Even dogs in the wild

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Hell are you up to?’ he asked.

  ‘I decided I’ve got the right,’ Cafferty said, barging his way in.

  ‘The right to screw this whole thing up?’ Rebus snarled, slamming shut the door and pursuing Cafferty into the living room. ‘Holroyd knows what you look like – he saw you through your nice big bay window, remember?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So when he sees you here . . .’

  ‘He’s going to think all his Christmases have come a bit late this year.’

  ‘Forget about it,’ Rebus said. His phone was ringing. He answered. ‘Very much a false alarm,’ he informed the firearms officer.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ Clarke asked, joining the party.

  ‘Says he has the right,’ Rebus explained.

  ‘You need to leave,’ Clarke told Cafferty. ‘You are jeopardising this inquiry.’

  ‘I am this inquiry!’ Cafferty spat. ‘ I’m the one who’s been in jeopardy.’

  ‘Which is precisely why you can’t be here. Say a shot goes off and you get hit . . .’ Clarke was shaking her head.

  ‘I need to see him.’

  ‘And so you will – at his trial. But that only happens if we snare him, and you being here makes that impossible. You either leave right now, or I’m pulling my team out.’

  Clarke was standing only inches from him, half a foot shorter but not about to falter. Cafferty was breathing heavily, a man locked and loaded. But Rebus watched as he started to calm.

  ‘Ballsy as ever, Siobhan. John here might not have taught you much, but he taught you that.’

  ‘Leave now,’ she reiterated. Cafferty held up his hands in a show of surrender. ‘I’ve two detectives outside who’ll make sure you don’t just lurk in the vicinity. They’ll want to see you get into a car or a cab. Is that understood?’

  Still holding up his hands, Cafferty started retreating out of the room. Clarke got on her phone and explained things to Esson and Ogilvie. Rebus opened the door for Cafferty.

  Cafferty paused for a moment, glowering over Rebus’s shoulder towards Clarke.

  ‘I’ll let you know the minute we have news,’ Rebus said.

  Cafferty nodded, without looking in the least convinced.

  Then he headed down the path towards the gate, where Ogilvie and Esson were waiting. Rebus closed the door again and

  walked into the living room. Clarke gave him a sharp look. He could only shrug a response, slumping into the chair again and waiting for Brillo to jump on to his lap.

  DAY TEN

  Thirty Nine

  Siobhan Clarke had fallen asleep on her bed, still in her clothes.

  They’d decided to quit at 6.45 a.m. She’d managed a few brief naps in the Dalrymples’ guest bedroom, and had driven home with a head that felt like glue had been poured into it. Now it was just after nine and her phone was ringing. She staggered over to the wall socket where it was charging, arriving just as the call ended. She didn’t recognise the number. The phone was fully charged, so she unplugged it and took it with her as she retreated to her bed. But she was awake now and knew she wouldn’t get back to sleep.

  ‘Shower,’ she muttered, rising once more to her feet.

  There was a café she liked just around the corner from her flat, and she headed out afterwards for the strongest coffee they could muster – a flat white with three shots of espresso. She perched on a stool by the window and watched the traffic crawl uphill towards the Leith Street roundabout. When her phone rang again, it was the same number. This time she answered. It was Sanjeev Patel from Newington Spice.

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting you,’ he said.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Patel?’

  ‘I have been giving the matter some thought, and have spoken to my staff about the mystery, and I think I may have made progress.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘One of our regular customers often takes a batch of menus with him to distribute among his friends and acquaintances. Is it possible these may have made their way to the person you are looking for?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Clarke stifled a yawn. ‘What can you tell me about this customer?’

  ‘His name is Jordan. That’s his Christian name, I’m afraid I don’t have a surname. I think he lives in Newington, but as he always collects his order, I don’t have the actual address.’

  ‘How old would he be?’

  ‘Early twenties.’

  ‘We’re looking for someone a good bit older.’

  ‘I see.’ Patel paused. ‘There’s no point in sending you his photo then?’

