Even dogs in the wild

by Ian Rankin

  Despite himself, his breathing was growing ragged, adrenalin surging through his body.

  Yet all the time he watched.

  To and fro they went until they were satisfied. Then they paused for a moment to embrace and kiss, only a few feet away

  from his prone, writhing figure. Dyson squeezed Hastie’s hand and she headed outside, Dyson pausing for a moment, his eyes on Fox. Then he switched off the ceiling light and started to leave. Fox’s makeshift shroud was beginning to steam up, but he could make out Dyson’s figure silhouetted against the night as he stretched up to grab the door and pull it down, locking Fox in his tomb.

  Sudden movement.

  A woman’s shriek.

  Someone had come up behind Dyson and hit him with something. Fox thought he could make out a hammer. The pistol clattered to the ground and another figure picked it up.

  The attacker was delivering a second blow, and then a third and a fourth. Dyson fell to his knees, then on to his front, face against tarmac. Fox had the impression that a second shriek was coming from a distance – Beth Hastie was making a run for it.

  He found that he was almost holding his breath, the blood pounding in his ears. And now Dyson – unconscious at the very least – was being dragged along the ground by his feet, disappearing from view. Fox got the feeling he was being lifted into the boot of his car. He heard the boot lid slam in confirmation. And now there was a shadowy figure standing at the threshold to the lock-up, as if taking stock. It moved forward into the gloom and knelt in front of Fox, for all the world as if it might be about to pray. But then there was a glint of steel and a knife began to slice through the covering. The figure prised the polythene apart, exposing Fox’s face.

  Darryl Christie.

  He looked Fox up and down, then got his fingernails under the tape and pulled it free of his mouth. Fox took in gulps of air, feeling he might be sick at any moment.

  ‘Dyson killed Dennis,’ he blurted out. And was rewarded with a slow nod.

  ‘Anthony told us. They trussed him up too.’

  The second figure was waiting a couple of yards away, and Fox realised it was Joe Stark.

  ‘Joe’s a traditionalist,’ Christie explained. ‘No shooters needed – just a nice big claw hammer. I find that admirable.’

  ‘We need to go,’ Stark growled.

  Christie got back to his feet, brushing dust from the knees of his trousers. ‘I’ll call it in,’ he told Fox. ‘The cavalry’ll come for you soon.’

  ‘Hastie . . .?’

  ‘She’s running like her life depends on it. Which it probably does. She might actually never stop running.’ He began to walk away, pausing only to admire the red motorbike. Then he got into the car and started reversing out of Fox’s field of vision.

  Joe Stark hadn’t got into the passenger seat – presumably the car they had come in was nearby. A small pool of liquid shone in the moonlight, all that remained of Jackie Dyson. Fox wondered if he would ever come to learn his real name, the name of the man he had been before he’d been sent into the underworld as a mole.

  He didn’t suppose it mattered.

  The first youth appeared a few minutes later, hood pulled low over his head, a scarf masking the lower half of his face. He studied the prone figure and listened as Fox asked for help. But, saying nothing, all he did was wheel away the red motorcycle.

  A couple of minutes after that, more hooded figures arrived and took the rest of the haul, leaving Fox to wait for the patrol car

  with its flashing lights. Siobhan Clarke was there too, helping to cut him free and listening to his story.

  ‘We better check Anthony’s okay,’ he said, rubbing the circulation back into his hands.

  ‘We’ll do that.’

  His phone had fallen from his pocket and she picked it up, handing it to him. ‘You’ve got a text,’ she said.

  He looked at the screen. At the two words written there.

  He’s gone.

  Forty Two

  Rebus sat in the living room. It was lit by a single standard lamp in the opposite corner. The curtains were open a few inches and the back door was unlocked. Brillo was curled at his feet as he held the phone to his ear, waiting for it to be answered. He had already had one text from Dave Ritter to the effect that he couldn’t say for sure the photo had been of Bryan Holroyd, plus a long call from Deborah Quant expressing her disbelief that the killer had been under her nose the whole time.

