Even dogs in the wild (25 page)

‘Whoever set light to the Gimlet had Darryl in mind.’

‘Unless he did it himself for the insurance – you know he

wants to sell the site?’

‘I’d heard a whisper. I dare say you have an alibi for last

night, just in case?’

‘Why would I need one?’

‘Because if Darryl didn’t do it, he’s obviously going to read

it as a message from Joe Stark, and a dogfight between the two

of them would make your year.’

‘And I torched his place to ensure that came about?’

Cafferty shook his head. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’ He tipped

the glass to his mouth.

‘Any vodka in that?’ Rebus asked.

‘Enough to take the edge off.’

‘It’s early in the day, even for you.’ A waiter was hovering,

but Rebus waved him away. He noticed not just how tired

Cafferty looked – there was something else there. The word

‘haunted’ sprang to mind. ‘So what’s this favour you need from

me?’ he asked, his tone a little softer.

‘I don’t want to get you into trouble,’ Cafferty said. ‘Not
this

sort of trouble. But I need to find these men.’ He slid a paper

drinks coaster towards Rebus. Two names written there in blue

ink.

Paul Jeffries.

Dave Ritter.

Neither, at first glance, meant anything to Rebus. ‘Okay,’ he

said, ‘give me a clue.’

‘They did a bit of work for me back in the eighties.’

‘And they were last heard of when?’

‘I bumped into Jeffries maybe fifteen years ago at a casino

here in town. Just a couple of words in passing. Asked him

what he was up to and he said something about driving. I had a

taxi firm at the time so I said as much.’ Cafferty paused. ‘That

was the extent of our chat.’

‘Did he seem interested in the taxis?’ Cafferty shook his

head. ‘Another kind of driving, then – lorries, deliveries . . .?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘Was he a regular at this casino?’

‘He might have been – I wasn’t.’ Cafferty gestured towards

the bar for another drink.

‘And which casino was it?’

‘Milligan’s.’

‘In Leith? Is that still there?’

‘It’s one of those super-pubs these days. Three floors of

cheap booze.’

‘Milligan’s was run by Todd Dalrymple, wasn’t it?’

‘You’ve a good memory.’

‘Wonder if he’s still around.’ Rebus scratched at the

underside of his jaw. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘description of Mr

Jeffries . . .’

‘Five-ten, maybe, short fair hair going grey at the temples, a

gold tooth right at the front of his mouth.’

‘Would he have a criminal record?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘But nothing from when you knew him?’

‘No.’

‘Age?’

‘By now he’d be in his mid fifties.’

‘Last known address?’

‘Thirty years ago he was with a bidie-in somewhere in

Granton.’

‘Name of bidie-in?’

‘I’ve honestly been trying to remember.’

Rebus picked up the coaster and studied it. ‘Then let’s move

on to Dave Ritter.’

‘The two of them were old pals. I think they were maybe at

school together.’

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere in Fife.’ Cafferty paused. ‘They knew Fife

pretty well.’

‘Description.’

‘Shorter than Paul. Maybe five-six or seven. Bit of a belly

on him. Never far from a bag of chips. Longish straight hair,

brown. Looked like a bad wig. He’d be the same sort of age,

meaning mid fifties now. Don’t remember anything about his

love life. Didn’t live too far from Paul either.’

Rebus waited, but Cafferty could offer only a shrug.

‘That’s all you’ve got?’ he said as the fresh drink arrived

and with it an unblemished coaster.

‘Haven’t seen Dave in nearly thirty years and didn’t get

round to asking Paul about him. To be honest, I probably only

remembered him afterwards – he was the quiet one. It was Paul

who did the talking.’

‘How long did they work for you?’

‘Three, four years.’

‘In what capacity? Foot soldiers?’

‘It’s as good a phrase as any,’ Cafferty conceded. ‘I just

thought – police computers, public registrar . . . maybe you

could track them down.’

‘And why would I bother doing that?’

‘Because they might explain what’s going on here.’ Cafferty

saw that Rebus didn’t quite get it. ‘The notes – me and Minton.

