Authors: Ian Rankin
The Complaints (18 page)
‘Reckon we should?’
This got a bark of laughter from Ronnie Hendry. ‘Not before his bills are paid,’ he said.
Breck offered another smile and decided on a change of direction. ‘Did you know that Vince Faulkner has a criminal record?’
‘Plenty of guys in the building trade could say the same.’
‘So you knew?’
‘He never made it a secret - it was there on his job application.’
‘His partner doesn’t seem to have known.’
‘Jude?’ Hendry gave a shrug and folded his arms. ‘That’s between the two of them.’
‘Did he ask you not to mention it in front of her?’
‘What does it matter if he did? Ancient history’s what it was.’
It was Breck’s turn to shrug. ‘Okay, so let’s say he’s had a fight with his partner. Her arm gets broken and she heads to A and E. Vince opts not to go with her and heads out on the lash instead. Ends up at the Oliver and loses some money . . . What do you think he would do next, Mr Hendry?’
‘No idea.’ Hendry’s arms were still folded. He was definitely on the defensive. Fox decided an interruption was in order.
‘His partner says he sometimes stayed out all night, slept at friends’ houses . . .’
‘Yeah, that happened once or twice.’
‘So it could have happened that night?’ Breck asked.
‘Not at mine,’ Hendry stated with a shake of the head.
‘Where then?’
‘You tell me - you lot are supposed to be the ones with the brains.’
Jamie Breck’s car was parked on the site, just next to the Portakabins. It was a red Mazda RX8, low-slung and sporty. Breck leaned his elbows against its roof as he watched Ronnie Hendry go back to work.
‘Anything I forgot to ask?’
Fox shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘What did you make of him?’
‘I can see why Faulkner liked him. He’s the sort who’d back you up in a fight, but at the same time he’s probably canny enough to calm things down so the fight never quite happens.’
‘He didn’t seem exactly numb with shock, did he?’
‘Isn’t that the Scottish way?’
‘Bottling it up for later?’ Breck guessed. Then he nodded slowly in agreement.
‘Sorry for butting in like that.’
‘It was a fair point, though. I didn’t know he was prone to sleeping around.’
‘Jude never mentioned other women,’ Fox stipulated. ‘By the way, have you done anything about Jude’s mystery visitor?’
‘It’s now a matter of record,’ Breck confirmed.
‘So where next?’ Fox asked. ‘The Oliver?’
Breck looked at him. ‘And you’ll be wanting to tag along, I presume? ’
‘Might as well,’ Fox said. ‘Last one there’s a scabby dog . . .’
But in fact, by the time he’d unlocked his Volvo and executed a three-point turn, the Mazda was a hundred yards ahead. As he pulled into the casino car park, Breck was standing by the door of the building, trying to look as if he’d been there for hours.
‘Hiya, Scabby,’ Breck said in greeting. ‘Any suspicious-looking Astras to report?’
‘No,’ Fox admitted. Then he pulled open the door. ‘After you,’ he said.
Although the casino was open for business, no actual business was taking place. There was nobody on duty at the cloakroom, and only one croupier stationed at a blackjack table, practising her skills in front of three empty stools. A couple of tiny, foreign-looking women in tabards were polishing the brass fittings and rails. The downstairs barman looked to be doing a stock check, ticking off items on a clipboard. Upstairs, Fox could hear a vacuum cleaner at work.
‘Boss around?’ Breck asked the young croupier. She had blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and was dressed in regulation black waistcoat with a white blouse and sky-blue bowtie.
‘You’ll need to talk to Simon.’ She gestured towards the barman.
‘Thanks,’ Breck said. He started walking in that direction, pulling his warrant card from his pocket. ‘Need a word with you, Simon.’
‘Oh, aye?’ The barman hadn’t bothered looking up from the task in hand, but Fox knew he’d noticed the warrant card . . . and recognised it for what it was.
‘You in charge here?’ Breck was asking.
‘Boss is due back in quarter of an hour.’
