Ian Rankin: Even Dogs in the Wild

‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me,’ Fox said.

‘It’s not you I’m meeting, son — it’s your ex-colleague. Always worth finding out what’s going on in that head of his.’

‘Be that as it may…’

Cafferty was flapping one hand, signalling for Fox to stop. There was silence around the table, broken only by the sounds of the TV from the distant bar. Eventually Rebus put down his glass and spoke.

‘A shot was fired at you last night — we all know it. Most of your obvious enemies are long gone—’

‘Present company excepted,’ Cafferty interrupted, making another toast.

‘But then DI Fox discovers that Joe Stark is in town, along with his son.’

‘They’ve not sectioned Dennis yet?’ Cafferty feigned surprise.

‘We’re wondering if there’s any possible connection,’ Rebus continued. ‘I’ve spent half the night turning it over, and I’m not coming up with more than two or three names.’

‘Ah, now you’ve got me interested. What names?’

‘Billy Jones.

‘Living in Florida, as far as I know.’

‘Eck Hendry.’

‘Went to stay with his daughter in Australia. I think he suffered a stroke a couple of months back.’

‘Darryl Christie.’

Cafferty’s lips formed an O. ‘Ah, young Darryl.’

‘Your protégé back in the day.’

‘Never that. Darryl’s always been his own man. Doing well too, I hear. Business expanding, never a blemish on his character.’ His eyes met Rebus’s. ‘Almost as if he had the law on his side.’

‘Maybe he’s just always been that bit cannier than you.’

‘That must be it,’ Cafferty pretended to agree. ‘But I doubt he sees me as any sort of threat to his various interests, not these days.’

‘You don’t sound a hundred per cent sure,’ Fox couldn’t help interrupting.

‘We live in uncertain times. Not six months ago, we thought we were soon going to be an independent country.’

‘We still might be.’

‘And wouldn’t that be a grand scheme?’ Cafferty smiled behind his glass and tipped it to his mouth.

‘Thing you need to know about Big Ger,’ Rebus began for Fox’s benefit, ‘is that if he seems to be offering you something, there’s a game being played. He doesn’t rule out Darryl Christie, maybe in the hope we’ll go looking at Darryl and turn up something — something advantageous to Big Ger himself.’

Cafferty winked at Fox. ‘It’s like he knows me better than I know myself — saves me a fortune in therapy.’ Then, turning his attention back to Rebus: ‘But you’ve got me intrigued — why is Joe Stark here?’

‘Whatever it is, he’s obviously not sharing it with you.’

‘That son of his will be in charge of things soon. Maybe Joe’s introducing him to society.’

‘It’s a theory,’ Rebus acknowledged.

‘Everything is, until there’s proof. Will you go ask Darryl?’

Rebus met Cafferty’s stare. ‘You forgetting I’m retired?’

‘What do you think, DI Fox? Does Rebus here act like someone on the scrapheap? He will talk to Darryl, you know. Him and Darryl are old pals — didn’t you do one another a favour not so long back?’

‘Don’t believe all the stories,’ Rebus advised. He got to his feet, pulling his coat around him.

‘Not finishing your drink?’ Cafferty gestured towards the half-full pint. ‘I suppose there’s a first time for everything.’ Then, stretching out his hand again, ‘Nice to see you, DI Fox. Say hello to the fragrant Siobhan for me. And be sure to tell her you’re hanging on to Rebus’s coat-tails. She might well have some sage advice on the subject.’ He gave a little chuckle, which only intensified when Fox snubbed the handshake and instead began following Rebus towards the exit.

Clarke pinched the bridge of her nose, screwing her eyes shut. For almost three hours she had been reading about David Minton — his upbringing, education, career in the law, failed attempt to become a Conservative MP, and eventual peerage. As Lord Advocate, he had been able to speak in the Scottish Parliament, though the current administration had changed the role so that Lords Advocate no longer attended cabinet meetings. Minton’s closest colleague had been the Crown Agent, Kathryn Young. Young was putting pressure on Page and his team, phoning four times and turning up unannounced twice. Same went for the Solicitor General, who at least had one of her flunkeys act as inquisitor — easier to dismiss than the actual Crown Agent.

Clarke had thought she knew a bit about the legal profession — in her line of work, she spent a good deal of time with lawyers from the Procurator Fiscal’s department. But this was above her pay-scale and she was having trouble clarifying the role of the Lord Advocate. He was of the government but not in the government. He was in charge of the prosecution service, but his role as chief legal adviser to the government of the day made for complications in the form of potential conflicts of interest. Post-devolution, the position of Lord Advocate no longer came with the sinecure of a life peerage, but Minton’s appointment had pre-dated the opening of the Scottish Parliament. He was unusual in one respect, having decided against becoming a judge after his role as Lord Advocate ended, something he shared with only one other colleague, Lord Fraser of Carmyllie.

And hang on, what did the Solicitor General do again?

Then there was the Advocate General for Scotland, who advised the UK government on matters of Scots law. He was based in London but had an office in Edinburgh — and there had been phone calls from both to add to the mix. The procurator fiscal (actually a fiscal depute) attached to the Minton case was called Shona MacBryer. Clarke had worked with her before and liked her a lot. She was sharp, thorough, but relaxed enough so you could joke with her. She’d been in to see Page several times, but Clarke hadn’t as yet slumped to her knees and begged for a two-line explanation of the Scottish legal hierarchy. No detective wanted a lawyer to think they were more stupid than most lawyers already considered them to be.

With nothing better to do, Clarke wandered along to the cafeteria — one thing about Fettes, it at least had a cafeteria — and settled at a table with a mug of tea and a Twix. She was remembering that Malcolm Fox had been based here throughout his time in Professional Standards. She wasn’t sure he had found his feet yet in CID. He was a nice guy, maybe too nice. Visited his dad in the nursing home most weekends, and phoned his sister from time to time in failed attempts to mend fences. Clarke liked hanging out with him — it wasn’t that she thought him a charity case. She’d told him as much a few weeks back. His response — ‘Absolutely, and don’t think I see you as one either’ — had caused her to bristle, saying nothing for the rest of the DVD they’d been watching. Later that night she had stared at her reflection in her bathroom mirror.

‘Cheeky sod,’ she’d said out loud. ‘I’m a catch .’

And she’d punched her pillows a few times for good measure before settling down to sleep.

‘Mind if I join you?’

She looked up to see James Page standing there, coffee mug in hand.

‘Of course not,’ she said.

‘You looked like you were thinking great things.’

‘Always.’

He took a slurp from his mug. ‘Are we making headway?’ he asked.

‘We’re doing what we can. Every housebreaker in the city is under orders — if they give us a name, they’ll have a friend when they next need one.’

‘So far to no effect.’

‘X snitches on Y, Y on Z, and Z on X.’

‘In other words, you’re not hopeful.’