Authors: Ian Rankin
The Complaints (21 page)
‘They’ve strayed into my orbit on occasion . . .’ Breck’s voice drifted off. Fox could hear a siren. He lowered the phone from his ear to confirm that it was coming from the earpiece. ‘You’re out somewhere, ’ he stated.
‘I’m headed to Torphichen.’
‘Why?’
‘No real reason.’
‘Is it because of Joanna Broughton? Did she ever get back to you about the CCTV?’ Fox moved aside as two of the drinkers emerged from the bar to smoke a cigarette. They coughed a few times and continued the conversation they’d been having.
‘Which pub?’ Breck asked. ‘Minter’s?’
‘I was asking about Joanna Broughton. How come I just saw her on TV?’
‘She’s married to Charlie Brogan. Didn’t change her name, but they’ve been together three or four years.’
‘Has his body washed ashore yet?’
‘It’s dark out, if you hadn’t noticed. Coastguard have called off the search until daybreak.’
‘But you’re still going into the station.’ It was a statement rather than a question.
‘Yes,’ Jamie Breck answered.
‘Will you let me know if you find out anything?’
‘If it’s pertinent to the case. I don’t doubt I’ll be talking to you sometime tomorrow . . . whether I like it or not. Meantime, Inspector, take the rest of the evening off.’
‘Thanks, I’ll do that.’
‘Or at least try,’ Breck said, ending the call.
Fox headed back indoors, rubbing some heat back into himself.
‘Good news is,’ he told Naysmith, ‘you’d have been wasting your time anyway.’
‘Breck’s not at home?’ Kaye guessed.
‘The office,’ Fox confirmed.
‘Is that why Gilchrist cried off?’ Naysmith asked. ‘Could he have known?’
‘Doubtful,’ Fox answered after a moment’s thought.
Friday 13 February 2009
11
Next morning, he was in the office early, but no one was at home in Room 2.24. Fox went downstairs to the canteen and found Annie Inglis there, slumped over a black coffee with a half-eaten scrambled-egg roll pushed to one side.
‘You look rough,’ he offered as he pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her.
‘Duncan,’ was all she said.
‘What’s he done?’
She rubbed her hands down her face. ‘Nothing really. He’s just at that age . . .’
‘Rebelling against Mum?’
She offered a tired smile. ‘He stays out late - later than I like. He always comes home eventually . . .’
‘But you wait up for him?’
She nodded. ‘And if it’s a school night, next morning’s like trying to raise the dead.’
‘Is he running with the wrong crowd?’
She managed another smile, this time at his wording. ‘When you’re a mother,
everyone’s
the wrong crowd.’
everyone’s
the wrong crowd.’
‘Right.’
‘I think they drink a little . . . take drugs a little.’
‘Not skunk?’
She shook her head. ‘Duncan just seems a bit . . .’ She sought the right description. ‘Tipsy,’ she eventually decided, ‘on occasion. Plus, the school say he’s falling behind, not handing in home-work. ’
‘He’s got O Grades next year?’
‘Standard Grades, they call them these days.’ She tried shaking some life back into herself and picked up the coffee. ‘Third one of these I’ve had.’
‘Want a fourth?’
But, having drained the cup, she shook her head.
‘Does he see his dad?’ Fox asked, but she wasn’t about to answer.
‘Was there something you wanted, Inspector?’ she asked instead.
‘Yes, but it can wait.’
‘Tell me. Might help get this brain of mine started.’
‘You know the surveillance got pulled last night?’
She looked at him. ‘No,’ she said.
‘It’s just that . . . you were so keen for it to go ahead. I was wondering what had changed.’
‘I’ve not seen Gilchrist this morning.’
‘They were getting the van ready. Gilchrist took a call, and told my guy it wasn’t happening.’
‘I’ll ask him when I see him. Maybe something else came up.’
‘Maybe,’ Fox conceded.
‘I’ll ask him,’ Annie Inglis repeated.
‘Okay.’ Fox got back to his feet. ‘Sure about that coffee? We actually make better stuff upstairs - four-star leaded.’
‘We can smell it every time we walk past.’
