Ian Rankin: Even Dogs in the Wild

‘That him?’ a voice barked. ‘When you’re ready…’

The head disappeared, the door remaining ajar.

‘I better go say hello,’ Fox told his boss.

‘We’ll talk at the end of the day.’

Fox nodded and moved off, standing in front of the door, giving himself a moment before pushing it all the way open. There were five of them, all standing, mostly with arms folded.

‘Shut the door then,’ the man who had originally opened it said. Fox reckoned this must be Compston. He had the rough dimensions and general demeanour of a prize bull. No handshakes, just down to business.

‘For the record,’ Compston said, ‘we know this is shite, yes?’

He seemed to require an answer, so Fox gave something that could have been construed as a nod of agreement.

‘But in the spirit of cooperation, here we all are.’ Compston stretched out an arm, taking in the room. The desks were sparsely furnished — just laptops and mobile phones, plugged into chargers. Almost no paperwork and nothing pinned to the walls. Compston took a step forward, filling Fox’s field of vision, so he knew who was in charge. ‘Now I know what your boss is thinking: he’s thinking you’re going to run straight back to him every five minutes with the latest gossip. But that wouldn’t be very wise, Detective Inspector Fox. Because if anything leaks, I know for a fact as hard as my last shit that it won’t have come from my team. Is that clear?’

‘I think I’ve some lactulose in my drawer, if that would help.’

One of the detectives gave a snort of laughter, and even Compston eventually broke into a brief smile.

‘You know I used to be Professional Standards,’ Fox ploughed on. ‘That means I’ve got a fan club here with precisely no members. Probably explains why Maxtone chose me — keeps me out of his hair. Besides which, I don’t expect he thinks this is going to be a laugh a minute. You might need me and you might not. I’m happy to sit on my arse playing Angry Birds for the duration — salary still goes into my bank.’

Compston studied the man in front of him, then turned his head towards his team.

‘Initial assessment?’

‘Standard Complaints wanker,’ a man in a light blue shirt said, seeming to act as the voice of the group.

Compston raised an eyebrow. ‘Alec isn’t usually so effusive. On the other hand, he seldom gets people wrong. Standard Complaints wanker it is. So let’s all sit down and get uncomfortable.’

They did, and introductions were finally made. The blue shirt was Alec Bell. He was probably in his early fifties, a good five or six years older than Compston. A taller, younger, undernourished-looking officer went by the name of Jake Emerson. The only woman present was called Beth Hastie. She reminded Fox a little of the First Minister — similar age, haircut and facial shape. Finally there was Peter Hughes, probably the youngest of the team, dressed for the street in a padded denim jacket and black jeans.

‘I thought there were six of you,’ Fox commented.

‘Bob Selway’s otherwise engaged,’ Compston explained. Fox waited for more.

‘That makes five,’ he said.

The group shared a look. Compston sniffed and shifted a little in his chair.

‘Five it is,’ he stated.

Fox noted that no ranks had been mentioned. It was clear Compston was in charge, with Bell as his trusted lieutenant. The others seemed like foot soldiers. If he had to guess, he’d say they hadn’t known each other for any great length of time.

‘Whatever it is you’re up to, there’s a surveillance element,’ Fox said. ‘You’ll appreciate that surveillance used to be a big part of my job, so that might be the one skill I have that’d be useful to you.’

‘Okay, smart-arse, how did you work that out?’

Fox’s eyes met Compston’s and stayed there. ‘Selway is “otherwise engaged”. Meantime Hughes is dressed so he doesn’t stand out in certain situations. He looks fairly comfortable, too, which means he’s done it before.’ Fox paused. ‘How am I doing?’

‘Maxtone really didn’t tell you?’

Fox shook his head, and Compston took a deep breath.

‘You’ll have heard of Joseph Stark?’

‘Let’s pretend I haven’t.’

‘Your boss hadn’t heard of him either. Unbelievable.’ Compston made show of shaking his head. ‘Joe Stark is a Glasgow gangster of long and ugly standing. He’s sixty-three years old and not quite ready to pass the baton to his son—’

‘Dennis,’ Alec Bell interrupted. ‘Otherwise known as a nasty little turd.’

‘With you so far,’ Fox said.

‘Joe and Dennis, along with some of their crew, have been enjoying a wee road trip of late. Inverness first, then Aberdeen and Dundee.’

‘And now they’re in Edinburgh?’

‘Been here a couple of days and don’t look like budging.’

‘And you’ve had them under surveillance throughout?’ Fox surmised.

‘We want to know what they’re doing.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘We’ve got an inkling.’

‘Do I get to hear it?’

‘They might be looking for a guy called Hamish Wright. He’s based in Inverness but has friends in Aberdeen, Dundee…’

‘And here.’

‘I say “friends”, but contacts might be a better description. Wright runs a haulage business, which means he has lorries crossing to the Western Isles, Orkney and Shetland, even Ireland and the Continent.’

‘Could be useful if there was something illegal that needed distributing.’ A head-and-shoulders shot of Wright had been handed to Fox. He studied the face. It was chubby and freckled and topped by curly red hair. ‘Looks like a Hamish,’ he commented.

‘Right.’

‘Would it be drugs he’s moving?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘For the Starks?’ Fox watched Compston nod. ‘So why haven’t you busted him?’

‘We were about to.’

‘And we reckoned we’d take down Stark and his son too,’ Bell added. ‘But then Wright went AWOL.’

‘And Stark’s your best chance of finding him?’ Fox nodded his understanding. ‘But why’s Stark so interested?’

‘There’ll be reasons,’ Compston said.

‘To do with money?’

‘Money and goods, yes.’

‘So where are Stark and his men? Who are they talking to?’

‘Right now, they’re in a café in Leith. They’re staying at a bed and breakfast nearby.’

‘Bob Selway’s watching them?’

‘Until I relieve him in forty minutes,’ Peter Hughes broke in.

‘Reckon young Peter will blend in?’ Compston asked Fox. ‘We did wonder if these days he’d need one of those hipster beards, seeing how Leith is going up in the world.’

‘Like he’s old enough to grow a beard,’ Alec Bell snorted.

Hughes made a single-digit gesture but looked as though he’d heard all the jokes before. Fox could sense the team softening a little. He wasn’t being accepted, but they were ceasing to see him as an immediate threat.

‘So that’s where we are and why we’re here,’ Compston said with a shrug. ‘And if you’ll let us get on with it, we’ll leave you to your Angry Birds.’

But Fox had a question. ‘Stark and his men were in town last night? What did they get up to?’

‘Dinner and a few drinks.’

‘You had eyes on them all evening?’

‘Pretty much. Why?’

Fox gave a twitch of the mouth. ‘You’ll have heard of Morris Gerald Cafferty, known as Big Ger?’

‘Let’s pretend I haven’t.’

‘Unbelievable,’ Fox echoed. ‘He was a major player on the east coast until recently. Similar age to your Joe Stark.’

‘And?’

‘Someone decided to take a potshot at him yesterday evening around eight o’clock.’