Authors: Ian Rankin
The Complaints (27 page)
‘Look on the bright side - the restaurant last night forgot to charge me for our second bottle of wine.’
Fox managed the beginnings of a smile, then reminded Kaye to talk to Annie Inglis.
‘Relax,’ Kaye told him. ‘So what are you doing the rest of the day? Want to meet up at Minter’s?’
‘I’ve got stuff to do.’
‘Such as?’
‘Alphabetising my bookshelves.’ Fox ended the call and drove home in silence.
The rest of the day, he couldn’t really concentrate on anything. The piles of books sat untouched. There were sections of the various papers still unbrowsed. The TV proved little comfort and he had no view from his window other than the house identical to his across the street. Then, at eight o’clock, someone rang his doorbell. He ticked off possible visitors - Jamie, Tony Kaye, Annie Inglis . . .
It was Jude. The taxi that had just dropped her was leaving. Her arm was still in a sling, so she’d only managed to drape her three-quarter-length coat around her shoulders.
‘Good to see you,’ he said, pecking her cheek and ushering her inside.
‘Are you moving out?’ she asked when she saw the state of the living room.
Fox shook his head. ‘Been a while since you were last here,’ he commented.
‘We never seemed to get invited.’ She had shrugged off her coat. Fox walked into the kitchen and started filling the kettle.
‘DCI Giles phoned me,’ she explained from the doorway. ‘He says the man who came to my door on Monday night was a friend of yours.’
‘He works with me.’
‘Giles thinks you sent him.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Sent him to do your dirty work,’ she continued. ‘His name’s Kaye . . . I think you’ve mentioned him to me before. How did he know where I live, Malcolm?’
Fox turned towards her. ‘Jude . . . this man Giles is trying every trick he knows in an effort to fuck things up for me.’
‘You told Kaye where I live?’
‘At some point I must have. But I didn’t know he was going to come to your house.’
‘He was looking for Vince. Only reason he’d be doing that is if you told him what happened . . . told him about my arm.’
‘So?’
She was blinking back tears. ‘DCI Giles thinks maybe you had Vince killed.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Then why send your friend round?’
‘I didn’t send him. He was looking for Vince, remember? But Vince was already dead, Jude - and that means Tony Kaye didn’t know.’ Pain was thrumming in Fox’s temples. He opened a drawer and took out a packet of paracetamol tablets, popping two of them from the blister pack and washing them down with water from the tap. Jude waited until she had his full attention again before she spoke.
‘Giles says Vince could have been killed Monday night. He says the tests always have a margin of error.’
‘He’s lying. Pathology has Vince dying on the Saturday or the Sunday.’
A single tear was running down Jude’s left cheek. ‘I just want this to be over,’ she said, her voice cracking. Fox stepped forward and placed his hands gently on her shoulders.
‘I know,’ he said, as she buried her face in his chest.
They spent the next hour and a half talking quietly in the living room. She drank the tea he prepared for her, but didn’t feel like eating. She promised him she had eaten something at lunchtime. She promised him she would have breakfast. He brought out a packet of Weetabix from the kitchen and said she’d be taking it home with her. When he offered milk, she gave a little laugh and told him to stop making such a fuss. But he got the feeling she liked it really.
He called a taxi for her and pressed a ten-pound note into her hand. Then he pecked her on the cheek again and closed the door of the cab for her, waving as she was driven away. She’d asked him if he’d seen their father and he had lied - because he hadn’t wanted her to feel left out. Next time he was visiting Mitch, he would take her along. She belonged there just as much as he did. She was family.
Malcolm Fox made himself a last mug of tea and headed for bed. It wasn’t yet ten, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do.
Monday 16 February 2009
15
Malcolm Fox’s alarm woke him at seven as usual. He was in the shower before he realised there was no necessity to be up this early. Nor did he have to wear a clean shirt and a fresh tie, or his suit and braces, but that didn’t stop him putting all of them on. As he was eating breakfast, there was a phone call. It was a woman called Stoddart from Grampian Police PSU. She was ‘inviting’ him to a meeting at Fettes HQ.
