Even dogs in the wild (31 page)

look at Walter had told Joe the man didn’t really believe it –

and with good reason. Because in toppling his father, Dennis

and his gang would have been obliged to take Walter and Len

out of the game too.

Truth was, Joe wished he could feel something other than an

echoing emptiness. He’d tried to force a few private tears, but

none had come. If his wife were still alive, it would be

different. It would all be different. Slowly, as he continued to

stare from the window, Joe Stark began replacing images of his

son with those of his dear-departed Cath.

And finally his stubborn eyes began to water.

The white car was parked directly outside Rebus’s flat. Having

been unable to find a space on Arden Street, Rebus had left his

own Saab on the next street over. As he approached the front

door of the tenement, the window slid down on the driver’s side

of the Evoque.

‘Any chance of a word?’ Darryl Christie said.

‘I’m busy.’

‘It’ll take five minutes. I can come up, if you like.’

‘No way.’

‘Then get in.’

The window slid closed. Christie was starting the engine as

Rebus got in. He reversed out of the space and headed downhill

towards the Meadows.

‘Taking me somewhere nice?’ Rebus enquired.

‘Driving helps me think. Are you keeping busy?’

‘Not bad.’

‘You heard about the Gimlet?’

‘A sad loss to few.’

‘Maybe so, but it’s where I learned the ropes. You could call

that a sentimental attachment.’

‘Any idea who did it?’

Christie gave him a sharp glance. ‘Isn’t that a question for

the police? Not that any of your lot seem interested. Wonder

why that is.’

‘Probably reckon it’s an insurance job.’

‘You and me know different.’ Christie paused. They were on

Melville Drive, heading towards Tollcross. ‘Joe Stark tells me it

wasn’t his doing.’

‘You believe him?’

‘Not sure. Here’s the thing, though – Dennis is killed and

my pub gets torched. Doesn’t it look to you like the start of a

war?’

‘Only if you let it.’

‘Well I know damned fine
I
didn’t have anything to do

with the hit on Dennis, and if his gang didn’t firebomb the

Gimlet . . .’

‘Someone’s doing a bit of stirring?’

‘That’s my best guess, and we both know who’s holding the

nice long spoon.’

Rebus gave a half-smile. ‘It’s an old saying, you know:

“You need a long spoon to sup with the devil.”’

‘I’ve heard it said about Fifers, too – you grew up in Fife,

didn’t you?’

‘This isn’t about me, though, is it?’

‘No.’

‘It’s about Cafferty.’

‘Oh yes.’ They had turned left and were heading for

Bruntsfield. Rebus realised it was a circuit. They would take

the next fork and end up back in Marchmont. ‘Think about

it,’ Christie was saying quietly. ‘Cafferty pits the Stark clan

against me, knowing Joe isn’t strong enough to run Edinburgh

by himself. The old guard and the new end up battling

one another, and Cafferty watches it all happen from the

sidelines.’

‘You’re forgetting Cafferty got a note and a bullet both.’

It was Christie’s turn to smile. ‘You don’t see, do you? No

one saw who fired that shot. Could easily be a put-up job,

Cafferty painting himself as victim so nobody figures him for

Dennis’s unfortunate demise.’

Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Look, I can’t tell you what I

know that you don’t, but I think you’re in danger of reading this

whole thing wrong. Give me a few days and I can maybe prove

it.’

‘I’m not sure it’ll wait that long.’

‘I’m asking you, Darryl. You might well be right about there

being other forces at work, but Cafferty’s not the man.’

‘Are you
his
man, though?’

‘Never was, never will be.’

They were approaching Marchmont Road. ‘What makes you

so sure about Cafferty?’ Christie asked.

‘Couple of days, I might have an answer for you.’

‘Nothing you can say to me right now that would put my

mind at rest?’

‘I think Cafferty’s as nervous as you are. Which makes me

grateful neither of you uses a nine-mil pistol.’

‘Don’t tell me Cafferty couldn’t lay his hands on one if he

felt the need.’

‘You too, come to that.’

