"Even dogs in the wild." BookHelper&Co..

Even Dogs in the wild.

Prologue.  

Eventually the passenger ejected the tape and tossed it on to the back seat.

   'That was the Associates (a Scottish rock act, formed in Dundee in 1979 by singer Billy Mackenzie),' the driver complained.

   'Well they can go associate (to connect someone or something in your mind with someone or something else) somewhere else. Singer sounds like his balls have been trapped in a vice (a tool with two parts that can be moved together by tightening a screw so that an object can be held firmly between them while it is being worked on).'

   The driver thought about this for a moment, then smiled. 'Remember we did that to...what was his name again?'

   The passenger shrugged. 'He owed the boss money - that's what mattered.'

   'Wasn't a lot of money, was it?'

   'How much further?' The passenger peered (to look carefully through glasses, spectacles, binoculars etc.) through the windscreen.

   'Half a mile. These woods have seen action, eh?'

   The passenger made no comment. It was dark out there and they'd not encountered another car for the last five or so miles. Fife (a region of eastern Scotland between the Firth and Tay) countryside, inland from the coast, the fields shorn (shear verb, cutting and stabbing) and awaiting winter. A pig farm not too far away, one they'd used before.

   'What's the plan?' the driver asked.

   'Just the one shovel (a tool, consisting of a square metal blade attached to the handle used for moving loose material such as sand, coal or snow), so we toss to see who breaks sweat. Strip off his clothes, burn them later.'

   'He's only wearing pants and a vest.'

   'No tattoos or ring that I saw. Nothing we need to cut off.'

   'This is us here. The driver stopped the car, got out and opened a gate. A churned (to be agitated and not good for driving) track led into the forest. 'Hope we don't get stuck,' he said, getting back in. Then, seeing the look on the other man's face: 'Joke.'

   'Better be.'

   They drove slowly for a few hundred yards (unit of measurement, equal to three feet or approx. 91,4 centimetres) . 'There's a space here where I can turn,' the driver said.

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   'This'll do, then.'

   'Recognise it?'

   The passenger shook his head. 'It's been a while.'

   'I think there's one buried somewhere in front of us, and another over to the left.'

   'Maybe try the other side of the track, in that case. Torch (a small light that is held in the hand and usually gets its power from batteries) in the glove box (a glove compartment in a car)?'

   'Fresh batteries, like you said.'

   The passenger checked. 'Right then.'

   The two men got out and stood for the best part of a minute, their eyes adjusting to the gloom (a situation in which it is nearly dark and difficult to see well), ears alert (a warning to be prepared to deal with something dangerous) for unusual sounds.

   'I'll pick the spot,' the passenger said, taking the torch with him as he headed off. The driver got a cigarette lit and opened the back door of the Mercedes. It was an old model, and the hinges (a piece of metal that fastens the edge of door, window, lid etc. and allows to open it or close) creaked (when a door creaks, it makes a long low sound when it moves or is moved).

He lifted the Associates cassette from the seat and slipped it into his jacket pocket, where it hit some coins. He'd be needing one of those for the

heads-or-tails (asked before you throw a coin into the air and want someone else to guess which side it will land on). Slamming (to move against a hard surface with force and usually a loud noise) the door shut, he moved to the boot (a trunk, a covered space at the back of a car, for storing things in) and opened it. The body was wrapped in a plain blue bedsheet. Or it had been. The trip had loosened the makeshift (temporary and low quality, but used because of sudden need) shroud (a long loose piece of clothing that is used to wrap a dead body before it is buried). Bare feet, pale skinny legs, ribcage visible. The driver rested the shovel (a tool, consisting of a square metal blade attached to the handle used for moving loose material such as sand, coal or snow) against one of the tail lights, but it slid to the ground. Cursing, he bent over to retrieve (to find and bring back) it.

   Which was when the corpse burst into live, emerging from sheet and boot both, almost vaulting the driver as its feet hit the ground. The driver gasped (to take a short, quick breath through the mouth especially because of surprise, pain or shock), the cigarette flying from his mouth. He had one hand on the shovel's handle while he tried to haul himself upright with the other. The sheet was hanging over the lip (a part of an edge) of the boot, its occupant disappearing into the trees.

