Authors: Ian Rankin
The Complaints (30 page)
‘This is interesting,’ he commented. ‘Being on the receiving end for a change. So how
are
things in Aberdeen? Got anything on the go?’
are
things in Aberdeen? Got anything on the go?’
The two Grampian officers shared a look. It was Wilson who spoke. ‘Grampian’s pretty clean these days,’ he offered.
‘Must be a nice change then, visiting Gomorrah. Have they given you a decent hotel?’
‘Not bad.’
‘Well then, you’ll want to string this out as long as possible.’
Mason managed a smile, but only for a second. Stoddart was coming back into the room. She returned her phone to her pocket and settled back down behind the desk.
‘Ready,’ Mason advised. Stoddart stared at Fox as she began forming her next question.
‘What,’ she asked, ‘were you just doing at the home of a woman called Joanna Broughton?’
Fox took a moment to collect himself. ‘I gave her a lift. She was standing outside Leith Police Station and I happened to be passing and recognised her. She’s just lost her husband and seemed a bit upset, so I offered to drop her somewhere.’
The room was silent until Stoddart asked: ‘You expect me to believe that?’
Fox just shrugged, while inwardly uttering a stream of curses.
‘She employs a public relations company,’ Stoddart went on, ‘and they got straight on the telephone screaming harassment.’
‘I can assure you I did anything but harass her - ask her, if you like. Besides which, it’s got nothing to do with any of this.’
He knew what Stoddart would say to that - same thing he’d have said if he’d been her side of the desk - and she duly obliged.
‘I’ll be the judge of that, Inspector.’ Then: ‘You say you were just passing Leith Police Station? Isn’t it rather a long way from anywhere? ’
‘Not particularly.’
‘So if I go asking, none of the officers there will tell me they spoke with you this morning?’
She watched Fox shake his head, and went back to looking at her computer again.
It was another three quarters of an hour before she decided they’d take a break for the rest of the day.
‘You’re not thinking of heading off somewhere?’ she asked, closing the lid of her laptop. ‘A holiday or anything?’
‘I won’t be leaving the country,’ he assured her, as Mason unclipped the microphone. ‘Same time tomorrow?’
‘We’ll let you know.’
Fox nodded, then thanked them, and made for the door. He paused with his hand on its handle. ‘One last thing,’ he said. ‘DS Breck has no inkling that he’s being investigated. If news leaks to him, all three of you will be suspects . . .’ He opened the door and closed it after him. Since he was in the building, he climbed to the next floor, removing his visitor’s pass and stuffing it in his pocket. He walked past the door of the Complaints office and headed for 2.24. But there was still no one home, so he returned to his old haunt, peering around the door to make sure Bob McEwan wasn’t on the premises. Then he rapped against the frame with his knuckles, announcing his arrival. Gilchrist was seated next to Naysmith at the latter’s desk while Naysmith showed him something on his computer. Kaye was tipped back in his chair, hands behind his head. Fox managed not to stare at his own desk, though he couldn’t help catching a glimpse of Gilchrist’s stuff scattered across it.
Kaye got to his feet. ‘You been to the headmaster’s office?’ he asked.
‘Yep.’
‘Got a sore bottom?’
‘Nope.’
Kaye smiled, shrugging himself back into his jacket. ‘Let’s go to the canteen,’ he said.
Out in the hallway, he gripped Fox by the sleeve. ‘Gilchrist could bore for Scotland.’ He rolled his eyes and shook his head in exasperation. Then: ‘So how did it really go?’
‘They didn’t come up with much I wasn’t expecting. Seemed to know about my relationship with the demon drink.’
‘Must be in your files somewhere.’
‘Meaning one of my previous bosses must have noticed . . .’
‘But never said anything?’ Kaye made a clucking sound. ‘Just hoping the problem would go away.’
‘Well, it did.’
‘They trying to say you’re an alkie?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe they were told to ask.’
‘What did you think of Stoddart?’
