Even dogs in the wild (45 page)

loudspeaker in the ceiling, allowing her to hear what was being

said. The atmosphere was calm and professional, Quant

recording her findings as the examination continued. The

attendant on duty, dressed in scrubs and short green rubber

boots, face masked, was not Jordan Foyle. He was a good

decade older and had been with the mortuary as long as Clarke

could remember. But then the door swung open and Foyle

himself entered, carrying a tray of implements and a stack of

disposable containers. He laid these out, his back to Clarke.

When he turned again, he asked Quant if there was anything

else she needed.

‘That’s fine, Jordan. But DI Clarke would like a word.’

She gestured towards the viewing room, and Foyle’s eyes

met Clarke’s. He nodded slowly and made to leave. Clarke

headed out to meet him. He was walking down the corridor

away from her, pulling off his protective gloves.

‘Jordan?’ she called.

Rather than stop, he broke into a run. Clarke took a second

to realise what was happening, then set off after him. He was

down the stairs by now, and she lost sight of him. As she

emerged into the car park, he was rounding a corner of the

building, shrugging off his scrubs. He began to run up High

School Wynd, while Clarke faltered. On foot or in her car?

‘Shit,’ she said, making up her mind. She set off in pursuit

but he was already at the top of the hill and heading for the

Infirmary Lane steps. Clarke took out her phone and got

through to the area control room, identifying herself and asking

for assistance.

The steps almost defeated her and she ended up using the

handrail as she heaved her way to the top, where she had a

decision to make: left or right along Drummond Street?

Towards the Pleasance or Nicolson Street? No sign of Foyle

and no one she could ask for guidance. She swore under her

breath and placed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart

pounding. Her phone was ringing – a patrol car was two

minutes away, its occupants wanting to know who they were

looking for. Clarke started to give them a description, focusing

on the tattoos and the rubber boots. Then she headed back down

the steps, retracing her route to the mortuary. Quant was still in

the autopsy suite. Clarke thumped on the glass and gestured that

she needed a word. Quant met her in the corridor as Clarke was

wiping sweat from her face.

‘Foyle did a runner,’ she explained between breaths.

‘Really?’ Quant still wore her face mask and was holding

her viscera-stained gloved hands out in front of her, unwilling

to touch anything.

‘I need his address.’

‘He lives with his parents,’ Quant said. ‘His mother, I should

say. His father passed away a month or two back.’

‘The address,’ Clarke repeated.

‘It’ll be with his personnel file. You’ll need to phone the

admin office.’

‘Do you know their number?’ Clarke had her phone out. She

tapped it in as Quant recited it.

‘You might want to sit down and catch your breath,’ Quant

cautioned. But Clarke was already walking away, waiting for

someone to pick up at the other end.

By the time she reached her car, she had the address: Upper

Gray Street in Newington. She called the officers in the patrol

car.

‘We’re still on the lookout,’ one of them said. Clarke gave

them the address and said she would meet them there. Once on

the road, she phoned Rebus. He sounded rightly groggy.

‘I might have something,’ she told him, explaining about

Foyle.

‘Can’t be Holroyd.’

‘I know that.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘Foyle’s father died a couple of months back. Interesting

timing, don’t you think?’

‘I’ve had barely three hours’ sleep – thinking isn’t top of my

list of priorities.’

‘He did a runner, John.’

‘Could be any number of reasons for that. Bit of dope in his

pocket, parking fines he’s been ignoring . . .’

‘Can you meet me at his house anyway? I’m nearly there.’

She gave him the address. ‘It’s hardly any distance from yours.’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘You think that’s where he’ll be headed?’

‘It’s the direction he was going. And he’s on foot. Have to

admit, for someone in galoshes, he had a turn of speed.’

‘If you’ve ever tried running from enemy gunfire in army-

issue boots, I’d think a pair of green wellies would feel like kit

from the Olympics.’

‘I bow to your superior knowledge.’

