Even dogs in the wild Read Free Page B

glass, he noted, was still full.
    ‘What did the note say?’ he asked.
    ‘Whoever wrote it was promising to kill Lord Minton for
    something he’d done.’

    ‘And it wasn’t in Minton’s handwriting?’
    ‘Letters were all capitalised, but I don’t think so. Cheap
    black ballpoint rather than a fountain pen.’
    ‘All very mysterious. Just the one note, do you think?’
    ‘Search team will be in the house at first light. They’d
    already be there if Page could have organised it – budget’s in
    place for seven-day weeks and as much overtime as we need.’
    ‘Happy days.’ Fox toasted her with his water. Clarke’s
    phone started vibrating. She had placed it on the table next to
    her wine glass. She checked the screen and decided to answer.
    ‘It’s Christine Esson,’ she explained to Fox, lifting the
    phone to her ear. ‘Shouldn’t you be at home with your feet up,
    Christine?’ But as she listened, her eyes narrowed a little. Her
    free hand reached for the wine glass as if on instinct, but the
    glass was still empty, as was the carafe. ‘Okay,’ she announced
    eventually. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ She ended the call
    and tapped the phone against her lips.
    ‘Well?’ Fox prompted.
    ‘Reports of a gunshot in Merchiston. Christine just heard
    from a pal of hers at the control room. Someone who lives on
    the street called it in. A patrol car’s on its way to the scene.’
    ‘Some old banger backfiring?’
    ‘Caller heard breaking glass – living room window,
    apparently.’ She paused. ‘The window of a house belonging to
    a Mr Cafferty.’
    ‘Big Ger Cafferty?’
    ‘The very same.’
    ‘Well that’s interesting, isn’t it?’
    ‘Thank God we’re off duty.’
    ‘Absolutely. Perish the thought we’d want to take a look.’

    ‘Quite right.’ Clarke cut off a chunk of hake with the side of
    her fork. Fox was studying her over the rim of his glass.
    ‘Whose turn to pay?’ he asked.
    ‘Mine,’ Clarke replied, dropping the fork on the plate and
    signalling for a waiter.

    The patrol car sat kerbside with its roof lights flashing. It was a
    wide street of detached late-Victorian houses. The gates to
    Cafferty’s driveway were open and a white van was parked
    there. A couple of neighbours had come out to spectate. They
    looked cold, and would probably head in again soon. The two
    uniformed officers – one male, one female – were known to
    Clarke. She introduced Fox, then asked what had happened.
    ‘Lady across the street heard a bang. There was a flash too,
    apparently, and the sound of glass shattering. She went to her
    window but couldn’t see any sign of life. The living room lights
    went off, but she could see the window was smashed. Curtains
    were open, she says.’
    ‘He’s been quick enough getting a glazier.’ Fox nodded
    towards Cafferty’s house, where a man was busy fitting a
    plywood covering over the window.
    ‘What does the occupant say?’ Clarke asked the uniforms.
    ‘He’s not opening his door. Tells us it was an accident.
    Denies there was anything like a shot.’
    ‘And he told you this by . . .?’
    ‘Shouting at us through his letter box when we were trying
    to get him to open up.’
    ‘You know who he is, right?’
    ‘He’s Big Ger Cafferty. Gangster sort of character, or at
    least used to be.’

    Clarke nodded slowly and noticed that a dog – some kind of
    terrier – was standing next to her and giving one of her legs an
    exploratory sniff. She shooed it, but it sat back on its haunches,
    staring up at her quizzically.
    ‘Must belong to a neighbour,’ one of the uniforms surmised.
    ‘It was padding up and down the pavement when we got here.’
    He bent down to scratch the dog behind one ear.
    ‘Check the rest of the street,’ Clarke said. ‘See if there are
    any more witnesses.’
    She headed up the path towards the front door, taking a
    detour to where the glazier was nailing the panelling into the
    window frame.
    ‘Everything okay