Even dogs in the wild (39 page)

Rebus drove into the compound. A Portakabin seemed to be all

the office Hamish Wright needed. The door was closed but its

windows were lit. When the door opened, another driver

emerged, folding a set of documents and making for his cab. He

nodded a greeting at Rebus as Rebus tapped on the Portakabin

door.

‘What now?’ a female voice barked from within. Rebus

opened the door and walked in. The woman behind the desk

was in her mid fifties and stubbing her latest cigarette into a

brimming ashtray. There were half a dozen empty coffee

takeaways in the bin next to her, and she was busy with a laptop

and a stack of paperwork.

‘Mrs Wright?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Who are you?’

‘My name’s Rebus. I’m with Police Scotland.’

The blood drained from her face. ‘Yes?’ she said, in a voice

suddenly just above a whisper.

‘Just wondered if your husband had returned from his

business trip.’

Her face relaxed a little and she pretended to be interested in

the top sheet of paper.

‘Not yet,’ she said.

‘No phone calls? No contact of any kind? Surely you must

have an inkling of his movements?’

‘What is it you want?’ She peered at him above her horn-

rimmed glasses.

‘You look as though you’re struggling,’ Rebus commented.

‘What business is that of yours?’

Rebus offered a shrug. ‘Have you tried asking your nephew?

Maybe he has some ideas.’

‘Nephew?’

‘In Edinburgh.’ He’d been hoping for a reaction, but he was

disappointed. She waved a finger to interrupt him as she took a

phone call.

‘Just left the yard,’ she informed the caller, checking the

clock on the wall. ‘By seven tomorrow, yes.’ She saw that

Rebus wasn’t about to make a move. ‘Hang on a sec, will you?’

she told the caller. Then, to Rebus: ‘Was there anything else?’

Rebus gave another shrug. ‘Nothing illegal in the lorries

tonight, I hope. Not that I suppose you’ll be doing much

business with Joe Stark after the stunt your husband pulled . . .’

She gave him a look that would have felled lesser mortals,

and turned her back on him as she picked up where she’d left

off with the caller.

‘Sorry, Timothy,’ she cooed. ‘Thought all the arseholes had

clocked off for the night, but there’s always one more . . .’

Rebus took in the interior – desk, filing cabinets, wall

planners. Having gleaned precisely nothing, he made his exit,

leaving the door nicely ajar so the night air and diesel could

waft in. The HGV driver was giving his vehicle a final check.

Rebus crossed the tarmac towards him.

‘Long trip?’ he asked.

‘Aberdeen, Dundee, Newcastle.’

‘Could be worse, eh?’

‘I suppose.’

Rebus gestured towards the office. ‘How’s she really

coping with Hamish gone? I mean, I know she puts on a brave

face . . .’

The driver puffed out his cheeks. ‘She’s pedalling pretty

hard.’

‘You think she’s up to it?’

‘Time will tell.’

‘And Hamish? Reckon we’ll see him again?’

‘Are you kidding me?’ He straightened up, facing Rebus.

Then he drew a finger across his throat.

‘Really?’ Rebus’s eyes widened in what he hoped looked

like astonishment. ‘The Starks did him in?’

‘I heard he was driven away from here in a car. Two of them

in the front, Hamish and another in the back. Last anyone saw

of the poor sod.’

‘Does
she
know?’ Rebus was gesturing towards the

Portakabin again.

‘Everybody knows,’ the driver stated. ‘But nobody’s

saying.’

‘You heard what happened to Dennis Stark?’

‘Universe has a way of balancing things out.’ The driver was

hauling himself up into his cab. ‘Don’t suppose you need a lift

to Aberdeen?’

‘Not right now.’

‘Pity – a bit of company passes the time.’

The man closed the door, revving the engine and making a

few more checks. As the lorry began trundling out of the yard,

Rebus headed for his car. Wright’s wife was watching from the

open doorway. He stopped and began walking in her direction,

but she disappeared inside, slamming shut the door.

