Ian Rankin: Even Dogs in the Wild

How was Rebus doing?

Was he coping?

Did he want to hook up some time?

‘Bugger that,’ Rebus muttered to himself, finishing the dregs of his fourth IPA. Time to call it a night. Four was plenty. His doctor had told him: best cut it out altogether. Rebus had asked for a second opinion.

‘Here it is then,’ the doctor had said: ‘You should stop smoking too.’

Rebus smiled at the memory and rose from his pew, taking the empty glass with him to the bar.

‘One for the road?’ he was asked.

‘That’s me done.’ But as he stepped outside, he paused to get a cigarette lit. Maybe one more, eh? Freezing outside, and a wind that could slice bacon. Quick cigarette and back inside. There was a coal fire burning. He could see it through the window, sharing its warmth with no one now he was out here. He looked at his watch. What else was he going to do? Walk the streets? Take a taxi home and sit in his living room, failing to pick up any of the books he’d promised himself he would read? Bit of music and maybe a bath and then bed. His life was turning into a track on a CD with the repeat function engaged, each new day the same as the one before.

He’d made a little list at the kitchen table: join the library, explore the city, take a holiday, see films, start going to concerts. There was a coffee ring on the list, and soon he would crumple it into the bin. One thing he had done was sort out his record collection, finding a few dozen albums he hadn’t played in years. But there was a problem with one of the speakers — the treble kept coming and going. So he’d have to add that to the list, or else start a new one.

Redecorate.

Replace rotting windows.

New bathroom suite.

New bed.

Hall carpet.

‘Easier just to move,’ he said to the empty street. No need to flick ash from his cigarette — the wind was doing that for him. Back indoors or taxi home? Toss a coin?

Phone.

He dug it out and peered at the screen. Caller: Shiv . Short for Siobhan. Not that she would countenance being called Shiv to her face. He considered not answering, but then tapped the screen and pressed the device to his ear.

‘You’re interrupting my training,’ he complained.

‘What training?’

‘I’m planning on doing the Edinburgh Marathon.’

‘Twenty-six pubs, is that? Sorry to break into your schedule.’

‘I’m going to have to stop you there, caller. There’s someone on line two with a less smart mouth.’

‘Fine then — I just thought you might like to know.’

‘Know what? That Police Scotland is falling to pieces without me?’

‘It’s your old friend Cafferty.’

Rebus paused, his brain switching gears. ‘Keep talking.’

‘Someone might just have taken a potshot at him.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘Hard to say — he’s not letting us in.’

‘Where are you?’

‘His house.’

‘Give me fifteen minutes.’

‘We can come fetch you…’

A taxi had turned into Young Street, its orange light on. Rebus walked into the road and waved for it to stop.

‘Fifteen minutes tops,’ he told Clarke, before ending the call.

‘Want me to try the bell for you?’ Fox asked. He was on the doorstep in front of Cafferty’s home, flanked by Rebus and Clarke. The glazier had gone, and the officers from the patrol car were still collecting information from neighbours. The blue flashing light had been turned off, replaced by the orange sodium glow of the nearby street lamps.

‘He seems to want to communicate by shouting through the letter box,’ Clarke added.

‘I think we can do better than that,’ Rebus said. He found Cafferty’s number on his phone and waited.

‘It’s me,’ he said when the call was picked up. ‘I’m standing right outside and I’m about to come in. So you can either open the door, or wait for me to put in another of your windows and climb in through the wreckage.’ He listened for a moment, eyes on Clarke. ‘Just me — understood.’ Clarke opened her mouth to protest, but Rebus shook his head. ‘It’s baltic out here, so quick as you can and we can all go home.’

He put the phone back in his pocket and offered a shrug. ‘It’s okay for me to go in because I’m not a cop these days.’

‘He said that?’

‘He didn’t need to.’

‘Have you spoken to him recently?’ Fox added.

‘Contrary to received opinion, I don’t spend my days fraternising with people like Big Ger.’

‘There was a time.’

‘Maybe he’s just more interesting than others I could name,’ Rebus bristled.

Fox looked ready to respond, but the door was being opened. Cafferty stood behind it, mostly hidden in shadow. Without another word, Rebus stepped inside and the door closed behind him. He followed Cafferty from outer hall to inner. Cafferty walked past the closed door to the living room, turning into the kitchen instead. Rebus wasn’t about to play that game, so entered the living room, turning on the light. He’d been in the room before, but there had been changes. A black leather suite. A vast flat-screen TV above the fireplace. The curtains in the bay window had been pulled shut; he was drawing them open when Cafferty walked in.

‘You’ve tidied most of the glass,’ Rebus commented. ‘Still wouldn’t risk it in bare feet, mind. But at least floorboards are better than carpet — the splinters are easier to spot.’

Hands in pockets, he turned to face Cafferty. They were old men now, similar build, similar background. Sat together in a pub, they might be mistaken by a casual onlooker for pals who’d known one another since school. But their history told a different story: fights and near-deaths, chases and prosecutions. Cafferty’s last stint in jail had been cut short after a cancer diagnosis, the patient making a miraculous recovery once free.

‘Congratulations on your retirement,’ Cafferty drawled. ‘You didn’t think to invite me to the party. Hang on, though — I hear there was no party. Not enough friends left to even fill the back room at the Ox?’ He made a show of shaking his head in sympathy.

‘The bullet didn’t hit you, then?’ Rebus retorted. ‘More’s the pity.’

‘Everyone seems to be talking about this mysterious bullet.’

‘I just wish we still had a tap on your phone. I’m betting that in the minutes after, you were shouting the odds at every villain in the city.’

‘Look around you, Rebus. Do you see bodyguards? Do you see protection? I’m too long out of the game to have enemies.’

‘It’s true plenty of people you hate have predeceased you — one way or another. But I still reckon there are enough to make a decent-sized list.’

Cafferty smiled eventually and gestured towards the doorway. ‘Come into the kitchen. I’ll pour us a drink.’

‘I’ll take mine in here, thanks.’

Cafferty sighed and shrugged, turning to leave. Rebus did a quick circuit of the room and was by the fireplace when Cafferty returned. It was not an overly generous helping, but Rebus’s nose told him it was malt. He took a sip and rolled it around his mouth before swallowing, Cafferty opting to knock his back in one gulp.

‘Nerves still jangling?’ Rebus guessed. ‘Don’t blame you for that. So you didn’t have the curtains closed. Probably reckon you don’t need them — nice big hedge between house and pavement. But that means he was standing on the lawn, directly outside. What were you doing? Crossing the room to find the TV remote, maybe? At which point he’s not more than eight or ten feet away. You still can’t see him, though — lights on in here, darkness out there. Yet somehow he misses. Meaning it’s either a warning or he’s some kind of rookie.’ Rebus paused. ‘Which would you guess? Maybe you don’t need to — could be you already know.’ He took another sip of whisky and watched Cafferty ease himself on to the leather sofa.