The Complaints (31 page)
Authors: Ian Rankin
‘How many are we talking about in total?’
Rennison did a quick calculation. ‘Fourteen or fifteen.’
‘Worth . . .?’ Fox prompted.
Rennison puffed out his cheeks. ‘Half a million, maybe. Before the recession, it would have been closer to seven fifty.’
‘I hope he didn’t buy at the height of the market.’
‘Unfortunately, mostly he did. He was selling at a loss.’
‘Meaning he was desperate?’
‘I would say so.’
Fox thought for a moment. ‘Have you ever met Mr Brogan’s wife?’
‘She accompanied him to a sale once. I don’t think it was an experience she was keen to repeat.’
‘Not an art-lover, then?’
‘Not in so many words.’
Fox smiled and started getting to his feet. ‘Thanks for taking the trouble to talk to me, Mr Rennison.’
‘My pleasure, Inspector.’
As they shook hands, Fox took a final look at the Peploe.
‘You’re thinking of melted ice cream?’ Rennison guessed. Then, seeing the look on Fox’s face: ‘You’re by no means the first.’
‘Fifty grand buys a lot of Cornettos,’ Fox told the man.
‘Maybe so, but what would their resale value be, Inspector?’
Rennison led the way back to the ground floor.
17
Fox was parked fifty yards from Minter’s when Naysmith and Gilchrist arrived. They’d come by taxi, obviously intending to have more than just the one drink; no driving home for either of them. Fox gave it another twenty minutes, by which time Kaye, too, had arrived, parking on a double yellow and slapping his POLICE sign on the windscreen. He was checking messages on his phone as he headed inside. Fox was listening to Radio 2, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music. But when a quiz was announced, two listeners vying for the ‘star prize’, he switched channels. There was some local news, so he listened to that without taking much of it in. More economic grief; more trams grief; a spell of good weather imminent. The travel report warned of long tail-backs on the Forth Road Bridge and eastbound on the ring road.
‘And the city centre is its usual rush-hour mayhem,’ the report concluded. Fox felt snug in the parked car, cosseted from chaos. But the time came to turn off the radio and get out. He’d finally plucked up the courage to send Annie Inglis a text message:
Hope u can forgive me. Wd like us 2 b pals.
He wasn’t sure now about the ‘pals’ bit. He was attracted to her, but had never had much luck with women, Elaine excepted - and even that had proved to be a mistake. Maybe it wasn’t Annie who intrigued him, but rather the combination of the woman and the career she had chosen. For the past half-hour he’d been hoping she might send a return message, or call him, and as he pushed open the door to the pub, his old phone started buzzing. He plucked it from his pocket and pressed it to his ear.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me,’ the voice said.
‘Annie . . . thanks for getting back to me.’ He had retreated to the pavement, narrowly avoiding a pedestrian. ‘Look, I just wanted you to know how sorry I am about what happened yesterday. I know I was stupid . . .’
‘Well,
I’m
sorry I blew up at you. Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight. Duncan had got me wound up as usual.’ Fox waited for more, but she had come to a stop.
I’m
sorry I blew up at you. Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight. Duncan had got me wound up as usual.’ Fox waited for more, but she had come to a stop.
‘Doesn’t mean I wasn’t in the wrong,’ he said into the silence. ‘And I really enjoyed the meal and seeing you and everything. Maybe I can repay the favour?’
‘Cook for me, you mean?’
‘The word “cook” may be a bit strong . . .’ When she laughed, a weight fell from him. ‘But I’m an expert on the local carry-outs.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We’ll see.’
‘Any night this week is good for me.’
‘I’ll let you know, Malcolm.’ She paused. ‘That’s Duncan coming home.’
‘I came looking for you, to apologise in person,’ Fox told her.
‘At Fettes? I thought you were suspended?’
‘Grampian Complaints had me in for a chat.’
‘You’ve a lot you should be focusing on, Malcolm. Maybe we should give this week a miss.’
‘You’d be doing me a favour, Annie - honestly.’
‘Okay then, let me think about it. I’ve got to go now.’
‘Say hello to Duncan for me. Tell him I want to know what music he buys with that token.’
