Even dogs in the wild

  Rebus’s eyes swept the room – so many books, magazines and newspapers, so much investigation . . . ‘Did you print anything?’

  ‘A satirical magazine ran a couple of pieces, no names mentioned. It would be different these days. Someone on the internet would publish, and damn the lawsuits. Besides, every

  kid has a phone – there’d be texts and photos. Back then, secrets could always be kept.’

  ‘David Minton,’ Rebus said suddenly, awaiting Stout’s reaction.

  ‘Lord Minton, recently deceased? What of him?’

  ‘One of his closest friends was Howard Champ.’

  Stout gave the thinnest of smiles. ‘You’re handing me names,’ he said.

  ‘And wanting to know what you make of them.’

  ‘Add in the lottery millionaire and I’m seeing two men who died after being attacked in their homes, and one who succumbed to natural causes. Are you saying our lottery winner and his lordship were killed by the same person? And the link is Acorn House? So maybe one of the victims, now grown-up and seething . . .’ Stout rasped his hands down his face. ‘Well, well, well.’

  ‘None of this is for general consumption,’ Rebus warned.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive an old hack’s instincts – I can’t help myself.’

  ‘Is there anything at all you can give me? I’m struggling here.’

  Stout studied his visitor closely, and Rebus remembered what it was like to be questioned by the man – the forensic level of inquisition, each error or inconsistency dissected. ‘I know you don’t like me, Rebus,’ he was saying now. ‘The feeling is entirely mutual, I assure you. But it always did rankle that certain men could get away with . . . well, with anything. All down to status. All down to pecking order and privilege.’

  ‘I’m not looking to cover anything up, Albert. Quite the opposite.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Stout sighed. ‘The person you want is Patrick Spiers.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘He was freelance – bloody-minded, but bloody good.

  Couldn’t bring himself to work for any one organisation, liked his freedom too much. What he relished was a nice knotty investigation that would lend itself to a long-form essay – five or ten thousand words. But then the Fourth Estate started giving less space to those and more to bingo cards and celebrity gossip. Poor Patrick faded.’

  ‘He did a story on Acorn House?’

  ‘Yes – not that I ever saw it. He wouldn’t have shown it to a rival newshound before it was published.’

  ‘And it was never published?’

  Stout shook his head.

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  Stout smiled ruefully. ‘Do you have a ouija board, John? I was at his funeral not three weeks back . . .’

  ‘The good news is, we’re getting our desks back,’ Doug Maxtone was telling Fox. Fox was climbing the stairs at Fettes, phone at his ear while he wrestled with a cardboard cup of scalding tea and a cling-film-wrapped tuna sandwich.

  ‘They’re shipping out?’

  ‘Seems Joe Stark and his men are heading back to Glasgow – all apart from a couple.’

  ‘Do you think we’ve seen the last of them?’

  ‘Maybe they’re satisfied Hamish Wright isn’t in the city.’

  Fox cursed silently as a splash of liquid landed on his lapel.

  ‘Do we know who’s staying put?’

  ‘Compston gave me the names – Callum Andrews and Jackie Dyson. Said we should keep half an eye on them, just in case.’

  ‘But not a full-blown surveillance?’

  ‘On what grounds? Thing is, it makes war on the streets less likely.’

  ‘Unless Joe Stark’s just gone home to regroup.’

  ‘Well anyway, when James Page gets fed up of you, your chair’s waiting here.’

  ‘Thanks for letting me know.’

  Fox had reached the incident room. Esson and Ogilvie were at their desks. He nodded a greeting as he put his phone away, then started dabbing at his lapel with a handkerchief.

  ‘Accident?’ Esson asked.

  ‘I was never much good at juggling. You keeping busy?’

  ‘Couple of names Rebus wanted me to check. Can’t say I’m making much headway.’

  ‘Seen Siobhan?’

  ‘In a meeting with the boss.’

  ‘Any idea what it’s about?’

  Esson shook her head. Fox’s phone was ringing again. He saw that it was his father’s care home, so headed into the corridor for some privacy.