‘Feel free to drop in.’
She thanked him. ‘Malcolm ... what I was saying about Duncan . . .’
‘My lips are sealed,’ Fox assured her, turning to leave.
In the Complaints office, McEwan was back.
‘Did you bring us a souvenir?’ Fox asked him.
McEwan snorted, then asked if things had been quiet in his absence.
‘As the grave,’ Fox stated, moving towards the coffee machine. But there was hardly any coffee left in the tin. He considered heading downstairs again to the canteen, but decided against it. There were tea bags, and he could boil some water. No milk, though. He checked his watch. Naysmith could have no excuses this morning - no surveillance to explain away a late start. He’d be here inside the quarter-hour.
‘RBS headquarters has its own Starbucks,’ McEwan commented, as though reading his mind.
‘We’re not the RBS,’ Fox replied.
‘Thank Christ for small mercies.’
‘How was the conference?’
‘Boring.’
‘Are riots likely this summer?’
‘Couple of the pundits seem to think so. Rising unemployment . . . unrest . . . people fearful of the future . . . tension needing to be broken somehow . . . And plenty of extremists ready to make it happen. ’
‘An Edinburgh riot would be something to see.’ Fox was back at his desk.
‘Plenty of them in times past, Malcolm - the mob was a thing to be feared.’
Fox was shaking his head. ‘Not these days. Even when they’re protesting outside the RBS boss’s house, they use placards for the graffiti so as not to damage anything -
that’s
your Edinburgh mob, Bob.’
that’s
your Edinburgh mob, Bob.’
‘I hope to God you’re right.’ McEwan sneezed three times, then picked up his phone. ‘On top of everything, I’ve caught that cold of yours.’
‘Happy to share, sir,’ Malcolm Fox told him. ‘Mine’s actually a little better.’ He watched as Joe Naysmith walked into the room. Naysmith held up the plastic bag he was carrying - coffee and milk. Fox offered him the thumbs-up and received a gesture in return - Naysmith’s palm held out as if for money. It was Friday - accounts day as far as the coffee was concerned. Fox ignored Naysmith and got down to the first of the day’s chores. Copies of testimony in the Heaton case were beginning to arrive from the lawyers in the Fiscal’s office, queries and comments attached to most of the pages. Fox would pass some off to Naysmith and some to Kaye, keeping the juiciest ones for himself. Half an hour later, Kaye sauntered in, rolling his eyes as he saw McEwan was back.
‘What time do you call this?’ McEwan complained.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Kaye replied, reaching for the coffee Naysmith had poured him. Then he drew a newspaper from his coat pocket and tossed it on to Fox’s desk. ‘Page three,’ he said. ‘No topless shots, though . . .’
It was the morning’s
Scotsman
. The story took up the whole page. There were photos of Brogan, his boat, Joanna Broughton and her father Jack. None of the pictures looked particularly recent, except for one of Gordon Lovatt at the press conference. The story itself was long on background and short on substance. Brogan’s company owned swathes of commercial land and property in the city. Debt had become an issue. Brogan was a ‘keen weekend sailor’ who kept his million-pound yacht moored at South Queensferry. His wife was owner of the successful Oliver casino and his father-in-law a wealthy and retired ‘local businessman, known for his cavalier approach’. Fox had a little smile to himself at that. When he looked up, Kaye was watching him.
Scotsman
. The story took up the whole page. There were photos of Brogan, his boat, Joanna Broughton and her father Jack. None of the pictures looked particularly recent, except for one of Gordon Lovatt at the press conference. The story itself was long on background and short on substance. Brogan’s company owned swathes of commercial land and property in the city. Debt had become an issue. Brogan was a ‘keen weekend sailor’ who kept his million-pound yacht moored at South Queensferry. His wife was owner of the successful Oliver casino and his father-in-law a wealthy and retired ‘local businessman, known for his cavalier approach’. Fox had a little smile to himself at that. When he looked up, Kaye was watching him.
‘Doesn’t add much,’ Fox commented.
‘Maybe because there’s not much to add. Did you check the TV this morning?’
Fox nodded. ‘Body’s still out there somewhere.’
