by Ian Rankin
Clarke took out her phone and snapped a few pictures.
‘So what happens now?’ Rebus asked.
‘You don’t want to keep him?’
Rebus checked with Clarke and Clarke with Rebus. Both shook their heads. The vet sighed and ran his hands over the small terrier again. ‘There’s a database I can check,’ he said.
‘Just in case someone is looking for him. But the most likely scenario is simply that the owner was finding it hard to cope.
I’ve seen it a lot these past few years – unemployment or maybe a benefits cut, and suddenly the family pet becomes a luxury too far. I’ll contact the cat and dog home.’
‘If it’s a question of money . . .’ Rebus began.
‘It’s more that there are too many unwanted pets and not enough potential takers.’
‘So they’ll keep him for a while, and then . . .?’
‘He’ll be put to sleep, most probably. Though I assure you, that’s a measure of last resort.’
The dog was looking at Rebus as if it trusted him to make the right decision.
‘Fine then,’ Rebus said. ‘We’ll leave you to it. Hang on to him a few days, though, will you? We’ll do a bit of searching.’
‘Fingers crossed,’ the vet said, as Rebus opened the door to leave, knowing it was best not to look back.
Outside, Clarke got busy on her phone. ‘Christine’s the social media hotshot. I’ll get her to post the photo everywhere she can think of.’
‘Better still, ask her if she wants a dog.’
‘Getting soft in your old age, John?’
‘Soft as nails,’ Rebus said, climbing into the Astra.
*
The Hermitage was a woodland walk to the south of Morningside, hemmed in by Braid Hills on one side and Blackford Hill on the other. A burn ran through the gorge, crossed here and there by wooden bridges, some in better repair than others. Dog-walkers were the main clientele, along with families with wellingtoned children, plus occasional cyclists. In spring, the air carried the pungency of wild garlic, but in winter the compressed leaves on the path froze and became treacherous.
‘I never come here,’ Clarke said as they walked from the car. They’d had to park on the main road, just down from the Braid Hills Hotel. Clarke had been given instructions to leave the main path as soon as possible and head into the woods along a muddier, narrower route, climbing up a steepening gradient.
Rebus was a few yards behind her, his breathing laboured.
‘Keep up, Grandad,’ she couldn’t help teasing.
‘You might have warned me to bring boots,’ he complained; Clarke had changed into hers at the kerbside.
‘Do you even own any boots?’
‘That’s not the point.’
The barking of a stout yellow Labrador announced their arrival.
‘Mrs Jenkins?’ Clarke checked.
The woman who nodded was in her sixties, hair tucked under the rim of a knitted hat, matching scarf around her neck.
She wore a green puffa jacket and faded denims tucked into green wellies.
‘Detective Inspector Clarke?’ she confirmed. The dog was off its lead but she was gripping it by the collar. Clarke held her ungloved palm out and the dog gave a sniff and a lick.
‘This is Godfrey,’ Mrs Jenkins informed them. She released her grip, allowing the dog to bound into the woods, following some trail only it could sense.
‘He’ll be fine,’ she said with a smile, as if the two detectives had shown qualms about her companion’s well-being.
‘This is where it happened?’ Clarke asked.
The woman nodded. ‘Just over here.’ She led them a short distance. ‘This is the least used of the various paths,’ she informed them. ‘Godfrey and I were a bit further uphill; we’d gone as far as the perimeter of the golf course. I heard the sound and knew it was a shot. My husband Archie used to shoot – grouse and pheasant. Horrible job plucking and cleaning them . . .’
‘You didn’t see anyone?’
‘Sorry.’ The smile this time was thinner. ‘Whoever it was must have headed down the trail sharpish.’
They had stopped beside a young conifer. Some of the bark had been dislodged, and there was splintering, either from the impact of the bullet or more likely from its subsequent removal.
‘A miserable winter’s afternoon,’ the woman continued.
‘Whoever it was probably thought they had the place to themselves.
‘There are a lot of trees here, Mrs Jenkins,’ Rebus said.
‘How did you happen to spot that this was the target?’