‘Would you mind looking me in the eye when you speak?’ Breck was managing to sound polite, yet there was steel just below the surface. Simon took a few moments before complying. ‘Thank you,’ Breck said. ‘Okay if I put my ID away now? You’re satisfied you’re talking to a detective and not some neighbourhood divvy?’
The barman gave a half-smirk, but Breck had his attention. Fox noticed that his colleague had roughened his natural voice and was bringing in more glottal stops.
‘If it’s anything to do with licences or that,’ Simon was saying, ‘it’s the boss you need to speak to.’
‘But the boss isn’t here, so it’s your job to answer a few questions.’ Breck had put his warrant card away, but was now producing a photograph from the same pocket. It was a snap of Vince Faulkner. Fox reckoned it had been lifted from Jude’s house.
‘This guy’s a regular,’ Breck was saying, ‘so I’m assuming you know him.’
The barman looked at the photo and shrugged.
‘Actually,’ Breck went on, ‘I should’ve stipulated that he
was
a regular. Poor sod got himself killed at the weekend, after visiting this place.’
was
a regular. Poor sod got himself killed at the weekend, after visiting this place.’
‘Which night?’
‘Saturday.’ The barman didn’t say anything for a moment. Breck decided to speak for him. ‘You’re trying to work out the odds, aren’t you? Do you lie or tell the truth - which is going to work out best? And that means just one thing, Simon - you were here Saturday night.’
‘It was busy,’ the barman admitted with another shrug.
‘But he was in here.’ Breck waved the photo to and fro. ‘And it was out of character, because whenever you’d seen him in the past, he’d always been with people.’
‘So?’
Fox had been scanning the corners of the ceiling. ‘We’ll need to see the recordings,’ he commented. ‘From your security cameras . . .’
Breck stiffened a little. He’d had a flow going, and Fox had broken it.
‘My colleague’s right,’ he stated eventually.
‘Talk to the boss.’
‘We will,’ Breck confirmed. ‘But you
do
remember Vince Faulkner?’
do
remember Vince Faulkner?’
‘I never knew his name.’
‘You saw in the papers that he was dead?’
‘Suppose so.’ The admission was grudging at best. Simon was running a finger down the clipboard, as though hoping they would take the hint and leave him to his task. Fat chance, Fox thought to himself.
‘You saw him in here Saturday night?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘He got here around ten.’
‘Place was heaving by then.’
‘But Mr Faulkner was on his own, and I’m betting that meant he’d be sitting on one of these stools.’ Breck slapped the seat of the bar stool next to him.
‘There’s another bar upstairs.’
‘But all the same . . .’ Breck decided to let the silence linger.
‘He was half cut when he got here,’ Simon finally admitted. ‘Doormen should never have let him in.’
‘Did he cause trouble?’
The barman shook his head. ‘But he had the look of a loser.’
‘And that’s not good for the ambience?’ Breck nodded his understanding.
‘Just sat slumped at the corner of the bar.’
‘How many drinks did he have?’
‘No idea.’
‘What was he drinking?’
‘Shorts . . . that’s all I remember. We had three staff working the bar that night.’
‘Did he meet anyone? Talk to them?’
‘Dunno.’ The fingers were now drilling against the clipboard, tapping out the sound of horses’ hooves at full gallop.
‘Did you see him leave?’
Simon shook his head.
‘What about Sunday or Monday?’
Another shake of the head. ‘I was off both nights.’
Breck glanced at his watch. ‘Your boss is running late.’
‘Bosses get to do that.’
Breck smiled and turned his head towards Fox for the first time. ‘Simon likes to think he’s smart.’ But every trace of humour had left Breck’s face by the time he turned back to the barman. ‘So do the smart thing, Simon - get thinking of anything else you can tell us about Saturday night or about Vince Faulkner in general.’ Where the snapshot had been, there was now a business card. ‘Take it,’ Breck commanded. The barman did as he was told. ‘How old are you, Simon?’
‘Twenty-three.’
