The Complaints (50 page)

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Authors: Ian Rankin

BOOK: The Complaints
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‘You said you’d never met him.’
‘I lied. But here’s the thing ... now you know this, there’s every chance you’ll end up the same way as him.’
‘There was a developer in Dundee ...’ Fox was thinking aloud. ‘When he lost Wauchope some money, he turned up dead. Did Terry Vass kill him?’
Heaton’s eyebrows lifted a millimetre. ‘You seem to know a hell of a lot.’
‘I’m getting there. So Brogan and the Dundee developer suddenly had a bunch of negative equity, and Wauchope wanted his money out - because it wasn’t actually his. What’s Vince Faulkner got to do with any of this?’
‘You ever see Charlie Brogan? He never had much
heft
.’
‘Vince was like his ... bodyguard?’
‘That’s maybe too strong. But when you go to a meeting, you want someone at your back.’
Fox took a moment to mull this over. ‘Remember a few months back? One of Ernie Wishaw’s drivers was caught with a consignment of dope ...’
‘I remember.’
‘Rumour is, you were feeding information back to Wishaw.’
‘Breck again,’ Glen Heaton spat.
‘You’re a regular gun for hire, aren’t you? And that means you know a lot ... Is that why they need to protect you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ever since I handed your case over to the Fiscal’s office, there’ve been people following me, trying to set me up and scare me off.’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘Your good friend Billy Giles hasn’t dropped any hints?’
‘I’m finished talking, Fox. Just remember what I said - way things are going, you might not be around to see me stand trial.’
‘Not that that’s going to happen.’
‘Exactly.’ Heaton paused. ‘Now get out of my fucking car.’
Fox stayed put. ‘When people speak up for you, they say you always got results. You’d do a favour for one villain, and that villain would repay the debt with a titbit about a competitor. Is that what’s happening here, Heaton? Someone’s told you to give me Wauchope?’
Heaton stared at him. ‘Get out of the car,’ he repeated.
Fox got out. The music blared back into life as Heaton revved the engine hard before setting off. A neighbour peered from behind the curtains of her living-room window. Fox didn’t bother trying to apologise. What was the point? He stuffed his hands into his pockets and headed back indoors.
Saturday 21 February 2009
27
‘What makes you think you can trust him?’ Jamie Breck asked.
‘You reckon he was lying?’
Fox and Breck were discussing Glen Heaton. They were seated in Fox’s Volvo. It was eight o’clock in the morning. Daylight was definitely coming earlier as spring stopped cowering. Breck didn’t respond to Fox’s question; probably because he didn’t have the answer. He held a cardboard beaker of coffee in both hands. It was from a baker’s and was now lukewarm as well as weak. Fox had already emptied his out of the driver’s-side window. They were parked by a set of wrought-iron gates, waiting for those gates to open.
‘Twenty minutes,’ Breck muttered, checking his watch.
‘Kids don’t wear watches any more, have you noticed that?’
‘What?’ Breck turned his head towards him.
‘They use their phones - that’s how they tell the time.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Just making conversation. How was the carpaccio last night?’
‘Fine - Tom’s a great chef.’
‘Did you apologise to Annabel for my phone call?’
‘She forgives you, and I still don’t think you can trust Glen Heaton.’
‘Who said I was going to trust him? Someone’s using him to send us a message. What we do with it is up to us.’
‘You’ve thought it through?’ Breck stared at Fox, but then something caught his attention. ‘Hang on ... what’s that noise?’
It was the low humming of a motor, accompanied by the rattle of a metal grille as it slowly opened. Fox turned the key in the ignition and waited. SeeBee House boasted an underground car park, and one of the residents was about to head out. From his vantage point, Fox could only see the top few inches of the grille that protected the slope down into the car park, but it was sliding upwards all right. And now he could make out the purring of a car engine.
‘Porsche,’ Breck drawled. ‘Bet you any money you like.’
