Authors: Ian Rankin
The Complaints (16 page)
Kaye looked at him again. ‘What makes you say that?’
He told me
, Fox thought to himself. But he didn’t want Kaye to know how intimate some of his chats with Breck had become, so he shifted in his chair and explained that the info had been in Breck’s personnel file.
, Fox thought to himself. But he didn’t want Kaye to know how intimate some of his chats with Breck had become, so he shifted in his chair and explained that the info had been in Breck’s personnel file.
‘Now that’s what I call full disclosure . . . The guy from the Chop Shop says maybe he’s grooming them, but that’s just paranoia talking.’ Kaye paused. ‘And that’s something else you and me will be having words about, old friend.’ Kaye nodded in Fox’s direction, to reinforce the point. ‘No sign of DS Inglis. She’s got a son to tuck in, so she swaps with the world’s most boring man. And surprise surprise -
he
gets on like a house on fire with Naysmith. Take a guess why.’
he
gets on like a house on fire with Naysmith. Take a guess why.’
‘They like computer games?’
‘They
love
computer games. And gadgets, new technology, blah blah blah . . . Ten minutes in and they’re showing one another their mobiles. Another ten after that, it’s modems and streaming and God knows what. I had four hours of it.’ Kaye gave a sigh and stared in the direction of the lifeless coffee machine. ‘Don’t tell me Naysmith’s still in bed.’
love
computer games. And gadgets, new technology, blah blah blah . . . Ten minutes in and they’re showing one another their mobiles. Another ten after that, it’s modems and streaming and God knows what. I had four hours of it.’ Kaye gave a sigh and stared in the direction of the lifeless coffee machine. ‘Don’t tell me Naysmith’s still in bed.’
Fox blew his nose. ‘Haven’t seen him,’ he admitted.
‘And McEwan’s still at his conference,’ Kaye added. ‘Maybe I’ll just tuck a duvet around myself at my desk.’
‘Be my guest.’
‘Breck went to bed around two. We waited to see if he’d maybe taken his laptop with him, but there was nothing, so we left it at that.’
‘Does the Chop Shop want another try?’
Kaye shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me, if only so Gilchrist and Naysmith can compare Freeview boxes.’ Kaye sighed again. He wasn’t yet seated; in fact had taken a couple of steps in the direction of Fox’s desk and was looking at him.
‘What?’ Fox prompted.
‘One other thing, compadre . . . He Googled your name.’
Fox’s eyebrows dipped. ‘He did what?’
Kaye shrugged by way of reply. ‘And that took him to some media websites. He wasn’t long, so we reckon he was printing stuff off rather than reading it online.’
‘He won’t have found much.’
‘Except that he Googled “Complaints and Conduct”, too. Pretty much everything we’ve done in the media eye this past couple of years.’ Kaye paused. ‘Including Heaton, of course.’
‘Why would he be doing that?’
Kaye shrugged again. ‘Maybe he just likes you.’
Fox was considering telling his colleague about Breck’s unannounced visit to his home, and their little jaunt to the Oliver. But Kaye was speaking again.
‘On the other hand . . . the guy who beat up your sister has just found himself deceased. Billy Giles is on the hunt for suspects.’
‘Using Breck as his bloodhound?’ Fox was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I got the feeling there wasn’t much love between those two.’
‘Could be a front. Breck
wanting
you to think that . . .’
wanting
you to think that . . .’
Fox nodded slowly.
‘Have you seen him recently?’ Kaye asked.
‘Who? Breck?’ Fox reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and started blowing his nose again, playing for time. The door swung open and Joe Naysmith walked in. He was carrying his notebook in one hand and a newspaper in the other.
‘Says here,’ he began, laying the paper on Fox’s desk, ‘that detectives are making progress.’
The story was prominent on page three of
The Scotsman
. Not so surprising: Edinburgh wasn’t exactly a murder capital - maybe one a month on average, usually cleared up quickly. When they did occur, the local media were keen to react, usually at length. There was a large photo of the scene of crime with a grainy inset of a smiling Vince Faulkner, and a smaller shot of Billy Giles, looking no less fierce than in the flesh.
