Even dogs in the wild

  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 . . .’

  ‘I know what it is, Malcolm! But this is our dad we’re talking about – the only one we get. And if we put our names on that form, we lose him.’

  ‘You don’t think he’s already lost?’

  ‘Miracles can happen.’

  ‘I’ve not seen too many recently.’

  ‘I spent half the night on the internet reading up on them.

  Patients waking from a coma after years, suddenly ravenous and asking what’s for breakfast. It happens, Malcolm.’ She drew on the cigarette again.

  ‘They’ve run every test, Jude.’

  ‘Not every test – I looked that up too. All I’m saying is . . .’

  She started coughing, head bowed. The coughing stopped, but her shoulders still shuddered, and Fox realised she was sobbing. He grabbed her in an embrace. Her scalp was oily, her hair needing a wash, but he planted a kiss on the crown of her head.

  ‘We’ll go in when you’re ready,’ he said. ‘And not before.’

  ‘We’ll be out here till we freeze then.’

  But he knew she didn’t mean it.

  It was a manhunt now. Photos of Jordan Foyle had been distributed to the media, who were clamouring for more information. All they’d been told was that he was armed and potentially dangerous. The story of the hijacked patrol car had got out, however, and the Chief Constable had been on the phone demanding answers. James Page wanted answers too, and didn’t seem even half satisfied at the end of the briefing by Clarke and Rebus.

  ‘You think Mark Foyle was Bryan Holroyd, is that what I’m hearing? But you’ve no actual evidence?’

  ‘It makes sense,’ Rebus argued. ‘Father dies, son decides to avenge him for the hurt he endured.’

  ‘The son who never had the closest relationship with his father? Did the family even know about the abuse Bryan Holroyd suffered?’

  Clarke and Rebus shared a look.

  ‘Wife seems in the dark,’ Clarke eventually conceded.

  ‘But you’re saying somehow the son knew?’

  ‘The restaurant menus, the muslin from Minton’s desk drawer. This is our guy,’ Rebus stressed.

  ‘My point is, there could be a dozen other reasons why he’s set out on this particular path.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Page sat in thoughtful silence, sizing up Rebus and Clarke. ‘I had to tell the Chief about your involvement, John. Needless to say, that’s a rocket waiting for me when the dust settles.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  Page sighed. ‘One thing’s clear – Portobello is a bust.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Page gave Rebus a hard look. ‘He’s on the run, John. What would a good soldier do?’

  ‘Abort the mission,’ Rebus admitted.

  ‘Plus, those two firearms officers have already been redeployed. Everyone’s on their toes – checking trains, buses, routes out of the city. Even the airport. Does he have money?’

  ‘Debit and credit cards,’ Clarke said. ‘We’re asking his bank to alert us to any new transactions. Same goes for his mobile phone provider. His mum thinks his passport is gone, along with a laptop and maybe some clothes.’

  ‘Are we interviewing her formally?’

  ‘She’s in an interview room at St Leonard’s. Jordan’s girlfriend is being fetched there too. I’ve put Esson and Ogilvie on it. They’ll also check social media sites, see if he’s talking to anyone.’

  ‘Are Christine and Ronnie compos mentis?’

  ‘We’re all tired, sir,’ Clarke said with a smile.

  ‘You should get some rest then. We’ve got half the force out looking for the target. Not much else to be done until he’s brought in.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Clarke said, turning to go. But Rebus was standing his ground.

  ‘About tonight . . .’

  ‘I said no, John. Can I make myself any clearer?’ Page peered up at him.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Rebus said, making
to follow Clarke. Page probably thought he was stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket to show how fed up he felt. But he was actually checking.

  Yes, he still had the keys to Argyle Crescent . . .

  Anthony Wright had his key out and was about to put it in the lock when he saw that his front door had actually been forced open and then pulled closed again.

  ‘Bollocks,’ he said. A breakin was all he needed after the past week or two. He pushed at the door and listened to the silence. He had a decision to make – stomp upstairs in the hope of scaring anyone who might be there, or move on tiptoe so as to surprise them? Having opted for the latter, he took the steps quietly, eyes alert in case a figure should suddenly loom in front of him. He paused in the narrow upstairs hall and listened again. What would they have taken? His laptop and CD player for definite. He didn’t have insurance, but someone at the Gifford would sort him out with replacements. Then he remembered the keys to his motorbikes, kept in a drawer in the kitchen, along with others for the garage’s various locks. When he thought of what else was in the garage, his stomach flipped.

