Even dogs in the wild (44 page)

single bed, reading a book by the light of a bedside lamp.

‘I hope you put the seat down this time,’ she admonished

him.

‘This is why I never remarried.’

She smiled tiredly. ‘Get any pictures while you were up

north?’

‘No.’

‘Some grandfather you are.’

‘Sam took one of me and Carrie – maybe she’ll email it.’

‘She will if you ask her.’

Rebus nodded. ‘What’s the book?’

‘He said, changing the subject. It’s Kate Atkinson.’

‘Any good?’

‘Someone keeps coming back from the dead.’

‘Not a bad fit for this evening, then.’

‘I suppose. You really think he’ll come?’

‘Maybe not tonight.’

‘Know the grief we’re going to get if we need to keep

requisitioning those gun-slingers?’

‘Cheery pair, though, weren’t they?’

‘Rays of sunshine.’ She smiled again.

‘I should go downstairs.’

‘I keep thinking of Little Red Riding Hood. You’re the wolf

dressed as Grandma.’

‘I don’t remember Red Riding Hood killing anyone,

though.’

‘Fair point. Stick the kettle on then, Grandma.’

Rebus headed to the kitchen, where Brillo was waiting, ever

hopeful. He gave the dog a pat and filled the kettle. He looked

at the kitchen door. It led, he knew, to a well-tended garden

with the usual area of decking. There was a security light above

the back door, but the bulb had given up and not been replaced.

That was fine by Rebus. He opened the door and breathed the

night air. He couldn’t quite smell or hear the sea, and there was

too much light pollution for any but the brightest stars to be

visible. He remembered the drive south from Tongue to

Inverness, the road winding and narrow at first, and not another

vehicle for tens of miles. The sky had been studded with stars,

and he’d seen one owl and several deer along the route, none of

which had meant very much to him – he’d still been busy with

thoughts of Carrie.

Brillo had headed into the garden to do his business, so

Rebus left the door ajar while he poured the tea. He took one

mug upstairs, and Brillo was in the kitchen on his return,

fretting over his absence.

‘Here I am,’ Rebus said, closing the back door and leaving it

unlocked. No point complicating things unnecessarily.

Fox was in his car when Clarke rang.

‘Hiya,’ he said.

‘Hope I didn’t disturb you.’

‘I’m outside the hospital,’ he lied. ‘Just about to head

home.’

‘How’s Mitch?’

‘Pretty bad. Jude phoned to tell me they were readying to

pull the plug. She was exaggerating, but not by much. They’re

talking about a “persistent vegetative state”.’

‘Bit soon for that, isn’t it? You sure you’re okay to drive

home?’

‘I’ll be fine. Are you at the flat?’

‘I’m in the lavender-scented spare room of a Mr and Mrs

Dalrymple.’

‘Do Mr and Mrs Dalrymple know?’

Clarke explained the situation to him. ‘John’s downstairs

filling the condemned man’s shoes, and we’ve a couple of

sharpshooters outside.’

‘John’s a civilian.’

‘Try telling him that. He convinced James Page that this was

the only game plan worth the name . . . Hang on, I’ve got a text

I need to check . . . Shit, got to go.’

The phone went dead in Fox’s hand. He placed it on the

passenger seat and popped a fresh piece of gum into his mouth.

He was parked on the road leading into the high-rise estate,

halfway between Anthony Wright’s home and the lock-up.

There was no sign of life and the temperature was dropping. He

was glad Siobhan hadn’t dug too deep – this was his case and

no one else’s. Not just because of Compston, Bell and Hastie,

but for his father, too, who had always thought him better suited

to an office than the street. Yet here he was, watching and

waiting.

‘My score,’ he said quietly to himself.

And a few scores to settle as well.

Rebus took the call from the firearms duo.

‘Someone’s coming. Big guy, looks like he means

business.’

‘You only step in when you get the word,’ Rebus reminded

them, ending the call. The doorbell rang and he went into the

hall. Clarke was already halfway down the stairs, but he shooed

her away. Only when she had disappeared from sight did he

open the door.

