Even dogs in the wild (36 page)

Esson.

‘I’m all heart,’ he told her. ‘Official confirmation.’

With a sigh and a rolling of the eyes, Esson held the box out

towards him.

It had taken Rebus only a couple of minutes with a map to work

out that the quickest route to Ullapool was the A9 to Inverness,

then the A835 heading west. He filled the Saab with petrol,

offered up a prayer that the old crate would survive the journey,

and piled water, cigarettes and crisps on the passenger seat,

along with a cut-price CD that promised him the best rock

songs of the seventies and eighties.

The A9 was not a road he relished. He had driven up and

down it several times a couple of years back on a previous case.

Some of it was dualled, but long, winding stretches weren’t,

and those were where you tended to get stuck behind a convoy

of lorries or venerable caravans towed by underpowered saloon

cars. Inverness was 150 miles from Edinburgh, but it would

take him three hours, and maybe half that again to reach his

final destination.

Having witnessed Cafferty’s reaction at the nursing home,

he had decided to say nothing about this trip. Not until he was

safely back in Edinburgh. As he crossed the Forth Road Bridge,

he saw its replacement taking shape over to the west. The

project was apparently on time and under budget, unlike the

Edinburgh tram route. He had yet to take a tram anywhere in

the city. At his age, buses were free to use, but he never took

those either.

‘Me and you,’ he told his Saab, giving the steering wheel a

reassuring pat.

North as far as Perth was dual carriageway and relatively

quiet, but once past Perth the road narrowed and new average-

speed cameras didn’t help. He began to wish he had

commandeered a patrol car and driver, with blue lights and

siren. But then he would have had to explain the purpose of the

trip.

A kid was killed and I need to talk to the man who took him

away and buried him . . .

The fact that David Ratner had been in trouble recently

meant that he might at least be available to answer a few

questions. On the other hand, how willing would he be? Rebus

mulled that over as he drove. Cafferty had helped cover up a

crime – possibly a murder. In the scheme of things, he should

already be in custody, but that wouldn’t help solve the mystery.

He would clam up, and his lawyer would have him back on the

street in no time. This way, as Rebus had argued to Siobhan

Clarke, at least there was the possibility of closure – retribution

could come later, if the Fiscal’s office decided it was feasible.

Rebus was a realist if nothing else. Down the years he had seen

the guilty walk free and the (relatively) innocent suffer

punishment. He had watched – as furiously impotent as Albert

Stout or Patrick Spiers – as the rich and powerful played the

system. He had come to appreciate that those with influence

could be more cunning and ruthless than those with none.

‘The overworld and the underworld,’ he muttered to himself,

pulling out to overtake an artic. Having done so, he found

himself stuck behind a Megabus with a smiling cartoon

character waving at him from its rear end, advertising the cheap

fares. Five slow miles later, he was imagining himself beating

his cheery tormentor with a stick. The CD wasn’t helping either

– he didn’t recognise most of the tunes, and power ballads

coupled with big hair had never been his thing. He changed to

the radio, until the reception died as white-capped mountains

began to rise either side of the road. There was snow on the

verges, turned grey from exhaust fumes, but the day was

overcast and a couple of degrees above zero. He hadn’t

entertained the possibility that the route might become difficult

or impassable. How good were his tyres? When had he last

checked them? He glanced towards his passenger-seat supplies.

You’ll be fine, he told himself as a BMW flew past,

squeezing past the bus as an approaching lorry sounded its horn

in annoyance.

There was nowhere to park in Corstorphine, so Fox ended up

behind the McDonald’s at Drum Brae roundabout. Fringing the

car park were a few stores, with a huge Tesco beyond. He

reckoned the Gifford Inn would open at eleven, and it was now

five to. Walking back along St John’s Road, he stopped at a

guitar shop and studied the window display. Jude had always

wanted a guitar, but their father had never allowed it.

‘Soon as I move out, I’m getting one,’ she had yelled, aged

fourteen.