‘Been in the trade long?’
‘Started bar work when I was at uni.’
‘What did you study?’
‘I didn’t study much of anything - that was the problem.’
Breck nodded his understanding. ‘Ever see any trouble around here?’
‘No.’
‘Not even once the punters get outside? A good evening gone sour?’
‘By the time I’ve closed the bar, cleaned up and done a tally, people are long gone.’
‘Do the management stand you to a cab home?’ Breck watched as the barman nodded. ‘Well, that’s something at least.’ Then, turning to leave: ‘Jot a few thoughts down and give me a call. Plus, pass the number on to your boss. If I haven’t heard back by end of play today, I’ll be round tonight with some squad cars and uniforms. Got that?’
Simon was studying the writing on the card. ‘Yes, Mr Breck,’ he said.
It was strange to step out of the gloom - the casino boasted no natural light at all - and find that it was still daytime in Edinburgh, the sky overcast but boasting enough glare to have Jamie Breck slipping on a pair of Ray-Bans. He’d taken up the same position as after the meeting with Ronnie Hendry - elbows resting against the roof of his Mazda. Fox squeezed the bridge of his nose and squinted into the light. It had been quite a performance: Breck was a natural. Just the right mix of authority and empathy. Too bullish and the barman would have blustered or clammed up . . .
I like you, Fox thought. Even though you’ve been checking up on me behind my back. Even though you may not be what you seem . . .
‘You really got into character there,’ Fox complimented him. ‘I liked what you did with your voice.’
‘That’s the thing about RPGs and avatars - you get to pretend to be someone you’re not.’
‘Handy training for CID.’
And for other things
, Fox thought to himself. ‘So what now?’
And for other things
, Fox thought to himself. ‘So what now?’
‘Nothing much. I’ll head back to base, write up what I’ve got - might leave out a
few
salient details.’ Breck glanced in Fox’s direction.
few
salient details.’ Breck glanced in Fox’s direction.
‘Sorry I butted in again,’ Fox apologised. ‘Broke my promise . . .’
‘I’d have got round to the cameras in my own time, Malcolm.’
‘I know you would.’
Both men turned at the sound of a car approaching. It was a ‘baby’ Bentley, the GT. Glossy black bodywork and tinted windows. The engine stopped and the driver’s-side door opened. Fox caught a glimpse of burgundy leather upholstery. The woman who stepped out was wearing high heels, black tights and a black knee-length skirt. The skirt clung to her. White silk blouse, open at the neck to show a pendant of some kind. Cream-coloured jacket with a little padding at the shoulders. Her hair was auburn, thick and flowing. She had to push some back from her face as a gust of wind caught her. Red lipstick and, when she removed her oversized sunglasses, dark eyeshadow and a hint of mascara. She gave them an inquisitive look as she headed towards the door of the casino.
‘Simon will tell you all about it,’ Breck called to her. She ignored this and headed inside. Fox turned to Breck.
‘Shouldn’t we talk to her?’
‘She’s going to call me, remember?’
‘But she’s management, right?’
‘Later.’
‘Don’t you want to know who she is?’
Breck smiled. ‘I
know
who she is, Malcolm.’ He pointed at a spot just above the casino’s main door. There was a plaque sited there, announcing that the premises were licensed for the sale of alcohol. The name of the licensee was J. Broughton.
know
who she is, Malcolm.’ He pointed at a spot just above the casino’s main door. There was a plaque sited there, announcing that the premises were licensed for the sale of alcohol. The name of the licensee was J. Broughton.
‘Who’s J. Broughton?’ Fox asked.
Breck opened the door of the Mazda and started to get in. ‘Stick to watching the detectives, Malcolm. Let us other cops do the
real
work . . .’
real
work . . .’
10
‘Does it mean anything to you?’
Fox was back in the Complaints office, standing in front of Tony Kaye’s desk. Kaye mouthed the name a few times. As usual, he had pitched his chair back, and now swung slowly backwards and forwards.
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