Even dogs in the wild (8 page)

rising to his feet again. ‘Thanks for stopping by. We both know

it was a waste of time – Cafferty playing his usual games – but

all the same . . .’

‘Just wish I could have put a bigger dent in your profits.’

Rebus gestured towards his empty whisky glass. ‘And

remember what I said about the Starks. Dennis might be the

mad dog, but it’s Joe who controls the leash.’

Christie gave a slow nod and preceded them into the

hallway, bounding up the staircase two steps at a time.

‘A young man in a hurry,’ Fox commented as they left the

building.

‘Taking its toll, though,’ Rebus said thoughtfully. ‘I don’t

like my gangsters jumpy.’ He lit a cigarette. Fox was preparing

to walk to the car, but Rebus stood his ground. ‘What did you

mean in there? When you said he was misreading the

situation?’

‘Nothing.’

‘There’s something you know, something you’re not telling.

How did you find out the Starks were in town? And that they’d

stopped off in Aberdeen and Dundee? I doubt you’ve any

grasses worth the name.’

‘It was mentioned at St Leonard’s.’

‘Why, though? The Starks have probably been over here a

dozen times this past year without a red flag being raised. And

Christie was right about the look on your face when I said CID

could go warn the Starks off. Why isn’t that a good idea,

Malcolm?’

‘I’m not allowed to tell you.’

‘Why not?’

‘That’s just the way it is.’

‘We’re not in a Bruce Hornsby song here – you want my

help but you won’t tell me anything? Well thanks a bunch, pal,

but don’t go thinking I’ll ever be giving you my last Rolo

again.’

Having said which, Rebus flicked his half-smoked cigarette

at Fox’s feet and stomped off towards the car.

Cafferty sat at his kitchen table. The wooden shutters had been

pulled across the windows, meaning no one could see in. He’d

phoned a guy he knew – ex-army, ran half the city’s nightclub

doormen – and now there were two well-built young men

stationed in a car on the driveway, just inside the gates. The car

was facing the pavement, so that anyone walking past could see

them. And every ten minutes, one of them would make a circuit

of the property, peering over the wall at the back to make sure

no one was in a neighbouring garden. It wasn’t much, but it was

something. In the past, Cafferty had employed a bodyguard,

who slept in a room above the garage, but that had become an

extravagance. Years before that, of course, he’d had half a

dozen guys around him at all hours – used to drive his wife of

the time demented. She’d get up in the night to go to the toilet,

and find one of them watching her from the staircase. And

when she went shopping or to meet friends, there would be the

mandatory driver, who was under orders never to let her out of

his sight.

Different these days, or so Cafferty had thought.

He had spent the past hour and a half making calls. Problem

was, a lot of the people he’d known in the past were now

reduced to ash, or had moved halfway across the world. Still,

he’d put the word out – he was willing to pay top dollar for up-

to-date information on the Starks, father and son, plus their

associates, close or otherwise. He’d already learned that they

had visited certain businesses in Aberdeen and Dundee in the

previous week, which backed up his theory that Dennis was

being introduced to people prior to taking over from his old

man. The phone was lying on the table, fully charged and

waiting for news. Next to it sat the squashed bullet. Cafferty

pushed it around with a fingertip. Time was there’d have been

someone in his pocket, someone from CID or the forensic lab.

He would have handed it over and found out what he could.

These days he hardly knew where to start, though again he had

mentioned his interest to a few of the people he’d called. Maybe

there was someone who knew someone.

There was Rebus, of course. But why would Rebus take it to

the lab on the quiet rather than handing it over to CID?

What did it matter anyway? Had to be the Starks or Darryl

Christie – the Starks for the sheer hell of it, Darryl Christie as a

way of welcoming them to the city and showing them the new

pecking order.

Whichever it was, he would find out. And they would pay.

