by Ian Rankin
Fox started at the beginning – more or less. First sighting of Alison Pears in the flesh, then on TV. And then the connection and his findings and theories.
‘Her photo’s on page one of Metro today,’ Kaye said, picking bits of caramel from between his teeth. ‘Three home-grown terror suspects in custody.’
‘Her brother was on the box this morning too,’ Fox added. He had watched from his sofa, having spent much of the night there, some of it busy at the laptop. Andrew Watson: four years younger than his sister; short red hair, steel-framed glasses, a pudgy face with some traces of acne. Peely-wally, Mitch Fox would have said.
‘He’s only Justice Minister because everyone before him either screwed up or fell out with the “Great Chieftain”.’ By which, Fox knew, Tony Kaye meant the First Minister.
‘Handy to have him on your side, though, if you’re a Chief Constable …’
Kaye managed a rueful smile. ‘You’re really going to stand up and accuse her of being a terrorist?’
‘No.’
‘What then?’
‘A spy.’
Kaye stared at him. ‘A spy?’ he repeated.
‘Infiltrating Dark Harvest Commando and God knows who else.’
‘And shagging Francis Vernal into the bargain?’ Kaye took a deep breath. ‘If that ever got out …’
‘Wouldn’t do her reputation any good,’ Fox confirmed.
‘So you’ll be having a quiet word with her?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Rather you than me. She’s suddenly the face of equality in the police – glass ceiling shattered; nobody’s going to want that to change.’
‘No,’ Fox agreed.
‘Bloody hell – look what the cat dragged in!’ Kaye smiled as Joe Naysmith trudged his way towards the table, nothing in his hand but a can of some super-caffeinated energy drink. Naysmith’s eyes were bleary, and he had skipped a shave.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he commented, sitting down next to Kaye.
‘She’s too much woman for you, young Joseph,’ Kaye persisted. ‘Maybe I should take her in hand.’
Naysmith gulped at his drink, eyes squeezed shut. When he opened them, he looked from Kaye to Fox and then back again. ‘Something I should know?’ he asked.
Fox gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head in Tony Kaye’s direction.
‘Man talk, Joe,’ Kaye went on to explain. ‘Nothing for you to worry your little head about.’
‘How’s DC Forrester?’ Fox asked.
‘She’s fine.’
‘Any word on Paul Carter?’
Naysmith thought for a second, then nodded. ‘Another witness,’ he decided to confide. ‘Saw a man walking along the high street some time after midnight. A man with shoes that squelched.’
Fox frowned. ‘Not Carter?’
‘This guy was bald. Shaved head, anyway. But he’d definitely been in some water, according to the witness. Worried look on his face. Might have had a tattoo on his neck.’ Naysmith paused, eyes on Kaye. ‘The side of his neck.’
‘Who is it?’ Fox asked.
Kaye rubbed a hand down his face. ‘Sounds like someone I know,’ he conceded.
‘Who, though?’
‘Tosh Garioch,’ Kaye answered. ‘Billie’s boyfriend.’
Naysmith was nodding. ‘Might not be, of course – but it fits the description you gave me after you interviewed him.’
‘Garioch’s the doorman?’ Fox checked. ‘The one who worked for Alan Carter’s firm?’
‘That’s him,’ Kaye confirmed. ‘Big tattoo of a thistle creeping up his neck. Shaved head. Criminal record.’ He turned his attention back to Naysmith. ‘Did you let on to Forrester?’
Naysmith shook his head. Kaye and Fox shared a look.
‘Decisions, decisions,’ Kaye commented. ‘But I like our choices better than yours, Foxy …’
Stirling.
There were armed officers and security checks outside Central Scotland Police Force HQ, keeping the media at bay and on the lookout for terrorist sympathisers and demonstrators.
Inside the main building, the Alert Status had been raised to CRITICAL. In all his years as an officer, Fox had never seen that before. After CRITICAL, there was nowhere else to go.
