Even dogs in the wild (48 page)

Not that I’ll be having any more birthdays. I’ve not

said anything to your mum but I’ve been seeing

doctors and it doesn’t look good – there’s an

operation I could have but I don’t want it. When

it’s time, it’s time. I’ve cheated death once, and

once was probably enough. I was hanging around

in a café before one of the consultations, thinking

the usual morbid thoughts, when the song came on.

At first I couldn’t think where I’d heard it, then I

remembered. I opened Shazam on my phone and

got a match – ‘Even Dogs in the Wild’. It’s by a

group called the Associates. Turns out they’re

Scottish. It had been playing that night, as they

drove me out to a forest in Fife to bury me. It all

came flooding back then, and I felt suddenly really

shitty about the way I’d treated you. I couldn’t

bring myself to love you. I just couldn’t. Maybe

after reading this you’ll understand why . . .

Rebus broke off and watched as Jordan Foyle resumed his

perch, the club sandwich in one hand and an open can in the

other. The young man chewed, saying nothing, his eyes on

Rebus’s. Rebus lowered his own eyes and took up the story

again.

For a while I was worried I must be gay. I

mean, I didn’t
feel
gay, but I’d had sex with a man,

so did that make me gay? When Denise showed an

interest, I tried putting her off, but you know your

mum – she’s nothing if not persistent! And later on,

when I would wake up sobbing, she’d calm me

down. She knew there was something I wasn’t

telling her, but she said I’d confide in her when I

was good and ready. That day’s never come.

Maybe you’ll show her this and maybe you won’t –

your decision. She was the love of my life – she

probably
saved
my life – and that’s the truth. Then

she got pregnant and out you popped. And I was

cold towards you from the start. I wanted to shut

you away from the world, from all the predators

out there. I even feared I might turn out to be one

myself. So I pushed you away and I know that hurt

you – it won’t be any consolation that it hurt me

too . . .

‘First few pages are mostly family,’ Jordan Foyle stated,

slurping from the can. ‘Bit that might interest you is further on.’

Rebus turned some pages until he saw names he recognised

and started to read again.

They’d been drinking and doing drugs, and

forcing them on me too. Anything to deaden the

thoughts and feelings. These were men with gross

appetites and nothing to stop them indulging those

appetites to the full. Me and the other kids weren’t

going to be listened to. We were the dregs. David

was David Minton, a bigwig lawyer – for years I

felt queasy if I ever saw him in a newspaper or on

TV. His pal was an MP called Howard Champ.

Jimmy was James Broadfoot, and believe it or not,

he was Chief Constable in the city. See? These are

the kind of men they were – powerful and full of

themselves. Todd Dalrymple mostly liked to watch,

or just hang out with these bastards. I think he

owned a casino in the city. Mickey Tolland worked

at Acorn House – everyone based there knew what

went on, but he was the one doing the organising.

And guess what? He won the bloody lottery a few

years back – I had to switch the news off when they

showed his stupid grinning face. Married, too.

Happy as a pig in shit. Pricks and bastards, the lot

of them.

It was Champ who throttled me. That was his

thing. But instead of going along with it, I keeled

over and pretended I was convulsing. Then I went

stock still and held my breath. Thought I was going

to be rumbled when someone checked my pulse,

but they were so out of it and panicky, they

obviously didn’t do it right. A man called Cafferty

was mentioned. He’d sort it out. By which they

meant get rid of my body. So these two men

arrived. By that time, I’d been wrapped up in the

sheet I was lying on, which was fine by me – I

could breathe a bit without them noticing. They

threw me into the boot of their car and that was

that. Their names were Paul and Dave, but that’s

all I know. And they had the radio on. No, actually

it was a tape, because one of them ejected it – he

didn’t like the song. The same song I heard in that

café – ‘Even Dogs in the Wild’. I listened to it and

couldn’t believe the words. It was almost as if

they’d been written for me. I decided there and

then to buy this diary and write in it, something for

you to have while I’m still alive.

Rebus looked up again. Lured by the sandwich, Brillo was

sitting on the floor at Foyle’s feet. Foyle was feeding him

morsels of chicken and bacon and rubbing his coat at the same

time.

‘Did you talk to him?’ Rebus asked.

‘He only gave it to me the night before he died. But that

morning, I gave him a hug in the upstairs hall. We weren’t great

at talking. And all because of what happened in that place. His

life ruined, my relationship with him ruined – because of those

fuckers.’ Foyle nodded towards the book. ‘He ran for his life

and lay shivering in those woods all night, covered with leaves

and whatever else he could scoop up. Then he stole clothes and

money from a house and got as far away as he could. London

for a while, then Glasgow – that’s where he met Mum.’ He

paused. ‘Did you mean what you said about an inquiry?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would it do any good?’

‘It might take down a few reputations.’

‘And meanwhile I’ll be doing time for murder?’

‘You’ll plead diminished responsibility. Throw post-

traumatic stress into the mix and you should be fine.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You’ll serve a few years, but not many.’

‘
If
I turn myself in.’

‘What else are you going to do – run away to London?’

‘That man Cafferty – he’ll put a price on my head.’

‘No he won’t. He wanted your dad found so he could say

sorry to him. My guess is, the same apology’s coming to you.’

‘Even though I tried to kill him?’

‘Even so,’ Rebus confirmed.

