by Ian Rankin
‘The Complaints, the court case hanging over him, then his uncle and the finger of blame.’
‘Poor bastard was cracking up,’ Scholes commented.
‘So you had words in the pub?’ Cash asked.
Scholes nodded. ‘We left him to it.’
‘He was still there?’
‘We had work the next day.’
Cash nodded slowly. ‘I gave the manager a bell. He reckons it was close to eleven when DC Carter staggered out of there. Manager guesses he’d had about six pints and three nips by then.’ He paused, unfolding his arms and pressing his hands together. ‘So how do you think he ended up in the water?’
‘Does it matter?’ Scholes glared at Cash. ‘Makes your job that bit easier, doesn’t it, now he’s not here to fight his corner. Pin his uncle’s murder on him; case closed. No trial necessary … all nice and tidy.’
‘Ah, but that’s just what it isn’t.’ Cash waited for his words to sink in.
‘How do you mean?’ Michaelson eventually asked.
‘We had a phone call earlier. Member of the public happened to be out walking his dog last night. He saw a man down on the beach. He was being chased by another man. First guy wasn’t screaming or shouting or anything. Just running as best he could.’ Cash broke off, waiting for a reaction.
‘What makes you think it was Paul?’ Scholes eventually asked.
Cash shrugged. ‘Just that the witness saw him run into the sea. His only chance of getting away. Onlooker took them for a couple of drunks having a laugh.’ He looked down at his lap. ‘We’re not long back from the autopsy. DC Carter somehow ended up with a broken nose and grazes on his hands …’
‘Wait a minute,’ Haldane said, voice unsteady. He had gripped the arms of his chair and was starting to rise to his feet.
‘Sit down,’ Cash said.
Scholes placed a hand on Haldane’s shoulder, and Haldane lowered himself back on to the chair.
‘What’s this got to do with us?’ Scholes asked.
‘You tell me.’
‘I will, then – the answer is: nothing. We left Paul in the pub, went back to our cars and drove home.’
‘You weren’t over the limit?’
‘Of course not. We’re the law, aren’t we?’
‘And you went your separate ways – meaning none of you can vouch for the others, unless you have psychic powers.’
Michaelson snorted and shook his head. ‘This is fucking unbelievable,’ he announced, pointing a finger at Fox. ‘That lot’ll stop at nothing to see us flushed down the pan.’
‘Your wife will vouch that you were home before ten?’ Cash asked.
‘Absolutely.’
‘How about you, DS Haldane?’
‘I went round to my mum’s. Left her place just after eleven.’
‘Night owl, is she?’
‘She nodded off for a bit; the news does that to her …’
Cash nodded. ‘Which brings us to you, DI Scholes.’
‘I really can’t believe I’m hearing this.’ Scholes looked calm enough, but he only just had his emotions under control. When he spoke, it was as if his voice was trying to rid itself of a straitjacket. ‘Paul was our mate. Now you’re saying one of us smacked him? You’re saying he was so scared of us, he ran into the sea?’ Scholes actually laughed, arching his head back.
‘I’m waiting,’ Cash said, sounding as if he had all the time in the world.
Scholes stopped laughing. ‘You might as well lock me in the cells,’ he stated. ‘All I did was drive to Milnathort to see my girlfriend. She was out, so I came back to town. Didn’t see or speak to anyone.’ He stared at Cash. ‘So I must’ve done it, mustn’t I?’
‘Only if you can’t think of anybody else. DC Carter couldn’t have been the most popular character in Kirkcaldy.’
Scholes seemed to give this some thought. ‘You’re right,’ he conceded. ‘And here I am in a room with the people who probably hated him the most.’ He pressed his hands together in imitation of Cash and leaned in towards him. ‘Going to charge me, or what?’
‘Don’t give them the satisfaction, Ray,’ Michaelson said.
‘This interview is over.’ Cash got to his feet, checked the time and announced it out loud for the benefit of the recording. Scholes remained seated, eyes on Malcolm Fox.
‘I’m sorry about Paul,’ Fox told him.
‘Fat lot of good that does anybody,’ Scholes replied.
