Even dogs in the wild (6 page)

continued. ‘I’ve spent half the night turning it over, and I’m not

coming up with more than two or three names.’

‘Ah, now you’ve got me interested. What names?’

‘Billy Jones.

‘Living in Florida, as far as I know.’

‘Eck Hendry.’

‘Went to stay with his daughter in Australia. I think he

suffered a stroke a couple of months back.’

‘Darryl Christie.’

Cafferty’s lips formed an O. ‘Ah, young Darryl.’

‘Your protégé back in the day.’

‘Never that. Darryl’s always been his own man. Doing well

too, I hear. Business expanding, never a blemish on his

character.’ His eyes met Rebus’s. ‘Almost as if he had the law

on his side.’

‘Maybe he’s just always been that bit cannier than you.’

‘That must be it,’ Cafferty pretended to agree. ‘But I doubt

he sees me as any sort of threat to his various interests, not

these days.’

‘You don’t sound a hundred per cent sure,’ Fox couldn’t

help interrupting.

‘We live in uncertain times. Not six months ago, we thought

we were soon going to be an independent country.’

‘We still might be.’

‘And wouldn’t that be a grand scheme?’ Cafferty smiled

behind his glass and tipped it to his mouth.

‘Thing you need to know about Big Ger,’ Rebus began for

Fox’s benefit, ‘is that if he seems to be offering you something,

there’s a game being played. He doesn’t rule out Darryl

Christie, maybe in the hope we’ll go looking at Darryl and turn

up something – something advantageous to Big Ger himself.’

Cafferty winked at Fox. ‘It’s like he knows me better than I

know myself – saves me a fortune in therapy.’ Then, turning his

attention back to Rebus: ‘But you’ve got me intrigued – why
is

Joe Stark here?’

‘Whatever it is, he’s obviously not sharing it with you.’

‘That son of his will be in charge of things soon. Maybe

Joe’s introducing him to society.’

‘It’s a theory,’ Rebus acknowledged.

‘Everything is, until there’s proof. Will you go ask Darryl?’

Rebus met Cafferty’s stare. ‘You forgetting I’m retired?’

‘What do you think, DI Fox? Does Rebus here act like

someone on the scrapheap? He
will
talk to Darryl, you know.

Him and Darryl are old pals – didn’t you do one another a

favour not so long back?’

‘Don’t believe all the stories,’ Rebus advised. He got to his

feet, pulling his coat around him.

‘Not finishing your drink?’ Cafferty gestured towards the

half-f pint. ‘I suppose there’s a first time for everything.’

Then, stretching out his hand again, ‘Nice to see you, DI Fox.

Say hello to the fragrant Siobhan for me. And be sure to tell her

you’re hanging on to Rebus’s coat-tails. She might well have

some sage advice on the subject.’ He gave a little chuckle,

which only intensified when Fox snubbed the handshake and

instead began following Rebus towards the exit.

Six

Clarke pinched the bridge of her nose, screwing her eyes shut.

For almost three hours she had been reading about David

Minton – his upbringing, education, career in the law, failed

attempt to become a Conservative MP, and eventual peerage.

As Lord Advocate, he had been able to speak in the Scottish

Parliament, though the current administration had changed the

role so that Lords Advocate no longer attended cabinet

meetings. Minton’s closest colleague had been the Crown

Agent, Kathryn Young. Young was putting pressure on Page

and his team, phoning four times and turning up unannounced

twice. Same went for the Solicitor General, who at least had

one of her flunkeys act as inquisitor – easier to dismiss than the

actual Crown Agent.

Clarke had thought she knew a bit about the legal profession

– in her line of work, she spent a good deal of time with

lawyers from the Procurator Fiscal’s department. But this was

above her pay-scale and she was having trouble clarifying the

role of the Lord Advocate. He was
of
the government but not
in
the government. He was in charge of the prosecution service,

but his role as chief legal adviser to the government of the day

made for complications in the form of potential conflicts of

interest. Post-devolution, the position of Lord Advocate no

longer came with the sinecure of a life peerage, but Minton’s

appointment had pre-dated the opening of the Scottish

Parliament. He was unusual in one respect, having decided

against becoming a judge after his role as Lord Advocate

ended, something he shared with only one other colleague, Lord

Fraser of Carmyllie.

