Even dogs in the wild (28 page)

blurted out.

‘But then there’s the other gentleman,’ his colleague added.

‘Only comes by once or twice a year. They used to be at school

together, I think. Lives in Ullapool.’

‘Does he have a name?’ Rebus asked. ‘Dave Ritter, maybe?’

‘Ritter?’ Nods from both heads. ‘Sounds about right.’

Rebus turned and unlocked the door, blocking Cafferty from

going back in. Once outside, he closed it again and started

leading Cafferty towards his car.

‘I’ve got something,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Calm down and I’ll tell you.’

‘Tell me now.’

‘Get in,’ Rebus said instead, unlocking the Saab. He rolled

the window down and lit a cigarette.

‘Give me one,’ Cafferty demanded from the passenger seat.

‘You don’t smoke.’

‘Never too late to start.’ Cafferty gestured with his fingers,

but Rebus showed him that the pack was empty. Cafferty

cursed under his breath. ‘So tell me what you got.’

‘You first – what’s Acorn House? And why does it ring a

bell?’

Cafferty leaned back against the headrest. ‘I’m going to say

it just once more – you don’t want to know.’

But Rebus knew now. ‘It was some sort of remand home,

wasn’t it? I remember going once with a posse from

Summerhall. Couple of kids there thought they were the

pickpocket equivalent of Butch and Sundance.’ He stared at

Cafferty. ‘That’s the place we’re talking about, yes?’

Cafferty was scowling at the windscreen as if ready to punch

it. ‘Yes,’ he eventually conceded.

‘Michael Tolland used to work there?’ Rebus guessed.

‘That’s why him being a care worker clicked with you?’ He

nodded to himself. ‘And Jeffries and his pal Ritter – they . . .

what?’ He paused, running his hands around the steering wheel

as he thought. ‘It closed down, didn’t it? Acorn House?

Sometime in the late eighties.’ He turned to look at Cafferty.

‘What is it I’m not seeing? David Minton, he’d have been an

advocate back then, wouldn’t he? Running for Parliament but

not getting in.’

‘You’re seeing all the small stuff,’ Cafferty said, pressing

his thumbs to his temples. ‘Let’s go have a drink somewhere so

I can start to tell you the rest . . .’

Twenty Four

‘I don’t want this taped,’ were Ricky Compston’s first words as

he sat down in the makeshift interview room. Fettes, having

been Lothian and Borders’ HQ, had always been an admin base

rather than a working police station – no cells, no IRs. Siobhan

Clarke had borrowed some recording equipment and set it up on

the table. But now Compston was folding his arms in a show of

defiance. ‘I’m running a covert operation,’ he went on, ‘and

that could be put in jeopardy by the smallest leak.’

‘You’re not stopping the surveillance?’ James Page asked.

He had slipped out of his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves,

to show that he meant business. Paperwork was heaped in front

of him, topped by crime scene photos and post-mortem shots of

the victims.

‘Not until the boss gives the word.’ Compston turned his

attention to Clarke. ‘That machine goes on, I walk – don’t say

you weren’t warned.’

‘This is your idea of cooperation?’ she shot back.

Compston fixed her with a stare. ‘Joe Stark has just had a

meeting with Darryl Christie. What happens next I can’t tell

you, because you’ve pulled my team in here, which is the last

place they should be. So yes, DI Clarke, to answer your snotty

little question, I’d say I’m cooperating.’

‘Dennis Stark managed to get himself killed on your watch,’

Clarke commented.

‘Thanks, I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Beth Hastie had the surveillance on her own – is that

standard practice?’

‘Ideally she’d have had company.’

‘Why didn’t she?’

‘Joe and his cronies had gone to Glasgow. I had to split the

team. Left us a bit short.’

‘But she wasn’t outside the guest house when Dennis went

for his stroll. His colleagues tell us it was something he often

did.’

Compston nodded. ‘Happened a couple of times,’ he agreed.

‘Yet Hastie still deserted her post? She didn’t bother

phoning to try and arrange cover?’

‘It was the middle of the night. We were exhausted.

