Ian Rankin: Even Dogs in the Wild

‘Say someone was trying to kill me, would I be daft enough to stay put? Wouldn’t I be heading for the hills?’

‘You might. But if you’ve no idea who’s behind it, that isn’t going to help you find them. Maybe you get tooled up, call in some favours and bide your time until he tries again. Morris Gerald Cafferty prepared is a very different creature from one who’s been caught on the hop.’

‘So when I tell you that I’d had a nip too many and tripped over my own feet, smacking the window…’

‘You’ve every right to stick to your story. I’m not a detective these days; nothing I can do one way or the other. But if you did feel you needed some help, Siobhan’s right outside and I’d trust her with your life. I’d probably even trust her with mine.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind. Meantime, I hope I’ve not taken you away from whatever it is cops like you do when they’re put out to pasture.’

‘We tend to spend our days reminiscing about the scum we’ve put in jail.’

‘And the ones who got away too, no doubt.’ Cafferty pulled himself back to his feet. He acted like an old man, but Rebus felt sure he could be dangerous when cornered or threatened. The eyes were still hard and cold, mirroring the calculating intelligence behind them. ‘Tell Siobhan to go home,’ Cafferty was saying. ‘And the door-to-door is wasting time and effort. It’s just one broken window, easily fixed.’

‘It’s not, though, is it?’ Rebus had followed Cafferty for a few steps but then stopped by the wall opposite the bay window. There was a framed painting there, and as Cafferty turned towards him, he dabbed at it with the tip of one finger. ‘This painting used to be over there.’ He nodded towards another wall. ‘And the wee painting hanging there used to be here. You can tell from where the emulsion has faded — means they’ve been swapped over recently.’

‘I like them better this way.’ Cafferty’s jaw had tightened. Rebus gave a thin smile as he reached out with both hands and lifted the larger painting from its hook. It had been covering a small, near-circular indentation in the plaster. He shut one eye and took a closer look.

‘You’ve prised out the bullet,’ he commented. ‘Nine mil, was it?’ He dug in his pocket for his phone. ‘Mind if I take a snap for my scrapbook?’

But Cafferty’s hand had gripped him by the forearm.

‘John,’ he said. ‘Just leave it, okay? I know what I’m doing.’

‘Then tell me. Tell me what’s going on here.’

But Cafferty shook his head and relaxed his vice-like grip.

‘Just go,’ he said, his voice softening. ‘Enjoy the days and the hours. None of this is yours any more.’

‘Then why let me in?’

‘I’m wishing I hadn’t.’ Cafferty gestured towards the hole. ‘I thought I was being clever.’

‘We’re both clever, it’s why we’ve lasted as long as we have.’

‘You going to tell Clarke about this?’ Meaning the bullet hole.

‘Maybe. And maybe she’ll go get that warrant.’

‘None of which will get her any further forward.’

‘At least the hole rules out one theory.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘That you fired the gun yourself from in here.’ Rebus nodded towards the window. ‘At someone out there.’

‘That’s some imagination you’ve got.’

The two men stared at one another until Rebus exhaled loudly. ‘I might as well head off then. You know where to find me if you need me.’ He got the painting back on its hook and accepted the handshake that Cafferty was offering.

Outside, Clarke and Fox were waiting in Fox’s car. Rebus climbed into the back.

‘Well?’ Clarke asked.

‘There’s a bullet hole in the far wall. He’s got the bullet out and won’t be handing it over to us any time soon.’

‘You think he knows who did it?’

‘I’d say he hasn’t a clue — that’s what’s got him spooked.’

‘So what now?’

‘Now,’ Rebus said, reaching forward to pat Fox on the shoulder, ‘I get a lift home.’

‘Are we invited in for coffee?’

‘It’s a flat, not a fucking Costa. Once you’ve dropped me, you young things can finish the evening doing whatever takes your fancy.’ Rebus looked towards where the terrier was sitting on the pavement, watching the occupants of the car, its head cocked. ‘Whose is the mutt?’

‘Not sure. The uniforms asked around, but nobody’s missing a pet. Couldn’t be Cafferty’s, could it?’

‘Unlikely. Pets need looking after, and that’s not the man’s style.’ Rebus had dug his cigarettes out of his pocket. ‘Mind if I smoke in here?’

‘Yes,’ came the chorus from the front.

The dog was still watching as the car moved off. Rebus feared it was about to try following them. Clarke swivelled around so she was facing the rear seat.

‘I’m fine,’ Rebus told her. ‘Thanks for asking.’

‘I hadn’t quite got round to it.’

‘No, but you were going to.’

‘It’s good to see you.’

‘Aye, you too,’ Rebus conceded. ‘Now, is there any chance you can get Jackie Stewart here to put the foot down? There’s a cigarette with my name on it waiting at the other end…’

In his kitchen, Cafferty poured another whisky, adding a drop of water from the cold tap and finishing it in two swallows. He expelled air through his teeth and slammed the empty glass on to the table before running his hands down his face. The house was locked, all doors and windows checked. From his pocket he took the bullet, compressed from impact. Nine mil, just as Rebus had surmised. Once upon a time, Cafferty had kept a nine-mil pistol in the safe in his den, but he’d had to ditch it after having had recourse to use it. He placed the misshapen bullet next to the empty whisky glass, then opened a drawer and found what he was looking for, tucked away near the back. The note that had been shoved through his letter box a few days before. He unfolded it and examined the words again:

I’M GOING TO KILL YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID.

But what had Cafferty done? He pulled out a chair, sat down, and began to consider.

Next morning, Doug Maxtone gestured for Fox to follow him out of the cramped office into the empty corridor of St Leonard’s police station.

‘I’ve just been briefed,’ Maxtone said, ‘by our friends from the west.’

‘Anything you can share?’

‘We discussed their request for that “ancillary support” I mentioned yesterday…’ Maxtone broke off and waited.

Fox tapped a finger against his own chest and watched his boss nod slowly.

‘You worked Professional Standards, Malcolm, so you know all about keeping your mouth shut.’ Maxtone paused. ‘But you also know about spying. You’re going to be my eyes and ears in there, understood? I’ll want regular updates.’ He checked his watch. ‘In a minute, you’re going to go knock on the door. By then they’ll have decided how much they need to tell you and how much they think they can get away with not sharing.’

‘I seem to remember they wanted to vet potential candidates.’

Maxtone shook his head. ‘I’ve made it pretty clear you’re what’s on offer.’

‘Do they know I used to work Complaints?’

‘Yes.’

‘In which case I expect I’ll be welcomed with open arms. Any other advice?’

‘The boss is called Ricky Compston. Big wide bastard with a shaved head. Typical Glasgow — thinks he’s seen it all while we spend our days directing tourists to the castle.’ Maxtone paused. ‘None of the others bothered with introductions.’

‘But they did tell you why they’re here?’

‘It’s to do with a—’ Maxtone broke off as the door to the CID suite swung open. A face appeared, glowering.