by Ian Rankin
The street the Gimlet sat on, an unlovely passageway between Slateford Road and Calder Road, was lined with parked cars, putting paid to his idea of finding a kerbside spot.
He had a choice: reverse, or keep going? Keeping going meant passing the surveillance vehicle and maybe being spotted. But reversing would look suspicious. Biting down hard on his bottom lip, he pressed the accelerator.
He was almost level with the bar when its door burst open, men spilling out. Dennis was first, then his gang. There was blood on Rob Simpson’s white shirt, and he was holding a hand over his nose. And here came the reason – a hulk of a man in a stained T-shirt two sizes too small, his biceps bulging, arms tattooed. He was shouting the odds and swinging a baseball bat.
But it was one against five, and the Stark gang were beginning to circle their prey. Fox noted that up close, Tommy Rae’s scar was almost as red and angry as the tattooed man’s face.
Dyson’s hand was going into his pocket, presumably for a
knife. Fox gritted his teeth and pulled on the handbrake.
Undoing his seat belt, he sounded his horn, got out and strode towards the melee.
‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Stay out of this, pal!’ Dyson spat, the blade concealed in his fist.
‘Not a fair fight,’ Fox persisted. ‘I’m calling the—’
Dyson pounced, his fist proving the perfect fit for Fox’s unprepared jaw. Another swipe connected with the side of his face, and he could feel his knees buckling, the world spinning.
As his vision started to blur, his last sight was of Alec Bell, hands glued to the surveillance car’s steering wheel, mouth making the shapes of words that would probably not be welcome in church.
There was an angel peering down at him. Shrouded in white, cheeks rose-tinged.
‘You’re awake,’ the angel said, turning into a nurse.
‘Where am I?’ Fox looked around. He was lying on a trolley in a white booth with a curtain draped across. He was still in his clothes. His face hurt and he had a blinding headache, which the strip lighting was doing its best to exacerbate.
‘Royal Infirmary – A and E, to be precise. How are you feeling?’
Fox tried to sit up. It only took him ten or so seconds. His vision was still a bit blurry and his face felt swollen.
‘How did I get here?’
‘Your friend drove you.’
‘Did he?’
‘He did.’
Fox remembered Alec Bell’s face. Oh, but they’d be furious with him for this. ‘Just dumped me here?’
‘Not a bit of it. He’s in the waiting area. Doctor will want to take a look at you.’
‘Why?’
‘To check for concussion.’
‘I’m fine.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Did you have a guy in here yesterday from CC Self Storage? Name of Chick Carpenter?’
‘Rings a bell. He said some packing cases fell on him. What about you?’
‘Believe it or not, the self-same thing.’
‘Get away. And these packing cases wore a ring of some kind?’ She nodded towards his face. ‘It’s left an indentation.
Yesterday, it was a size nine boot.’
Fox pressed a finger to the area indicated and wished he hadn’t. ‘Fancy that.’ He winced, struggling to get to his feet, then patted his pockets to ensure nothing had been removed.
‘Am I right in thinking you can’t stop me leaving?’
‘Only an idiot would walk out of here in your state.’
‘That may well be true.’ Fox smiled and gave a little bow.
‘Men your age shouldn’t be fighting.’
‘I was trying to referee,’ he told her.
‘Will you take one bit of advice at least?’ He paused, waiting. ‘A bag of frozen peas will bring down the swelling.’
Nodding, he shuffled out of the cubicle and into the waiting area.
He had expected to see Alec Bell or another of the team, but it was the man from the bar, the one with the bat.
‘What did they say?’ the man asked.
‘That fools rush in.’
‘I don’t know about that, mate. I’d say you were bloody brave.’
‘What happened? After I conked out, I mean.’
‘Seemed to quieten them a bit – there you were, sparked out in the road, and with traffic coming from both directions. Got to tell you, you’re on free drinks for life in my place.’
‘I don’t drink.’
‘Thank God for that – saves me a few bob. I’m Davie Dunn, by the way. I drove you here in your car. Need to get that clutch seen to.’
‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘I know a guy. I’ll fix you up with him.’
‘So they just left, did they?’
‘There’d have been a few cracked skulls in here if they hadn’t.’
‘I thought one of them was pulling a knife.’
Dunn nodded. ‘One of those thin blades from the DIY
stores. But Stark gave the word and that was that.’
‘Stark?’ Fox asked, fishing.
‘Don’t be fooled, Davie – he knows fine well who Stark is.’
The voice had come from behind Fox. He turned too quickly, almost losing his balance as the world spun. Darryl Christie had emerged from the toilet and was wiping his hands dry with a handkerchief. ‘This is Detective Inspector Fox, Davie. And suddenly it all makes sense. There’s a surveillance operation on the Starks, yes? After the stunt they pulled yesterday with Chick Carpenter?’
‘Is there?’ Fox countered, dry-mouthed.
‘You know one another?’ Dunn was asking.
‘DI Fox came to see me a couple of days back. He’s been to the Gimlet, too, back in the days when I owned it.’ Christie
focused his attention on Fox. ‘Davie here is a good friend of mine. That’s why I sold him my pride and joy. The Gimlet taught me a lot of lessons – hard knocks, you might call them.
So when Davie tells me the Starks have been threatening him, well . . . I listen. And that’s what brought me running.’ He had folded the handkerchief back into his pocket. ‘Now, here’s the message I want you to take back to Rebus or whoever else is involved in this surveillance of yours – the Starks are going down, end of. You can save us all a lot of grief by walking away and letting me get on with it.’
‘What if I’d walked away today, though?’ Fox gestured towards Davie Dunn. ‘What then?’
‘I’m just saying, best if your lot steer clear.’ Christie looked around the waiting area. ‘Where are your buddies anyway? I know Police Scotland are stretched, but a one-man surveillance?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘They let you take that beating, didn’t they? Is that because they didn’t want the surveillance compromised? Or maybe they just liked seeing someone who used to be in Professional Standards get a doing?’
Christie smiled, watching Fox try to formulate an answer. Then he patted Fox’s forearm. ‘Don’t go straining yourself. Got all your stuff? Davie here will take you home.’
And Fox did want to go home. It didn’t even bother him that both Christie and Dunn would then know where he lived.
Chances were, Christie either already knew, or could find out in five minutes. So Dunn drove, while Fox sat in the passenger seat, still in pain. Christie was behind them all the way in a Range Rover Evoque.
‘You’ve known Darryl a while, then?’ Fox asked.
‘Probably best we don’t talk about any of that – now I know you’re police.’
‘Does the drinks-for-life offer still stand?’
‘Of course. Thing is, once my regulars get a whiff of you, you’re not going to want to linger.’
‘Which might temper the enjoyment.’
‘It might.’ Dunn glanced at him. ‘No offence, but you don’t look like the kind of cop who’d do surveillance.’
‘Oh?’
‘You seem more of a pen-pusher.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you.�
�� Fox paused. ‘Will they come back, do you think?’
‘Stark and his posse? I suppose they might.’
‘You used to drive lorries, didn’t you?’
‘Europe, Ireland, all over.’ Dunn paused. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Secret of a good surveillance – know everything. You drove for Hamish Wright?’
‘Haven’t seen him in years.’
‘I’m guessing the Starks think otherwise.’
‘The Starks haven’t got the brains they were born with.’
‘Doesn’t seem to have held them back.’
‘It’ll be their downfall, though. This is 2015. Stanley knives and fifty-quid drug deals? Reckon they’ve ever heard of Bitcoin or the darknet? They’re a market stall in the age of Amazon.’
‘Yet still a threat.’
‘Because they’re panicking.’
‘Last time I saw Darryl, at his hotel, he seemed to be heading that way too.’
‘Panicking, you mean? Maybe he was putting on a show for you.’ Dunn glanced towards his passenger again. ‘Besides, we’re not talking about that, remember? Want me to drop you
home and take your car to my mate’s? He’d have this clutch fixed by day’s end.’