  ‘It’s often the way, Deb,’ Rebus had told her, thinking of how the Acorn House abusers had carried on with their lives undetected.

  The ringing tone stopped, replaced by Malcolm Fox’s voice.

  ‘Not really a good time, John.’

  ‘Siobhan just told me. Sorry about your father.’

  ‘I’m at the hospital right now.’

  ‘How’s Jude?’

  ‘Weirdly calm.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Most of me’s still lying cocooned in that lock-up.’

  ‘It was Jackie Dyson then?’

  ‘With a little help from his lover. We need to bring in Christie and Stark.’

  ‘It’ll happen. Though I don’t suppose we’ll ever find a body or the car they took it away in.’

  ‘It was still murder.’

  ‘You sure he was dead?’

  ‘He had to be.’

  ‘I know what a good advocate would do with that in court.’

  ‘Nevertheless.’

  ‘Chief Constable’s not going to want it getting out – undercover officer goes feral, kills two.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Fox repeated. Then: ‘I would have died back there if Christie hadn’t come to my rescue. I was stupid not to take back-up.’

  ‘Welcome to my world – it’s taken you long enough.’

  ‘I really don’t know if I can do this.’

  ‘Go easy on yourself, Malcolm – your dad’s just died. Of course you’re feeling low. You need to focus on the funeral now. Give it a week or two before you decide to chuck in a job you’re just starting to get good at.’

  ‘Aye, maybe.’ Fox expelled air loudly. ‘Are you at home?’

  ‘Where else?’

  ‘Finally got a suspect for the Minton murder, I hear.’

  ‘City’s locked down tight. He won’t be going anywhere.’

  Rebus paused. ‘I better let you go – sorry again about your dad.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Anything I can do, you only have to say. We’ll have a bit of a wake, see how you’re feeling by then.’ Rebus turned his head towards the open doorway. Jordan Foyle was standing there, a crowbar in his hand. ‘Talk to you later,’ Rebus said, ending the call. Brillo had woken up and was taking an interest in the new arrival.

  ‘You’re not Dalrymple,’ Foyle said, taking a couple of steps into the room. He was wearing a thin cotton camouflage jacket over a hooded sweatshirt.

  ‘Not brought the gun?’ Rebus commented.

  ‘Who are you?’ Foyle was standing in front of him, half brandishing the crowbar. Rebus rested his hands on the arms of his chair, presenting no threat whatsoever. ‘Haven’t I seen you at the mortuary? You’re the guy Professor Quant goes out with.’

  Rebus acknowledged the fact with a slight bow of the head.

  ‘My name’s John Rebus. I’ve been looking into Acorn House.

  Your father changed his name from Bryan Holroyd, didn’t he?’

  Foyle’s eyes widened slightly. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘More to the point, son, how do you?’

  ‘Where’s Dalrymple?’

  ‘It’s finished, Jordan. What we need now is an inquiry into Acorn House. For that to happen, we need at least one of the abusers able to testify – meaning alive. You were in Afghanistan, weren’t you? I served in Northern Ireland during the Troubles. It never quite goes away – you change and you stay changed. I’m not saying I know what you’ve been through . . .’ Rebus broke off. ‘Look, why don’t you sit yourself down? />
  You seem about ready to keel over. It’s a cold night to be on the run, but you’re safe enough here. There’s a sandwich on the kitchen table and a couple of cans of Irn-Bru. Feel free to help yourself.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I used to be a cop. I’ve known Big Ger Cafferty for years.

  He wanted me to help find whoever fired that shot.’

  ‘Can’t believe I missed.’

  ‘Minton got the gun on the black market – sighting’s probably wonky. Fact he bought it at all means he took your note seriously. Cafferty’s a bit more used to threats, so he dismissed it at first. Did Michael Tolland get one too?’ Rebus watched the young man nod. ‘Must have tossed it then, because we never found it. Took the inquiry a while to link the cases because of that.’

  ‘You know I’m still going to have to kill you?’

