The Complaints

by Ian Rankin

  ‘It gets hot in here,’ she was telling him. ‘All the hard drives we keep running. Take off your jacket if you like.’

  He gave a thin smile: all the time he’d been trying to read her, she’d been reading him, too. He dispensed with the jacket, draping it across his knees. When Inglis and Gilchrist exchanged a glance, he knew it was to do with his braces.

  ‘Other problem with our “client base”,’ she went on, ‘is that they’re getting smarter all the time. They know the hardware and software better than we do. We’re always trying to catch up. Here’s an example.’

  She had nudged the mouse on her desk with her wrist. The computer screen, which had been blank, now showed a distorted image.

  ‘We call this a “swirl”,’ she explained. ‘Offenders send each other pictures, but only after they’ve encrypted them. Then we need to devise software to allow us to un-swirl them.’ With a click of the mouse, the photo began to resolve itself into an image of a man with his arm around an Asian boy. ‘You see?’ Inglis asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Fox said.

  ‘Plenty of other tricks, too. They’ve gotten so they can hide images behind other images. If you don’t know that’s the case, you might not bother stripping them out. We’ve seen hard drives hidden inside other hard drives ...’

  ‘We’ve seen everything,’ Gilchrist stressed. Inglis looked across at her colleague.

  ‘Except we haven’t,’ she reminded him. ‘Every week there’s something new, something more revolting. All of it accessible twenty-four seven. You sit at your computer at home, surfing, maybe buying stuff or reading the gossip, and you’re about four clicks away from hell.’

  ‘Or heaven,’ Gilchrist interrupted, eyes fixed on his own screen. ‘It’s all a matter of taste. We’ve got stuff that would make the hairs on your scrotum stand on end.’

  Fox knew that the Chop Shop considered itself a breed apart, different from the other cops at Fettes HQ: thicker-skinned, resilient, toughened by the job. A macho outfit, too. He wondered how hard Annie Inglis had worked in order to fit in.

  ‘You’ve got my attention,’ was all he said. Inglis was tapping at her screen with the tip of a ballpoint pen.

  ‘This guy here,’ she said, indicating the man with the Asian boy. ‘We know who he is. We know quite a lot about him.’

  ‘Is he a cop?’

  She looked at Fox. ‘What makes you ask?’

  ‘Why else would I be here?’

  She nodded slowly. ‘Well, you’re right. But our man is an Aussie, based in Melbourne.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And, like I say, we know a lot about him.’ She opened a folder and brought out some sheets of paper. ‘He runs a website for like-minded people. There’s an entrance fee to be paid before they come aboard.’

  ‘They have to share,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Twenty-five pics minimum. ’

  ‘Pics?’

  ‘Of them with kids. Share and share alike . . .’

  ‘But there’s a nominal cash fee, too, paid by credit card,’ Inglis added. She handed Fox the top two sheets, a list of names and numbers. ‘Recognise anyone?’

  Fox went down the list twice. There were almost a hundred names. He shook his head slowly.

  ‘J. Breck?’ Inglis announced. ‘The J’s for Jamie.’

  ‘Jamie Breck ...’ The name did mean something. Then Fox got it. ‘He’s Lothian and Borders,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Inglis agreed.

  ‘If it’s the same Jamie Breck.’

  ‘Credit card comes all the way back to Edinburgh. To Jamie Breck’s bank, in fact.’

  ‘You’ve already checked?’ Fox handed back the list. Inglis was nodding.

  ‘We’ve already checked.’

  ‘Okay, then. So where do I come in?’

  ‘As of right now, his credit card’s all we’ve got. He’s not posted the photos yet - maybe he’s not going to.’

  ‘The site’s still active?’

  ‘We’re hoping they don’t catch wind of us, not until we’re good and ready.’

  ‘Members in over a dozen countries,’ Gilchrist broke in. ‘Teachers, youth leaders, church ministers . . .’

  ‘And none of them know you’re on to them?’

  ‘Us and a dozen other forces across the globe.’

  ‘One time,’ Inglis added, ‘the office in London arrested a ringleader and took over the running of his site. It took the users ten days to start suspecting something . . .’

  ‘By which time,’ Gilchrist interrupted again, ‘there was plenty of evidence against them.’

  Fox nodded and turned his attention back to Inglis. ‘What do you want PSU to do?’

  ‘Normally we would let London do the work, but this one’s local, so . . .’ She paused, fixing her gaze on Fox. ‘We want you to paint us a picture. We want to know more about Jamie Breck.’

  Fox glanced at the image on the screen. ‘And it couldn’t be a mistake?’ When he turned his attention back to Annie Inglis, she was giving a shrug.

  ‘Chief Inspector McEwan tells us you’ve just busted Glen Heaton. Breck works in the same station.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you can talk to him.’

  ‘About Heaton?’

  ‘You make it look as though it’s about Heaton. Then you tell us what you think.’

  Fox shook his head. ‘I’m not a well-liked man around those parts. I doubt Breck would give me the time of day. But if he’s dirty . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We can look into it.’

