Ian Rankin: Even Dogs in the Wild

‘How long?’

‘A few hours.’

‘A few hours? ’ Because they’d been told by the consultant that their father might only have a few hours.

A few hours.

A few days.

Maybe a week.

This before they’d signed the forms, Jude sobbing all the while. The consultant had asked her if she wanted a sedative, but she’d shaken her head. Her texts were now arriving like blows every twenty minutes or so. Fox sat with his hands resting on the steering wheel, Classic FM at just audible volume on the stereo. A kid on a BMX had ridden past four times, eyeing him inquisitively without stopping. George Jones — the man with the Capri — had worked on it again, reversing it back inside and locking the garage door only quarter of an hour back, after which, rubbing oil from his hands with a rag, he had headed on foot towards one of the tower blocks. Fox popped a mint into his mouth and sucked on it, hoping it might clear his head. He dropped the packet on the floor and was reaching down to retrieve it when a car passed him. He watched as it crawled towards the lock-ups, coming to a stop between the two rows. Both front doors opened. Female driver, male passenger. In the gathering gloom, he couldn’t make out their faces. The man walked down one line of garages and up the other, not pausing until he finally reached the one owned by Anthony Wright.

‘Well now,’ Fox murmured. He got out of his own car, closing its door quietly, and made his approach on foot, trying to look like a worker slouching homewards. He could hear a metal door shuddering open. Both figures had moved out of his sight line, so he speeded up. When he was close enough to make out the car’s number plate, he decided to commit it to memory, but quickly realised he already knew it.

One of the cars from Operation Junior.

He cursed beneath his breath and steadied his pace. A light had gone on inside the lock-up. As Fox approached, he could see that the motorbikes were draped with polythene dust sheets. The two figures, however, were standing by the rear wall, intent on the contents of what looked like a packing crate. Even from behind, he recognised Beth Hastie. When the man half turned, he saw it was Jackie Dyson. Dyson planted a kiss on Hastie’s cheek, stopping Fox in his tracks. Too late, though — Dyson had spotted him out of the corner of his eye. He spun around, pointing the pistol at Fox’s chest.

‘Don’t be shy then,’ he said. ‘In you come.’

‘Fuck’s he doing here?’ Beth Hastie spat.

‘It all makes sense,’ Fox said, holding up his hands as he took a few steps forward.

‘Is that right?’

‘Hastie covered for you while you followed Dennis that night to the alley. How long have you two been an item?’

‘What are we going to do with him?’ Hastie was asking Dyson.

‘I’ll need to think. Meantime, fetch the roll of tape from the car.’

Hastie did as she was told, giving Fox a cold stare as she passed him.

‘So it’s true what they say,’ Fox commented to Dyson. ‘Undercover cops do get turned. I fail to see how you’re going to get away with it, though.’

‘Is that right?’

‘I’m hardly the brightest, and I worked it out.’

‘Seems to me you worked out hee fucking haw until we were standing right in front of you.’ Hastie had returned with the tape. ‘Hands behind your back,’ Dyson ordered. Fox did as he was told, his eyes on the man as he spoke.

‘That note you left next to Dennis was hardly proof of smart thinking — it didn’t have us fooled more than half a day.’

‘Muddied the water, though, didn’t it? Less chance of Joe cottoning on. Just like torching that pub, giving Darryl Christie something to chew over so he didn’t get too interested in Wright’s stash.’ Dyson examined Hastie’s handiwork. ‘Do his ankles next,’ he commanded her.

‘How long have you had the gun?’ Fox was asking.

Dyson gave a cold smile. ‘Insurance in case the Starks ever rumbled me. When Compston told me there was another nine mil doing the rounds, well, it seemed like kismet.’

Fox felt the tape being wrapped around the hems of his trousers. He tried flexing his wrists, but she’d done a good job, leaving almost no play at all.

‘Now take the covering off one of those bikes,’ Dyson was saying. ‘We’re going to wrap you up nice and neat like a mummy, Fox.’

The bike, when revealed, was a gleaming red model, streamlined and built for speed. Dyson muttered his appreciation while the sheet was laid out on the ground. Hastie gave Fox a shove and he could do nothing other than topple on to it. She crouched and wound the tape around his mouth. Then, with her lover’s help, she started covering Fox in his makeshift shroud. As more tape was applied, he realised he would suffocate unless they left a gap somewhere.

And a gap didn’t seem to be part of their plan.

He began to strain against his bonds, his cries for help muffled. Dyson was grinning as he finished the job. The covering was translucent, and Fox watched as the pair clambered to their feet again. They got to work emptying the crate of its contents, transferring everything to the back of their vehicle. Fox was trying not to panic, trying to keep his breathing shallow. There was a bit of give at his wrists, but not as yet enough. He was working his lips and jaw too, trying to break the seal on the tape, rubbing his face against the thin plastic sheeting but failing to find an edge that might help shift the gag.

Despite himself, his breathing was growing ragged, adrenalin surging through his body.

Yet all the time he watched.

To and fro they went until they were satisfied. Then they paused for a moment to embrace and kiss, only a few feet away from his prone, writhing figure. Dyson squeezed Hastie’s hand and she headed outside, Dyson pausing for a moment, his eyes on Fox. Then he switched off the ceiling light and started to leave. Fox’s makeshift shroud was beginning to steam up, but he could make out Dyson’s figure silhouetted against the night as he stretched up to grab the door and pull it down, locking Fox in his tomb.

Sudden movement.

A woman’s shriek.

Someone had come up behind Dyson and hit him with something. Fox thought he could make out a hammer. The pistol clattered to the ground and another figure picked it up. The attacker was delivering a second blow, and then a third and a fourth. Dyson fell to his knees, then on to his front, face against tarmac. Fox had the impression that a second shriek was coming from a distance — Beth Hastie was making a run for it. He found that he was almost holding his breath, the blood pounding in his ears. And now Dyson — unconscious at the very least — was being dragged along the ground by his feet, disappearing from view. Fox got the feeling he was being lifted into the boot of his car. He heard the boot lid slam in confirmation. And now there was a shadowy figure standing at the threshold to the lock-up, as if taking stock. It moved forward into the gloom and knelt in front of Fox, for all the world as if it might be about to pray. But then there was a glint of steel and a knife began to slice through the covering. The figure prised the polythene apart, exposing Fox’s face.

Darryl Christie.

He looked Fox up and down, then got his fingernails under the tape and pulled it free of his mouth. Fox took in gulps of air, feeling he might be sick at any moment.

‘Dyson killed Dennis,’ he blurted out. And was rewarded with a slow nod.

‘Anthony told us. They trussed him up too.’

The second figure was waiting a couple of yards away, and Fox realised it was Joe Stark.

‘Joe’s a traditionalist,’ Christie explained. ‘No shooters needed — just a nice big claw hammer. I find that admirable.’