Even dogs in the wild (41 page)

‘Good as ever. But here’s the thing – one of their takeaway

menus was in Minton’s downstairs hall.’

‘And?’

‘They say they don’t flyer that far from the restaurant. So

it’s a bit odd, wouldn’t you say, that there was also one in

Michael Tolland’s kitchen?’

‘In Linlithgow?’ Rebus had been wrestling a cigarette out of

the packet, but her words stopped him.

‘I had local CID go check,’ she was saying.

‘So what’s your thinking?’

‘If you were scoping a street out, or a particular house, and

you didn’t want to look suspicious . . .’

‘Nobody pays much attention to someone sticking leaflets

through doors.’ Rebus put the cigarette packet back in his

pocket. ‘You might well be on to something.’

‘I’m heading to Newington Spice to ask the boss a few

questions. But in the meantime . . .’

‘You’re wondering if Cafferty got one too? Easy enough to

check – he’s right here with me.’

‘Great.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Malcolm’s dad’s unchanged.’

‘And Malcolm himself?’

‘Isn’t saying much of anything.’

‘Oh?’

‘I get the feeling he’s working on his own theories. I might

have to remind him he’s supposed to be a team player.’

‘Do I detect a hint of jealousy?’

‘Your phone must be on the blink. Talk to you later.’

She ended the call. Rebus considered contacting Fox, but

what would he say? So he headed back into the café instead.

Cafferty had nearly finished the coffee. A couple of female

students, one carrying a tray, had paused in front of the table

and were sizing up the empty chairs. Cafferty’s glare was

deflecting them so far, and when Rebus squeezed past, they

shuffled off in search of easier prey.

‘Well?’ Cafferty enquired.

‘Takeaway menus,’ Rebus said. ‘You get them through the

door, right?’

‘Pain in the arse they are too.’

‘Ever had any from Newington Spice?’

‘How the hell should I know?’

‘Could we go take a look?’

‘Why?’

‘Siobhan Clarke has a theory she wants to test to

destruction.’

‘A theory about Indian restaurants?’

‘And the man who took that shot at you.’

Cafferty considered for a moment, then started getting to his

feet. ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘I was enjoying repelling all boarders.’

The two students were retracing their steps, trying not to

look too obvious, as Cafferty and Rebus made their exit.

‘So what does it mean?’ Cafferty asked.

They were in Rebus’s Saab, heading from Merchiston to

Portobello through sluggish mid-morning traffic. Cafferty was

studying the menu from Newington Spice. It had taken them

only a couple of minutes sifting through the recycling bin to

uncover it.

‘When did it arrive?’ Rebus asked.

‘You’re joking, aren’t you – how am I supposed to know

that?’

‘Don’t suppose it matters. Siobhan’s thinking is that the

gunman does a recce of each property before making his move.’

‘So we’re looking for a white male in his forties who doles

out leaflets for a living?’

‘See? Already we’re hacking away at the undergrowth.’

Cafferty managed a grim smile. ‘Are we headed to

Dalrymple’s house?’

‘This time of day, we might have more luck at the beach.’

‘You want witnesses around to stop me decking him?’

‘I hadn’t considered it.’ The smile this time came from

Rebus.

‘I’m glad actually – relieved is maybe the word.’

‘That Bryan Holroyd lived?’

‘Aye.’

‘You think his “death” put the fear of God into Howard

Champ and the others?’

‘Maybe. It certainly had a knock-on effect. From the

moment it happened, Acorn House’s days were numbered.’

‘There were a lot of Acorn Houses out there though –

London, Northern Ireland, all over . . .’

‘You’ve been doing your reading?’

‘Patrick Spiers had a few things to say on the subject.’

Rebus glanced at his passenger. ‘Any idea who might have

turned his place over and lifted his files?’

‘Wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘So your best guess would be . . .?’

‘Special Branch,’ Cafferty stated. ‘An MP, a senior lawyer

and the police chief? No way they’d want any of that coming to

light.’

Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘And after all these years,

think they’ll still have an interest?’

‘Those files will have been shredded – where’s the

evidence?’

