Authors: Ian Rankin
The Complaints (22 page)
‘Have any scams actually worked?’
‘One or two,’ Simon admitted, using the mouse to navigate the screen. Eventually he was happy, and swapped places with Fox. He started asking if there was any news about ‘Mr Brogan’.
‘Did you know him?’ Fox asked back.
‘He came by pretty regularly. Didn’t gamble much, but liked to see Joanna.’
Simon looked as if he might hang about, so Fox told him he could get back to work. The young man hesitated, but then seemed to remember the blonde croupier. He nodded and left. Fox leaned in towards the screen and hit ‘play’. There was a time code at top right, showing him that it was nine o’clock Saturday evening. He fast-forwarded to ten. At times, the camera would zoom in to pick out one particular player, or even that player’s hand movements as they studied their cards. The place was busy, but, the tape being silent, there was a surreal quality to the footage, and the colour had a washed-out look. The cameras seemed to be focusing on the tables. Little attention was being paid to the doormen or the lobby or either of the bars. Fox couldn’t see Vince Faulkner anywhere. Simon had told Breck he’d been drunk, seated on a stool by the corner of the downstairs bar, but Fox was damned if he could find him. When a tapping came at the door, he let out a hiss of air.
‘Look,’ he called out, ‘I’m not halfway finished here!’
The door opened slowly. ‘Oh, but you are,’ a voice crooned. DCI Billy Giles was standing there, filling the whole doorway.
‘Gotcha,’ he said.
Torphichen police station.
Not the same room as before - one of the
proper
interview rooms. And set up for a
proper
interview, too - video camera pointing down at the table from the ceiling. Once it was operational, a red light would blink to indicate that recording was in progress. A tape deck plugged into the wall socket - two tapes, one for each party. One microphone on its stand in the centre of the table. The walls whitewashed, decorated with nothing but a reminder that smoking was punishable by a fine - as if any of the room’s usual inmates would worry about that. A foetid smell; the place had only recently been vacated.
proper
interview rooms. And set up for a
proper
interview, too - video camera pointing down at the table from the ceiling. Once it was operational, a red light would blink to indicate that recording was in progress. A tape deck plugged into the wall socket - two tapes, one for each party. One microphone on its stand in the centre of the table. The walls whitewashed, decorated with nothing but a reminder that smoking was punishable by a fine - as if any of the room’s usual inmates would worry about that. A foetid smell; the place had only recently been vacated.
They’d left Malcolm Fox there to stew in his own juices. No offer of tea or even water. Giles had asked him for his mobile; Fox had told him to get stuffed.
‘How do I know you won’t go calling chat lines on my tab?’ was his reasoning.
There was a uniform in the room with him, standing to one side of the door. Doubtless this man would have been chosen for his gift of recall - every station had one. So Fox pretended to be texting instead of making calls. Thing was . . . who was he supposed to tell? Who could help him clamber out of the midden he’d nosedived into? So he just pushed buttons at random, hoping he was getting on the uniform’s nerves. It was a further ten minutes before the door opened. Giles was followed into the room by two other detectives. One of them was a woman in her thirties; Fox seemed to remember seeing her around the place when he’d been working on Heaton, but couldn’t recall if he was supposed to know her name.
The male detective was Jamie Breck.
It was the woman’s job to make sure the tapes were spooling, the recorder picking up their voices. She also checked that the camera’s little red light was flashing, then gave Giles the nod. He had seated himself opposite Fox. He placed a folder and a large envelope on the table between them. Fox resisted looking interested in either.
‘DS Breck,’ Giles said with a nod of the head. The nod was directed towards the empty chair next to Fox. Breck seated himself slowly, avoiding eye contact, and Fox realised that the pair of them were in the selfsame mess. They sat side by side, with Giles across the desk from them like a headmaster with a pair of truants, and the woman officer replacing the uniform by the door.
‘Where do I start?’ Giles muttered, almost to himself. He was running his fingers over the folder and the envelope. Then he looked up, as though he’d just had an idea. ‘How about the pictures? Camera never lies and all that...’ He tipped the contents of the envelope on to the table. There were dozens of photos. They’d come from a desktop printer, and weren’t of the best quality.
But good enough, all the same.
