by Ian Rankin
‘Did this neighbour give a name?’ Giles didn’t say anything to that, and Fox barked out a laugh. ‘Are you really going to lend an ear to every nutter who phones you? Did you bother trying to track them down?’ Fox paused. ‘I’m assuming you noted their number?’
‘Pub in Corstorphine,’ Giles stated. Then, snapping his head round as one of his team walked in from the garden: ‘Anything?’
‘A few bones . . . been there for years - Phil says a pet cat or maybe a puppy.’
‘What is it you think you’re going to find?’ Fox asked into the silence. ‘You know damned well this isn’t about cats or puppies . . . it’s about the wild goose you’ve been sent to chase.’
Giles pointed a stubby finger at him. ‘This man’s contaminating my crime scene and I want him out of here!’
A hand grabbed Fox’s arm from behind. He made to shrug it off, but turned and saw that it was Jamie Breck.
‘Come on, you,’ Breck said sternly, leading Fox towards the front door.
Outside on the path, both men kept their voices low. ‘This is horseshit,’ Fox hissed.
‘Maybe so, but we’re duty-bound to follow any and all leads. You know that, Malcolm.’
‘Giles is trying to get at me and mine, Jamie - that’s what this boils down to. You’ve got to tighten his leash.’
Breck’s eyebrows went up. ‘Me?’
‘Who else is going to stand up to him?’
‘You looked to be doing a pretty good job . . .’ There was a tapping sound. Fingers against the window of the house next door. ‘You’re wanted,’ was all Breck said. Fox turned to look, saw Alison Pettifer gesturing for him to join her. Fox held up his hand, signalling that he was on his way, but then turned back to face Jamie Breck.
‘Tighten his leash,’ he repeated, making for the door of the neighbouring house.
He’d stayed for the best part of an hour, downing two mugs of tea while both women sat on the sofa, Pettifer occasionally taking Jude’s hand and patting or stroking it. He’d asked the neighbour if he could unlock her back door, take a look over the fence as another flagstone was lifted. Giles had glowered at him, but there was nothing he could do.
‘Can’t you stop them?’ Jude had asked her brother more than once. ‘Surely you can make it stop.’
‘I’m not sure I can,’ he’d answered defensively, knowing how weak it made him sound. He could have added that it was precisely his fault it was happening. Giles couldn’t get to him, so he was getting at his loved ones instead. Fox knew he could make a complaint to McEwan, but he knew, too, that the complaint would make him look foolish. It was simplicity itself for Giles to defend the charge: there’s been a murder . . . we have to pursue every avenue . . . I can’t believe a fellow officer wouldn’t appreciate that . . .
No, he couldn’t take it to McEwan. He’d considered telling Jude to get a lawyer, but he knew how that would look - and all cops, the Complaints included, had a deep-seated mistrust of lawyers. The truth was, he couldn’t take it anywhere, and Giles knew as much. So instead Fox had said goodbye, pecking Jude on the cheek and shaking Pettifer’s hand. Then he’d sat in his car for five minutes, trying to decide whether to go back to Fettes or not. Mind made up, he’d driven to the supermarket in Oxgangs, lugging the bags into his house and spending half an hour putting away the food, checking the sell-by dates of everything so he could arrange what needed eating when - stuff for later to the back of the fridge and stuff for sooner to the front. Fresh pasta with pesto sauce for his evening meal. At the supermarket, he’d found himself in the drinks section, wondering about buying a couple of bottles of alcohol-free beer, then had walked past the wines and spirits, noting that some whiskies were actually cheaper than when he’d last bought any of them. The pricier bottles had little neck-band alarms to deter shoplifters. Back at one of the chill cabinets, he’d picked up a litre carton of mango and pear juice. Better for you by far, boy, he’d told himself.
After the meal, he tried watching TV, but there was nothing to grab his attention. He kept swimming back through the day’s events. When his phone bleeped with a message, he sprang towards it. Tony Kaye was inviting him to Minter’s. It took Fox all of five seconds to make up his mind.
‘It’s almost as if we have nothing better to do with ourselves,’ Fox said as he made for the usual table. There was a different barman on duty - much younger, but still glued to a quiz show on TV. Two clients standing at the bar - Fox recognised neither of them. Margaret Sime, Kaye’s friend, was at her own table. She nodded a greeting. On the way back into town, Fox had taken the slightest of detours past Jamie Breck’s house. No sign of life, and no van parked in the vicinity.
‘Cheers,’ Kaye said, taking delivery of the fresh pint and placing it beside the one he was halfway to finishing. Fox placed his own tomato juice on a coaster and slipped out of his sports jacket. He had left his tie at home, but was still wearing the same shirt, braces and trousers.
‘So what was happening at Jude’s?’ Kaye asked.
‘Bad Billy had his men digging up the garden. Anonymous caller said they heard some activity on Sunday night.’
‘That’s Billy’s excuse anyway,’ Kaye sympathised with a shake of the head. ‘Hope you didn’t leave any prints at the locus, Foxy. If he sees an opening, he’s going to come at you with teeth bared and claws out.’
‘I know.’
‘Bastard put a lot of trust in Glen Heaton . . . defended him to the hilt.’
Fox stared at his colleague. ‘You don’t think Giles knew what Heaton was like?’
Kaye shrugged. ‘We can’t know for sure one way or the other. All I’m saying is, I can appreciate the man is hurting.’
‘If he goes on tormenting my sister, he’ll really get to know that feeling.’
Kaye chuckled into his glass. Fox knew what he was thinking: You’ve no ammo, Foxy, no stomach for that kind of fight. Maybe. Maybe not. He sipped at his own drink.
‘Would it kill you to put a dash of vodka in there?’ Kaye chided him. ‘It makes me feel like the town drunk when I’m sitting with you.’
