by Ian Rankin
‘Is she all right, though?’ Fox persisted.
Giles made eye contact with him for the first time since coming in. ‘We’ve not started the waterboarding yet, if that’s what you’re asking. Tea and biccies and a female officer for company last time I looked in.’ Giles leaned forward so his elbows rested against the table. ‘It’s a bad business,’ he stated. Fox just nodded. ‘When did you last see Mr Faulkner?’
‘Before Christmas - November maybe.’
‘You didn’t have much time for him?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t blame you. You knew he was using your sister as a punch-bag, though?’ Fox stared at him but didn’t answer. ‘See, if that’d been my kith and kin, I’d’ve been on the bastard like a ton of shit.’
‘I’d spoken to her about it. She told me her arm was an accident. ’
‘No way you believed her.’ Giles leaned back again, bunching his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘So how come you didn’t face up to him?’
‘I never got the chance.’
‘Or you were yellow . . .’ Giles let the accusation float in the air between them. When Fox didn’t rise to it, he bared his teeth. ‘Her arm was broken Saturday, wasn’t it?’
‘So she says.’
‘When did you find out about it?’
There was a noise in the corridor outside. A young male by the sound of it, not exactly cooperating as he was led to or from his cell.
‘That’ll be Mollison,’ Giles explained. ‘Wee wanker’s a one-man crime wave. Soon as I’m done here, I’ll be having words with him.’
‘Is he anything to do with . . .?’
Giles shook his head. ‘Mollison’ll break into your home or car, but it’s unlikely he’d bludgeon you to death. Takes rage, that sort of attack. The sort of rage that comes from a grudge.’
‘I hadn’t seen Faulkner since before Christmas.’
‘Did you know back then?’
‘Know what?’
‘That he was a wife-beater.’
‘Jude wasn’t his wife.’
‘Did you, though?’ Giles’s small eyes, staring out from his fleshy face, were drilling into Fox. Though he fought against it, Fox wriggled in his chair.
‘I knew their relationship was tempestuous.’
Giles offered a snort. ‘You’re not here to write a Mills and fucking Boon!’
‘Jude always said she gave as good as she got.’
‘Didn’t make it right, Inspector. Seems to me you shied away from saying anything. You never pulled Faulkner aside for a quiet word?’
‘After the arm I would’ve done, if there’d been the chance.’
‘So we’re back to my original question - when did you find out?’
‘A neighbour called me on Monday afternoon.’
Giles nodded slowly. ‘Mrs Pettifer,’ he stated. Yes, stood to reason she’d have been questioned by the inquiry team . . . ‘I’m assuming you then went looking for him?’
‘No.’ Fox was peering down at his hands, clasped across his lap.
‘No?’ Giles sounded unconvinced.
‘What difference would it have made - he was already dead, wasn’t he?’
‘Come on, Fox - you know time of death’s always open to debate ... a few hours this way or that.’
‘Did he turn up for work Monday morning?’
Giles paused a moment before answering, weighing up what he did and didn’t want Fox to know. Eventually, he shook his head.
‘So what was he doing? Where was he hiding himself from Saturday night onwards? Someone must have seen him.’
‘Whoever killed him saw him.’
‘You can’t think it was Jude.’
Giles pursed his lips and removed his hands from their pockets, cupping them behind his head. As his shirt stretched, gaps appeared between the buttons, revealing a white string vest beneath. The room felt warm to Fox. He knew they probably kept it stuffy: didn’t want suspects getting too comfortable. His scalp felt itchy, perspiration cloying there. But if he scratched or wiped, Giles would think the interview was getting to him.
‘I’ve seen Faulkner on the slab,’ the detective was saying. ‘Plenty of muscle on him. Not sure a one-armed alcoholic girlie weighing all of eight stone could have outpointed him.’ Giles was watching for a reaction. ‘Someone could’ve helped her, though.’
‘You’re not going to find anything in the house.’ In the distance, a door slammed. A truck or bus was idling outside, causing the frosted window pane to shiver noisily in its frame.
‘Plenty of evidence of a chaotic lifestyle,’ Giles went on. ‘Even when someone’s had a go at tidying up.’
‘That was the neighbour; she did it out of kindness.’
‘I’m not suggesting anyone was trying to cover their tracks.’ Giles gave a cold smile. ‘And by the way - how’s your case against Glen Heaton shaping up?’
‘Wondered how long it would take you . . .’
‘He’s loving it, you know - full pay, feet up at home while we shiver and scrape ice off the windscreen of a morning.’ Giles’s meaty hands came to rest on the table. He leaned over them. ‘And exonerated at the end of it.’
