Breck was staring at the train tickets. ‘I hope he’s going to refund us,’ he said.
‘I think we’re at the very rear of that particular queue, Jamie.’
‘You’re probably right.’
Fox’s phone rang again. He put it to his ear. The voice had changed, unable to sustain its previous tone.
‘Cross the road and head for Jeffrey Street. Once you’re past the bridge, look for a church.’ The caller hung up. Fox turned to Breck.
‘I think we’re about to repent our sins,’ he said, readying to cross at the lights. Fox wasn’t really expecting any church to be open to visitors on a Saturday night, so when they arrived at the doors to Old St Paul’s he stood there, looking to left and right. He checked that he was still getting a signal on his phone - Edinburgh was full of dead zones.
‘What now?’ Breck asked. ‘More waiting?’
‘More waiting,’ Fox agreed.
‘Whatever else happens, this guy’s getting a slap from me.’ Breck paused. ‘Do you think he’s watching us?’
‘Maybe.’
Breck looked up and down the street. ‘Not too many candidates,’ he concluded. It was quieter here than on Market Street. There was a single-decker bus parked outside the Jurys Inn, but no sign of its passengers. ‘Could he be staying there?’
‘Maybe.’
Breck swore beneath his breath while Fox studied the wall of the church. There was a couple of signs, one indicating that Old St Paul’s belonged to the Scottish Episcopal Church, the other giving a taste of its history. The church had been founded in 1689, and was an eighteenth-century refuge for Jacobites. It proclaimed itself a place ‘for all who seek faith’.
‘Amen to that,’ Fox was muttering under his breath as his phone sounded again. He put it to his ear and had already uttered a terse ‘Yes?’ when he realised it was an incoming text. There was just the one capitalised word:
INSIDE.
He showed Breck the screen, and Breck reached out to turn the door handle. With the slightest of pushes, the door opened inwards. There was a flight of stone steps. Fox used the handrail as he climbed. When he turned the corner at the top, he was in a church much larger than its exterior had suggested. There were modern-looking paintings at one end, a pulpit and altar at the other, with a chapel off. A young man was sweeping between the pews. He didn’t pay them any attention, even though Breck was staring at him. But Fox’s attention had shifted to the lit chapel. A huge painting covered most of one wall. Some folding chairs had been placed in front of it. He sat down on one and saw that the painting comprised four square canvases, placed together to make up a vast swirl of white material. Was it meant to be a cloak or a shroud? He couldn’t tell, but he was mesmerised by it.
‘Is that him?’ Breck was whispering. He meant the floor-sweeper.
‘Too young,’ Fox stated.
‘This is just stupid.’ Breck ran his fingers through his hair.
‘Sit down,’ Fox suggested. ‘Take the weight off.’
Breck didn’t look convinced, but he sat down anyway.
‘One of the paintings Brogan sold,’ Fox said quietly, ‘looked a bit like this, only smaller.’ He was remembering the photo of the penthouse’s interior, the one published in the newspaper.
‘Is that why he’s brought us here?’
Fox just shrugged and let his gaze move across the painting. Someone was coming up the stairs. Their footsteps sounded like busy sandpaper. Breck had turned to watch. The footsteps were quieter as they entered the chapel. Breck had risen to his feet, nudging Fox, but Fox was continuing to study the painting. The new arrival crossed in front of him and sat down on the next chair along.
‘The artist’s name is Alison Watt,’ Charles Brogan said. ‘I know a bit about art, Inspector.’
‘Must’ve been a wrench to sell it all ...’ Fox turned his head and found himself looking at the drowned man. Brogan had removed a lumberjack-style hat, revealing that his already thinning hair had been shaved off.
‘Did the missus do that?’ Fox asked.
Brogan ran a hand across his skull. He was wearing fingerless black woollen gloves. He looked to have lost some weight and his skin was sallow. He finished rubbing his head and dragged his fingers down around his jaw. He hadn’t shaved in a while. The black workman’s jacket could have been borrowed from one of his building sites. The denims had seen better days, as had the scuffed boots. As disguises went, it wasn’t bad.
