‘Ah, the victim . . .’ Ratner went silent again. He rose slowly to his feet and stood by the window, his hands sliding into his trouser pockets. Eventually he turned his head towards Rebus.
‘Has Cafferty worked it out then?’
‘Worked what out?’
‘We told him it was job done. What else were we going to do? We knew he’d go mental, probably bury the pair of us with his bare hands.’
Rebus sat forward a little. ‘What are you saying?’
‘The kid wasn’t dead. Everybody acted like he was and told us he was, and we took that at face value. Picked him up and he was all floppy, like a corpse would be. Stuffed him in the car and drove to Fife, got out and opened the boot . . .’
‘And?’
‘And he flew past me like a banshee! I nearly died on the spot. He was hardly dressed at all, but he was off and running.’
‘You went after him?’
‘We scoured that bloody forest until dawn, frozen to the marrow.’
‘He got away?’ Rebus’s voice was a fraction above a whisper.
‘No way he could have survived out there, all but naked and no shelter for miles. We kept an eye on the news, but there was never a report of a body being found. We reckoned he had lain down, covered himself with leaves and died like that, decomposing and gone for ever.’
‘But supposing he didn’t – he would have names, wouldn’t he? Maybe not yours, but Minton and Tolland. He was probably lying there while they talked about fetching Cafferty. Those three names.’
‘Is Champ dead too?’ Ratner asked.
Rebus nodded. ‘Natural causes, a few years back.’
‘Doesn’t make sense then – wouldn’t the main grudge be against him? And why take so long to do something about it?’
‘I don’t know.’ But Rebus knew the man had a point. ‘Nor do I know what Holroyd looked like.’
‘Skinny, pale, dark hair, young-looking face . . . Hardly likely to help you after all this time.’ Ratner paused. ‘You think it’s really him?’
‘It might be.’
‘And you’ll be telling Cafferty?’
‘I have to.’
‘You know he’ll kill me?’
‘Not if I don’t tell him where to find you.’
Ratner was staring at him. ‘You’d do that?’
‘Maybe. But I need a statement from you – I need everything you’ve just told me.’
‘A statement? So you’re a cop?’
‘I used to be.’
Ratner slumped back into his chair. ‘That kid haunted us, you know. I think he’s what did for Paul’s marbles in the end.
And look how great my life turned out . . .’
Rebus was searching his phone for the recording function.
He glanced up at Ratner for a second.
‘No less than you fucking deserve,’ he said.
Thirty Three
‘Are you Anthony?’ Fox asked. ‘Or is it Wee Anthony?’ He had parked in one of the bays in front of CC Self Storage. Chick Carpenter’s Aston Martin wasn’t there. The two-storey building’s frontage included a loading bay, protected by a roll-down grille, plus a solid wooden door with the word RECEPTION on it. The man walking towards him had emerged from this door, obviously in response to the sound of Fox’s car.
He stood just under five and a half feet high, and Fox recognised him as the colleague who had watched Carpenter take a beating at the hands of Dennis Stark and Jackie Dyson.
The man had reckoned on greeting a new customer, but now he wasn’t so sure. He looked to right and left, as if fearing Fox might have brought back-up. Fox produced his warrant card, which did little to calm the man’s nerves.
‘You’re not in trouble,’ Fox assured him. ‘Just need a quick word. How’s your boss doing, by the way?’
‘My boss?’
‘I heard he got a thumping.’
‘Did he?’
Fox smiled. ‘You heard Dennis Stark got himself killed?’
‘Who’s Dennis Stark?’
Fox made show of folding his arms. ‘This really the way you want to play it, Anthony? You are Anthony?’
Eventually the man nodded.
‘And did they manage to give you a surname at the christening, Anthony?’
‘Wright.’
Fox could feel cogs beginning to turn. ‘Well, Mr Wright,’ he said, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox.’
‘Whoever did him in, it had nothing to do with us,’ Wright blurted out, a tremor in his voice.
‘You’ll appreciate we have to ask the questions, though.
Here or in the office – your choice.’
‘Do I need a lawyer or anything?’
Fox tried for a dumbfounded look. ‘Why would you need a lawyer? This is just us having a chat.’
‘I should phone Chick . . .’
‘I’d rather you didn’t – we’ll be talking to him separately.’
‘What’s it got to do with me anyway?’
‘You were present when your employer was attacked, yes?’
‘How do you know that?’
Fox found that he was enjoying thinking on his feet. ‘Dennis Stark’s pals are obviously keen that we find his killer. They’ve been talking freely.’
‘I’ve told you it was nothing to do with us, though.’
Fox nodded. ‘You know why they were in town in the first place?’
‘Looking for someone.’
‘Do you know who?’
‘Some guy with a haulage business.’
‘His name’s Hamish Wright. Same surname as you.’
Wright licked his lips, looking again to left and right, as though seeking an escape route. Fox took a step towards him.
‘Do you drink at the Gifford Inn, Anthony?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Three weeks back, Hamish Wright called that pub. He spoke to you.’
‘Not true.’