‘Smell of . . . what is it? Gunpowder? Cordite? It was in the air, strongest right here, and there was even a wisp of smoke drifting upwards – I must have missed the culprit by seconds.’
She looked from one detective to the other. ‘The police officer said it was probably just a prank of some kind, but from your faces . . . well, I’m guessing perhaps I had a narrow escape.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Clarke sought to reassure her. ‘But there’s been a shooting in the city – nothing fatal, just damage to property – and we’re looking at a possible connection. You don’t happen to remember seeing anyone on your walk?’
‘Baby buggies, other dog-walkers, but no one who didn’t look as if they belonged. I mean, no one Arabic.’
‘Arabic?’ Clarke echoed.
‘Mrs Jenkins,’ Rebus advised, ‘has got it into her head that this may be linked to terrorism.’
‘Well, these days . . .’ Mrs Jenkins’ voice trailed off.
‘It categorically isn’t,’ Clarke stressed.
‘You’ll forgive me, dear, but as a woman once said: you would say that, wouldn’t you?’
Godfrey was circling them, nose to the ground.
‘Any room at home for another dog, Mrs Jenkins?’ Rebus asked.
‘I’m afraid Godfrey would eat it alive.’
Godfrey, drool hanging from his jaws, didn’t appear inclined to disagree.
The forensic science lab was situated in an unassuming building just off Howden Hall Road, on the south side of the city.
Security had been ramped up since an arson attack a few years back that had successfully destroyed some crucial trial evidence. Once inside, Clarke and Rebus had to wait in reception, cameras peering down at them.
‘If she talks to the press . . .’ Clarke commented, not for the first time.
‘I doubt even the Fourth Estate would go along with it.’
‘No, but the Fifth might.’
‘Meaning?’
‘The internet. Bloggers and the like. Their creed is: print anything, just make sure you’re the first.’
‘And retract at leisure?’
‘If at all.’
The man descending the stairs had a photographic identity card hanging around his neck from a lanyard. He was short, squat and bald, and his rolled-up sleeves marked him out as someone perennially busy.
‘DI Clarke?’ he said, making to shake hands. ‘I’m Colin Blunt – no relation, alas.’
‘To the spy?’ Rebus guessed.
‘The singer,’ Blunt corrected him with a frown. He led them upstairs and into a bright subdivided room. There was a table in the middle, and worktops stretching along three walls.
‘Not much equipment,’ Clarke commented.
‘Under-resourced, you might say,’ Blunt offered.
He told them to sit down, and pushed a sheet of paper towards Clarke, apologising to Rebus that he’d only made one copy.
‘We’re just grateful you’ve still got a photocopier somewhere,’ Rebus commented. ‘Maybe you can sum up for me while DI Clarke digests all that.’
‘Well, it’s preliminary stuff – both bullets were pretty mashed up. The impact has a concertina effect, you see.’
‘I do.’
Blunt produced a pair of spectacles and a clean handkerchief, and started polishing as he spoke. ‘There’s a facility we use in England for more detailed
ballistics, but we’d have to get the okay for that – it doesn’t come cheap. But from the look we’ve taken under our own microscope, I’d say there’s
an eighty to ninety per cent chance the bullets were fired from the same gun. The bullets themselves are of American manufacture, for what it’s worth – nine millimetre. Rifling looks similar . . .’ He broke off. ‘I’m referring to the striations.’
‘I know,’ Rebus said. ‘So how many registered users of nine-mil pistols might there be in Scotland?’
‘A handful.’
‘And unregistered?’
‘Who knows?’
‘Not you, obviously, Mr Blunt.’
‘Find us the gun and we’ll tell you if it fired these bullets.’
‘The more we know about the bullets, the better the chance of that happening.’ Rebus paused. ‘To be blunt.’
Blunt pretended to appreciate the joke, managing a weak smile.
Clarke looked up. ‘Want to see?’ she asked Rebus. He shook his head.
‘So we’ve got the attack on Lord Minton,’ Rebus said.
‘Which involved a blow to the head—’
‘Professor Quant has us looking at that,’ Blunt interrupted.
