Even dogs in the wild (43 page)

slatted blinds needed replacing. From what he could see of the

upstairs dwelling, the owner was a tad more house proud: the

curtains looked new, as did the front door with its fan-shaped

frosted window and brass fittings. Fox, knowing that Anthony

wasn’t yet home from work, peered through the letter box,

discovering little – a flight of red-carpeted stairs filled his field

of vision. Framed prints on the walls of motorbikes and their

leather-clad riders.

He returned to his car and waited, the radio playing at low

volume. It was a quiet street, though far from gentrification. He

got the feeling that if he sat there much longer, an inquisitive

local would emerge to check him out. One thing he had noted:

no bikes on the roadway outside the maisonette, or in the

flagstoned front garden. How many had Anthony said? Five?

He got out of the car again and did a little circuit, establishing

that the maisonette backed on to an enclosed drying green,

which boasted no enclosure larger than a garden shed. There

was a park beyond, really just a stretch of well-trodden grass

that could accommodate a makeshift game of football, plus a

graffiti-covered set of concrete ramps, presumably for use by

skateboarders. On the other side of the park sat three high-rise

blocks, and next to those, two rows of lock-up garages.

Buttoning up his coat, Fox started walking, sticking to the

paved route so as to save his shoes getting muddied. A cheap

souped-up saloon car passed him, its occupants barely out of

their teens. Both front windows were down so the world outside

could share their taste in what they presumably thought was

music. They paid Fox no heed though. He wasn’t like Rebus –

he didn’t
look
like a cop. A detective he’d once investigated when in Complaints had described him as resembling ‘a

soulless, spunkless middle manager from the most boring

company on the planet’. Which was fine – he’d been called

worse. It usually meant he was closing in on a result. And the

fact that he didn’t stand out from the crowd could be useful. As

far as the kids in the car were concerned, he barely existed – if

they’d thought him a threat, the car would have stopped and a

scene of sorts would have ensued. Instead of which, he arrived

at the lock-ups without incident.

There were a dozen of them, all but one with its doors

locked tight. A car was jutting out from the twelfth, jacked up

while a wheel was changed. The lock-up had power, and a radio

had been plugged in, Radio 2 providing the soundtrack while a

man in presentable blue overalls did his chores.

‘Nice car,’ Fox commented. The man had wiry silver hair

and a stubbled face, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. ‘Ford

Capri, right? Don’t see many these days.’

‘Because they’re rustbuckets. Dodgy engines, too.’

The bonnet was up, so Fox took a look. He had scant

knowledge of cars, and to his eyes the engine looked much like

any other.

‘You in the market?’ the man asked. ‘Only I know there are

collectors out there – I’ve had offers.’

‘Motorbikes are more my thing,’ Fox said. ‘Friend of mine

lives near here. He’s got a nice collection.’

‘Anthony?’ The man nodded towards the lock-up opposite.

‘That’s where he keeps them.’ Fox turned his head towards the

graffiti-covered rollover door. There was the usual turn-handle

with its central lock, but heavy-duty bolts and padlocks had also

been added to either edge of the door.

‘He was supposed to be showing me them,’ Fox explained,

‘but he’s not home.’

‘He’s often here – takes one out for a run, brings it back,

swaps to another. What’s your favourite?’

‘I like Moto Guzzis,’ Fox said, remembering the brand from

one of the prints on the staircase.

‘About as reliable as my Capri,’ the man snorted, flicking

away the stub of his cigarette. ‘The older ones, at any rate.’

‘I’m surprised he doesn’t keep them at that self-storage

place where he works.’ Fox was studying the surroundings. ‘Bit

more security than here.’

‘This is handier, though, and he’s careful – never leaves the

doors open long enough for anyone to get a good look.’

Fox nodded his understanding. ‘Ever meet his uncle?’ he

asked casually.

‘Uncle?’

‘Uncle Hamish – he was down here a few weeks ago from

Inverness. I just thought Anthony might want to show off his

collection.’

