Even dogs in the wild (34 page)

remember while wondering who stole my story.

There’s a villain called Cafferty, apparently he’s

close to Howard Champ, and Champ is one of

the men who uses Acorn House – and no doubt

other places like it – as a personal sexual

playground. But Champ has other friends too.

Our esteemed David Minton for one. They

control the newspapers – or rather, they know

the men who own the media, and that’s even

better. Or maybe they got the cops to break in.

Special Branch? MI5? They’ll want to protect their

own. They don’t want a scandal – awfully bad for

business, don’t you know. The cops, though – no

way THEY want their precious Chief Constable

getting found out. No, sir, that can’t be allowed to

happen. Did he know I was getting close? Let me

tell you about how sloppy he was getting, every

single fucking one of them thinking they lived in a

parallel universe where they were never going to

be found out.

Right, here goes . . .

Rebus read for a further hour. There were only fifteen pages,

but fifteen was enough. Booze or no booze, Spiers’s memory

had been unimpaired. He remembered dates, names, locations.

He had spoken off the record to hotel workers, taxi drivers, and

even a couple of kids from Acorn House. No names, though –

he hadn’t put their names in print, maybe to protect them? Yes,

probably.

There
was
one name, though: Bryan Holroyd. A kid who

had done a bunk, so the other kids said, fed up of being

hounded by Howard Champ.

Bryan Holroyd. Rebus felt the temperature in the room drop.

The dead kid? The ‘accident’?

When his intercom buzzed, he ignored it, but whoever was

outside wasn’t about to give up. He crossed to the window and

looked down. Siobhan Clarke had taken a few steps back and

was peering up at him. Rebus returned to the intercom and

pressed the button to let her in. He turned the PC’s screen off

before unlocking the door, listening to her feet as she climbed

the stone staircase.

‘Hiya, you,’ he said, ushering her inside. ‘Any news of

Malcolm’s dad?’

‘He told you?’ She watched him nod. They were standing in

the living room. She noted the computer and knew it was a new

addition to the room – the box it had come in was sitting on the

floor.

‘Thought it was time to upgrade,’ Rebus joked.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked quietly.

‘One of my private clients.’

‘John . . .’

‘What?’

She gave a sigh. ‘Never mind. I’m here to deliver a

bollocking – do you want to stand or would you rather sit

down?’

He grabbed what little was left of his beer and made for his

armchair. Clarke took the sofa.

‘Ready when you are,’ he told her.

‘Actually, before that, let me ask you something – what are

the odds that Darryl Christie has someone from our side telling

him stories?’

‘Telling or selling?’

‘Either.’

Rebus gave a shrug. ‘It’s a racing certainty.’

‘And if I was a punter looking for a hot tip?’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Joe Stark arrived fuming at Fettes because he’d found out

the note left with Dennis was a copycat. This after he’d had a

powwow with Darryl Christie.’

Rebus nodded his understanding. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you could

try asking Charlie Sykes how much that hand-tailored suit of

his cost.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘So am I in your good books now? Bollocking deferred?’

‘Afraid not. I had Laura Smith on the phone. She wasn’t

happy.’

‘She’s a crime reporter – that probably comes with the

territory.’

‘Any idea why she’d be so annoyed with me this time,

though?’

‘Do tell.’

‘It’s because
she’d
had Albert Stout on the phone, teasing

her about some huge story that’s brewing and how he knows

about it and she doesn’t. He mentioned your name before

ringing off. So Laura wanted to know why I hadn’t said

anything. Seems to her it’s all one-way traffic between us and

we’re supposed to be friends.’

‘It’s a mistake to make friends with reporters – I’ve always

told you that.’

‘This isn’t funny, John. Is it to do with that thing?’ She

nodded towards the computer.

‘Yes,’ Rebus admitted.

‘And Lord Minton and Michael Tolland?’

‘And Cafferty too.’

‘Then it’s more
my
business than yours.’

‘You can’t take it to Page, not yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘You just can’t. Fob Laura Smith off with something.’

‘She’ll smell it.’

‘Let her smell it then.’ Rebus leapt from his armchair and

paced the room.

‘It’s eating away at you, John – you know it and I know it.

Time you opened up, a trouble shared and all that.’

‘Maybe. But I’m not joking about keeping it to yourself – at

least for now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s basically plutonium on a floppy disk,’ Rebus

said.

And then he told her.

Joe Stark was back home, seated on the bed in what had been,

for the first nineteen years of his life, Dennis’s room. Joe

remembered the announcement that he was moving into a flat

with some pals. A year later, he’d bought a place of his own.

Joe had never asked how much it had cost or how Dennis

could afford it. He’d always seen that the boy was all right

for money without going overboard. Later on, of course,

with Dennis part of the company, the spoils had been shared.

They had become commercial partners rather than father

and son. Joe had taken counsel earlier from Walter Grieve and

Len Parker, who had argued that he needed to stamp his

authority on the sides of the business that Dennis had overseen.

It had to be soon, too, before others stepped in to fill the

vacuum.

When Joe’s phone rang, he saw it was Jackie Dyson and

decided to answer.

‘Jackie,’ he said. ‘Is this you bringing me an update?’

‘A straight answer’s what I need, Joe.’

‘Depends on the question.’

‘Did you leave a couple of us here so there’s less chance of

us making a move against you?’

‘You’ve got brains, son.’ Stark couldn’t help smiling. ‘But

there’s another way of looking at it – you might even say I’m

protecting you. Things could get ugly at home.’

‘And are we still looking for Wright’s stash?’

‘Reckon we’re ever going to find it? I think our best chance

died some time back.’

‘How about whoever did for Dennis?’

‘Got to be down to either Christie or Cafferty, unless you’ve

got a better idea. That’s why I want you to keep an eye on

them.’