Yes, a silver Porsche, driven by a man who didn’t really need the sunglasses he was wearing. It was light out, but there was no sun as yet. The gates seemed to shiver, then opened inwards slowly. The Porsche had to bide its time, though it sounded impatient. As soon as the gap allowed, it sped out of the compound and past Fox’s car. Fox drove inside and parked at the front door, just as on his previous visit. He was out of the car before the gates had started to close again.
‘Did you recognise him?’ Breck asked.
‘You mean the driver?’ Fox nodded. ‘Gordon Lovatt.’
‘Bit early for a PR meeting, isn’t it?’
Fox agreed that it was. He was standing by the intercom, his finger pressed to the bell for the penthouse. There was a little camera watching him, and he stared into its lens.
‘What do you want?’ a voice asked from the speaker.
‘Just a quick word, Ms Broughton.’
‘What about?’
‘Mr Brogan. There’s some news.’
‘I’m not dressed yet.’
‘I thought you were used to hosting meetings in your nightie.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I could have sworn I just saw Gordon Lovatt’s Porsche ...’
As the silence stretched, Fox locked eyes with Jamie Breck. Breck was whistling, but without making any noise.
‘It really can’t wait?’ Joanna Broughton’s voice crackled from the metal speaker.
‘It really can’t,’ Fox confirmed.
The door buzzed as if in irritation. Fox pushed at it and it opened.
The foyer was deserted. Fox led the way to the triplex’s private lift and pushed the button. It arrived and they got in. Fox pressed the button and the P sign lit up, the doors beginning to close. He recalled meeting Jack Broughton and Gordon Lovatt on his previous visit. They had gained access to the compound without needing anyone to open the gates for them. At the time, Fox had reckoned Jack Broughton must own one of the little remote-opening boxes - gifted to him by Daddy’s little girl - but now he was beginning to wonder.
When they reached Joanna Broughton’s floor, the door to her apartment was standing open in readiness. Joanna Broughton was fully dressed, her hair and make-up immaculate.
‘Fast work,’ Fox commented.
‘What is it you want to tell me?’ she asked. She sounded in a hurry, but that wasn’t Fox’s problem.
‘You know DS Breck?’ he asked by way of introduction, as Breck busied himself closing the door. Breck waved a hand in greeting, without making eye contact. He was too busy examining the view.
‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’
‘Yours for three million,’ she snapped, folding her arms and placing one foot in front of the other, ready for combat.
‘I imagine Mr Brogan
would
sell, too,’ Fox said, sliding his hands into his pockets. ‘But the market’s against him, and it would still be a drop in the ocean.’ He paused, locking his eyes on Broughton’s. ‘How much is he into them for, Joanna?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Bull Wauchope and his syndicate,’ Fox informed her. ‘We’ve been trying to work it out, DS Breck and me. Could be anywhere from ten to a hundred million. CBBJ owns a lot more real estate than either of us realised. A journalist’s been doing some research. Hunting lodges in the Highlands with thousands of acres attached ... a couple of islands ... land in Dubai . . . a few dozen flats on spec sites in London and Bristol and Cardiff ... All of it bought at the height of the boom, a boom nobody thought was about to be punctured. He was in the middle of setting up a company in Bermuda, wasn’t he? That’s something else the journalist learned. Soon it would all have been offshore and a damned sight more secret. But then everybody got twitchy and wanted their money back. Wanted it in the same cold, hard cash they’d given him to launder in the first place.’
During this speech, Joanna Broughton’s face had shown no emotion. She hadn’t so much as blinked. But when Fox paused, she turned away and headed for one of the cream leather sofas, settling herself there and making sure her knee-length skirt didn’t reveal anything she didn’t want it to.
‘You said you had news,’ she said coolly. ‘I’m not hearing any.’
‘What was Gordon Lovatt doing here?’