  ‘No you’re not. You’re going to take the weight off your feet and tell me the whole story. Unless you want a drink first.’

  The young man stood there, Rebus allowing the silence to linger as calculations were made. ‘I need to fetch my backpack,’ Foyle said eventually.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘The garden.’

  ‘Is the gun in it?’

  Foyle nodded. ‘But that’s not what I need.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘It’s not my story you need to hear – it’s my dad’s.’

  ‘And that’s in the backpack?’ Rebus watched the young man nod. ‘On you go then,’ he said.

  ‘You’re coming with me – so you don’t try calling anybody.

  In fact, give me your phone.’ Foyle stretched out his free hand and Rebus placed the phone in it. Then he rose slowly to his feet and preceded Foyle into the kitchen and the garden beyond.

  With the backpack retrieved, they headed back indoors, Rebus suggesting that Foyle could maybe dispense with the crowbar.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Foyle said.

  ‘There are armed officers all across the city, Jordan. They see you brandishing anything more solid than a white hankie,

  they’re going to take you down. There were even a couple of them here last night, lying in wait.’

  Foyle couldn’t help himself. He swivelled towards the window, peering through the gap in the curtains.

  ‘They’re not there now,’ Rebus assured him. ‘Nobody thought you’d be coming. Nobody but me. That’s why I left the door unlocked.’

  After a further check of the street outside, Foyle settled on the edge of the sofa. As he undid the backpack’s straps, he studied Brillo.

  ‘Your dog?’ he asked.

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘I was never allowed a pet. Dad wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘I spoke with your mother – he seems to have been a piece of work.’

  ‘That’s why he wrote the journal – a sort of apology, I suppose.’

  ‘Your mum doesn’t know about it?’

  Foyle shook his head. ‘He handed it to me one night, told me to keep it to myself. He knew he was ill by then . . .’ He broke off. ‘Easier if you see for yourself.’ He got up off the sofa and crossed the room towards Rebus, handing over a moleskin notebook, held closed by an elasticated cloth band. ‘I’ll maybe go get that sandwich,’ the young man said, leaving the room.

  Rebus unhooked the band and began to read.

  The first thing I need you to know, Jordan, is that I wasn’t born Mark Foyle. Mark was a lad I got to know when I was sleeping rough in London. He was an addict and one winter he just passed away.

  Similar age to me and he still had a National

  Insurance card, so it was easy enough to take his identity. Up till then I’d been Bryan Holroyd.

  That’s the name I was born with. My real birthday’s exactly a month before you think it is.

  Not that I’ll be having any more birthdays. I’ve not said anything to your mum but I’ve been seeing doctors and it doesn’t look good – there’s an operation I could have but I don’t want it. When it’s time, it’s time. I’ve cheated death once, and once was probably enough. I was hanging around in a café before one of the consultations, thinking the usual morbid thoughts, when the song came on.

  At first I couldn’t think where I’d heard it, then I remembered. I opened Shazam on my phone and got a match – ‘Even Dogs in the Wild’. It’s by a group called the Associates. Turns out they’re Scottish. It had been playing that night, as they drove me out to a forest in Fife to bury me. It all came flooding back then, and I felt suddenly really shitty about the way I’d treated you. I couldn’t bring myself to love you. I just couldn’t. Maybe after reading this you’ll understand why . . .

  Rebus broke off and watched as Jordan Foyle resumed his perch, the club sandwich in one hand and an open can in the other. The young man chewed, saying nothing, his eyes on Rebus’s. Rebus lowered his own eyes and took up the story again.

  For a while I was worried I must be gay. I mean, I didn’t feel gay, but I’d had sex with a man,

  so did that make me gay? When Denise showed an interest, I tried putting her off, but you know your mum – she’s nothing if not persistent! And later on, when I would wake up sobbing, she’d calm me down. She knew there was something I wasn’t telling her, but she said I’d confide in her when I was good and ready. That day’s never come.