‘She’s the Ice Queen.’
‘Wouldn’t mind trying to thaw her out.’
They had reached the canteen. Half a dozen people were dotted around the tables, mostly staring into space as they chewed their snacks. ‘You sure you want to be seen with me?’ Fox asked.
‘Maybe some of that rebel glamour will rub off on me.’ Kaye placed two mugs on a tray. ‘Still haven’t seen hide or hair of DS Inglis,’ he admitted. ‘What did you do to her?’
Fox ignored this. His old phone was buzzing, so he held up a finger to let Kaye know he was taking it. Turning away and walking towards the windows, he pressed the ‘receive’ button.
‘Malcolm Fox,’ he said.
‘It’s Dearborn.’
‘Max - can I assume you’ve got something for me?’
‘My boss is apoplectic. He gets a call from Gordon Lovatt, complaining about a D Division cop called Fox. The only Fox anyone has heard of is you, and when Lovatt is given the description, he says it’s spot-on.’
‘After we’d had our little chat,’ Fox explained, ‘I saw Joanna Broughton looking up and down the street for a non-existent taxi. She seemed a bit distraught so I offered her a lift. She must have assumed I was stationed in Leith.’
‘So it was you she gave her husband’s diary to?’
‘Happy to help, Max.’
Fox listened as Dearborn expelled some air. Kaye had taken the tray to one of the tables, having added two chocolate bars to his purchases. He was already unwrapping one of them.
‘Is there anything else?’ Fox asked into the phone. ‘Any news of Charlie Brogan?’
‘Give me a break,’ Dearborn muttered, hanging up. Fox called him straight back.
‘One last thing,’ he said, by way of warning. ‘Grampian Complaints may come sniffing around. Best if you don’t tell them we shared breakfast.’
‘You’re bad news, Fox.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Fox managed to end the call before Dearborn could, then went over to the table and seated himself opposite Kaye. He tried to work out if he’d been bought tea or coffee. The look and aroma weren’t giving much away.
Kaye had stopped chewing. He was looking over Fox’s shoulder. When Fox turned his head, he saw why. Mason and Wilson had just entered the canteen.
‘Bugger,’ Kaye said through a mouthful of chocolate. Fox, however, waved the two men over. They seemed to discuss it for a moment, then shook their heads and took a table as far away from Fox’s as possible. Each man had opted for a bottle of still water and a piece of fresh fruit.
‘They’re bound to tell Stoddart,’ Kaye commented.
‘Nobody’s banned us from seeing one another, Tony. It’s not like we have ASBOs or anything. You can say you were already here . . . the whole thing just a chance meeting.’
‘She won’t believe it.’
‘But she’ll have to
accept
it - same as we would if we were doing her job.’
accept
it - same as we would if we were doing her job.’
‘I’m a bollock-hair away from joining you on the subs’ bench.’
‘You haven’t done anything wrong, Tony.’
‘But I’m like you, Foxy - guilty until proven otherwise. And all because everybody hates us.’
‘Do you want this?’ Fox was offering Kaye the spare chocolate bar. Kaye took it and put it in his pocket. ‘And answer me something - what the hell is it we’re drinking?’
Kaye stared down at his mug. ‘I thought it was tea.’
‘But you’re not sure?’
‘Maybe I asked for coffee . . .’
Having handed his pass back to Frank at the front desk, Fox went out to the car park. He passed his own Volvo and kept walking. There were spaces at the furthest corner of the compound, next to the playing fields. They were marked for the use of visitors, and that was where he found the black Astra and the green Ka, parked side by side. The stickers on their back windows identified them as having been bought at garages in Aberdeen. There was a fresh-looking graze to the metallic paintwork on the Ka, and Fox hoped that local traffic was to blame.
