Even dogs in the wild (30 page)

‘And Dyson?’

‘Will be considering his options. He was embedded in the

gang long before Operation Junior got green-lit.’

‘It really is him, isn’t it?’ Fox pressed. ‘The mole, I mean?’

‘I’m guessing the mask didn’t slip . . .’

‘Firmly glued on. He didn’t even say sorry for knocking me

out. Reckon he’d have used that blade if I hadn’t intervened?’

‘You said earlier you were worried he’s gone native – I can

assure you he hasn’t. Ricky spoke to him a day or so back.’

Fox digested this. ‘So that’s that, then? Back to Gartcosh?’

‘I wish I could say it’s been fun.’

‘Or even productive. You think the gang will keep looking?’

‘Joe’s got a bit of juggling to do. Dennis’s goons were just

that – who knows how they’ll fit in with the old man. Joe had a

meeting with Darryl Christie earlier. All seemed amicable

enough. No idea what they were talking about, though. Lip-

reader’s what we need, next time round. Not that there’ll
be
a next time. One thing that’ll probably gladden your heart –

Beth’s been sent packing. She blew up at Ricky and that’s that.

Feel free to gloat.’

‘Not my style.’

Alec Bell gave a loud sigh. ‘Beth had it tough in her early

years. Joining the police was the making of her. Never any love

in her family – mum and dad drinking and fighting. She had to

look after herself, her brother and her gran. That’s the calibre of

person you just shat on – hope the thought keeps you warm at

night.’

‘What about Beth, Alec? Does she keep
you
warm at night?’

The phone went dead, just as Siobhan Clarke appeared at the

top of the stairs. Fox squeezed it tight in his hand and caught up

with her.

‘How did the interviews go?’ he asked.

‘Compston wouldn’t let us record him. I’ve got notes to

write up.’

‘And the others?’

‘We settled for the boss man and Hastie herself.’

‘Did she give you anything?’

Clarke nodded. ‘Whether I believe it or not is another

matter. Do you want to listen?’

Fox nodded. ‘And if there’s anything else I can be

doing . . .’

‘I’ll have a think.’ Clarke sounded distracted. She was

looking at her own phone’s screen. ‘Thought John wanted in on

this, but he’s gone silent all of a sudden.’

‘Should we be worried about that?’

‘Usually means trouble for somebody.’ She gave a fatigued

smile. ‘Is the day nearly over? I could use a drink.’

‘I heard the Gimlet went up in smoke.’

‘Fire investigators say arson.’

‘Might explain why Christie and Stark met up.’

‘You heard about that?’ She nodded. ‘I suppose it might.’

‘Both of them very well-behaved, too – what does
that
tell

us?’

‘If I’m being honest, Malcolm, it tells
me
the square root of

zero. How about you?’

‘I forget the Starks aren’t really your bailiwick.’

She smiled at the word. ‘Only the son. And then only if he

really does tie in to Lord Minton.’

‘Which seems less likely now, correct? So a separate

inquiry’s going to have to be launched?’

‘Probably – now that Joe Stark’s been apprised that the note

was probably a red herring.’

‘That’s why he stormed in here? How did he find out?’

‘You’ve just told me he had a meeting earlier with Darryl

Christie . . .’

‘Christie’s got someone at Fettes?’

‘This is Police Scotland we’re talking about, Malcolm.

There’ll always be someone who likes to talk.’ Clarke had her

phone to her ear, trying Rebus again.

‘Text him instead,’ Fox advised. ‘Tell him we’ll be at the Ox

later – and we’re buying.’

‘It might come to that.’ She looked at him. ‘How are you

doing anyway?’

‘I’m okay.’

‘Nice bit of drama at lunchtime, wasn’t it? Joe Stark and his

heavies barging in.’

‘I missed all the action,’ Fox lied. ‘Pretty typical, eh?’

‘Were you serious about the Ox later?’