  ‘Malcolm Fox,’ he said, answering.

  ‘It’s about your father, Mr Fox.’ The tone told him almost everything he needed to know.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He’s been taken to the Infirmary.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He just . . . he’s fading, Mr Fox.’

  ‘Fading?’ But Fox knew what she meant – the body shutting down bit by bit, preparing for finality. He ended the call and walked back into the office. Esson saw the look on his face. He lifted the tea from his desk and placed it on hers.

  ‘I have to go out. Be a shame to waste it,’ he explained.

  ‘You okay, Malcolm?’

  He nodded uncertainly and turned to leave. Then he noticed he had picked up the tuna sandwich. He sat it next to the tea and got going.

  He had to drive all the way through town, which gave him plenty of time to think. Problem was, he felt numb, his thought processes fuzzy and incoherent, like the hum of conversation in a busy café, none of it quite intelligible. He switched the radio to Classic FM and let the music wash over him, oblivious to anything other than the need to maintain a safe distance from the vehicle in front. A different person – Rebus, or maybe even Siobhan – would have put the foot down, overtaking recklessly, impelled to make haste, but that wasn’t him. He considered calling Jude but thought it could wait. He had scant news, after all, and she would only panic.

  The Infirmary was a grey new-build on the south-eastern outskirts of the city. He found a parking space and walked in through the main doors. The woman at the help desk directed him to another woman at a different desk, who sent him to A&E. He remembered waking up there after Jackie Dyson had knocked him unconscious. Dyson was one of the two soldiers staying put. That was curious. If Dyson’s job was to stay close to the action, surely that action had now moved to Glasgow.

  Away from the gang, how could he gather intelligence? Then again, maybe he was under orders from Joe Stark, and to argue would be to invite suspicion.

  As Fox waited at the reception desk, a passing nurse smiled a greeting, then stopped and retraced her steps.

  ‘You were here the other day,’ she stated.

  ‘And you were the first thing I saw when I woke up,’ he acknowledged.

  ‘Feeling the after-effects?’ she enquired. ‘Of the injuries, I mean.’

  ‘That’s not why I’m here. I got a call from my dad’s nursing home. He’s been brought in.’

  ‘What’s the name?’

  ‘Mitchell Fox – Mitchell or Mitch.’

  She went around the desk and checked the computer screen, then announced the number of the ward.

  Fox nodded his thanks. ‘Does it say what’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Looks like he had a seizure of some kind.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound good.’

  ‘They’ll know more upstairs,’ she said. This time her smile was that of the health professional – textbook evasive.

  He returned to the main concourse and took the lift, following the signs along the corridor and pushing open the doors to the high-dependency unit. He explained who he was and why he was there, and was taken to a bed where his father lay, his face the same cement-grey colour as the building’s exterior, monitors connected to him and an oxygen mask strapped across his mouth and nose. His clothes had been removed and replaced with a pale green gown. Fox looked to left and right, but there didn’t seem to be any doctors around.

  ‘Someo
ne will be along to talk to you soon,’ the nurse said, checking the monitors before moving to the next patient.

  A name tag had been attached to Mitch Fox’s left wrist, and there was a sensor clamped to the tip of a finger. A chart at the foot of the bed told Fox nothing. He sought in vain for a vacant chair. Eventually a visitor at one of the other beds got up to leave and Fox took his chance. Seated next to the machines, registering their rhythmic beeps and subtly changing displays, he rested a hand on his father’s uncovered forearm.

  And waited.

  Twenty Eight

  Rebus ran into Siobhan Clarke as she emerged from the loo nearest the incident room. She was puffing out her cheeks and expelling air.

  ‘As bad as that?’ Rebus said.

  ‘Investigation’s stalled,’ she explained. ‘We’re waiting for something to happen. And meantime the Fiscal’s office wants a separate team attached to the Stark shooting.’

  Rebus nodded slowly, wondering how much, if anything, he could tell her. Then he thought of something. ‘Did you ever take a closer look at Michael Tolland?’