‘Staff say differently.’ Fox took out his phone and got the shot of the haulier’s phone bill onscreen. ‘Plus there are calls here from Hamish Wright to his nephew. What would happen if I phoned that particular number?’
‘Search me.’
Fox tapped the number in and waited. The phone in Wright’s pocket had been set to silent, but both men could hear it as it vibrated.
‘Want to answer that?’ Fox said.
‘What the hell is it you want?’
Fox ended the call and slid his phone back into his pocket.
‘You’re Hamish Wright’s nephew,’ he stated. ‘Close to your uncle, are you?’
‘What of it?’
‘Why did he call you on the pub landline?’
‘Can’t always get a signal in there.’
Fox nodded. ‘Must have been important, though. This wasn’t long before he went missing.’
‘He’s not missing – he’s away on business.’
‘That’s the story your aunt gave, but we both know she’s lying.’ Fox paused. ‘I’m assuming all this would come as news to the Stark gang. But does your employer know?’
Wright shook his head.
‘Sure about that?’
‘Positive.’
‘You know it’s not just your uncle they were looking for?
He has something they think belongs to them.’
‘Oh?’
‘Are we back to playing games, Anthony? Do you know where Hamish is? Is he somewhere in the city?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘Because he’s high on our list of suspects, as you can imagine.’
‘My uncle couldn’t kill anyone.’
‘He worked for the Starks, peddled drugs and who knows what else around the country for them – he’s not exactly Mother Teresa.’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘So you wouldn’t object to me looking at your client records?’
‘Soon as you get a warrant.’
‘Mind you, nobody says it has to go through
the books, eh?’
‘Come back with a warrant and you can look all you like.’ It was Wright’s turn to fold his arms. He looked almost smug, which told Fox he was on the wrong trail.
‘What was it he needed to talk to you about, Anthony? Did he tell you he was about to make a run for it?’
‘Nothing like that – just family stuff.’
Fox was growing exasperated, his stock of ammo running low. ‘Be a shame if Joe Stark did find out who you really are . . .’ He turned and opened his car door.
‘You wouldn’t do that.’
‘Then tell me the truth, Anthony.’ Fox looked back over his shoulder and watched as Wright’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
‘He’ll come out of hiding once this has blown over.’
‘Have you talked to him? You know where he is?’
Wright shook his head. ‘But that was always the plan, once he knew they were on to him. Less his family knew, the better.’
‘You know it’s not going to blow over, right? Not until Joe Stark knows who killed his son. Your uncle is going to be living in fear until the whole gang’s put away.’
Wright nodded his understanding.
Fox made to get into the car, but then paused. ‘Your dad is Hamish’s brother? Have you talked it over with him?’
‘He passed away last year. Maybe you saw it in the paper – Dad loved his motorbikes, so we got a dozen bikers as a cortège.’
Fox gestured towards a gleaming bike parked near the loading bay. ‘Yours?’ he guessed.
‘And my dad’s before me – he left me five in his will.’
‘Lucky you,’ Fox said quietly, wondering suddenly about his own father’s will – did one even exist?
Beth Hastie watched him from her unmarked car. She had slid down low in her seat, but she doubted he would have noticed her if she’d been standing naked on the roof. Malcolm Fox was a man with things on his mind. She knew who he’d been talking to, too – the same man who had been present when Chick Carpenter had taken a beating. Why the sudden interest? After Fox had gone, the guy had approached a parked motorbike, taking out a handkerchief to polish its chrome. Hastie lifted her phone and called CC Self Storage. A woman’s voice answered.
‘Hello,’ Hastie said. ‘This is going to sound really daft, but I answered an ad from a guy selling a spare crash helmet and I’ve
gone and lost his details. All I remember is he said he worked for you. Could that be right?’
‘Must be Anthony – he’s bike-daft.’
‘Anthony, yes. And his surname’s . . .?’
‘Wright. Anthony Wright. If you hold on, I can probably fetch him—’
But Hastie had already ended the call. She narrowed her eyes and ran her bottom lip between her teeth. Then she made another call.
‘Yes?’ the voice on the other end said.
‘Can you talk?’
‘Make it quick.’
‘I’m at the self-storage place.’
‘And?’
‘I still think it needs to be done in daylight. But here’s the thing – the employee who was there that day with Carpenter?’
‘Yes?’
‘His name’s Anthony Wright.’
‘Okay.’
‘Any connection?’
‘Could you check?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Make it quick.’
The phone went dead. She stared at it, then pressed her lips to the screen before putting it away and starting the engine.
Thirty Four
Rebus had known ever since setting out from Edinburgh that he was going to continue north from Ullapool. His daughter Samantha lived in a house on the jagged north coast, on the Kyle of Tongue. He had phoned ahead and checked she would be home, though he’d been necessarily vague about his arrival time. The road from Ullapool was spectacular, though the sky started to darken long before he neared his destination. As he stopped his car outside the bungalow, she appeared in the doorway. Her daughter Carrie was almost two now. Rebus had only met her twice – once in the hospital in Inverness the day after her birth, and once in Edinburgh. She shied away from him as he tried to kiss her, and he realised he hadn’t thought to bring a gift. He embraced Samantha and she led him inside to the cosy living room with its toy-strewn floor and three-piece suite.