‘I go easy on Heaton and you lay off my sister?’
Giles tried for a look of mock outrage. ‘Did I say that? I don’t think I said that.’ He paused. ‘But I can’t help feeling a sense of ... what? Irony? Poetic justice?’
‘A man’s dead, in case you’d forgotten.’
‘I’ve not forgotten, Inspector. You can be absolutely sure of that. Every detail of Faulkner’s life is going to be pored over by my men. Your sister’s going to have to get used to questions and more questions. The media are showing an interest, too, so she might want to stop answering her door and her phone.’
‘Don’t take this out on her,’ Fox said quietly.
‘Or you’ll make a complaint?’ Giles smiled. ‘Now wouldn’t that be the cherry on the top?’
‘Are we finished?’ Fox was starting to get to his feet.
‘For now - unless there’s anything you want to tell me.’
Fox could think of a few things, but all he did was shake his head.
Out in the hallway, he tried a few of the doors, but Jude wasn’t in any of the other interview rooms. At the far end was the door leading to the station’s cramped reception area, and beyond that the outside world. A familiar face was loitering on the steps when Fox emerged.
‘Can we take a walk?’ Jamie Breck asked, cutting short the phone call he’d been making on his mobile.
‘My car’s right here.’ Fox nodded towards it.
‘All the same . . .’ Breck gestured and started moving up the slope towards the traffic lights. ‘How did it go with DCI Giles?’
‘How do you think it went?’
Breck gave a slow nod. ‘I reckoned you’d want to know how things are shaping up.’
‘Is that how it works - Giles gives me a doing and then you start in with the “good cop” routine?’
‘He’d kill me if he knew I was talking to you.’ Breck looked over his shoulder as they rounded the corner into Morrison Street.
‘Then why are you?’
‘I don’t like the politics - us on our side, you on yours.’ Breck was walking briskly. It was a young man’s gait, purposeful and strong, as if the future held a clear destination. Fox, struggling to keep up, could feel the sweat growing chill at his hairline.
‘Where’s my sister?’ he asked.
‘On her way home, I think.’
‘Off the record, what’s your view of Glen Heaton?’
Breck’s nose wrinkled. ‘I could see that he cut a few corners.’
‘He drove on every pavement he saw.’
‘That’s his style - pretty effective, too.’
‘I think your boss just tried to do a deal with me.’
‘What sort of deal?’
‘Heaton for my sister ...’ Breck gave a little whistle. ‘But since my sister hasn’t done any
thing ...’
‘You turned him down?’ Breck guessed.
‘You don’t seem surprised he made the offer.’
Breck shrugged. ‘All I’m wondering is why you’re telling me.’
‘When we nail Heaton, there’ll be a vacancy at DI.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You’re not ambitious?’
‘Of course I’m ambitious - isn’t everyone? Aren’t you?’
‘Not especially.’ The two men walked in silence for a few paces.
‘So how did it go with Bad Billy?’ Breck eventually asked.
‘He sees the investigation as a way of getting at me, and that may colour his judgement . . . take him down any number of wrong roads.’
Breck was nodding. ‘Did he tell you about the CCTV?’
Fox looked at the younger man. ‘What about it?’
‘I’ll assume he didn’t.’ Breck took a deep breath. ‘There’s a pub in Gorgie ... Faulkner wasn’t exactly a regular, but he went in occasionally. They’ve got CCTV inside and out.’
‘And?’
Breck stopped suddenly and turned to face Malcolm Fox, studying him. ‘I’m not sure how much of this I should be telling you.’
‘What’s the pub called?’
‘Marooned. Do you know it?’ Breck watched the older man shake his head. ‘It’s only been open a year or so.’
‘Vince Faulkner was caught on camera?’ Fox prompted.
‘Saturday night. A few rugby fans were in - Welsh guys. Words were exchanged and they took it outside.’
‘They beat him up?’
Breck shook his head. ‘From the footage I’ve seen, he pushed one of them and they gave his head a slap. Three against one . . . Faulkner weighed it up and sloped off with a few final insults.’
‘They didn’t go after him?’
‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t bump into them again later.’
‘No.’ Fox was thoughtful.
‘Your sister says he doesn’t have any family left down south - is that right?’
Fox shrugged. ‘She’d know better than me.’ He paused. ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with her, you know.’
Breck nodded slowly. ‘All the same . . . it’s the way the game’s played.’
‘Will her house be a mess?’
‘I asked the SOCOs to go easy.’
‘They won’t have found anything.’ The two men had started walking again. When they turned left into Dewar Place, Fox realised they were doing a circuit. Another left into the lane and they’d be back at the police station and Fox’s car.
