The Complaints

by Ian Rankin

  ‘And would I find it on my desk or under it?’ Fox asked. But there it was, lying next to his telephone. Just a name and number. He looked at it, then up at Naysmith. ‘Alison Pettifer?’

  Naysmith just shrugged, so Fox lifted the receiver and punched the number in. When it was answered, he identified himself as Inspector Fox.

  ‘Oh, right,’ the woman on the other end said. She sounded hesitant.

  ‘You called me,’ Fox persisted.

  ‘You’re Jude’s brother?’

  Fox was silent for a moment. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I live next door,’ the woman stumbled on. ‘She happened to mention once that you were in the police. That’s how I got your number . . .’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Fox repeated, aware that both Naysmith and Kaye were now listening.

  ‘Jude’s had a bit of an accident . . .’

  She tried to close the door in his face, but he pushed against it and her resistance evaporated. Instead, she marched back into her living room. It was a mid-terraced house in Saughtonhall. He didn’t know which side Alison Pettifer lived - neither set of net curtains had twitched. Each and every house on the street boasted a satellite dish, and Jude’s TV was tuned to some daytime chat-and-cookery show. She turned it off as he walked into the room.

  ‘Well now,’ was all he said. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. There was some faint bruising on her left cheek, and her left arm was in plaster, a sling cradling it. ‘Those stairs again?’

  ‘I’d had a drink.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ He was looking around the room. It smelt of alcohol and cigarettes. There was an empty vodka bottle on the floor next to the sofa. Two ashtrays, both full. A couple of crushed cigarette packets. A breakfast bar separated the living area from the small kitchen. Plates stacked up, next to discarded fast-food cartons. More empty bottles - lager; cider; cheap white wine. The carpet needed vacuuming. There was a layer of dust on the coffee table. One of the legs had been snapped off, replaced by a stack of four building bricks. Figured: Vince worked in the building trade.

  ‘Mind if I sit down?’ Fox asked.

  She tried to shrug. It wasn’t easy. He decided his safest bet was the arm of the sofa. He still had his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. There didn’t seem to be any heating in the room. His sister was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt and a baggy pair of denims. Her feet were bare.

  ‘You look a right state,’ he told her.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘You’re not exactly a poster boy yourself.’

  ‘Don’t I know it.’ He’d lifted the handkerchief from his pocket so he could blow into it.

  ‘You still haven’t got rid of that cold,’ she commented.

  ‘You still haven’t got rid of that bastard of yours,’ he replied. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Working.’

  ‘I didn’t know anyone was building anything.’

  ‘There’ve been lay-offs. He’s hanging in.’

  Fox nodded slowly. Jude was still standing up, shifting slightly from the hips. He recognised the movement. She’d done it as a kid, whenever she’d been caught out. Paraded in front of their father for a telling-off.

  ‘You not got a job yet?’

  She shook her head. The estate agent had laid her off just before Christmas. ‘Who told you?’ she asked eventually. ‘Was it next door?’

  ‘I hear things,’ was all he said.

  ‘It wasn’t anything to do with Vince,’ she stated.

  ‘We’re not in a bloody police station, Jude. This is just the two of us.’

  ‘It wasn’t him,’ she persisted.

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘I was in the kitchen Saturday . . .’

  He made show of peering over the breakfast bar. ‘Wouldn’t have thought there was room to fall over.’

  ‘Caught my arm on the corner of the washing machine as I went down . . .’

  ‘That the story you gave them at A and E?’

  ‘Is that who told you?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ He was staring towards the fireplace. There were shelves either side, filled with videos and DVDs - looked like every single episode of Sex and the City and Friends, plus Mamma Mia and other films. He gave a sigh and rubbed his hands down his face, either side of his nose and mouth. ‘You know what I’m going to say.’

  ‘It wasn’t Vince’s fault.’

  ‘You provoked him?’

  ‘We provoke each other, Malc.’

  He knew as much; could’ve told her that the neighbour often heard slanging matches. But then Jude would have known who’d called him.

  ‘If we charged him - just one time - it might put a stop to it. We’d make it a requirement he got some counselling.’

  ‘Oh, Vince would love that.’ She managed a smile; it wiped years from her face.

  ‘You’re my sister, Jude . . .’

  She looked at him, blinking, but not about to cry. ‘I know,’ she said. Then, indicating the cast on her arm: ‘Think I should still go see Dad?’

  ‘Maybe leave it.’

  ‘You won’t tell him?’

  He shook his head, then looked around the room again. ‘Want me to tidy up? Wash some dishes maybe?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Has he said sorry?’

  She nodded, keeping eye contact. Fox didn’t know whether to believe her - and what did it matter anyway? He rose to his feet, towering over her, then leaned down to peck her on the cheek.