Probably no one would have answered anyway.’

‘But she didn’t try,’ Clarke persisted.

Compston looked from Clarke to Page and back again.

‘Hell’s going on here?’ he demanded.

‘A murder inquiry.’

‘Gobby little thing, isn’t she?’ Compston said to Page.

‘DI Clarke is a bit more than that, I think you’ll find,’ Page

retorted.

Compston gave a theatrical sigh. ‘We screwed up, and don’t

think we don’t know it. I take full responsibility and have

already told the Chief Constable as much.’

Clarke was tapping her pen lightly against a fresh pad of

lined paper. ‘How do you reckon Dennis Stark ended up dead?’

she asked.

‘A nine-mil bullet, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Did he just get unlucky, though? Goes for a stroll, ends up

bumping into a stranger who shoots him? How likely is that?’

‘Not very,’ Compston conceded. ‘One way or another, he

was targeted.’

‘One way or another?’

‘Well, you’ve got this killer leaving notes next to his

victims . . .’

‘Actually, the victims usually receive the notes well

beforehand. That was one mistake Stark’s killer made.’

‘Oh?’

‘Not the same handwriting,’ Page revealed.

‘Copycat?’ Compston mused.

‘Someone with a grudge,’ Clarke said, ‘who thought they

could make us think it was the same person who killed Lord

Minton.’

‘Which partly explains our interest in your team,’ Page

added. ‘What would you say if I told you Detective Constable

Hastie had lied to you?’

‘I’d say I don’t believe you.’

‘She had to answer a call of nature, yes? At a nearby petrol

station?’

Compston rolled his eyes. ‘This is that sneaky fucker Fox,

isn’t it?’

‘There are no all-night garages nearby,’ Clarke went on.

‘So?’

‘And the ones that
are
open don’t let customers use the

loos.’

‘I’m none the wiser.’

‘Whoever followed Dennis Stark to that alley, they knew

there was a chance he’d be out and about at that time, but they

couldn’t know the surveillance wasn’t operational.’ Clarke

paused. ‘Could they?’

Compston got her meaning and guffawed. ‘You’re saying

we
did it? After years of concerted operations to bring down the whole gang, my team suddenly decides on drastic action that’ll

result in anything but?’ His eyes flitted between Clarke and

Page. ‘Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?’

‘It’s just a coincidence, then? Hastie does a vanishing act,

Dennis goes for a walk, and the killer is waiting for him?’

‘Makes a damn sight more sense than what you’re

suggesting.’ Compston was getting to his feet. ‘I’ve had more

than enough of this. There’s work waiting for me in the
real

world. I’ll leave you to your unicorns and marshmallow skies.’

‘We need to talk to Beth Hastie first,’ Clarke stated.

‘Why?’

‘Because she doesn’t seem to have been entirely truthful.

That story she spun might have been for
your
benefit. Then

again, maybe it was only meant for DI Fox. Maybe you already

knew she wasn’t going to be outside the guest house.’

Compston was shaking his head, but he gave another

theatrical sigh. ‘If Beth stays, can the rest of the team get back

on duty?’

‘I’d like you to wait behind,’ Page said. ‘We may have a

couple more questions.’

‘Absolute waste of time,’ Compston muttered, which Clarke

took as agreement.

A five-minute break between interviews, just long enough for a

quick coffee and confab. They’d stuck Hastie in the room and

confiscated her phone so she wouldn’t have a chance to be

briefed by her boss. Compston was in the waiting area, having

given orders to his troops and dispatched them.

‘Is this getting us anywhere?’ Page asked. ‘I’d hate to think

we’re rattling their cages just for the hell of it.’

Clarke offered a shrug.

‘Fox has some sort of grievance, doesn’t he? That smack on

the face he got . . .’

‘He may have a grievance, but he also has a point. The story

he was given doesn’t quite chime. Besides which, it makes

perfect sense for us to want to question the team who

supposedly had eyes and ears on the victim.’

‘Fair enough.’ But Page didn’t sound wholly convinced. He

drained his cardboard cup. ‘Let’s get back, then.’