30
‘What about a line-up?’ Tony Kaye asked Cash, once Scholes, Michaelson and Haldane had departed. ‘Maybe the witness got a good look.’
‘That’s not the message we received,’ DS Young countered. ‘Just two figures. He only marked them out as male because of their size and the way they moved.’
‘So we’re only guessing that Paul Carter was the one being chased?’ Fox added.
Cash gave him a look. ‘Muddying the water seems to be your particular party trick, Fox.’
‘I call it “keeping an open mind”.’
Cash turned back to Brendan Young. ‘Let’s bring the witness in anyway. Need to get a proper statement from him.’
‘If Carter ran into the water and drowned,’ Joe Naysmith speculated, ‘what’s the charge?’
‘Might not be one,’ Cash acknowledged. ‘On the other hand, if he got himself in a fight, realised he couldn’t win and legged it …’
‘And the assailant,’ Young continued, ‘gave chase, putting the fear of God into him …’
‘Then that assailant’s guilty of something,’ Kaye determined.
‘That’ll be for us to decide,’ Cash cautioned. ‘Meaning CID – not the Complaints.’ He turned his attention back to Fox. ‘So you and your merry band of fuck-ups can bugger off back across the Forth.’
‘Can’t do that,’ Fox responded. ‘Not until your Chief Constable tells us that’s what he wants us to do.’
‘You’re not even supposed to be here!’ Cash jabbed a finger into Fox’s unyielding chest.
‘We handed you those three on a plate.’
‘Am I supposed to kiss your feet for that?’
‘A simple “thank you” would suffice.’
‘Six,’ Young broke in. ‘You handed us six on a plate.’
‘That’s right,’ Cash said with a nod. ‘I forgot you three were there last night.’
‘Just Naysmith and me,’ Kaye corrected him.
‘That true?’ Cash asked Fox.
‘I was at home in Edinburgh.’
‘Anyone with you?’
‘No.’
Cash turned his attention towards Kaye and Naysmith. ‘Then we’ll start with the two of you.’ He walked over to the video camera. ‘How does this work, son?’
Naysmith looked to Fox for instruction.
‘You’ve made your point, Cash,’ Fox stated.
‘The hell I have: this has got to be done by the book. Don’t tell me the Complaints wouldn’t agree. There’s a local copper lying on a slab, and here I am with two witnesses who saw him the night he died.’ Cash gestured towards DS Young. ‘Know how to operate this thing, Brendan?’
‘Can’t be that hard,’ Young suggested.
Cash turned back towards Fox. ‘You still here? I might have to make a complaint, Inspector.’
Fox looked ready to stand his ground, but Kaye gave a jerk of the head towards the door.
‘I’ll be outside,’ Fox said to nobody in particular.
‘Best place for you,’ Brendan Young muttered in reply.
Fox sat in his car for a while, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel and staring out of the windscreen without really seeing anything. He tried the radio but couldn’t find a station he liked. There were no messages on his phone. Eventually he got out and paced the car park. He thought of Paul Carter, lying in the chill gloom of the mortuary, his last moments filled with fear and flight. Then he pictured Alan Carter, seated at his desk in Gallowhill Cottage – quite relaxed, unafraid of whoever stoo
d behind him.
Unafraid or unaware.
Francis Vernal had driven off the road, or been shunted off it. Shot while he was driving, maybe? It would have taken a marksman – but marksmen could be found.
Fox’s last memory of Paul Carter alive: running from the cottage to his car. I’m sick of all this … I want my life back …
‘Me too, pal,’ Fox muttered, lifting his phone to check the incoming message.
Start the engine – we’re blowing this joint!
He had just reached the station’s rear door as it swung open. Kaye led the way, Joe Naysmith behind him.
‘Well?’ Fox asked.
‘He pissed us about as long as he felt able to,’ Kaye reported. ‘Not sure he quite bought Joe’s story, but then neither did I.’
‘I drove to North Queensferry,’ Naysmith explained to Fox.
‘To see his squeeze,’ Kaye added.
‘Did Cash ask for her name?’ Fox watched Naysmith shake his head. ‘That’s just as well. We can’t go giving him any more ammo. Any second now, the bosses are going to decide we’re more trouble than we’re worth.’
