Authors: Ian Rankin
The Complaints (41 page)
‘But you’re not one of them,’ he told himself.
And then he saw something - movement at the door of Heaton’s bungalow. The door itself was opening, a man standing silhouetted against the lit hallway. He was wearing pyjamas and - yes - tying the belt of his white towelling robe. Glen Heaton was peering into the darkness, his focus directed at Fox’s Volvo. Fox cursed beneath his breath and turned the ignition. The parking space wasn’t huge and it took a bit of manoeuvring not to hit the vehicles in front and behind as he eased his own car out. Not that it mattered - Heaton seemed content to stand there, hands in pockets. Fox stared straight ahead as he drove off, headlights on full beam in an attempt to dazzle the man in the robe. Right, then right again, and he was on his way back towards Edinburgh, the image staying with him throughout.
Glen Heaton standing there, as if delivered to him.
And he, Malcolm Fox, had bottled it.
Thursday 19 February 2009
22
Thursday morning, Fox woke up to a text from Caroline Stoddart.
Feeling better?
As a matter of fact, he was. The swelling was starting to go down, and his palms only stung a little when he rubbed them together. His chin was okay, so long as he didn’t touch it. He reckoned he might postpone shaving that particular spot for another day or two. As for his back, it hurt when he twisted or leaned too far in one direction, but it was manageable, so he texted her back:
Yes.
Her next and final text told him to be at Fettes at ten. Fox sent a message of his own to Jamie Breck, letting him know he’d be tied up until lunchtime. Breck called back immediately.
‘Is it Stoddart?’
‘The one and only.’
‘Do you know what you’re going to say?’
‘I’m going to reiterate that I had nothing to do with Vince’s death and that none of this is your fault.’
‘It’s a plan, I suppose. What about afterwards?’
‘Thought I might go speak to Ernie Wishaw.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s a councillor, isn’t he? Maybe I’ve got a problem I want him to help me with.’ Fox paused. ‘No point you being there, Jamie.’
Breck gave a snort. ‘Try and stop me.’
‘Haven’t you got a game of Quidnunc to be playing?’
‘I’m the one who
knows
about Wishaw - or had you forgotten?’
knows
about Wishaw - or had you forgotten?’
‘But you’ve never met him?’
‘No.’
‘It’s risky, Jamie - if word gets back to Stoddart or Giles...’
‘If you’re going, I’m going,’ Breck stated. ‘End of story.’
But first there was the little matter of Fettes and the Grampian Complaints. The three officers - Stoddart, Wilson and Mason - assumed positions as before. When Stoddart saw the state of Fox’s face, she stopped what she was doing.
‘What happened to you?’
‘I fell down the stairs.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Isn’t that usually your sister’s excuse?’
‘At least it means I wasn’t shitting you yesterday.’ Fox accepted the clip-on microphone from Mason and fixed it to his shirt before sitting down.
‘I suppose not,’ Stoddart was saying in reply to Fox’s remark. ‘But I was just about to congratulate you ...’
‘On what?’
‘Not getting into any more trouble in the interim.’ She paused. ‘Now I’m not so sure.’
Fox leaned forward a little in his chair, though the effort cost him a twang of pain. ‘You calling me a liar, Inspector Stoddart?’ he asked accusingly.
‘No,’ she answered, sifting through her paperwork. Fox ran his fingers down the laminated visitor’s pass that hung around his neck.
‘Any news from the Faulkner inquiry?’ he asked innocently.
‘I wouldn’t know.’ She glanced up from her work. ‘Why
did
you attack DS Dickson?’
did
you attack DS Dickson?’
‘I was emotionally fragile.’
‘Would you mind repeating that?’
‘My sister had just lost her partner,’ he was happy to explain. ‘That had an effect on me, which I hadn’t reckoned with. It was only afterwards that I realised the force had made a mistake.’
‘The force?’
‘In not cancelling my duties and making me take a few days’ compassionate leave.’
Stoddart sat back in her chair. ‘You’re shifting the blame?’
Fox shrugged. ‘I’m just saying. But how come you were watching me, Inspector? Who was it ordered the surveillance, and what story did they use?’
Stoddart gave a cold smile. ‘That’s confidential information.’
‘I’m glad to hear it - too many leaks around here for my liking ...’ He sat back, mimicking her posture.
‘Shall we get started?’ she asked.
‘Ready when you are,’ Fox told her.
An hour and a half later, he was handing his pass back to Frank on the front desk, grateful not to have bumped into anyone he knew - it would only have meant lying about his bumps and bruises. On the other hand, Tony Kaye, Annie Inglis and the others would probably find out anyway. Fettes was like that. On his way to his car, Fox took a call on his old mobile. It was Jude, just wanting a chat.
‘How you doing, sis?’ he asked her.
‘I’m okay.’
‘Are your pals still rallying round?’
‘Everybody’s been great.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘How about Dad - have you seen him?’
‘I’m probably in
his
bad books as well...’
his
bad books as well...’
‘I didn’t say you were in my bad books,’ she chided him.
‘I’ll try to visit at the weekend. Maybe we could take Dad out somewhere.’ Fox was behind the steering wheel by now. ‘Any news of them releasing the body?’
‘Nobody’s told me anything - could you maybe put in a word?’
‘I don’t see why not - everybody on the team loves me to bits.’
‘Are you being sarcastic, Malcolm?’
‘Maybe just a little.’ He started the ignition. ‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘I think I sound better than you do, actually.’
‘You’re probably right. I’ll ring you tomorrow if I can.’
He ended the call and put the car into first. He was just easing his foot off the clutch when his new phone rang. He exhaled loudly and answered.
‘Where are you?’ The voice sounded breathless.
‘Tony, is that you?’