‘Is Keith not here?’ Rebus asked.
‘He’s got some overtime.’
‘That’s good.’ Her partner had a job as part of the team decommissioning the Dounreay nuclear reactor. ‘And has he started glowing in the dark yet?’
‘You asked me that last time – and the time before.’
He had taken the proffered seat while his daughter stayed standing. Carrie meantime was back amongst her toys, the adult world none of her concern. Samantha had streaks of silver in her hair, and she had lost weight.
‘You look good,’ he said dutifully.
‘You too,’ she felt obliged to respond. ‘I’ll just put the kettle on.’
So Rebus sat there, eyes on the child, not sure what to say or do. He was thinking of Malcolm Fox and his father, and of his own parents. There were framed photos on one wall, including one of him cradling the sleeping newborn. He felt a slight ache in his chest, which he was rubbing away with a thumb when Samantha returned.
‘So you’ve been to Ullapool,’ she said, waiting in the doorway while the kettle boiled. ‘Thought you were retired.’
‘Police Scotland have discovered the hard way that they can’t live without me.’
‘And vice versa, I dare say. How was the drive up?’
‘Fine.’
‘But you need to get back?’
He gave a shrug. ‘I’m here now, though. I really wanted to see you.’
She nodded slowly and headed to the kitchen once more, this time returning with a tray. Tea in two floral mugs, a beaker of juice for Carrie, and a plate of digestive biscuits, one of them lightly buttered. This she handed to Carrie, who began to devour it.
‘I think we used to have the same when you were young,’
Rebus said. ‘Digestives or Rich Tea, but with a smear of Lurpak as a treat.’
She handed him his tea and sat down on the chair opposite.
‘Everything okay with you?’ she asked, unable to mask the concern on her face.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You sure?’
‘I’m not here to deliver bad news.’
‘I was a bit worried that maybe . . .’
‘Nothing’s wrong, cross my heart.’
‘You’re still drinking and smoking, though.’
‘Only medicinally.’
She managed a smile and turned her attention to her daughter. ‘Go and sit beside Grandad, Carrie – let him see how you’ve grown.’
The little girl made a show of reluctance, then crawled over to Rebus’s feet and scrambled up his legs until she was in his lap.
‘Don’t squash me,’ he teased, while Samantha took a photo on her phone.
Carrie, having rewarded Rebus with a chuckle, then became engrossed in the two toys she was clutching.
And stayed there, quite happily, while father and daughter caught up.
He decided to drive back by way of Inverness. Having been out of range for a while, his phone finally pinged to let him know he had missed a couple of calls, from Siobhan Clarke and Malcolm Fox. Stopping for petrol and coffee at the same retail park on the outskirts of Inverness, he took out his phone.
‘Hey, you,’ he told Clarke. ‘What’s up?’
‘Malcolm and I were thinking of grabbing a curry – wondered if you wanted to join us.’
‘I won’t be back until late.’
‘We might still be there. We were thinking of the place you like.’
‘Newington Spice? Well I’ll try to make it, but I’m not promising.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Inverness.’
‘How was Ullapool?’
‘I have stuff to tell you.
Best said in person, though, after I’ve checked a couple of things.’
‘I’ve been thinking about Tolland’s wife – I’m pretty sure she knew. I feel sorry for her.’
‘I thought she was dead.’
‘That doesn’t seem to be stopping me.’
‘Each to their own. Any idea why Malcolm wanted to speak to me?’
‘I haven’t seen him today. He was going to take a shift at his dad’s bedside.’
‘Any change?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Okay, I’ll maybe give him a call.’
‘I’m guessing we’ll be gone from the restaurant by eleven.’
‘Tell them to keep me a doggy bag.’
‘I will.’
He called Fox’s number and waited.
‘Hiya, John,’ Fox said.
‘How’s your old man?’
‘Stable.’
‘You there with him now?’
‘I’m actually drinking hospital coffee – prior to handing the baton back to Jude.’
‘Freeing you up for curry with Siobhan?’
‘She told you?’
‘Doubt I can make it. I’m up north right now.’
‘Where?’
‘Inverness.’
‘To do with Hamish Wright?’
Rebus took a moment to connect the dots. Wright: the missing haulier, who had brought the Starks to Edinburgh. ‘Just passing through.’
‘Thing is, his nephew works at CC Self Storage.’
‘That’s the place run by Darryl Christie’s pal?’
‘Yes. The Starks gave the owner a bit of a doing, but they didn’t know his right-hand man is related to the very person they’re looking for.’
‘Sounds to me like you’ve been doing proper dogged detective work.’
‘You wouldn’t be far wrong.’
‘So what’s your next move?’
‘I might try for a search warrant, see if Hamish Wright rents one of the units.’
‘Even if he does . . .’
‘It might not be in his name, yes. Which is why we might require a sniffer dog.’
‘You’ve given it some thought.’
‘Would you play it differently?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Rebus paused. ‘Remember what we were talking about? Parents and kids . . .?’
‘Yes?’
‘I drove to Tongue to see Sammy.’
‘And it went okay?’
‘It really did.’