Then again, it wasn’t great.
‘You weren’t followed,’ Brogan said. ‘And you didn’t bring the cavalry with you.’
‘How come we didn’t spot you at Waverley?’
‘I was on the overhead walkway. When I called on the phone and saw you answer, I knew you were my guys.’
‘Except we’re
not
your guys,’ Breck corrected him.
Brogan just shrugged. Fox turned his head a little and fixed him with a stare. ‘What happened to Vince Faulkner?’ he asked.
Brogan was quiet for a moment. He turned his attention to the painting. ‘I’m sorry that happened,’ he said at last.
‘You sent him to meet with Terry Vass, didn’t you?’
Brogan nodded slowly.
‘And Vass decided to send you a message,’ Fox stated.
‘If I’d gone to the sauna ...’ Brogan’s voice drifted off.
‘That was the deal, was it? Vass was expecting to see you, but Vince turned up instead?’ For the first time, Fox felt a pang of sorrow for Faulkner’s fate. Brogan had found out about the man’s history of violence, and had thought him a useful ‘soldier’. Vince would have loved playing that role. Maybe he’d goaded Terry Vass, and maybe not. But he had died horribly.
‘You knew from Vince’s personnel file that he had previous,’ Fox went on. ‘You could have gone to Jack Broughton to borrow some muscle, but you had to be your own man, which is why you opted for Vince. He came to you on Saturday night. He’d just clobbered his girlfriend and was angry and ashamed, drinking away the memory of it. Barman at the casino says he should never have got past the door - makes me think you’d primed the bouncers for his arrival ...’ Fox paused, but Brogan wasn’t taking his eyes off the painting. ‘You needed him to go meet Vass, so he could take a beating on your behalf. Suited you just fine that he was too drunk to refuse.’ There was a bitter taste at the back of Fox’s throat. He tried swallowing it down.
‘I was desperate,’ Brogan muttered.
‘The cabbie who dropped him near the sauna says he nearly changed his mind about going - he was sobering up fast and he was scared.’
‘Then he shouldn’t have played the tough guy.’ Brogan managed a quick glance in his tormentor’s direction.
Fox was thinking again of Vince Faulkner. With his hidden stash of money at home, payment for past services rendered ...
‘Was he killed at the sauna?’ Breck interrupted. ‘Maybe Forensics could take a look.’
But Brogan shook his head. ‘They took him somewhere else ... kept him there.’
‘How do you know?’ Fox was giving Brogan his full attention. He watched the man swallow before he answered.
‘They phoned me. They put Vince on ...’ He squeezed shut his eyes, trying to block out the memory. ‘I never want to hear anything like that again.’
‘You might,’ Fox said. ‘When they come for Joanna.’
Brogan opened his eyes and glowered at Fox. ‘I’d kill them,’ he spat. ‘They know that.’
‘Maybe.’
‘And if I didn’t, Jack would.’
‘Jack’s what all this is about, isn’t it?’ Fox asked. ‘You were doing something you thought might impress your father-in-law - playing money-man for the big boys. I’m not saying Jack Broughton knew, but you were thinking maybe it would get back to him some day and he’d start to respect you just a little bit more.’
Brogan’s face tightened, and Fox knew he’d struck a nerve.
‘But here’s the thing, Charlie,’ Fox went on. ‘When they come for Joanna - and they
will
come for her - Jack’s not going to go after them.’ Fox paused. ‘He’s going to come gunning for
you
. You’re the one he’ll blame.’
Brogan seemed to consider this. ‘I’m in hell,’ he said weakly, eyes back on the painting.
‘That’s why you’re here,’ Fox said. ‘You know we’re your only chance.’
‘What can you do?’ Brogan was bowing his head as if in prayer.
‘I don’t know.’
With head still bowed, Brogan turned his neck so he could watch Fox’s face.
‘I really don’t,’ Fox stated with a shrug of the shoulders. Then, to Breck: ‘Have you got any ideas?’
