Even dogs in the wild (26 page)

and black tie beneath. Christie recognised the figures flanking

him – Walter Grieve and Len Parker, both of them sporting a

black tie. He gave a signal to his own men and they retreated

towards the door of the Signet Library. Christie had peered

through the door’s glass panels earlier, noting legal types

pacing to and fro, in whispered discussions with colleagues.

The High Court of Justiciary was a one-minute walk away, not

that Christie had ever been inside it.

Not yet.

Stark walked towards him, leaving his two old lieutenants

behind. When he was a couple of feet from Christie, he nodded

the curtest of greetings.

‘Thanks for meeting me,’ Christie said.

‘Why here?’

Christie looked around. ‘Nice and public,’ he ventured.

‘Reckoned we’d both feel safer.’

Stark just grunted.

‘I’m sorry about what happened to your son,’ Christie went

on, having more or less rehearsed these first few minutes. Stark

glowered.

‘What
did
happen to him?’

‘Nothing I had any part of, I promise you. I’ve been keeping

my distance, even though Dennis was trampling all over my

territory.’ Christie paused. ‘That was out of respect for you, Mr

Stark.’

‘We’re here until someone gives us a reason not to be,’ Stark

said. He had an old man’s slightly milky blue eyes, but they

contained plenty of menace still.

‘You mean until someone hands you Hamish Wright?’

‘It’s what Wright took from us – that’s what matters.’

‘Plus finding whoever did for Dennis?’

‘Police think it’s a serial killer maybe.’

‘Is that what you think?’

‘Someone topped a lawyer. Not sure what that’s got to do

with my son.’

‘They took a potshot at Cafferty, too. Did you know that?

And I’m told Cafferty got a note.’

Stark’s eyes narrowed a little further.

‘Did Dennis know Cafferty at all?’ Christie asked into the

silence.

Stark shook his head.

‘One more thing I need to tell you – I hear from one of my

sources that the note left next to Dennis is a fake.’ Christie

paused to let this sink in.

‘Are you fucking about with me?’

‘I wouldn’t dare. No bullet was recovered either, meaning

the gunman almost certainly took it with him.’

‘Why?’

‘So it couldn’t be checked against the one fired at Cafferty.’

‘Different guns?’ The old man nodded his understanding.

‘Cops are keeping that quiet.’

‘They’ll have their reasons.’

‘The fucker who did Dennis wanted it to look connected,’

Stark mused, scratching at his cheek. ‘But if it isn’t . . .’

‘You’re looking at someone with a grudge.’

Stark peered at him. ‘I’d have to put you on that list.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Dennis and his boys weren’t very nice to

my friends. Then my old pub gets torched just last night . . .’

‘If you
did
put a bullet in my son, you’d have to have balls

of granite to meet me like this.’

Christie offered a shrug. ‘I’m telling you the truth, Mr Stark.

But here’s a thing – Dennis arrives in town, and almost

immediately someone takes aim at Big Ger Cafferty.’

‘That wasn’t Dennis.’

‘Big Ger may think differently.’ Christie stretched out his

arms. ‘I’m just saying. You know he’s gone AWOL?’

‘What?’

‘Not at his house. Not anywhere to be found, though he may

be holing up in a hotel not a million miles from this very spot.’

Stark took a single step closer. ‘You trying to pit me against

him, son? Cafferty’s not a serious proposition these days.’

‘Is that what you hear in Glasgow?’ Christie smiled almost

ruefully. ‘Maybe he’s just got better camouflage. Trust me on

this – he’s still in the jungle. All you have to do is ask around.’

Stark took a few seconds to digest everything he’d been told.

Christie held out a hand for him to shake.

‘Thank you for meeting me, sir. I meant what I said about

respect.’ When Stark’s own hand was enveloped by the younger

man’s, the clasp turned into something more vice-like.

Christie’s eyes had darkened, his voice becoming steelier. ‘But

respect or not, if you have any thoughts about making a move

on me or my city, best think again. There’s no For Sale sign

when you exit the M8.’

Stark snatched his hand away. He was rubbing it as Christie

turned to go.

