Ian Rankin - Even Dogs in the Wild

‘You think maybe a member of their workforce…?’

‘This has got to stay confidential, Mr Patel,’ Clarke warned him.

‘Absolutely.’

She remembered the stack of menus in the loo, and mentioned them. Patel nodded.

‘In the Gents too,’ he said.

‘So I suppose anyone could have filled their pockets?’

Patel shrugged. ‘I’m not aware of them suddenly disappearing.’

‘You’re probably not the one cleaning the toilets, though.’

‘That’s true — not these days. Do you want me to ask the staff?’

Clarke nodded. ‘Plus if anyone suspicious has come in — maybe they took some menus but didn’t stay to eat, or asked to use the toilet even though they weren’t ordering food.’

‘Understood.’ He paused. ‘Could there be another explanation?’

‘I’m struggling to think of one.’

‘You’ll appreciate I don’t want the restaurant’s reputation sullied.’

‘I thought there was no such thing as bad advertising.’

‘It’s not a theory I’m keen to test,’ Patel said with a smile.

‘I’ll try to be diplomatic,’ Clarke assured him, standing up. There was a display of menus on the table, next to a large bowl of Bombay mix. ‘How often do you reprint, by the way?’

‘Maybe once a year — to reflect changing prices. Last time we added online ordering — very popular with students.’

‘So these menus came into effect…?’

‘At the start of November.’

‘Only three months back? Well that’s something at least.’ She picked up one of the menus and studied the information on the back.

‘Have you always used VampPrint?’

‘For the past couple of years.’

‘Got a phone number for them?’

Patel went off to the laptop again and fetched it. Clarke thanked him and he held open the door for her. There was a shop across the road, and she headed in for some gum and a bottle of water.

‘Cheaper out of the tap, love,’ the woman on the till warned her.

Clarke’s phone was ringing, so she pulled it from her bag: John Rebus.

‘What can I do for you?’ she asked, breaking the seal on the bottle as she exited the shop.

‘I’m in Portobello with a man called Todd Dalrymple.’ Rebus’s tone told her to keep listening. ‘He got one of the flyers and a note. Put both in the recycling so he’s just finding out. Dalrymple’s understandably up to high doh and I think we need to get him and his wife out of here. Which gives us the opportunity to bait a trap for our killer.’

Clarke had almost walked under a bus. She retreated to the edge of the pavement and waited for a gap in the traffic.

‘You might have to start from the beginning,’ she said.

‘Best done face-to-face. How soon can you get here?’

‘Twenty minutes?’

‘I might get them to start packing in the meantime.’

Clarke could hear a woman wailing in the background. ‘Mrs Dalrymple?’ she guessed.

‘She didn’t take it terribly well. I’m not sure Cafferty would know subtlety if it stood in front of him holding up its own dictionary entry.’

‘Cafferty’s there?’

‘Didn’t I just say so?’

‘Twenty minutes,’ Clarke repeated, belting across the carriageway to her waiting car.

Once she had pulled out into traffic, she called Christine Esson.

‘Yes, guv?’ Esson said.

‘Promise never to use that phrase again.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Is Ronnie in the office?’

‘He is.’

‘And are you busy?’

‘I’m still trying to cough the dust out of my lungs after a day in the archives.’

‘Was the groper on duty?’

‘Fortunately not.’

‘Well, I’ve got something that requires your attention.’

‘Fire away.’ Clarke could hear Esson summoning Ogilvie to her desk while simultaneously readying a pen and notepad. She took her eyes off the road long enough to reel off the information Sanjeev Patel had given her.

‘I need you to visit both. Ask about the people who go door-to-door with leaflets, then the people who print them and look after their storage.’

‘And this is because…?’

‘Flyers from Newington Spice were found in Lord Minton’s home, plus those of Big Ger Cafferty and the victim of that attack in Linlithgow.’

‘Got you,’ Esson said. ‘Should we split it between us?’

‘That would be quicker.’

‘Any description to go on?’

‘Absolutely none.’

‘Male? Female?’

‘One or the other, certainly. Get back to me once you’ve finished.’

‘Yes, guv,’ Esson said, ending the call before Clarke could respond.

Todd and Margaret Dalrymple were upstairs filling a suitcase. Cafferty was standing by the living-room window, his back to the room. Rebus had brought Clarke indoors and she was now taking in her surroundings, including the carpet, which was still strewn with recycling.

‘He won’t come in daylight,’ Rebus reminded Cafferty, receiving only a grunt in response. ‘But feel free to make yourself a nice big target in case he does.’

He handed Clarke the note along with the takeaway menu. ‘Like I say, we don’t know for sure when it arrived. They put it straight in the recycling without even noticing.’

‘And Cafferty got a menu too?’

Rebus nodded slowly. There was a gleam in his eyes Clarke hadn’t seen in a while — alive to all manner of challenges and possibilities.

‘So you went to Ullapool,’ she nudged him.

Rebus kept nodding. ‘And spoke to a guy called Dave Ritter. He was at Acorn House that night and was supposed to dump the body in a grave in some forest in Fife. Thing is, Bryan Holroyd wasn’t dead. He’d been putting on an act. He ran for it and they couldn’t find him.’

‘So Holroyd’s behind this?’ She held up the note.

‘I’d say there’s a good chance.’

‘And how does upstairs fit in?’ She gestured towards the ceiling.

‘Dalrymple was another of Acorn House’s clients. Ritter told me as much, which is why Cafferty and I decided to come visit.’

‘Does his wife know?’

‘Like I said, Big Ger lacks a certain diplomacy…’

‘Bit of marriage guidance needed.’

‘Not our problem.’

‘I’m just wondering if we need one place of safety or two.’

‘I see what you mean.’

Clarke thought for a moment. ‘I’ve got to tell Page all this.’

‘Of course. But bear in mind what I said — this is our one chance at catching him. We’ve no idea where Holroyd is or what he looks like. All we do know is that he’ll be coming here very soon.’ Rebus paused. ‘Which is why I’m offering myself as bait. I’m much the same age and build as Dalrymple. Enough to fool Holroyd until he gets up close.’

‘And then what? He’s going to have a gun, remember.’

‘Firearms officers stationed outside in an unmarked car. First sign of trouble, they come running.’

Clarke pointed towards the corner of the room, where John B was asleep in his basket.

‘Will Holroyd know the Dalrymples have a dog?’

‘He well might. But then I’ve got access to one too, remember.’

‘I don’t think Page will agree to it, John — you’re not a police officer.’

‘You can fight my corner, though.’

‘I can try — I’m just not sure I want to.’

Fresh wailing had started upstairs, penetrating the ceiling and causing John B to prick up his ears and look concerned.

‘And what about him?’ Clarke added, gesturing towards Cafferty.

‘He doesn’t want Holroyd dead, if that’s what you mean.’

Cafferty turned towards them. His face looked solemn rather than angry.

‘What I want,’ he stated, eyes boring into Clarke’s, ‘is to say sorry to the man.’