  ‘You have a photo?’

  ‘The restaurant’s tenth anniversary – we invited some of our regulars to join us. I was thinking I could send it to you in a text.’

  ‘Might as well, and I appreciate you going to the trouble.’

  ‘No trouble, Inspector. Tell me, did you gain anything from speaking to our printer and distributor?’

  ‘Not a great deal, if I’m being honest.’

  ‘Honesty is the best policy, I’m told. So let me say something – you sound exhausted.’

  Clarke managed a smile. ‘I’ve got caffeine on an intravenous drip.’

  ‘Caffeine is a false god – fresh air and exercise, trust me.’

  ‘I’ll bear those in mind. Meantime, do send me that picture.’

  ‘As soon as we finish speaking. I look forward to seeing you at Newington Spice soon – and Mr Rebus too.’

  Clarke ended the call and drained her cup. She was heading to the counter for a refill when her phone alerted her to a message. It was the photo, showing a group of half a dozen men gathered around a table groaning with food. All looked like staff with one exception. Yes, Jordan was in his early to mid twenties. Close-cropped hair and small, deep-set eyes, his bare arms tattooed with what looked like Celtic symbols. Clarke used thumb and forefinger to zoom in on him. She knew him from somewhere. Then she remembered – he worked at the mortuary. She closed the photo and found Deborah Quant in her contacts list, tapping her number and holding the phone to her ear.

  ‘I never did thank you,’ Quant answered.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Phoning me at that dinner so I could make my excuses.’

  ‘Time to repay the favour then – you’ve got a mortuary attendant, first name Jordan. In his twenties, tattoos on his arms . . .’

  ‘Jordan Foyle, yes.’

  ‘Worked there long?’

  ‘Almost a year. He was in the army before that – found it hard to adjust to Civvy Street, I think.’

  ‘Will he be at work today?’

  ‘No reason to think he won’t – is he in trouble?’

  ‘Probably not. I just need a word with him.’

  ‘Well I’m headed there right now. I’ll be on cadaver duty until two. After that I’m teaching a path class.’

  ‘I’ll pop in and say hello then.’

  ‘You might have to wave from the viewing room – today’s a busy one.’

  ‘Fair enough. Catch you later.’

  Clarke ended the call and tapped the phone against her teeth.

  She had decided against a second coffee – she was starting to jangle as it was. Walking back to her flat, she considered contacting Rebus – he might fancy the detour. Then again, the poor sod had been stuck in Argyle Crescent all night. He would almost certainly be asleep. Besides, Jordan Foyle wasn’t Holroyd, not unless he had a portrait in his attic. Ex-army – she’d heard that it could be difficult for squaddies. They returned home from places like Afghanistan and never quite adjusted. Plenty passed through the police cells and prison service. She hoped Jordan Foyle was one of the luckier ones.

  Five minutes later, she found herself passing the café, this time as part of the stream of slow-moving traffic. She had her window down a couple of inches, as per Sanjeev Patel’s advice about fresh air – not that the rush-hour air was especially fresh.

  Once past the roundabout, she headed for North Bridge, signa
lling right on to Blair Street and down the slope to Cowgate, where the mortuary sat. It was an anonymous grey box with a few similarly anonymous black vans outside its loading bay doors. Clarke made sure she wasn’t blocking any of them as she parked. The public entrance was around the other side of the building, but she opened the staff door and walked down the short corridor – the same one where she’d encountered Jordan Foyle – climbing the stairs from the storage area to the autopsy suite. The viewing room was separated from the autopsy room by a glass partition. There was a row of chairs, and she took one of these, waving to Quant, who waved

  back and indicated to her fellow pathologist that they had a guest.

  Clarke tried not to look at the body on the metal trolley, or at the various basins filled with viscera and organs, or at the drainage channels down which liquids ran. There was a loudspeaker in the ceiling, allowing her to hear what was being said. The atmosphere was calm and professional, Quant recording her findings as the examination continued. The attendant on duty, dressed in scrubs and short green rubber boots, face masked, was not Jordan Foyle. He was a good decade older and had been with the mortuary as long as Clarke could remember. But then the door swung open and Foyle himself entered, carrying a tray of implements and a stack of disposable containers. He laid these out, his back to Clarke.