Beth Hastie did not object to a recording being made. Clarke

quickly realised that this was because she had come prepared

with a script.

‘I got bored and went for a drive, that’s the truth of it.

Thought half an hour wouldn’t hurt and it would help me stay

awake.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Down to the waterfront, along the coast a little ways, then

back.’

‘And this just happened to coincide with Dennis Stark

leaving the guest house?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You can see that might look like an almighty coincidence?’

‘I suppose. Doesn’t mean it’s not what happened, though.’

‘Have you owned up to DI Compston?’

‘I will, soon as I get out of here.’

‘You knew Dennis had trouble sleeping? That he sometimes

took a night-time walk?’

274

Hastie shook her head. ‘Nobody’d mentioned it. That was

my first time on the all-nighter.’

‘Nobody’d mentioned it?’ Clarke sounded disbelieving, but

Hastie was shaking her head again to stress the point.

‘Here’s the thing I keep thinking, though,’ she went on. ‘If I

had
been there, I’d have followed him on foot. And if I’d done that . . .’

‘You’d have maybe stopped the killing from happening?’

Page guessed.

She stared at him. ‘No,’ she said. ‘What I mean is, maybe

he’d have had to shoot me too. Which is why I’m actually

bloody relieved I took that drive. If I hadn’t, I might be on a

shelf in the mortuary, right next to Dennis Stark.’

She sat back in her chair, almost shivering at the thought.

Joe Stark arrived at Fettes with one of his own men – Walter

Grieve – and one of Dennis’s. It had been Grieve’s idea to bring

Dennis’s lads into the fold – last thing they needed now was

bad blood. Jackie Dyson had been chosen because he was the

only one Joe hadn’t had cause to bad-mouth or hand a slap to in

the past. A relative newcomer, which, Grieve argued, meant he

might be more approachable, ‘if you get my drift’.

Yes, Joe knew these were delicate days. Dyson and the rest

would be starting to wonder where their loyalties lay. Did they

team up against the old order, or did they fall into line? He’d

already given them a few quid to tide them over, promising

them strengthened roles in the organisation. All the same, it

didn’t hurt to bring Dyson along, get to know him a bit better

during the car ride, massage his ego. Then the punchline:

275

‘If you want to see gratitude, son, I’ll show it to you. You

hear whispers or mutterings, you bring them to me.
That’s
when you’ll see me at my best.’ Accompanied by a wink and a pat on

the knee.

They parked in front of the main building and got out, Stark

and Grieve in suits fit for a funeral, Dyson in scuffed denim and

leather. As they reached the door, a couple emerged. Stark met

the man’s eyes but said nothing. But he watched as the pair

headed towards their own car.

‘That’s Ricky Compston,’ he told Grieve.

‘Thought I knew him.’

‘Who’s Ricky Compston?’ Dyson asked.

‘Used to be Glasgow CID. Last I heard, he was being

promoted to a desk at Gartcosh.’ Halfway through the door,

Stark stopped again. ‘Gartcosh,’ he muttered to himself.

‘Serious and Organised Crime . . .’

‘Are we wondering what he’s doing across this side of the

country?’ Walter Grieve asked, without really needing an

answer.

‘Bastards are after us,’ Stark stated, baring his teeth. ‘Heard

about Dennis and think we’re vulnerable.’ He exited the

building again and cried out to the rapidly retreating figures.

‘Hey! Compston!’ The woman half turned but the man did not.

Stark flicked the Vs anyway and stomped inside.

The civilian on the reception desk recognised him and tried

to smile.

‘We’re here to see Page,’ Stark demanded.

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘My son’s been murdered – what good is a fucking

appointment to me?’

276

The woman flushed. ‘I think he’s busy,’ she eventually

managed to say. But by then it was too late. Stark had walked

around the desk and was making for the stairs beyond.

‘You can’t do that!’ she said.

‘He already has,’ Dyson informed her, making to follow.

The group of three reached the first floor and asked the first

person they saw where Page was.

‘Next floor up.’

So that was where they went. Page was in the corridor ahead

of them, talking to a woman weighed down by case notes.