‘You’ll see the time and date on each one,’ Giles was saying, turning them around so Fox and Breck could view them more clearly. ‘That one’s you, DS Breck. You’re visiting Inspector Fox at his home. The two of you then took a little trip to a casino.’ Giles paused for effect. ‘Happens to be the same one Vince Faulkner visited the night he disappeared.’ He held up the appropriate photo. It was grainy, shot with a telephoto lens from some distance. Fox and Breck were depicted having their little word with the two doormen, prior to entering the Oliver. ‘What else have we got here?’ Giles made show of sifting through the photos again. ‘The pair of you at Salamander Point. DS Breck was there to gather information on our murder victim.’ Another pause. ‘Not sure why
you
were there, Inspector Fox. Hardly part of your remit as a member of Complaints and Conduct.’ Giles gave a little sniff. The man was loving every second, playing up to the camera and the microphone both. Fox thought back to the car - the
two
cars. He had his answer now. Even if you’re paranoid, he said to himself, it doesn’t mean they’re not after you.
you
were there, Inspector Fox. Hardly part of your remit as a member of Complaints and Conduct.’ Giles gave a little sniff. The man was loving every second, playing up to the camera and the microphone both. Fox thought back to the car - the
two
cars. He had his answer now. Even if you’re paranoid, he said to himself, it doesn’t mean they’re not after you.
‘Trying to influence the investigation, Inspector Fox?’ Giles was asking. ‘Barging in on the locus at your sister’s house?’
‘Her house isn’t a crime scene,’ Fox snapped back.
‘Until I say otherwise, that’s exactly what it is.’ The huge man’s voice was so calm, he could have been inhaling Prozac rather than oxygen.
‘That’s because you’re an arrogant prick.’ Fox decided a pause of his own was in order. ‘For the record,’ he concluded.
Giles took a few moments to shepherd his emotions back into the pen. ‘What were you doing when you were apprehended, Inspector?’
‘I was being a cop.’
‘You were in the office of the Oliver casino, viewing that venue’s CCTV footage for the night Vince Faulkner went missing.’
Fox could sense Jamie Breck’s disquiet at this news.
‘On whose authority did you go there?
‘Nobody’s.’
‘Did DS Breck tell you it would be all right? The pair of you had already been to that establishment not once, but twice.’ Giles sifted out another photo - Breck and Fox in daylight, standing beside Breck’s car just seconds before Joanna Broughton turned up.
‘This has nothing to do with DS Breck,’ Fox argued. ‘I went to Salamander Point on my own. It was coincidence he was there at the same time.’
Giles had turned his attention to Breck. ‘But you let the Inspector sit in on your interview with Mr Ronald Hendry?’
‘Yes,’ Breck admitted.
‘I outrank him,’ Fox began to explain. ‘I
ordered
him . . .’
ordered
him . . .’
‘Whether you did or you didn’t, here’s the thing . . .’ Giles opened the folder and produced a typed sheet. ‘DS Breck left that particular detail out of his account of the interview.’ Giles let the piece of paper fall on to the table. ‘And the night he came to your home - had you
ordered
him to put in an appearance?’ Giles allowed the silence to run its course. ‘Seems to me the two of you have become a bit too pally.’ He glared at Breck, while his finger stabbed in Fox’s direction. ‘He’s a suspect!
You
knew that! Since when do we get cosy with suspects?’
ordered
him to put in an appearance?’ Giles allowed the silence to run its course. ‘Seems to me the two of you have become a bit too pally.’ He glared at Breck, while his finger stabbed in Fox’s direction. ‘He’s a suspect!
You
knew that! Since when do we get cosy with suspects?’
‘Glen Heaton did it often enough,’ Fox commented in an undertone.
Giles’s eyes were full of fire, his voice just about under control.
‘Listen to the hypocrisy of the man,’ he growled. Then he leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders and neck. ‘None of this looks good. Time was, maybe the force would have dealt with it in its own way . . .’ He pretended a rueful sigh. ‘But with all the checks and balances these days, the need to be whiter than white . . .’ He was staring straight at Fox. ‘Well . . . you of all people, Inspector, you know how it is.’ And he offered a shrug. Almost on cue, there was a knock at the door. The woman officer opened it, and two men entered. One was Chief Inspector Bob McEwan. The other was in uniform, carrying his peaked hat tucked beneath one arm.
‘A bloody disgrace!’ were the man’s opening words. Giles had risen to his feet, as had Breck and Fox. It was what you did when the Deputy Chief Constable announced his presence. And he
did
have presence. He’d stuck it out at Lothian and Borders while rejecting the advances of other forces; stuck it out while several Chief Constables had been promoted over him or drafted in from outside. His name was Adam Traynor and he was ruddy-cheeked, steely-eyed, tall and barrel-chested. ‘A copper’s copper’ was the consensus; admired by the lower ranks as well as the higher-ups. Fox had met the man several times. Minor cases of misconduct could be dealt with by the DCC. Only the more serious cases had to go to the Procurator Fiscal.
did
have presence. He’d stuck it out at Lothian and Borders while rejecting the advances of other forces; stuck it out while several Chief Constables had been promoted over him or drafted in from outside. His name was Adam Traynor and he was ruddy-cheeked, steely-eyed, tall and barrel-chested. ‘A copper’s copper’ was the consensus; admired by the lower ranks as well as the higher-ups. Fox had met the man several times. Minor cases of misconduct could be dealt with by the DCC. Only the more serious cases had to go to the Procurator Fiscal.