‘We’ve a database here of head injuries caused by hammers and other tools.’
‘Good for you,’ Rebus said, turning his attention back to Clarke. ‘Then the afternoon after Minton’s killed, someone discharges a firearm into a tree, and that same night a shot is fired, presumably at Cafferty’s head.’ He pointed a finger at Blunt. ‘Which goes no further than this room, understood?’
‘Understood,’ Blunt spluttered.
‘The gunman was doing a bit of target practice,’ Clarke surmised.
‘Hardly,’ Rebus said. ‘He fired at a tree. It’s not like he placed tin cans on fence posts or pinned up the outline of a human.’
‘Like when they go to a shooting range in the movies,’ Blunt piped up. The look from Rebus silenced him.
‘So what are you saying?’ Clarke asked.
‘I’m saying this was more like someone who just needed to know they could handle the rudiments.’
‘Point and squeeze.’
‘Exactly. What would the recoil be like? How far could they be from their intended target and still hit it?’
‘Are you saying our guy’s a beginner or a pro?’
‘One or the other, certainly.’
‘Great – I’ll stick that in the computer and see what we get.’
‘No need to be sarky.’ Rebus turned his head towards Blunt.
‘That’s what she’s being, isn’t it? My ears aren’t deceiving me?’
Blunt decided that a shrug was the only appropriate response. But Clarke had a question of her own for him.
‘The drawer from Lord Minton’s desk?’
‘What drawer?’ Rebus interrupted.
‘You’d know if your need for a cigarette last night hadn’t been so urgent.’
‘Ah yes,’ Blunt was saying. ‘Well, again it’s only preliminary . . .’
‘I’ll settle for that.’
‘The stain is an oil of some kind, probably a lubricant. Hard to tell its age or exact make-up without specialised equipment, and again—’
‘It would cost money?’ Clarke nodded. ‘But?’
‘But we also found a few fibres from some loose-woven material, probably predominantly grey in colour. Muslin, maybe.’
‘Something nine inches by six, wrapped in muslin . . .’
Clarke’s eyes were on Rebus. He was folding his arms slowly.
‘Pistol,’ he said.
‘Makes sense. Minton hears a noise downstairs. Unlocks the drawer and takes out the gun. But before he can use it, he’s bludgeoned.’
‘Attacker pockets the gun, but hasn’t used one before.’
‘Or one like it, at any rate. Maybe he’s a bit rusty.’
‘So he reckons he’d better test it before he goes after his next victim. Probably knew Minton was a cinch compared to Cafferty – better to go at Cafferty from a safe distance. Gun must have seemed like a godsend.’
‘But somehow he missed.’
‘He missed,’ Rebus agreed.
‘So he will try again?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Could be Cafferty’s dropped down his list.’
‘No one else has come forward to say they’ve had the warning.’
‘Maybe it’s a really short list,’ Rebus offered. Then, turning to Blunt: ‘What do you think, Colin?’
‘I try to deal with physical data rather than speculation.’
‘Tell me,’ Clarke asked him, ‘did the evidence from the Michael Tolland murder come here?’
The scientist thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘The back door, yes.’
‘And?’
‘And it was prised open by some sort of tool. A crowbar or the corner of a spade. No trace evidence, unfortunately.’
‘Pity,’ Clarke said, the corners of her mouth turning down.
Rebus laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. ‘That’s precisely why you need people like us, Colin – for when your physical data just isn’t there. Now tell me – because you seem like the caring, sensible sort – have you ever considered owning a lovely wee dog?’
Fifteen
Not wanting to risk being seen at a computer terminal by Compston and the others, Fox had ended up at the old Lothian and Borders Police HQ on Fettes Avenue. He showed his warrant card at reception and asked for the whereabouts of the Minton inquiry. Same floor as the old Chief Constable’s lair, and not far from where Fox and his Complaints team had worked, back when the Big House had been his hunting ground and errant cops his prey. There were a few nods of recognition as he moved through the building. James Page, crossing the corridor from one room to another, spotted him.
‘I’m looking for Siobhan,’ Fox said, pre-empting any question Page might have.