  ‘Why does someone else have to do it?’ he whispered into her ear.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Phone me,’ he answered.

  Outside, it was snowing again. He sat in his car, wondering if Vince Faulkner’s working day would be curtailed. Faulkner was from Enfield, just north of London. Supported Arsenal, and hadn’t a good word to say for football north of the border. This had been his opening gambit when the two men had been introduced. He hadn’t been keen on the move to Scotland - ‘but she keeps bending me bleedin’ ear’. He was hoping she’d get bored and want to head south again. She. Malcolm had seldom heard him use her name. She. Her indoors. The other half. The bird. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, wondering what to do for the best. Faulkner could be working on any one of three or four dozen projects around the city. The recession had probably put the brakes on the new flats in Granton, and he reckoned Quartermile was dormant, too. Caltongate wasn’t up and running yet, and the developer was in trouble, according to the local paper.

  ‘Wild goose chase,’ he said to himself. His phone vibrated, letting him know he had a text. It was from Tony Kaye.

  We r at Minters.

  It was gone four. McEwan had obviously clocked off for the day, giving the others no reason to loiter. Fox closed his phone and turned the key in the ignition. Minter’s was a New Town bar with Old Town prices, tucked away where only the cognoscenti could find it. Never easy to find a parking space, but he knew what Kaye would have done - stuck a great big POLICE placard on the inside of the windscreen. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t: depended on the mood of the warden. Fox tried to work out a way back into the city centre that would avoid the tram works at Haymarket, then gave up. Anyone who could solve that, they should give them the Nobel Prize. Before driving off, he looked to his right, but there was no sign of Jude at her living-room window, and still nobody visible in the homes on either side. If Vince Faulkner were to turn into the street right now, what would he do? He couldn’t remember the name of the character in The Godfather, the one who’d chased the brother-in-law and thumped him with a bin lid.

  Sonny? Sonny, wasn’t it? That’s what he’d like to think he would do. Bin lid connecting with face, and don’t you touch my sister!

  What he’d like to think he would do.

  Minter’s was quiet. But then it had been quiet for several years, the landlord first blaming the smoking ban and now muttering about the downturn. Maybe he had a point: plent
y of banking types lived in the New Town, and they’d be wise to keep their heads down.

  ‘Other than bankers,’ Tony Kaye said, placing Fox’s glass of iced cola on the corner table, ‘who else can afford a house here?’

  Naysmith was drinking lager, Kaye Guinness. The landlord, sleeves rolled up, was intent on a TV quiz show. Two further customers had gone outside with their cigarettes. There was a woman seated in another corner with a friend. Kaye had taken her over a brandy and soda, then explained to Fox and Naysmith that she was a pal of his.

  ‘Does the missus know?’ Joe Naysmith had asked.

  Kaye had wagged a finger at him, then pointed it towards the woman. ‘Her name’s Margaret Sime, and if you’re ever in here and I’m not, I’d better hear that you’ve sent a drink over . . .’

  ‘Did you get parked?’ Naysmith was now asking Malcolm Fox.

  ‘Halfway up the bloody hill,’ Fox complained. Then, to Kaye: ‘I see you didn’t have any trouble.’ Kaye’s Nissan X-Trail was outside the pub’s front door, on a double yellow line and with the POLICE notice wedged in between dashboard and windscreen. Kaye just shrugged and gave a smirk, making himself comfortable and attacking what remained of his pint. Wiping a line of foam from his top lip, he fixed his gaze on Fox.

  ‘Vince has been a naughty boy again,’ he said. Fox just stared at him, but it was Naysmith who provided the explanation.

  ‘Soon as you’d left, Tony phoned the caller’s number.’

  ‘She told me about Jude’s “accident”,’ Kaye confirmed.

  ‘Leave it, will you?’ Fox cautioned, but Kaye was shaking his head. Again, it was Naysmith who spoke.

  ‘Tony looked up Vince Faulkner.’

  ‘“Looked up”?’ Fox’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘On the PNC,’ Naysmith said, slurping at his drink.

  ‘Police National Computer’s only for south of the border,’ Fox stated.

  Tony Kaye gave another shrug. ‘I know a cop in England. All I did was give him Faulkner’s name and place of birth - Enfield, right? I remember you telling me.’

  ‘You know a cop in England? I thought you hated the English.’

  ‘Not individually,’ Kaye corrected him. ‘Look, do you want to know or don’t you?’

  ‘I doubt I could stop you telling me, Tony,’ Fox said.

  But Kaye pursed his lips and folded his arms. Naysmith looked keen to bursting, but Kaye was warning him off with his eyes. The two smokers were coming back into the bar. The landlord slammed the palms of both hands against the bar top and yelled at the TV, ‘A schoolkid would’ve known that!’

  ‘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 Faul
kner 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.