Plus that care worker in Linlithgow, the one Siobhan Clarke

was talking about.’

‘You reckon he’s part of it? And Dennis Stark too?’

‘Stark?’ Cafferty seemed genuinely confused.

‘Dennis got a note. Add that to the nine-mil bullet hole . . .’

But Cafferty was shaking his head again. ‘Nothing to do

with him,’ he muttered as if to himself. ‘Joe maybe? No, not

Joe either.’ He regained focus, his eyes meeting Rebus’s.

‘That’s got to be a mistake,’ he said.

Rebus nodded. ‘My thinking exactly. So maybe tell me
your

theory and let me be the judge.’

Cafferty ignored this. ‘I had a quick look online but I didn’t

spot either Jeffries or Ritter. Phoned a couple of old lags, but

they weren’t any help.’

‘What makes you think I can do better?’

‘You’re the straw I’m clutching at.’ Cafferty managed a

smile. ‘That was my nickname for you – Strawman. Do you

remember?’

‘I remember.’

‘You were giving evidence against me that one time in

Glasgow, and they got you mixed up with another witness

called Stroman.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I really need to know what you want with

those two men.’

‘And I’ve told you.’

‘Not enough for me to be convinced. Is there an angle here,

something to do with Joe Stark?’

‘Forget him.’ Cafferty screwed up his face.

‘Not easy when he’s on the rampage. How long till he comes

hard up against Darryl Christie?’

‘Joe needs to be covering his own arse rather than kicking

anyone else’s.’ Cafferty savoured a mouthful of the Bloody

Mary. ‘With Dennis gone, there’s bound to be some jockeying.

Joe’s surrounded himself with old-timers. They had reputations

once, but they’d be no match for the lads on Dennis’s payroll.

Added to which, I can think of people in Aberdeen and

elsewhere who might fancy a crack at Glasgow, now that a tin-

opener’s been taken to Joe’s armour.’

‘You’ve heard mutterings?’

‘Didn’t even need my ear trumpet.’ He made eye contact

with Rebus again and held it. ‘You’ll do this for me, John?’

Pointing at the coaster Rebus was holding between thumb and

forefinger.

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you’ll have to, because otherwise those names will

go on bugging you all the way to the grave.’

Rebus got to his feet. ‘What did you mean, back at the start

of our little chat? Something about not wanting to get me into

trouble?’

‘It’s honestly best you don’t know. Trust me – just this once.

Will you do that?’

Rebus had seen much in his old foe’s eyes down the years –

guile, venom, darkness. But now he saw something else:

uncertainty, tinged by fear. The glass was being raised again, its

contents a prayed-for analgesic.

‘You’ll answer the phone when I call?’ Rebus checked.

Cafferty nodded as he drained his drink.

Twenty Two

‘We should bring Beth Hastie in for questioning,’ Fox told

Clarke. They were in the incident room at Fettes, standing in

the middle of the office, surrounded by an investigation that

was all heat and no light. Clarke folded her arms, which Fox

interpreted as a sign that he could continue. ‘She was on

surveillance outside the guest house. Her story is, she took a

toilet break that just happened to coincide with Dennis Stark

heading out. I don’t buy it.’

‘Why not?’

‘She says she went to a nearby garage, but it’s not open all

night, and those that are don’t let punters over the threshold past

eleven or midnight. In any event, with Dennis murdered,

shouldn’t we be interviewing Compston’s lot anyway? They’ve

spent weeks tailing his every move. Might be they know

something
we
need to know.’

‘Malcolm, you’ve been attached to this inquiry five bloody

minutes – tell me this isn’t just payback of some kind.’

‘It’s not.’ He nodded towards the door to Page’s inner

sanctum. ‘At least take it to him, Siobhan. Not because it’s me,

but because it’s the right thing to do.’ He looked around the

office. ‘Unless there’s some hot tip you’re busy following up.’

‘You know damned fine there isn’t. But James is up to his

eyes – we’ve no idea if we should open a separate case for

Dennis Stark. Soon as we do, his father’s going to know there’s

another killer out there.’