*

There was nothing for Siobhan Clarke to do now but wait. The

Scotsman
would run the story online in the evening, flagging it up on its Twitter feed. Probably wouldn’t be until nine or ten

o’clock, though, so that when the morning edition appeared

they still had the print exclusive. Smith had texted to assure her

that it was a front-page splash, unless one of the royals died or

was caught on camera with a line of coke.

‘Perish the thought,’ Clarke had muttered to herself.

Esson and Ogilvie had been busy. They’d compiled a list

stretching back half a decade of deaths occurring during break-

ins – not just private homes, but workplaces too: security

guards hit with crowbars, elderly couples threatened with

torture if they didn’t say where their valuables were. Around

three quarters of the cases had been solved.

‘Or at least someone went to jail,’ Esson had said, half

joking.

There was one from the previous year – a woman attacked in

her bedroom in Edinburgh. Her ex-husband was suspected, but

there had never been enough evidence to satisfy the procurator

fiscal that a guilty verdict would be reached. Another piqued

Clarke’s interest – just a fortnight back, in Linlithgow. Retired

care worker who had, three years before, scooped a million

pounds on the lottery. Spent half the money on a big new house

with a view of Linlithgow Palace. The man lived alone, his wife

having predeceased him. Found in his downstairs hall, skull

caved in, hit from behind. Kitchen door forced open from the

outside. The case was still active. Clarke had asked Esson and

Ogilvie what they thought.

‘Worth comparing notes?’ Esson had asked in turn.

‘It was news at the time,’ Ogilvie added. ‘The lottery win, I

mean.’

‘Someone knows he’s got a few bob, so they burst in

thinking it’ll be piled up on the coffee table?’ But Clarke had

told them to make enquiries anyway, then had driven to the city

mortuary, where, entering by the staff door, she surprised one

of the assistants as he was removing his scrubs in the deserted

corridor.

‘Just here to see Professor Quant,’ she explained.

‘Upstairs.’

Clarke managed a smile of apology as she squeezed past.

‘Nice tats, by the way,’ she said, watching the young man

starting to blush.

Deborah Quant was in her well-lit, tidy office. There was a

shower cubicle behind one of the doors and Clarke could smell

soap and shampoo.

‘Not disturbing you?’

‘Come in, Siobhan. Take a seat.’

Quant had pulled back her long red hair, fixing it with a

band. ‘Just finished up,’ she explained. ‘But I’ve a function this

evening, so . . .’

Clarke had noticed the dress hanging from a hook. ‘Looks

lovely,’ she commented.

‘Better than most of the guests will deserve – academics and

senior medics.’

‘Taking a date?’

‘Got anyone in mind?’

‘I heard you’d been out a couple of times with a recent

retiree.’

Quant smiled. ‘Drinks and dinner only. But can you really

see John sitting through a black-tie event with a load of

superannuated surgeons and professors?’

‘Did you ask him?’

‘Actually, I did. He declined.’

‘Gracefully, I’m sure.’

‘The swearing was minimal. So what can I do for you,

Siobhan?’

‘It’s the Minton inquiry. You did the autopsy.’

‘I did.’

‘I’ve looked at your report. I was just wondering if anything

else had come to mind.’

‘About what?’

‘Lord Minton had received a threatening letter – well, just a

note really.’ Clarke handed over another photocopy. ‘I’m

wondering if that changes your thinking in any way.’

‘Man died from a combination of blunt-force trauma and

strangulation – either would probably have been sufficient.

Attacked from the front or the side, most probably the front.

Victim is on his way to the door of his study, having heard a

noise, and the attacker bursts in and hits him with the same

hammer he used to smash open the laundry room window.

Marks on the throat tell us the attacker had large hands,

probably male.’ Quant shrugged. ‘This note doesn’t alter any of

that. Was it found in his drawer?’

‘His wallet – why do you ask?’

‘In the photos from the locus, the desk drawer was open a

couple of inches. I thought maybe the first officers on the

scene . . .’

‘They would have known better than to touch anything.’

Clarke narrowed her eyes, trying to remember the crime scene.

The drawer had been closed by the time she’d visited. Nothing

odd about that. ‘I don’t suppose you carried out another autopsy

a couple of weeks back, on that lottery winner?’

