Authors: Ian Rankin
The Complaints (28 page)
‘Let me,’ Fox said, opening his suit jacket so it provided a windbreak. She got the cigarette lit and gave him a nod of thanks. Fox nodded a response and then moved off. Once back at his car, he made a U-turn and headed in the direction of the police station. She was still standing there, looking up and down the street. Fox pulled to a halt next to her and slid down the passenger-side window.
‘It’s Ms Broughton, isn’t it?’
She took a moment to recognise him as her nicotine saviour, then leaned down a little towards the open window.
‘I take it you’ve just been talking to my colleagues?’ he asked her.
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice less husky than he’d imagined it would be.
‘Looking for a taxi?’ She was peering up and down the street again. ‘I’m headed in your direction, if you’re interested.’
‘How do you know?’
Fox offered a shrug. ‘Casino or Inverleith - they’re both on my route.’
She studied him for a moment. ‘Can I smoke in the car?’ she asked.
‘Sure,’ he said with a smile. ‘Hop in.’
They drove in silence for the first couple of sets of traffic lights. As they stopped at the third, she noticed that he had wound his window halfway down.
‘You didn’t mean it about the smoking,’ she said, flicking the remains of her cigarette out of her own window.
‘Where do you want dropped?’ he asked.
‘I’m going home.’
‘By Inverleith Park?’
She nodded. ‘SeeBee House.’
Fox worked it out. ‘Your husband’s initials?’
She nodded again. ‘I suddenly realise something,’ she began, twisting in her seat so she was facing him. ‘I’ve only got your word for it that you’re a police officer. I should ask to see some ID.’
‘I’m an inspector. What did my colleagues want with you?’
‘More questions,’ she answered with a sigh. ‘Why it can’t be done over the phone . . .’
‘It’s because the face says a lot about us - we give things away when we talk. I’m assuming it wasn’t DS Dearborn you saw?’
‘No.’
‘That’s because I had a meeting with him at the same time.’
She nodded, as though accepting that he had proved his credentials. Her phone trilled and she plucked it from her handbag. It was a text message, which she responded to with quick, sure movements of her thumbs.
‘Long nails help,’ Fox commented. ‘My fingers are too pudgy for texting.’
She said nothing until she’d sent the message. Then, just as she was opening her mouth, her phone trilled again. Fox realised that it was mimicking the sound of an old-fashioned bell on a hotel reception desk. Broughton busied herself punching buttons again.
‘Messages from friends?’
‘And creditors,’ she muttered. ‘Charlie seems to have had more of the latter.’
‘You know his shoes have surfaced?’ He saw her give him a hard look. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised, ‘not the best turn of phrase . . .’
‘They told me at the station.’ She was back to her texting again. But then another phone sounded from inside her handbag. She rummaged until she found it. Fox recognised the ringtone - it was the theme from an old western.
‘Sorry about this,’ Broughton said to him as she answered. Then, into the phone: ‘I can’t talk now, Simon. Just tell me everything’s all right.’ She listened for a moment. ‘I should be there by six or seven. If you can’t cope till then, start writing out your resignation.’ She ended the call and dropped the phone back into her bag.
‘Staff problems?’ Fox asked.
‘My own fault for not having a proper deputy.’
‘You don’t like to delegate?’
She looked at him again. ‘Have we met somewhere before?’
‘No.’
‘You look familiar.’ She had slid her sunglasses down her nose and was peering at him. When she’d applied the make-up around her eyes this morning, her hand hadn’t been too steady. Close up, her hair was clearly a dye job, the tan probably fake. There was some crêping of the skin around her neck.
‘I get that a lot,’ Fox decided to reply. Then: ‘I was sorry to hear about your husband - and I’m not just saying that. Guy I know used to work for him . . . only had good things to say.’
‘What’s your friend’s name?’
‘Vince Faulkner. I say he worked for your husband, but really he worked on the site at Salamander Point.’
Joanna Broughton didn’t say anything for a moment. ‘A lot of people liked Charlie,’ she eventually affirmed. ‘He was easy to like.’