‘If it
is
him, you’re going to have to be careful.’

‘I know.’ Clarke signalled off Newington Road into

Salisbury Place and took a left into Upper Gray Street. She

could see two uniformed officers standing in the middle of the

road ahead of her. One was busy making a call, while the other

looked ready to explode. They moved out of the way as Clarke

squealed to a stop. She wound down her window, her phone

held in her free hand.

‘Bugger’s got a gun,’ the ruddy-faced officer said.

‘You let him take your car?’

‘He was running out of the house as we got here. Changed

his shoes and with a backpack over one shoulder. Then the gun

came out, could have been fake but impossible to tell.’

‘You hearing this?’ Clarke said into her phone.

‘I’m on my way,’ Rebus replied.

Denise Foyle sat at the kitchen table with a mug of sweetened

tea. There was a laptop on the table, with a printer on the floor

beneath. She made a bit of money as an eBay trader, as she had

explained to Siobhan Clarke.

‘But I just don’t understand,’ she was repeating for the sixth

or seventh time. ‘I can’t get my head round what you’re telling

me.’

She was in her late forties, with dyed ash-blonde hair. She

wore jewellery round her neck and on her wrists, plus a pair of

large earrings that resembled peacock feathers. Though she

worked from home, her make-up was immaculate, as were her

painted and manicured nails.

Clarke was perched on the edge of a chair opposite while

Rebus stood with his back to the sink. He hadn’t shaved and

was in the same clothes as the previous day.

‘Where did he get a gun?’ Denise Foyle was asking.

‘We have a theory,’ Clarke told her. ‘But right now, our

main concern is to bring Jordan in safely.’

‘Safely?’

‘He’s carrying a firearm, Mrs Foyle. And he brandished it at

two unarmed officers. That means we have to take this very

seriously. Our own armed response team has been put on alert.’

She paused meaningfully. ‘We don’t want anything to happen

to him, so it would be helpful if you could answer a few

questions. Do you have any idea where he might go?’

‘He has friends.’

‘Details would be good.’

‘I’ve probably got a few phone numbers.’

Clarke nodded her satisfaction. ‘Also, a recent photo of

Jordan. We’ve got one, but it’s not the greatest quality.’

‘There’ll be some on here from Christmas.’ Foyle pointed to

her laptop. ‘Not that it was very festive . . .’

‘Your husband passed away?’ Rebus asked. She turned her

head towards him.

‘At the beginning of December,’ she explained. ‘We’d

driven out to Chesser Avenue. We always get a tree from the

same charity, Bethany Trust. They have a site there. Mark had

just stopped the engine when he slumped forward.’ Her eyes

were filling with tears. ‘There’d been a few warning signs –

he’d been to the doctor with chest pains, apparently. Again, I

only found out after . . .’

‘Would you have a photo somewhere?’

‘On the mantelpiece.’

‘Do you mind if I . . .?’

She shook her head and Rebus exited the kitchen, turning

right into the living room. There were half a dozen condolence

cards still displayed on the mantelpiece, along with a selection

of photos of the deceased. The most recent showed a man in his

mid forties with salt-and-pepper hair and a smile that didn’t

quite reach his eyes, not even in a much earlier photo taken on

his wedding day. Rebus focused on this picture, since it was the

one that showed Mark Foyle at his youngest. He lifted it up and

studied the face, though he was not sure what he was seeking.

He photographed it with his own camera. When he’d left

Ullapool, he had taken Dave Ritter’s mobile number with him.

Now he added the photo to a text –
Long shot, but could this be

the same kid? –
and sent it.

On a corner unit sat further framed family photos, mostly of

Jordan Foyle – at primary and secondary schools, then as a

teenage army recruit. He had his arms folded and was grinning

fit to burst. A later snap had been taken by one of his comrades

and showed him in the desert somewhere, his convoy having

come to a halt, a fellow soldier holding him in a playful

headlock. Rebus wandered back through to the kitchen. Denise

Foyle was blowing her nose into a square of kitchen towel,

Clarke handing her another so she could dab her eyes.