‘One or two,’ Breck replied after a moment’s consideration.
‘That’s all right, then,’ Fox said. ‘But Charlie ... you’re going to have to tell us everything. And it’s got to be done properly.’
Brogan considered this. ‘I really thought it would work,’ he muttered to himself at last.
Fox gave a snort. ‘Vince’s body was found Tuesday afternoon; a few hours later you’re suddenly checking your will at your solicitor’s office, and by Thursday you’re supposed to be dead?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘No, Charlie, it was never going to work.’
‘The deck shoes were a nice touch, though,’ Breck conceded. ‘Left bobbing about on the water like that ...’
‘They were Joanna’s idea.’
‘And she helped you come ashore, too?’ Fox guessed. ‘Dinghy, was it?’
‘I swam.’ Brogan puffed out his chest a little. ‘Time was, I could have swum the whole estuary ...’
‘Good for you,’ Breck said.
Fox had thought of something else. ‘The money from the paintings ... it was to tide you over, right? Did Wauchope find out you were holding on to it? Is that what finally blew his fuse?’
‘Men like Bull Wauchope, their fuses are long blown.’
‘You know Glen Heaton, don’t you? When I started sticking my oar in, did you have Joanna go see him? Did she tell him to fill me in on Bull Wauchope?’
Brogan gave a resigned smile. ‘You said it yourself, Inspector - you’re the one card left in this lousy hand I’ve been dealt ...’
There was the sound of someone clearing their throat nearby. All three turned, expecting trouble, but it was only the cleaner.
‘Sorry,’ the man said, ‘but I’ve got to lock up now. Don’t blame you for loitering, though.’ He nodded in the direction of the painting. ‘It’s a great thing, isn’t it? So true to life ...’
‘True to life,’ Fox agreed. But it was a shroud, and it reminded him of Vince Faulkner’s ice-cold corpse, lying in the darkness of a mortuary drawer. All because of the shaven-headed fat man who was staring at the painting one final time.
All because Charlie Brogan had something to prove to the world.
It was Annabel Cartwright who met them at Torphichen. She’d already checked that Billy Giles and his team had left for the night. There was a desk sergeant on duty, but he was on the telephone when they arrived. Cartwright ushered them through the door and along the corridor to the interview room. She’d brought a videotape for the camera and audiotape for the recorder. Once everything was set up, Fox mentioned that it would be best for all concerned if she left them to it. She gave the curtest of nods and left the room. She hadn’t so much as acknowledged Jamie Breck’s existence.
‘The debts are piling up,’ Breck commented to Fox.
‘Let’s get on with this,’ Fox replied.
An hour later, they had as much as they needed. Fox pocketed both sets of tapes and they left the station without seeing anyone. There was a locked patrol car outside. Fox looked to left and right, thinking back to the day he’d taken that first walk with Jamie Breck.
‘What now?’ Brogan asked, fixing his hat to his head.
‘Is it safe, wherever you’re staying?’ Fox asked him.
‘Yes.’
‘Does Joanna know the address?’
Brogan gave him a look, and Fox rolled his eyes. ‘If she knows, then it’s not safe.’
‘She’d never tell.’
‘Maybe so ...’ Fox didn’t bother with the rest of the sentence. ‘We keep in touch by phone, right?’ He waited until Brogan had nodded his agreement. ‘Okay then. Keep your head down for another day or two while I discuss options with DS Breck.’
Brogan nodded again. A taxi had swept around the corner, its ‘hire’ light illuminated. Brogan stuck out a hand and the driver signalled to stop. Brogan got in and closed the door after him. Whatever destination he gave the driver, neither Fox nor Breck heard it. They watched the cab as it headed for the Morrison Street junction.
‘What now?’ Breck asked.
‘I thought you were the one with the ideas.’
‘You might not like them.’
‘If they’re better than nothing, they’re worth hearing.’ They started walking uphill towards the traffic lights. There was a pub just across the road.
‘What did you think of Brogan?’ Breck asked.