‘Shall we say three p.m.?’
‘Three’s fine,’ Fox informed her.
The day was cold and overcast. Snowdrops were starting to appear in his front garden, and he reckoned there’d be some brave crocuses already sticking their heads above the parapet in the Meadows and the city’s other parks. He tried to work out a route that would take him through the Meadows on his way to Leith. It would be circuitous, but with the added bonus of a drive through Holyrood Park. Besides, he wasn’t exactly in a hurry.
A few years back, Fox and his team had investigated an officer based at Leith Police Station. He’d been taking backhanders and turning a blind eye. One of his own men had come to them, but only with a promise of anonymity. Meetings had taken place at a greasy spoon near the docks, and this was Fox’s destination today. The café was called The Marina, its paintwork peeling, interior walls shiny with grease. There were half a dozen Formica-topped tables and a ledge by the window where you could stand and eat if you preferred. The owner was a large, red-faced woman who did much of the cooking while an Eastern European girl worked the till and the tables. Fox had been seated for fifteen minutes, nursing a mug of industrial-strength tea, when Max Dearborn walked in. Dearborn saw him and his whole body seemed to sag. He’d put on half a stone or more since they’d last met, and had developed jowls. There was still acne around his mouth, and his dark hair was slick-looking, combed straight down. More than ever, he resembled Oliver Hardy’s Scottish nephew.
‘Hiya, Max,’ Fox said.
Dearborn’s breathing was hoarse as he wedged himself into the seat opposite Fox.
‘Is this just some horrific coincidence?’ the young man pretended to guess.
Fox was shaking his head. The waitress had arrived, and he ordered a bacon roll.
‘Usual for you, Max?’ she asked Dearborn, who nodded a reply, keeping his eyes on Fox. When she moved away, Fox spoke in an undertone.
‘I hear you’re a DS these days - congratulations.’
Dearborn responded with a twitch of the mouth. Fox remembered him the way he’d been - a detective constable with ideals and principles still intact, yet fearful of alienating his colleagues. ‘Serpico’, Tony Kaye had called him.
‘What do you want?’ Dearborn was asking. He’d taken a good look around the café, seeking out enemies and sharp ears.
‘Are you working the Charlie Brogan drowning?’ Fox could feel sweat forming on his back. His heart was beating far too fast. The tea had enough tannin in it to fell an ox, so he pushed the mug to one side.
‘It’s not a drowning yet,’ Dearborn corrected him. ‘And what’s it to you anyway?’
‘I’m just interested. Reckon maybe you owe me a favour.’
‘A favour?’
‘For keeping your name under wraps.’
‘Is that some sort of threat?’
Fox shook his head. Dearborn’s coffee had arrived and he shovelled two spoonfuls of sugar into it, stirring noisily.
‘Like I say, I’m just interested. I’m hoping someone can keep me up to date.’
‘And that’s me, is it?’ Dearborn stared at him. ‘Why the interest? ’
Fox shrugged. ‘Brogan might tie in to another case.’
‘To do with the Complaints?’ Dearborn was suddenly less hostile, and more interested.
‘Maybe. It’s all hush-hush, but if anything
did
come to light, I’d be willing to share the credit.’ Fox paused. ‘You know my boss had a say in your promotion?’
did
come to light, I’d be willing to share the credit.’ Fox paused. ‘You know my boss had a say in your promotion?’
‘Thought he might have.’
‘It can happen again, Max ...’ Fox let his voice drift away. Dearborn took a slurp of coffee and then another, and started to do some thinking. Fox just sat there, hands in his lap, not wanting to rest any part of his suit against the surface of the table. The waitress was returning with their food - Fox’s filled roll; Dearborn’s fry-up. The young man’s plate was heaped, and he turned towards the cook and gave her a nod and a smile. She smiled back. Fox had peeled open his roll. The bacon looked pale and stringy. He closed it again and left it on the plate. Dearborn was squeezing brown sauce across the array of bacon, fried egg, sausage, beans and mushrooms.