He returned to his own car, exited the car park and crawled up the long steep slope back into town until he reached Queen Street. An auction house had its headquarters there, and Fox seemed to remember they specialised in paintings. He didn’t have any trouble finding a parking bay. Drivers were either counting the pennies or else had been dissuaded from coming into town by the tram works. Fox put a pound coin in the parking meter, attached the sticker to his windscreen and headed inside. There was a long counter in the main reception area, and at the end of it a couple of windows resembling the tellers’ positions in a bank. A customer was standing at one of the windows, writing out a cheque for a recent purchase.
‘Can I help?’ the woman behind the counter asked.
‘I hope so,’ Fox said. ‘I’m a police officer.’ In lieu of a warrant card, he offered her one of his printed business cards. They were about three years out of date, but looked nice and official. ‘I’ve got a problem I’m hoping one of your experts can help me with.’
The woman, having studied his card, asked him to wait while she fetched someone. The man who eventually appeared was younger than Fox had been expecting. He wore a pinstriped shirt and pale yellow tie and shook hands vigorously, introducing himself as Alfie Rennison. His voice was educated Scots. He, too, was pleased to receive one of Fox’s business cards.
‘What is it I can do for you?’ Rennison asked.
‘It’s about some paintings.’
‘Modern or classical?’
‘Modern, I think.’
Rennison lowered his voice. ‘Fakes?’ he hissed.
‘Nothing like that,’ Fox assured him. The young man looked relieved.
‘It happens, you know,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘People try to offload all kinds of stuff on us. Follow me, will you?’
He led Fox towards the back of the premises until they reached a stairwell. A red rope provided the sole deterrent to anyone wishing to descend to the next level, and Rennison unhooked it long enough for both men to pass through. Fox followed him down into the bowels of the building, which proved far less grand than the public areas. They squeezed past canvases stacked against walls, and manoeuvred between busts and statues and grandfather clocks.
‘Sale coming up,’ Rennison explained. ‘Viewing’s next week.’
They reached his office, which consisted of two rooms knocked into one. Fox had believed them below ground, but there were frosted windows, albeit barred on the outside.
‘This was somebody’s house at one time,’ Rennison was saying. ‘I’m guessing the kitchen, laundry and servants’ quarters would have been down here. Four upper storeys of Georgian elegance, but with the engine room hidden below.’ He smiled and gestured for Fox to take a seat. Rennison’s desk was disappointingly bland. Fox reckoned it was an IKEA kit-build. On it sat a laptop computer, hooked up to a laser printer. There was only one painting in the whole room. It measured about six inches by four and sat on the wall behind Rennison’s chair.
‘Exquisite, isn’t it? A French
plage
by Peploe. I can hardly bear to part with it.’
plage
by Peploe. I can hardly bear to part with it.’
Fox knew next to nothing about art, but he liked the thick swirls of paint. They reminded him of melting ice cream. ‘Is it going into the sale?’
Rennison nodded. ‘Should fetch fifty to sixty.’
‘Thousand?’ Fox gazed at the work with new respect, mixed with a stunned sense that this was a world he was going to have trouble comprehending.
Rennison had clasped his hands together, elbows on the desk. ‘So tell me about these paintings.’
‘Have you heard of a man called Charles Brogan?’
‘Alas, yes - the latest victim of our challenging times.’
‘But you knew of him before he drowned?’
Rennison was nodding. ‘There are several auction houses in the city, Inspector. We work hard to maintain a client’s fidelity.’
‘You’re saying he bought from you?’
‘And from some of the city’s actual galleries,’ Rennison felt duty-bound to add.
‘You’ve seen his collection?’
‘Much of it.’
‘Had he started selling it off?’
Rennison studied him, resting his chin against the tips of his fingers. ‘Might I ask why you’re interested?’
‘We’re looking into the reasons why he would kill himself. You mentioned finances, and it’s just that Mr Brogan’s decision to sell his paintings might chime with that theory.’
Rennison nodded to himself, happy with this explanation.
‘Some pieces he sent to London; some he sold here. Three or four are actually consigned to our next auction. Naturally, we’ll hold them back until we know what his estate wants us to do.’
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