   'Paul!' the driver yelled (to shout something very loudly). 'Paul!'

   Torchlight preceded (to be or go before something) the man called Paul.

   'Hell's going on, Dave?' he shouted. The driver could only stretch out a shaking hand to point.

   'He's done a runner!'

   Paul scanned the empty boot. A hissing (to make a noise like a long S) sound from between his gritted (firmness, to press your top and bottom teeth together, often in anger) teeth.

   'After him then,' he said in a growl (to make a low, rough sound). 'Or it'll be someone else's turn to dig a hole for us.'

   'He came back from the dead,' Dave said, voice trembling.

   'Then we kill him again,' Paul stated, producing a knife from his inside pocket. 'Even slower than before…'

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Day one.

Malcolm Fox woke from another of his bad dreams.

   He reckoned he knew why he'd started having them - uncertainty about his job. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted it anymore, and feared he was surplus to requirements (something that you must do, or something you need) anyway. Yesterday, he'd been told he had to travel to Dundee to fill a vacant post for a couple of shifts. When he asked why, he was told the officer he'd be replacing had been ordered to cover for someone else in Glasgow.

   'Isn't it easier just to send me to Glasgow, then?' Fox had enquired.

   'You could always ask, I suppose.'

   So he'd picked up the phone and done exactly that, only to find that the officer in Glasgow was coming to Edinburgh to fill a temporary gap - at which point he'd given up the fight and driven to Dundee. And today? Who knew. His boss at St Leonard's (St. Leonard's police station) didn't seem to know what to do with him. He was just one detective inspector too many.

   'It's the time-servers,' DCI Doug Maxtone had apologised. 'They're bunging up (to cause something to be blocked so that it does not work in a way it should) the system. Need a few of them to take the gold watch…'

   'Understood,' Fox had said. He wasn't in the first idealistic flush (when you flush, you become red in the face, especially as a result of strong emotions, heat or alcohol) of youth himself -another three years and he could retire with a solid (of a good standard) pension and plenty of life left in him.

   Standing under the shower, he considered his options. The bungalow (a house that usually has one storey, sometimes with a smaller upper storey set in the roof) in Oxgangs (is a suburb in south-west of Edinburgh) that he called home would fetch a fair price, enough to allow him to relocate. But then there was his dad to consider - Fox couldn't move too far away, not while Mitch (Mitch Fox, father) still had breath in his body. And then there was Siobhan. They weren't lovers, but they'd been spending more time together. If either of them was bored, they

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knew they could always call. Maybe there'd be a film or a restaurant, or just snacks and a DVD. She'd bought half a dozen titles for Christmas and they'd watched three before the old year was done.

As he got dressed, he thought of her. She loved the job more than he did. Whenever they met up, she was always ready to share news and gossip. Then she would ask him, and he would shrug, maybe offer a few morsels (very small piece or amount). She gulped (to eat food quickly by swallowing in large amount) the down like delicacies, while all he saw was plain white bread. She worked at Gayfield Square, with James Page for a boss. The structure there seemed better than at St Leonard's. Fox had wondered about transfer, but knew it would never happen - he would be creating the selfsame problem. One DI too many.

   Forty minutes after finishing breakfast , he was parking at St Leonard's. He sat in his car for an extra few minutes, gathering himself, hands running around the steering wheel. It was at times like this he wished he smoked - something to occupy him, to take him out of himself. Instead of which, he placed a piece of chewing gum on his tongue and closed him mouth. A uniform had emerged from the station's back door into the car park and was opening a packet of cigarettes. Their eyes met as Fox walked towards him, and the other man gave a curtest nods. The uniform knew that Fox used to work for Professional Standards - everyone in the station knew. Some didn't seem to mind; others made their distaste obvious. They scowled (to look at someone with a very annoyed expression), answered grudgingly, let doors swing shut into his face rather that holding them open.