Foyle turned his head towards the backpack sitting next to

him on the sofa. ‘I was seriously thinking about blowing my

brains out – after I’d settled with Dalrymple.’

‘You shouldn’t do that,’ Rebus said quietly. Then: ‘Any

chance I can have my phone back?’

Foyle’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

‘I want to see if I can get on the internet. There’s a song I

really need to hear.’

Foyle considered for a moment, then handed the phone over.

But before he did anything, Rebus skipped to the end of the

journal, reading Bryan Holroyd’s last words.

I never did love you, son. I wouldn’t let myself,

and that goes with me to my grave. I wish I could

change the past, but I can’t. All I can offer you is

this story. I’ve been so proud of you, and I hated

what your time as a squaddie did to you. We’re

none of us machines, Jordan, though sometimes

that’s the way the world treats us. Look after your

mum and look after yourself. And don’t go getting

any more of those bloody tattoos.

Silent tears were running down Jordan Foyle’s cheeks as he

lifted Brillo up, burying his face in his fur.

The mourners at Mortonhall Crematorium just about filled the

smaller of the two chapels. Fox and his sister shared the front

pew, with staff and residents from Mitch Fox’s care home in the

others and Rebus and Clarke by themselves at the back. The

order of service had a photo of the deceased on the front,

smiling at whoever had been holding the camera and probably

taken two or three decades back.

‘He looks like Malcolm,’ Rebus observed to Clarke.

‘Apparently Jude takes after their mum,’ Clarke whispered

back.

The service was brief, just the two hymns and some

biographical details from the minister, along with a prayer.

Neither Fox nor his sister got up to speak. Everyone stood as

the minister led them back out into the sunshine, where a few

wreaths lay. Rebus shook Jude’s hand and introduced himself

as ‘a friend of Malcolm’s’. Another handshake from Fox

himself.

‘Are you coming to the hotel?’ Fox asked.

Rebus shook his head. ‘Things to do – you know what it’s

like.’

‘I’m coming,’ Clarke interrupted, giving Fox a hug and a

kiss on the cheek.

‘We’re rendezvousing at the Ox later, though?’ Fox

checked.

‘Try and stop me,’ Rebus said, digging into his pocket for

his cigarettes before heading for the car park. The day was

bright, the sun low, casting long shadows. He’d had to scrape

ice from the Saab using the edge of a credit card, a move he

regretted when the card snapped in two. He would call into his

bank on the way home and let them know. Or maybe it could

wait until tomorrow.

There was a figure in black standing by the car – Cafferty, in

a three-quarter-length black coat, its collar turned up.

‘I still want to speak to the lad,’ he said.

‘He already knows what you’ll say.’

‘Even so.’

Rebus offered a shrug and tapped on the car window. Brillo

was seated inside, waiting impatiently. ‘I’ve asked Page and

he’s said no. You can always visit Jordan in jail.’

‘If I live that long.’ Cafferty looked towards the small crowd

outside the crematorium. Fresh mourners were arriving for the

next session, mostly in cars, a few on foot. ‘I hate these places,’

he muttered with a shiver.

‘Don’t we all?’

‘It’s in my will that I’m to be buried rather than burned.’

‘In consecrated ground?’ Rebus took one last puff of his

cigarette before grinding the stub under his heel.

‘I’m prepared to repent my sins at the last.’

‘Better start now – it’s going to take a while.’

The two men shared a smile. Cafferty examined the tips of

his shoes. ‘Christie’s teamed up with Joe Stark,’ he said.

‘So I hear.’

‘Means he might end up running Glasgow.’

‘If we don’t put him away as an accessory to murder.’

‘Good luck with that. Is it true Holroyd left a diary?’ He

watched as Rebus nodded. ‘Naming names?’

‘Including yours.’

‘You think the inquiry will get off the ground?’

‘I dare say some will want it strangled at birth.’ Rebus had

taken out his car keys. ‘Can I give you a lift?’

Cafferty shook his head and gestured towards the window.

‘You keeping the dog?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Might be a good move, now you’re retired – nice long

walks in the fresh air. I find I like walking too.’

‘Now that there’s no one with a gun out there looking for

you?’

‘Every car that passes, though . . . I always wonder if this’ll

be the time it stops and Darryl Christie invites me to step in.’

‘If we get him to trial, will you testify?’

‘Absolutely.’ Cafferty paused. ‘But for the defence rather

than your lot.’ He gave the briefest of waves as he turned to go.

‘You still reckon you have the beating of him, don’t you?’

Rebus called out. Cafferty paused without looking back and

held up a single index finger. Rebus knew what the gesture

meant.

One last good fight left in me . . .

He didn’t doubt it for a minute.

Opening the Saab and getting in, Rebus gave Brillo’s coat a

rub before starting the engine. He watched as Cafferty’s figure

receded, then lifted a CD from the passenger seat and slotted it

home. It had arrived first thing, mail order. The album was

called
The Affectionate Punch
. He skipped through it to track

seven and listened as Billy Mackenzie started to sing about a

boy, a boy frightened, neglected, abandoned. Sons and fathers,

he thought: Malcolm and Mitch Fox, Dennis and Joe Stark,

Jordan Foyle and Bryan Holroyd. His phone alerted him to a

text. It was from Samantha. She had sent the photo he’d asked

for, the one of him and Carrie. He studied it for a moment

before showing it to a quizzical Brillo; then, having turned up

the volume on the stereo, he reversed out of the parking space

and headed back into the city.