Even dogs in the wild (27 page)

‘How long did Paul Jeffries drive for you?’

‘Two, three years.’

‘Then what?’

Dalrymple shrugged. ‘He still came by. Bit of a rough

diamond, our Paul. He never divulged how he was making a

crust.’

‘He left or you fired him?’

‘I think the job just wasn’t as exciting as he’d hoped for.’

Rebus looked Dalrymple up and down. ‘You’re well-

educated, I can tell, and you come from money. No disrespect,

sir, but I’d say you wouldn’t have had much in your arsenal if

Cafferty had really wanted to put the moves on you.’

Dalrymple offered the thinnest of smiles. ‘I had friends,

officer. Quite a lot of friends. They gambled, ended up owing

money. I’m talking about people of influence, politicians and

the like. Maybe even a Chief Constable or two . . .’

‘Making you untouchable?’

‘I was able to persuade Big Ger that it would be more

trouble than it was worth, should he attempt to unseat me.’

Rebus nodded his understanding. ‘I don’t suppose David

Minton was one of your punters?’

‘He came in a couple of times – always with a gorgeous

young woman on his arm, as if that would stop us noticing that

the fairer sex weren’t his primary interest.’ John B was in the

water now, but unable to persuade the other dogs to follow. ‘I

think we might need to make an intervention,’ Dalrymple said

with a sigh. He led Rebus through a gap in the wall on to the

sand, tugging a dog lead from the pocket of his coat.

‘Can you give me the name of the care home?’ Rebus was

asking. ‘The one Mr Jeffries is in?’

‘Absolutely. But I’d be grateful for some sort of thread

through the labyrinth.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning what the hell is this all about?’

‘I’m unable to say at present.’

‘You almost sound as if you don’t know.’

Rebus didn’t like to admit that this wasn’t exactly wide of

the mark. John B meantime had decided to welcome his

owner’s new friend by shaking himself free of seawater in

Rebus’s vicinity.

‘Probably should have warned you about that,’ Dalrymple

said as Rebus glared at the dog.

‘Compston refused point blank,’ Clarke told Fox. ‘You can

imagine how that went down. Give James Page his due, he got

straight on to the Chief Constable.’

‘And?’

‘Told him it wouldn’t look good if it got out to the media –

police surveillance on Dennis Stark and the officers involved

are refusing to cooperate with the murder inquiry.’

‘Not that the news would ever leak.’

‘Perish the thought,’ Clarke said.

‘I’m sure DCI Page said as much.’

She nodded slowly. ‘So now Compston and the others are on

their way here.’

‘No more mayhem to report in the interim?’

‘Not that I’ve heard.’

‘What do you think Joe Stark is doing?’

‘Seething.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And plotting. He’s

already given an interview to a tame Glasgow journalist.

Accuses us of sitting on our hands.’

‘I’ve not seen much evidence of that.’

They were at the bottom of the staircase now, on the ground

floor of Fettes. They emerged from behind the reception desk

into the waiting area. Glass walls gave a view on to Fettes

Avenue. Clarke checked the time on her phone.

‘By the way,’ she said, ‘James isn’t happy about you taking

part in the interviews.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because until this morning you were attached to

Compston’s team. You’re just too close to it all.’

‘That’s precisely why I should be in the room!’

‘You can listen to the recordings. Anyone tells me

something you know to be a lie, you let me know.’

‘That’s hardly the same thing.’

‘I know, Malcolm, but James is right.’ She stared him out.

He exhaled and slumped on to one of the seats. Clarke touched

her hand to the back of his neck. ‘You know he’s right,’ she

went on.

‘Don’t tell me John bloody Rebus is invited, though?’ Fox

folded his arms, defying her to give him bad news.

‘He’ll be backstage, same as you. In fact I should let him

know they’re on their way.’

But when she called, Rebus didn’t pick up.

‘Here they come,’ Fox warned her, as two cars he

recognised roared into the driveway. ‘And while I’m no

expert in automotive technique, I’d say they’re not at their

sunniest . . .’