  ‘It’s ongoing.’ She stared at him. ‘Why?’

  ‘I just get the feeling there’s something there. Definitely no note hidden away somewhere in his house?’

  ‘Linlithgow picked the place apart.’ Her eyes were still locked on his. ‘Is there something you should be telling me?’

  He shook his head and followed her into the office. Ronnie Ogilvie and Christine Esson looked to be sharing a sandwich.

  Clarke headed to her own desk to check her messages, while Rebus stood in front of Esson’s.

  ‘I’ve got nothing on those two names,’ she warned him.

  ‘I’ve found Paul Jeffries,’ he told her quietly, checking that Clarke was out of earshot. Esson glowered at him.

  ‘When were you going to tell me?’

  ‘I’m telling you now, so you can focus on Dave Ritter. He might be living in Ullapool. Do a check, maybe get in touch with the force up there – could be a bothy with only PC

  Murdoch minding the desk, but make sure they know it’s urgent.’ He saw the look she was still giving him. ‘Okay, Christine, I’m sorry you’re only hearing this now. My mind’s been elsewhere.’ He saw the tea on the corner of her desk. ‘This going spare?’

  ‘It’s cold.’

  ‘I’ll settle for that.’ Rebus took a mouthful.

  ‘Malcolm put it there.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He got a phone call and left in a hurry.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Maybe three quarters of a tuna sandwich back.’

  Rebus frowned in thought, then retreated to the corridor to make the call.

  ‘Yes, John?’ Fox said, answering. He kept his voice low, uncertain about the protocol regarding mobile phones. Time was, there were signs everywhere warning that they could interfere with the machines, so he kept his eye on the readouts, without noting any sudden peaks or troughs.

  ‘Where are you, Malcolm?’

  ‘The Infirmary – my dad’s taken a turn for the worse.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that. Is he going to be okay?’

  ‘I’ve not spoken to anyone yet.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

  ‘Aye. Maybe.’ Fox cleared his throat. ‘Listen, Joe Stark has left town. Taking all but two of the gang with him.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Might put your chum Cafferty’s mind at rest – plus Darryl Christie.’

  ‘It might,’ Rebus seemed to agree. ‘Speaking of Cafferty, which care home was your dad in again? Wasn’t Meadowlea?’

  ‘Isn’t that more of a medical place? Like a hospice?’ Fox saw a white coat approaching. The doctor looked only just out of her teens, but she lifted the clipboard with confidence and studied it with deep concentration. ‘Got to go,’ Fox told Rebus.

  ‘Call me if you need anything.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Fox put the phone away and rose to his feet. ‘I’m his son,’ he told the doctor. She had finished reading the notes and acknowledged him with a nod, squeezing past to check the readouts, the drip, the oxygen. ‘Is there anything you can tell me?’

  ‘We’ll be running tests later today.’

  ‘I was told he’d had a seizure – could it be a stroke? He doesn’t look like he’s coming round any time soon.’

  ‘Sometimes the body shuts down so it can repair itself.’

  ‘But what about the other times?’

  The doctor glanced at her patient’s face. ‘We’ll know more in a short while. Your father’s a good age, Mr Fox . . .’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘You said it yourself – brain and body can just decide it’s time.’

  And there was that smile again, the same one the nurse in A&E had offered. He watched the doctor as she moved to the next bed. A bit of him wanted to confront her, drag her back to this bed. But to what end? Instead he sat back down, feeling a weight pressing upon him. It was time to phone Jude. It was time to start preparing.

  Patrick Spiers didn’t own a detached house in Gullane. The address Stout had given Rebus led to a 1960s high-rise in Wester Hailes. It was one of those times he was thankful his car didn’t look worth stealing. On the other hand, the jazz musician Tommy Smith had grown up in this environment, so anything was possible. Maybe the kids scowling from their BMXs would grow up to be artists and musicians. Or hospital consultants. Or care workers. When Rebus gave one group an encouraging smile, however, he received only unblinking scowls in reply.