‘Bryan Holroyd is evidence.’

‘Only if people stop to listen.’

‘After everything that’s crawled from the woodwork these

past few years, I think they might.’

‘Then it’ll be court appearances for the likes of me and Dave

Ritter, eh?’

‘I’d say your own role was minimal.’

‘I doubt anyone else will see it that way,’ Cafferty stated

grimly, as Rebus neared the Sir Harry Lauder roundabout.

They parked on James Street and headed for the Promenade,

buttoning their coats against the fierce North Sea wind. There

were fewer walkers and dogs than before, but Rebus spotted

Todd Dalrymple by the water’s edge, putting the lead back on

John B.

‘We’ll wait here,’ he told Cafferty as they stood at the sea

wall.

‘Is that him?’ Cafferty was peering into the distance.

‘That’s him,’ Rebus confirmed with a nod.

It was a further three or four minutes before Dalrymple was

close enough to recognise Rebus. He had been happy enough

on the beach, but when he saw Cafferty, it was as though a

weight had descended.

‘Big Ger,’ he said, managing a queasy smile as he held out a

hand. But Cafferty’s own hands didn’t emerge from their

pockets, and when John B showed an interest, Cafferty pushed

him away with his foot, Dalrymple reining the dog in.

‘We need a word, Todd,’ Rebus said.

‘Here?’

‘Back at the house.’

Dalrymple’s eyes flitted between the two men. ‘Is that

strictly necessary?’

‘Scared what your wife will think?’ Cafferty sneered.

Dalrymple’s lip trembled. ‘No, I just . . . What do you

mean?’

‘It’s about Acorn House,’ Rebus stated.

‘Acorn House?’

‘We know you were there the night Bryan Holroyd was

taken away.’

‘Who?’

Cafferty lunged at the man, gripping him by both lapels.

John B started barking, backing off but baring his teeth.

‘I’ll wring that dog’s neck if it tries anything,’ Cafferty

snarled.

‘It’s all right, John B! Easy, boy!’

Cafferty’s face was no more than an inch from Dalrymple’s.

‘You’re going to tell us everything, you fat fuck.’

‘What am I supposed to have done?’

‘For starters,’ Rebus broke in, ‘you were witness to a huge

cover-up.’

‘Orchestrated by
him
,’ Dalrymple protested as Cafferty’s

grip tightened. The dog was still barking and looking primed to

pounce.

‘Abetted rather than orchestrated,’ Rebus said. ‘But here’s

the thing, Todd – you might well be next on his list.’

‘Whose list?’

‘The man who shot at me,’ Cafferty informed him.

‘And killed Lord Minton and Michael Tolland,’ Rebus

added. ‘Which is why we need to go to your house.’ He dug a

hand into Cafferty’s coat pocket and drew out the takeaway

menu. ‘To see whether you’ve had one of these.’

‘Wh-what?’ Dalrymple looked utterly lost. Cafferty released

him by giving him the slightest shove. Even so, Dalrymple

barely kept upright. His eyes were on the menu Rebus was

holding. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

‘How amused do we look right now?’ Cafferty asked back.

Having given the man a moment or two to recover, Rebus

gestured with his arm.

‘We’ll follow you,’ he said.

They walked the short distance to Argyle Crescent, John B

straining at the leash, keen to get home. Dalrymple unlocked

the door and called out the name Margaret, but there was no

response.

‘She must be out,’ he said, relief in his voice. He unhooked

the lead from John B’s collar and the dog made for its bed in a

corner of the living room, eyeing the visitors warily.

‘No flyers in the hall,’ Rebus commented.

‘We toss them straight into the recycling.’

‘Which is kept where?’

‘A box in the kitchen. I’ll fetch it through.’

Cafferty had settled on the edge of the sofa, while Rebus

stayed standing in front of the fireplace. It was a cramped room,

boasting too much furniture, from the grandfather clock in one

corner to the footstool Rebus had been forced to step over.

