Ian Rankin - Even Dogs in the Wild

Cafferty managed a grim smile. ‘Are we headed to Dalrymple’s house?’

‘This time of day, we might have more luck at the beach.’

‘You want witnesses around to stop me decking him?’

‘I hadn’t considered it.’ The smile this time came from Rebus.

‘I’m glad, actually — relieved is maybe the word.’

‘That Bryan Holroyd lived?’

‘Aye.’

‘You think his “death” put the fear of God into Howard Champ and the others?’

‘Maybe. It certainly had a knock-on effect. From the moment it happened, Acorn House’s days were numbered.’

‘There were a lot of Acorn Houses out there though — London, Northern Ireland, all over…’

‘You’ve been doing your reading?’

‘Patrick Spiers had a few things to say on the subject.’ Rebus glanced at his passenger. ‘Any idea who might have turned his place over and lifted his files?’

‘Wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘So your best guess would be…?’

‘Special Branch,’ Cafferty stated. ‘An MP, a senior lawyer and the police chief? No way they’d want any of that coming to light.’

Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘And after all these years, think they’ll still have an interest?’

‘Those files will have been shredded — where’s the evidence?’

‘Bryan Holroyd is evidence.’

‘Only if people stop to listen.’

‘After everything that’s crawled from the woodwork these past few years, I think they might.’

‘Then it’ll be court appearances for the likes of me and Dave Ritter, eh?’

‘I’d say your own role was minimal.’

‘I doubt anyone else will see it that way,’ Cafferty stated grimly, as Rebus neared the Sir Harry Lauder roundabout.

They parked on James Street and headed for the Promenade, buttoning their coats against the fierce North Sea wind. There were fewer walkers and dogs than before, but Rebus spotted Todd Dalrymple by the water’s edge, putting the lead back on John B.

‘We’ll wait here,’ he told Cafferty as they stood at the sea wall.

‘Is that him?’ Cafferty was peering into the distance.

‘That’s him,’ Rebus confirmed with a nod.

It was a further three or four minutes before Dalrymple was close enough to recognise Rebus. He had been happy enough on the beach, but when he saw Cafferty, it was as though a weight had descended.

‘Big Ger,’ he said, managing a queasy smile as he held out a hand. But Cafferty’s own hands didn’t emerge from their pockets, and when John B showed an interest, Cafferty pushed him away with his foot, Dalrymple reining the dog in.

‘We need a word, Todd,’ Rebus said.

‘Here?’

‘Back at the house.’

Dalrymple’s eyes flitted between the two men. ‘Is that strictly necessary?’

‘Scared what your wife will think?’ Cafferty sneered.

Dalrymple’s lip trembled. ‘No, I just… What do you mean?’

‘It’s about Acorn House,’ Rebus stated.

‘Acorn House?’

‘We know you were there the night Bryan Holroyd was taken away.’

‘Who?’

Cafferty lunged at the man, gripping him by both lapels. John B started barking, backing off but baring his teeth.

‘I’ll wring that dog’s neck if it tries anything,’ Cafferty snarled.

‘It’s all right, John B! Easy, boy!’

Cafferty’s face was no more than an inch from Dalrymple’s. ‘You’re going to tell us everything, you fat fuck.’

‘What am I supposed to have done?’

‘For starters,’ Rebus broke in, ‘you were witness to a huge cover-up.’

‘Orchestrated by him ,’ Dalrymple protested as Cafferty’s grip tightened. The dog was still barking and looking primed to pounce.

‘Abetted rather than orchestrated,’ Rebus said. ‘But here’s the thing, Todd — you might well be next on his list.’

‘Whose list?’

‘The man who shot at me,’ Cafferty informed him.

‘And killed Lord Minton and Michael Tolland,’ Rebus added. ‘Which is why we need to go to your house.’ He dug a hand into Cafferty’s coat pocket and drew out the takeaway menu. ‘To see whether you’ve had one of these.’

‘Wh-what?’ Dalrymple looked utterly lost. Cafferty released him by giving him the slightest shove. Even so, Dalrymple barely kept upright. His eyes were on the menu Rebus was holding. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

‘How amused do we look right now?’ Cafferty asked back.

Having given the man a moment or two to recover, Rebus gestured with his arm.

‘We’ll follow you,’ he said.

They walked the short distance to Argyle Crescent, John B straining at the leash, keen to get home. Dalrymple unlocked the door and called out the name Margaret, but there was no response.

‘She must be out,’ he said, relief in his voice. He unhooked the lead from John B’s collar and the dog made for its bed in a corner of the living room, eyeing the visitors warily.

‘No flyers in the hall,’ Rebus commented.

‘We toss them straight into the recycling.’

‘Which is kept where?’

‘A box in the kitchen. I’ll fetch it through.’

Cafferty had settled on the edge of the sofa, while Rebus stayed standing in front of the fireplace. It was a cramped room, boasting too much furniture, from the grandfather clock in one corner to the footstool Rebus had been forced to step over. There were bright paintings of harbour scenes on a couple of walls — Rebus guessed they were by John Bellany. When Dalrymple arrived back with the recycling box, he placed it on the footstool and began sifting. Rebus decided to help by bending down and tipping the box up, strewing its contents across the carpet.

‘Bingo,’ he said, after a minute or two of crouching next to the drift of paper. He lifted up the menu from Newington Spice.

‘What does it mean, though?’ Dalrymple asked.

‘The killer poses as someone putting flyers through doors. Gets to know the house and street, then makes his move. I don’t suppose you can remember when this arrived?’

‘A few days back?’ Dalrymple guessed, his face turning bloodless as Rebus’s words sank in.

‘But you’ve not had a note?’ Cafferty demanded.

‘A note? Like the one they showed in the papers?’ Dalrymple was shaking his head.

‘He means like this,’ Rebus broke in. He was lifting the folded piece of white notepaper. It had obviously not been noticed and had been dumped into the recycling along with everything else. He unfolded it and held it up.

Same message. Same hand.

‘Fuck,’ Big Ger Cafferty said.

The restaurant owner, Sanjeev Patel, was waiting for Siobhan Clarke, unlocking the door from the inside. Staff were busy in the kitchen, and Clarke could smell onions frying and a mixture of spices. The voices were loud but good-natured. Meanwhile, a waiter was laying tablecloths and cutlery in the main room. Patel led Clarke to the bar area, where takeaway customers could wait of an evening to collect their food. He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and navy tie, and looked every inch the businessman, but Clarke knew he had worked his way up from a teenage kitchen porter. He was Edinburgh born and bred and, like her, supported Hibernian FC, the walls above the bar filled with autographed photos of players past and present.

‘We definitely don’t flyer in Linlithgow or the New Town,’ he said, after she had turned down the offer of coffee.

‘Is there a specific firm you use?’

Patel nodded. ‘Want me to fetch you their details.’

‘Please.’

He got up and went behind the counter, studying the screen of a laptop computer that sat there. He jotted a few lines on to one of the restaurant’s order pads and tore off the sheet, handing it to her as he sat down again.