Ian Rankin - Even Dogs in the Wild

‘We’ll go in when you’re ready,’ he said. ‘And not before.’

‘We’ll be out here till we freeze then.’

But he knew she didn’t mean it.

It was a manhunt now. Photos of Jordan Foyle had been distributed to the media, who were clamouring for more information. All they’d been told was that he was armed and potentially dangerous. The story of the hijacked patrol car had got out, however, and the Chief Constable had been on the phone demanding answers. James Page wanted answers too, and didn’t seem even half satisfied at the end of the briefing by Clarke and Rebus.

‘You think Mark Foyle was Bryan Holroyd, is that what I’m hearing? But you’ve no actual evidence?’

‘It makes sense,’ Rebus argued. ‘Father dies, son decides to avenge him for the hurt he endured.’

‘The son who never had the closest relationship with his father? Did the family even know about the abuse Bryan Holroyd suffered?’

Clarke and Rebus shared a look.

‘Wife seems in the dark,’ Clarke eventually conceded.

‘But you’re saying somehow the son knew?’

‘The restaurant menus, the muslin from Minton’s desk drawer. This is our guy,’ Rebus stressed.

‘My point is, there could be a dozen other reasons why he’s set out on this particular path.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Page sat in thoughtful silence, sizing up Rebus and Clarke. ‘I had to tell the Chief about your involvement, John. Needless to say, that’s a rocket waiting for me when the dust settles.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

Page sighed. ‘One thing’s clear — Portobello is a bust.’

‘Are you sure?’

Page gave Rebus a hard look. ‘He’s on the run, John. What would a good soldier do?’

‘Abort the mission,’ Rebus admitted.

‘Plus, those two firearms officers have already been redeployed. Everyone’s on their toes — checking trains, buses, routes out of the city. Even the airport. Does he have money?’

‘Debit and credit cards,’ Clarke said. ‘We’re asking his bank to alert us to any new transactions. Same goes for his mobile phone provider. His mum thinks his passport is gone, along with a laptop and maybe some clothes.’

‘Are we interviewing her formally?’

‘She’s in an interview room at St Leonard’s. Jordan’s girlfriend is being fetched there too. I’ve put Esson and Ogilvie on it. They’ll also check social media sites, see if he’s talking to anyone.’

‘Are Christine and Ronnie compos mentis?’

‘We’re all tired, sir,’ Clarke said with a smile.

‘You should get some rest then. We’ve got half the force out looking for the target. Not much else to be done until he’s brought in.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Clarke said, turning to go. But Rebus was standing his ground.

‘About tonight…’

‘I said no, John. Can I make myself any clearer?’ Page peered up at him.

‘Fair enough,’ Rebus said, making to follow Clarke. Page probably thought he was stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket to show how fed up he felt. But he was actually checking.

Yes, he still had the keys to Argyle Crescent…

Anthony Wright had his key out and was about to put it in the lock when he saw that his front door had actually been forced open and then pulled closed again.

‘Bollocks,’ he said. A break-in was all he needed after the past week or two. He pushed at the door and listened to the silence. He had a decision to make — stomp upstairs in the hope of scaring anyone who might be there, or move on tiptoe so as to surprise them? Having opted for the latter, he took the steps quietly, eyes alert in case a figure should suddenly loom in front of him. He paused in the narrow upstairs hall and listened again. What would they have taken? His laptop and CD player for definite. He didn’t have insurance, but someone at the Gifford would sort him out with replacements. Then he remembered the keys to his motorbikes, kept in a drawer in the kitchen, along with others for the garage’s various locks. When he thought of what else was in the garage, his stomach flipped. He placed his crash helmet on the floor and padded towards the open door of his living room.

Where a man and a woman waited.

The man sat in the only armchair, legs spread, a pistol of some kind resting against his crotch. The woman stood to one side of the doorway, and hauled him into the centre of the room.

‘You’ll be Anthony then?’ the man said.

‘I know you.’ Wright’s eyes narrowed as he tried to remember.

‘Let me give you a clue.’ The man jabbed his head forward, miming a butt.

‘Dennis Stark — you were with him that day. Nearly broke my boss’s nose.’

The man nodded. ‘Might have saved us all a lot of grief if I’d known then who you are.’

‘Who am I?’

‘You’re Hamish Wright’s nephew. I just looked at the photos from your dad’s funeral — it was all over the papers — and there was Uncle Hamish. Explains why he told me the stuff was in the self-storage. I ninety per cent believed him, and it turns out he was telling about ninety per cent of the truth — isn’t that right?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m talking about these.’ The man dug in his pocket, producing key after key, tossing them on to the carpet at Wright’s feet. ‘Four motorbikes, Anthony. Plus the one you rocked up here on. Keys to padlocks, too. So now I need to know where you keep the bikes.’ He paused. ‘Your uncle wasn’t easy to break, but I broke him. And then he snuffed it. Sometimes pain can do that. The body just decides it’s had enough. I can do the same to you, Anthony. Or we can make it nice and straightforward.’

‘I’m honestly telling you—’

Before he’d ended the sentence, they were on him. Packing tape binding his legs at the ankles, and his hands behind his back. The man held him down, a knee on his throat, almost crushing his windpipe, and a hand clamped over his mouth, removed only to be replaced by more of the silver tape, which was wound around his head a couple of times.

They stood over him when they were finished, while he wriggled on the floor. The man aimed a kick at his midriff, causing him to groan, eyes screwed shut in pain. The woman had yet to speak. She left the room and returned with items from his kitchen drawers — knives, scissors, kebab skewers.

‘Nice,’ the man said, appraising the haul as she laid them out on the floor. He lifted her face towards his and kissed her on the lips. Wright wanted to tell them they were crazy, but all he could do was moan behind the gag. And now the man was crouching in front of him, and the barrel of the gun was pressing into his forehead, so that he felt compelled to screw his eyes shut again.

‘I killed Dennis, you know,’ the man drawled. ‘It wasn’t just that I hated his guts. I had to focus everyone’s minds elsewhere. Plus he was talking about paying your place of work another visit, and since that was where I’d been told the stuff was stashed…’ He paused and scratched one cheek thoughtfully. ‘But now Joe’s back in Glasgow, meaning I can get my hands on it without anyone knowing.’ He glanced around and snatched up the padlock keys in his free hand. ‘A garage would be the obvious answer. Nod if I’m warm.’

Wright shook his head and felt a fresh blast of pain as the barrel of the pistol connected with his left temple, slicing it open. With the keys clamped between his teeth, the man picked up one of the knives and pushed it with slow deliberation three quarters of an inch into his victim’s shoulder. Behind the gag, Anthony Wright tried to scream.

Malcolm Fox was back at the same spot, on the road leading to the lock-ups. Jude had sent him half a dozen texts telling him how callous he was. They’d been at Mitch’s bedside when he’d told her he had to go out for a while.