Ian Rankin: Even Dogs in the Wild

He returned to his car and waited, the radio playing at low volume. It was a quiet street, though far from gentrification. He got the feeling that if he sat there much longer, an inquisitive local would emerge to check him out. One thing he had noted: no bikes on the roadway outside the maisonette, or in the flagstoned front garden. How many had Anthony said? Five? He got out of the car again and did a little circuit, establishing that the maisonette backed on to an enclosed drying green, which boasted no enclosure larger than a garden shed. There was a park beyond, really just a stretch of well-trodden grass that could accommodate a makeshift game of football, plus a graffiti-covered set of concrete ramps, presumably for use by skateboarders. On the other side of the park sat three high-rise blocks, and next to those, two rows of lock-up garages.

Buttoning up his coat, Fox started walking, sticking to the paved route so as to save his shoes getting muddied. A cheap souped-up saloon car passed him, its occupants barely out of their teens. Both front windows were down so the world outside could share their taste in what they presumably thought was music. They paid Fox no heed though. He wasn’t like Rebus — he didn’t look like a cop. A detective he’d once investigated when in Complaints had described him as resembling ‘a soulless, spunkless middle manager from the most boring company on the planet’. Which was fine — he’d been called worse. It usually meant he was closing in on a result. And the fact that he didn’t stand out from the crowd could be useful. As far as the kids in the car were concerned, he barely existed — if they’d thought him a threat, the car would have stopped and a scene of sorts would have ensued. Instead of which, he arrived at the lock-ups without incident.

There were a dozen of them, all but one with its doors locked tight. A car was jutting out from the twelfth, jacked up while a wheel was changed. The lock-up had power, and a radio had been plugged in, Radio 2 providing the soundtrack while a man in presentable blue overalls did his chores.

‘Nice car,’ Fox commented. The man had wiry silver hair and a stubbled face, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. ‘Ford Capri, right? Don’t see many these days.’

‘Because they’re rustbuckets. Dodgy engines, too.’

The bonnet was up, so Fox took a look. He had scant knowledge of cars, and to his eyes the engine looked much like any other.

‘You in the market?’ the man asked. ‘Only I know there are collectors out there — I’ve had offers.’

‘Motorbikes are more my thing,’ Fox said. ‘Friend of mine lives near here. He’s got a nice collection.’

‘Anthony?’ The man nodded towards the lock-up opposite. ‘That’s where he keeps them.’ Fox turned his head towards the graffiti-covered rollover door. There was the usual turn-handle with its central lock, but heavy-duty bolts and padlocks had also been added to either edge of the door.

‘He was supposed to be showing me them,’ Fox explained, ‘but he’s not home.’

‘He’s often here — takes one out for a run, brings it back, swaps to another. What’s your favourite?’

‘I like Moto Guzzis,’ Fox said, remembering the brand from one of the prints on the staircase.

‘About as reliable as my Capri,’ the man snorted, flicking away the stub of his cigarette. ‘The older ones, at any rate.’

‘I’m surprised he doesn’t keep them at that self-storage place where he works.’ Fox was studying the surroundings. ‘Bit more security than here.’

‘This is handier, though, and he’s careful — never leaves the doors open long enough for anyone to get a good look.’

Fox nodded his understanding. ‘Ever meet his uncle?’ he asked casually.

‘Uncle?’

‘Uncle Hamish — he was down here a few weeks ago from Inverness. I just thought Anthony might want to show off his collection.’

‘Chubby? Fiftyish? Red hair and freckles?’

Fox thought of the photographs he’d seen. ‘Sounds about right,’ he said.

‘Anthony didn’t introduce us, but aye, he was here.’ The man was wiping his hands on a rag. ‘I’ve got to say, you don’t look like one of Anthony’s mates.’

‘What do they look like?’

‘Younger than you, for a start.’

‘We drink together at the Gifford.’

The man’s suspicions eased. ‘He’s mentioned the place — seems to like it there.’

‘It’s all right.’

The man gave a lopsided smile. ‘I thought maybe you were a cop or something — sorry about that.’

‘No problem,’ Fox assured him.

‘Not that you look like one, mind.’

Fox nodded slowly. ‘My name’s Malcolm,’ he said.

‘George Jones. I’d offer a handshake, but…’ He showed Fox his oil-stained fingers.

‘No problem — I better get back and see if he’s turned up. Good luck getting your Capri back on the road.’

‘No chance of that,’ Jones said, patting its roof. ‘This isn’t so much a garage as a hospice — I’m just keeping the patient comfortable until the end.’

Fox’s face tightened. He offered a half-hearted wave as he turned and started to walk, pulling out his phone to call Jude. He would take over from her for an hour or two, but he knew he might well be back here later. He imagined himself calling Ricky Compston with the news — I’ve got Hamish Wright and his booty. Both are here when you want them…

He was almost smiling to himself as Jude answered his call.

‘About bloody time you checked in,’ she announced. ‘Doctors want a word with us.’

‘What about?’

‘If you want my best guess, they’re readying to pull the plug.’

‘What?’

But Jude was too busy sobbing to say any more.

Esson and Ogilvie stood in front of Siobhan Clarke’s desk as they delivered their report, the conclusion of which was that they had found nothing much of interest.

‘Nothing?’ Clarke felt it necessary to check.

Ogilvie stood with his hands behind his back, happy to let his partner do the talking.

‘We’ve got a list of everyone who works for the two companies, and we’ll run it to see if anyone rings alarm bells, but I’m not hugely hopeful.’

‘The company that does the flyering…’

‘Higher Flyer,’ Esson reminded Clarke.

‘Higher Flyer, yes — do they do any work in and around Linlithgow?’

‘Strictly Edinburgh and Glasgow. They actually don’t have many restaurants on their books. Mostly they do comedy shows and that sort of thing — stocking pubs and clubs with flyers. They would certainly cover the areas where Minton and Cafferty live, but it would depend on the client. Newington Spice specified the local neighbourhood.’

‘Most of the people doing the flyering are students,’ Ogilvie chipped in.

‘Our guy would be in his forties,’ Clarke commented. Her eyes drifted towards the closed door of James Page’s office. ‘Always supposing John’s theory is correct.’

‘What’s he doing in there?’ Esson asked, nodding towards the door.

‘Trying to persuade DCI Page that a retired detective, now a civilian, should become bait for an armed serial killer.’

‘Not going to happen, is it?’

Clarke stared at Esson. ‘John can be quite persuasive.’

‘As I’ve found to my cost. It would be nice now and again to go on a wild goose chase that actually had a goose at the end of it.’

‘Wild or otherwise,’ Ogilvie added.

Clarke pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘What about VampPrint?’ she asked.

‘They do have a storage facility for everything they print,’ Esson answered, ‘but in the case of Newington Spice, all their stock went either to Higher Flyer or to the restaurant itself. That’s not to say someone on the staff couldn’t have helped themselves, and again we’ll run all the employee names through the system.’