Even dogs in the wild (15 page)

Rebus paused. ‘On the other hand, you may have a point. Could

be he’ll deny there
was
any assault, just like Cafferty denied he’d been shot at. These are people who don’t trust us and don’t

trust our motives.’

‘There’s one further complication,’ Fox added. ‘Chick

Carpenter is friends with Darryl Christie.’

‘Then Darryl won’t be happy.’ Rebus paused again. ‘Wait a

second – and Dennis went straight from one of Christie’s mates

to a pub Christie used to own?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can’t be more than six months since the Gimlet changed

hands.’

‘You’re thinking Christie will know the new owner?’ Clarke

asked.

‘There’s only a new owner on paper,’ Rebus said.

‘Everybody knows Davie Dunn is fronting the place.’

‘Why?’

‘So it can be run down and sold off to a supermarket who

might not want to buy from a known criminal.’

‘It’s getting closer then – some sort of confrontation. And

I’m guessing we really don’t want that to happen.’ Clarke

turned her head towards Fox. ‘Meaning we maybe
do
need the

Starks sent packing, despite everything.’

Fox finished his drink and got to his feet. ‘My round,’ he

said. ‘Same again?’

Rebus nodded, but Clarke demurred. When Fox had gone,

she leaned across the table.

‘Last thing we need is Cafferty getting involved. The two

cases can’t overlap.’

‘Big Ger’s not the one I’m worried about, Siobhan.’

‘Christie?’ She watched as Rebus gave a slow nod.

‘Big Ger’s the type to meet brute force with a bit more brute

force. Darryl, on the other hand . . . I’ve no idea how he’ll react.

Could go one way or the other.’

‘Lucky it’s nothing to do with us then, eh? We just focus on

our nice cosy stalker-cum-killer. Speaking of which, have I

mentioned the desk drawer?’

‘Sounds riveting,’ Rebus said. ‘Do tell.’

She was opening her mouth as he got to his feet.

‘And while you’re doing that,’ he said, ‘I’ll be outside

enjoying a well-earned cigarette.’

The taxi dropped Rebus at the top of Cafferty’s street. A

woman was walking her superannuated dog. It was about seven

inches high and hugely interested in a lamp post. The roadway

and pavement were bathed in sodium orange, the moon

overhead illuminating a veil of white cloud. A quiet, orderly

part of town. Rebus doubted there had been too many YES

posters in the windows here during the independence campaign.

The moneyed class here kept its opinions to itself, and didn’t

kick up a fuss unless absolutely provoked. Edinburgh had

always seemed to Rebus a city that liked to keep its counsel and

its secrets. He guessed that most of Cafferty’s neighbours

would know his reputation, not that they would ever say

anything to his face. Whispers and glances and gossip shared by

phone or email or in the privacy of the bedroom or dinner party.

The shot fired at the detached Victorian home would have come

as a shock. In the Inch maybe, or Niddrie or Sighthill, but not

here
, not in
this
Edinburgh.

As Rebus approached the house, he could see that no lights

were on. The car and guards had disappeared from their

posting. As he walked up the driveway, security lamps were

triggered, lighting his way. There was another above the back

door, but still no sign of life from within. He did a circuit of the

garden and ended up at the front door, ringing the bell twice

and, after a wait, squatting to peer through the letter box.

Darkness within. He took out his phone and made a call,

listening to the eventual ringing indoors. But no one was there

to answer, so he called Cafferty’s mobile instead. It rang and

rang without going to any kind of answering service. Rebus

hung up and sent a text instead:

Where are you?

Then he realised Cafferty might not know it was from him,

so he typed in another:

It’s me by the way – John.

Thought for a moment and deleted ‘John’, replacing it with

‘Rebus’. Pressed send.

It was cold, but not quite below zero. He reckoned he could

walk to his flat in fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. He had a

phrase from the first
Godfather
film in his head – ‘going to the mattresses’. He wondered if that was what Cafferty was doing:

hiding out somewhere while preparing for war. Well, it was

time for Rebus to hit his own mattress. But as he walked back

down the path, he saw a familiar figure peering through the

gate.