‘Only if you really want to catch John.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘There are other places. Some of them even serve food.’

‘Sounds good to me.’

‘I’ll maybe bide my time till then listening to that Beth

Hastie recording,’ Fox said. ‘Just out of interest, you

understand . . .’

Twenty Six

Acorn House wasn’t Acorn House any more. The one-time

borstal was still standing, but it had become a private health

clinic, specialising in cosmetic procedures. This much Rebus

gleaned from the large sign fixed to the red-brick wall. The

detached Victorian house was constructed of the same material.

It stood on the edge of Colinton Village, a well-heeled suburb

of the city whose sign welcomed visitors to ‘A Historic

Conservation Village’. The main road was busy with

commuters heading home, so Rebus pulled his Saab up on to

the pavement, leaving just about enough room for pedestrians to

get past. His phone told him Siobhan Clarke had tried calling

again. He knew he couldn’t speak to her, not quite yet. She was

quick, and would sense something was up. He could lie to her,

but she wouldn’t be happy until she knew what was troubling

him.

He had no intention of entering the building – what would

be the point? It would have changed, and he barely recalled its

interior anyway from his one and only visit. He really just

wanted a sense of the place. Whatever garden had once lain in

front of the house had been replaced with loose chippings, to

create a car park capable of accommodating half a dozen clients

and as many staff members. The houses to either side sat at a

good distance. He imagined the windows covered in net

curtains – maybe even the original wooden shutters, the kind

that could be locked from the inside. A big, anonymous place of

detention where pretty much anything could happen without

society outside knowing or – very possibly – caring. Kids who

had pilfered, or set fire to things, or carried out muggings and

housebreakings. Kids who were quick to anger, lacking

empathy and good breeding. Kids gone feral.

Problem kids.

Rebus had done a quick internet search, turning up almost

nothing of value. It was as if Acorn House – existing prior to

the World Wide Web – had been not consigned to history but

practically erased from it.

He pulled out his phone and rang Meadowlea.

‘My name’s John Rebus. I was there earlier visiting Paul

Jeffries – sorry again about my friend. The thing is, we weren’t

completely straight with you. I work for the police.’

‘Yes?’

Rebus had recognised the man’s voice, the same one who

had spoken to him at the door.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t catch your name earlier.’

‘Trevor.’

‘Well, Trevor, remember you were telling me about the

friend who visited Mr Jeffries? I think you said they were at

school together?’

‘It was Zoe who mentioned that.’

‘Of course it was,’ Rebus apologised, ‘but the name Dave

Ritter rang a bell with both of you.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I was just wondering when Mr Ritter last visited.’

‘A couple of months back.’

‘So he’s not due any time soon? Does he phone ahead?’

‘I think so.’

‘Would you have a contact number for him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Or his address in Ullapool? Would Mr Jeffries have a diary

or an address book? Maybe you could take a look.’

‘Is Paul in some sort of trouble?’

‘I won’t lie to you – it’s possible. Any strange visitors? Any

letters or notes he’s received that seemed a bit odd?

Threatening, even?’

‘Nothing like that.’ Trevor sounded disturbed by the

thought.

‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, but maybe you can

let me know if anything does arrive. I’ll give you my mobile

number.’ He reeled it off. ‘And if you could get me the dates

Dave Ritter visited, plus anything about him that might be

hidden away in Mr Jeffries’ room . . .’

‘It’s against the rules to go prying into our residents’ things.’

‘In which case, I might have to get a search warrant.’ Rebus

hardened his tone. ‘Ask yourself which is going to be less

stressful for your residents.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you. And you’ll call me if anything even the least bit

out of the ordinary happens?’

‘Promise.’

‘Fine then. Thanks again.’

‘But you have to give your word . . .’

‘About what?’

‘You’ll never let that maniac friend of yours come here

again.’

*

Cafferty had brought a curry back to his Quartermile apartment.