And hang on, what did the Solicitor General do again?

Then there was the Advocate General for Scotland, who

advised the UK government on matters of Scots law. He was

based in London but had an office in Edinburgh – and there had

been phone calls from both to add to the mix. The procurator

fiscal (actually a fiscal depute) attached to the Minton case was

called Shona MacBryer. Clarke had worked with her before and

liked her a lot. She was sharp, thorough, but relaxed enough so

you could joke with her. She’d been in to see Page several

times, but Clarke hadn’t as yet slumped to her knees and

begged for a two-line explanation of the Scottish legal

hierarchy. No detective wanted a lawyer to think they were

more stupid than most lawyers already considered them to be.

With nothing better to do, Clarke wandered along to the

cafeteria – one thing about Fettes, it at least had a cafeteria –

and settled at a table with a mug of tea and a Twix. She was

remembering that Malcolm Fox had been based here throughout

his time in Professional Standards. She wasn’t sure he had

found his feet yet in CID. He was a nice guy, maybe too nice.

Visited his dad in the nursing home most weekends, and

phoned his sister from time to time in failed attempts to mend

fences. Clarke liked hanging out with him – it wasn’t that she

thought him a charity case. She’d told him as much a few

weeks back. His response – ‘Absolutely, and don’t think I see

you as one either’ – had caused her to bristle, saying nothing for

the rest of the DVD they’d been watching. Later that night she

had stared at her reflection in her bathroom mirror.

‘Cheeky sod,’ she’d said out loud. ‘I’m a
catch
.’

And she’d punched her pillows a few times for good

measure before settling down to sleep.

‘Mind if I join you?’

She looked up to see James Page standing there, coffee mug

in hand.

‘Of course not,’ she said.

‘You looked like you were thinking great things.’

‘Always.’

He took a slurp from his mug. ‘Are we making headway?’

he asked.

‘We’re doing what we can. Every housebreaker in the city is

under orders – if they give us a name, they’ll have a friend

when they next need one.’

‘So far to no effect.’

‘X snitches on Y, Y on Z, and Z on X.’

‘In other words, you’re not hopeful.’

‘Hopeful, no; curious, yes.’

‘Go on.’ Another slurp of coffee. The few dates they’d gone

on – some time back – he had done the same thing, whether the

drink was hot, tepid or cold. She’d asked him to stop, but he

had seemed incapable, and couldn’t see the problem.

‘First you have to put that mug down until I’ve left the

table.’

He tried staring her out, then complied.

‘To begin with,’ Clarke went on, ‘we shied away from

Minton’s private life. Break-in gone wrong, we thought. But the

note changes that. The deceased did something to annoy

someone.’

‘Probably in his professional rather than private life,’ Page

cautioned.

‘Which is why you’ve got Esson and Ogilvie digging back

through several years’ worth of cases and judgments. Thing is,

it would have to have been a really big case, right? For

someone to decide that the perceived injustice merited a death

threat. And also, wouldn’t it need to be something recent, or

else why are they suddenly so riled?’

‘Maybe they just got out of jail.’

‘And again, you’ve got someone checking the files. But we

may be looking at this whole thing the wrong way. From what

I’ve discovered about Lord Minton, he’s almost
too
perfect.

Everyone’s got secrets.’

‘We’ve examined his house, been through the contents of his

personal and work computers. No weird or accusatory emails.

His office say they’ve received no letters out of the ordinary.

I’ve asked – even if the mail was marked Private or Personal,

they were instructed by Lord Minton to open it. No phone calls

– we’ve checked his home number and mobile. There’s nothing

there
, Siobhan.’