‘Then that’s what I’ll do.’

‘You’ll have to track Cafferty down first – Christie tells me

he’s not been seen.’

‘No problem.’

‘And if you get wind of mutterings in the ranks . . .’

‘I know where my loyalties lie, Mr Stark.’

‘There’s going to be a bit of restructuring, Jackie. By the

time you come back to Glasgow, your life’s going to have

changed for the better.
Majorly
for the better, if you take my meaning.’

‘I can’t wait.’

‘Good lad.’ Stark ended the call and stretched himself out on

his son’s mattress. There were cracks on the ceiling. As a kid,

Dennis had fretted that chunks of plaster might fall off and hit

him.

If they do,
Joe had advised,
hit them back – they’ll break
before you do
.

And the pair of them had laughed.

*

Cafferty watched from the corner as Siobhan Clarke drove

away from Arden Street in her Astra. She looked distracted, her

face pale. Another time, she might have spotted him, but not

today, so he started walking again, ending up at the door to

Rebus’s tenement and pressing the bell.

‘You forget something?’ Rebus’s voice crackled.

‘She’s skedaddled,’ Cafferty informed him. ‘So you’ll have

to put up with me instead.’

The lock clicked and Cafferty pushed the door open,

climbing the two flights to Rebus’s flat.

‘You got the computer then,’ he said.

‘I don’t want to know where it came from.’

‘Oliver says you tipped him – that was a nice gesture. What

did Siobhan want?’

‘Fox’s dad is at death’s door. She decided to tell me in

person.’

‘Might explain why she looked like she’d had bad news. Are

her and Fox close then?’ Cafferty had settled in front of the

computer. The first page of the document was up on the screen.

‘Juicy stuff?’ he asked.

‘He starts by wondering if maybe you broke into his home

and stole the evidence.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘He also says that the Chief Constable of the time, Jim

Broadfoot, was up to his eyes.’

‘No doubt about that. Wasn’t he knighted eventually?’

‘Dead now, though.’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s a missing kid mentioned a bit further on – Bryan

Holroyd. Could that be him?’

‘No one ever gave me a name.’

‘I’m going to see if I can source a photo.’

‘Will there still be records?’

‘From Acorn House? I doubt it. But the kids who went there

had mostly been in trouble.’

‘And the police keep everything?’ Cafferty nodded his

understanding. Then he looked at his watch. ‘I think you

deserve a drink, and I’m buying.’

‘I don’t feel like a drink.’

‘Words I doubt you’ve uttered before. I did tell you it wasn’t

going to be pleasant.’

‘You did,’ Rebus conceded.

‘And drink can do wonderful things to unpleasant

memories.’

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Fine then.’ He ejected the floppy

from its slot and stuck it in his pocket.

‘Probably an unnecessary precaution,’ Cafferty said.

‘Probably,’ Rebus agreed. ‘But that won’t stop me

making copies of it, first chance I get. And speaking of

precautions . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘If I hear that you’ve been back to Meadowlea to visit Paul

Jeffries without me . . .’

‘I admit it’s crossed my mind.’

‘Staff there have my number. If they tell me you’ve as much

as paused for breath at the end of the driveway, that’s us

finished.’

‘Time was, a man could have some fun . . .’

‘For the likes of you and me, those days are over.’

‘Then what’s left to look forward to?’

Rebus plucked his house keys from the table. ‘We’re

heading there right now,’ he said.

Thirty

Fox’s sister Jude lived in a terraced house in Saughtonhall.

He’d suggested picking her up, but she’d said she would take a

cab.

‘Then I’ll wait outside for you.’

‘Because you want to pick up the tab? I’ve got money of my

own, Malcolm.’

He’d waited in the hospital’s main concourse instead,

equidistant between the two entrances. Jude had come tottering

through the sliding doors on three-inch heels, clad in skin-tight

jeans, a shapeless T-shirt and a waist-length fur jacket. There

were at least two gossamer-thin scarves wrapped around her

neck, and her shoulder-length hair looked lifeless. Her face was

pale, cheekbones prominent, eyeshadow overdone.

She stopped a yard or so from him and adjusted her sparkly

shoulder bag. No embrace, no peck on the cheek. ‘How’s he

doing?’ she enquired.

‘He hasn’t regained consciousness.’

‘And they’re saying it’s a stroke?’

‘Have you been drinking, Jude?’

‘Would you blame me if I had?’

‘We should get you a coffee or something.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Do we take the lift or what?’

‘We take the lift.’

‘Well then.’ She walked over to the wall and pressed the

button. Fox had a sudden flashback – Jude as a toddler, dressed

in her mother’s clothes and shoes, doing a fashion parade in

their parents’ bedroom. Another time it had been make-up and

perfume. ‘You coming?’

He joined her in front of the lift. Its doors slid open,

revealing an attendant in charge of an empty wheelchair.

‘Kind of you,’ Jude told the man, ‘but I think I can walk.’

Once the wheelchair had gone, they got in and waited for the

doors to close.

‘Times like this,’ Fox said, staring at the floor, ‘I wish I’d

visited Dad more often.’

Jude glared at him. ‘It’s not the frequency that counts, it’s

the intention.’

He met her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Dad always knew you were only there out of a sense of

duty.’

‘That’s not true.’

But Jude wasn’t listening. ‘You were there because it was

the thing that had to be done, and you could feel all good about

yourself afterwards, because you’d
done your duty
.’ Her gaze

was challenging him to deny it. ‘Something you felt was

expected, rather than something you did out of love, like paying

for your sister’s cab.’

‘Jesus, Jude . . .’

‘Dad could see it too – how bored you were, just sitting

there, trying not to look at your watch too often and too

obviously.’

‘You know how to kick a man when he’s down, sis.’