There were bright paintings of harbour scenes on a couple of

walls – Rebus guessed they were by John Bellany. When

Dalrymple arrived back with the recycling box, he placed it on

the footstool and began sifting. Rebus decided to help by

bending down and tipping the box up, strewing its contents

across the carpet.

‘Bingo,’ he said, after a minute or two of crouching next to

the drift of paper. He lifted up the menu from Newington Spice.

‘What does it mean, though?’ Dalrymple asked.

‘The killer poses as someone putting flyers through doors.

Gets to know the house and street, then makes his move. I don’t

suppose you can remember when this arrived?’

‘A few days back?’ Dalrymple guessed, his face turning

bloodless as Rebus’s words sank in.

‘But you’ve not had a note?’ Cafferty demanded.

‘A note? Like the one they showed in the papers?’

Dalrymple was shaking his head.

‘He means like this,’ Rebus broke in. He was lifting the

folded piece of white notepaper. It had obviously not been

noticed and had been dumped into the recycling along with

everything else. He unfolded it and held it up.

Same message. Same hand.

‘Fuck,’ Big Ger Cafferty said.

*

The restaurant owner, Sanjeev Patel, was waiting for Siobhan

Clarke, unlocking the door from the inside. Staff were busy in

the kitchen, and Clarke could smell onions frying and a mixture

of spices. The voices were loud but good-natured. Meantime, a

waiter was laying tablecloths and cutlery in the main room.

Patel led Clarke to the bar area, where takeaway customers

could wait of an evening to collect their food. He was dressed

in a dark suit, white shirt and navy tie, and looked every inch

the businessman, but Clarke knew he had worked his way up

from a teenage kitchen porter. He was Edinburgh born and bred

and, like her, supported Hibernian FC, the walls above the bar

filled with autographed photos of players past and present.

‘We definitely don’t flyer in Linlithgow or the New Town,’

he said, after she had turned down the offer of coffee.

‘Is there a specific firm you use?’

Patel nodded. ‘Want me to fetch you their details.’

‘Please.’

He got up and went behind the counter, studying the screen

of a laptop computer that sat there. He jotted a few lines on to

one of the restaurant’s order pads and tore off the sheet,

handing it to her as he sat down again.

‘You think maybe a member of their workforce . . .?’

‘This has got to stay confidential, Mr Patel,’ Clarke warned

him.

‘Absolutely.’

She remembered the stack of menus in the loo, and

mentioned them. Patel nodded.

‘In the Gents too,’ he said.

‘So I suppose anyone could have filled their pockets?’

Patel shrugged. ‘I’m not aware of them suddenly

disappearing.’

‘You’re probably not the one cleaning the toilets, though.’

‘That’s true – not these days. Do you want me to ask the

staff?’

Clarke nodded. ‘Plus if anyone suspicious has come in –

maybe they took some menus but didn’t stay to eat, or asked to

use the toilet even though they weren’t ordering food.’

‘Understood.’ He paused. ‘Could there be another

explanation?’

‘I’m struggling to think of one.’

‘You’ll appreciate I don’t want the restaurant’s reputation

sullied.’

‘I thought there was no such thing as bad advertising.’

‘It’s not a theory I’m keen to test,’ Patel said with a smile.

‘I’ll try to be diplomatic,’ Clarke assured him, standing up.

There was a display of menus on the table, next to a large bowl

of Bombay mix. ‘How often do you reprint, by the way?’

‘Maybe once a year – to reflect changing prices. Last time

we added online ordering – very popular with students.’

‘So these menus came into effect . . .?’

‘At the start of November.’

‘Only three months back? Well that’s something at least.’

She picked up one of the menus and studied the information on

the back.

‘Have you always used VampPrint?’

‘For the past couple of years.’

‘Got a phone number for them?’

Patel went off to the laptop again and fetched it. Clarke

thanked him and he held open the door for her. There was a

shop across the road, and she headed in for some gum and a

bottle of water.

‘Cheaper out of the tap, love,’ the woman on the till warned

her.

Clarke’s phone was ringing, so she pulled it from her bag:

John Rebus.

‘What can I do for you?’ she asked, breaking the seal on the

bottle as she exited the shop.