Fox had been seated in reception for over half an hour. Around him there was a real buzz of anticipation. He got the distinct feeling this wasn’t normally the case. Somewhere in the vicinity, the three suspects were being questioned. Outside, the TV broadcast vans had set up camp on the main road. Print journalists clustered in each other’s cars. Foragers had been sent out, returning with pies and bridies, hot drinks and crisps. On his way in, Fox had spotted the news reporter from the previous day. He looked exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure and was rubbing his hands together to keep warm, an as-yet-unneeded earpiece draped over one shoulder. A couple of uniformed officers in visored riot helmets, body armour strapped across their chests, had been placed at the entrance to the car park and were being filmed by cameramen who lacked anything more interesting to fill the time.
Fox’s request to the woman behind the reception desk had been clear and succinct. ‘Need a word with the Chief Constable. My name’s Fox. Professional Standards Unit, Lothian and Borders Police.’ The woman had studied his warrant card.
‘You know she’s kind of busy?’ she had asked, voice heavy with sarcasm.
‘Aren’t we all?’ he had retorted. The look on her face told him he wasn’t making a new friend.
‘Take a seat, Inspector.’
‘Thank you.’
After five minutes, he’d walked up to the desk again, only to be told she hadn’t managed to get through to ‘the Chief’.
A further ten minutes: same story.
He’d been busying himself with his phone: checking for news and e-mails; deleting old messages … and watching the hubbub around him.
Twenty minutes: a shake of the head from the receptionist.
Same thing at the half-hour mark.
And then the journalists had arrived, camera crews in tow. They had to be allocated visitor passes and shown where the news conference was happening. Fox decided to queue up with them. The receptionist gave him a questioning look.
‘Thought it might pass the time,’ he explained. So he too filled in his details and was handed a pass and a laminate sleeve with a clip on the back. He fixed it to his jacket and followed the herd.
The large conference room was bursting at the seams. Fox realised there was some sort of unspoken arrangement, whereby the most senior journalists were saved seats at the front. His own TV reporter was there, next to the aisle. Chairs had been laid out in rows. Some looked to have been requisitioned from the canteen, others from offices. A young woman in plain clothes was handing out a press release. People got busy on their phones, texting the salient points to their newsrooms and studios. She gave Fox a look that told him she knew most of the media representatives but not him. He just smiled and relieved her of another copy of the release.
Three arrests, no charges as yet.
If needed, extra time in custody would be sought under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.
Material found at the scene was being examined.
Fox was still reading when the Chief Constable brushed past him and made her way down the aisle towards a table festooned with microphones. The cameras got busy and the audience switched their phones to ‘record’ mode. Alison Pears was flanked by her Deputy Chief Constable and a DCI who had nominally been put in charge of the case. She cleared her throat and began to read from a prepared statement. Fox could smell her perfume. It lingered where she had pushed past him. Tony Kaye would be able to place it, but Fox couldn’t. He felt a hand touch his forearm. Turning, he saw DCI Jackson standing in the doorway. Jackson’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing. The unspoken question was clear.
What the hell are you doing here?
Fox gave him a wink and turned to concentrate on Pears’s closing remarks. There wer
e questions from the seats. Again Fox saw a hierarchy at work: if a hand went up from the front row, Pears would go there first. She had been well briefed: knew what would be asked and had her answers ready.
Were the suspects local?
What nationality?
Did anything tie them to the blasts near Lockerbie and Peebles?
Pears gave away precious little, but did so while appearing open and friendly. Once or twice she batted a question to the DCI, who was gruffer and less gifted but also knew what to say and what not to say. Jackson was tugging at Fox’s arm again, gesturing towards the corridor, but Fox shook his head. As the press conference broke up, Pears led her small delegation back towards the door, fending off a slew of questions with a pleasant smile and a wave of the hand.
She wasn’t looking at Fox as she made to pass him, but he stepped in front of her.
‘Care to make a statement about Francis Vernal?’ he asked.