The Scotsman
. Not so surprising: Edinburgh wasn’t exactly a murder capital - maybe one a month on average, usually cleared up quickly. When they did occur, the local media were keen to react, usually at length. There was a large photo of the scene of crime with a grainy inset of a smiling Vince Faulkner, and a smaller shot of Billy Giles, looking no less fierce than in the flesh.
‘Eyes like lasers,’ Naysmith commented.
‘Where did the paper come from?’ Kaye was asking. ‘Thought you were a
Guardian
reader.’
Guardian
reader.’
‘Helen said she was finished with it.’
‘Helen?’
‘In HR . . . the desk nearest the door . . .’
Kaye rolled his eyes. ‘We just about merit the time of day, and he’s on first-name terms with them.’ He wagged a finger at Naysmith. ‘Next you’ll be telling me Mrs Stephens shines your shoes while you’ve got your feet under her desk.’
‘She’s all right,’ Naysmith mumbled, making for the coffee machine. ‘They all are . . .’
‘Three sugars!’ Kaye called out.
‘He knows that by now,’ Fox stated.
‘Never makes it sweet enough.’ Kaye turned his attention to Fox. ‘What does it say?’
‘Not much. Marooned gets a mention. They’re asking for people to come forward if they saw the victim elsewhere that weekend.’
‘Memories are short,’ Kaye commented. ‘What’s Marooned?’
‘A pub in Gorgie - Vince got into an argument with some Taffs.’ Fox scanned the story again. ‘They don’t say anything about the bus stop . . .’ He was talking to himself, but loud enough for Kaye to overhear.
‘What bus stop?’
‘After the rugby fans, Vince headed for Dalry Road. Looks like he was going to catch a bus but he ended up in a shouting match with some kids.’
Kaye’s eyes narrowed.
‘He took a taxi instead,’ Fox finished.
‘And how have you come by this information, Inspector Fox?’
Fox licked his lips. ‘I have my sources, Sergeant Kaye.’
‘Breck?’ Fox couldn’t deny it, so kept quiet instead. Kaye rolled his eyes once more. ‘What have we just been talking about? He’s dangling worms in front of you so you can’t see Giles hiding behind him with the hook!’
‘Nicely put,’ Naysmith called out.
‘Shut up, Joe,’ Kaye spat back. He was pressing the palms of his hands against Fox’s desk, leaning down over it. ‘Tell me you get that. Tell me you can see right through him.’
‘Sure,’ Fox stated, not really sure of very much any more. He bit down on the pen he was holding, felt the plastic casing crack.
There was a health club just in front of the Asda on Chesser Avenue. Fox knew this because he’d had a trial membership when it first opened. He’d never been inside the supermarket, though, and was surprised by its size. He selected a hand basket and added a couple of items, then headed for the checkout. The woman in front of him in the queue pointed out that there was another checkout nearby where he wouldn’t have to wait to be served. She was emptying the extensive load from her trolley while her young son sucked a lollipop. He was seated inside the trolley, swinging his legs in repeated attempts to connect with Fox’s basket.
‘I’m not in a hurry,’ Fox told the woman. She looked at him strangely, then got on with the task of filling the conveyor belt. Transaction complete, she paid not with a credit card but with handfuls of notes from her purse. The checkout assistant counted these into the till and handed the woman a receipt like a length of ticker tape. She then smiled towards Fox and asked him how he was.
‘Not too bad, Sandra,’ he replied.
Sandra Hendry had already finished running his items through the scanner. At mention of her name, she looked him in the face for the first time. ‘It’s you,’ she stated. Then: ‘Cooking Indian tonight?’
Fox considered the items he’d bought: basmati rice, Madras sauce. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘How’s Jude?’ There was no one behind Fox, so Sandra reached under her till and, for want of any other job, started wiping down the conveyor belt with the cloth stored there.
‘She’s okay,’ Fox said.
‘I’m looking in on her later.’
‘She’ll appreciate that.’ Fox paused. ‘You know you said you sometimes went to the Oliver? I was just wondering if you and your husband were there on Saturday.’
‘Saturday?’ She considered this. ‘Saturday I was at my sister’s. Bunch of us had a night on the town.’
‘But not at the Oliver?’
Sandra Hendry shook her head. ‘Too far from the centre for Maggie. George Street’s what she likes.’
‘Was your husband with you?’
‘Ronnie? On a girlie night?’ She gave a snort. ‘Joking, aren’t you?’
