Even dogs in the wild (22 page)

locally?’

‘If we’re lucky.’

Christie nodded. ‘Probably only two or three possible

sellers. But if we need to extend the search westwards . . .’ He

did the calculation. ‘Add in another ten or twelve. Plus half a

dozen elsewhere in Scotland.’

‘If we find the gun, it helps us eliminate you from our

enquiries – and might even persuade Joe not to come after you.’

Christie’s face broke into a smile. ‘Listen to you, Rebus –

you’re loving this, aren’t you? One last encore before the lights

go down . . .’

‘You’ll put the word out?’

‘I’ll see what I can do. Now, tell me about Joe Stark – how’s

he taking it?’

‘How do you think?’

‘He’ll be wondering why Dennis went to that alley in the

first place.’

‘Man liked a nocturnal daunder, apparently.’ Christie didn’t

look convinced. ‘How about you?’ Rebus asked. ‘You taking

all the necessary precautions? Not just those two bodybuilders

at the door?’ Christie offered a shrug as he rose to his feet. His

phone buzzed. He checked the screen before answering.

‘Yes, Bernard?’ he said. He listened, his eyes narrowing and

coming to rest on Rebus’s. ‘You’re okay, though?’ Another

pause while the caller spoke. Then: ‘That’s probably good

advice. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. And phone me

again later. I owe you.’

He ended the call and turned the phone over in his hand.

‘Owner of the guest house where the Starks were holed up,’

he explained. ‘They’ve just given him a beating, wanted to

know who he’d told about them.’

‘Well, we know he told you.’

‘But he didn’t tell them that.’

‘Then you really
do
owe him.’

‘They’ve packed their bags now, though.’

‘Almost sounds like they’re burning bridges.’

‘Aye,’ Christie agreed.

‘Bernard or no Bernard, you know they’ll come for you

eventually.’ Rebus paused to let his words sink in. Then:

‘You’ll phone me if you get anything?’

‘Let’s wait and see.’ Christie turned and started making a

call as he walked with purpose towards the staircase.

Fox called Alec Bell on his mobile.

‘Can you talk?’ he asked.

‘What do you want?’

‘Not that you’ll be interested, but Stark and his boys

roughed up the owner of the guest house before they left.’

Bell took a moment to work it out. ‘You were there?’

‘Happened to be passing, saw you set off in pursuit.’

‘Is the guy okay?’

‘Yet again, I don’t see him pressing charges. This better all

be worth it.’

‘I’m beginning to wonder.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘On my way back to St Leonard’s. Joe and his lads seem to

be checking into a hotel at Haymarket. Beth’s taken up

position.’

‘Is she . . .?’ Fox tried to find the right words. ‘Do you trust

her? I mean, is she a team player?’

‘Look, she took her bollocking off Ricky. She knows she

fucked up.’

‘Does she?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘That part of town, there’s no all-night garage.’

‘So?’

‘And the closest doesn’t let anyone over the threshold after

eleven, so she couldn’t use their loos.’

‘You saying she’s lying?’

‘I’m not sure what I’m saying. Maybe you could have a

think, though.’

‘Still got a bit of your old job stuck to the sole of your shoe,

Fox?’

‘I’m just wondering why she’d lie, that’s all.’

The phone went dead. Fox stared at it. You did your best, he

told himself, deciding to steer clear of St Leonard’s for the time

being and pointing the car in the direction of Fettes instead.

Rebus was in the canteen when Fox walked in. He gave a wave,

and Fox, having bought a mug of tea and a sandwich, joined

him.

‘Want anything?’ Fox asked.

‘I’m fine. Been keeping your nose clean?’

‘Not exactly. I decided to walk the route from the alley back

to the guest house.’

‘And?’

‘Joe Stark and the others were just departing, leaving behind

one bruised and bloodied proprietor.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing.’ Fox looked grim-faced. ‘But we need to

stamp on them eventually, don’t we?’

‘We do,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Even if it means getting them for

something minor. Chief Constable won’t be happy, but then it’s

not our job to keep a big cheery smile on his coupon.’ Rebus

paused. ‘I get the feeling there’s more. Cough up, Malcolm.’