Her eyes drilled into him, face frozen.
‘Who?’
‘Nice try, Alice,’ he responded. The DCI placed a hand on Fox’s chest, clearing the route. Fox took a step back, apologising to the cub reporter whose toes he managed to squash. Pears was out of the room, stalking down the corridor. Jackson had caught up with her, but she was saying something to her own DCI. He peeled off and approached Fox, handing him a card.
‘Put your mobile number on there,’ he growled.
‘I’ve already been waiting a while.’
‘She’ll get back to you.’
Fox scribbled down his number and the DCI snatched the card back. As the man left, it seemed to be Jackson’s turn.
‘What are you trying to do?’ he muttered, his mouth close to Fox’s ear so no one else could hear.
‘You’ve got your case, I’ve got mine.’
‘You’re the Complaints, not some fucking Simon Schama.’
‘History seems to have a funny way of repeating itself.’
Jackson glowered at him. The journalists were comparing notes, or on their phones, or preparing themselves for their pieces to camera. But they kept glancing over towards the two men, too, recognising at least one of them from the site of the Kippen explosion.
‘Leave it be,’ Jackson urged in a fierce undertone.
‘I need some time with her.’
‘Why?’
Fox shook his head slowly. ‘Maybe afterwards,’ he offered.
‘You’re a bastard, Fox. Really and truly.’
‘Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘Trust me, it’s not meant as one, not in the slightest.’
Jackson turned and headed back down the corridor. The young woman who had handed out the press releases was ushering everyone from the room. She had been joined by an assistant, ensuring that no one wandered off on their own.
‘Linda says she’s not seen you before,’ the assistant informed Fox.
‘Temporary assignment,’ he explained.
‘Me too. I’m usually Community Liaison.’ She looked around her. ‘Makes a change, I suppose.’
Fox nodded his agreement, and followed everyone else back to reception.
Alison Pears had his number; all he could do was wait. He drove into Stirling, and started seeing signs pointing him towards the Wallace Monument. He could see it in the distance, a single Gothic-looking tower atop a hill. He tried to remember what he knew about Wallace. Like every other Scot, he’d watched Braveheart, won over by it. Stirling Bridge was the battle Wallace had won against the English invaders. Having no other plan, Fox kept following the signposts, eventually turning into a car park. A couple of single-decker buses sat idling, awaiting the return of their tour parties. Fox got out of the Volvo and wandered into the Legends café. He was recalling more snippets of information about Wallace, mostly about his life’s excruciating end. There was an information desk, and the woman behind it told him it cost £7.75 to visit the monument.
‘Seven seventy-five?’ he queried.
‘There’s an audiovisual presentation – and Wallace’s sword.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Well, you can climb to the top of the tower.’
‘The hill looks pretty steep.’
‘There’s a free bus to the top.’
‘Free if I pay seven seventy-five?’ Fox pretended to be thinking about it. ‘Is the statue still there? The one that looks like Mel Gibson?’
‘It’s been moved to Brechin,’ she replied, a little coolness entering her voice.
Fox smiled to let her know he wasn’t going to become a customer. Instead, he saved five pounds by settling for peppermint tea in Legends, where he had a good view of the hillside and the memorial above it. Wallace was reckoned a patriot: could the same really be said of Francis Vernal? Had he been justified – that word MacIver had wanted to debate – in his stance and his actions? And what would either of them make of the Scotland where Fox found himself: was this the same country they had fought for and lost their lives for? There were visitors in the shop next to the reception desk. They were debating the purchase of beach towels made to look like kilts. Theirs was probably a romantic Scotland of glens and castles, Speyside malts and eightsome reels. Other Scotlands were available if you cared to check, and at least as many people these days favoured looking forward to the longing glance back at the nation left behind. The tables around him were filling up. He didn’t bother pouring a second cup from the teapot. As he was returning to his car, his phone rang. But it wasn’t Alison Pears.