Chick Carpenter’s home was a modern two-storey detached

near the zoo. Other times Darryl Christie had visited, he’d been

able to hear and even smell the place – screeches and howls and

dung. He remembered being taken on childhood trips, trekking

up the steep slope and then back down again, or staring at glass

tanks in the reptile house, or waiting with an ice-cream cone for

the penguin parade to start. They had a pair of pandas these

days, though he hadn’t been to see them. More pandas than

Tory MPs, that was the joke made in many a pub. Carpenter

and his wife had turned up as pandas at the Halloween party

Christie had thrown at the hotel.

Chrissie was waiting behind the door, opening it as soon as

he pressed the bell. She wrapped him in an embrace, pecking

both cheeks.

‘You’ll catch your death,’ she scolded him, eyeing the black

V-neck T-shirt beneath his suit. ‘In you come, quick. Chick’s in

the den.’

‘When are you going to cut your losses and run away with

me?’ he teased her.

‘I’m old enough to be your mum.’

‘You’re in your prime, Chrissie – even when dressed as a

panda.’

She slapped his shoulder playfully and led him to the den. It

was off the huge living room, a snug space with dark red walls

and oak flooring. Chick Carpenter was stretched out on the

sofa, reading a golf magazine.

‘Come in, Darryl, come in,’ he said. ‘Get the man a drink,

Chrissie.’

‘Just water, thanks.’

‘You sure?’

‘I’m driving.’

‘Not quite yet above the law, eh?’ Carpenter’s smile became

a wince as he swivelled into a seated position. The black eyes

were still swollen.

‘Hear you ended up with a cracked rib.’

‘I’m basically wearing a corset under this shirt. Nearly had

my nose broken too.’

‘Sorry I’ve not visited sooner . . .’

Carpenter waved the apology aside. ‘You’ve got a business

to run.’

‘All the same.’ Darryl accepted the glass of water Chrissie

was holding out to him. When she left, she slid shut the doors.

‘Did they target you to get at me, do you think?’

‘As a message, you mean?’ Carpenter shook his head.

‘They’re looking for stuff Hamish Wright took from them.

They’d been to another two storage places in the city. I’d had

fair warning they might be paying a visit.’

‘Nobody else ended up in A and E, though.’

‘My own fault for getting mouthy. You know what I’m like.

We’d had a day of problems with our computers and I was up

for a shouting match.’

‘Dennis didn’t mention me at all?’

Carpenter shook his head. ‘Hamish Wright is all they were

interested in.’ He broke off, smiling to himself.

‘What’s the joke?’

‘Not a joke really. It’s just that Wright’s nephew works for

me.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Name’s Anthony Wright – he doesn’t know I know.’

‘How
do
you know?’

‘Wright’s haulage firm is based in Inverness. Anthony’s

often mentioned biking there of a weekend – said he had family

up that way.’

‘You put two and two together?’ Christie nodded

thoughtfully. ‘The Starks don’t know this, though?’

‘No.’ With effort, Carpenter lifted a glass from the floor.

Gin and tonic by the look of it. He sipped, his eyes on his

visitor.

‘I’m guessing,’ Christie eventually said, ‘that you’d wonder

if Anthony’s uncle had recently rented one of your units.’

‘You’d be right. But his name’s not in the records.’

‘Clever money would be on an alias.’

‘Which is why I made sure I was thorough. Every unit is

kosher – for once.’

‘Do you think Anthony might know his uncle’s

whereabouts?’

‘He’s a good lad,’ Carpenter cautioned. ‘I wouldn’t like to

see him hurt.’

‘Perish the thought.’ Christie drained the glass of tap water

and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, his eyes fixed on

Carpenter throughout. ‘Here’s what you’re going to do for me,

Chick. You’re going to keep a close watch on Anthony. He

drops any hints – you let me know. He suddenly needs to go off

somewhere – you let me know. Is that understood?’

‘Loud and clear, Darryl.’ Though he had only recently put

his own glass down, Carpenter’s mouth sounded parched.

Christie nodded his satisfaction and rose to his feet.

‘Can I just ask one thing?’ Carpenter said, getting up with

some effort. ‘Who
did
kill Dennis Stark? Do you know?’