‘Torching your pub,’ Stark called out to him, ‘was nothing

to do with me – or with Dennis’s lot. I asked them.’

Christie didn’t look back. His minders fell into step beside

him as he started to pass the law courts. His brow was

furrowing, and he stabbed his hands into his trouser pockets for

warmth.

‘Everything sorted?’ one of his men enquired.

‘Getting there,’ Christie replied after a moment’s

consideration, though he wasn’t entirely sure he believed it.

Or Joe Stark.

Rebus sat in the Fettes canteen with tea and a ham salad roll, his

phone in his hand. His call to Milligan’s Casino had been met

with bemusement – nobody on duty had heard of Todd

Dalrymple. But someone had laid hands on a telephone

directory and a single Dalrymple T. had been found, along with

an address – Argyle Crescent, just off Portobello High Street.

Rebus was about to ring the number when Siobhan Clarke

appeared. She got herself some coffee and a caramel wafer and

pulled out the chair next to him.

‘What was happening upstairs?’ he asked.

‘Malcolm thinks we should be interviewing Compston’s

team.’

‘He’s probably not wrong.’ Rebus looked at her. ‘But you’re

worried about his motives?’

‘A little, yes.’ She bit into the biscuit and started chewing.

‘Is Page still going along with the plan?’ Rebus asked.

‘What plan?’

‘Pretending the same attacker did for Minton and Dennis

Stark both.’

‘I’m not sure the Fiscal’s office is enthusiastic – they see it

as unfair on the family.’

‘Thing is, family in this case means Joe Stark.’

‘I know . . .’ She broke off, staring into the distance. Then:

‘Any joy from the internet?’

It took Rebus a moment to work out that she meant the dog

rather than the two names he’d given to Christine Esson. He

shook his head.

‘So what’s keeping you busy today?’

‘Couple of wee things,’ he lied. ‘Might be something or

nothing.’ He placed his phone on the table and lifted the tea.

‘By the way, have you dismissed the possibility of a link

between Minton and that Linlithgow attack?’

‘Pretty much. Why do you ask?’

‘Because Cafferty happened to mention it.’

‘Oh?’

‘The attacks on Minton, Cafferty himself and the guy in

Linlithgow – he mentioned them in the same breath. And

something else . . .’

‘What?’

‘The victim in Linlithgow . . .’

‘Michael Tolland?’

Rebus nodded. ‘Cafferty said something about him being a

care worker.’

‘He was.’

‘Yes, but not knowing him, is that how you would describe

him?’

‘No,’ she conceded.

Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘You’d say “millionaire”, or

“lottery winner”, right?’

‘Right.’

‘So why didn’t Cafferty? It was like that wasn’t what was

important.’

Clarke thought for a moment. ‘You think I should dig a little

deeper?’

Rebus shrugged, but he knew the seed had been planted. ‘So

you’re bringing in Compston and his crew, eh? Are there still

tickets available?’

‘I can probably get you on the guest list.’ Her phone pinged,

telling her she had a text. She checked her screen. ‘Talk of the

devil,’ she said. ‘Boss wants me in his office.’

‘He can be a fast worker when necessary.’

She got to her feet, pushing away her coffee. ‘You really

think they’ll give us anything?’

‘Compston’s gang?’ Rebus pondered this. ‘I very much

doubt it.’

‘Then why are we bothering?’

‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’

‘That’s pretty much word for word what Malcolm said.’

Clarke smiled tiredly, gave a little wave and was gone.

Rebus turned his attention to his own phone. Should have

looked in the phone book, John, he chided himself. Maybe

Jeffries and Ritter were in there too . . .

‘Hello?’ The voice was deep and throaty. There was a dog

barking somewhere behind it.

‘Mr Dalrymple? My name’s John Rebus. I’m calling from

the police.’

‘Oh aye?’ Then: ‘John B! Will you be quiet!’

‘I was wondering if I could talk to you.’

The dog’s barking had grown more insistent.

‘He’s wanting his walk,’ Dalrymple apologised. ‘I need to

take him out.’

‘I have a few questions about your time at Milligan’s

Casino,’ Rebus ploughed on.

‘Sorry, son, I can’t hear a thing.’

