Ian Rankin: Even Dogs in the Wild

‘You might have to wave from the viewing room — today’s a busy one.’

‘Fair enough. Catch you later.’

Clarke ended the call and tapped the phone against her teeth. She had decided against a second coffee — she was starting to jangle as it was. Walking back to her flat, she considered contacting Rebus — he might fancy the detour. Then again, the poor sod had been stuck in Argyle Crescent all night. He would almost certainly be asleep. Besides, Jordan Foyle wasn’t Holroyd, not unless he had a portrait in his attic. Ex-army — she’d heard that it could be difficult for squaddies. They returned home from places like Afghanistan and never quite adjusted. Plenty passed through the police cells and prison service. She hoped Jordan Foyle was one of the luckier ones.

Five minutes later, she found herself passing the café, this time as part of the stream of slow-moving traffic. She had her window down a couple of inches, as per Sanjeev Patel’s advice about fresh air — not that the rush-hour air was especially fresh. Once past the roundabout, she headed for North Bridge, signalling right on to Blair Street and down the slope to Cowgate, where the mortuary sat. It was an anonymous grey box with a few similarly anonymous black vans outside its loading bay doors. Clarke made sure she wasn’t blocking any of them as she parked. The public entrance was around the other side of the building, but she opened the staff door and walked down the short corridor — the same one where she’d encountered Jordan Foyle — climbing the stairs from the storage area to the autopsy suite. The viewing room was separated from the autopsy room by a glass partition. There was a row of chairs, and she took one of these, waving to Quant, who waved back and indicated to her fellow pathologist that they had a guest.

Clarke tried not to look at the body on the metal trolley, or at the various basins filled with viscera and organs, or at the drainage channels down which liquids ran. There was a loudspeaker in the ceiling, allowing her to hear what was being said. The atmosphere was calm and professional, Quant recording her findings as the examination continued. The attendant on duty, dressed in scrubs and short green rubber boots, face masked, was not Jordan Foyle. He was a good decade older and had been with the mortuary as long as Clarke could remember. But then the door swung open and Foyle himself entered, carrying a tray of implements and a stack of disposable containers. He laid these out, his back to Clarke. When he turned again, he asked Quant if there was anything else she needed.

‘That’s fine, Jordan. But DI Clarke would like a word.’

She gestured towards the viewing room, and Foyle’s eyes met Clarke’s. He nodded slowly and made to leave. Clarke headed out to meet him. He was walking down the corridor away from her, pulling off his protective gloves.

‘Jordan?’ she called.

Rather than stop, he broke into a run. Clarke took a second to realise what was happening, then set off after him. He was down the stairs by now, and she lost sight of him. As she emerged into the car park, he was rounding a corner of the building, shrugging off his scrubs. He began to run up High School Wynd, while Clarke faltered. On foot or in her car?

‘Shit,’ she said, making up her mind. She set off in pursuit but he was already at the top of the hill and heading for the Infirmary Lane steps. Clarke took out her phone and got through to the area control room, identifying herself and asking for assistance.

The steps almost defeated her and she ended up using the handrail as she heaved her way to the top, where she had a decision to make: left or right along Drummond Street? Towards the Pleasance or Nicolson Street? No sign of Foyle and no one she could ask for guidance. She swore under her breath and placed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart pounding. Her phone was ringing — a patrol car was two minutes away, its occupants wanting to know who they were looking for. Clarke started to give them a description, focusing on the tattoos and the rubber boots. Then she headed back down the steps, retracing her route to the mortuary. Quant was still in the autopsy suite. Clarke thumped on the glass and gestured that she needed a word. Quant met her in the corridor as Clarke was wiping sweat from her face.

‘Foyle did a runner,’ she explained between breaths.

‘Really?’ Quant still wore her face mask and was holding her viscera-stained gloved hands out in front of her, unwilling to touch anything.

‘I need his address.’

‘He lives with his parents,’ Quant said. ‘His mother, I should say. His father passed away a month or two back.’

‘The address,’ Clarke repeated.

‘It’ll be with his personnel file. You’ll need to phone the admin office.’

‘Do you know their number?’ Clarke had her phone out. She tapped it in as Quant recited it.

‘You might want to sit down and catch your breath,’ Quant cautioned. But Clarke was already walking away, waiting for someone to pick up at the other end.

By the time she reached her car, she had the address: Upper Gray Street in Newington. She called the officers in the patrol car.

‘We’re still on the lookout,’ one of them said. Clarke gave them the address and said she would meet them there. Once on the road, she phoned Rebus. He sounded rightly groggy.

‘I might have something,’ she told him, explaining about Foyle.

‘Can’t be Holroyd.’

‘I know that.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘Foyle’s father died a couple of months back. Interesting timing, don’t you think?’

‘I’ve had barely three hours’ sleep — thinking isn’t top of my list of priorities.’

‘He did a runner, John.’

‘Could be any number of reasons for that. Bit of dope in his pocket, parking fines he’s been ignoring…’

‘Can you meet me at his house anyway? I’m nearly there.’ She gave him the address. ‘It’s hardly any distance from yours.’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘You think that’s where he’ll be headed?’

‘It’s the direction he was going. And he’s on foot. Have to admit, for someone in galoshes, he had a turn of speed.’

‘If you’ve ever tried running from enemy gunfire in army-issue boots, I’d think a pair of green wellies would feel like kit from the Olympics.’

‘I bow to your superior knowledge.’

‘If it is him, you’re going to have to be careful.’

‘I know.’ Clarke signalled off Newington Road into Salisbury Place and took a left into Upper Gray Street. She could see two uniformed officers standing in the middle of the road ahead of her. One was busy making a call, while the other looked ready to explode. They moved out of the way as Clarke squealed to a stop. She wound down her window, her phone held in her free hand.

‘Bugger’s got a gun,’ the ruddy-faced officer said.

‘You let him take your car?’

‘He was running out of the house as we got here. Changed his shoes and with a backpack over one shoulder. Then the gun came out, could have been fake but impossible to tell.’

‘You hearing this?’ Clarke said into her phone.

‘I’m on my way,’ Rebus replied.

Denise Foyle sat at the kitchen table with a mug of sweetened tea. There was a laptop on the table, with a printer on the floor beneath. She made a bit of money as an eBay trader, as she had explained to Siobhan Clarke.

‘But I just don’t understand,’ she was repeating for the sixth or seventh time. ‘I can’t get my head round what you’re telling me.’

She was in her late forties, with dyed ash-blonde hair. She wore jewellery round her neck and on her wrists, plus a pair of large earrings that resembled peacock feathers. Though she worked from home, her make-up was immaculate, as were her painted and manicured nails.