Ian Rankin: Even Dogs in the Wild

‘One thing we do know is that no one with the surname Holroyd works for either firm,’ Ogilvie stated. Esson was about to add something, but broke off as the door to Page’s office opened. Rebus marched past Clarke’s desk without saying anything or making eye contact. The door remained open, and a few moments later Page was standing there, indicating that Clarke should join him. She headed in, closing the door again after her. Page was back behind his desk, twisting a pen in both hands.

‘At least there were no raised voices,’ she commented. ‘John must be disappointed, though…’ She saw the look on Page’s face. ‘You gave him the okay?’

‘With the proviso that members of our team will be nearby, as well as two firearms officers. As John says, he’s been on top of this throughout, putting our own efforts to shame in certain respects.’

Clarke bristled. ‘I’m not sure that’s entirely fair.’

‘Me neither. On the other hand, we’d have known nothing about Acorn House if John hadn’t told us.’

‘How much did he tell you, sir?’

‘Men in positions of authority abusing kids, the whole thing covered up, one young lad thought to be dead after some sex game or other…’ Page gave a pained look. ‘Bloody horrible to contemplate, every single bit of it.’

‘I agree.’

‘And after this is over, we need to make sure something’s done — the Chief has to be amenable to an inquiry of some kind.’

‘An inquiry flagging up one of our own as a paedophile?’

Page gave another grimace. ‘What’s the alternative?’

‘I’m fairly sure the Chief will present you with some.’

‘Sweep everything back under the carpet, you mean? The world’s changed, Siobhan. This’ll get out there one way or another.’

‘Well, if we need a friendly crime reporter…’

‘Your chum Laura Smith? Maybe it’ll come to that. Not that the media seemed to do much of anything last time round.’

‘One or two tried.’ Clarke shrugged.

Page was thoughtful, eyes on his pen as he played with it. ‘I need to authorise the firearms.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll let you get on with it.’ She turned to leave.

‘You’ll be there too, of course — John more or less insisted.’

Clarke paused in the doorway, turned and nodded her acceptance, then headed back into the main office.

Rebus was there, talking with Esson and Ogilvie. His eyes met Clarke’s, and he gave a wink as he grinned.

Rebus had stocked up on supplies — a couple of sandwiches, newspaper, several CDs to pass the time. But it turned out he couldn’t work the hi-fi — it didn’t have a CD slot, for one thing. There was a remote, and when he pressed it, music emerged from speakers in the corners of the ceiling, but it was nothing he wanted to listen to. Even the dog looked unimpressed. The terrier had been wary at first, especially after picking up the scent of another canine. The Dalrymples had taken basket and John B both, along with food and water bowls. But Rebus had found some dry stuff in a cupboard and tipped a helping into a soup bowl, placing it on the kitchen floor for the terrier. It had been quite the reunion when he had arrived at the cat and dog home.

‘We’ve been calling him Brillo,’ one of the staff had explained, bringing the dog into the reception area. Recognising Rebus, Brillo had strained at the leash. ‘You sure you only need him for a day or two?’

‘That’s right,’ Rebus had said, avoiding the staff member’s eyes.

He got up every ten minutes or so and looked out of the window. It was just before ten, and he’d been there almost four hours. The unmarked car was not quite directly outside — they didn’t want to scare Holroyd away. Two officers in the car, though they hadn’t been especially keen when told they might be pulling an all-nighter. Rebus took out his mobile and checked it. The officers had his number and he had theirs. First sign of anything, either they would call or he would. Esson and Ogilvie were out there somewhere too, traipsing the neighbouring streets in the guise of lovers on their way home. Esson had already sent one text to complain of impending blisters, to which Rebus had responded that she should get a piggyback from her colleague.

With no bed, Brillo had settled on the sofa, but every time Rebus moved, he looked interested, in case a walk was in the offing.

‘Sorry, pal,’ Rebus said, not for the first time.

He climbed the stairs and used the loo, then walked into the spare bedroom. Siobhan Clarke lay stretched out on the narrow single bed, reading a book by the light of a bedside lamp.

‘I hope you put the seat down this time,’ she admonished him.

‘This is why I never remarried.’

She smiled tiredly. ‘Get any pictures while you were up north?’

‘No.’

‘Some grandfather you are.’

‘Sam took one of me and Carrie — maybe she’ll email it.’

‘She will if you ask her.’

Rebus nodded. ‘What’s the book?’

‘He said, changing the subject. It’s Kate Atkinson.’

‘Any good?’

‘Someone keeps coming back from the dead.’

‘Not a bad fit for this evening, then.’

‘I suppose. You really think he’ll come?’

‘Maybe not tonight.’

‘Know the grief we’re going to get if we need to keep requisitioning those gun-slingers?’

‘Cheery pair, though, weren’t they?’

‘Rays of sunshine.’ She smiled again.

‘I should go downstairs.’

‘I keep thinking of Little Red Riding Hood. You’re the wolf dressed as Grandma.’

‘I don’t remember Red Riding Hood killing anyone, though.’

‘Fair point. Stick the kettle on then, Grandma.’

Rebus headed to the kitchen, where Brillo was waiting, ever hopeful. He gave the dog a pat and filled the kettle. He looked at the kitchen door. It led, he knew, to a well-tended garden with the usual area of decking. There was a security light above the back door, but the bulb had given up and not been replaced. That was fine by Rebus. He opened the door and breathed the night air. He couldn’t quite smell or hear the sea, and there was too much light pollution for any but the brightest stars to be visible. He remembered the drive south from Tongue to Inverness, the road winding and narrow at first, and not another vehicle for tens of miles. The sky had been studded with stars, and he’d seen one owl and several deer along the route, none of which had meant very much to him — he’d still been busy with thoughts of Carrie.

Brillo had headed into the garden to do his business, so Rebus left the door ajar while he poured the tea. He took one mug upstairs, and Brillo was in the kitchen on his return, fretting over his absence.

‘Here I am,’ Rebus said, closing the back door and leaving it unlocked. No point complicating things unnecessarily.

Fox was in his car when Clarke rang.

‘Hiya,’ he said.

‘Hope I didn’t disturb you.’

‘I’m outside the hospital,’ he lied. ‘Just about to head home.’

‘How’s Mitch?’

‘Pretty bad. Jude phoned to tell me they were readying to pull the plug. She was exaggerating, but not by much. They’re talking about a “persistent vegetative state”.’

‘Bit soon for that, isn’t it? You sure you’re okay to drive home?’

‘I’ll be fine. Are you at the flat?’

‘I’m in the lavender-scented spare room of a Mr and Mrs Dalrymple.’

‘Do Mr and Mrs Dalrymple know?’

Clarke explained the situation to him. ‘John’s downstairs filling the condemned man’s shoes, and we’ve a couple of sharpshooters outside.’

‘John’s a civilian.’

‘Try telling him that. He convinced James Page that this was the only game plan worth the name… Hang on, I’ve got a text I need to check… Shit, got to go.’