Rebus had phoned Cafferty with the news, mostly because he

felt smug. It had taken him only a couple of hours of old-

fashioned detective work. The online world could stuff that in

its pipe and vape it. But when Cafferty had asked for the

address, Rebus had backed off a little.

‘I need to be there when you see him,’ he had demanded.

‘No you don’t,’ Cafferty had countered. ‘You know I’ll

track him down by myself if I have to. It’ll take time, though,

time that could see the mortuary filling up . . .’

Rebus dismissed the threat. ‘I go with you, or I end this call

right now.’

He waited, letting the silence build. He imagined Milligan’s

at the height of its popularity, a poker game in progress,

everything in and just two players left. Fine clothes, laughter

and swirling smoke, all rendered meaningless in the moment.

The phone went dead. Rebus stared at it and gave a rueful

smile. His Saab was on one of the side streets off the

Promenade. He smoked a cigarette as he walked in that

direction, keeping the phone in his other hand. With the

cigarette clamped in his mouth, stinging his eyes, he dug out his

car key and unlocked the doors. Got in and slid the key into the

ignition. Sat there with the door open until he had finished the

cigarette. He stubbed it into the ashtray and closed the door,

starting the engine.

His phone started ringing. He checked who was calling.

Siobhan Clarke. He let it ring. The road was a dead end, so he

did a three-point turn and headed away from the beach, towards

Portobello High Street, thinking maybe he should have treated

himself to a fish supper. His phone rang again as he was turning

right, entering the stream of traffic heading towards the city.

Bingo.

‘Yes?’ he said, answering.

‘Fine,’ Big Ger Cafferty spat. ‘Let’s do it your way. Give me

the address and I’ll meet you there.’

Rebus calculated that it would take him twenty or thirty

minutes to get to the care home. ‘I’ll phone you back in ten with

the details,’ he advised. ‘Make sure you’re ready.’

‘I’ve already got my coat on.’

Rebus ended the call.

He was actually only five minutes away from his destination

when he sent Cafferty the text. Meadowlea was a modern

single-storey building in the Grange, within tottering distance

of Astley Ainsley hospital. A phone call had confirmed that

Paul Jeffries was both a resident and in a bad way.

‘Early-onset dementia with a host of complications – we’re

more what you might call a hospice than a regular residence,’

Rebus was informed.

He waited in the car park for almost fifteen minutes before

the black taxi chugged through the gateway, depositing a

scowling Cafferty.

‘You waiting for a proficiency badge or something?’

Cafferty said.

‘A word of thanks might be in order. But I’ll settle for an

explanation.’

‘Here’s what you get instead – you get to stand outside the

room while I have a word.’

But Rebus shook his head. Cafferty made an exasperated

sound and stepped past him. He tried yanking the glass door

open, but it was locked tight. Rebus pressed the buzzer and

waited.

‘Yes?’

He leaned in towards the intercom. ‘I phoned earlier. We’re

here to see Mr Paul Jeffries.’

‘In you come, then.’

This time the door opened for Cafferty. He stood with hands

clasped behind his back, looking to left and right. There were

long corridors, protected by further doors. Rebus could smell

disinfectant. The antechamber they were in held two chairs and

one oversized pot plant. It looked to Rebus like a palm tree of

some kind, its thick leaves dark green and shiny.

One of the doors opened and a staff member dressed in

white gestured for them to follow her.

‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘Paul doesn’t get many visitors.’ She

took one look at Cafferty’s face and became less certain. ‘You

are
friends of his?’

‘I’m just a sherpa,’ Rebus explained. ‘But Mr Cafferty here

knew Paul some years back.’

They stopped outside a door with the name ‘Paul’ on it. The

attendant knocked and turned the handle. It was a self-contained

space with a bathroom off. A hospital-style bed against one

wall, but also a fireplace with two chairs and a TV/DVD. A

man was seated in one of the chairs, staring at a darts match but

with the sound turned off.