‘Beth Hastie was supposed to be on surveillance when

Dennis took that walk. Her story is, she headed off for petrol

and a call of nature. Only there’s no all-night petrol station,

meaning her story doesn’t stick.’

‘Maybe she did her business behind some bins and is too

ladylike to admit it.’ Rebus watched Fox’s expression. ‘You

don’t see her as ladylike? Okay then, she was tucked up in bed

and can’t say as much or she’d be consigned to one of those

bins she didn’t pee behind.’

‘Maybe.’ Fox bit into his sandwich. Tuna and sweetcorn.

One kernel dropped on to the plate. He picked it up delicately

and pushed it back between the two triangles of thin white

bread. ‘Anyway, I hope your day’s been more fruitful.’

‘I’m waiting for Darryl Christie to tell me who sold Lord

Minton an illegal handgun. We’re thinking the killer took it

from him.’

‘To use on Cafferty and Dennis Stark? Have you talked with

Cafferty yet?’

‘The man is proving elusive.’

‘Oh?’

‘He’s moved out of his house for the duration.’

‘Isn’t that suspicious in itself?’

‘It’s what I’d do.’

‘They didn’t find the bullet, did they?’

Rebus shook his head and waved again, this time towards

Siobhan Clarke. She marched up to the table brandishing a

sheet of paper. It was a photocopy of the note found in the

alley. She slapped it down between the two men.

‘Doesn’t match,’ she stated.

‘Doesn’t it?’ Fox turned the note ninety degrees so it faced

him.

‘Howden Hall pinged it to a handwriting expert. Their best

guess is, someone saw the Minton note in one of the papers or

online . . .’

‘And copied it?’ Rebus concluded, sitting back in his chair.

‘Meaning what?’ Fox enquired. ‘Another gunman? That

hardly sounds likely. How many nine-millimetre pistols are

being lugged around the city?’

‘At least two?’ Rebus pretended to guess.

Clarke was staring at Fox’s bruised face. ‘What the hell

happened to you?’

‘John did it when I wouldn’t take the dog he was offering.’

‘Seriously, though.’

‘I got in a fight with one of Dennis Stark’s bandits.’

‘When?’

‘Should I have a lawyer present before answering?’

Clarke turned her focus back to Rebus. ‘You think it fits?’

‘The two-gun theory? It fits with the bullet not being found.

Couldn’t be left behind or we’d have known straight away we

were talking about a different gun.’

‘And the note?’

‘Was a fair copy. Whoever wrote it took a chance we’d not

spot the differences – or else that it would take us a while to.’

‘To what end?’

‘To make Dennis Stark look like part of the pattern,’ Fox

said, realisation dawning.

‘So everyone’s back in the game,’ Clarke added. ‘Christie,

Cafferty . . .’ She caught the look on Rebus’s face. ‘What?’

‘I’ve asked Darryl Christie who might have sold a pistol to

Lord Minton.’

‘And now you’re thinking it could have been Christie

himself?’

‘We’re in danger of getting tied in knots here,’ Fox

complained.

‘Because that’s what someone wants, Malcolm,’ Rebus

agreed. As if on cue, his phone started vibrating. ‘And here’s

Darryl himself.’ He got up and walked over to the windows.

They were large, and if not covered in grime would have given

him a clear view out on to the adjacent playing fields.

‘Yes, Mr Christie?’ he began, pressing the phone to his ear.

‘Didn’t take as long as it could have,’ Darryl Christie said,

sounding pleased with himself.

‘You’ve got a name for me?’

‘He says he’ll talk to you only because you’re not a cop.’

‘Will he do it in person?’

‘At the Gimlet.’

‘What time?’

‘Eight tonight.’

‘I’ll be there. Does he have a name?’

‘You can call him Roddy.’

‘Then that’s what I’ll do.’ Rebus ended the call and went

back to the table. ‘Eight tonight at the Gimlet.’

‘Are we invited?’ Clarke asked.

‘Might bring back painful memories for Malcolm. Besides,

our merchant of death doesn’t want anyone with a warrant

card.’

‘Are you okay about that?’

Rebus nodded. ‘But I’m happy to rendezvous with the pair

of you later, if you like.’

‘Oxford Bar at nine?’ Clarke offered.

