Even dogs in the wild (35 page)

She smiled, not unsympathetically. ‘I do, don’t I? Needed to

be said, though, before the full martyr complex kicks in. That

was
where we were headed next, wasn’t it?’

The bell pinged and the doors slid open, the automated voice

telling them they had reached their floor. Fox led the way. The

lights had been dimmed. The brightest lamp sat over the nurses’

station. Mitch had been moved into a room of his own. Fox was

afraid to ask why – maybe a slow death wasn’t something the

other patients and their visitors should have to witness. The

breath caught in Jude’s throat when she saw her father. She

walked briskly to his bedside while Fox closed the door, giving

the three of them a measure of privacy. There was a window on

to the main ward, its blinds left open, the room itself unlit. Fox

reached for the light switch, but Jude shook her head.

‘It’s fine like this,’ she said, touching a hand to Mitch’s

forehead. Her shoulder bag had fallen to the floor, a few items

spilling out – phone, lipstick, cigarette lighter. Fox crouched to

pick them up.

‘Just leave them,’ she hissed. ‘They’re not what’s

important.’

‘But they’re something I can fix,’ her brother said,

straightening up, her things gathered in his hand.

Her face softened. ‘I suppose that’s true,’ she said quietly.

Then, half turning from the bed, she wrapped her arms around

him and began to sob.

Siobhan Clarke had been sitting on her sofa for the best part of

an hour, just staring at the bookshelves opposite. She sat bent

forward, elbows on knees, face cupped in her hands. She’d

made a mug of tea but it was as yet untouched. Acorn House –

those two words kept reverberating, sometimes clashing against

names like Champ and Broadfoot and Holroyd. Rebus had

made her promise not to take it to James Page, not until he’d

had a chance to dig a little deeper. More names: Tolland and

Dalrymple, Jeffries and Ritter. Rebus had bombarded her with

them, like they were dots that had to be joined together so the

picture could emerge.

Tolland . . .

She still had the file Jim Grant had given her. She

remembered the DVD footage, the subdued-looking wife. Ella

Tolland, sad-eyed on her wedding day, her husband controlling

her, his hand grasping her arm.

‘It wasn’t just shyness, was it, Ella?’ Clarke enquired out

loud. ‘I think you knew. He’d said something, or else you’d

always suspected.’ She straightened up and looked to left and

right, spotting the file on the carpet, half hidden beneath the

sofa. She lifted it up and opened it, seeking the various

photographs, knowing there was no way to tell for sure, just as

there was no hard and fast evidence that Acorn House –

whatever horrors it had contained – had anything to do with the

attacks on Tolland, Minton and Cafferty.

‘Proof would be nice,’ she mused, knowing she was going to

give Rebus another day or so. Because whatever you could say

about the man, he clamped his teeth on to a case and didn’t let

go. ‘Go get ’em, John,’ she said, yawning as the photographs

slid off her lap to the floor.

*

Fox was in bed when his phone rang. He had plugged it into a

wall socket, so padded across the carpet in darkness and peered

at the screen before answering.

‘John?’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

‘Just thought I’d see how your dad’s doing.’

‘No real news. What time is it?’

‘Did I wake you? It’s only just gone eleven.’

‘We’re not all nighthawks.’

‘You’ll find you need less sleep as you get older.’

‘Anything happening at your end? Help take my mind off

my dad.’

‘He’ll either be fine or he won’t, Malcolm. Nothing you can

do except be there for him.’

‘My sister doesn’t think I even do that. I’m dutiful rather

than loving, apparently. Look at me – at home in bed rather

than keeping vigil at his bedside.’

‘Your sister’s at the hospital?’

‘We decided to take shifts.’ Fox sat on the carpet, back to

the wall, knees raised. ‘Do you ever see your daughter?’

‘Once or twice a year.’

‘If I had a grandkid . . .’

‘You trying to make me feel guilty? Sammy knows she can

visit any time she wants.’

‘Does she know you want her to, though? Seems to me

we’re not always good at opening up. I mean, we’re fine with

friends and strangers; it’s our families we keep stuff from.’