‘You again,’ he told the terrier. It seemed to recognise his

voice, wagging its tail as he approached. When he leaned down

to stroke it, the dog rolled on to its back.

‘Bit chilly for that,’ Rebus said. He could feel its ribs

protruding. No collar. The dog got back to its feet and waited.

‘Where do you live, bud?’ Rebus asked, looking up and

down the street. Cafferty had seemed to think it a stray. The dog

didn’t look feral or maltreated, though. Just lost, maybe. Rebus

began walking up the street, trying not to look back. When he

did, the dog was right there, just a few steps behind. He tried

shooing it away. The look on the terrier’s face told him it was

disappointed in him. His phone started buzzing. As he dug it

out of his pocket, the dog sidled up and began sniffing his shoes

and trouser legs. He had a text – but not from Cafferty.

Hell of a day! Know it’s late, but fancy a drink somewhere

in town? Deb

Rebus considered his options for all of five seconds, then

made a mental apology to his bed for forsaking it, sent a return

text, and phoned for a cab. He lit a cigarette while he was

waiting. The dog was sitting on its haunches, quite content to

keep him company. When the cab arrived, Rebus got in and

closed the door after him.

‘You’ve forgotten your dog,’ the driver told him.

‘It’s not mine.’

‘Fair enough, pal.’ The driver started off, but halfway down

the road, Rebus stopped him and told him to back up. When he

slid open the door, his new friend bounded in, as if it had never

doubted him.

It was past midnight when Siobhan Clarke slid the DVD into

the player and retreated to her sofa, remote in hand. She picked

up the file on Michael Tolland and skimmed it as she watched

the TV interviews with the lottery winner and his wife. Tolland

was effusive, grinning from ear to ear, while Ella said hardly a

word. Clarke removed a photocopy of the wedding photo from

the file. The bride looked soulful, as if having second thoughts.

Jim Grant, the cop from Linlithgow, had sent precisely two

texts since their meeting. The first had been to inform her that

he’d spoken to Tolland’s old school pal, who had confirmed

that Tolland had seemed ‘a bit jittery’ at their last few get-

togethers but wouldn’t say what the problem was. The house

had been scoured again but no note, threatening or otherwise,

recovered. The second text had been to suggest they confer over

‘a drink or maybe even dinner’. He had appended to this an

emoji of a smiling yellow face, and another that was winking

with its tongue protruding – which probably meant Clarke now

owed Christine Esson twenty quid. One further text had arrived

– from Deborah Quant, regarding the theory that the implement

used on Lord Minton could have been a crowbar rather than a

hammer. Quant’s reply had been a decidedly tetchy
Find me the

murder weapon and I’ll be able to answer
, probably composed

at the end of a long day. It had been a long day for everyone,

and Clarke found her eyes closing as Michael Tolland handed

an oversized cheque back to the official and opened the

magnum of champagne, spraying it around, not least in the

direction of his unamused, newly enriched wife.

DAY FOUR

Fourteen

Siobhan Clarke pressed the intercom half a dozen times before

receiving a growled answer.

‘It’s Siobhan. Don’t tell me you’re not up yet.’

‘Privilege of the consulting detective.’ He buzzed her in and

she climbed the stairwell to his floor. He had left the door open

for her.

‘I’m in the bathroom,’ he called. ‘Kettle’s on.’

She was not alone in the kitchen. A dog was there, eating

chopped-up sausages from a plate. There was the aroma of

recent frying, and an unwashed pan sat in the sink.

Rebus emerged, towelling dry his hair, shirt untucked and

open at the neck.

‘No vegetables in your fridge,’ she said. ‘But good to see it’s

not jam-packed with booze either.’

‘You applying for the post of carer?’ He took the mug from

her and sipped.

‘Thought you were heading straight home from the Ox?’

Rebus rolled his bloodshot eyes. ‘And now she’s my

mother.’

