Ian Rankin: Even Dogs in the Wild

Clarke was perched on the edge of a chair opposite while Rebus stood with his back to the sink. He hadn’t shaved and was in the same clothes as the previous day.

‘Where did he get a gun?’ Denise Foyle was asking.

‘We have a theory,’ Clarke told her. ‘But right now, our main concern is to bring Jordan in safely.’

‘Safely?’

‘He’s carrying a firearm, Mrs Foyle. And he brandished it at two unarmed officers. That means we have to take this very seriously. Our own armed response team has been put on alert.’ She paused meaningfully. ‘We don’t want anything to happen to him, so it would be helpful if you could answer a few questions. Do you have any idea where he might go?’

‘He has friends.’

‘Details would be good.’

‘I’ve probably got a few phone numbers.’

Clarke nodded her satisfaction. ‘Also, a recent photo of Jordan. We’ve got one, but it’s not the greatest quality.’

‘There’ll be some on here from Christmas.’ Foyle pointed to her laptop. ‘Not that it was very festive…’

‘Your husband passed away?’ Rebus asked. She turned her head towards him.

‘At the beginning of December,’ she explained. ‘We’d driven out to Chesser Avenue. We always get a tree from the same charity, Bethany Trust. They have a site there. Mark had just stopped the engine when he slumped forward.’ Her eyes were filling with tears. ‘There’d been a few warning signs — he’d been to the doctor with chest pains, apparently. Again, I only found out after…’

‘Would you have a photo somewhere?’

‘On the mantelpiece.’

‘Do you mind if I…?’

She shook her head and Rebus exited the kitchen, turning right into the living room. There were half a dozen condolence cards still displayed on the mantelpiece, along with a selection of photos of the deceased. The most recent showed a man in his mid forties with salt-and-pepper hair and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, not even in a much earlier photo taken on his wedding day. Rebus focused on this picture, since it was the one that showed Mark Foyle at his youngest. He lifted it up and studied the face, though he was not sure what he was seeking. He photographed it with his own camera. When he’d left Ullapool, he had taken Dave Ritter’s mobile number with him. Now he added the photo to a text — Long shot, but could this be the same kid? — and sent it.

On a corner unit sat further framed family photos, mostly of Jordan Foyle — at primary and secondary schools, then as a teenage army recruit. He had his arms folded and was grinning fit to burst. A later snap had been taken by one of his comrades and showed him in the desert somewhere, his convoy having come to a halt, a fellow soldier holding him in a playful headlock. Rebus wandered back through to the kitchen. Denise Foyle was blowing her nose into a square of kitchen towel, Clarke handing her another so she could dab her eyes.

‘Jordan and his dad had a difficult relationship,’ Clarke explained to Rebus. ‘Mark wasn’t exactly touchy-feely modern-father material.’

‘How did you meet your husband, Mrs Foyle?’ Rebus asked.

‘At a nightclub, like you do.’

‘Here in Edinburgh?’

She shook her head. ‘Glasgow — he was living there at the time.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Car mechanic.’

‘But he was from Edinburgh?’

She shook her head. ‘He grew up in Glasgow.’

‘So he had family there?’

‘I got the feeling there’d been a falling-out. He never spoke about them.’

‘Never?’

She shook her head again. ‘Not one of them came to the wedding.’

‘You never met them?’

‘His parents were already dead, I think.’

‘He had school friends though?’

‘Not by the time I met him.’ She paused. ‘What are you getting at? What does this have to do with Jordan?’

‘Why did you move through here?’

‘I lived here. Worked as a secretary. Mark wasn’t keen, but I talked him round.’ She broke off again. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have. I don’t think he ever really settled.’

‘Would you mind if I took a look at Jordan’s room?’ Rebus asked.

She shook her head slowly as she dabbed at her eyes.

Rebus headed upstairs. Jordan Foyle’s bedroom bore a poster of a supermodel from yesteryear on its door. Inside, the bed was messy, clothes spewing from a chest of drawers and a narrow wardrobe. Photos from his army days stuck to the walls, plus more pictures of large-breasted women. There probably should have been a laptop of some kind, but it was missing. In amongst the clothes spilling from the wardrobe, Rebus spotted a rectangle of muslin, stained with oil. And beneath the bed, a small pile of menus from Newington Spice. Back downstairs, Denise Foyle was telling Clarke why her son had left the army.

‘Afghanistan destroyed him. I’ll probably never know what he saw there, but he came back looking like a ghost. Used to wake up screaming in the night, or I’d hear him sobbing in the bathroom at three in the morning. I don’t know if they offered him counselling, but he certainly never got any, and if I tried suggesting it, he would jump down my throat. But he looked like he was coming out the other side. He’d got himself a job, and even an on-off girlfriend—’

‘We’ll need her number too,’ Clarke interrupted.

‘But then when Mark died… I mean, they’d never been close. Quite the opposite. But something happened. Don’t ask me what.’

The front doorbell sounded. Rebus went to answer, and found the two officers from the patrol car standing there.

‘He dumped it,’ one of them stated.

‘Where?’

‘Cameron Toll car park. Took the bloody keys with him, though.’

‘It’s going to be fun writing up your report, isn’t it?’ Rebus allowed a smile to flit across his face. ‘We’ll have a recent photo of him in a few minutes. Need to get it distributed along with his description. You better get busy with that, since you two are the only ones who know how he’s dressed.’

‘Shouldn’t we be getting checked over?’ the other uniform enquired.

Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘For what?’

‘Post-traumatic stress — we had a gun pulled on us.’

‘By a lad who served at least one tour of duty in a war zone,’ Rebus retorted. ‘Anyone should be getting looked at, it’s him.’

And he slammed the door shut on the pair of them.

‘You look like hell,’ Jude said when Fox found her sucking on a cigarette in the hospital grounds.

‘Well, if we’re being frank with one another…’

She looked down at her unwashed clothes. ‘Okay, it was a low blow. I’m sorry.’ She tried not to shiver.

‘Want my coat?’ Fox was already shrugging out of it.

‘Very noble of you.’ She allowed him to place it over her shoulders.

‘Just don’t get ash on it.’

This almost merited a smile, until she remembered why they were there. ‘So, do we sign the death warrant or not?’

‘It’s a Do Not Resuscitate agreement…’

‘I know what it is, Malcolm! But this is our dad we’re talking about — the only one we get. And if we put our names on that form, we lose him.’

‘You don’t think he’s already lost?’

‘Miracles can happen.’

‘I’ve not seen too many recently.’

‘I spent half the night on the internet reading up on them. Patients waking from a coma after years, suddenly ravenous and asking what’s for breakfast. It happens , Malcolm.’ She drew on the cigarette again.

‘They’ve run every test, Jude.’

‘Not every test — I looked that up too. All I’m saying is…’ She started coughing, head bowed. The coughing stopped, but her shoulders still shuddered, and Fox realised she was sobbing. He grabbed her in an embrace. Her scalp was oily, her hair needing a wash, but he planted a kiss on the crown of her head.