‘So he was at home then?’
Having finished wiping, she fixed him with a stare. ‘What’s this all about?’
Fox had his answer prepared. ‘We think Vince may have gone to the Oliver. Just wondering if he was on his own.’
She considered this and nodded slowly, accepting the explanation as being reasonable.
‘Did he know anyone else who frequented the casino?’ Fox asked.
‘No idea.’ The tone she used, he knew he was losing her - too many questions. In her eyes, he’d stopped being Jude’s brother and turned back into a cop.
‘Times you went there with him, he didn’t bump into people he knew?’
She shrugged, straightening up as a new customer approached and started emptying his trolley. The man was unkempt and unshaven, eyes bloodshot. He was buying enough booze to kickstart Hogmanay. Sandra Hendry wrinkled her nose as she made eye contact with Fox. Her meaning was clear: one of her regulars, but by no means a favourite.
‘Is Ronnie at work just now?’ Fox asked her quickly.
‘Unless they’ve laid him off . . . Nobody’s safe these days.’
Fox nodded his agreement, picked up his shopping, and thanked her for everything.
When Fox had driven into the Asda car park, a black Vauxhall Astra had been thirty yards behind him. Now, driving away, he caught the same car in his rearview mirror. It wasn’t close enough for him to make out the licence plate. He kept to a crawl of ten miles an hour as he headed towards the main road, but the Astra never came any closer. His phone rang and he answered it.
‘Where are you?’ Tony Kaye asked.
‘Keeping busy,’ Fox replied.
‘Want to hear some news?’
‘Good or bad?’
‘Vince Faulkner did indeed take a cab. Driver remembers interrupting the rammy and his cab taking a dunt in the process.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘You’re not the only one with sources - and there aren’t that many cab outfits in Edinburgh. Giles’s boys got hold of the info about an hour before I did.’
‘Does the cabbie remember where he dropped Vince?’
‘The casino near Ocean Terminal. Driver got out to inspect the damage.’
‘He saw Vince go into the Oliver?’
‘You sound like you already know all this . . .’
‘I had an inkling, but the confirmation is greatly appreciated.’ Fox said his goodbyes and ended the call, rewarding himself with a little smile. He didn’t know why he’d come up with the Oliver as Vince’s probable destination, but he’d been proved right. He’d never been the type to rely on gut instinct - at every step, he worked from the evidence presented. He liked to think this was one reason the Complaints had maintained their near-perfect record. But maybe instinct had its place.
As he neared the city centre, he lost sight of the Astra. Could be it had turned off. The area around Haymarket was as bad as ever. A sandwich board outside a newsagent’s informed him that the day’s
Evening News
was leading with a dispute between the local council and the German company behind the construction of the tram system. The Germans wanted more money, because of sterling’s weakened exchange rate.
Evening News
was leading with a dispute between the local council and the German company behind the construction of the tram system. The Germans wanted more money, because of sterling’s weakened exchange rate.
‘The best of British luck to you,’ Fox muttered, awaiting his turn through the contraflow. He was wondering if he should have taken another route - cut straight across the south of the city maybe. But then there were delays there too. It really did feel as if the whole city - with the blessing of those empowered to manage and nurture it - was grinding to a halt. For want of anything better to do, he lifted his phone from the passenger seat and punched in the number for Jamie Breck’s mobile. Listening to it ring, he happened to glance in the rearview mirror again. A familiar-looking black Astra was three cars behind him.
‘Hello?’
‘Jamie, it’s Malcolm Fox.’
‘Morning, Malcolm. Thanks again for playing chauffeur last night.’
‘No problem. I was just wondering if there was any news.’
‘Taxi driver remembers Vince Faulkner. Dropped him outside the Oliver.’
‘So you’ll be talking to the staff?’
‘Somebody on the team will. I’m a bit busy elsewhere just at the minute.’
‘I’m interrupting you?’
‘No, but I can’t talk for long. Was there anything else?’
Fox realised there probably wasn’t - all he’d wanted to know was whether Breck would share with him about the taxi, and Breck had passed that test. Besides, traffic had eased and Fox wasn’t far from his destination. The Astra seemed to have taken a turning, but now Fox was wondering about the green Ford Ka - it was a couple of cars back, and how long had it been there?
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