‘Empty bottle of posh wine left on the deck, plus a smattering of sleeping tablets as prescribed to the wife.’ Kaye paused, angling his head towards the newspaper. ‘She’s a looker, though - wonder what first attracted her to the pot-bellied, balding tycoon.’
‘Says here they live in the penthouse of one of his developments. ’
‘Top three storeys of a new-build by Inverleith Park,’ Kaye confirmed. ‘It was in the papers at the time - priciest flat in Scotland.’
‘But that was before the slump.’
‘I doubt she needs to sell - Daddy’s on hand to bail her out.’
‘Begs the question why he hasn’t done the same for his son-in-law. ’
‘You two,’ Naysmith broke in, ‘are like a couple of checkout girls with the latest copy of
Heat
.’
Heat
.’
The phone on Fox’s desk rang and he picked it up.
‘Hallway in two,’ Annie Inglis said, before the line went dead. Fox put the phone back down and patted the stacks of paperwork in front of him.
‘Which is mine?’ Kaye asked. Fox tapped the relevant pile.
‘And mine?’ Naysmith added. Another tap.
‘Meaning yours is the smallest, Malcolm,’ Kaye said with his usual frown.
‘As per,’ Naysmith agreed.
‘Tough,’ Malcolm Fox told them, getting to his feet.
Outside in the corridor, Annie Inglis was already waiting. She was leaning with her back to the wall, one foot crossed over the other, hands behind her.
‘It’s been pulled,’ she said.
‘That much I knew.’
‘We won’t be pursuing a case against DS Breck.’ Her face was as stony as her voice.
‘Why?’
‘Orders.’
‘Says who?’
‘Malcolm . . .’ Her eyes fixed on his. ‘All you need to know is, we no longer require the assistance of Complaints and Conduct.’
‘Is that how you were told to phrase it?’
‘Malcolm . . .’
He took a step towards her, but she was already on her way back to her office. As his eyes followed her, he saw her head go down. She knew he was watching, knew he’d take it as a sign.
A woman who’d just done something she wasn’t happy about, and wanted him to know.
At lunchtime, he told the office he was going out. He took a detour into the canteen, hoping Inglis might be there, but she wasn’t. As he drove out of the compound he offered up a prayer that his parking space would still be vacant on his return, while knowing from experience that there was maybe a cat-in-hell’s chance. As had become his custom, he kept a regular watch on any traffic behind him, but there were no black Astras or green Kas. Within ten minutes he was parking outside the Oliver. Simon was again behind the bar, chatting up one of the female croupiers while another eked out a shift at the blackjack table for the two hunched punters who were providing the casino’s only custom.
‘I already told you you’d need to talk to the boss,’ Simon said, recognising Fox.
‘Actually, it was my colleague you told that to, and we did consult with Ms Broughton.’ Fox paused. ‘Thought you might have been closed today as a mark of respect.’
‘Nuclear war, that’s about all we close for.’
‘Lucky for me.’ Fox pressed his palms against the bar counter. Simon stared at him.
‘She said you could watch the tapes?’ he guessed.
‘Of Saturday night,’ Fox confirmed. Then: ‘Go call her; she’ll tell you.’ But they both knew Simon wasn’t about to pick up the phone to Joanna Broughton. For one thing, she had other things on her mind. For another, Simon didn’t have the clout - not that he would want the slim blonde croupier across the bar from him to suspect as much, which was why he told Fox it was fine, and that he could use the office. Fox nodded his thanks, inwardly congratulating himself on having read the young man correctly, and explained that he would be out of their way in no time at all.
The office was cramped. Simon sat at the desk while he set up the playback. The recording could be viewed directly on the screen belonging to the desktop computer.
‘Hard-drive recorders,’ Simon explained.
Fox nodded as he studied the room: a couple of chairs, three filing cabinets, and a bank of CCTV screens, alternating between a dozen different cameras.
‘Do you depend on this to catch the cheats?’ Fox asked.
‘We have staff watching the floor. Sometimes we’ll put someone on a table, pretending to be just another punter. Everyone’s trained to be on the lookout.’
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