‘And maybe a cop could too, eh?’ They were entering Arden

Street. Christie stopped the car in the middle of the road to let

Rebus out.

‘A few days,’ Rebus reminded him.

‘We’ll see,’ Darryl Christie said, moving off before Rebus

had even managed to get the door fully closed.

He looked to where the Evoque had been parked. A

neighbour had grabbed the space already. Cursing under his

breath, Rebus dug his house keys out of his pocket.

DAY SEVEN

Twenty Seven

Alec Bell and Jake Emerson were on duty in the unmarked

Vauxhall Insignia, engine running so the cabin stayed above

freezing. They each held a beaker of coffee, having taken over

the watch only twenty minutes previously. Emerson was not

Bell’s favoured partner, but Beth Hastie had been banished into

the wilderness. Emerson was young and a fast learner, but

always ready to show off. The music he liked meant nothing to

Bell, and his personal life – most of it revolving around social

media – made almost less sense to the older man.

‘Will Beth face a disciplinary?’ he was asking now. Bell

shrugged. ‘Leaves us one short – will there be a new recruit? I

can suggest a couple of names.’

‘Way Ricky’s talking, we’ll all be going home sooner rather

than later.’ Bell craned his neck to see the front door of the

modern hotel. It was part of a new development close by

Haymarket station. You could hear the trains chuntering past,

and every now and then a tram signalled its presence with an

old-fashioned clang that Emerson had suggested had to be

digitised.

‘No way that’s the real thing.’

The gang had moved into four rooms in the hotel – six

sharing, and a single room for Joe Stark. The place had a glass

front, with sliding doors leading to the reception area. There

were a few trendy-looking chairs and sofas there, along with a

flat-screen TV tuned to Sky News. The breakfast room was on

the same floor, with a bar on the mezzanine above. This much

the team knew, but they had precious little else. Joe and his men

had enjoyed a quiet evening – dinner at an Indian place nearby,

then a couple of pints at Ryrie’s. No meetings, clandestine or

otherwise, and no trouble. The log from the previous six-hour

shift was almost completely blank.

The Insignia was parked in a metered bay behind a taxi rank,

not more than fifty feet from the hotel steps. Jake Emerson

yawned noisily and tried shaking some life into himself.

‘Me, I love this part of the job,’ he drawled. ‘It’s why I

joined CID in the first place.’

‘We’ll try to arrange for a car chase later if you like.’

‘Only if we get some decent wheels.’ He drummed his

fingers against the dashboard. ‘This thing couldn’t outgun a

Segway.’

‘Hang on,’ Bell interrupted him. ‘Bit of movement. Looks

like Walter Grieve’s come outside for a smoke.’

Grieve was turning up the collar of his coat. He took in the

scenery as he lit a cigarette, then crossed the road towards the

station.

‘Do I follow on foot?’ Emerson asked.

‘Not till I say so.’ Bell watched as Grieve walked past the

station entrance. ‘Where’s he off to?’ he said. ‘Maybe just

stretching his legs . . .’

Yes, because Grieve was crossing the street again. He was

on the pavement behind them now, sauntering back to the hotel.

He passed the car, stopped to drop his cigarette on the ground,

and stubbed it out. Then he turned, a
gotcha
smile on his face.

He came over to the passenger-side window and rapped on it

with his knuckles.

‘What do I do?’ Emerson asked.

But Bell was already pressing the button, the window sliding

halfway open. Grieve rested both hands on it and leaned down,

his face almost inside the car.

‘All right, officers?’ he said. ‘Bit of information for you

from Mr Stark. Most of us are heading back to Glasgow, there

being a funeral to organise. Couple of the lads might stick

around a day or so – they hear there’s a castle worth seeing.

Should make things a bit easier for you. Okay?’

Still beaming the same false smile, he straightened up,

thumped one meaty fist on the car roof and continued on his

way.

‘Jesus,’ Emerson muttered, his hand trembling a fraction as

he lifted the coffee cup to his mouth. Bell had his phone out. He

pressed it to his ear and waited for Ricky Compston to pick up.