  Maybe you’ll show her this and maybe you won’t – your decision. She was the love of my life – she probably saved my life – and that’s the truth. Then she got pregnant and out you popped. And I was cold towards you from the start. I wanted to shut you away from the world, from all the predators out there. I even feared I might turn out to be one myself. So I pushed you away and I know that hurt you – it won’t be any consolation that it hurt me too . . .

  ‘First few pages are mostly family,’ Jordan Foyle stated, slurping from the can. ‘Bit that might interest you is further on.’

  Rebus turned some pages until he saw names he recognised and started to read again.

  They’d been drinking and doing drugs, and forcing them on me too. Anything to deaden the thoughts and feelings. These were men with gross appetites and nothing to stop them indulging those appetites to the full. Me and the other kids weren’t going to be listened to. We were the dregs. David was David Minton, a bigwig lawyer – for years I felt queasy if I ever saw him in a newspaper or on

  TV. His pal was an MP called Howard Champ.

  Jimmy was James Broadfoot, and believe it or not, he was Chief Constable in the city. See? These are the kind of men they were – powerful and full of themselves. Todd Dalrymple mostly liked to watch, or just hang out with these bastards. I think he owned a casino in the city. Mickey Tolland worked at Acorn House – everyone based there knew what went on, but he was the one doing the organising.

  And guess what? He won the bloody lottery a few years back – I had to switch the news off when they showed his stupid grinning face. Married, too.

  Happy as a pig in shit. Pricks and bastards, the lot of them.

  It was Champ who throttled me. That was his thing. But instead of going along with it, I keeled over and pretended I was convulsing. Then I went stock still and held my breath. Thought I was going to be rumbled when someone checked my pulse, but they were so out of it and panicky, they obviously didn’t do it right. A man called Cafferty was mentioned. He’d sort it out. By which they meant get rid of my body. So these two men arrived. By that time, I’d been wrapped up in the sheet I was lying on, which was fine by me – I could breathe a bit without them noticing. They threw me into the boot of their car and that was that. Their names were Paul and Dave, but that’s all I know. And they had the radio on. No, actually it was a tape, because one of them ejected it – he didn’t like the song. The same song I heard in that

  café – ‘Even Dogs in the Wild’. I listened to it and couldn’t believe the words. It was almost as if they’d been written for me. I decided there and then to buy this diary and write in it, something for you to have
while I’m still alive.

  Rebus looked up again. Lured by the sandwich, Brillo was sitting on the floor at Foyle’s feet. Foyle was feeding him morsels of chicken and bacon and rubbing his coat at the same time.

  ‘Did you talk to him?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘He only gave it to me the night before he died. But that morning, I gave him a hug in the upstairs hall. We weren’t great at talking. And all because of what happened in that place. His life ruined, my relationship with him ruined – because of those fuckers.’ Foyle nodded towards the book. ‘He ran for his life and lay shivering in those woods all night, covered with leaves and whatever else he could scoop up. Then he stole clothes and money from a house and got as far away as he could. London for a while, then Glasgow – that’s where he met Mum.’ He paused. ‘Did you mean what you said about an inquiry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would it do any good?’

  ‘It might take down a few reputations.’

  ‘And meanwhile I’ll be doing time for murder?’

  ‘You’ll plead diminished responsibility. Throw post-traumatic stress into the mix and you should be fine.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You’ll serve a few years, but not many.’

  ‘ If I turn myself in.’

  ‘What else are you going to do – run away to London?’

  ‘That man Cafferty – he’ll put a price on my head.’

  ‘No he won’t. He wanted your dad found so he could say sorry to him. My guess is, the same apology’s coming to you.’

  ‘Even though I tried to kill him?’

  ‘Even so,’ Rebus confirmed.

  Foyle turned his head towards the backpack sitting next to him on the sofa. ‘I was seriously thinking about blowing my brains out – after I’d settled with Dalrymple.’

  ‘You shouldn’t do that,’ Rebus said quietly. Then: ‘Any chance I can have my phone back?’

  Foyle’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to see if I can get on the internet. There’s a song I really need to hear.’