Fox shook his head. As they entered Oxgangs, he had to start giving directions.
‘Nice and peaceful around these parts?’ Dunn enquired.
‘So far,’ Fox replied. ‘Just here will do, thanks.’
The car drew up by the kerb, both men getting out. Fox took the keys from Dunn, who gave a wave rather than a handshake as he got into the Range Rover. Christie did a three-point turn and drove off, and Fox headed indoors. He thought about running a bath. A nice long soak. He had no messages on his phone, no missed calls. He plugged the phone in to charge and poured a big glass of tap water, gulping it down. Only then did he wander into the bathroom to check the damage in the mirror.
Bruising down one side of his face. His chin hurt, and he’d obviously fallen on his arm as he hit the carriageway.
You’ll live, he told himself. Not that anyone’s bothered.
The doorbell went. He peered through the spyhole before opening up to Compston and Bell. Compston stormed inside without invitation, Bell fixing Fox with a look before following.
Compston stood in the centre of the living room, feet apart, arms folded. ‘Nice of them to drop you home,’ he growled.
‘Your new friends, I mean.’
‘You’d have left me lying in the road, right?’ Fox retorted.
‘Didn’t you learn anything from yesterday?’
‘I wasn’t going to let them stab anyone.’
Compston turned his attention to Bell. ‘Knives?’
‘I didn’t see any.’
‘Jackie Dyson was getting ready to pull one out.’ Fox studied both men’s reaction, but they were giving nothing away.
‘Nevertheless,’ Compston eventually said. Then: ‘Did you identify yourself as the law?’
‘I didn’t need to – Darryl Christie knows me, remember.’
‘I meant Stark and his boys.’
Fox shook his head.
‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure. But meantime, Christie has put two and two together – he knows there’s surveillance on the Starks.’ Fox raised a hand as Compston bared his teeth. ‘Before you go the full Hannibal Lecter, he thinks it’s locally sourced and all down to the attack at the storage unit.’
‘Will he tell the Starks?’
‘Why the hell should he? It gives him something over them.
And incidentally, he tells me he’s going to take them out of the game. Didn’t sound like he was joking.’
‘We’ll deal with that as and when.’
‘By sitting back and watching?’
Compston’s face hardened. ‘You used to run surveillance operations against your own kind, Fox. Like I said yesterday, I’m guessing sometimes you’d have to sit and watch.’ He took a step forward, arms by his sides now. ‘In fact, from what little I know of you, I’d say you enjoyed watching, and those bruises of yours tell me you’d do well to stick to what you’re best at.’
He paused, face inches from Fox’s. ‘Understood?’ Without waiting for an answer, he stalked towards the front door, Alec Bell at his heels. This time, Bell kept his gaze directed at the floor. When the door had closed, Fox went back into the bathroom, intent on some paracetamol and that long soak he had promised himself.
When he emerged almost an hour later, having changed into fresh clothes, he had one missed call and one text, both from
Bell. The text told him to send a message saying when would be a good time to talk.
Right now, Fox replied. Sixty seconds later, his phone rang.
‘Sorry about all that,’ Bell said. His voice had a bit of echo to it.
‘Where are you?’
‘The bogs at St Leonard’s. Listen, I felt hellish, not stepping in – I just wanted you to know that. I mean, Ricky’s right, of course, but all the same . . .’
‘You saw the blade, didn’t you?’
‘He put it away sharpish.’
‘Jackie Dyson, though – who also didn’t hold back when it came to giving Chick Carpenter a doing.’
‘So?’
‘My gut feeling is, Dyson’s your mole. If I’m right, doesn’t it look to you like he might have gone native?’
There was silence on the line.
‘Well?’ Fox persisted.
‘You know I can’t say anything.’
‘You owe me this much at least, Alec. I went to the ground and you just sat in your damned car . . .’
‘Malcolm—’
‘And here’s the thing – I’ve had your back throughout, haven’t I? I’ve not told Compston you blabbed about the mole.
So just tell me – it’s Dyson, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And could he be getting too much in character? We’ve both heard of it happening.’
