by Ian Rankin
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.’
‘Why not?’
‘No particular reason.’
‘Or too many to mention?’ Breck nodded to himself. ‘My brother’s partner . . . I don’t get on too well with him, either.’
‘Him?’
‘My brother’s gay.’
‘I didn’t know.’
Breck looked at Fox. ‘No reason why you should.’
That’s right, and no reason to know that that same brother’s an engineer in America . . .
Fox cleared his throat. ‘So what’s your feeling about this?’ he asked.
Breck took his time answering. ‘There’s a hole in the fence, next to where the body was found. Little side road there, too, where a car or van could park.’
‘The body was dumped?’
Breck shrugged and began working his neck muscles. ‘I asked Ms Fox when she last saw Mr Faulkner.’
‘And?’
‘She says Saturday afternoon.’ Fox could hear the grinding of gristle in the younger man’s neck and shoulders. ‘That cast looks pretty new ...’
‘Happened Saturday,’ Fox confirmed, keeping his voice level, concentrating on the road ahead: two more sets of traffic lights and one roundabout and they’d be there.
‘So she heads to A and E and Mr Faulkner goes out on the town.’ Breck stopped exercising and leaned for
ward a little, turning his head so he could make eye contact with Fox. ‘Fell over in the kitchen?’
‘That’s what she told me.’
‘And you repeated it for my benefit . . . but your face tightened just a little when you spoke.’
‘Are you supposed to be Columbo or something?’
‘Just observant, Inspector Fox. You need to take the next left.’
‘I know.’
‘And there’s that facial tightening again,’ Jamie Breck said, just loud enough for Fox to hear.
The police cordon was still in place, but the uniform on duty eased up the tape so they could pass beneath. There was a couple of journalists from the local paper, but both were old enough to know they would ask in vain for a quote. A few people watched from the towpath, not that there was much to see. The Scene of Crime Unit had already picked over the area. Photos showed the body in situ - Breck grabbed some from a SOCO and handed them to Fox. Vince Faulkner had been found face down, arms thrown in front of him. His skull had been crushed by something heavy. The hair was matted with blood. There were grazes to the palms and fingers - consistent with someone trying to defend himself.
‘We won’t know about internal injuries until after the autopsy,’ Breck commented. Fox nodded and looked around. It was a bleak spot. Mounds of earth and rubble from where some of the old brewery had been demolished. Warehouses remained, emptied of their contents and with windows pulverised. On the other side of the road, groundworks were under way for what would become a ‘mixed social development’, according to the billboard - shops, office space and apartments (no one seemed to call them flats these days). Cops in overalls were working in a line, trying to locate the murder weapon. There were tens of thousands of possibilities, from half-bricks to rocks and concrete rubble.
‘Could have been tossed into the canal,’ Fox mused.
‘We’ve got divers coming,’ Breck assured him.
‘Not much blood on the ground.’ Fox was studying the photos again.
‘No.’
‘Which is why you think he was dumped here?’
‘Maybe.’
‘In which case it’s not just a mugging gone wrong.’
‘No comment.’ Breck looked to the skies and took a deep breath.
‘I know,’ Fox said, intercepting the speech. ‘I can’t get involved. I shouldn’t make it personal. I mustn’t get in the way.’
‘Pretty much.’ Breck had taken the photos from him so he could flick through them. ‘Anything you want to tell me about your sister’s partner?’
‘No.’
‘He broke her arm, didn’t he?’
‘You’ll have to ask her that.’
Breck stared at him, then nodded slowly and kicked at a small stone, sending it rolling along the ground. ‘How long do you reckon this’ll stay a building site?’
‘Who knows?’
‘Someone told me HBOS were moving their corporate headquarters here.’
‘That might not happen for a while.’
‘I hope you didn’t have shares.’
Fox gave a snort, then stuck out a hand for the younger man to take. ‘Thanks for letting me come here. I appreciate it.’
‘Rest assured, Inspector, we’ll be doing all we can - and not just because you’re a fellow traveller.’ Breck gave a wink as he released Fox’s hand.
