Ian Rankin: Even Dogs in the Wild

Whichever it was, he would find out. And they would pay.

There was nothing for Siobhan Clarke to do now but wait. The Scotsman would run the story online in the evening, flagging it up on its Twitter feed. Probably wouldn’t be until nine or ten o’clock, though, so that when the morning edition appeared they still had the print exclusive. Smith had texted to assure her that it was a front-page splash, unless one of the royals died or was caught on camera with a line of coke.

‘Perish the thought,’ Clarke had muttered to herself.

Esson and Ogilvie had been busy. They’d compiled a list stretching back half a decade of deaths occurring during break-ins — not just private homes, but workplaces too: security guards hit with crowbars, elderly couples threatened with torture if they didn’t say where their valuables were. Around three quarters of the cases had been solved.

‘Or at least someone went to jail,’ Esson had said, half joking.

There was one from the previous year — a woman attacked in her bedroom in Edinburgh. Her ex-husband was suspected, but there had never been enough evidence to satisfy the procurator fiscal that a guilty verdict would be reached. Another piqued Clarke’s interest — just a fortnight back, in Linlithgow. Retired care worker who had, three years before, scooped a million pounds on the lottery. Spent half the money on a big new house with a view of Linlithgow Palace. The man lived alone, his wife having predeceased him. Found in his downstairs hall, skull caved in, hit from behind. Kitchen door forced open from the outside. The case was still active. Clarke had asked Esson and Ogilvie what they thought.

‘Worth comparing notes?’ Esson had asked in turn.

‘It was news at the time,’ Ogilvie added. ‘The lottery win, I mean.’

‘Someone knows he’s got a few bob, so they burst in thinking it’ll be piled up on the coffee table?’ But Clarke had told them to make enquiries anyway, then had driven to the city mortuary, where, entering by the staff door, she surprised one of the assistants as he was removing his scrubs in the deserted corridor.

‘Just here to see Professor Quant,’ she explained.

‘Upstairs.’

Clarke managed a smile of apology as she squeezed past. ‘Nice tats, by the way,’ she said, watching the young man starting to blush.

Deborah Quant was in her well-lit, tidy office. There was a shower cubicle behind one of the doors and Clarke could smell soap and shampoo.

‘Not disturbing you?’

‘Come in, Siobhan. Take a seat.’

Quant had pulled back her long red hair, fixing it with a band. ‘Just finished up,’ she explained. ‘But I’ve a function this evening, so…’

Clarke had noticed the dress hanging from a hook. ‘Looks lovely,’ she commented.

‘Better than most of the guests will deserve — academics and senior medics.’

‘Taking a date?’

‘Got anyone in mind?’

‘I heard you’d been out a couple of times with a recent retiree.’

Quant smiled. ‘Drinks and dinner only. But can you really see John sitting through a black-tie event with a load of superannuated surgeons and professors?’

‘Did you ask him?’

‘Actually, I did. He declined.’

‘Gracefully, I’m sure.’

‘The swearing was minimal. So what can I do for you, Siobhan?’

‘It’s the Minton inquiry. You did the autopsy.’

‘I did.’

‘I’ve looked at your report. I was just wondering if anything else had come to mind.’

‘About what?’

‘Lord Minton had received a threatening letter — well, just a note really.’ Clarke handed over another photocopy. ‘I’m wondering if that changes your thinking in any way.’

‘Man died from a combination of blunt-force trauma and strangulation — either would probably have been sufficient. Attacked from the front or the side, most probably the front. Victim is on his way to the door of his study, having heard a noise, and the attacker bursts in and hits him with the same hammer he used to smash open the laundry-room window. Marks on the throat tell us the attacker had large hands, probably male.’ Quant shrugged. ‘This note doesn’t alter any of that. Was it found in his drawer?’

‘His wallet — why do you ask?’

‘In the photos from the locus, the desk drawer was open a couple of inches. I thought maybe the first officers on the scene…’

‘They would have known better than to touch anything.’ Clarke narrowed her eyes, trying to remember the crime scene. The drawer had been closed by the time she’d visited. Nothing odd about that. ‘I don’t suppose you carried out another autopsy a couple of weeks back, on that lottery winner?’

‘From Linlithgow?’ Quant shook her head. ‘That was blunt-force trauma too, wasn’t it? During a break-in. No sign of strangulation, though, if I remember correctly.’

‘I wouldn’t mind seeing the report.’

‘That’s easily arranged. But of course there’ll have to be a quid pro quo.’

‘Meaning?’

Quant nodded towards the dress. ‘You have to pretend to be me for the evening. I really just want to go home to bed.’

‘Tell you what I can do,’ Clarke offered. ‘I can phone your mobile after the first hour or so. There’s a situation and you’re urgently needed…’

‘Have you got my number?’ Quant asked with a grin.

‘Give it to me,’ Clarke said.

Only Ricky Compston and Alec Bell were in the office when Fox got back. They were eating custard slices and drinking tea, their feet up on their respective desks.

‘Where have you been?’ Compston demanded. ‘Apart from whispering sweet nothings in your boss’s ear.’

‘Actually, I’ve not seen Doug Maxtone. But I did go talk to Big Ger Cafferty.’

‘Feel free to keep us waiting.’

‘Where are the others?’

‘The Starks have been on the move. We’re using two cars so we don’t get clocked. Hence the exodus. That good enough for you, DI Fox?’

Fox lowered himself on to one of the empty chairs. ‘Cafferty seems to think a local criminal called Darryl Christie might have been behind the shooting, maybe to impress the Starks. He reckons the Starks are in town so Dennis can get a feel for the city prior to taking over the family business. It would also explain the stops in Aberdeen and Dundee.’

‘We’ve already told you why the Starks are here.’

‘Be that as it may, I decided to have a word with Darryl Christie. He already knew that the Starks are in town.’

‘Did he bring them up first, or did you?’

‘He didn’t need any prompting.’

‘So you’re telling me two Edinburgh bosses just opened up to you?’

Fox offered a shrug. ‘Do you want to hear what else Christie said?’

‘Go on then, hotshot, impress me.’ Compston brushed pastry flakes from his tie.

‘Christie is of the opinion that the Starks are here to meet Cafferty. Why? So that Cafferty can help them install Dennis as the city’s new boss, in place of Christie. As far as we know, that’s not the case, but it’s what Christie thinks.’

‘How did he know they were in town?’ Alec Bell asked.

‘The B and B owner.’

‘Well, well, well,’ a voice drawled from behind Fox. The door, which he hadn’t quite shut, was wide open now. Rebus stood with a hand resting against either jamb. ‘This isn’t quite what I expected, I have to admit.’

Fox jumped to his feet. ‘How did you get in?’

‘Someone forgot to tell the front desk I’m off the books.’

‘John bloody Rebus,’ Bell said.

‘Hiya, Alec.’ Rebus gave a wave. ‘Not given up the good fight yet, then?’

‘I’ve heard of you ,’ Compston said.