‘She’s out at Howden Hall, I think.’
‘Okay if I leave her a note?’
Page nodded distractedly and moved off. The room he’d just been in was now home to the Minton team, including Christine Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie. Fox nodded a greeting.
‘Just trying to catch Siobhan,’ he explained. ‘DCI Page told me to wait. Is this her desk?’
Fox sat down in the empty chair. He waited a full half-minute, then mumbled something about doing a check and got busy at the computer. Siobhan had confided to him one night
that despite hating the nickname, she used ‘Shiv’ as her password. Once in, Fox started checking names. He had four – Simpson, Andrews, Dyson, and Rae – and he wanted to know what Police Scotland had on them.
After ten minutes, Esson asked him if he wanted tea or coffee, but he shook his head.
‘Should I phone her and see how long she’ll be?’
Fox shook his head again. ‘Just sending her an email.’
‘Using telepathy?’ When Fox looked puzzled, Esson explained. ‘Not very many keystrokes, DI Fox.’
For want of any lie she would be likely to accept, he just smiled and got back to work.
Rob Simpson had been part of the Stark ‘family’ for almost a decade, so scratch him. Callum Andrews had a criminal record stretching back to juvenile days, so Fox reckoned he couldn’t be the mole. That left Jackie Dyson and Tommy Rae.
Both men had seen the inside of a courtroom in the past three years, but for minor misdemeanours. As far as he could tell, both had grown up in Glasgow, leaving school at sixteen and drifting into lawlessness from there. Looked as though neither had joined the gang until a year or so ago. Fox remembered them from the beating outside the storage facility. Dyson scrawny, shaven-headed, whey-faced. Rae maybe a year or two older, with more heft to him and a scar down one cheek. A cop with scars? Well, it happened, but not often, and rarely the visible kind. A scar on your cheek came from a knife, razor or bottle. It was as if the street had given you a tattoo. No, Fox’s money was on Jackie Dyson.
Al
ec Bell had said the mole had been working undercover for more than three years. Some of that would have been spent getting known, establishing a reputation, moving closer to the
seat of power. Two years of graft before acceptance into the fold. Having worked surveillance himself, he was intrigued by the type of officer who could immerse himself so thoroughly.
Friends and family would have to be discarded for the duration, the new identity learned by rote, old haunts shunned for fear of recognition. Fox thought back to the beating, Dyson hauling Chick Carpenter back to his feet for a headbutt, then pissing on the man’s car. Meantime Tommy Rae had been content to hold Carpenter’s companion at bay – so did that tip the scales back towards him? Rae content to remain on the periphery, unwilling to cause harm . . . Rae with his facial disfigurement . . . Call it seventy–thirty – seventy per cent Jackie Dyson against thirty for Rae. Fox closed down the various windows and made sure to delete his search history. His phone was buzzing, so he answered.
‘Fox?’ a female voice asked.
‘Hello, Hastie. Do I call you Hastie or Beth?’
‘If you’re not already there, just to say you’ll find the office empty.’ All businesslike. ‘Don’t know when we’ll be back, okay?’
‘Surveillance again? A return trip to the Gimlet?’
‘Bright boy. Later.’ The phone went dead, and Fox got to his feet, nearly bumping into a man in a suit who was toting a box file. The man was ruddy-faced, his breathing ragged. Fox muttered an apology.
‘No problem,’ the man said, making his exit.
‘You’re honoured,’ Christine Esson drawled. ‘That’s a rare sighting of the Charlie Sykes in its native environment.’
‘He seemed busy.’
‘He does a good impression. Carries that box around all day without ever feeling the need to open it.’ She paused, tapping a
pen against her chin. ‘Do you do any impressions yourself, DI Fox?’
‘Such as?’
‘Man sending email.’
Fox gave a sheepish smile. ‘Busted,’ he said, heading for the door.
He drove to the Gimlet, unsure why. He wasn’t going to get in the way, wasn’t going to get close enough to be spotted by Compston’s team. But maybe if there was violence, he would phone it in anonymously. Rebus had been right to castigate him, but would Rebus himself have acted differently? Fox doubted it.