‘It’s the dog from Cafferty’s street, am I right?’

‘Sharp as ever.’

‘And it’s here because . . .?’

‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’ He fixed her with a look but

she shook her head.

‘No way, Jose,’ she said.

‘Think of the exercise you’d get, not to mention the

companionship.’

‘My answer’s the same.’

With a sigh, Rebus led her through to the living room. ‘The

plot thickens,’ Clarke said. ‘Two used glasses, and perfume

lingering amid the fug.’ She walked over to the hi-fi and lifted a

CD. ‘Did she do a runner when you stuck this on?’

‘That’s the Steve Miller Band. Put on track seven while I

find a tie.’

Rebus left the room and Clarke did as she was told. The

song was called ‘Quicksilver Girl’. The volume was turned

down low, low enough for late-night conversation.

‘I quite like it,’ she said on Rebus’s return. ‘Like a laid-back

Beach Boys. But there’s something wrong with the speakers.’

‘I know.’

‘So how was Professor Quant?’

‘She’s not allergic to dogs.’

‘Does it have a name?’ Clarke said, watching as the terrier

padded in from the kitchen, licking its chops.

‘I thought I’d call it The Dog From Cafferty’s Street.’

Clarke reached down to scratch the terrier behind its ears. ‘I

saw Deborah a couple of days back. We were discussing Lord

Minton.’

Rebus took another slug of coffee. ‘The Prof seems to like

you.’

‘You were talking about me last night? Doesn’t exactly

sound like a romantic tête-à-tête. Then again, from your music

choices . . .’

‘What about them?’

Clarke checked the pile of CDs. ‘Van Morrison maybe, but

Rory Gallagher and Tom Waits are hardly the stuff of

serenades. On the other hand . . .’

‘What?’

‘You played CDs rather than your vinyl.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You didn’t want to be interrupted every fifteen or twenty

minutes to turn the record over.’

‘We’ll make a detective of you yet. So what’s the plan for

today?’

Clarke turned away from the hi-fi and checked the time.

‘The Hermitage. Meeting the dog-walker there, the one who

found the bullet.’

‘Right.’

‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? I told you about her when

you came back in after your cigarette. You said you were

interested in tagging along.’

‘In which case, I
am
interested. And after the Hermitage?’

‘Howden Hall for the ballistics report.’

‘Followed by?’

She stared at him. ‘You’re angling to sit in on the interview

with Cafferty – that’s not going to happen.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re not part of the official inquiry and nor are

you his lawyer. Procurator fiscal isn’t going to sanction a

civilian being present.’

‘You could always ask . . .’

‘Despite already knowing the answer?’ She shook her head.

‘You can listen to the recording afterwards, if that’ll make you

happy.’

‘I’m always happy.’

‘Your taste in music says otherwise.’

Rebus had donned his suit jacket and was patting his

pockets, making sure he had everything. ‘Can we make a detour

first?’

‘Where?’

‘I’ve got the address of a vet. They said I could drop by.’

‘Is this us saying a fond farewell to our new friend?’

‘Your car or mine?’ Rebus asked.

‘Mine – if you promise he won’t pee on the seats.’

‘But I can smoke if I roll the window down?’

‘Absolutely not.’

Rebus expelled some air. ‘And she wonders why I’m not

always Mr Sunshine,’ he muttered, draining the mug.

The vet made his inspection on a stainless-steel examination

table.

‘No bones broken . . . teeth seem fine.’ He felt at the neck,

pinching and rubbing at the skin. ‘Doesn’t appear to be chipped,

which is a pity.’

‘I thought it was compulsory.’

‘Not quite yet.’

‘You think he’s been abandoned?’

‘He may just have been lost – got out of the house and found

himself too far from home to retrace his steps.’

‘People sometimes put up posters, don’t they?’ Clarke

commented.

‘They do. You could do something like that yourself – a

photograph on Facebook or Twitter.’

Clarke took out her phone and snapped a few pictures.