‘What are we talking about then? A case of mistaken

identity? Note sent to the wrong person, window of the wrong

house’s laundry room broken?’ She couldn’t help thinking

about the previous night at Cafferty’s. ‘He hung on to the note,

James. More than that, he kept it close to him. To my mind, he

knew it meant something.’

‘Why didn’t he tell anyone, then?’

‘I don’t know.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Maybe we

need to talk to his friends again, starting with the closest.’

‘That would be Kathryn Young, wouldn’t it?’

‘From what I hear.’

Page sat in silence for a moment. ‘I’m still not convinced,

Siobhan. The attacker broke in – it’s not as if Minton opened

the door to someone he knew.’

‘Front door’s dangerous, though – whole streetful of

potential witnesses.’

‘But to clamber over walls, sneak through back gardens . . .’

‘I doubt we’re looking for someone of the victim’s

generation, though you never can tell.’

Page gave a loud sigh. ‘Can I drink my coffee now?’

Clarke smiled, rising from her seat. ‘I’ll see you upstairs,’

she said.

There was a Starbuck’s on Canongate, and Kathryn Young had

agreed to meet them there. She had a forty-minute window

between meetings at the Scottish Parliament, so she placed her

order with Clarke by text. The tables were small and fairly

public, but Page had done his best. They were in an alcove near

the back of the room, and he reckoned the regular noises of

milk being frothed and beans ground would mask their

conversation from the other customers.

Young carried with her a heavy-looking satchel. It made one

of Scotland’s most senior lawyers resemble a teacher

encumbered by a week’s unmarked homework. She was well-

dressed, but the wind howling down towards the Parliament had

messed up her shoulder-length brown hair and put a glow in her

cheeks.

‘Small latte,’ Clarke said, pushing the mug towards her.

Young nodded her thanks and removed her coat and scarf.

‘Any news?’ she said.

‘There’s something we’d like to share with you,’ Page said

quietly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands

pressed together as if in prayer. ‘We’ve been debating motive.’

‘I thought it was a straightforward housebreaking.’

‘So did we, until we found this.’ He gestured towards

Clarke, who handed over a photocopy of the note. Young’s

brow furrowed as she read.

‘Someone sent it to Lord Minton,’ Clarke explained, ‘and

Lord Minton kept it in his wallet. To my mind, that means he

didn’t just dismiss it as some kind of prank. We’re wondering

who his enemies might have been.’

‘I’m at a loss.’ Young handed the note back. ‘You’ve not

made this public?’

‘We didn’t see how it could help – not just yet,’ Page

explained.

‘You knew the man as well as anybody,’ Clarke said making

eye contact and noting that Young’s eyes were the same shade

of brown as her hair. ‘So we’re wondering if you can shed any

light. Did he ever mention anything about threats, or someone

who had a grudge against him, real or perceived?’

The Crown Agent was shaking her head. ‘We weren’t close

in that way. I’d known David maybe twelve or thirteen years.

But his real friends – the ones he spoke about – they’re mostly

dead, I think. Other lawyers, at least one MP, businessmen . . .’

She was shaking her head again. ‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t

think of anyone who’d want to harm him.’

‘Maybe a case he’d prosecuted?’ Clarke persisted.

‘He was always very guarded. I mean, he would talk in

general terms, or discuss matters of procedure, diligence,

precedence. He had memorised famous trials of the past . . .’

‘And you hadn’t noticed a change in him recently? More

guarded, maybe? On edge?’

Young concentrated on her coffee while she pondered this.

‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘Nothing. Mrs Marischal would know

before I did, though – she spent more time sharing a cuppa with

him than dusting anything. Or else whoever works in his office

these days – have you asked them?’

‘We have, though we might try again.’

‘You can’t be sure the person who sent that note is the same

one who broke in,’ Young stated.

‘We’re aware of that.’

‘You should make it public – the note, I mean. Someone out