Even dogs in the wild

  ‘We were about to.’

  ‘And we reckoned we’d take down Stark and his son too,’

  Bell added. ‘But then Wright went AWOL.’

  ‘And Stark’s your best chance of finding him?’ Fox nodded his understanding. ‘But why’s Stark so interested?’

  ‘There’ll be reasons,’ Compston said.

  ‘To do with money?’

  ‘Money and goods, yes.’

  ‘So where are Stark and his men? Who are they talking to?’

  ‘Right now, they’re in a café in Leith. They’re staying at a bed and breakfast nearby.’

  ‘Bob Selway’s watching them?’

  ‘Until I relieve him in forty minutes,’ Peter Hughes broke in.

  ‘Reckon young Peter will blend in?’ Compston asked Fox.

  ‘We did wonder if these days he’d need one of those hipster beards, seeing how Leith is going up in the world.’

  ‘Like he’s old enough to grow a beard,’ Alec Bell snorted.

  Hughes made a single-digit gesture but looked as though he’d heard all the jokes before. Fox could sense the team softening a little. He wasn’t being accepted, but they were ceasing to see him as an immediate threat.

  ‘So that’s where we are and why we’re here,’ Compston said with a shrug. ‘And if you’ll let us get on with it, we’ll leave you to your Angry Birds.’

  But Fox had a question. ‘Stark and his men were in town last night? What did they get up to?’

  ‘Dinner and a few drinks.’

  ‘You had eyes on them all evening?’

  ‘Pretty much. Why?’

  Fox gave a twitch of the mouth. ‘You’ll have heard of Morris Gerald Cafferty, known as Big Ger?’

  ‘Let’s pretend I haven’t.’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ Fox echoed. ‘He was a major player on the east coast until recently. Similar age to your Joe Stark.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Someone decided to take a potshot at him yesterday evening around eight o’clock.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘At his home. Shooter was outside, Cafferty was inside, meaning it might have been a warning of some kind.’

  Compston ran a hand across his jaw. ‘Interesting.’ He looked to Alec Bell, who offered a shrug.

  ‘Seven till nine they were in the Abbotsford,’ Bell recited.

  ‘Drink at the bar, meal in the upstairs restaurant.’

  ‘And where were we?’

  ‘Peter was at the bar throughout.’

  Hughes nodded his agreement. ‘Apart from a quick break for a slash. But Beth was posted outside.’

  ‘At the end of Rose Street, not more than twenty yards away,’ Beth Hastie confirmed.

  ‘Probably nothing to it then,’ Compston said, not quite managing to sound as if he meant it. Then, to Fox: ‘Would your man Cafferty have had dealings with the Starks?’

  ‘I can try to find out.’ Fox paused. ‘Always supposing you’re willing to trust me that far.’

  ‘You know Cafferty to talk to?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fox managed not to blink.

  ‘You can bring up the Starks without him getting wind of the surveillance?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Compston looked at the other members of his team. ‘What do we think?’

  ‘Risky,’ Hastie offered.

  ‘Agreed,’ Alec Bell muttered.

  ‘Fox is right about one thing, though,’ Compston said, rising to his feet. ‘Starks hit town and almost immediately someone fires a shot across the bows of the competition. Could well be a message.’ His eyes were boring into Fox’s. ‘You reckon you’re up to this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How will you do it?’

  Fox shrugged. ‘We just chat. I’m pretty good at reading people. If he suspects the Starks, he may let something slip.’ He paused. ‘I’m assuming they’d have access to a gun?’

  Alec Bell snorted.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ Then, to Compston: ‘So do I talk to him or not?’

  ‘You don’t so much as hint at the surveillance.’

  Fox nodded, then gestured towards the silent, cadaverous figure of Jake Emerson. ‘Doesn’t say much, does he?’

  ‘Not in front of Complaints he doesn’t,’ Emerson sneered.

  ‘Scumbuckets, the lot of you.’

  ‘See?’ Compston said with a smile. ‘Jake keeps his counsel mostly, but when he does speak, it’s always worth hearing.’ He held out a hand for Fox to take. ‘You’re on probation, but for what it’s worth – welcome to Operation Junior.’

  ‘Junior?’

  Compston gave a cold smile. ‘If you’re any kind of detective, you’ll work it out,’ he said, releasing his grip.

  Five

  Fox stood on the pavement outside the four-storey tenement on Arden Street and made the call, his eyes fixed on one of the second-floor windows.

  ‘What do you want?’ Rebus’s voice asked.

  ‘You at home?’

  ‘Bowls game doesn’t start for another hour.’

  ‘Using your bus pass to get there?’

  ‘You’re sharper than you used to be – that’s what a spell in CID does for you.’

  ‘Can I come up?’

  Rebus’s face appeared at the window. ‘I was just nipping out to the shop.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you. I thought we could talk about Cafferty.’