‘Looks good,’ Fox commented. Dearborn just nodded and took his first mouthful, eyes on Fox as he chewed.
‘Body’s still not surfaced,’ Dearborn said.
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Not according to those in the know. Currents are irregular in the channel. He could have been swept out into the North Sea. A container ship’s propeller could have snagged him and turned him to mush. Coastguard were out again at first light. We’ve got patrols working both seashores, north and south.’
‘I heard Fife Constabulary was claiming jurisdiction.’
Dearborn shook his head. There were already traces of egg yolk either side of his mouth. ‘That’ll never wash. We’ve asked for their cooperation, but this is D Division territory, fair and square.’
‘So where’s the boat?’
‘Dalgety Bay.’
‘Last time I looked, that was in Fife.’
‘It’s going to be towed to Leith later today.’
‘I’m assuming you’ve already given it a once-over?’
‘Forensics have,’ Dearborn confirmed.
‘Evidence of alcohol and pills,’ Fox stated.
‘You’re well informed. No suicide note, but I’m told that’s not so unusual. He’d contacted his solicitor a few days back to check some of the details of his will.’
Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘When exactly?’
‘Tuesday afternoon.’
‘Did he want to change anything?’
Dearborn shook his head.
‘I’m assuming everything will go to the widow?’
‘That depends on us finding a body. If we don’t, then she’s got a wait on her hands - it’s a legal thing.’ Dearborn concentrated on his food, then decided to share something with Fox. ‘His shoes have been found. Deck shoes, they’re called. Bobbing in the water off Inchcolm Island.’ He paused. ‘Supposing this does tie in to whatever you’re working on . . . how do I get my share of the spoils without anyone on my side knowing I’ve been talking to you?’
‘There are ways,’ Malcolm Fox said. ‘Trust me.’
When the meal was finished, their waitress asked if something was wrong with the bacon roll.
‘Just not hungry,’ Fox reassured her. Then, to Dearborn: ‘Let me get this.’
‘Your money’s no good in here.’
‘How come?’
Dearborn offered a shrug. ‘There was a break-in a few months back. I made sure we put in an extra bit of effort . . .’
‘You sure you should be telling this to someone from the Complaints?’
Max Dearborn winked and, with a certain amount of effort, got back to his feet. He insisted on leaving first. Fox watched him go and speculated as to a future of high blood pressure and diabetes, maybe even the odd coronary. About a year back, his own doctor had foretold much the same for him. Since when he’d dropped a stone, while feeling little better for it. He stood outside the café, listening to the screaming of gulls on the nearby roofs. Then he started walking. D Division HQ was on Queen Charlotte Street. As with Torphichen, it boasted a solid if drab Victorian exterior, but unlike Torphichen its interior still held traces of a certain faded grandeur - marble floors, carved wooden balustrades, ornate pillars. Dearborn would be inside by now. His last words to Fox had consisted of a promise to keep him posted. Fox had given him a card with his mobile number - ‘Your best bet for catching me,’ he’d said. Last thing he wanted was Dearborn calling his Fettes office and being told that Inspector Malcolm Fox was out of the game. Word would spread fast enough - Billy Giles would see to that - but meantime Dearborn might prove useful. He’d already given Fox something to think about.
Tuesday morning - Vince Faulkner’s body is found.
Tuesday afternoon - Charlie Brogan contacts his solicitor.
Thursday - his boat is found drifting, its owner missing.
Missing presumed dead.
Without really meaning to, Fox found that he’d strolled the quarter-mile to Leith Police Station. He walked as far as the corner of Constitution Street, then turned. He was just passing the building’s public entrance when a woman came out, sliding her oversized sunglasses back on to her face. She was dressed not in black but coordinated brown. She reached into her leopard-print handbag for cigarettes and lighter, but the breeze kept foiling her attempts.
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