‘Don’t be so sure, Charlie,’ one of the smokers said. ‘Not these days.’
‘He’s got previous,’ Naysmith blurted out, trying to keep his voice down. Kaye rolled his eyes and unfolded his arms, reaching for his glass and draining it.
‘Your shout, kiddo,’ he said.
Naysmith gawped, but then sprinted towards the bar with the empty glass.
‘Previous?’ Fox echoed. Tony Kaye leaned in towards him, keeping his voice low.
‘A few petty thefts from nine or ten years back. Couple of street brawls. Nothing too serious, but Jude might not know about them. How’s she doing?’
‘Her arm’s in plaster.’
‘Did you have words with Faulkner?’
Fox shook his head. ‘I didn’t see him.’
‘Something’s got to be done, Malcolm. Will she file a complaint?’
‘No.’
‘We could do it for her.’
‘She’s not leaving him, Tony.’
‘Then it’s up to us to have a word with him.’
Naysmith was back at the table, the landlord having taken his order. ‘
Exactly
what we should do,’ he confirmed.
‘You’re forgetting something,’ Fox said. ‘We’re the Complaints. Word gets out that we’re running around putting the fear on members of the great unwashed . . .’ He shook his head again, more firmly this time. ‘We don’t get to do that.’
‘Then there’s no fun left in life,’ Tony Kaye decided, throwing open his arms. Naysmith had marched off again and returned with Kaye’s drink. Fox studied his two colleagues.
His two friends.
‘Thanks all the same,’ he said. And then, lowering his voice still further: ‘In the meantime, maybe there’s
some
fun we could have.’ He checked that no one else in the bar was showing an interest. ‘McEwan’s put me on to a cop called Breck . . .’
‘Jamie Breck?’ Kaye guessed.
‘You know him?’
‘I know people who know him.’
‘Who is he?’ Naysmith asked, settling himself at the table. Only the top inch was missing from his lager.
‘CID, based at Torphichen,’ Kaye enlightened him. Then, to Fox: ‘He’s dirty?’
‘Maybe.’
‘That’s why you were at the Chop Shop this morning?’
‘Nothing gets past you, Tony.’
‘And HR this afternoon?’
‘Ditto.’ Fox leaned back in his seat. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, not exactly. No harm in Kaye and Naysmith being on board, but did he have anything for them to do? All he knew was, he needed to show his appreciation, and this was as good a way of doing it as any. Plus, now they could talk about work rather than Jude. And that was another thing: what did he do with the info about Vince Faulkner? Store it away? He couldn’t see himself confronting Jude with it. She’d accuse him of snooping, of interfering.
My life, Malcolm, my business . . .
That was probably how she would put it. Of everything they had to do, all the cases they had to work, cops hated domestics the worst. They hated them because there was seldom a happy outcome, and precious little they could do to help or ease the situation. And that was how Jude would look to the majority of Fox’s colleagues. Hers was most definitely a domestic. The smokers were standing at the bar. One of them was drinking whisky. Fox could smell it, and even felt the faintest of tangs at the back of his throat. It was making his mouth water.
‘So tell us,’ Tony Kaye was enquiring. Joe Naysmith had leaned forward, elbows on knees.
His sister’s face was in his mind, and the aroma of the single malt in his nostrils. He told Kaye and Naysmith what he knew about Jamie Breck.
Tuesday 10 February 2009
4
Next morning, Fox called Jude but got no answer. He’d tried her the previous night, too. She probably had caller ID. She was almost certainly ignoring him. After breakfast, he drove to work. Kaye and Naysmith wanted to know their ‘plan of action’. Fox’s idea was that Annie Inglis should brief them, but there was no one at home in 2.24. He texted her mobile instead, asking her to get back to him.
‘We’ll wait,’ he told his colleagues. ‘No rush.’ They were heading back to their own desks when Fox’s phone rang. He picked it up, and heard a voice he didn’t know asking him if he was Malcolm Fox.
‘Who’s this?’ Fox asked back.
‘My name’s Detective Sergeant Breck.’ Fox’s spine stiffened, but he didn’t say anything. ‘Am I speaking to Malcolm Fox?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Fox, I’m calling on behalf of your sister.’
‘Is she there? What’s happened?’
‘Your sister’s fine, Mr Fox. But I’m afraid we’re on our way to the mortuary. I asked her if there was anyone, and she . . .’
The voice was professional without being cold.
‘Tell me what’s happened.’
‘Your sister’s partner, Mr Fox - do you know how to find the City Mortuary . . .?’
He knew all right: it was on the Cowgate. An inconspicuous brick building you’d drive past without guessing what went on there. Traffic was hellish slow; there seemed to be roadworks and diversions everywhere. It wasn’t just the trams - there were gas mains being replaced, and resurfacing at the Grassmarket. It seemed to Fox that he passed more traffic cones than pedestrians. Kaye had asked if he wanted company, but he’d shaken his head. Vince Faulkner was dead, and that was as much as Jamie Breck was going to tell him. Breck - managing to sound concerned and thoughtful. Breck - waiting at the mortuary with Jude . . .
Fox parked the Volvo in one of the loading bays and headed inside. He knew where they’d be waiting. The viewing room was one floor up. He flashed his ID at any staff he passed, not that they showed the slightest interest. They wore foreshortened green rubber galoshes and three-quarter-length smocks. They had just washed their hands or were on their way to do so. Jude heard his footsteps on the stairs and was running towards him as he came into view. She was bawling her head off, body shuddering, eyes bloodshot behind the tears. He held her to him, being careful of her arm. After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked over her shoulder to where DS Jamie Breck was standing.
You don’t know his name’s Jamie
, Fox reminded himself.
On the phone, he called himself DS Breck.