  ‘Surveillance?’

  ‘If necessary.’ He had her attention now, and even Gilchrist had stopped what he’d been doing. ‘We can look at what he gets up to on his computer. We can scrutinise his personal life.’ Fox paused, rubbing at his forehead. ‘The credit card’s all you’ve got?’

  ‘For now.’

  ‘What’s to stop him saying someone else must’ve used it?’

  ‘That’s why we need more.’ Inglis had swivelled in her chair so that her knees were a millimetre from his. She leaned forward, elbows resting on her thighs, hands clasped. ‘But he can’t suspect anything. If he does, he warns all the others. We’ll lose them.’

  ‘And the kids,’ Fox added quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s all about the kids, right? Child protection?’

  ‘Right,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Right,’ Annie Inglis echoed.

  Fox was a few steps short of the Complaints office when he stopped. He’d put his jacket back on, and was running his fingers down the lapels, just for something to do. He was thinking about DS Anthea Inglis (who preferred to be known as Annie) and her colleague Gilchrist - he didn’t even know the man’s rank or first name. Thinking, too, about the whole Chop Shop operation. PSU might be called ‘the Dark Side’, but he got the feeling Inglis and her colleague would daily peer into more darkness than he would ever know. All the same, they were a cocky bunch. At PSU, you knew everybody hated you, but CEOP was different. Fellow cops didn’t like the thought of what you’d seen, and wouldn’t talk to you for fear of what you might open their eyes and minds to. Yes, that was it: the Chop Shop was feared. Properly feared, in a way the Complaints wasn’t. Behind the locked door of 2.24 lurked a lifetime’s supply of nightmare and bogeyman.

  ‘Malcolm?’ The voice came from behind him. He turned to see Annie Inglis standing there, arms folded, legs slightly parted. She came towards him, her eyes fixed on his. ‘Here,’ she said, holding something out in front of her. It was her business card. ‘It’s got my mobile and my e-mail, just in case you feel the need.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, pretending to study the printed lines. ‘I was just . . .’

  ‘Just standing there?’ she guessed. ‘Thinking about everything?’

  He took out his wallet, sliding one of his own cards from it. She accepted it with a little bow of the head, turned and walked back along the corridor. An elegant walk, he decided. A woman sure of her abilities,
confident in her own skin, aware she was being scrutinised. Nice arse, too.

  The PSU office was a lot noisier than it had been. Bob McEwan was at his desk, busy with a phone call. He saw Fox coming towards him and made eye contact, nodding to let him know it was okay. McEwan’s desk was always tidy, but Fox knew this was because everything got tipped into its half-dozen drawers on a regular basis. Tony Kaye had gone looking for paracetamol one day and had called Fox and Naysmith over to take a look.

  ‘It’s like archaeology,’ Joe Naysmith had offered. ‘Layer upon layer . . .’

  McEwan put the phone down and started making a note to himself, his handwriting barely legible. ‘How did it go?’ he asked quietly.

  Fox rested his knuckles against the desk and leaned in towards his boss. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘It was fine. You okay with me doing this?’

  ‘Depends what you’re thinking of.’

  ‘Background check to start with, surveillance afterwards as needed.’

  ‘Hack into his computer?’

  Fox shrugged. ‘First things first.’

  ‘They asked you to talk to him?’

  ‘Not sure that’s such a good idea. He might be mates with Heaton.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ McEwan said, ‘so I had a quiet word.’

  Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who with?’

  ‘Someone in the know.’ Sensing that Fox was trying to decipher the handwritten note, McEwan turned it over. ‘Breck and Heaton are rivals more than buddies. That gives you your excuse.’

  ‘But our work on Heaton’s done and dusted.’

  ‘For now it is, but who’s to know?’

  ‘And you’ll back me up? Sign off on the paperwork?’

  ‘Whatever you need. DCC is already in the loop.’

  Meaning the Deputy Chief Constable, Adam Traynor, whose authorisation was required for any of the small-scale covert stuff. McEwan’s phone rang and he placed his hand on the receiver, ready to pick it up, gaze still locked on to Fox. ‘I’ll leave it to your discretion, Foxy.’ Then, as Fox straightened up, readying to leave: ‘Did you enjoy your long weekend, by the way?’

  ‘Managed two nights in Monaco,’ Fox replied.

  As he passed Tony Kaye’s desk, he wondered how much the Human Radar had picked up. Kaye appeared to be busy at his keyboard, typing in some notes. ‘Anything interesting?’ Fox asked.

  ‘I could ask you the same,’ Kaye responded, glancing in the direction of the Boss’s corner.

  ‘Might be room for you to climb aboard,’ Fox decided there and then, scratching at the underside of his chin.

  ‘Just give me a shout, Foxy.’

  Fox nodded distractedly and made it to the relative safety of his desk. Naysmith was brewing another pot of coffee.

  ‘Three sugars!’ Kaye called to him.