‘Hell are you up to?’ he asked.

‘I decided I’ve got the right,’ Cafferty said, barging his way

in.

‘The right to screw this whole thing up?’ Rebus snarled,

slamming shut the door and pursuing Cafferty into the living

room. ‘Holroyd knows what you look like – he saw you through

your nice big bay window, remember?’

‘So?’

‘So when he sees you here . . .’

‘He’s going to think all his Christmases have come a bit late

this year.’

‘Forget about it,’ Rebus said. His phone was ringing. He

answered. ‘Very much a false alarm,’ he informed the firearms

officer.

‘What’s he doing here?’ Clarke asked, joining the party.

‘Says he has the right,’ Rebus explained.

‘You need to leave,’ Clarke told Cafferty. ‘You are

jeopardising this inquiry.’

‘I
am
this inquiry!’ Cafferty spat. ‘
I’m
the one who’s been in jeopardy.’

‘Which is precisely why you can’t be here. Say a shot goes

off and you get hit . . .’ Clarke was shaking her head.

‘I need to see him.’

‘And so you will – at his trial. But that only happens if we

snare him, and you being here makes that impossible. You

either leave right now, or I’m pulling my team out.’

Clarke was standing only inches from him, half a foot

shorter but not about to falter. Cafferty was breathing heavily, a

man locked and loaded. But Rebus watched as he started to

calm.

‘Ballsy as ever, Siobhan. John here might not have taught

you much, but he taught you that.’

‘Leave now,’ she reiterated. Cafferty held up his hands in a

show of surrender. ‘I’ve two detectives outside who’ll make

sure you don’t just lurk in the vicinity. They’ll want to see you

get into a car or a cab. Is that understood?’

Still holding up his hands, Cafferty started retreating out of

the room. Clarke got on her phone and explained things to

Esson and Ogilvie. Rebus opened the door for Cafferty.

Cafferty paused for a moment, glowering over Rebus’s

shoulder towards Clarke.

‘I’ll let you know the minute we have news,’ Rebus said.

Cafferty nodded, without looking in the least convinced.

Then he headed down the path towards the gate, where Ogilvie

and Esson were waiting. Rebus closed the door again and

walked into the living room. Clarke gave him a sharp look. He

could only shrug a response, slumping into the chair again and

waiting for Brillo to jump on to his lap.

DAY TEN

Thirty Nine

Siobhan Clarke had fallen asleep on her bed, still in her clothes.

They’d decided to quit at 6.45 a.m. She’d managed a few brief

naps in the Dalrymples’ guest bedroom, and had driven home

with a head that felt like glue had been poured into it. Now it

was just after nine and her phone was ringing. She staggered

over to the wall socket where it was charging, arriving just as

the call ended. She didn’t recognise the number. The phone was

fully charged, so she unplugged it and took it with her as she

retreated to her bed. But she was awake now and knew she

wouldn’t get back to sleep.

‘Shower,’ she muttered, rising once more to her feet.

There was a café she liked just around the corner from her

flat, and she headed out afterwards for the strongest coffee they

could muster – a flat white with three shots of espresso. She

perched on a stool by the window and watched the traffic crawl

uphill towards the Leith Street roundabout. When her phone

rang again, it was the same number. This time she answered. It

was Sanjeev Patel from Newington Spice.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting you,’ he said.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Patel?’

‘I have been giving the matter some thought, and have

spoken to my staff about the mystery, and I think I may have

made progress.’

‘Yes?’

‘One of our regular customers often takes a batch of menus

with him to distribute among his friends and acquaintances. Is it

possible these may have made their way to the person you are

looking for?’

‘I suppose so.’ Clarke stifled a yawn. ‘What can you tell me

about this customer?’

‘His name is Jordan. That’s his Christian name, I’m afraid I

don’t have a surname. I think he lives in Newington, but as he

always collects his order, I don’t have the actual address.’

‘How old would he be?’