  When he turned again, he asked Quant if there was anything else she needed.

  ‘That’s fine, Jordan. But DI Clarke would like a word.’

  She gestured towards the viewing room, and Foyle’s eyes met Clarke’s. He nodded slowly and made to leave. Clarke headed out to meet him. He was walking down the corridor away from her, pulling off his protective gloves.

  ‘Jordan?’ she called.

  Rather than stop, he broke into a run. Clarke took a second to realise what was happening, then set off after him. He was down the stairs by now, and she lost sight of him. As she emerged into the car park, he was rounding a corner of the building, shrugging off his scrubs. He began to run up High School Wynd, while Clarke faltered. On foot or in her car?

  ‘Shit,’ she said, making up her mind. She set off in pursuit but he was already at the top of the hill and heading for the Infirmary Lane steps. Clarke took out her phone and got

  through to the area control room, identifying herself and asking for assistance.

  The steps almost defeated her and she ended up using the handrail as she heaved her way to the top, where she had a decision to make: left or right along Drummond Street?

  Towards the Pleasance or Nicolson Street? No sign of Foyle and no one she could ask for guidance. She swore under her breath and placed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart pounding. Her phone was ringing – a patrol car was two minutes away, its occupants wanting to know who they were looking for. Clarke started to give them a description, focusing on the tattoos and the rubber boots. Then she headed back down the steps, retracing her route to the mortuary. Quant was still in the autopsy suite. Clarke thumped on the glass and gestured that she needed a word. Quant met her in the corridor as Clarke was wiping sweat from her face.

  ‘Foyle did a runner,’ she explained between breaths.

  ‘Really?’ Quant still wore her face mask and was holding her viscera-stained gloved hands out in front of her, unwilling to touch anything.

  ‘I need his address.’

  ‘He lives with his parents,’ Quant said. ‘His mother, I should say. His father passed away a month or two back.’

  ‘The address,’ Clarke repeated.

  ‘It’ll be with his personnel file. You’ll need to phone the admin office.’

  ‘Do you know their number?’ Clarke had her phone out. She tapped it in as Quant recited it.

  ‘You might want to sit down and catch your breath,’ Quant cautioned. But Clarke was already walking away, waiting for someone to pick up at the other end.

  By the time she reached her car, she had the address: Upper Gray Street in Newington. She called the officers in the patrol car.

  ‘We’re still on the lookout,’ one of them said. Clarke gave them the address and said she would meet them there. Once on the road, she phoned Rebus. He sounded rightly groggy.

  ‘I might have something,’ she told him, explaining about Foyle.

  ‘Can’t be Holroyd.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘Foyle’s father died a couple of months back. Interesting timing, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’ve had barely three hours’ sleep – thinking isn’t top of my list of priorities.’

  ‘He did a runner, John.’

  ‘Could be any number of reasons for that. Bit of dope in his pocket, parking fines he’s been ignoring . . .’

  ‘Can you meet me at his house anyway? I’m nearly there.’

  She gave him the address. ‘It’s hardly any distance from yours.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘You think that’s where he’ll be headed?’

  ‘It’s the direction he was going. And he’s on foot. Have to admit, for someone in galoshes, he had a turn of speed.’

  ‘If you’ve ever tried running from enemy gunfire in army-issue boots, I’d think a pair of green wellies would feel like kit from the Olympics.’

  ‘I bow to your superior knowledge.’

  ‘If it is him, you’re going to have to be careful.’

  ‘I know.’ Clarke signalled off Newington Road into Salisbury Place and took a left into Upper Gray Street. She could see two uniformed officers standing in the middle of the

  road ahead of her. One was busy making a call, while the other looked ready to explode. They moved out of the way as Clarke squealed to a stop. She wound down her window, her phone held in her free hand.