‘It’s when you get into trouble, though, that you find out who your
real
friends are.’
real
friends are.’
‘So they say . . .’ She had twisted towards him again. ‘I never caught your name.’
It took Fox a second to decide not to lie. ‘Inspector Malcolm Fox.’
‘Well then, Inspector Malcolm Fox, are you trying to get me to say something?’
‘How do you mean?’ Fox tried for a hurt tone.
‘I didn’t
know
Charlie was going to do it. I certainly didn’t aid and abet. And despite appearances, I’m torn to shreds inside -
all
of which I’ve repeated time and again to you and your kind . . .’ She looked out of the window. ‘Maybe you should drop me off here.’
know
Charlie was going to do it. I certainly didn’t aid and abet. And despite appearances, I’m torn to shreds inside -
all
of which I’ve repeated time and again to you and your kind . . .’ She looked out of the window. ‘Maybe you should drop me off here.’
‘It’s only another five minutes.’
‘I can walk that far.’
‘In those heels?’ Fox exhaled noisily. ‘I’m sorry, and I suppose you’re right. Once you’re a cop, it’s hard to switch off the mechanism. No more questions, okay? But at least let me drive you the rest of the way.’
She pondered this. ‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘Actually, that’s ideal. Your colleagues want to see Charlie’s business diary - you can take it back and save me the trouble.’
‘Sure,’ Fox agreed. ‘Happy to.’
SeeBee House was a five-storey apartment building comprising mainly steel and glass. It sat within a compound of brick walls and metal security gates. Broughton had her own little remote-control box, which she pressed, initiating the mechanism on the gates. There was an underground car park, but she told Fox to stop at the main door. He turned off the ignition and followed her towards the building. The foyer was almost as big as the ground floor of his house. There were two lifts against one wall, but Broughton was marching over to the opposite wall, where a single, narrower lift stood.
‘Penthouse has its own,’ she explained as they got in. Sure enough, when the lift doors opened again, they stepped directly into a small carpeted lobby with just the one door off. Broughton unlocked it and Fox followed her inside. ‘They call it a triplex,’ she informed him, shrugging off her coat and pushing her sunglasses up on to the crown of her head, ‘but that’s a cheat - one floor has nothing but a couple of terraces.’
‘It’s still incredible,’ Fox said. There was glass on three sides, floor to double-height ceiling, and views across the Botanic Gardens towards the Castle. Turning to his left, he could make out Leith and the coastline. To his right he could see as far as Corstorphine Hill.
‘Great for entertaining,’ Joanna Broughton agreed.
‘Place looks brand new.’
‘One of the benefits of having no children.’
‘True enough - and a sort of blessing, too, I suppose.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Not having to explain things to them . . .’ Fox watched her begin to nod her understanding. ‘The worker who died didn’t have any children either.’
‘What worker?’
‘My friend, the one I was telling you about - did your husband not mention him?’
She ignored the question and instead told him to wait while she fetched the diary. Fox watched her as she started climbing the glass staircase to the next floor, then turned his attention to the room he was standing in. It was much as he remembered it from the newspaper photo. An L-shaped open-plan with pale stone flooring and modern furniture. The kitchen area was just around the corner. When he looked up, he could see a landing, probably with bedrooms and office off. The living area’s back wall - the only wall made of something more substantial than glass - seemed to have been stripped of its art. There were still a few hooks, plus holes where hooks had been removed. Fox remembered the newspaper article. It had described Brogan as ‘a collector’. He took a step back and watched as Joanna Broughton descended the stairs, taking her time, holding on to the handrail. She was keeping her high heels on, even at home. They added over an inch to her height, and he wondered if that was the reason.
‘Here you go,’ she said, handing over the large, leather-bound diary.
‘Any idea why they want it?’ Fox asked.
‘You’re the detective,’ she said, ‘you tell me.’
He could only shrug. ‘Just being thorough,’ he guessed. ‘See if there was any unusual activity prior to your husband’s . ..’ He swallowed back the end of the sentence.