‘You’re wishing you’d said more to your dad?’

‘I said plenty, but Jude might have a point – I skated over

the difficult stuff.’

‘He’s your father – he doesn’t
need
to be told.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He probably reads you better than anyone. He’ll know

exactly how you’re feeling and what you’re not saying.’

‘Maybe.’ Fox rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a

tightness there. ‘Anyway, I was asking for an update.’

‘Some bad things happened in the past. They may explain

the attacks on Cafferty, Minton and our Linlithgow lottery

winner.’

‘There
is
a connection then?’

‘Connection and motive both.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Bit early for that.’

‘But you’re making progress, showing the youngsters a

thing or two.’

‘It feels like the end of a long song, though – men like

Cafferty and Joe Stark . . . and me too, come to that. We’re on

our last legs. Our way of doing things seems . . . I don’t know.’

‘Last century?’

‘Aye, maybe.’

‘Footwork still counts for something, John. Add it to gut

instinct and you’ve got a formula that works.’ He listened to

Rebus drain the dregs from a glass, imagined him at home, one

last whisky before bed. Hell, he could almost taste it, oily,

copper-coloured, peat-rich.

‘I should let you get back to bed,’ Rebus said, after a

satisfied exhalation.

‘Will you pass on the news to Siobhan?’

‘She’d probably rather hear it from you.’

‘You’re right. I’ll send her a text.’

‘You could even call her.’

‘She might be in bed.’

‘Then again, she might not – take a risk for once.’

Fox smiled tiredly. ‘No promises,’ he said, ending the call.

Back in bed, he lay on his back, hands clasped across his chest.

His eyes remained open as he stared at the ceiling. Sleep, he

knew, wasn’t going to come any time soon, so he got up and,

grabbing his phone, headed to the kitchen, filling the kettle and

switching it on. He dropped a tea bag into a mug and eased

himself on to a stool. Yes, he could call Siobhan, but it
was
late and he really didn’t have any news. Would a text wake her up?

He started composing one, then deleted it. When his tea was

ready, he picked up the phone again. He had no messages, no

unanswered calls. He tapped the photos icon and found a

picture he’d taken of Siobhan with the low winter sun behind

her, so that her face was mostly in shadow.

‘Don’t give up the day job, Malcolm,’ he muttered to

himself. He opened another photo and used his finger and

thumb to enlarge it on the screen. It was Hamish Wright’s

itemised phone bill. Most of the calls were to other mobiles.

One of Compston’s team had added the details in the margin:

wife, insurer, client, client, garage, nephew, client, ferry

company, restaurant. But there were landline calls too: wife

again, and an aunt in Dundee. Plus one 0131 number –

Edinburgh. The Gifford Inn. And written next to it:
staff never

heard of him, reckon a wrong number
. A wrong number on a

Monday evening, one week prior to his disappearance, and

lasting almost three minutes. The Gifford didn’t mean anything

to Fox, but he looked it up – it was on St John’s Road in

Corstorphine. He had driven along St John’s Road hundreds of

times, but then he never really paid attention to pubs – though

he’d lay money on John Rebus knowing the place.

Footwork still counts for something . . . Add it to gut

instinct . . .

Take a risk . . .

Take a risk . . .

Take a risk . . .

‘Well, Malcolm?’ he challenged himself out loud. ‘What

about it?’

Half an hour later, he was back in bed, hands under his head,

eyes adjusting to the dark as he turned things over in his mind.

DAY EIGHT

Thirty One

Rebus held the box out towards Christine Esson. She was

seated at her computer and looked wary.

‘From the baker’s,’ he said, placing it on the desk. She

opened it and peered inside.

‘Jam doughnuts,’ she said.

‘My way of saying sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘Not telling you I’d found Paul Jeffries all on my own.’

Ronnie Ogilvie approached the desk and lifted out one of the

pastries, holding it in his teeth as he headed back to his own

chair. Esson glowered at him, but he seemed impervious.