‘Chubby? Fiftyish? Red hair and freckles?’

Fox thought of the photographs he’d seen. ‘Sounds about

right,’ he said.

‘Anthony didn’t introduce us, but aye, he was here.’ The

man was wiping his hands on a rag. ‘I’ve got to say, you don’t

look like one of Anthony’s mates.’

‘What do they look like?’

‘Younger than you, for a start.’

‘We drink together at the Gifford.’

The man’s suspicions eased. ‘He’s mentioned the place –

seems to like it there.’

‘It’s all right.’

The man gave a lopsided smile. ‘I thought maybe you were a

cop or something – sorry about that.’

‘No problem,’ Fox assured him.

‘Not that you look like one, mind.’

Fox nodded slowly. ‘My name’s Malcolm,’ he said.’

‘George Jones. I’d offer a handshake, but . . .’ He showed

Fox his oil-stained fingers.

‘No problem – I better get back and see if he’s turned up.

Good luck getting your Capri back on the road.’

‘No chance of that,’ Jones said, patting its roof. ‘This isn’t

so much a garage as a hospice – I’m just keeping the patient

comfortable until the end.’

Fox’s face tightened. He offered a half-hearted wave as he

turned and started to walk, pulling out his phone to call Jude.

He would take over from her for an hour or two, but he knew he

might well be back here later. He imagined himself calling

Ricky Compston with the news –
I’ve got Hamish Wright and

his booty. Both are here when you want them . . .

He was almost smiling to himself as Jude answered his call.

‘About bloody time you checked in,’ she announced.

‘Doctors want a word with us.’

‘What about?’

‘If you want my best guess, they’re readying to pull the

plug.’

‘What?’

But Jude was too busy sobbing to say any more.

Thirty Eight

Esson and Ogilvie stood in front of Siobhan Clarke’s desk as

they delivered their report, the conclusion of which was that

they had found nothing much of interest.

‘Nothing?’ Clarke felt it necessary to check.

Ogilvie stood with his hands behind his back, happy to let

his partner do the talking.

‘We’ve got a list of everyone who works for the two

companies, and we’ll run it to see if anyone rings alarm bells,

but I’m not hugely hopeful.’

‘The company that does the flyering . . .’

‘Higher Flyer,’ Esson reminded Clarke.

‘Higher Flyer, yes – do they do any work in and around

Linlithgow?’

‘Strictly Edinburgh and Glasgow. They actually don’t have

many restaurants on their books. Mostly they do comedy shows

and that sort of thing – stocking pubs and clubs with flyers.

They would certainly cover the areas where Minton and

Cafferty live, but it would depend on the client. Newington

Spice specified the local neighbourhood.’

‘Most of the people doing the flyering are students,’ Ogilvie

chipped in.

‘Our guy would be in his forties,’ Clarke commented. Her

eyes drifted towards the closed door of James Page’s office.

‘Always supposing John’s theory is correct.’

‘What’s he doing in there?’ Esson asked, nodding towards

the door.

‘Trying to persuade DCI Page that a retired detective, now a

civilian, should become bait for an armed serial killer.’

‘Not going to happen, is it?’

Clarke stared at Esson. ‘John can be quite persuasive.’

‘As I’ve found to my cost. It would be nice now and again to

go on a wild goose chase that actually had a goose at the end of

it.’

‘Wild or otherwise,’ Ogilvie added.

Clarke pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘What about

VampPrint?’ she asked.

‘They do have a storage facility for everything they print,’

Esson answered, ‘but in the case of Newington Spice, all their

stock went either to Higher Flyer or to the restaurant itself.

That’s not to say someone on the staff couldn’t have helped

themselves, and again we’ll run all the employee names through

the system.’