‘Jordan and his dad had a difficult relationship,’ Clarke

explained to Rebus. ‘Mark wasn’t exactly touchy-feely modern

father material.’

‘How did you meet your husband, Mrs Foyle?’ Rebus asked.

‘At a nightclub, like you do.’

‘Here in Edinburgh?’

She shook her head. ‘Glasgow – he was living there at the

time.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Car mechanic.’

‘But he was from Edinburgh?’

She shook her head. ‘He grew up in Glasgow.’

‘So he had family there?’

‘I got the feeling there’d been a falling-out. He never spoke

about them.’

‘Never?’

She shook her head again. ‘Not one of them came to the

wedding.’

‘You never met them?’

‘His parents were already dead, I think.’

‘He had school friends though?’

‘Not by the time I met him.’ She paused. ‘What are you

getting at? What does this have to do with Jordan?’

‘Why did you move through here?’

‘I lived here. Worked as a secretary. Mark wasn’t keen, but I

talked him round.’ She broke off again. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t

have. I don’t think he ever really settled.’

‘Would you mind if I took a look at Jordan’s room?’ Rebus

asked.

She shook her head slowly as she dabbed at her eyes.

Rebus headed upstairs. Jordan Foyle’s bedroom bore a

poster of a supermodel from yesteryear on its door. Inside, the

bed was messy, clothes spewing from a chest of drawers and a

narrow wardrobe. Photos from his army days stuck to the walls,

plus more pictures of large-breasted women. There probably

should have been a laptop of some kind, but it was missing. In

amongst the clothes spilling from the wardrobe, Rebus spotted a

rectangle of muslin, stained with oil. And beneath the bed, a

small pile of menus from Newington Spice. Back downstairs,

Denise Foyle was telling Clarke why her son had left the army.

‘Afghanistan destroyed him. I’ll probably never know what

he saw there, but he came back looking like a ghost. Used to

wake up screaming in the night, or I’d hear him sobbing in the

bathroom at three in the morning. I don’t know if they offered

him counselling, but he certainly never got any, and if I tried

suggesting it, he would jump down my throat. But he looked

like he was coming out the other side. He’d got himself a job,

and even an on-off girlfriend—’

‘We’ll need her number too,’ Clarke interrupted.

‘But then when Mark died . . . I mean, they’d never been

close. Quite the opposite. But something happened. Don’t ask

me what.’

The front doorbell sounded. Rebus went to answer, and

found the two officers from the patrol car standing there.

‘He dumped it,’ one of them stated.

‘Where?’

‘Cameron Toll car park. Took the bloody keys with him,

though.’

‘It’s going to be fun writing up your report, isn’t it?’ Rebus

allowed a smile to flit across his face. ‘We’ll have a recent

photo of him in a few minutes. Need to get it distributed along

with his description. You better get busy with that, since you

two are the only ones who know how he’s dressed.’

‘Shouldn’t we be getting checked over?’ the other uniform

enquired.

Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘For what?’

‘Post-traumatic stress – we had a gun pulled on us.’

‘By a lad who served at least one tour of duty in a war zone,’

Rebus retorted. ‘Anyone should be getting looked at, it’s him.’

And he slammed the door shut on the pair of them.

Forty

‘You look like hell,’ Jude said when Fox found her sucking on

a cigarette in the hospital grounds.

‘Well, if we’re being frank with one another . . .’

She looked down at her unwashed clothes. ‘Okay, it was a

low blow. I’m sorry.’ She tried not to shiver.

‘Want my coat?’ Fox was already shrugging out of it.

‘Very noble of you.’ She allowed him to place it over her

shoulders.

‘Just don’t get ash on it.’

This almost merited a smile, until she remembered why they

were there. ‘So do we sign the death warrant or not?’

‘It’s a Do Not Resuscitate agreement . . .’