‘Home sweet home,’ Kaye answered, rubbing his hands together. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘We were given a job,’ Fox reminded him.
Kaye rolled his eyes. ‘From which you quickly absconded, dusting off the history books instead.’
‘I was kicked into touch, remember?’
‘Thing is, Malcolm, you’re so happy there, I’d swear you’d fallen on a team of pompom girls.’
Naysmith smiled at the image. After a moment, so did Fox. Eventually Kaye joined in too.
‘What if I show you?’ Fox suggested.
‘Show me?’
‘Joe’s been there; it’s right and proper you should see it too.’
Naysmith nodded his understanding. ‘How many cars?’ he asked Fox.
‘Just the one should do it. And mine seems to be closest.’
Indeed it was: he’d parked it in Superintendent Pitkethly’s bay again.
The door was still unlocked; didn’t look as if anyone had been there since Fox’s last visit.
‘So who gets it?’ Kaye asked, as practical as ever. He was examining the cottage like a prospective buyer.
‘Paul Carter seems to be the only family,’ Fox answered, pushing open the door.
‘I’d have the Land Rover,’ Joe Naysmith added. ‘Rather that than the house.’
‘Can you imagine being shown round?’ Kaye was following Fox into the living room. ‘The selling agent trying to avoid the obvious …’
‘Should we even be in here?’ Naysmith asked. ‘It’s still a crime scene, isn’t it?’
‘One that’s been picked clean,’ Fox reassured him. He was studying Tony Kaye. For all his faults, Kaye had a true cop’s instinct. Fox wasn’t expecting revelations: he was hoping Kaye might reinforce a few theories he himself had.
‘Alan Carter was seated here,’ he explained, touching the back of the solid wooden chair. Paperwork in front of him – everything he’d discovered about Francis Vernal’s death.’
‘Everything? You sure about that, Malcolm?’
‘Everything we know about.’
‘He let his killer in?’
‘According to Carter’s best friend, the door was usually kept locked.’
‘No signs of a break-in?’
Fox shook his head.
‘Someone he knew then – which brings us back to the nephew.’
‘The papers had been moved – swept to the floor.’
‘Deceased could have done that himself,’ Kaye commented. ‘Annoyed about something … fit of temper.’
Naysmith was resting his backside against the arm of Alan Carter’s fireside chair. ‘Why leave the dog?’ he asked.
‘Good question,’ Kaye replied with a nod. ‘An animal-loving assassin?’
‘There was no grievance against the dog,’ Fox said.
‘As far as they were concerned,’ Naysmith added, ‘Alan Carter had to die.’
Kaye gave a grunt that sounded like agreement. ‘So what had he turned up?’ he asked Fox.
‘The Vernal case, you mean?’ Fox considered his answer. ‘Not a whole lot, as far as I can see.’
‘That might be a dead end, then – and we’re back to the nephew again.’
Kaye did a circuit of the room, opening drawers, studying ornaments, even crouching down in front of the fireplace and peering at the ash and dead cinders in the grate. He got to his feet, sniffed, and made for the kitchen, after which all three men climbed the stairs to the upper floor.
‘Cottage used to belong to Gavin Willis,’ Fox recited. ‘Willis was Alan Carter’s mentor – seasoned DI to his L-plate DC. When Willis died, Carter bought the place and practised his lack of DIY skills on it.’
‘Should’ve stuck to the day job,’ Kaye agreed.
‘When Paul Carter was young, his dad brought him here – Uncle Alan said he didn’t need any help.’
‘He was lying,’ Kaye stated.
‘Bit of replastering … new wallpaper …’
Kaye looked at Fox. ‘You think he was looking for something?’
‘Money went missing when Vernal died – a few thousand.’
‘Cash? That would make a hell of a bump in any patch of wallpaper.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t money, then,’ Fox speculated.
Kaye had caught on by now: he knew Fox was using him as a sounding board, and acknowledged as much with a wink.
‘The car?’ Joe Naysmith asked. ‘Much better hiding place.’
‘Yes,’ Fox agreed.
‘But the car was in the garage, right?’ Kaye said. ‘So why tear the cottage to pieces?’
‘Maybe Alan Carter didn’t know about the car,’ Naysmith replied. ‘Not straight off.’