   'You're a good cop,' Siobhan had told him on more that one occasion. 'I wish you could see that…'

   When he reached the CID suite, Fox gleaned (to collect information in small amounts and often with difficulty) that something was happening. Chairs and equipment were being moved. His eyes met those of a thunderous Doug Maxtone.

   'We've to make room for a new team,' Maxtone explained.

   'New team?'

   'From Gartcosh (is a village in North Lanarkshire, Scotland) which means they'll mostly be Glasgow - and you know how I feel about them.'

   'What's the occasion?'

   'Nobody's saying.'

   Fox chewed on his gum, Gartcosh, an old steelworks, was now home to the Scottish Crime Campus (newly opened police unit,  to tackle serious organized crime and based in Gartcosh, East of Glasgow). It had been up and running since the previous summer, and Fox had never had occasion to cross its threshold. The place was mix of police, prosecutors, forensics and Customs, and its remit (to refer a matter to someone in authority to deal with) took organised crime and

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counterterrorism. 'How many are we expected to welcome?'

   Maxtone glared (a long angry look) at him. 'Frankly, Malcolm, I'm not expecting to welcome a single one of them. But we need desks and chairs for half a dozen.'

   'And computers and phones?'

   'They're bringing their own. They do, however, request…'

Maxtone produced a sheet of paper from his pocket and made show of consulting it, 'ancillary (providing support or help) support, subject to vetting (to examine something or someone carefully to make certain that they are acceptable or suitable)'.

   'And this came from on high?'

   'The Chief Constable himself.' Maxtone crumpled (to become full of folds that are not equal in size) the paper and tossed it in the general direction of a bin (a container for waste). 'They're arriving in about an hour.'

   'Should I do a bit of dusting (the activity of removing dust)?'

   'Might as well - it's not as if there's going to be anywhere for you to sit.'

   'I'm losing my chair?'

   'And your desk.' Maxtone inhaled and exhaled noisily. 'So if there's anything in the drawers you'd rather not share…' He managed a grim (unpleasant, serious) smile. 'Bet you're wishing you'd stayed in bed, eh?'

   'Worse than that, sir - I'm beginning to wish I'd stayed in Dundee.'

Siobhan Clarke had parked on a yellow line on St Bernard's Crescent (a row of houses or a road built in a curve). It was about as grand a street as could be found in Edinburgh's New Town, all pillared (having pillars, columns) facades and floor-to-ceiling windows. Two bow-shaped Georgian terraces facing one another across a small private garden containing trees and benches. 

Raeburn Place (is the main street of Stockbridge, Edinburgh), with its emporia (a large shop that sells many different types of goods) and eateries (a restaurant), was a two minutes walk away, as was the Water of Leith (is the main river flowing through Edinburgh). 

She'd brought Malcolm to the Saturday food market a couple of times, and joked that he should trade in his bungalow for one of Stockbridge's colony (an area surrounded by fences or walls that contains a group of houses) flats.

   Her phone buzzed: speak of the devil (you say when the person you were talking about appears unexpectedly). She answered the call.

   'You off up north again?'

   'Not at the moment,' he said. 'Big shake-up happening here, though.'

   'I've got news too - I've been seconded (to send an employee to work somewhere temporarily, either to increase the number of workers or to replace other worker)  to the Minton enquiry (a close examination of a matter).'

   'Since when?'

   'First thing this morning. I was going to tell you at lunchtime. James has been put in charge and he wanted me.'

   'Makes sense.'

   She locked her car and walked towards a gloss-black front door

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boasting (to have or own something to be proud of) a gleaming brass knocker and letter box. A uniformed officer stood guard; she gave a half-bow of recognition, which Clarke rewarded with a smile.

   'Any room for a little one?' Fox was asking, trying to make it sound like joke, through she could tell he was serious.

   'I've got to go, Malcolm. Talk to you later.' Clarke ended the call and waited for the officer to unlock the door. There were no media - they'd been and gone. A couple of small posies (a small bunch of cut flowers) had been left at the front step, probably by neighbours. There was an old-style bell pull by the pillar to the right of the door, and above it a nameplate bearing the single capitalised word MINTON.