  The lift was working, so Rebus took it to the sixth floor, trying not to think about what might be in the polythene carrier bag that sat in one corner, its handles tied together to create a seal.

  He didn’t know what he was expecting on the sixth floor of the tower block. Stout had mentioned a grown-up daughter, but he hadn’t thought she lived with her father. There had never been a wife, just a string of ‘significant others’. The old journalist had confirmed that Spiers had succumbed to cirrhosis of the liver – ‘and probably a host of other ailments besides’.

  Rebus stood on the walkway. It was only partially glassed in, the glass itself scored with graffiti. But he had a view south

  to where snow lay on the Pentlands, just beyond the bypass.

  The street lights were already on, though the sun was just barely below the horizon. Long shadows at ground level.

  Rebus tried thinking how many hours of daylight there had been – not quite eight, maybe seven and a half. At this time of year, kids went to school in the dark and came home at twilight. He’d often wondered if crime rose in the winter – darkness changed people’s mood; darkness changed everything.

  And under cover of darkness, anything might happen undetected.

  He found himself standing outside flat 6/6. The window was curtained but there was a light on beyond the frosted-glass panel in the front door. Neighbours had added iron gates to theirs, creating a better barrier against incursion. Either Patrick Spiers had had more faith in his fellow humans, or there was nothing inside worth stealing.

  The doorbell worked, so Rebus waited. A woman’s voice called out from within.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I’m with the police,’ Rebus called back. ‘Any chance of a word?’

  He heard a chain being attached to the door before it was pulled open an inch.

  ‘ID?’ the young woman said. He could see only half her face.

  ‘Afraid not,’ he apologised. ‘But I can give you a number to call.’

  ‘And how will I know I’m talking to the police and not just some crony of yours?’

  ‘You sound like your father’s daughter all right.’ Rebus gave a friendly smile. ‘I don’t suppose he was the trusting type either.’

  ‘And with good reason.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘What kind of cop doesn’t carry ID?’

  ‘The kind who retired recently but is working in a civilian capacity.’


  ‘For the police?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Rebus made show of blowing on his hands and rubbing them together, but he hadn’t quite gained her trust yet.

  ‘How did you get this address?’

  ‘Albert Stout.’

  ‘That old sleazebag.’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘He used to follow my dad around – did you know that? Just in case there was a story he could steal from him.’

  ‘You’re not endearing him to me.’

  ‘But he’s a friend of yours?’

  ‘Not at all. I went to ask him a few questions as part of an inquiry I’m involved in, and he—’ Rebus broke off. ‘It really is perishing out here.’

  ‘You know we just buried my dad?’

  ‘Yes, I was sorry to hear it.’

  ‘Sorry why? Did you know him?’

  ‘I was just hoping he could help me.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re sorry?’ She watched Rebus nod.

  ‘Well that’s honest, I suppose.’ A few seconds later, having made her mind up, she unhooked the chain and let him in.

  Rebus stood in the living room doorway, surveying the carnage.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’

  Floor-to-ceiling box files, bulging manuscripts tied with string, and three old-fashioned manual typewriters placed around a drop-leaf table, each with a sheet of paper inserted, half a page typed. There was a venerable-looking computer too, complete with a slot for the floppy disks that sat stacked next to it. A TV set in one corner – not the latest model, but at least it wasn’t black and white. The posters pinned to the walls were mostly obscured by boxes, but Rebus could make out Muhammad Ali, Bob Dylan and John Lennon.

  ‘Your dad was old school,’ Rebus commented.

  ‘Even when it came to porn.’ Spiers’s daughter lifted a magazine and waved it in front of Rebus – a bare-breasted blonde with unfeasibly white teeth.

  ‘Couple more years, you could put that on Antiques Roadshow.’

  She looked at him and burst out laughing, covering her eyes with her free hand. She was close to tears, he could tell.

  ‘Where do I even begin?’ she said, dropping the porn mag to the floor.

  Rebus was studying the writing on the spines of some of the box files. They seemed to be in chronological sequence.