‘Mr Fox? This is the nurse at Lauder Lodge. I’m afraid your father’s been taken ill.’
He drove back to Edinburgh in a daze. It was only when he reached the Royal Infirmary that he realised the car radio had been switched on throughout. He couldn’t remember listening to any of it. He’d been told to try A and E first. Mitch had been found on the floor of his room.
‘Could just be a fall,’ the nurse had told Fox, her tone of voice indicating that she didn’t believe her own words.
‘Was he conscious?’
‘Not really …’
Fox parked on a double yellow line in the ambulances’ drop-off zone and headed inside. Someone was being served by the receptionist, so he waited his turn. There were only two or three people seated in the waiting area. They were staring at a TV in the corner of the room. The receptionist didn’t seem to be in a hurry, so Fox walked past her desk and towards the receiving area. Nobody stopped him or asked him what he was doing. Patients lay on trolleys, some in curtained cubicles. Fox did a circuit of the room. A member of staff was busy at a computer. He asked her where he might find Mitchell Fox.
‘He was brought in an hour ago,’ he explained, ‘from Lauder Lodge nursing home.’
‘Might not be in the system yet.’ She walked over to a marker-board on the wall and studied it. Then asked another member of the team, who nodded and approached Fox.
‘Are you a relative?’
‘I’m his son.’
‘Mr Fox has gone for an X-ray. After that, it’ll be straight to the day ward.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘We’ll know more in a little while. There’s a waiting area just—’
‘Can I see him?’
‘The receptionist will let you know.’
Fox was pointed back in the direction of reception. By the time he got there, there was no queue, so he gave his name and was told to take a seat. He slumped as best he could on the hard plastic chair and stared at the ceiling. No one was watching the TV any more; they were busy peering at the screens of their phones. A woman with a bandaged arm kept walking around. When she got too close to the doors, they opened automatically, allowing in a blast of cold air from the world outside. It was a process she seemed happy to keep repeating. There was a cupboard nearby that kept being unlocked and locked again by members of staff. Fox couldn’t see what they were doing in there exactly. The two toilet cubicles were being kept busy, as were the snack machines. One young man was
trying to get the coin slot to accept a particular ten-pence piece. Every time it was rejected, he tried again, having studied the coin for any obvious flaws. Fox eventually went over and replaced it with a ten-pence piece of his own. This one worked, but the young man looked no happier.
‘You’re welcome,’ Fox told him, returning to his seat.
One member of staff seemed to have the job of emptying the waste bin and removing any newspapers that had been left lying around. The bin bag wasn’t even half-full when he replaced it. Ten minutes later he was back, checking to see how full the new bag was, then moving the bin across to the other side of the room. Fox managed to stop himself asking why. On the TV, a man was telling another man how little a small ornament was worth. It then went for auction, and failed to sell. Was it an heirloom? Fox wondered. When first purchased, had the buyer had any inkling that it would one day feature on a daytime programme – and sorely disappoint its current owner?
The waiting area’s resident smoker returned from another cigarette break, her hacking cough heralding her arrival. Then the doors shuddered open again as the woman with the bandaged arm wandered past them. Fox turned in his seat to face her.
‘Will you bloody well stop that!’ he shouted. She looked surprised. So did the receptionist, who followed this with a frowned warning. Fox held up a hand in capitulation and went back to staring at the ceiling. It wasn’t just his dad, he realised – it was everything else, too. The questions that seemed to whirl all around him; the characters whose lives were suddenly connected to his own; the hours of sleep he was lacking; the sense of utter, abject futility …
And then his phone interrupted with a text. It was from a number he didn’t recognise, and when he opened the message it was an address, postcode and time. The postcode was FK9, the time 7.15 p.m. Fox copied the postcode into his phone’s map. The highlighted area took in Stirling University. Fox guessed that he was being invited to Alison Pears’s home, and that she and her husband lived practically next door to the university. He decided not to bother replying, but he added the phone number to his address book, just for future reference.