‘Well maybe I should just let you get back to finding the

owner of Rebus’s stray dog.’ Fox waited, watching as Clarke

deliberated.

‘Okay then,’ she said at last with a sigh, heading for the

door.

‘Should I . . .?’

‘Oh, you’re coming too, Malcolm. This is your game plan,

not mine.’ As she knocked on the door, she saw Rebus enter the

room from the corridor. She held up a finger to indicate that

she was busy. Page called out from behind the door, and she

opened it.

Rebus watched as the door closed on Clarke and Fox. He

wandered over to Christine Esson’s desk.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘DI Fox has climbed aboard,’ she explained.

‘Looks like he’s already making waves.’

‘Choppy waters, at any rate.’ She was chewing on the end of

a ballpoint pen.

‘How’s the case?’

‘You know what doldrums are?’

‘Aren’t they the opposite of choppy waters?’ He watched

her smile. ‘So you’re not too busy, then?’

‘I’ve got no news about the dog, if that’s what’s on your

mind.’

‘It isn’t.’

She leaned back in her chair to study him. ‘Do I detect

another favour in the offing?’

He placed a slip of paper on her desk. It detailed what little

he knew about Cafferty’s two names.

‘I need anything you can get – police records; births,

marriages and deaths;
anything
.’

She touched the note with her pen, as if reluctant to pick it

up. ‘How much trouble is this going to get me in?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘But it’s not connected to the Minton/Stark investigation?’

‘It might be.’

‘Care to elucidate?’

‘The problem is, I can’t. Not until I know a bit more about

these two.’ He patted the names with his finger.

‘Why me?’

‘Because you’re IT-savvy. Me, I wouldn’t know the first

place to start.’

‘Judging by the dates, this is going to wear out my shoe

leather rather than my computer mouse. Old records, maybe not

digitised yet . . .’

‘Get Ronnie to help you.’ Ogilvie was at a desk across the

room, busy on a telephone but his eyes on Esson and Rebus,

curiosity piqued.

‘And what do we say to Siobhan when she asks?’

‘You’re following up potential leads.’ Rebus paused. ‘No

need to say they came from me.’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Finally she picked up the

note and studied it. ‘Leave it with me, then.’

‘Magic,’ Rebus said. ‘When Siobhan comes out, tell her I’m

in the cafeteria.’

Esson watched him as he retraced his steps, disappearing

into the corridor. ‘No, that’s all right,’ she muttered. ‘I didn’t

want anything bringing back.’ Then she turned her attention to

her monitor and got to work.

Rebus was halfway down the corridor when he bumped into

Detective Sergeant Charlie Sykes. A digestive biscuit was

protruding from his mouth as he carried a pile of box files

between offices. Rebus stopped in front of him, blocking his

route. Reaching up a hand, he snapped off the visible section of

biscuit and laid it on top of the uppermost box. Sykes scowled,

chewing hard to try to free up his mouth.

‘Still on the health kick, eh, Charlie?’ Rebus enquired.

‘Thought you were retired.’

‘They’ve discovered that nothing gets done without me,

which makes me almost your exact opposite.’ Rebus studied the

man. ‘Nice suit, though – who’s greasing your palm these days?

Used to be Big Ger, didn’t it?’

Sykes scowled. ‘Everyone on the force knows who

Cafferty’s real friend around these parts was.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I’d better let you get on, Charlie.

You’ll want to keep looking like you’re almost doing

something useful.’ He lifted the remaining sliver of biscuit and

pushed it into Sykes’s mouth, so that the man’s curses were

muffled as Rebus continued on his way.

Darryl Christie was dressed as though impervious to cold –

well-tailored suit, open-necked shirt. The two men he had

brought with him were swaddled in black zip-up jackets, gloves

and baseball caps. West Parliament Square was the usual tourist

bustle. St Giles’ Cathedral loomed above Christie and his

minders. Nearby stood the law courts and the City Chambers.

This was the Edinburgh visitors craved, with the castle just up

the hill and plenty of shops selling tartan and whisky. Joe Stark

emerged from the direction of George IV Bridge. He wore a

dark green raincoat and a red woollen scarf, with a white shirt