‘Trust me, you won’t want to hear any of it.’
The phone went dead, and Fox managed a smile as he stared at its tiny glowing screen. Then the screen went dark, and he took a deep breath, adjusting his demeanour before walking into the pub.
Tony Kaye saw him first. Kaye wasn’t at the usual table, but the one next to it, giving Naysmith and Gilchrist some space to themselves. He had been reading the evening paper, but with little apparent interest in it. His eyebrows lifted when he saw Fox, but then he bounded to his feet and reached the bar before him.
‘Let me get this one,’ he stated, delving into his trouser pocket for money.
‘Glad to see me?’ Fox asked.
‘You better believe it. I feel like the spare prick at an orgy.’ He twitched his head in the direction of the corner table. ‘Half the stuff they drone on about I can’t understand, and the other half bores the knackers off me.’ He paused and stared at Fox. ‘Just passing by, were you?’
‘Actually, I wanted a word with Gilchrist.’
Kaye thought about this. ‘That’s why you spoke to Naysmith? He’s baited the trap for you?’
Fox just shrugged and asked the landlord for a tomato juice. The man nodded and brought a bottle from the glass-fronted fridge, shaking it vigorously before pouring.
‘Did you see
Deal or No Deal
?’ he asked, not waiting for an answer. ‘Dealt at seventeen and a half; had the hundred grand.’ He shook his head at the idiocy of some people.
Deal or No Deal
?’ he asked, not waiting for an answer. ‘Dealt at seventeen and a half; had the hundred grand.’ He shook his head at the idiocy of some people.
‘I love it when they lose,’ Kaye commented, handing over the money and asking for a half-pint for himself.
‘Remember you’re driving,’ Fox chided him.
‘Pint and a half, that’s all I’m having.’
‘All the office needs now is for you to fail a breathalyser - McEwan would have a seizure. Besides which, are you sure you can trust Gilchrist not to clype?’
Kaye gave a snort, but changed his order to orange and lemonade. Naysmith and Gilchrist were watching them as they approached the table with their drinks. Kaye moved the newspaper and seated himself. Fox took the chair closest to Gilchrist.
‘All right, lads?’ he asked, noting that Gilchrist was near to finishing his first gin and tonic of the evening. ‘Settling in, are you?’
‘Look, I know it’s awkward . . .’
Fox cut Gilchrist off with a wave of his hand. ‘I’m fine with it; none of it’s your fault, is it?’ It sounded like a rhetorical question, but Fox’s eyes told a different story. Gilchrist held the man’s gaze, then shook his head slowly.
‘No,’ he eventually said.
‘No,’ Fox echoed. ‘So that’s all right, then. Makes things hard on DS Inglis, though . . .’ He took a sip of tomato juice.
‘Yes,’ Gilchrist agreed.
‘Bit sudden, too, the way you were plucked from the Chop Shop . . .’
‘They knew I was keen to try something different.’ Gilchrist paused. ‘It’s only temporary, after all.’
‘Course it is,’ Kaye stressed, while Naysmith nodded along.
Fox smiled at the show of support, but his eyes were still on Gilchrist. ‘What’s happening about Jamie Breck?’ he asked. Gilchrist gave a shrug. ‘Has the Aussie inquiry started crumbling?’
‘Far as I know, they think they’ve got enough.’
‘So they’ll be bringing the main suspect to trial.’ Fox nodded his understanding. ‘But what about his clients?’
Gilchrist gave another shrug. ‘I can do a bit of digging, if you like.’
Fox reached over and patted Gilchrist on his thigh. ‘Don’t worry about it. You’re in the Complaints now - you’ve got different fish to fry. Same again?’ Fox signalled to the glasses on the table.
‘Thanks, Malcolm,’ Naysmith said, but Gilchrist was shaking his head.
‘I was only staying for the one,’ he explained. This seemed to come as news to Naysmith, but Gilchrist was draining his glass. ‘Meeting someone in town . . .’ He was already rising to his feet. ‘See you all tomorrow, eh?’
‘Not me,’ Fox reminded him.
‘No . . . But good luck.’