‘You’re wondering at his state of mind? I don’t mind saying it again - he was absolutely fine when he left here. I hadn’t the slightest inkling.’
‘Look, I said I wasn’t going to ask anything . . .’
‘But?’
‘But I’m wondering if it hurt you, him not leaving a note.’
She considered this for a moment. ‘I’d like to know why, of course I would. Money worries, yes, but all the same . . . we could have worked it out. If he’d asked, I’m sure we could have put our heads together.’
‘Maybe he was too proud to ask for help?’
She nodded slowly, arms hanging loosely by her sides.
‘Did he sell all his paintings?’ Fox asked into the silence. She nodded again, then started as the intercom sounded. She walked over to it.
‘Yes?’ she demanded.
‘Joanna, it’s Gordon. I’ve got Jack with me.’
Her face relaxed a little. ‘Come on up,’ she said. Then, turning to Fox: ‘Thanks again for the lift - I’d probably still be waiting there.’
‘My pleasure.’
She held out her hand and he shook it. The diary was too big for any of his pockets, so he carried it with him into the lobby. When the lift doors opened, Gordon Lovatt emerged, momentarily surprised to find someone facing him. Lovatt was dressed to the nines in what looked like a bespoke three-piece pinstripe suit. A gold watch chain dangled from the pockets of the waistcoat. His silk tie boasted an extravagant knot and his hair looked freshly barbered. He nodded a greeting but then decided more was needed.
‘Gordon Lovatt,’ he said, holding out his hand.
The two men shook. ‘I know who you are,’ Fox told him, not bothering to reciprocate with an introduction. The man next to Lovatt was much older, but dressed in what looked like an even more expensive suit. He too held out his hand.
‘Jack Broughton,’ he announced.
Fox just nodded and squeezed past both men, turning to face them once he was inside the lift. He pressed the button for the ground floor, and waited for the doors to close. Jack Broughton seemed already to have dismissed him, and was entering the penthouse, greeting his only surviving child with a kiss. Lovatt, on the other hand, had stayed in the lobby to stare at Fox, the same enquiring look on his face.
‘Going down,’ the lift’s automated female voice said. The doors slid shut and Fox let go of the breath he’d been holding.
There was no sign of the PR man’s car outside, so he’d either left it in the car park or come by taxi. If the car park, then he had to have some way of accessing the compound. But then the same was true if he’d been dropped off from a cab - he still had to get past the gates. So then maybe Joanna had gifted her father one of the small black remote-control boxes . . .
Fox got into his own car and placed Charlie Brogan’s diary on the passenger seat. Then he stared at it, wondering what the Grampian Complaints would make of his recent activities. He’d been very careful all morning - watching for cars tailing him, for people loitering or following him. It had been easy for them to keep tabs on him the previous week - he’d not been alerted to the probability. But now he knew he’d been under surveillance, that made things a great deal harder for any team trying to track him. Then again, if he was going to keep pulling stunts like this one . . . It took him a further three or four minutes to decide, but at last he picked up the diary and flipped it open.
He started with the Monday of the previous week, but found nothing immediately of interest. It wasn’t that Brogan used a code, but like most people he used initials and abbreviations. The J in ‘8 p.m. - J - Kitchin’ Fox assumed was Joanna Broughton. The Kitchin was a fancy restaurant in Leith, run by a chef with the surname Kitchin. There were notes of meetings, but it hadn’t exactly been an action-packed week. Flipping back to January, Fox found that Brogan had been far busier. By February, he’d been reduced to noting TV shows he was planning to watch.
After quarter of an hour, Fox closed the book and turned the ignition. On his way back to Leith Police Station he made two stops. One was at a stationer’s, where he bought a padded envelope big enough to take the diary. The other was at a phone shop, where he bought a pay-as-you-go mobile, using his credit card. If he was still under surveillance, this new phone wouldn’t keep him off the radar for long . . . but maybe long enough.
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