   As the door swung open, Clarke thanked the officer and went inside. There was some mail on the parquet floor. She scooped it up (pick up) and saw that more was sitting on an occasional table (a small table with no regular use). The letters on the table were opened and checked - presumably by the major incident team. There were the usual flyers too, including the one for a curry house she knew on the south side of the city. She didn't Lord Minton as the takeaway type, but you never could tell. The scene of crime unit had been through the hall, dusting for prints, Lord Minton - David Menzes Minton, to give his full name - had been killed two evenings back. No one in the vicinity had heard the break-in or the attack. Whoever had done it had scaled (to climb up a steep surface, such as wall) a couple of back walls in the darkness to reach the small window of the garden-level laundry room, adjacent (next to)  to the locked and bolted rear door. They had broken the window  and climbed in. Minton had been in his study on the ground floor. According to the post-mortem examination, he had been beaten around the head, then throttled (to press someone's throat very tightly so that they cannot breath), after which his lifeless body had been beaten some more.

   Clarke stood in the still, silent hall, getting her bearings (to succeed in becoming familiar with a new situation). Then she lifted a file from her shoulder bag and began to reread its contents. Victim had been seventy-eight years old, never married, resident at this address for thirty-five years. Educated at George Heriot's School and the universities of St Andrews and Edinburgh. Rising through the city's teeming (if a place is teeming, it is full of people) ranks of lawyers until he reached the position of Lord Advocate (is a chief legal officer of the Scottish Government and the Crown in both criminal and civil matters) , prosecuting some of Scotland's most high-profile criminal trials. Enemies? He would have had plenty in his heyday (the period of greatest popularity), but for the past decade he had lived out of the limelight (public attention and interest). Occasional trips to London to sit in the House of Lords. Visited his club on princes Street most days to read the newspapers and do as many crosswords as he could find.

   'Housebreaking gone wrong,' Clarke's boss, DCI James Page,

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had stated. 'Perpetrator doesn't expect anyone home. Panics. Game over.

   'But why strangle him, then start beating him again once the victim deceased?'

   'Like I say: panic. Explains why the attacker fled without taking anything. Probably high (greater than the usual level) on something and needing money for more. Looking for the usual - phones and iPads, easily sold on. But not the sort of thing someone like the noble lord would have in his possession. Maybe that annoyed our man and he took out his frustration then and there.

   'Sounds reasonable.'

   'But you'd like to see for yourself?' Page had nodded slowly. 'Off you go then.'

   Living room, formal dining room and kitchen on the ground floor, unused servants' quarters and laundry room below. The window frame of the laundry room had been boarded up (to cover a door or window with wooden boards), the window panel (panel that protect home from light, bugs and the elements and made from different materials) itself removed, along with all the shards of glass, to be taken away and examined by forensics (a department of forensic medicine, as in police laboratory). Clarke unlocked the back door and studied the small, well-tended (to care for something or someone) private garden.  Lord Minton employed a gardener, but the only visited one day each month in winter. He had been interviewed and had expressed his sadness, along with his concerns that he hadn't been paid for the previous month.

   Climbing the noiseless stone staircase to the ground floor, Clarke realised that, apart from toilet, there was only one further room to check. The study was dark, its thick red velvet curtains closed. From the photographs in her life, she could see that Lord Minton's body had been found in front of the desk, on a Persian rug that had now also been taken away to be tested. Hair, saliva, fibres - everyone left traces of some kind. The thinking was: the victim was seated at his desk, writing out checks to pay his gas and electricity bills. Hears a noise and gets up to investigate. Hasn't got far when the attacker bursts in and smacks (to hit something hard against something else) him on the head with a tool of some kind - no weapon recovered yet; the pathologist's best guess, a hammer.

   The checkbook lay open on the antique desk next to an expensive-looking pen. There were family photos - black and white, the victim's parents, maybe - in silver frames. Small enough to be slipped into a thief's pocket, yet untouched. She knew that Lord Minton's wallet had been found in a jacket over the back of the chair, cash and credit cards intact. The gold watch on his wrist had been left too.

   'You weren't that desperate, were you?' Clarke muttered.

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