Christie handed the man his empty glass. ‘Anyone touches

me or my friends, there’s a price to be paid,’ he said.

As he pulled the sliding doors open and walked back

through the living room, where Chrissie sat watching TV with

the sound kept low, Christie knew he was taking a gamble.

His parting shot would play well with Carpenter and others

like him, but on the other hand, if his words got back to Joe

Stark . . .

‘Night, Chrissie,’ he called.

‘Look after yourself, pet.’

‘I always do.’

Thirty Five

Siobhan Clarke checked her watch again: almost half past ten.

‘He’s not coming,’ Fox told her.

‘I know.’ She tore off a shred of leftover naan and began

chewing it. She and Fox were the last customers left in

Newington Spice. ‘You heading back to the hospital?’

‘I might.’

‘Want some company?’

‘You should really get some sleep.’

‘Said the pot to the kettle.’

‘Another tough day?’

‘Page is getting flak for the inquiry stalling. He’s been

growing grumpier by the hour. I had to tell him, it’s been over a

week now and none of us has managed a day off. Everybody’s

exhausted.’ She paused. ‘Plus I gave a bollocking of my own.’

‘Who to?’

‘Charlie Sykes.’

‘For being a waste of space?’

‘For maybe telling tales to Darryl Christie. Charlie wasn’t

best pleased.’

‘I’ll bet.’

‘I threatened to take it further unless he owned up. Told him

that if I did that, he could kiss his precious pension goodbye.’

‘And?’

‘He’s Christie’s man.’

‘Want me to have a word with Complaints?’

Clarke shook her head. ‘It stays with us, as long as he tells

Christie it’s finished between them.’

A waiter was hovering. ‘Gentleman, madam – was

everything satisfactory?’

‘Delicious,’ Fox said.

‘Desserts? Coffee?’

‘Maybe a coffee – how about you, Siobhan?’

She nodded and started to get up. ‘Back in a sec,’ she said to

Fox, as the waiter pointed her towards the toilets.

While she was washing her hands, she saw that a display of

takeaway menus had been positioned on the window ledge next

to the sink.

Pays to advertise, she said to herself, remembering that

David Minton, over on the other side of town, had been the

recipient of a menu from Newington Spice. As she walked past

the bar, she stopped and said as much to the waiter.

‘Do you really get people trekking across town?’ she asked.

‘We like to think we are worth a detour,’ the waiter said

with a smile. ‘But I doubt we’d pay for someone to flyer quite

that far away. Perhaps the menu was taken home after a meal.’

‘Looked like it had been pushed through the door.’

The waiter just shrugged, smile still in place. By the time

Clarke reached the table, Fox could see that something had

changed.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Probably nothing.’

‘Try me.’

‘There was a menu from here in Minton’s hallway. Waiter

says they only flyer locally.’

‘So?’

‘Like I say, it’s probably nothing.’ But she had taken her

phone out and was standing up again. ‘I just need to make a

call . . .’

She stepped outside, away from the piped music and the

hissing of the espresso machine. Jim Grant’s number was in her

list of contacts. When he picked up, she apologised for calling

so late.

‘I’m in the pub if you fancy joining me.’

‘Another time maybe. Do you remember us talking in

Michael Tolland’s kitchen?’

‘How could I forget?’

‘You said something about him eating out a lot, and using

takeaways . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘And also something about him being rich enough to be able

to order from far afield?’

‘Okay.’ His tone told Clarke he was wondering where she

was going with this.

‘How did you know that? Was it because of the menus in the

kitchen drawer?’

‘Must have been, I suppose.’

‘You don’t remember?’

‘I don’t, to be honest.’

‘Do you think you could go back to his house for me and

check?’

‘In the morning, you mean?’

‘Right now would be better.’

‘I’m probably in no fit state to drive.’

‘But you can get someone to take you?’

‘Can I assume you’re not offering?’

She ignored this. ‘I’m interested in a restaurant called

Newington Spice on the south side of Edinburgh. Just ping me a

text when you’ve checked.’