Ian Rankin - Even Dogs in the Wild

He had used an open razor — similar to Joe’s weapon of choice in the 1970s. That interested Fox — the son imitating the father, hoping to gain his approbation. In his twenties, Dennis had served two stretches in HMP Barlinnie, which did little to curb his excesses while at the same time making him new allies. Fox hadn’t been able to find out a whole lot about this coterie. Joe’s men were in their fifties and sixties predominantly, and tales from the Glasgow badlands featured them regularly. But Dennis’s cohorts were a generation younger and had learned the art of subterfuge. They appeared on no front pages, and in precious few court reports. Driving to St Leonard’s, Fox wondered if, shown photos, he would be able to pick out the undercover cop.

The only person in the office was Alec Bell. He yawned a greeting and stirred his coffee.

‘Ricky’s having a lie-in,’ he explained.

‘He took the dawn shift?’ Fox guessed.

Bell nodded and rubbed at his eyes. ‘He’s not keen, though — there’s half a chance old Joe could place him.’

‘They know one another?’

‘A couple of run-ins back in the day. But seeing how Joe is in Glasgow right now…’

‘Compston reckons he’s safe enough taking a shift?’ Fox nodded his understanding. ‘Anything else I need to know?’ he asked, hanging up his coat.

‘Not really, unless you happen to have the name of a good curry house — so far, Glasgow beats your overpriced city into a cocked hat.’

‘I’ll have a think. Meantime, I was wondering if you had a file on the Starks — something I can pass the time with.’

‘It’s mostly on computer.’

‘Any surveillance pics?’

‘Why would you want those?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Just occurred to me last night that I’ve no idea what the entourage looks like.’

Bell got busy on his laptop and crooked a finger. Fox walked over to the desk and studied the screen from behind the older man’s shoulder.

‘That’s Joe,’ Bell said, using the cursor to circle Joe Stark’s face. The photo showed a group of men walking down a pavement. ‘To his left is Walter Grieve, and to his right Len Parker. Those three have known each other for ever — Joe probably trusts Walter and Len more than he does Dennis.’

‘Bit of tension between father and son?’

‘You know how Prince Charles has spent his whole life waiting to take over the family firm?’

‘For Charles read Dennis.’ Fox nodded his understanding. He was studying Joe Stark. Of course, he’d seen plenty of photos of the man during his previous evening’s excavation of the internet, but this photo was recent. Stark’s face was more heavily lined, his hair thinner, slicked back from his forehead.

‘Looks a bit like Ray Reardon, no?’ Alec Bell commented.

‘The snooker player?’ Fox considered this. ‘Maybe.’ Though in truth he didn’t see it. There had always been a twinkle in Ray Reardon’s eyes. All he could see in Joe Stark’s face was cold malice.

Bell had reduced the photograph to a thumbnail and was poring over the others on his screen. He clicked on one. The inside of a busy pub. Five men seated at a table.

‘Dennis and his crew,’ Bell said, pointing at each man as he named them. ‘Rob Simpson, Callum Andrews, Jackie Dyson, Tommy Rae, and Dennis himself.’

‘Doesn’t look much like his dad.’

‘Takes after his mum, apparently,’ Bell said.

‘Big bastard, though. Does he go to the gym?’

‘Addicted to the weights. Uses all the bodybuilding potions and powders.’

‘Is his hair permed, or are the curls natural?’

‘God-given, far as I know.’

‘You ever talked with him?’

Bell shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t be on the team if I had. Can’t have anyone from the Stark gang clocking us.’

‘Doesn’t seem to apply to your boss,’ Fox mused.

‘Special dispensation — Ricky pushed hard to bring Operation Junior into the world.’ Bell turned his head to study Fox. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘You’re bursting to ask.’

‘Well, if you insist — is your guy one of the four with Dennis?’

‘What do you think?’

‘None of them looks like a cop.’

‘How far would our man get if he did? Or if he spoke or acted like one?’

‘I take it he’s not using his real name.’

‘Course not.’

‘And you’ve built a life story for him, just in case someone checks?’

‘We have.’

‘How long did you say he’d been in the gang?’

‘I don’t think I did say.’ Bell was suddenly cagey. Rather than open any of the other photos in the album, he closed the lid of his laptop and took another slug of coffee.

Well, that was fine. Fox had names now. Given a bit of privacy, he would run another internet search, just on the off chance.

‘News from Glasgow?’ he asked, moving into the middle of the room.

‘Joe’s still there.’

‘He took both his lieutenants with him when he went?’

‘Yes.’

‘So it’s just Dennis and his gang of four left here? Any idea what they’ll be doing today?’

‘Looking for Hamish Wright.’

‘Have they stuck around longer than in Aberdeen or Dundee?’

‘Seems that way.’

‘That might mean something — maybe they’re convinced he’s here.’

‘Maybe,’ Bell conceded.

‘Your man on the inside hasn’t said?’

Bell gave him a hard stare. ‘He doesn’t often get the chance to update us.’

‘When did you last hear from him?’

‘Five days ago.’

‘Before you came to Edinburgh?’

‘That’s right. If and when the Starks get hold of Wright, that’s when he’ll make the call.’

‘How long’s he been—’

‘Enough fucking questions, Fox. I wish I’d never opened my mouth in the first place.’

‘Ah, but you did — I think you were trying to show off in front of Rebus. Is that a fair reading?’

‘Get lost.’

‘Hard to do in my own office.’ Fox stretched out both arms to reinforce the point. ‘And you did let slip last night that your mole’s been in character for over three years.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘Thing about not drinking is, I tend to remember things.’

‘Then you’ll not have forgotten what Ricky said to you that first day — you’re on probation. And after that trick you pulled, going to Rebus behind our backs…’ Bell shook his head slowly. ‘How’s your dad, by the way?’

Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘My dad ?’

‘And your sister, Jude. Not too close to her, are you?’ Bell gave a sly smile. ‘Ricky needed certain assurances that he knew the kind of man he was getting. Your boss came through with a potted biography. Now if that had been Ricky, he’d have handed over a minimum of detail with a few howlers mixed in. DCI Maxtone proved to be a lot more accommodating. Remember that when you make your next report. Some chiefs are better than others, and some teams really are teams. The sooner you stop acting as Maxtone’s snitch, the sooner you’ll find that out.’

‘Is that a fact?’

‘Think about it. You said yourself you’re one step above pariah status here. Maybe we can offer you something better for a time.’

‘Better than Angry Birds?’

‘I’ll let you be the judge of that,’ Bell said, opening the lid of his laptop again.

‘Papers called him the “tragic lottery victim”,’ Christine Esson said. ‘Makes it sound as if it was the lottery that did for him.’

‘Which, if someone killed him for his money, is almost true,’ Clarke replied. The new-build two-storey brick house was surrounded by a high wall and electric gates. These gates had been left open for them. The driveway was short and led to a paved parking circle. To the right of the house stood a three-car garage. Clarke stopped her Astra in front of it, next to a BMW 3 Series. The man who got out of the Beemer straightened his tie and did up a button on his suit.