  ‘Why would we want to do that?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when you come down.’ Fox ended the call, holding the phone away from him for effect. Rebus remained at the window for a moment, then disappeared. Two minutes later, wrapped in a three-quarter-length black woollen coat, he emerged into the street, turning left and heading uphill, Fox at his heels.

  ‘Before you ask, I’ve cut back,’ he informed Fox as he lifted a cigarette from a near-empty packet.

  ‘Have you tried vaping?’

  ‘I hate that word.’

  ‘Have you, though?’

  ‘A couple of times. It’s just not the same.’ Rebus stopped briefly to get the cigarette lit. ‘There’s some news on Cafferty?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  Rebus looked at Fox for the first time since coming out of the tenement. ‘So I’m here under false pretences?’ He started walking again.

  ‘Do the names Joe and Dennis Stark mean anything to you?’

  ‘Joe’s an old-time Glasgow thug. His son didn’t fall far from the tree.’

  ‘Ever had dealings with either of them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Might Cafferty?’

  ‘Almost certainly. You couldn’t have one city tramping on the other’s turf, not without war breaking out.’

  ‘So there’d have been powwows between the two?’

  ‘And their equivalents in Aberdeen, maybe Dundee . . .’

  ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the Starks visited both those places recently.’

  ‘What’s your thinking, Malcolm?’ Rebus glanced in Fox’s direction. ‘And by the way, are you and Siobhan sleeping together?’

  ‘Would it bother you if we were?’

  ‘I’ll always look out for her. Anyone hurts her, it’ll be me they answer to.’

  ‘She’s an adult, John. She might even be tougher than either you or me.’

  ‘Maybe, but just so you know.’

  ‘We’re friends – that’s as far as it goes.’

  They had turned the corner at the top of the street. There was a Sainsbury’s across the road, and Rebus stopped by its door, taking a final couple of drags on his cigarette before stubbing it out.

  ‘Didn’t even smoke the whole thing,’ he said. ‘Be sure and tell her that. You never did answer my question.’

  Fox followed him into the shop. ‘What question?’

  ‘Why do you want to know about the Starks?’

  ‘They arrived in town a couple of days back. Just wondered if there might be a reason for them t
o target Cafferty.’

  Rebus’s eyes narrowed as he picked up a basket. He was silent while they perused the first aisle. Instant coffee, a small loaf, a litre of milk, packets of link sausages and bacon. As they passed by the wine and beer, Rebus gestured with his free hand.

  ‘Tell her I didn’t buy a single can or bottle.’

  At the counter, however, he added a fresh pack of cigarettes to his purchases, along with a sausage roll from the hotplate.

  ‘A man has to have some vices,’ he said as they made for the exit. Outside, he slid the first inch from its paper bag and took a bite. Flecks of pastry broke off and peppered the lapels of his coat.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.

  Fox slipped his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the stiff breeze. ‘Would Cafferty talk to me about the Starks?’

  ‘You think Joe Stark is responsible for last night?’

  ‘Maybe the son. Revenge for some grievance.’

  ‘I’m not sure Dennis would have missed. He’ll have had a bit of practice down the years.’

  ‘So it was a warning of some kind, somebody trying to put the wind up Cafferty. You have to admit, it’s odd how this happens the day after the Starks hit town.’

  ‘There is that,’ Rebus conceded. ‘But say we mention as much to Cafferty . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, he might want to explore the possibility.’

  ‘He might,’ Fox agreed.

  ‘And that could get ugly.’

  Fox was nodding slowly as Rebus chewed on another mouthful of food. When the chewing stopped, replaced by a widening smile, Fox knew he’d done his job.

  Lunchtime, and the Golden Rule was almost empty. The main bar was connected by a set of steps to a larger seated area that boasted another bar, only open when the place got busy. They had this room to themselves. Cafferty looked comfortable, seated at a corner table well away from the window. He had a double whisky in front of him. Rebus carried a pint through, while Fox, a couple of steps behind him, brought nothing at all.

  ‘Malcolm Fox, isn’t it?’ Cafferty reached out a hand, which Fox shook. ‘Out of the Complaints these days, I hear. I suppose with John heading into the wilderness, you felt the job had lost any sense of challenge.’ He toasted both men and took a sip from his glass.

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me,’ Fox said.

  ‘It’s not you I’m meeting, son – it’s your ex-colleague.

  Always worth finding out what’s going on in that head of his.’

  ‘Be that as it may . . .’

  Cafferty was flapping one hand, signalling for Fox to stop.

  There was silence around the table, broken only by the sounds of the TV from the distant bar. Eventually Rebus put down his glass and spoke.

  ‘A shot was fired at you last night – we all know it. Most of your obvious enemies are long gone—’

  ‘Present company excepted,’ Cafferty interrupted, making another toast.

  ‘But then DI Fox discovers that Joe Stark is in town, along with his son.’

  ‘They’ve not sectioned Dennis yet?’ Cafferty feigned surprise.

  ‘We’re wondering if there’s any possible connection,’ Rebus 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-full 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 predated 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 l
aw. 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.