‘From Linlithgow?’ Quant shook her head. ‘That was blunt-

force trauma too, wasn’t it? During a break-in. No sign of

strangulation, though, if I remember correctly.’

‘I wouldn’t mind seeing the report.’

‘That’s easily arranged. But of course there’ll have to be a

quid pro quo.’

‘Meaning?’

Quant nodded towards the dress. ‘You have to pretend to be

me for the evening. I really just want to go home to bed.’

‘Tell you what I
can
do,’ Clarke offered. ‘I can phone your

mobile after the first hour or so. There’s a situation and you’re

urgently needed . . .’

‘Have you got my number?’ Quant asked with a grin.

‘Give it to me,’ Clarke said.

Eight

Only Ricky Compston and Alec Bell were in the office when

Fox got back. They were eating custard slices and drinking tea,

their feet up on their respective desks.

‘Where have you been?’ Compston demanded. ‘Apart from

whispering sweet nothings in your boss’s ear.’

‘Actually, I’ve not seen Doug Maxtone. But I did go talk to

Big Ger Cafferty.’

‘Feel free to keep us waiting.’

‘Where are the others?’

‘The Starks have been on the move. We’re using two cars so

we don’t get clocked. Hence the exodus. That good enough for

you, DI Fox?’

Fox lowered himself on to one of the empty chairs. ‘Cafferty

seems to think a local criminal called Darryl Christie might

have been behind the shooting, maybe to impress the Starks. He

reckons the Starks are in town so Dennis can get a feel for the

city prior to taking over the family business. It would also

explain the stops in Aberdeen and Dundee.’

‘We’ve already told you why the Starks are here.’

‘Be that as it may, I decided to have a word with Darryl

Christie.
He
already knew that the Starks are in town.’

‘Did he bring them up first, or did you?’

‘He didn’t need any prompting.’

‘So you’re telling me two Edinburgh bosses just opened up

to you?’

Fox offered a shrug. ‘Do you want to hear what else Christie

said?’

‘Go on then, hotshot, impress me.’ Compston brushed pastry

flakes from his tie.

‘Christie is of the opinion that the Starks are here to meet

Cafferty. Why? So that Cafferty can help them install Dennis as

the city’s new boss, in place of Christie. As far as we know,

that’s not the case, but it’s what Christie thinks.’

‘How did he know they were in town?’ Alec Bell asked.

‘The B and B owner.’

‘Well, well, well,’ a voice drawled from behind Fox. The

door, which he hadn’t quite shut, was wide open now. Rebus

stood with a hand resting against either jamb. ‘This isn’t quite

what I expected, I have to admit.’

Fox jumped to his feet. ‘How did you get in?’

‘Someone forgot to tell the front desk I’m off the books.’

‘John bloody Rebus,’ Bell said.

‘Hiya, Alec.’ Rebus gave a wave. ‘Not given up the good

fight yet, then?’

‘I’ve heard of
you
,’ Compston said.

‘Then you’re one up on me.’ Rebus stretched out a hand for

Compston to shake. Compston complied, introducing himself as

he did.

‘Desks for five, meaning we’re a few short,’ Rebus was

musing, studying the room. ‘And barely any paperwork. Hush-

hush, is it? Here to take down the Starks?’

Compston was staring hard at Fox, waiting for an

explanation. Rebus tried to rest a hand on Fox’s shoulder, but

Fox twisted away from him.

‘Can’t really blame Malcolm here,’ Rebus said. ‘I was the

only way he was getting to Cafferty and Christie.’

‘Is that right?’ Compston’s eyes were still on Fox, while

Fox’s were directed at the floor.

‘Chief Constable must really have a stiffy for the Starks –

team like this doesn’t come cheap.’ Rebus slid his backside on

to a desk, feet waggling. ‘I’m guessing Foxy is your local

liaison, and he asked for my help because he wanted to

impress you with his gung-ho, can-do attitude. How did he