  He placed his crash helmet on the floor and padded towards the open door of his living room.

  Where a man and a woman waited.

  The man sat in the only armchair, legs spread, a pistol of some kind resting against his crotch. The woman stood to one side of the doorway, and hauled him into the centre of the room.

  ‘You’ll be Anthony then?’ the man said.

  ‘I know you.’ Wright’s eyes narrowed as he tried to remember.

  ‘Let me give you a clue.’ The man jabbed his head forward, miming a butt.

  ‘Dennis Stark – you were with him that day. Nearly broke my boss’s nose.’

  The man nodded. ‘Might have saved us all a lot of grief if I’d known then who you are.’

  ‘Who am I?’

  ‘You’re Hamish Wright’s nephew. I just looked at the photos from your dad’s funeral – it was all over the papers – and there was Uncle Hamish. Explains why he told me the stuff was in the self-storage. I ninety per cent believed him, and it turns out he was telling about ninety per cent of the truth – isn’t that right?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m talking about these.’ The man dug in his pocket, producing key after key, tossing them on to the carpet at Wright’s feet. ‘Four motorbikes, Anthony. Plus the one you rocked up here on. Keys to padlocks, too. So now I need to know where you keep the bikes.’ He paused. ‘Your uncle wasn’t easy to break, but I broke him. And then he snuffed it.

  Sometimes pain can do that. The body just decides it’s had

  enough. I can do the same to you, Anthony. Or we can make it nice and straightforward.’

  ‘I’m honestly telling you—’

  Before he’d ended the sentence, they were on him. Packing tape binding his legs at the ankles, and his hands behind his back. The man held him down, a knee on his throat, almost crushing his windpipe, and a hand clamped over his mouth, removed only to be replaced by more of the silver tape, which was wound around his head a couple of times.

  They stood over him when they were finished, while he wriggled on the floor. The man aimed a kick at his midriff, causing him to groan, eyes screwed shut in pain. The woman had yet to speak. She left the room and returned with items from his kitchen drawers – knives, scissors, kebab skewers.

  ‘Nice,’ the man said, appraising the haul as she laid them out on the floor. He lifted her face towards his and kissed her on the lips. Wright wanted to tell them they were crazy, but all he could do was moan behind the gag. And now the man was crouching in front of him, and the barrel of the gun was pressing into his forehead, so that he felt compelled to screw his eyes shut again.

  ‘I killed Dennis, you know,’ the man drawled. ‘It wasn’t just that I hated his guts. I had to focus everyone’s minds elsewhere.

  Plus he was talking about paying your place of work another visit, and since that was where I’d been told the stuff was stashed . . .’ He paused and scratched one cheek thoughtfully.

  ‘But now Joe’s back in Glasgow, meaning I can get my hands on it without anyone knowing.’ He glanced around and snatched up the padlock keys in his free hand. ‘A garage would be the obvious answer. Nod if I’m warm.’

  Wright shook his head and felt a fresh blast of pain as the barrel of the pistol connected with his left temple, slicing it open. With the keys clamped between his teeth, the man picked up one of the knives and pushed it with slow deliberation three quarters of an inch into his victim’s shoulder. Behind the gag, Anthony Wright tried to scream.

  Forty One

  Malcolm Fox was back at the same spot, on the road leading to the lock-ups. Jude had sent him half a dozen texts telling him how callous he was. They’d been at Mitch’s bedside when he’d told her he had to go out for a while.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A few hours.’

  ‘A few hours? ’ Because they’d been told by the consultant that their father might only have a few hours.

  A few hours.

  A few days.

  Maybe a week.

  This before they’d signed the forms, Jude sobbing all the while. The consultant had asked her if she wanted a sedative, but she’d shaken her head. Her texts were now arriving like blows every twenty minutes or so. Fox sat with his hands resting on the steering wheel, Classic FM at just audible volume on the stereo. A kid on a BMX had ridden past four times, eyeing him inquisitively without stopping. George Jones – the man with the Capri – had worked on it again, reversing it back inside and locking the garage door only quarter of an hour back, after which, rubbing oil from his hands with a rag, he had headed on foot towards one of the tower blocks. Fox popped a

  mint into his mouth and sucked on it, hoping it might clear his head. He dropped the packet on the floor and was reaching down to retrieve it when a car passed him. He watched as it crawled towards the lock-ups, coming to a stop between the two rows. Both front doors opened. Female driver, male passenger.

