Ian Rankin: Even Dogs in the Wild

Page leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. The nod he gave was half-hearted at best. Clarke made the call anyway.

Laura Smith was at the café twenty minutes later, by which time Page had headed back to the office. He’d used the excuse of a meeting, but Clarke knew he was putting distance between himself and the plan. If it blew up in their faces in any way, Clarke would be the one left explaining to the Chief.

‘You’ve grown your hair,’ Clarke said, after Smith had paid for a bottle of water and seated herself in Page’s chair.

‘And you’ve had yours cut — it suits you.’ Smith broke the seal on the bottle and tipped it to her mouth.

‘How’s the newspaper business?’

Still drinking, Smith rolled her eyes. She was just over five feet in height, but every inch of her was focused on getting ahead, which was tough when your chosen profession seemed to be in its death throes. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand and screwed the top back on the bottle.

‘More redundancies in the offing,’ she said.

‘You should be safe though, no?’

‘Well, I’m the only crime reporter they’ve got, and last time I looked, crime still sold papers, so…’ She gave a huge shrug of the shoulders and concentrated her attention on Clarke. ‘Is it about Lord Minton?’

‘Yes.’

‘On the record?’

‘Sort of. Though I’d prefer it if “police sources” was the phrase of choice — and I’ll need to see what you write before your editor does.’

Smith puffed out her cheeks. ‘Is that non-negotiable?’

‘Afraid so.’

Smith gave a twitch of the mouth and dug her phone out of her pocket. ‘Can I record this anyway, just as a memo to myself?’

‘I don’t see why not. But I’m going to be showing rather than telling.’

Smith was busying herself with her phone’s recording function. When she eventually looked up, Clarke was holding out the photocopied note.

‘From Lord Minton’s wallet,’ she stated.

The noise Laura Smith made — as captured by her phone — was pitched somewhere between a squeal and a whoop.

‘Is this where you ask me about the favour I’m supposed to have done Darryl Christie?’ Rebus asked Fox. They were in the Saab, Rebus driving. Fox was gripping his seat belt with one hand and the door handle with the other.

‘I’m not Complaints any more.’

‘Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t shop a bent cop though, right?’

‘As you keep reminding me, you’re not a cop these days. We headed to the Gimlet?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I forgot — I took you there once to see Darryl. But he’s long finished hanging out at dives like that. He owns a couple of nightclubs in the city centre, along with a casino and “boutique” hotel, whatever that means.’

‘It usually means expensive.’

‘Well, we’re about to find out.’

‘What makes you think we’ll find him there?’

Rebus glanced towards his passenger. ‘People tell me things.’

‘Even though you’ve retired from the police?’

‘Even so.’

The car had made its descent from Queen Street into the heart of the New Town. Just before reaching Royal Circus, Rebus pulled over to the kerb. He applied the brake but the car crept forward.

‘Keep forgetting it does that.’ He shifted the gearstick into first before turning off the engine.

‘Ever thought about trading up to the twenty-first century?’ Fox was having trouble with the seat belt. Eventually he got it unlocked and clambered out, while Rebus rubbed the Saab’s roof and told it not to listen to the nasty man.

The hotel was part of a typical Georgian terrace, its signage discreet. Inside there was a hallway containing nothing as obvious as a reception desk. Rebus turned left into a plush cocktail bar. A slim young Asian man in a bright red waistcoat was ready with a smile.

‘Checking in, gentlemen? Take a seat and someone will be with you in a trice.’

‘We’re here to see Darryl,’ Rebus corrected him.

‘Darryl…?’ The smile was hardening.

‘Darryl Christie, son,’ Rebus barked. ‘I know he doesn’t like visitors, but he’ll make an exception. Just tell him it’s Rebus.’

‘Rebus?’

Rebus nodded and sank back into a heavily padded black velour sofa. Fox stayed on his feet, studying the furnishings. Thick velvet curtains tied back with plaited golden ropes. Odd-shaped mirrors. Jelly beans and rice crackers in little bowls on each glass-topped table. Rebus was helping himself to a scoop of each.

The barman had disappeared around the back of the gantry and was making a muffled phone call. There was music playing, but not obtrusively. Something electronic.

‘Doing all right for himself, then,’ Fox commented.

‘And as Cafferty said, all of it looking above board to the naked eye.’

‘But he’s dirty nevertheless?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And we’ve not done anything because…?’ Fox sat down opposite Rebus.

‘Because he’s been lucky. Because he’s clever. Because maybe he has friends in the right places.’

‘What would your guess be?’

Rebus swallowed the last of the snack and began picking between his teeth with a fingernail. ‘Sometimes there’s such a thing as a responsible criminal.’

‘Explain.’ Fox sat forward a little, ready to learn.

‘Well, there’s always going to be organised crime — we know that. All over the world, society’s tried shutting it down and it never quite happens. As long as there are things we judge illegal, and people out there who want those things, someone will come along to provide them. In a place the size of Edinburgh — small city, crime not a huge problem for most of the residents — you might have room for one decent-sized player. And as long as that player doesn’t get too greedy, too cocky or too violent…’

‘They’ll likely be tolerated? Because they do some of the policing for us?’

‘It’s all about control, Malcolm. That and acting responsibly.’

‘What was Cafferty like when this was his playground?’

Rebus took a moment to form his answer. ‘He was the school bully. It was all about muscle, and not giving a damn about the consequences.’

‘And Christie?’

‘Darryl’s a negotiator. If he’d gone into stockbroking or flogging Bentleys to bankers, he’d have made his fortune. But he chose this instead.’

The barman had reappeared. He tried for another smile but didn’t quite manage it. ‘Mr Christie says he’ll be with you shortly. He also said to order drinks while you’re waiting.’

‘Well that’s very kind of him,’ Rebus said. ‘Do you want anything, DI Fox?’

‘Maybe an Appletiser?’

‘So that’s an Appletiser for my colleague and a Laphroaig for me.’ Rebus nodded towards the shelf of malt whiskies. ‘In fact, make it a double.’

‘You remembering the drink-drive limit?’ Fox warned.

‘It’s tattooed on my forearm.’

‘Water or ice on the side, sir?’ the barman was asking.

‘Is that question for me or him?’ Rebus enquired.

Taking the hint, the barman got to work.

Their drinks had just arrived at the table when Darryl Christie appeared in the doorway. He waved away the barman and settled himself on the sofa next to Fox and facing Rebus. Rebus had known him since he was a teenager, but Christie was in his early twenties now, and all trace of acne and youth had gone. His face had hardened, his hair was professionally groomed. The suit didn’t look cheap and neither did the shoes. He sported an open-necked shirt with cufflinks prominent at either wrist. The watch, at a guess, was worth more than Rebus’s car, even with a few thousand miles removed from its clock.