‘Maybe you could shut the dog in another room.’

‘Give me your number and I’ll phone you back. I’ll only be

an hour or two.’

‘Where do you take him?’

‘Eh?’

‘John B – where do you go walking?’

‘The Promenade usually.’

‘I’ll meet you there.’

‘I’ll be at the Joppa end, just down from James Street. John

B is hard to miss – twice the energy of any other dog on the

beach. Just look for the doddery old bastard failing to keep up

with him . . .’

Twenty Three

The wind had died down and the temperature was a few degrees

above freezing. The Promenade was a wide walkway which,

towards Portobello, was fronted by fast-food takeaways,

gaming arcades and bars. At the Joppa end, however, it was

much quieter, with houses and flats facing the estuary. The tide

was halfway out and the sand damp and pale yellow. There

were views across to Fife, Cockenzie and Berwick Law. Plenty

of dog-walkers. Rebus watched a huddle of dogs as they leapt at

and past each other down near the surf. One was barking

enthusiastically. It was a cross-breed with a short black coat,

and seemed almost to be grinning in wonder at the world. A

man a few years older than Rebus and dressed in tan cords and

a Barbour jacket watched from the other side of the wall,

whistling and calling out occasionally, to no effect whatsoever.

‘Come here, John B! Come on, boy!’

Rebus took up a position next to Todd Dalrymple, facing the

water. Dalrymple glanced at him.

‘You the cop?’

‘Why John B?’

‘For John Bellany.’

‘The painter?’

‘He grew up in Port Seton. I always loved his fishing

boats . . .’ Dalrymple blew his nose noisily. ‘You got a dog?’

He watched Rebus shake his head. ‘You should. They’re

proven to add years to your life – if they don’t give you a heart

attack first.’

‘They need exercise, though. I’m not really the type.’

‘Good excuse to get away from the wife for an hour – and

plenty of pubs accept dogs.’

‘I’m suddenly warming to the notion.’

Dalrymple’s eyes creased in a smile. ‘So what can I do for

you, officer?’

‘It’s a bit of a long shot. You’ll know Big Ger Cafferty?’

‘I know the name.’

‘He used to drop by Milligan’s.’

‘Not too often.’

‘He bumped into an old acquaintance there fifteen years or

so back, guy called Paul Jeffries.’

Dalrymple started calling for John B again. Rebus got the

feeling he was playing for time while he considered his

response. Eventually he turned his head towards Rebus.

‘I knew Paul,’ he said. ‘He worked for me.’

Rebus tried not to show his surprise. ‘In what capacity?’

‘Driver. I’d lost my licence, and he offered.’

‘You knew he used to do jobs for Cafferty?’

‘He told me.’

‘Any idea what sort of jobs?’

‘Driving, he said. ‘Why the sudden interest?’

‘When did you last see him, Mr Dalrymple?’

‘Three weeks back.’

Rebus gave a little cough as he tried to hide his surprise.

‘He’s in a care home – actually more of a hospice. Not much

left up here.’ Dalrymple tapped his forehead with a gloved

finger.

‘I’m sorry to hear that. He’s still in the city, then?’

Dalrymple nodded. ‘You’ve not said what’s going on.’

‘Does the name Dave Ritter mean anything to you?’

‘Pal of Paul’s, wasn’t he? Remember him being mentioned.’

‘You didn’t meet him, though?’

‘Don’t think so. Did you ever go to Milligan’s in its

heyday?’ He watched Rebus shake his head. ‘Some wild nights

we had. Place heaving, tables full and punters waiting their

turn. Off the oil rigs and pockets full of cash, plus workers from

the Chinese restaurants – those guys knew what they were up

to; they’d watch a new croupier to see if they had any

weaknesses. Beautiful women visited too, dressed to the nines –

not too many of them on the game. Businessmen ordering

champagne and expensive cigars . . .’

‘I’m surprised Cafferty never tried getting his feet under the

table.’

‘He made overtures. But he soon realised I was no slouch.’

‘I knew you ran the place – but you owned it, too?’

‘Started off with loans from my family – not that they

necessarily liked the business. I cleared those debts soon

enough, though. Aye, it was my place all right.’