The Complaints

by Ian Rankin

  ‘He could be, if he’s doing what the Chop Shop say he is.’

  ‘A joint operation?’

  ‘I think DS Inglis or her colleague would need to be in the van . . .’

  ‘Is her colleague as tasty as she is?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Fox looked over towards the coffee machine. ‘You’d need Naysmith, too, of course.’

  Kaye seemed to deflate. ‘Sadly, that’s true.’ Naysmith was the one who knew how to get the best out of the technology.

  ‘But while he’s breaking sweat,’ Fox added, ‘you’ll have plenty of time to work your charm on DS Inglis.’

  ‘Also true,’ Kaye agreed, perking up again. ‘But where would you be?’

  ‘I can’t get involved, Tony.’

  Kaye nodded his acceptance of this. ‘Tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘Sooner the better. The van’s not on other duties?’

  Kaye shook his head. ‘Cold night for it. Might need to snuggle up for warmth.’

  ‘I’m sure DS Inglis would like that. Go tell Naysmith and I’ll let the Chop Shop know.’

  Fox watched Kaye retreat, then picked up the telephone and punched in the number for CEOP. Inglis answered, and he cupped his hand to his mouth so Kaye wouldn’t overhear.

  ‘We can do a surveillance tonight. It’ll be two of my men - Kaye and Naysmith.’

  ‘Nights are . . .’

  Fox knew what she was about to say. ‘Difficult? Yes, with your son and everything. But as it happens, Sergeant Kaye would be a lot more comfortable with a male officer.’

  ‘Gilchrist would be up for it,’ Annie Inglis stated. Then, prickling: ‘Why’s Kaye uncomfortable working with a woman officer?’

  ‘It’s women in general, Annie,’ Fox explained in an undertone.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. Kaye and Naysmith were approaching his desk, so Fox ended the call.

  ‘That’s sorted, then,’ he told them.

  Tony Kaye just rubbed his hands together and smiled.

  8

  On his way home that evening, Fox stopped off at a Chinese restaurant. He’d half a mind to take a table, but the place was empty - it would just have been him and the staff. So instead he ordered some food to eat at home. Fifteen minutes later, he was in the car, the carrier bag on the passenger seat: chicken with fresh ginger and spring onion; soft noodles; Chinese greens. The owner had offered him a helping of prawn crackers on the house, but Fox had declined. Once home, he emptied the whole lot on to a plate, then decided it was too much and scooped half the noodles back into their container. He ate at the dining table, a dishtowel tucked into his shirt collar. There had been no messages on his phone, and no mail waiting for him. A couple of dogs were having an argument a street or two away. A motorbike passed the house, being driven too quickly. Fox turned the radio on to the Birdsong channel, poured himself a glass of Appletiser, and thought back to the visit to Lauder Lodge.

  He’d picked Jude up at four as agreed, the two of them not saying much on the drive. The staff at the care home had tried not to look too interested in Jude. It wasn’t just the cast on her arm - they’d been reading their papers and watching the local TV news. They knew who she was and what had happened.

  ‘I forgot to wear my mourning veil,’ Jude muttered to her brother as they headed down the corridor to their father’s room. Mitch was waiting for them. He insisted on getting to his feet so he could offer Jude a consoling embrace. As they all sat down, two staff members arrived to ask if they wanted a cup of tea. Mitch decided this would be acceptable. But after the tea had been fetched, another staffer stuck her head round the door to see if they might like a biscuit. Malcolm Fox decided enough was enough, and closed the door. But almost immediately there was a knock. This time they wanted Mr Fox to know that it was whist night, starting straight after supper.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘Now bugger off and leave us in peace.’

  He turned his attention back to his daughter. ‘How are you, Jude?’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘You don’t look it. It’s hellish about that man of yours.’

  ‘His name’s Vince, Dad.’

  ‘Hellish,’ Mitch Fox repeated, staring at her arm.

  ‘Sorry, Dad,’ Fox apologised. ‘I should have told you . . .’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I fell in the kitchen,’ Jude blurted out.

  ‘I’m sure you did,’ her father muttered.

  The visit hadn’t been a complete disaster. Mitch had managed not to say anything like ‘I told you so’ or ‘He was never right for you’; Jude had managed to say nothing to offend her father.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ Malcolm’s father had chided him at one point. Fox had just shrugged, making show of concentrating on the cup of tea he was holding.

  Afterwards, he’d driven Jude home, asking her if she wanted any company. She’d shaken her head, told him Alison was going to look in. Then she’d pecked him on the cheek before exiting the car.

  Sitting at his dining table, reflecting back on that moment, Fox wasn’t sure why he’d been so startled by Jude’s gesture. Maybe it was because, like many another family, they so seldom showed affection. There might be a kiss or a hug at Christmas. Or at funerals, of course. But he hadn’t seen Jude this past Christmas, and the last family funeral had been an aunt the previous summer.