‘The other three are yours, if you’re quick,’ Rebus told her.

She closed the box and slipped it into her drawer. ‘Thank

you,’ she said. Then she noticed he was holding out a slip of

paper, expecting her to take it.

‘Bryan Holroyd,’ he explained. ‘I’ve not got much for you to

go on – and I’m sorry about that, too. He was a teenager in the

eighties, spent a bit of time at an assessment centre called

Acorn House. It’s been shut for years, but the fact he was there

at all means he probably had a criminal record . . .’

‘You think there’ll be something in the archive? Doesn’t

stuff get expunged after a time?’

Rebus just shrugged. ‘There may even be information on

Acorn House – it was a remand home before they changed the

wording. But whatever you do, tread softly.’

‘Oh?’

‘Alarm bells may sound.’

‘And they’d do that because . . .?’

‘They probably won’t.’

‘Which doesn’t answer my question.’

He gave the slip of paper a little wave. ‘I brought

doughnuts,’ he reminded her.

After a further ten seconds of stand-off, she sighed and

snatched the details from him. ‘Which is more likely to trigger

an alarm – online search or me traipsing to the records office?’

‘Only one way to find out.’ Rebus offered what he hoped

was a winning smile. ‘Siobhan not in yet?’

‘As you can see.’ Esson gestured towards the empty desk.

‘Maybe she spent the night consoling Malcolm . . .’

‘And why would I be doing that?’

The voice had come from the doorway. Clarke stepped into

the office and lifted her laptop from her bag, placing it on her

desk.

‘His dad’s still in hospital,’ Rebus explained. ‘I told him to

phone you.’

‘He didn’t.’

‘It was getting late, to be fair. Though you don’t exactly

look like you’ve had much in the way of beauty sleep.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ She was shrugging out

of her coat and unwinding a long red woollen scarf from around

her neck.

Esson had brought the box back out. ‘Doughnut?’ she

suggested.

‘Just the job,’ Clarke said, plucking one out with a nod of

thanks. Esson took one herself before returning the box to its

drawer.

‘One spare,’ Rebus hinted.

‘For later,’ she retorted.

‘I’ve given Bryan Holroyd’s name to Christine,’ Rebus

explained to Clarke. ‘I reckon she’s got more diplomacy than

me.’

Clarke nodded. ‘Though if it’s the same groper in charge of

the archive as when I last had cause to visit, diplomacy might

have to take second place to pepper spray.’

‘I can handle myself,’ Esson assured her. ‘Just need to

handle the final doughnut first.’

‘Thanks for rubbing it in,’ Rebus muttered, heading for the

door. He was halfway there when Esson called him back.

‘Yes?’ he said, sounding hopeful.

‘Are you not going to ask me about Dave Ritter?’

‘I was surmising you didn’t have anything.’

‘You’d be wrong.’ She paused. ‘Sort of wrong, anyway. The

forces of law and order in Ullapool have never had dealings

with him, nor is there any record of him living in Scotland at

the current time.’

‘Well, thanks for sharing.’

‘There
is
, however, a man called David Ratner. Known all

too well by the local constabulary.’

‘In Ullapool?’

‘In Ullapool,’ she confirmed. Now it was her turn to hand a

slip of paper out for Rebus to take. He digested the details as

she went on. ‘Arrests for minor offences – drunk and

disorderly, brawling in the street . . .’

‘Might be him, then.’

‘Might be.’

He stared at her. ‘When were you going to tell me this?’

‘It was on the tip of my tongue, until you produced yet

another favour you wanted me to do.’

‘What’s this?’ Clarke enquired, her mouth full of pastry,

sprinkles of sugar on her lips.

‘One of Cafferty’s goons,’ Rebus reminded her. ‘The one we

didn’t manhandle in front of his carers.’

‘He’s living in the Highlands under an assumed name?’

‘Could be.’

‘You going to head up there?’

Rebus nodded thoughtfully. ‘If only to protect him from

Cafferty.’

‘You’re all heart,’ Clarke said. Rebus turned back towards