‘You were told he might not say anything?’

Rebus nodded and thanked the woman, ushering her out and

closing the door on her offer to bring some tea. Cafferty stood

in front of Paul Jeffries, then bent down so his face was at eye

level.

‘All right, Paul?’ he said.

The room was stifling. Rebus removed his coat and took a

look around. No mementoes from the resident’s life. Just a few

films and TV shows on DVD, and some fake flowers in a vase.

There were no paintings or photos on the walls. A radio sat on a

bedside cabinet, along with a jug of water and a glass.

Cafferty was waving a hand in front of the man’s face. The

eyes blinked without evident recognition. Cafferty clicked his

fingers a few times, then clapped his hands together. The seated

man flinched, but tried seeing past the blockage to where the

darts match was still being played. Cafferty straightened up,

picked up the remote and killed the picture.

‘Paul, you prick, it’s me,’ he rasped.

But the blank screen was now enjoying the seated figure’s

attention. The man was dressed in jogging pants and top, maybe

with a T-shirt beneath. Disposable clothes – cheap; easy to get

on and off. There were food stains down the front, and one of

Jeffries’ hands cupped his groin. Facially, the man was as

Cafferty had described him, but older, almost drained of vigour,

and his shrunken cheeks indicated that he had lost his teeth at

some point and was not currently bothering with dentures.

Cafferty looked at Rebus.

‘Early-onset dementia,’ Rebus explained.

‘Maybe a slap would jolt him out of it.’

‘I doubt it’s a recognised medical technique.’

Cafferty too was feeling the heat. He kept his coat on, but

mopped his brow with the sleeve.

‘It’s about Acorn House, Paul,’ he told the seated figure.

‘Remember Acorn House? Remember what happened? Don’t

think you can just sit there, you bastard!’ He grabbed Jeffries by

the shoulders and shook him. There was no resistance, and

Rebus feared the man’s neck might snap. He stepped forward

and pulled Cafferty away.

‘Christ’s sake,’ he said.

Cafferty looked as if someone had hooked him up to the

mains. ‘There’s no way he doesn’t know we’re here or what

this is about,’ he spat. ‘Fucker’s just putting on a show!’

He wrestled free of Rebus and was hauling Jeffries to his

feet when the door opened.

‘Brought some tea anyway,’ the attendant was saying. She

dropped the tray when she took in the scene, her mouth opening

in a silent gasp.

‘It’s not what you think,’ Rebus said, knowing how

ridiculous he sounded. The woman had fled back into the

corridor, presumably to fetch the cavalry. ‘We’ve got to go,’ he

told Cafferty.

‘Not yet.’

‘Look at him, for God’s sake. That’s an empty shell you’re

holding.’

Cafferty relented and dropped Jeffries back into his chair.

But he had the man’s slack-jawed attention now. Cafferty got in

so close they were almost touching noses. ‘Don’t think you’ve

seen the last of me, Paul. I’ll be dropping by one of these

nights, and we’ll have our little chat then. Just the two of us.’

Rebus, coat tucked under one arm, led Cafferty out of the

room and back down the corridor. They had reached the

vestibule by the time the attendant hove into view from the

opposite direction, bringing a good-sized male colleague with

her. Rebus pulled open the front door and shoved Cafferty out,

then closed it again so that the lock clicked, leaving him still

inside.

By the time it dawned on Cafferty, it was too late. Rebus

turned to face the two attendants, hands held up in

appeasement.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Just a bit of rough and tumble to

try and shake him out of whatever torpor he’s in.’

‘We have CCTV,’ the male said, pointing towards the

cameras on the ceiling. ‘We’ll be reporting this.’

‘As is right and proper,’ Rebus said. Cafferty started shaking

the door, trying to force it open. ‘But if you want me to calm

that beast out there, just tell me if Mr Jeffries gets any other

visitors.’

The man and woman shared a look, flinching when

Cafferty’s foot connected with the door.

‘Mr Dalrymple’s not been in for a few weeks,’ the male