‘Disgrace,’ Traynor was repeating to himself, while McEwan had eyes only for his errant employee. Fox remembered their conversation of that morning.
Have things been quiet in my absence?
McEwan had asked.
As the grave,
Fox had answered. Now Traynor’s attention turned to McEwan and Giles. ‘Your men,’ he was telling them, ‘will have to be suspended pending the outcome of the inquiry.’
Have things been quiet in my absence?
McEwan had asked.
As the grave,
Fox had answered. Now Traynor’s attention turned to McEwan and Giles. ‘Your men,’ he was telling them, ‘will have to be suspended pending the outcome of the inquiry.’
‘Yes, sir,’ McEwan muttered.
‘Sir,’ Giles agreed.
‘Don’t fret,’ Traynor went on, half turning his head in the direction of Fox and Breck. ‘You’ll be on full pay.’
Giles’s eyes were on Fox too, and Fox knew what his nemesis was thinking:
Just like Glen Heaton . . .
Just like Glen Heaton . . .
‘Excuse me,’ the woman officer interrupted. ‘We’re still taping . . .’
‘Then switch it off!’ Traynor roared. She did so, having first informed the microphone that the interview was ending at two fifty-seven p.m.
‘Internal inquiry, sir?’ Bob McEwan was asking.
‘Bit late for that, Bob - Grampian have had your man under surveillance these past four days.’ Traynor was sifting through the photographs on the table. ‘
They’ll
be the ones sorting it all out, same as we’d do for them if the tables were turned.’
They’ll
be the ones sorting it all out, same as we’d do for them if the tables were turned.’
McEwan was frowning. ‘My officer has been under surveillance? ’
The Deputy Chief Constable silenced him with a glare. ‘Your man’s been misbehaving, Chief Inspector.’
‘And no one saw fit to inform me,’ McEwan stated.
‘A topic for later discussion.’ Traynor was glaring at McEwan, but McEwan’s attention was concentrated on Malcolm Fox, and there was an unspoken question there:
what the hell is going on here?
what the hell is going on here?
‘Right,’ Traynor said, straightening up and running a thumb along the brim of his cap. ‘Is that all clear enough for you?’
‘I’ve got paperwork I could do with finishing,’ Breck said.
‘Not a chance,’ Traynor barked back at him. ‘Don’t want you trying to cook the books.’
The blood rose up Jamie Breck’s neck. ‘With all due respect, sir . . .’
But the Deputy Chief Constable was already in the process of leaving.
‘We’ll need your warrant cards and any pass keys,’ Billy Giles was stating, hand held out in preparation. ‘You walk out of here and you don’t go near either of your offices, even to pick up a jacket or bag. You go home and you stay home. Grampian Police will doubtless be in touch - you’ll know the protocol off by heart, Inspector Fox . . .’
McEwan had followed Traynor out of the room as if keen to collar the man, and without so much as a backward glance. But Fox trusted his boss. He’d be arguing Fox’s case, fighting his corner.
‘Warrant cards,’ Giles repeated, fingers twitching. ‘After which you’ll be escorted from the premises.’
‘The Federation has lawyers,’ the woman officer piped up. Giles gave her a hard stare.
‘Thanks, Annabel,’ Jamie Breck said, throwing his warrant card down well short of Billy Giles’s hand.
12
There was a pool hall on the corner, and that was their first stop, if only because they needed a place to sit and take it all in. Breck seemed to be known to the proprietor. A table by the window was wiped down for their use, and coffees arrived ‘on the house’.
‘No, we’ll pay for them,’ Breck insisted, producing a handful of coins from his pocket. ‘One man’s gift is another man’s bung.’ His eyes met Fox’s and the two men managed wary smiles.
‘Not exactly the most pressing of our worries,’ Fox offered. ‘Annabel was right, though - there are lawyers we could be consulting.’
Breck shrugged. ‘At least you were right when you said you were being tailed. Might explain that van outside my house . . .’
‘Yes,’ Fox commented, feeling suddenly awkward.
‘So what happens now? I’d say you’re the resident expert here.’
Fox didn’t answer immediately. He listened to the sounds around him - pool balls clacking against each other; mild cursing from the players; the low rumble of traffic outside.
Now we’re in the same boat
, he thought.
Now we’re in the same boat
, he thought.
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