‘News?’ Compston said, sounding almost painfully hopeful.

‘Just a confirmation, really.’

‘Confirmation of what?’

‘That Operation Junior is toast.’

Albert Stout lived in the village of Gullane, in a detached

Edwardian house looking on to a golf course. There were hardy

souls out there already, just about visible through the morning

haar, as Rebus closed the door of his Saab. He had phoned

ahead and Stout was waiting for him. Rebus didn’t like the old

bugger – as a journalist he had been devious, crooked and a

thorn in the side of Lothian and Borders Police. The house was

cold and smelled of damp. Mouldering piles of newsprint sat in

the hall, while the staircase was mostly covered in books. The

carpeting was threadbare, as was its owner. Moths had been at

the saggy oatmeal cardigan, and there was a three-day growth

of grey stubble on Stout’s chin and cheeks.

‘Well, well,’ the man cackled. ‘Didn’t think I’d ever clap

eyes on you again.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you.’ Rebus was ushered into a space

that doubled as sitting room and office. ‘Still writing your

memoirs?’

‘Keeps me out of mischief.’ Stout gestured for Rebus to sit.

The sofa was a sprawl of paperwork, so Rebus lowered himself

on to an arm, while Stout took the leather-bound chair behind

his work desk. ‘Tell me, is young Laura still in work?’

‘Laura Smith?’ Rebus watched the old man nod. ‘She’s

hanging in there.’ Until his retirement, Stout had been chief

crime correspondent for the
Scotsman
, a role Laura Smith now

occupied.

‘Good luck to her – the industry’s on its last legs.’

‘You’ve been saying that for twenty years.’

‘That’s often the way of it when the patient’s on life

support – sometimes it’s kinder to switch off the machines.’

Stout peered at his guest, hands clasped across his stomach. He

belied his surname these days, and Rebus wondered about the

weight loss. Though he’d been nicknamed the Ghoul back in

the day for his ability suddenly to appear at crime scenes, he

had always been overweight, belt straining at its final notch. He

wasn’t quite cadaverous now, but he was on his way.

‘Still,’ Stout mused, ‘Laura’s stuck at it, which speaks of

tenacity if nothing else.’ He broke off. ‘You weren’t expecting

a cup of tea, I hope?’

‘Don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘Well that’s something we’re agreed on. So what’s on your

mind, Inspector?’ He stopped again. ‘No, you must be retired

by now, surely?’

‘As a matter of fact, I am. But Police Scotland have offered

me a bit of work, so . . .’

‘Work of an archaeological nature, I’m guessing.’

‘That’s why I’m here, talking to a fossil.’

Stout looked ready to take offence, but changed his mind

and chuckled. ‘Don’t let me stop you,’ he said.

‘I’m looking into an assessment centre called Acorn House.’

Stout’s mouth formed an O. ‘Particularly the mid 1980s. You

remember that lottery winner, the one who was killed a few

weeks back? He’d worked there.’

‘Had he now?’ Stout’s chair protested as he leaned back in

it.

‘And we’re just checking his background, looking for

anyone who might have had a grudge . . .’

Stout gave a thin smile, his eyes suddenly alive and boring

into Rebus’s. ‘I think you’re doing more than that. Tell me I’m

wrong.’

Rebus considered his options. ‘You’re not,’ he eventually

conceded. ‘I’ve been hearing stuff about Acorn House, stuff

that makes me think it should have been taken apart at the time

and people sent to jail.’

‘It did have a certain reputation.’

‘How much did you know back then?’

‘Rumours mostly, winks and nudges. Lawyers, MPs, public

figures . . . taxis dropping them off late at night and returning

to fetch them before dawn. Children –
children
, mind – in

hotel rooms with men old enough to be their fathers and

grandfathers . . . walked in on by unsuspecting housemaids who

then felt an urgent need to unburden themselves on someone

like me for the price of a drink.’

‘Any names?’

‘Names?’

‘These public figures.’

‘Plenty of names, Rebus. Plenty of interesting names.’

‘Care to share a few?’

Stout studied him. ‘Maybe
you
should be giving the names