‘You think I need it?’
Gilchrist didn’t answer this. He was pulling on his thermal jacket. Fox reached out and grabbed him by the arm.
‘Who was it pulled the surveillance on Breck?
You
got the call - who was it on the other end of the line?’
You
got the call - who was it on the other end of the line?’
Gilchrist wrestled the arm free, his jaw clenched. With a wave in Naysmith’s direction, he was gone.
‘Did you get what you wanted?’ Kaye asked Fox.
‘I’m not sure.’
Naysmith was holding his empty pint glass. ‘Kronenberg, please,’ he told Fox.
‘Buy your own, you little quisling,’ Malcolm Fox replied.
‘Is it all right if I come in?’ Fox asked.
It was nine in the evening and he was standing on Jamie Breck’s doorstep. Breck had just opened the door to him and was wearing an open-necked polo shirt and green chinos, with socks but no shoes on his feet.
‘If it’s inconvenient . . .’ Fox continued, his voice trailing off.
‘It’s fine,’ Breck eventually conceded. ‘Annabel’s at her place tonight. ’ He turned and padded back down the short hallway into the living room. By the time Fox got there, Breck had switched on some of the lamps. The TV was off, and so was the stereo.
‘I was on the internet,’ Breck seemed to feel it necessary to explain. ‘Bit bored, to be honest with you.’
‘Playing Quidnunc?’
‘How did you guess? Four or five hours today . . .’ Breck paused. ‘Maybe longer, actually . . .’
Fox nodded and settled himself on the sofa. He’d been home and tried to eat a ready meal, giving up halfway through. ‘I had a talk with the Grampian Complaints,’ he said.
‘How did it go?’
‘It went.’
‘They want to see me in the morning ... a woman called Stoddart.’
‘You’ll be fine.’
Breck fell into one of the armchairs. ‘Sure about that?’
‘Has Annabel come up with anything?’
‘You mean about Vince Faulkner?’ Breck gave a twitch of the mouth. ‘Seems to be getting nowhere. Instead of ploughing on, Giles is going over old ground, seeing if the team’s missed something. ’
‘It’s a lazy strategy,’ Fox commented.
‘They got access to the footage from the casino . . .’
‘And?’
Breck shrugged. ‘No sign of Faulkner on any of it. But guess what - there were gaps in the recording.’
‘Someone had tampered with it?’
‘A “glitch”, according to the management.’
‘Just as you predicted. Was Joanna Broughton there to explain matters?’
Breck shook his head. ‘She was nowhere to be seen. It was the guy behind the bar - he’s obviously had a promotion. Plus someone from Lovatt, Meikle, Meldrum.’
‘What’s it got to do with them?’
‘Their client had asked them to be present. I told you, Malcolm, she doesn’t want anything tarnishing the Oliver’s rep.’ Breck broke off. ‘Sorry, I should have asked if you wanted a drink.’
‘I’m fine,’ Fox assured him. The two men sat in silence for a moment.
‘Might as well spit it out,’ Breck said with the thinnest of smiles.
‘What?’
‘Something’s eating you.’
Fox looked at him. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’
Breck gave a shrug. ‘I get the feeling you need to trust
someone
.’
someone
.’
Fox rubbed a finger across his forehead. He’d spent the past hour and a half thinking much the same thing. ‘Maybe I’ll have that drink,’ he said, playing for time. ‘Water will do.’
Breck was already on his feet and heading out of the room. Fox looked around, barely taking his surroundings in. It had been a long day. Dearborn and Broughton, Stoddart and Gilchrist ... Breck was coming back with the tumbler. Fox accepted it with a nod. His stomach felt full of acid. His eyes stung when he blinked and there was a persistent throbbing at his temples.
‘Do you need an aspirin or something?’ Breck was asking. Fox shook his head. ‘You look shattered. I’m guessing not all of it courtesy of Inspector Stoddart.’
‘There’s something I’m going to tell you,’ Fox blurted out. ‘But I’m not sure how you’re going to take it.’
Breck hadn’t quite sat down. Instead, he rested his weight against the arm of his chair. ‘In your own time,’ he coaxed.
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