Twenty-five-pic minimum . . . You like looking at young kids, DS Breck, and it’s my job to hang you out to dry ...
‘Thanks again,’ Malcolm Fox said. ‘Can I drop you back at the mortuary?’
‘I’m going to stay here a while.’ Breck paused, as if deep in thought. ‘PSU,’ he eventually said, ‘just got through mangling one of my colleagues.’
‘It’d take more than the Complaints to mangle Glen Heaton.’
‘Were you part of that team?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘No real reason.’
‘You’re not particularly a friend of his, are you?’
Breck stared at him. ‘What makes you ask?’
‘I’m the Complaints, DS Breck - I see everything and hear everything. ’
‘I’ll bear that in mind, Inspector,’ Jamie Breck said.
Fox called the office from his car and told Tony Kaye they’d have to hold fire on Jamie Breck. Kaye, naturally, asked why.
‘He’s in charge of Faulkner.’
Kaye was making a whistling sound as Fox ended the call. When his phone rang, he answered without thinking.
‘Look, Tony, I’ll talk to you later.’
There was silence for a moment, then a female voice: ‘It’s Annie Inglis. Is this a bad time?’
‘Not a great time, Annie, if I’m being honest.’
‘Anything I can do to help?’
‘No, but thanks for the offer.’
‘I got your message ...’
The horn in the car behind Fox started blaring as he headed down a street meant only for taxis and buses.
‘There’s been a complication. My sister’s partner’s turned up dead.’
‘I’m sorry ...’
‘Don’t be - he was an evil little sod. But I’ve just met the investigating officer. He’s a DS called Jamie Breck.’
‘Oh.’
‘So the job you wanted me to do should probably go to someone else. In fact, a couple of my colleagues are already briefed.’
‘Right.’ She paused. ‘So where are you now?’
‘On my way to my sister’s place.’
‘How is she?’
‘That’s what I’m going to find out.’
‘Let me know, will you?’
Fox glanced in his rearview mirror. A patrol car was behind him, blue roof-lights flashing. ‘Got to go,’ he said, ending the call.
It took him a whole five minutes to discuss his situation with the officers. He’d tried showing them his warrant card without letting them see he was Complaints and Conduct, but they seemed to know anyway. Was he aware he’d made an illegal manoeuvre? And did he recall the law about driving while holding a conversation on a mobile phone? He managed to sound apologetic; managed not to explain where he was headed and why - didn’t see any reason the sods needed to know. In the end, they wrote him out a penalty ticket.
‘Nobody’s above the law,’ the elder of the two cautioned him. Fox thanked the man and got back into his car. They did what they always did - tailed him a few hundred more yards before signalling right and heading elsewhere. It was what happened when you were the Complaints - no favours from your colleagues. In fact, just the opposite. Which got Fox thinking about Jamie Breck again . . .
He found a parking space along the street from Jude’s house. Alison Pettifer opened the door. She’d closed the curtains in the living room and kitchen - out of respect, Fox surmised.
‘Where’s Jude?’ he asked.
‘Upstairs. I made her some tea with plenty of sugar.’
Fox nodded, looking around the living room. It seemed to him that Pettifer had started the process of tidying up. He thanked her and signalled that he was going to go see his sister. She pressed a hand to his arm. Didn’t say anything, but her eyes told a story. Go easy on her. He patted the hand and went out into the hall. The stairs were steep and narrow - difficult to fall down them without becoming wedged halfway. Three doors led off the cramped landing - bathroom and two bedrooms. One bedroom had been turned into Vince Faulkner’s lair. Boxes of junk, an old hi-fi and racks of rock CDs, plus a desk with a cheap computer. The door was ajar, so Fox peered in. The slatted blinds had been drawn closed. A couple of men’s magazines lay on the floor - Nuts and Zoo. Their covers showed near-identical blondes with their arms covering their breasts. Fox tapped on the next door along, and turned the handle. Jude was lying on the bed with the duvet cocooned around her. She wasn’t asleep, though. The tea sat untouched on the bedside table, beside an empty tumbler. The room smelled faintly of vodka.