‘Leave the key on the table,’ Mitch had replied.

Fox himself had surprised her a decade later by buying her

one for her birthday – acoustic rather than electric, and with a

teach-yourself book and CD. The guitar had sat in a corner of

her room for a year or two, until he visited one day and noticed

it was no longer there. Nothing had ever been said.

There were no early customers at the Gifford when he

pushed open the door. It looked the sort of place that catered to

a lunchtime trade. Each table boasted a laminated menu, and the

daily specials were on a chalkboard next to the bar. Stripped

wooden floorboards, plenty of mirrors, and gleaming brass bar

taps. A man in his twenties was rearranging the bar stools.

‘I’ll be with you in a second,’ he announced.

‘No real rush – I’m not drinking anything.’

‘If you’re a rep, you need to phone the boss and book a slot.’

‘I’m a detective.’ Fox showed the man his warrant card.

‘Has something happened?’

‘Just checking a couple of things.’

‘Sure you don’t want a drink – on the house?’

‘Maybe an Appletiser then.’

‘No problem.’ The barman checked he was happy with the

stools and went around to the other side of the bar, pulling a

bottle from the chiller cabinet. ‘Ice?’

‘No thanks.’ Fox eased himself on to a stool and took out his

phone, finding the photo of Hamish Wright’s phone bill. He

reeled off the number.

‘That’s us all right,’ the barman agreed.

‘Is it a payphone?’

‘Not really.’ He indicated the landline. It was between the

gantry and the access hatch.

‘It’s for staff use only?’

The barman shrugged. ‘Sometimes a regular will need a taxi

or to place a bet. Usually they have their own phones, but if

not . . .’

‘And do they get calls too?’

‘Wives looking for their husbands, you mean?’ The barman

smiled. ‘It happens.’

‘Three weeks back, a man called Hamish Wright phoned

here. It was a Monday evening. Call lasted a couple of

minutes.’

‘I don’t know anyone called Hamish Wright.’

‘He lives in Inverness, runs a haulage company.’

‘Still doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘Who else might have been on duty that night?’

‘Sandra, maybe. Or Denise. Jeff’s on holiday and Ben was

sick around then – winter flu, also known as skiving.’

‘Could you maybe ask Sandra and Denise?’

The barman nodded.

‘As in – now,’ Fox added.

Fox sipped his drink while the barman made the calls. The

result was another shrug. ‘Sandra remembers your lot phoning

to ask. She told them it was probably a wrong number.’

‘But she doesn’t remember the call?’

‘We do get more than a few phone calls, you know. When

the bar’s busy, you’ve got a lot going on . . .’

‘Hamish Wright has never had a drink in here?’

‘What does he look like?’

Fox took a moment on his phone to find an internet photo of

Wright. It was from an Inverness newspaper and showed him in

front of one of his lorries. The barman narrowed his eyes as he

studied it.

‘I’d have to say he seems familiar,’ he admitted. ‘But that’s

probably because he looks much the same as most of the men

we get in here.’

‘Take another look,’ Fox urged. But the door was opening,

an elderly man shuffling in carrying a folded newspaper.

‘Morning, Arthur,’ the barman called out. The customer

nodded a reply. ‘Cold one again, eh?’

‘Bitter,’ the regular agreed.

The barman was placing a glass under one of the whisky

optics while the customer counted out coins on to the bar. Fox

turned to the new arrival. ‘Does the name Hamish Wright mean

anything to you?’

‘Does he have two legs?’ the old man enquired.

‘I think so – why?’

‘Because if he does, he could probably get a game for

Rangers, the way they’re playing.’

The barman gave a snort of laughter as he handed over the

drink. Fox decided he was wasting his time. He drained his

glass and headed to the Gents, passing a jukebox and a

noticeboard. There was a cutting from the
Evening News
about

money the bar had raised for charity, alongside cards from local

businesses advertising their services. On his way back from the

toilet, Fox paused again at the board and removed one of the

cards. He showed it to the barman.