‘Maybe,’ Fox conceded.
‘You want to come back here with some tools and start stripping the place?’ Kaye offered. He watched Fox shake his head. ‘Because you think if anything was here, Alan Carter found it?’
This time Fox shrugged.
Kaye took another of his little tours, opening drawers and cupboard doors. ‘We’re all cops here,’ he commented. ‘Where would we hide something?’
‘In full view?’ Naysmith suggested.
‘That might actually work, so long as it was the likes of Cash and his stooge looking for it. How about you, Foxy?’
‘Under the mattress … maybe a loose floorboard …’
Kaye stared at him. ‘At least Joe’s got a bit of imagination.’
‘There are acres of farmland and hundreds of trees out there. Could be anywhere.’
Kaye considered this. ‘Seems to me Paul Carter’s still the obvious candidate.’ He paused. ‘Can we go home now?’
Fox met his colleague’s stare. ‘I’d like it if you took a look at the garage first,’ he requested.
‘And then we can go home?’
‘Maybe,’ Fox hedged.
The key to the garage’s padlock was back on its hook in the kitchen. It seemed that nobody from CID had been particularly interested in the rusting wreck. Naysmith and Fox removed the tarpaulin while Kaye looked at the tools and paint cans on the cobwebbed shelves.
‘Removed from the crash site before anyone could really examine it,’ Fox stated.
‘Willis went to the scrapyard personally,’ Naysmith added. ‘Had them bring it here.’
‘So?’ Kaye brushed dust from his palms.
‘All we really know about Willis is he was old-school, he was close to Alan Carter, and he maybe pocketed firearms instead of getting rid of them.’
‘None of which ties him to Francis Vernal.’
‘Except that Vernal had links to radical groups, and those radical groups had weapons.’
‘What do we have on the gun that killed the lawyer?’
‘Next to nothing,’ Fox conceded.
Kaye folded his arms. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘give me the wildest fuckin
g conspiracy theory you can come up with.’
Fox hesitated for only a moment. ‘Spooks,’ he said. ‘Vernal was being followed, office and home broken into. His friends in the Dark Harvest Commando were scaring the powers-that-be.’
‘They assassinated him? Why?’
‘He was a threat?’ Naysmith offered.
‘Was he, though?’ Kaye asked Fox.
Fox considered the question. ‘At most, he handled the money. Nobody seems to think he led any group.’
‘Then who did?’
‘Donald MacIver.’
‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘He’s in Carstairs.’ Fox paused. ‘You think I should go see him?’
‘Your call, not mine.’ Kaye walked around the Volvo. ‘You’ve checked it out?’
‘I did,’ Naysmith replied. ‘Climbed in and had a rummage.’
‘Find anything?’
‘No.’
‘The logbook,’ Fox corrected him.
‘Look in the boot?’
When Fox shook his head, Kaye lifted a chisel from the workbench and started prising at the metal. Naysmith joined in with a screwdriver. Eventually the lock gave way. There was straw inside: all that remained of a nest of some kind. The spare tyre was flat, the rubber perished. Kaye lifted it and checked beneath. When he tried moving the felt flooring, it crumbled. There was a jack, but nothing else. Fox realised he’d been holding his breath, half expecting the money to be there. Kaye made a non-committal noise and walked to the other end of the vehicle, examining the crumpled frame. ‘I thought these things were built of bricks. Must have been doing a fair lick …’
‘Vernal had been visiting his lover,’ Fox informed him.
‘Was he in a hurry to get away?’
‘Someone could have been on his tail.’
‘Spooks again, eh? Reckon they’d open their files to us?’
‘Doubtful.’
Kaye placed the tarpaulin on the ground and lay down on it, shuffling underneath the car. ‘Doesn’t look like anything’s been tampered with. Hard to say, though, after all this time …’ When he emerged, he brushed himself down. ‘Does the girlfriend have anything to add?’
‘She did a vanishing trick soon after.’
‘Which you interpret as someone putting the frighteners on her?’
‘Not necessarily.’
Kaye rubbed at his jaw. ‘If I’m being honest, Malcolm, I don’t think you’ve got anything.’