  ‘Thanks,’ Jude had said, closing the car door. He’d watched her all the way into her house. She didn’t pause to wave. And after her front door was closed and the living-room light came on, she hadn’t come to the window to offer a signal of goodbye.

  Back at Lauder Lodge, Mitch had asked if he should give Audrey Sanderson a buzz - ‘I’m sure she’d like to see you.’ But Jude had asked him not to, and Fox got the feeling Mrs Sanderson herself was keeping well out of the way, not wishing to interfere.

  Scraping the leftovers into the bin, Fox wondered what his father thought of him. Mitch could have been living here with him - there was plenty of space. The stairs might have been an issue - the very argument Fox had used to himself when deciding his father’s future. Besides, at Lauder Lodge the old boy had made friends. True, that might have happened in Oxgangs as well - there was a daily get-together of older people at the local church. But no . . . Lauder Lodge had been the best option and outcome. Lauder Lodge had been the right thing to do.

  He started to make himself some tea, but stopped - the taste of the cup he’d drunk at Lauder Lodge was still at the back of his throat, dissuading him from repeating the experience. There was more Appletiser in the fridge, but he didn’t fancy it. He didn’t know what he wanted. Through in the living room, he tried all the TV channels, without finding anything he was willing to waste time on. He supposed he could have an early night, catch up on some reading, but it wasn’t even nine o’clock. Two hours until the Breck surveillance was due to start. Joe Naysmith had asked the obvious question - ‘Is everything in order?’

  Meaning paperwork. Meaning the green light from on high. Naysmith: cautious and scrupulous. Fox had assured him it was ‘in the post’, shorthand for ‘to be dealt with at a later date’. Kaye had told the younger man not to worry, ruffling his hand through Naysmith’s hair. Their excuse: McEwan’s absence. Plus the Chop Shop’s stipulation that it was an emergency.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ Fox had stated.

  Everything would be fine.

  A DVD . . . maybe he could watch a film. But nothing jumped out at him as an obvious candidate. He thought of the DVDs in Jude’s house, none of them Vince Faulkner’s choices - romantic comedies; dreams of another, less imperfect life. He tried to remember what Jude’s ambitions had been, back when they’d both been kids, but nothing came to mind. What about him - had he always wanted to be a detective? Yes, pretty much. The Hearts first team had never come calling, and vacancies for film stars seemed not to be advertised. Besides, he’d liked telling friends, I’m going to be a cop, relishing the words and the effect they had on some people.

  Cop, coppe
r.

  Filth, pig.

  He’d been called worse, too, down the years - and sometimes by his own kind, colleagues who’d crossed the line, gone bad, been found out. He imagined Jamie Breck, clean and shiny on the surface, heading home and locking the door after him. Shutting the curtains. All alone, no prying eyes, warming up his computer, allowing his secret self to breathe. And unaware of the van parked outside, picking up every key he tapped, every site he visited. Everything he viewed, the people in the van viewed too. Fox had seen it in action. He’d felt a shiver up his spine as love affairs were revealed, criminal connections confirmed, frauds and frailties exposed.

  That how you get your kicks? Peeping fucking Tom . . .

  Yes, he’d been called worse. Twisted bastard . . . shafting your own kind . . . Lower than slime . . .

  Lowest of the low. But still better than you - the only response possible.

  Still better than you.

  He was about the try the words out aloud when his doorbell sounded. He checked his watch. It was half past nine. He stood in the hall for a moment, listening for clues. When the bell rang again, he opened the door an inch.

  ‘Hiya,’ Jamie Breck said.

  Fox opened the door all the way. He glanced to right and left. ‘This is a surprise,’ was all he managed to say.

  Breck gave a little laugh. ‘I’d be lying if I said I was just passing, but in a way it’s true. I sometimes take a walk at night, just clearing my head. When I saw the sign for your street, it dawned on me where I was. Maybe I’d planned to end up here all along.’ He offered a shrug. ‘The subconscious is a wonderful thing.’

  ‘Is it?’ Fox was weighing up his options. ‘Well, you better come in.’

  ‘Only if I’m not disturbing you . . . ?’

  Fox led Breck into the living room. ‘Do you want something to drink?’

  ‘Are you having anything?’

  ‘I don’t drink.’

  ‘I don’t think I knew that.’

  ‘Well, now you can add it to my profile, can’t you?’

  Breck smiled at this. ‘No alcohol in the house, not even for visitors?’ He watched Fox shake his head. ‘Meaning you don’t trust yourself with the stuff - am I right?’

  ‘What can I do for you, DS Breck?’

  ‘This isn’t an official visit, Malcolm - call me Jamie.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Jamie?’ Breck was seated on the sofa, Fox in the armchair to his right. Breck had twisted himself round so he was facing the older man. He had changed his clothes since leaving work - a denim jacket, black cords, purple polo neck.

  ‘Nice place,’ he said, studying the room. ‘Bigger than mine, but then mine’s newer - they tend to build smaller these days . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ Fox agreed, waiting to hear what Breck really wanted to say.