‘CC Self Storage,’ he commented.

‘What of it?’

‘Named after its owner, Chick Carpenter. Know him?’

‘No.’

‘It’s in Broomhouse, not exactly on your doorstep – so why

the advert?’

The barman offered a non-committal shrug.

‘Does Wee Anthony not work there?’ the whisky drinker

called out as he seated himself at what was presumably his

customary table.

Fox stared at the barman. ‘Did Wee Anthony put this card

up?’

‘Maybe.’

‘He’s a regular, I’m guessing?’

Another shrug.

‘And do people ever phone for him?’

‘I suppose so, on rare occasions.’

‘Including three weeks ago?’

‘That’s something you’d have to ask him yourself.’

‘Then that’s what I’ll do,’ Fox said, tucking the card into his

top pocket. He dug in his trousers for change, placing a couple

of pound coins on the bar.

‘The drink was on the house,’ the barman reminded him.

‘I’m choosy about who I take freebies from,’ Fox retorted,

turning to leave.

He called Siobhan Clarke from the car park and asked her what

she thought.

‘Whose case is it, Malcolm?’ she asked.

‘Somebody gunned down Dennis Stark.’

‘And where’s the connection?’

‘Stark was looking for Hamish Wright – what if Wright or

one of his friends decided to turn the tables?’

‘Okay . . .’

‘Wright phoned the Gifford, a guy who drinks there works

for Chick Carpenter, Carpenter got a doing by Dennis Stark . . .’

‘Any number of people held a grudge against the victim. But

we’re looking for someone who tried to make it appear like part

of a pattern.’

‘To throw us off the scent, yes. Last thing they’d want is Joe

Stark coming after them.’

‘That’s a fair point.’ Clarke thought for a moment. ‘Where

are you now?’

‘Parked outside a pet shop.’

‘Thinking of taking up John’s offer of a free dog?’

‘Perish the thought.’

‘I thought you might be at the hospital.’

‘I popped in first thing. Jude told me to swap with her later

on.’

‘Any news?’

‘No change from last night.’

‘You know, nobody would blame you for taking some time

off . . .’

Fox ignored this. ‘I’m considering dropping in on CC Self

Storage – unless you think I shouldn’t.’

‘There’s not a whole lot you can be doing here,’ she

admitted. ‘Though we’re one down.’

‘Oh?’

‘Christine’s gone off to the archive on an errand for John.’

‘He’s a one-man job-creation scheme.’

‘Want to guess where he is right now?’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘Driving to Ullapool.’

‘What’s in Ullapool?’

‘Last time I went, I remember fish and chips and a ferry.’

‘And which of those is he interested in?’

‘There’s someone he needs to talk to.’

‘You sound like you don’t want to tell me much more.’

‘One day soon, maybe.’

‘But not now?’ Fox was starting the ignition. ‘Should I

report back after the storage place?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘That’s what I’ll do then.’

Thirty Two

Ullapool nestled under thick banks of bruised cloud. Rebus

drove slowly along the waterfront, then uphill from the

harbour. Soon enough he reached a sign thanking him for

having visited, so he did a U-turn. Rows of terraced houses

hid a large Tesco store from general view. A tour bus had

stopped outside a pub that seemed to be serving warming

drinks and hot takeaway food. Rebus pulled into a parking

place and got out, stretching his spine and rolling his shoulders.

He had stopped for petrol at a retail park on the outskirts of

Inverness and topped up his provisions with a microwaved

bridie and a bottle of Irn-Bru. He wished now that he had

waited and eaten in Ullapool. Instead, he lit a cigarette and

headed to the harbour. Gulls were bobbing in the water,

seemingly immune to the biting wind. Rebus buttoned his coat

and finished his cigarette before heading into a shop. Its wares

included shrimping nets and buckets and spades – despite the

season being a way off – plus newspapers and groceries. The