‘One thing we do know is that no one with the surname

Holroyd works for either firm,’ Ogilvie stated. Esson was about

to add something, but broke off as the door to Page’s office

opened. Rebus marched past Clarke’s desk without saying

anything or making eye contact. The door remained open, and a

few moments later Page was standing there, indicating that

Clarke should join him. She headed in, closing the door again

after her. Page was back behind his desk, twisting a pen in both

hands.

‘At least there were no raised voices,’ she commented. ‘John

must be disappointed, though . . .’ She saw the look on Page’s

face. ‘You gave him the okay?’

‘With the proviso that members of our team will be nearby,

as well as two firearms officers. As John says, he’s been on top

of this throughout, putting our own efforts to shame in certain

respects.’

Clarke bristled. ‘I’m not sure that’s entirely fair.’

‘Me neither. On the other hand, we’d have known nothing

about Acorn House if John hadn’t told us.’

‘How much
did
he tell you, sir?’

‘Men in positions of authority abusing kids, the whole thing

covered up, one young lad thought to be dead after some sex

game or other . . .’ Page gave a pained look. ‘Bloody horrible to

contemplate, every single bit of it.’

‘I agree.’

‘And after this is over, we need to make sure something’s

done – the Chief has to be amenable to an inquiry of some

kind.’

‘An inquiry flagging up one of our own as a paedophile?’

Page gave another grimace. ‘What’s the alternative?’

‘I’m fairly sure the Chief will present you with some.’

‘Sweep everything back under the carpet, you mean? The

world’s changed, Siobhan. This’ll get out there one way or

another.’

‘Well, if we need a friendly crime reporter . . .’

‘Your chum Laura Smith? Maybe it’ll come to that. Not that

the media seemed to do much of anything last time round.’

‘One or two tried.’ Clarke shrugged.

Page was thoughtful, eyes on his pen as he played with it. ‘I

need to authorise the firearms.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll let you get on with it.’ She turned to leave.

‘You’ll be there too, of course – John more or less

insisted.’

Clarke paused in the doorway, turned and nodded her

acceptance, then headed back into the main office.

Rebus was there, talking with Esson and Ogilvie. His eyes

met Clarke’s, and he gave a wink as he grinned.

Rebus had stocked up on supplies – a couple of sandwiches,

newspaper, several CDs to pass the time. But it turned out he

couldn’t work the hi-fi – it didn’t have a CD slot, for one thing.

There was a remote, and when he pressed it, music emerged

from speakers in the corners of the ceiling, but it was nothing

he wanted to listen to. Even the dog looked unimpressed. The

terrier had been wary at first, especially after picking up the

scent of another canine. The Dalrymples had taken basket and

John B both, along with food and water bowls. But Rebus had

found some dry stuff in a cupboard and tipped a helping into a

soup bowl, placing it on the kitchen floor for the terrier. It had

been quite the reunion when he had arrived at the cat and dog

home.

‘We’ve been calling him Brillo,’ one of the staff had

explained, bringing the dog into the reception area. Recognising

Rebus, Brillo had strained at the leash. ‘You sure you only need

him for a day or two?’

‘That’s right,’ Rebus had said, avoiding the staff member’s

eyes.

He got up every ten minutes or so and looked out of the

window. It was just before ten, and he’d been there almost four

hours. The unmarked car was not quite directly outside – they

didn’t want to scare Holroyd away. Two officers in the car,

though they hadn’t been especially keen when told they might

be pulling an all-nighter. Rebus took out his mobile and

checked it. The officers had his number and he had theirs. First

sign of anything, either they would call or he would. Esson and

Ogilvie were out there somewhere too, traipsing the

neighbouring streets in the guise of lovers on their way home.

Esson had already sent one text to complain of impending

blisters, to which Rebus had responded that she should get a

piggyback from her colleague.

With no bed, Brillo had settled on the sofa, but every time

Rebus moved, he looked interested, in case a walk was in the

offing.

‘Sorry, pal,’ Rebus said, not for the first time.

He climbed the stairs and used the loo, then walked into the

spare bedroom. Siobhan Clarke lay stretched out on the narrow