‘Our boy knows what he’s doing.’
‘You sure about that? How often do you talk to him?’
‘Not in a while. That’s how it has to work.’
‘But have you noticed any change in him?’
‘He has to look committed, Malcolm – that’s how those guys get where they are and then stay there once they’ve arrived.’ Fox heard the man give a sigh. ‘Look, I’ve got to go.
You should take tomorrow off, get some ice on those bruises.’
‘Nice of you to show such belated concern.’
‘Two final words, then, Malcolm – Fuck. You.’
The phone went dead, but then suddenly vibrated. Another incoming message, this time from Rebus: Want a dog?
Fox shut the phone down and trekked to the fridge, in search of frozen veg.
‘You coming in?’ Davie Dunn asked. Christie had pulled up in front of the Gimlet. He gazed out at the pub’s uninviting exterior and shook his head, but as Dunn made to get out, he grabbed him by the arm.
‘Talked to your old employer recently?’ he enquired.
‘I’ll tell you what I told Stark and his gang – I haven’t set eyes on Hamish Wright in years.’
‘Doesn’t mean you’ve not spoken with him on the phone.’
‘He’s ancient history, Darryl.’
‘You’ll be history too, if you don’t give me a straight answer.’
‘I’ve not seen him, I’ve not spoken to him.’
‘But have you heard anything about his whereabouts?’
‘Nothing.’
‘He has other old pals in the city, though, yes?’
‘Honest to God, I wouldn’t know.’
‘You’re absolutely sure about that?’
‘On my kids’ lives, Darryl.’
The two men locked eyes, Christie eventually releasing Dunn’s sleeve. But as Dunn got out of the car and closed the door, Christie wound down the window and called him back.
Dunn leaned in so his face filled the open wind
ow.
‘Your kids are Lottie and Euan. She’s sixteen, he’s eleven.
You split from their mum but I know the address. You swore to me on their lives, Davie. Bear that in mind . . .’
The window slid back up again, the Evoque moving off, leaving Davie Dunn standing in the roadway, his legs a little more leaden than before, his heart pounding and his mouth dry.
A drink, he realised, would fix only one of these, but one out of three was a start . . .
Sixteen
Christine Esson showed Rebus and Clarke what she’d done.
‘And all of it on company time, so I hope you’ve got my back covered.’
The terrier looked at its most appealing. A bit of the vet’s arm and examination table could be seen, though Esson had managed to crop most of it out. She had provided a brief description of where the dog had been found, along with an email address.
‘Whose address is it?’ Rebus enquired.
‘Created specially,’ she informed him.
‘And this is on Facebook?’
‘And Twitter, and a few other places. My friends will make sure it gets noticed.’
‘How many friends?’
‘Around three and a half thousand.’
Rebus stared at her. ‘Parties at your house must be quite something.’
‘She means online friends,’ Clarke explained for his benefit.
‘I could set up an account for you if you like,’ Esson teased him.
Rebus ignored this and instead asked Clarke how many days they should give it.
‘Up to you,’ she said.
‘Social media usually works fast or not at all,’ Esson advised.
‘And meantime there’s a vet in Edinburgh getting rich at my expense,’ Rebus made show of complaining.
‘I don’t see you spending your pension on much else,’
Clarke commented.
‘I still have to count the pennies.’
‘All the way into the till of the Oxford Bar.’ Clarke was smiling as she tried Malcolm Fox’s number, but he didn’t pick up.
Cafferty hadn’t been answering his phone, but he had made plenty of calls, up and down the country. He’d also had quiet meetings in a bar near Quartermile, exchanging handfuls of banknotes for information or the vow to keep eyes and ears open and report back. He went out wearing a three-quarter-length brown coat (rather than his habitual black) and a cap and scarf (where usually he’d be bare-headed whatever the weather). Having not bothered to shave, he resembled the other old men on the street, especially when, having noted its near-ubiquity, he added a polythene carrier bag to the ensemble. The bag held the local paper and two tins of Scotch broth.