‘Delightful,’ Rebus replied.

Twenty

It was as if the Gimlet had been vacated for their meeting, like

an office with an IN USE sign placed on its door. There was a

young woman behind the bar. Her bare arms were tattooed, as

was her neck, and Rebus quickly lost count of her various

piercings. She poured him a pint of heavy without being asked

and placed it on the bar.

‘First one is on Mr Dunn,’ she announced. ‘There won’t be a

second.’

‘Cheers anyway,’ Rebus said, hoisting the glass. There was a

man seated at a table in the far corner of the large room. Sticky

floor underfoot, a silent jukebox with its lights flashing, a

puggy unplugged from the electrical socket. The TV on the wall

above the sole occupied table was switched on and even

boasted a tiny bit of volume. Sports chat, with the latest news

scrolling beneath the seated figures. Rebus wondered if its

purpose was to stop the barmaid hearing anything that was

said.

‘Roddy?’ he asked, approaching the table.

‘If you like.’ The man was shrunken, missing a few teeth.

He could have been anywhere from mid forties to early sixties.

Diet, alongside drink and smokes, had sucked the life from him.

Ink stains on the back of his hands showed where ancient self-

inflicted tattoos had faded. The blue veins stood out like cords.

There was a packet of Silk Cut on one corner of the table, the

table itself next to a solid door that Rebus knew led to a rear

courtyard, an unloved concrete space used by only the most

dedicated nicotine addicts.

‘Thanks for meeting me,’ Rebus said as he pulled out a

chair. Its cheap vinyl covering had been patched with silver

insulating tape. ‘Nice place, eh?’ He made show of inspecting

the decor. ‘Your local, is it?’

The man stared at him with milky, uncertain eyes.

‘Get you a refill?’ Rebus persisted, gesturing towards what

he took to be a rum and black. He was already wishing he’d

exchanged the watery pint in front of him for a nip of whisky.

‘One drink and I’m out of here, same as you.’

Rebus nodded his acceptance of this. ‘New owner seems to

be running the place down.’ He looked around again. ‘Word is,

a supermarket’ll buy the site. Davie Dunn fronting the deal so

Darryl’s name doesn’t come up.’ He winked, as if he were

sharing gossip with an old confidant.

‘Just ask your questions,’ his companion muttered.

No more games, then. Rebus’s face tightened, his eyes

hardening. Hands on knees, he leaned in towards the man

whose name was not Roddy.

‘You sold a gun to Lord Minton.’

‘Aye.’

‘You knew who he was?’

‘Not until I saw him in the papers.’

‘How long was that after you met with him?’

‘Less than a week.’

‘Did he say why he needed a gun?’

‘That’s not how it works. He got word to me via an

intermediary, I passed back the instructions. Two grand in a

Lidl bag, put in the bin by the pond in Inverleith Park. Two

hours later, he retrieves the same bag.’

‘Containing a nine-mil pistol wrapped in muslin?’

The man nodded slowly and without emotion.

‘How many bullets?’

‘Seven or eight – not quite a full clip.’

Rebus studied him for a moment. ‘Have you and me ever

had dealings?’ Roddy shook his head.

‘You don’t
look
familiar,’ Rebus admitted.

‘Biggest pat on the back I give myself – keeping under the

radar as far as you lot are concerned.’ His eyes met Rebus’s.

‘Know who you are, though. Know the sort of bastard you used

to be.’

‘Not so much of the past tense,’ Rebus chided him.

‘We done?’

‘Not quite. You didn’t speak to Minton? How did he find

you in the first place?’

‘Friend of a friend of a friend – that’s how it usually

works.’

‘Someone he maybe put away in the past?’

‘You tell me.’

Rebus wasn’t sure it mattered. ‘So he didn’t say why he

wanted a gun, but did he seem nervous?’

‘I heard he was twitchy. He seemed fine when he dropped

the money off, though.’

‘You were watching?’

‘Other side of the boating pond. Nice and casual on one of

the benches. Waited till he was out of sight, then got over there

pronto.’

‘Did you hang around to see him come back?’

Roddy nodded slowly. ‘I was curious, I suppose. He looked

like a toff. Shiny shoes, expensive coat. And the way he carried