‘Early twenties.’

‘We’re looking for someone a good bit older.’

‘I see.’ Patel paused. ‘There’s no point in sending you his

photo then?’

‘You have a photo?’

‘The restaurant’s tenth anniversary – we invited some of our

regulars to join us. I was thinking I could send it to you in a

text.’

‘Might as well, and I appreciate you going to the trouble.’

‘No trouble, Inspector. Tell me, did you gain anything from

speaking to our printer and distributor?’

‘Not a great deal, if I’m being honest.’

‘Honesty is the best policy, I’m told. So let me say

something – you sound exhausted.’

Clarke managed a smile. ‘I’ve got caffeine on an intravenous

drip.’

‘Caffeine is a false god – fresh air and exercise, trust me.’

‘I’ll bear those in mind. Meantime, do send me that picture.’

‘As soon as we finish speaking. I look forward to seeing you

at Newington Spice soon – and Mr Rebus too.’

Clarke ended the call and drained her cup. She was heading

to the counter for a refill when her phone alerted her to a

message. It was the photo, showing a group of half a dozen men

gathered around a table groaning with food. All looked like

staff with one exception. Yes, Jordan was in his early to mid

twenties. Close-cropped hair and small, deep-set eyes, his bare

arms tattooed with what looked like Celtic symbols. Clarke

used thumb and forefinger to zoom in on him. She knew him

from somewhere. Then she remembered – he worked at the

mortuary. She closed the photo and found Deborah Quant in her

contacts list, tapping her number and holding the phone to her

ear.

‘I never did thank you,’ Quant answered.

‘For what?’

‘Phoning me at that dinner so I could make my excuses.’

‘Time to repay the favour then – you’ve got a mortuary

attendant, first name Jordan. In his twenties, tattoos on his

arms . . .’

‘Jordan Foyle, yes.’

‘Worked there long?’

‘Almost a year. He was in the army before that – found it

hard to adjust to Civvy Street, I think.’

‘Will he be at work today?’

‘No reason to think he won’t – is he in trouble?’

‘Probably not. I just need a word with him.’

‘Well I’m headed there right now. I’ll be on cadaver duty

until two. After that I’m teaching a path class.’

‘I’ll pop in and say hello then.’

‘You might have to wave from the viewing room – today’s a

busy one.’

‘Fair enough. Catch you later.’

Clarke ended the call and tapped the phone against her teeth.

She had decided against a second coffee – she was starting to

jangle as it was. Walking back to her flat, she considered

contacting Rebus – he might fancy the detour. Then again, the

poor sod had been stuck in Argyle Crescent all night. He would

almost certainly be asleep. Besides, Jordan Foyle wasn’t

Holroyd, not unless he had a portrait in his attic. Ex-army –

she’d heard that it could be difficult for squaddies. They

returned home from places like Afghanistan and never quite

adjusted. Plenty passed through the police cells and prison

service. She hoped Jordan Foyle was one of the luckier ones.

Five minutes later, she found herself passing the café, this

time as part of the stream of slow-moving traffic. She had her

window down a couple of inches, as per Sanjeev Patel’s advice

about fresh air – not that the rush-hour air was especially fresh.

Once past the roundabout, she headed for North Bridge,

signalling right on to Blair Street and down the slope to

Cowgate, where the mortuary sat. It was an anonymous grey

box with a few similarly anonymous black vans outside its

loading bay doors. Clarke made sure she wasn’t blocking any of

them as she parked. The public entrance was around the other

side of the building, but she opened the staff door and walked

down the short corridor – the same one where she’d

encountered Jordan Foyle – climbing the stairs from the storage

area to the autopsy suite. The viewing room was separated from

the autopsy room by a glass partition. There was a row of

chairs, and she took one of these, waving to Quant, who waved

back and indicated to her fellow pathologist that they had a

guest.

Clarke tried not to look at the body on the metal trolley, or at

the various basins filled with viscera and organs, or at the

drainage channels down which liquids ran. There was a