‘You live quite close to me,’ Breck was saying.
Fox opened his mouth to reply, then made a swallowing motion instead. He’d been about to say, I know.
‘Is that right?’ was what he eventually answered.
‘It came up,’ Breck explained with a shrug. ‘I’m on the estate behind Morrisons.’
‘You married?’
‘Girlfriend.’
‘How serious?’
‘Only a couple of months - she’s not moved in yet. How about you?’
‘I used to be married,’ Fox replied.
‘Family life’s tough when you’re a cop,’ Breck decided.
‘Yes, it is,’ Fox agreed. He was thinking about the girlfriend. Plenty of abusers and offenders had partners. It made for good cover - ‘the quiet family man’. Only a tiny part of their everyday life was given over to their secret self. On the other hand, there were probably lots of men out there who’d stumbled upon websites they wished they hadn’t, then had lingered . . . not altogether sure why. Drawn in by something.
How many, though, ended up handing over their credit card?
‘Is that what you’ve got so far?’ Fox asked. ‘Marooned and some Welsh rugby fans?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘No sightings Sunday or Monday?’
‘It’s early days, Inspector.’
Fox nodded and thought of something. ‘Where did he work?’ ‘You don’t know?’
‘I know he was a labourer . . .’
‘He was on a short-term contract at Salamander Point.’
‘I thought it had gone bust?’
‘Not quite.’ They had almost reached the end of Dewar Place Lane. Breck touched Fox on the shoulder. ‘Best if we split up here.’
Fox nodded. ‘Thanks for the chat.’
Breck smiled and stuck out his hand. The two men shook.
7
Fox called Lauder Lodge from the car. They asked if he wanted to speak to his father, but he told them just to pass on the message. He couldn’t take Mitch to Jude’s today. Maybe tomorrow.
Marooned was about halfway between Torphichen Place and Saughtonhall. It was down a side street, not far from the Heart of Midlothian stadium. Fox didn’t get out of the car, just sat there long enough to get an idea of the place. The single-storey brick building dated back to the seventies. Must have been a gap site at one time, maybe a garage or builder’s yard before that. Four-storey tenements flanked it, with another across the street. A chalkboard to the left of the main door promised quiz nights, karaoke and hot food. There was a double-measure/single-price deal on spirits. Just the one CCTV camera, bolted high up on the wall and protected by a wire cage. Fox knew he could go inside and flash his warrant card, ask to see the footage, but what good would it do? And if word got back to Billy Giles that he’d been there . . . Instead, he executed a three-point turn and got back on to the road to Saughtonhall.
The door was answered by a woman he didn’t know. He introduced himself as Jude’s brother.
‘I’m Sandra,’ the woman said. ‘Sandra Hendry.’ She was around Jude’s age, with dark, tired eyes and a blotchy face. The outfit - artfully ripped and patched denims; top trimmed to show her midriff - would have suited someone half her age and forty pounds lighter. Her hair resembled candyfloss, beginning to darken at its roots. Gold hoop earrings dangled from her lobes. Her nose and tongue were pierced and studded. ‘Jude’s in bed,’ she said, leading him inside. ‘Do you want to go up?’
‘In a minute.’ They were in the living room by now. The place looked relatively tidy. The woman called Sandra had retreated to the armchair and was crossing one leg over the other. The TV was on, but with the sound just audible. A tanned man seemed to be trying to train an unruly dog.
‘Love this,’ Sandra commented. Fox noticed that one of her ankles sported a tattoo of a scorpion.
‘How’s she doing?’ Fox asked, commencing a circuit of the room.
‘Just got back from the Gestapo . . .’ She broke off and stared at him, eyes widening as she remembered what Jude’s brother did for a living.
‘I’ve heard worse,’ he reassured her.
‘She was shattered, reckoned a nap might help.’
Fox nodded his understanding. Flipping open the lid of the kitchen bin, he saw that its inner bag had been removed. Forensics would be busy at their Howdenhall HQ, poring over its contents.
‘I appreciate you looking after her.’
Sandra shrugged. ‘My shift doesn’t start till four.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘The Asda on Chesser Avenue.’ She offered him a stick of gum, but he shook his head. The empty bottles and cans had gone. Ashtrays had been cleaned. The breakfast bar now boasted only a couple of dirty mugs and a pizza carton.
‘Did you ever meet Vince?’ Fox asked.
‘Four of us used to go out.’
‘You and your partner?’
‘He works with Vince.’ She paused, stopped chewing. ‘Past tense, I suppose.’
‘He’s in construction, then?’