  ‘Bugger’s got a gun,’ the ruddy-faced officer said.

  ‘You let him take your car?’

  ‘He was running out of the house as we got here. Changed his shoes and with a backpack over one shoulder. Then the gun came out, could have been fake but impossible to tell.’

  ‘You hearing this?’ Clarke said into her phone.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ Rebus replied.

  Denise Foyle sat at the kitchen table with a mug of sweetened tea. There was a laptop on the table, with a printer on the floor beneath. She made a bit of money as an eBay trader, as she had explained to Siobhan Clarke.

  ‘But I just don’t understand,’ she was repeating for the sixth or seventh time. ‘I can’t get my head round what you’re telling me.’

  She was in her late forties, with dyed ash-blonde hair. She wore jewellery round her neck and on her wrists, plus a pair of large earrings that resembled peacock feathers. Though she worked from home, her make-up was immaculate, as were her painted and manicured nails.

  Clarke was perched on the edge of a chair opposite while Rebus stood with his back to the sink. He hadn’t shaved and was in the same clothes as the previous day.

  ‘Where did he get a gun?’ Denise Foyle was asking.

  ‘We have a theory,’ Clarke told her. ‘But right now, our main concern is to bring Jordan in safely.’

  ‘Safely?’

  ‘He’s carrying a firearm, Mrs Foyle. And he brandished it at two unarmed officers. That means we have to take this very seriously. Our own armed response team has been put on alert.’

  She paused meaningfully. ‘We don’t want anything to happen to him, so it would be helpful if you could answer a few questions. Do you have any idea where he might go?’

  ‘He has friends.’

  ‘Details would be good.’

  ‘I’ve probably got a few phone numbers.’

  Clarke nodded her satisfaction. ‘Also, a recent photo of Jordan. We’ve got one, but it’s not the greatest quality.’

  ‘There’ll be some on here from Christmas.’ Foyle pointed to her laptop. ‘Not that it was very festive . . .’

  ‘Your husband passed away?’ Rebus asked. She turned her head towards him.

  ‘At the beginning of De
cember,’ she explained. ‘We’d driven out to Chesser Avenue. We always get a tree from the same charity, Bethany Trust. They have a site there. Mark had just stopped the engine when he slumped forward.’ Her eyes were filling with tears. ‘There’d been a few warning signs – he’d been to the doctor with chest pains, apparently. Again, I only found out after . . .’

  ‘Would you have a photo somewhere?’

  ‘On the mantelpiece.’

  ‘Do you mind if I . . .?’

  She shook her head and Rebus exited the kitchen, turning right into the living room. There were half a dozen condolence cards still displayed on the mantelpiece, along with a selection of photos of the deceased. The most recent showed a man in his mid forties with salt-and-pepper hair and a smile that didn’t

  quite reach his eyes, not even in a much earlier photo taken on his wedding day. Rebus focused on this picture, since it was the one that showed Mark Foyle at his youngest. He lifted it up and studied the face, though he was not sure what he was seeking.

  He photographed it with his own camera. When he’d left Ullapool, he had taken Dave Ritter’s mobile number with him.

  Now he added the photo to a text – Long shot, but could this be the same kid? – and sent it.

  On a corner unit sat further framed family photos, mostly of Jordan Foyle – at primary and secondary schools, then as a teenage army recruit. He had his arms folded and was grinning fit to burst. A later snap had been taken by one of his comrades and showed him in the desert somewhere, his convoy having come to a halt, a fellow soldier holding him in a playful headlock. Rebus wandered back through to the kitchen. Denise Foyle was blowing her nose into a square of kitchen towel, Clarke handing her another so she could dab her eyes.

  ‘Jordan and his dad had a difficult relationship,’ Clarke explained to Rebus. ‘Mark wasn’t exactly touchy-feely modern father material.’

  ‘How did you meet your husband, Mrs Foyle?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘At a nightclub, like you do.’

  ‘Here in Edinburgh?’