Breck was walking towards him now. Fox managed to push Jude back a little, but as gently as possible. He held out a hand to the other detective. Breck was smiling, almost sheepishly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have known it was a Fettes number.’ He gestured towards Jude. ‘Your sister tells me you’re a DI.’
‘Just plain Inspector,’ Fox corrected him. ‘In PSU we drop the Detective bit.’
Breck nodded. ‘PSU means the Complaints?’
Fox nodded back at him, then turned his attention to Jude. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘Are you all right?’ She shivered in response, and he asked Breck if the identification had taken place.
‘Two minutes,’ Breck said, pretending to look at his watch. Fox knew what was happening behind the door: they were making the corpse as presentable as possible. Only the face would be visible, unless identification necessitated the revealing of a tattoo or distinguishing feature.
‘Where was he found?’ Fox asked.
‘A building site by the canal.’
‘Where they’re knocking down the brewery?’
‘He wasn’t working there,’ Jude stated tremulously. ‘I don’t know what he was doing there.’
‘When was he found?’ Fox asked Breck, squeezing his sister’s hand a little more tightly.
‘Early this morning. Couple of joggers on the towpath. One got a stitch, so they stopped. Leaning against the fence, doing stretches or whatever. That’s when they saw him.’
‘And you’re sure it’s . . .?’
‘Couple of credit cards in the pocket. I gave Ms Fox a description of the deceased and his clothing . . .’
Jamie Breck had blonde hair tending towards the curly, and a face speckled with freckles. His eyes were a milky blue. He stood an inch or so shorter than Fox, and was probably only two thirds his waist measurement. He wore a dark brown suit with all three buttons done up. Fox was trying to dismiss from his mind everything he knew about him: schooled at George Watson’s . . . parents both doctors... lives near the supermarket . . . has yet to comply with the twenty-five-pic minimum . . . He found himself stroking Jude’s hair.
‘They beat him up,’ she was saying, voice cracking. ‘They beat him up and left him for dead.’ Fox looked to Breck for confirmation.
‘Injuries consistent with,’ was all the younger man said. Then the door of the room behind them slid open. The body lay on a trolley, swaddled except for the face. Even the hair and ears had been covered. The face was pulpy, but recognisable, even from a distance. Fox caught sight of it before his sister.
‘Jude,’ he cautioned her, ‘I can do this if you don’t want to.’
‘I need to do it,’ she answered. ‘I need to . . .’
‘You’ll want to go home with her,’ Breck was telling Fox. Both men held plastic beakers of tea. They were standing in the Family Room. A pile of children’s books had been placed on one of the chairs, and someone had pinned up a poster of a sunflower. Jude was seated a few feet away, head bowed, holding a beaker of her own - water was all she’d asked for. They were waiting for the forms, the forms she would need to sign. Vince Faulkner’s battered corpse was already on its way to the autopsy suite, where a couple of the city’s pathologists would get to work on it, their assistants weighing and measuring, bagging and tagging.
‘What time was he found?’ Fox asked quietly.
‘Just after six.’
‘It’s still dark at six.’
‘There were streetlights.’
‘Was he attacked there or just dumped there?’
‘Look, Inspector Fox, this can all wait . . . you’ll want to be with Jude now.’
Fox stared at his sister. ‘There’s a neighbour,’ he found himself saying. ‘Alison Pettifer. Maybe she could take Jude home and stay with her.’
Breck pulled back his shoulders. ‘Due respect, I know you outrank me, but . . .’
‘I just want to see the locus. Any harm in that, DS Breck?’
Breck seemed to consider this for a moment, then let his shoulders relax. ‘Call me Jamie,’ he said.
Twenty-five-pic minimum
, Fox thought to himself.
It was another hour before the paperwork was finalised and Alison Pettifer was fetched from her home. Fox shook hands with her and thanked her again for calling him the previous day.
‘And now this,’ was all she said. She was tall and slim and in her fifties. She took charge, coaxing Jude to her feet and telling her everything was going to be fine. ‘You’re coming home with me . . .’
Jude’s eyes were still raw-looking as Fox kissed her on both cheeks.
‘I’ll come as soon as I can,’ he said. A uniformed officer was waiting for the women, his patrol car parked outside. He looked almost bored, and Fox wanted to shake him. He checked his mobile phone instead: two messages from Tony Kaye, which were actually the same message sent twice - Do u need me?
Fox started to punch in ‘no’, but lengthened it to ‘not yet’. As he was sending it, Jamie Breck reappeared.
‘Not needed at the autopsy?’ Fox asked.
‘They can’t get to it for another hour.’ Breck looked at his wristwatch. ‘Means I can take you out there, if you like.’
‘I’ve got my car.’
‘Then you can drive us . . .’
Four minutes into the journey, Breck commented that they’d have been quicker walking. It was a straight run - Cowgate to West Port to Fountainbridge - but traffic had stalled again: a contraflow controlled by two workmen in fluorescent jackets and toting signs saying STOP and GO.
‘It can drive men mad,’ Breck said, ‘suddenly having all that power ...’
Fox just nodded.
‘Mind if I ask something?’
Fox minded a lot, but gave a shrug.
‘How did your sister break her arm?’
‘She fell over in the kitchen.’
Breck pretended to mull this over. ‘Mr Faulkner worked as a builder?’
‘Yes.’
‘Didn’t seem to be dressed for the job - good-quality chinos; polo shirt and leather jacket. The jacket was a Christmas present from Ms Fox.’
‘Was it?’
‘Were they getting married?’
‘You’d have to ask her.’
‘The two of you aren’t close?’
Fox could feel his grip tightening on the steering wheel. ‘We’re close,’ he said.
‘And Mr Faulkner?’
‘What about him?’
‘Did you like him?’
‘Not especially.’