‘Where the hell are you?’ Tony Kaye growled.
‘I’m on Lothian Road.’ The car was exiting its parking bay.
‘You’re rubbish at this game, Foxy. I’ve been lying to my wife since the morning after the honeymoon...’
‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’ Fox almost dropped the phone when a body flung itself against the front of the Volvo. He slammed on the brakes. ‘Stupid bastard!’
Tony Kaye had righted himself and stood with his hands cupped to his chest, trying to get his breathing back under control. His mobile was clutched in his right hand, his tongue lolling from his mouth. Fox left the car running and got out.
‘Can’t remember when I last ran that far,’ his friend was spluttering. ‘Egg-and-spoon race probably... last year of primary school.’ Kaye tried to spit, but the long thread of saliva just hung there until he wiped it away with a handkerchief. He took a few more gulps of air. ‘I cheated, mind - used chewing gum to fix the egg to the spoon ...’
‘You couldn’t have heard already,’ Fox was saying.
‘Wildfire,’ Kaye was able to gasp. ‘So who did it and why didn’t you tell me?’
‘First explain to me how you know.’
‘Bumped into Stoddart’s boys in the toilet.’ Kaye paused, and Fox knew what he wanted.
‘I was jumped,’ Fox duly obliged.
‘When was this?’
‘Night before last.’
‘Thanks for the heads-up.’ Kaye sounded genuinely slighted. ‘Where did all this happen?’
‘Outside a sauna on the Cowgate. The inquiry got word that a cab dropped Vince Faulkner nearby. I was retracing his steps.’
Kaye was studying Fox’s injuries. ‘Whoever it was let you off lightly.’
Fox gave a twitch of the head in acknowledgement. ‘Anyway ... I’m touched by your show of concern.’
‘I was hoping for something a bit more gruesome.’ Kaye tried to sound peeved. ‘You know ... something I could post on YouTube...’
‘You’re all heart, Sergeant Kaye. Anything happening I should know about?’
Kaye gave a shrug. ‘McEwan seemed to think there might be a job for us in the north-east ...’
‘He mentioned it to me a couple of weeks back. It’s been given to Strathclyde, right?’
Kaye stared at him. ‘How do you know that?’
‘McEwan told me. Shame, too - I’d have liked some ammo to tease Stoddart and her boys with...’ Fox broke off. Kaye could see he was thinking of something.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ Fox assured him.
‘Don’t give me that...’
‘Why are you miffed about Strathclyde getting it?’
‘Because they’re rubbish, Foxy! Everybody knows that. Last time I looked, our success rate was twice what theirs is.’
Fox nodded slowly. ‘That’s true,’ he said.
The two men stood in silence for a moment. Kaye leaned his backside against the front wheel arch of the Volvo. ‘Was it just a coincidence?’ he asked.
‘The attack?’ Fox watched as Kaye nodded his head. ‘It wasn’t a mugging; nothing got taken.’
‘Someone could have interrupted...’
Fox gnawed at his bottom lip. He was remembering Jack Broughton. Broughton hadn’t said much of anything at all about what he’d seen or not seen. ‘These things happen,’ he eventually offered.
‘Remember that night we were in a bar and some arsehole went for us with pepper spray?’ Kaye chuckled quietly.
‘Did you ever track him down?’
Kaye’s face tightened a little. ‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Is that what you’d have done to Vince Faulkner - kicked the crap out of him?’
‘Would the world have lost anything in the process?’
Fox knew how he wanted to reply - he wanted to say ‘yes’. But then Kaye would have asked ‘What exactly?’ and Fox didn’t have an answer for that...
‘I’ve got to get going,’ he said instead.
‘Anything else I should know about?’
Fox shook his head, but then thought of a question. ‘You said you lied to your wife the morning after the honeymoon?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was the lie?’
‘I told her she was really something in the sack...’
The Gyle hadn’t really existed when Malcolm Fox had been growing up in the city. The land must have been there, of course, but with nothing on it and no roads leading to it. He remembered walking to the airport one day with friends, so they could go plane-spotting. And he would take his bike along the canal, reaching Wester Hailes and beyond. Maybe the Gyle had been fields or wasteland, meriting no place in his memory. These days, it was more a city within a city, with its own railway station and vast corporate buildings and a shopping complex. Ernie Wishaw’s haulage business had its HQ in an industrial estate, next door to a parcel delivery company. Lorry cabs sat in a row on the pale concrete apron. Empty trailers had been unhitched and lined up in similar fashion. There were also stacked pallets and a couple of fuel pumps, and bundles of rubbish awaiting collection. The perimeter fencing, unlike neighbouring properties, lacked any windblown shreds of plastic and polythene. There was a well-equipped garage where a couple of mechanics wrestled with what sounded to Fox like an air-brake problem. They had a radio playing and one of them was singing along.
Jamie Breck had arrived first, content to wait in his car outside the compound until Fox trundled up. They entered the open gates as a convoy of two, and parked in front of the garage. There was a door to the right with a sign on it saying OFFICE. The two men greeted one another with a nod.
‘How do you want to run this?’ Breck asked, stretching his neck muscles.
‘How about I play the bad cop,’ Fox suggested. ‘And you play the bad cop too.’ Then he offered a smile and a wink. ‘Let’s just see what he has to say.’ He pushed open the door, expecting the room beyond to be cramped, but it was long and light and airy. There were four women and two men working telephones and computers from their individual desks. A photocopier was humming, a laser printer printing, and a fax machine halfway through sending a document. There were two smaller offices off to one side. One of these was empty; in the other sat a woman who removed her glasses as Fox and Breck walked in, the better to scrutinise these new arrivals. She rose to her feet, smoothing her skirt before leaving the office to greet them.
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