  Naysmith gave a twitch of the mouth, then noticed that he was being watched. He waved an empty mug in Fox’s direction, but Fox shook his head.

  3

  The HR department were never happy to see someone from the Complaints. HR - Human Resources - used to be Personnel, a term Fox preferred. HR, meantime, would have preferred it if officers like him couldn’t come swanning in as if they owned the place. HR felt prickly, and with good reason. They had to provide open access, access denied to practically anyone else. McEwan had called ahead to let them know Fox was on his way. He’d then typed and signed a letter verifying Fox’s need to see the records. No names were mentioned, and this was what riled some of the HR staff - the assumption being that they couldn’t be trusted with the information. If they knew who the Complaints had their eye on, they might pass the information along, crippling any inquiry at its very start. It had happened once in the past - over a decade back - since when the rules had been changed so that the Complaints had total privacy when they did their search. To this end, the head of HR had to vacate her private room, so that Fox could use it. She had to log on to her computer, then leave it available for his use. She had to hand him the keys to the many filing cabinets in the main open-plan office. Then she had to stand with arms folded, fuming, eyes averted as he went about his business.

  Fox had been through the procedure many times, and had tried at the start to be cordial, apologetic even. But Mrs Stephens was not to be placated, so he’d given up. She still took some pleasure in delaying him and his ilk, reading the Chief Inspector’s notification with the greatest care and attention, sometimes even phoning McEwan back to double-check. Then she would ask for Fox’s warrant card and note his details on a form, which he had to sign. She would then check his signature against the one on his ID, exhale noisily, and hand over the keys, her computer, her desk and her office.

  ‘Thank you,’ he would say, usually his first and last words of the encounter.

  HR was on the ground floor of Police HQ. Lothian and Borders was not the largest force in Scotland, and Fox often wondered how they filled their time. They were civilian staff - most of them women. They stared at him from above their computer screens. One might wink or blow him a kiss. He knew some of their faces from the canteen. But there was never any conversation, no offer of coffee or tea - Mrs Stephens saw to that.

  Fox made sure no one was watching as he lifted Jamie Breck’s file from the cabinet. He held it to his chest so the name couldn’t be seen, locked the drawer and headed back to Mrs Stephens’ office. Closed the door after him and sat down. The chair was still warm, which he minded only a little. Inside the slim file were the details of Breck’s police career, along with earlier academic attainments. He was twenty-seven and had joined the force six years previously, spending the first two in training and in uniform, before transferring to CID. His assessments were favourable, bordering on glowing. There was no mention of any of the cases he’d worked on, but also no indication of trouble or disciplinary concerns. ‘A model officer’ was one remark, repeated a little later on. One thing Fox did learn was that Breck lived in the same part of town as him. His address was on the new estate close by the Morrisons supermarket. Fox had driven around the estate when it had first been built, wondering if he needed a bigger house.

  ‘Small world,’ he muttered to himself now.

  The computer data added little. There had been the occasional sick day, but nothing stress-related. There had never been a need for counselling or referral. Breck’s bosses at Torphichen Place - his base these past three years - couldn’t get enough of him. Reading between the lines, Fox could see that Breck was being fast-tracked. He was already young for a detective sergeant, and DI looked achievable before the age of thirty. Fox himself had been thirty-eight. Breck had been educated privately at George Watson’s College. He’d played rugby for the second fifteen. A BSc from the University of Edinburgh. Parents still alive, both of them GPs. An older brother, Colin, who had emigrated to the USA, where he worked as an engineer. Fox pulled out his handkerchief, found a dry bit, and emptied his nose into it. The noise was enough to have Mrs Stephens peering in at him through the narrow window next to the door. Her face had stiffened further with distaste. He’d be leaving his germs all over her office, defiling her private fiefdom. Though he didn’t really need to, he blew his nose again, almost as noisily.

  Then he closed the online file. Mrs Stephens knew what he would do next - shut down her whole system. Yet another precaution - he wanted his search to be erased as far as possible. But before he did that, he typed in another name - Anthea Inglis. Definitely against procedure, but he did it anyway. It only took a couple of minutes for him to learn that she wasn’t married and had never been married.

  That she’d grown up on a farm in Fife.

  That she’d attended the local college before moving to Edinburgh.

  That she’d had a variety of jobs before joining the force.

  That her full name was Florence Anthea Inglis.

  If one of her names had come from The Generation Game, he wondered if the other might have originated with The Magic Roundabout. Fox had to stifle a smile as he began
closing everything down. He emerged from the office, leaving the door ajar, and replaced the file in its cabinet, making sure it couldn’t be differentiated from any of the others. When he was satisfied, he closed and locked the drawer and made to hand the key to Mrs Stephens. She was resting her weight against the edge of a colleague’s desk, arms still folded, so he placed the key down next to her instead.

  ‘Till next time,’ he said, turning away. One of the women glanced up at him as he passed, and he managed a wink of his own.

  When he got back to the Complaints office, Naysmith told him there was a message waiting.