He ate from the containers – lamb rogan josh, pilau rice, saag

aloo, washed down with the remaining half-bottle of

Valpolicella. He had half a mind to visit Paul Jeffries again –

see how much of the old Paul was still in there, waiting to be

awoken by the right trigger.

The right trigger.

That was another thing: he’d been thinking about a gun,

wondering if he needed one. Would a gun make him feel any

safer? He wasn’t sure. He’d always had muscle around him in

the past, but who could he trust? Andrew Goodman would lend

him guys. Thing was, they wouldn’t be
Cafferty’s
men, not the

way Dennis had soldiers and Joe his trusted cronies. Darryl

Christie had not as yet found a lieutenant – he had infantry, but

no one other than himself to marshal them. When his phone

buzzed, he saw that it was Christie calling. Despite himself, he

smiled, wiping grease from his fingers as he swallowed a final

dollop of food.

It was as if they were on the same wavelength.

‘Just thinking about you,’ Cafferty admitted, answering.

‘In a good way, I hope.’

‘Always, Darryl. What’s on your mind?’

‘The police have been stringing Joe Stark along, telling him

his son was part of this thing with the notes. Turns out not to be

true.’

‘I can see why they’d want to keep Joe in the dark.’

Cafferty was sucking a finger clean. ‘Once he starts to take it

personally . . .’

‘Well that’s the stage we’re entering. So if I were you, I

wouldn’t move too far from that hotel room of yours.’

‘There is an alternative, you know.’

‘You and me? We team up and take out the threat?’

‘It’s how wars are often fought.’

‘How about I team up with Joe instead? With Dennis gone,

he needs someone to replace him, no?’

‘I doubt Dennis’s men would warm to that scenario. You’d

have to go through every single one of them, and that’s not

really your style.’

‘Then we’re left with
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly –

you, me and Joe, standing in a cemetery wondering who to aim

at first.’

Cafferty smiled. ‘Wasn’t there buried treasure in that scene

too?’

‘There was.’

‘And two out of three alive at the end?’

‘You’re thinking those are pretty good odds?’

‘I prefer not to gamble these days, son. As you get older,

you realise just how much you hate losing.’

‘Then walk away. Keep everything you’ve got.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘It’s the only sensible option, I promise you.’

Christie ended the call. Cafferty placed the phone on the

worktop and picked up the wine, draining it and stifling a sour

belch.

Walk away
. Those had been the words, but Cafferty knew

that wasn’t how Christie visualised things – at the end of his

version of the film, Cafferty had a noose around his neck.

Either that, or he was lying cold and dead on the ground.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his

nose.

‘And then there’s Acorn House,’ he muttered to himself,

bringing back the memory of the one time he wished he
had

just walked away . . .

Joe Stark stared from his hotel window at a passing parade of

night-time buses. He could hear trains as they squealed to a

halt every few minutes at one of the platforms in the station

opposite. There were tannoyed announcements too, and

occasional drunken shouts from pedestrians. His home back in

Glasgow was a detached 1960s property in a quiet

neighbourhood, the same house Dennis had grown up in. Joe

had been thinking about the lad with mixed emotions. It

wasn’t that he wouldn’t miss him. On the other hand, Dennis

had been readying to topple him, Joe knew that for a fact.

He’d been greedy, and hungry for it – Walter and Len had

said as much on more than one occasion, having picked up

whispers from Glasgow’s pubs and clubs. It had only been a

matter of time – weeks rather than months. Dennis’s lads were

probably gathered in one of the other bedrooms, plotting. Or

maybe deciding
whether
to plot. Joe knew he couldn’t look

weak. He had to seem to be filled with bile and ready to wreak

revenge.

But who was in the frame? Did it matter? He could strike

down Cafferty or Christie or a complete bloody stranger for that

matter. What counted was to take out
somebody
.

He was a good kid
, Walter Grieve had said, because it was

the sort of sentiment you were duty-bound to express. But one