She glared at him. ‘The police force is leaking like a sieve - mostly to that reporter you mentioned. Gordon is preparing a response.’ She paused. ‘I dare say
you’ve
been speaking to her, too ... dripping poison into her ear ...’
‘That’s from
Hamlet
, isn’t it?’ Breck said, hands behind his back, pretending still to be interested in the panorama.
‘That time I dropped you home,’ Fox started to ask, regaining her attention, ‘when I mentioned Vince Faulkner’s name it didn’t seem to mean anything to you.’
‘Why should it?’
‘Your husband used him on occasions - specifically, occasions when he feared he might be in for a thumping.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘How about the name Terry Vass?’
She was shaking her head, refusing to meet his eyes.
‘I’m guessing it was pretty late in the day before Mr Brogan told you what was going on. I’m also betting you’re furious with him about it. Wouldn’t do for your father to find out what sort of numpty you’ve gone and got hitched to.’ Fox’s voice softened a little. ‘But Charlie needed your help, Joanna, and you’ve been giving it, furious or not. That phone you keep beside you, the one you said came from the boat ... you lied to us about that. Your story’s holed at the waterline and I think the pair of you are sinking ...’
Her eyes were growing glassy with tears, but she angled her head skywards so as to trap them there.
‘We need to speak to him,’ Fox went on, measuring out his words. ‘He hasn’t fooled the investigators and I very much doubt he’s had more luck with Bull Wauchope. Criminals the length and breadth of the country will be on the lookout for him. There’s a good chance they’ll get to him before we do - and I think you know what that means. I don’t suppose he had much time for planning. He saw what happened to Vince Faulkner and knew he had to do something quick.’ Fox gestured towards the empty walls. ‘On the other hand, he flogged off the family jewels. I’m guessing some of the money was an attempt to stave off Wauchope. The rest’ll be paying his way right now and for the foreseeable.’ He paused again, but there was no reaction from the figure on the sofa. Her whole body seemed frozen and she could have been posing for a portrait in oils.
‘Is he even in the country?’ Fox asked her. ‘I’m guessing he is - hard not to leave a trail otherwise. He could even be in one of the flats on the floors below ... sneaking up here at night ... living like a hermit in the daytime ...’
‘I want you to leave.’
‘If you care about him, you’ll talk to him about this. We’re not his friends, Joanna, but we’re far and away his best bet. What did you tell your father? Did you even think of asking him for help?’ Her eyes burned into his. ‘Probably not,’ he went on. ‘Because you can look after yourself, and Jack’s never had much faith in your husband anyway ... that’s how it is with fathers and daughters.’ Fox offered a shrug.
‘Get out,’ she repeated, with fresh venom.
Fox was holding a business card by the tips of his thumb and forefinger. ‘My new number’s on the back,’ he explained, setting it on the arm of the sofa. ‘We figured it out,’ he reminded her. ‘Wauchope will figure it out - and he
will
come asking, Joanna.’
‘My dad would have something to say about that. He’ll have something to say about
you
, too!’
Fox shook his head slowly. ‘Jack’s tired - you can see it in his eyes, the way he walks. I know you still respect him, but that’s because you remember him the way he was. Maybe you were even more than a little scared of him. But that’s all changed. Think about it - if Charlie had been scared of him, he’d never have got involved with Wauchope and the others. He’d have run a mile, for fear of offending the infamous Jack Broughton.’ Fox bent at the knees a little, the better to sustain eye contact. ‘Some of the stuff Wauchope owns in Edinburgh ... I’m guessing it used to be part of your father’s empire. He’s been letting Wauchope buy into it because he knows the future when he sees it. These days, Jack’s not much more than a minority shareholder. And Wauchope knows weakness when he sees it. Bull wants your husband, Joanna, and I’m not sure you can stop that happening on your own.’
This time, Joanna Broughton was unable to stop the tears. She wiped them away with the arm of her blouse, smearing mascara across both cheeks.

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