Ian Rankin - Even Dogs in the Wild

‘We need to go,’ Stark growled.

Christie got back to his feet, brushing dust from the knees of his trousers. ‘I’ll call it in,’ he told Fox. ‘The cavalry’ll come for you soon.’

‘Hastie…?’

‘She’s running like her life depends on it. Which it probably does. She might actually never stop running.’ He began to walk away, pausing only to admire the red motorbike. Then he got into the car and started reversing out of Fox’s field of vision. Joe Stark hadn’t got into the passenger seat — presumably the car they had come in was nearby. A small pool of liquid shone in the moonlight, all that remained of Jackie Dyson. Fox wondered if he would ever come to learn his real name, the name of the man he had been before he’d been sent into the underworld as a mole.

He didn’t suppose it mattered.

The first youth appeared a few minutes later, hood pulled low over his head, a scarf masking the lower half of his face. He studied the prone figure and listened as Fox asked for help. But, saying nothing, all he did was wheel away the red motorcycle. A couple of minutes after that, more hooded figures arrived and took the rest of the haul, leaving Fox to wait for the patrol car with its flashing lights. Siobhan Clarke was there too, helping to cut him free and listening to his story.

‘We better check Anthony’s okay,’ he said, rubbing the circulation back into his hands.

‘We’ll do that.’

His phone had fallen from his pocket and she picked it up, handing it to him. ‘You’ve got a text,’ she said.

He looked at the screen. At the two words written there.

He’s gone .

Rebus sat in the living room. It was lit by a single standard lamp in the opposite corner. The curtains were open a few inches and the back door was unlocked. Brillo was curled at his feet as he held the phone to his ear, waiting for it to be answered. He had already had one text from Dave Ritter to the effect that he couldn’t say for sure the photo had been of Bryan Holroyd, plus a long call from Deborah Quant expressing her disbelief that the killer had been under her nose the whole time.

‘It’s often the way, Deb,’ Rebus had told her, thinking of how the Acorn House abusers had carried on with their lives undetected.

The ringing tone stopped, replaced by Malcolm Fox’s voice.

‘Not really a good time, John.’

‘Siobhan just told me. Sorry about your father.’

‘I’m at the hospital right now.’

‘How’s Jude?’

‘Weirdly calm.’

‘And you?’

‘Most of me’s still lying cocooned in that lock-up.’

‘It was Jackie Dyson then?’

‘With a little help from his lover. We need to bring in Christie and Stark.’

‘It’ll happen. Though I don’t suppose we’ll ever find a body or the car they took it away in.’

‘It was still murder.’

‘You sure he was dead?’

‘He had to be.’

‘I know what a good advocate would do with that in court.’

‘Nevertheless.’

‘Chief Constable’s not going to want it getting out — undercover officer goes feral, kills two.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Fox repeated. Then: ‘I would have died back there if Christie hadn’t come to my rescue. I was stupid not to take back-up.’

‘Welcome to my world — it’s taken you long enough.’

‘I really don’t know if I can do this.’

‘Go easy on yourself, Malcolm — your dad’s just died. Of course you’re feeling low. You need to focus on the funeral now. Give it a week or two before you decide to chuck in a job you’re just starting to get good at.’

‘Aye, maybe.’ Fox expelled air loudly. ‘Are you at home?’

‘Where else?’

‘Finally got a suspect for the Minton murder, I hear.’

‘City’s locked down tight. He won’t be going anywhere.’ Rebus paused. ‘I better let you go — sorry again about your dad.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Anything I can do, you only have to say. We’ll have a bit of a wake, see how you’re feeling by then.’ Rebus turned his head towards the open doorway. Jordan Foyle was standing there, a crowbar in his hand. ‘Talk to you later,’ Rebus said, ending the call. Brillo had woken up and was taking an interest in the new arrival.

‘You’re not Dalrymple,’ Foyle said, taking a couple of steps into the room. He was wearing a thin cotton camouflage jacket over a hooded sweatshirt.

‘Not brought the gun?’ Rebus commented.

‘Who are you?’ Foyle was standing in front of him, half brandishing the crowbar. Rebus rested his hands on the arms of his chair, presenting no threat whatsoever. ‘Haven’t I seen you at the mortuary? You’re the guy Professor Quant goes out with.’

Rebus acknowledged the fact with a slight bow of the head. ‘My name’s John Rebus. I’ve been looking into Acorn House. Your father changed his name from Bryan Holroyd, didn’t he?’

Foyle’s eyes widened slightly. ‘How do you know?’

‘More to the point, son, how do you ?’

‘Where’s Dalrymple?’

‘It’s finished, Jordan. What we need now is an inquiry into Acorn House. For that to happen, we need at least one of the abusers able to testify — meaning alive. You were in Afghanistan, weren’t you? I served in Northern Ireland during the Troubles. It never quite goes away — you change and you stay changed. I’m not saying I know what you’ve been through…’ Rebus broke off. ‘Look, why don’t you sit yourself down? You seem about ready to keel over. It’s a cold night to be on the run, but you’re safe enough here. There’s a sandwich on the kitchen table and a couple of cans of Irn-Bru. Feel free to help yourself.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I used to be a cop. I’ve known Big Ger Cafferty for years. He wanted me to help find whoever fired that shot.’

‘Can’t believe I missed.’

‘Minton got the gun on the black market — sighting’s probably wonky. Fact he bought it at all means he took your note seriously. Cafferty’s a bit more used to threats, so he dismissed it at first. Did Michael Tolland get one too?’ Rebus watched the young man nod. ‘Must have tossed it then, because we never found it. Took the inquiry a while to link the cases because of that.’

‘You know I’m still going to have to kill you?’

‘No you’re not. You’re going to take the weight off your feet and tell me the whole story. Unless you want a drink first.’

The young man stood there, Rebus allowing the silence to linger as calculations were made. ‘I need to fetch my backpack,’ Foyle said eventually.

‘Where is it?’

‘The garden.’

‘Is the gun in it?’

Foyle nodded. ‘But that’s not what I need.’

‘What then?’

‘It’s not my story you need to hear — it’s my dad’s.’

‘And that’s in the backpack?’ Rebus watched the young man nod. ‘On you go then,’ he said.

‘You’re coming with me — so you don’t try calling anybody. In fact, give me your phone.’ Foyle stretched out his free hand and Rebus placed the phone in it. Then he rose slowly to his feet and preceded Foyle into the kitchen and the garden beyond. With the backpack retrieved, they headed back indoors, Rebus suggesting that Foyle could maybe dispense with the crowbar.

‘I don’t think so,’ Foyle said.

‘There are armed officers all across the city, Jordan. They see you brandishing anything more solid than a white hankie, they’re going to take you down. There were even a couple of them here last night, lying in wait.’

Foyle couldn’t help himself. He swivelled towards the window, peering through the gap in the curtains.

‘They’re not there now,’ Rebus assured him. ‘Nobody thought you’d be coming. Nobody but me. That’s why I left the door unlocked.’