Ian Rankin: Even Dogs in the Wild

The phone went dead in Fox’s hand. He placed it on the passenger seat and popped a fresh piece of gum into his mouth. He was parked on the road leading into the high-rise estate, halfway between Anthony Wright’s home and the lock-up. There was no sign of life and the temperature was dropping. He was glad Siobhan hadn’t dug too deep — this was his case and no one else’s. Not just because of Compston, Bell and Hastie, but for his father, too, who had always thought him better suited to an office than the street. Yet here he was, watching and waiting.

‘My score,’ he said quietly to himself.

And a few scores to settle as well.

Rebus took the call from the firearms duo.

‘Someone’s coming. Big guy, looks like he means business.’

‘You only step in when you get the word,’ Rebus reminded them, ending the call. The doorbell rang and he went into the hall. Clarke was already halfway down the stairs, but he shooed her away. Only when she had disappeared from sight did he open the door.

‘Hell are you up to?’ he asked.

‘I decided I’ve got the right,’ Cafferty said, barging his way in.

‘The right to screw this whole thing up?’ Rebus snarled, slamming shut the door and pursuing Cafferty into the living room. ‘Holroyd knows what you look like — he saw you through your nice big bay window, remember?’

‘So?’

‘So when he sees you here…’

‘He’s going to think all his Christmases have come a bit late this year.’

‘Forget about it,’ Rebus said. His phone was ringing. He answered. ‘Very much a false alarm,’ he informed the firearms officer.

‘What’s he doing here?’ Clarke asked, joining the party.

‘Says he has the right,’ Rebus explained.

‘You need to leave,’ Clarke told Cafferty. ‘You are jeopardising this inquiry.’

‘I am this inquiry!’ Cafferty spat. ‘ I’m the one who’s been in jeopardy.’

‘Which is precisely why you can’t be here. Say a shot goes off and you get hit…’ Clarke was shaking her head.

‘I need to see him.’

‘And so you will — at his trial. But that only happens if we snare him, and you being here makes that impossible. You either leave right now, or I’m pulling my team out.’

Clarke was standing only inches from him, half a foot shorter but not about to falter. Cafferty was breathing heavily, a man locked and loaded. But Rebus watched as he started to calm.

‘Ballsy as ever, Siobhan. John here might not have taught you much, but he taught you that.’

‘Leave now,’ she reiterated. Cafferty held up his hands in a show of surrender. ‘I’ve two detectives outside who’ll make sure you don’t just lurk in the vicinity. They’ll want to see you get into a car or a cab. Is that understood?’

Still holding up his hands, Cafferty started retreating out of the room. Clarke got on her phone and explained things to Esson and Ogilvie. Rebus opened the door for Cafferty. Cafferty paused for a moment, glowering over Rebus’s shoulder towards Clarke.

‘I’ll let you know the minute we have news,’ Rebus said.

Cafferty nodded, without looking in the least convinced. Then he headed down the path towards the gate, where Ogilvie and Esson were waiting. Rebus closed the door again and walked into the living room. Clarke gave him a sharp look. He could only shrug a response, slumping into the chair again and waiting for Brillo to jump on to his lap.

Siobhan Clarke had fallen asleep on her bed, still in her clothes. They’d decided to quit at 6.45 a.m. She’d managed a few brief naps in the Dalrymples’ guest bedroom, and had driven home with a head that felt like glue had been poured into it. Now it was just after nine and her phone was ringing. She staggered over to the wall socket where it was charging, arriving just as the call ended. She didn’t recognise the number. The phone was fully charged, so she unplugged it and took it with her as she retreated to her bed. But she was awake now and knew she wouldn’t get back to sleep.

‘Shower,’ she muttered, rising once more to her feet.

There was a café she liked just around the corner from her flat, and she headed out afterwards for the strongest coffee they could muster — a flat white with three shots of espresso. She perched on a stool by the window and watched the traffic crawl uphill towards the Leith Street roundabout. When her phone rang again, it was the same number. This time she answered. It was Sanjeev Patel from Newington Spice.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting you,’ he said.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Patel?’

‘I have been giving the matter some thought, and have spoken to my staff about the mystery, and I think I may have made progress.’

‘Yes?’

‘One of our regular customers often takes a batch of menus with him to distribute among his friends and acquaintances. Is it possible these may have made their way to the person you are looking for?’

‘I suppose so.’ Clarke stifled a yawn. ‘What can you tell me about this customer?’

‘His name is Jordan. That’s his Christian name, I’m afraid I don’t have a surname. I think he lives in Newington, but as he always collects his order, I don’t have the actual address.’

‘How old would he be?’

‘Early twenties.’

‘We’re looking for someone a good bit older.’

‘I see.’ Patel paused. ‘There’s no point in sending you his photo then?’

‘You have a photo?’

‘The restaurant’s tenth anniversary — we invited some of our regulars to join us. I was thinking I could send it to you in a text.’

‘Might as well, and I appreciate you going to the trouble.’

‘No trouble, Inspector. Tell me, did you gain anything from speaking to our printer and distributor?’

‘Not a great deal, if I’m being honest.’

‘Honesty is the best policy, I’m told. So let me say something — you sound exhausted.’

Clarke managed a smile. ‘I’ve got caffeine on an intravenous drip.’

‘Caffeine is a false god — fresh air and exercise, trust me.’

‘I’ll bear those in mind. Meantime, do send me that picture.’

‘As soon as we finish speaking. I look forward to seeing you at Newington Spice soon — and Mr Rebus too.’

Clarke ended the call and drained her cup. She was heading to the counter for a refill when her phone alerted her to a message. It was the photo, showing a group of half a dozen men gathered around a table groaning with food. All looked like staff with one exception. Yes, Jordan was in his early to mid twenties. Close-cropped hair and small, deep-set eyes, his bare arms tattooed with what looked like Celtic symbols. Clarke used thumb and forefinger to zoom in on him. She knew him from somewhere. Then she remembered — he worked at the mortuary. She closed the photo and found Deborah Quant in her contacts list, tapping her number and holding the phone to her ear.

‘I never did thank you,’ Quant answered.

‘For what?’

‘Phoning me at that dinner so I could make my excuses.’

‘Time to repay the favour then — you’ve got a mortuary attendant, first name Jordan. In his twenties, tattoos on his arms…’

‘Jordan Foyle, yes.’

‘Worked there long?’

‘Almost a year. He was in the army before that — found it hard to adjust to Civvy Street, I think.’

‘Will he be at work today?’

‘No reason to think he won’t — is he in trouble?’

‘Probably not. I just need a word with him.’

‘Well I’m headed there right now. I’ll be on cadaver duty until two. After that I’m teaching a path class.’

‘I’ll pop in and say hello then.’