  ‘We’ve done what we can with the footage from outside the pub,’ Breck duly obliged. ‘I don’t think we’re going to get anything useful by way of an ID. Might let the police in Wales take a look anyway, just on the off-chance . . . Thing is, only a few minutes after the spat, the rugby lads were back inside Marooned, laughing it off and ordering more drink.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘A couple of regulars - the Welsh stood them a round. Even apologised for having a go at Faulkner.’ He paused. ‘Plus there was CCTV inside the bar as well as outside - the story stacks up. So unless they bumped into him again later on in the evening . . .’

  ‘You’re ruling them out?’

  ‘We’re not ruling out anything, Malcolm.’

  ‘Why are you telling me?’

  ‘Thought you’d want to know - just between us, you understand. ’

  ‘And what do I give you in return?’

  ‘Well . . . seeing how this is a dry house, I’m not too sure.’

  Fox managed a smile, and eased himself a little further back in his chair. ‘There’s one thing,’ he said at last. ‘Jude didn’t give it to Billy Giles because she didn’t like his attitude . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ Breck prompted, leaning forward.

  ‘Monday night, someone turned up at her door asking for Faulkner.’

  ‘If the pathologist is right, Faulkner was already growing cold by then.’

  Fox nodded. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ he agreed. ‘And all I got from her by way of description was that the caller was a man.’

  It was Breck’s turn to smile. ‘Well, thanks for that, Malcolm. A man? That certainly narrows things down . . .’ The two sat in silence for a moment until Breck started shaking his head slowly. ‘I don’t know why they bother with CCTV,’ he declared.

  ‘Deterrent value,’ Fox suggested.

  ‘Or comfort blanket,’ Breck countered. ‘People are fitting it in their houses now, did you know that? To make them feel safer. There was a housebreaking in Merchiston a few months back. Glen Heaton took me along for a look. The footage was so grainy the guys responsible looked barely human. They got half a million in antiques and jewellery - know what Heaton told the owners? Sell the cameras and buy a dog.’

  Fox nodded his agreement.

  ‘Preferably a big one,’ Breck continued, ‘and keep it half starved.’

  ‘Did you work with him often?’

  ‘Hardly at all - I’m assuming that’s why you never bothered to interview me.’

  ‘We had everything we needed.’

  ‘But you still gave Billy Giles a grilling?’

  ‘Just for a spot of fun.’

  ‘I didn’t think “fun” was in the dictionary, so far as the Complaints are concerned.’ Breck considered for a moment. ‘I dare say by now you know more about Glen Heaton than I do - how long did you have him under surveillance?’

  ‘Months.’ Fox shifted in his chair, less comfortable now.

  ‘Should we even be discussing him?’ Breck asked, seeming to take the hint.

  ‘Probably not. But now you know he was breaking every rule in the book, how do you feel about him?’

  ‘Way Billy Giles tells it, Heaton only broke a rule if he stood to gain a result. He’d trade gen with criminals, but the stuff he got in return put plenty of bad guys away.’

  ‘And that makes it all right?’ When Breck shrugged, Fox gave a sigh. ‘Change of subject - any other news on Vince Faulkner?’

  ‘We still don’t have any sightings from Sunday or Monday.’

  ‘And no pools of blood to report from the vicinity of that building site?’

  Breck shook his head. ‘Billy Giles thinks he was maybe killed Saturday night and kept somewhere . . . By Monday, the killer’s nerve was starting to go, and that’s when the body got dumped.’

  Fox nodded slowly, staring down at the carpet.

  ‘One last thing,’ Breck added. ‘Two youths were seen having a bit of a shouting match with a guy at a bus stop on Dalry Road - not too far from Marooned and about thirty or forty minutes after Faulkner left the place.’

  ‘Meaning what sort of time?’

  ‘Around half past nine.’

  ‘Does the description fit?’

  ‘There isn’t much of a description. A woman saw it from her tenement window. She was two floors up and fifty yards across the other side of the street. But she’s a law-abiding busybody, so she came forward to tell us.’

  ‘What does she say happened?’

  ‘Couple of younger guys arguing with an older guy. He seemed to be waiting for a bus as they were walking past. Words were exchanged. A taxi came along and the man stuck his hand out. Got in, and one of the kids gave the back of the cab a bit of a kick as it headed off.’

  ‘Which direction?’

  ‘Haymarket.’

  Fox was thoughtful. ‘Which buses go that route?’

  Breck shook his head. ‘Needle in a haystack, Malcolm - they go all over: west towards Corstorphine and the Gyle, north to Barnton, east to the likes of Ocean Terminal . . .’

  ‘Vince used to go to a casino near Ocean Terminal,’ Fox mused. ‘Him and his gaffer, plus the g
affer’s wife and my sister . . .’

  ‘Is that the Oliver?’ Breck asked, sounding interested. Fox nodded.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘No real reason. You ever been there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither.’ Breck had something on his mind. He was rubbing the underside of his jaw with the back of his hand.

  ‘Are you trying to track down the taxi driver?’ Fox asked into the silence.