  In the gathering gloom, he couldn’t make out their faces. The man walked down one line of garages and up the other, not pausing until he finally reached the one owned by Anthony Wright.

  ‘Well now,’ Fox murmured. He got out of his own car, closing its door quietly, and made his approach on foot, trying to look like a worker slouching homewards. He could hear a metal door shuddering open. Both figures had moved out of his sight line, so he speeded up. When he was close enough to make out the car’s number plate, he decided to commit it to memory, but quickly realised he already knew it.

  One of the cars from Operation Junior.

  He cursed beneath his breath and steadied his pace. A light had gone on inside the lock-up. As Fox approached, he could see that the motorbikes were draped with polythene dust sheets.

  The two figures, however, were standing by the rear wall, intent on the contents of what looked like a packing crate. Even from behind, he recognised Beth Hastie. When the man half turned, he saw it was Jackie Dyson. Dyson planted a kiss on Hastie’s cheek, stopping Fox in his tracks. Too late, though – Dyson had spotted him out of the corner of his eye. He spun around, pointing the pistol at Fox’s chest.

  ‘Don’t be shy then,’ he said. ‘In you come.’

  ‘Fuck’s he doing here?’ Beth Hastie spat.

  ‘It all makes sense,’ Fox said, holding up his hands as he took a few steps forward.

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Hastie covered for you while you followed Dennis that night to the alley. How long have you two been an item?’

  ‘What are we going to do with him?’ Hastie was asking Dyson.

  ‘I’ll need to think. Meantime, fetch the roll of tape from the car.’

  Hastie did as she was told, giving Fox a cold stare as she passed him.

  ‘So it’s true what they say,’ Fox commented to Dyson.

  ‘Undercover cops do get turned. I fail to see how you’re
going to get away with it, though.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘I’m hardly the brightest, and I worked it out.’

  ‘Seems to me you worked out hee fucking haw until we were standing right in front of you.’ Hastie had returned with the tape. ‘Hands behind your back,’ Dyson ordered. Fox did as he was told, his eyes on the man as he spoke.

  ‘That note you left next to Dennis was hardly proof of smart thinking – it didn’t have us fooled more than half a day.’

  ‘Muddied the water, though, didn’t it? Less chance of Joe cottoning on. Just like torching that pub, giving Darryl Christie something to chew over so he didn’t get too interested in Wright’s stash.’ Dyson examined Hastie’s handiwork. ‘Do his ankles next,’ he commanded her.

  ‘How long have you had the gun?’ Fox was asking.

  Dyson gave a cold smile. ‘Insurance in case the Starks ever rumbled me. When Compston told me there was another nine mil doing the rounds, well, it seemed like kismet.’

  Fox felt the tape being wrapped around the hems of his trousers. He tried flexing his wrists, but she’d done a good job, leaving almost no play at all.

  ‘Now take the covering off one of those bikes,’ Dyson was saying. ‘We’re going to wrap you up nice and neat like a mummy, Fox.’

  The bike, when revealed, was a gleaming red model, streamlined and built for speed. Dyson muttered his appreciation while the sheet was laid out on the ground. Hastie gave Fox a shove and he could do nothing other than topple on to it. She crouched and wound the tape around his mouth. Then, with her lover’s help, she started covering Fox in his makeshift shroud. As more tape was applied, he realised he would suffocate unless they left a gap somewhere.

  And a gap didn’t seem to be part of their plan.

  He began to strain against his bonds, his cries for help muffled. Dyson was grinning as he finished the job. The covering was translucent, and Fox watched as the pair clambered to their feet again. They got to work emptying the crate of its contents, transferring everything to the back of their vehicle. Fox was trying not to panic, trying to keep his breathing shallow. There was a bit of give at his wrists, but not as yet enough. He was working his lips and jaw too, trying to break the seal on the tape, rubbing his face against the thin plastic sheeting but failing to find an edge that might help shift the gag.