Cafferty thinks Dennis is maybe being toured around the

country so he can get to know the various people he needs to

know – people just like you.’

‘There’s nothing in my diary, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘Word to the wise, Darryl,’ Rebus said. ‘You know yourself

they’re old school. You’ve just said as much. Subtlety isn’t

going to play well with them.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

‘Fox and a couple of his colleagues could maybe talk to

them, let them know they’re not welcome.’

‘DI Fox doesn’t look too sure about that.’

‘No . . . it’s just . . . maybe I . . .’

‘Well anyway,’ Christie said, slapping both his knees before