‘You asked me to come.’
‘I know I did; I’m just saying . . .’
‘The first one wouldn’t kill me,’ Fox said after a moment’s thought. ‘But it would be a start. Somebody like me, Tony, a start’s all they need.’
Kaye wrinkled his nose. ‘You’re not an alky, Malcolm. I’ve seen alkies, used to hose their cells down when I was a probationary.’
‘Drink doesn’t like me, Tony. Besides . . .’ He picked up the tomato juice again. ‘This gives me the moral high ground.’
Both men drank in silence. A group of three new faces had arrived. Fox, his back to the door, watched Kaye make a quick appraisal. That was what you did when you were a cop - you watched the door for trouble. Trouble was the guy you’d once arrested; the guy whose uncle or cousin you once gave evidence against; the guy you’d persuaded to turn informer one time so he’d save his own skin. City the size of Edinburgh, it was difficult sometimes to escape your own history - things you’d done; people you’d used. But Kaye was back to concentrating on his drink: no reason to fret. Fox gave the men a quick glance anyway. Suits and ties - businessmen at day’s end, maybe with a curry-house appointment later.
When the door opened again, Fox watched Kaye, saw an eyebrow rise, and turned round to look. It was Joe Naysmith. He was dressed for a long, cold night in the van. Lumberjack shirt beneath Shetland sweater, sweater beneath jerkin, jerkin beneath duffel coat. He was shedding these layers as he approached the table.
‘Boiling in here,’ he complained. He unbuttoned the shirt, to show a plain black T-shirt.
‘Had a tiff with the boyfriend?’ Kaye asked slyly.
Naysmith ignored him and asked them what they were drinking.
‘Usual for me,’ Kaye was quick to say, while Fox shook his head. His eyes met the younger man’s.
‘So what did happen?’ he asked.
‘We were d
oing a final check on the van. Gilchrist gets a call and tells me we don’t need to go out.’ Naysmith shrugged and started to head for the bar.
‘Who was the call from?’ Fox persisted. Naysmith just shrugged again and went to fetch the drinks.
‘You think something’s happened?’ Kaye asked Fox.
‘I’m not a soothsayer, Tony.’
‘Nice excuse to call DS Inglis at home, invite her out for a late-night pow-wow with beverages supplied . . .’
‘She’s got a kid.’
‘Then invite yourself round there; take a bottle.’ Kaye broke off and rolled his eyes. ‘Except you don’t drink.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So it’s soft drinks for you, and a few hefty Bacardis for the lady.’
Naysmith was coming back, a pint in either hand. ‘I’d packed sandwiches and everything,’ he went on complaining. ‘Loaded some videos on to my phone to show him . . .’
‘And he didn’t say who the call was from or what was said?’ Fox watched Naysmith shake his head. ‘You couldn’t hear any of it - not even what he was saying?’
‘I was in the back of the van; he was out front.’
‘This was in the garage at Fettes?’
Naysmith nodded and gulped down the first inch and a half of beer, exhaling with satisfaction and wiping thumb and forefinger across his lips.
‘Inglis seemed keen enough earlier,’ Fox stated.
‘Maybe she came round to your point of view,’ Naysmith suggested.
‘Maybe,’ Fox conceded. ‘So where’s Gilchrist now?’
‘He said he didn’t fancy a drink.’
The three men sat in silence, and when the conversation resumed they were soon discussing other cases - past and present - moving on from there to McEwan’s current ‘jolly’.
‘It’ll be an hour of discussion over tea and biscuits, then four hours on the golf course,’ Tony Kaye proposed.
‘Does McEwan even play golf?’ Fox asked, rising to get the next round in. He was debating whether to stay. Maybe he’d get a pint apiece for Kaye and Naysmith, then tell them he had to be leaving. But as he waited to be served, he glanced up at the TV. The quiz show had finished, and the local news was on. A dapper-looking man was giving some sort of statement in what looked like his office. Reporters held microphones to his face. Then a still photograph appeared onscreen: a man and woman standing on the deck of a yacht, dressed to the nines and grinning for the camera, arms around one another. Fox thought he recognised the woman.
‘Turn that up,’ he ordered the barman. But by the time the remote control had been located, the news had moved to another story. Fox gestured to be given the remote, and used it to switch from TV to text, running down the list of options until he found ‘Regional News’. He clicked on Scotland and waited for the items to appear on the screen. Third story down he saw what he was looking for.
Property Tycoon Missing At Sea
Fox hit the button again and scrolled down the story. Charles Brogan, 43, millionaire property developer . . . took his boat out from its Edinburgh mooring . . . boat found deserted and drifting at the mouth of the Firth of Forth . . .
‘What is it?’ Kaye asked. He was standing by Fox’s shoulder, studying the TV screen.
‘The guy behind Salamander Point. I heard his company was in trouble, and now he’s missing from his boat.’
‘Hara-kiri?’ Kaye guessed.
Fox laid the remote on the bar and paid for the round. Without having been asked, the barman had poured him another tomato juice. They took the drinks to the table.
‘Something on the news?’ Naysmith prompted.
‘Nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about,’ Kaye replied, tousling Naysmith’s hair. ‘Hadn’t you better get a trim before Jack Nicklaus gets back?’
‘I had it cut last month.’
Fox was rising from his chair again. ‘I need to make a phone call,’ he explained. ‘Back in a tick.’
He went outside and the cold hit him. Thought about retreating indoors for his jacket, but resisted the urge. Another urge was taking precedence. He punched Jamie Breck’s number into his mobile.
‘Wondered how long it would take you,’ Breck answered.
‘I just saw it on the news.’
‘Me too.’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘Looks like the wife’s first call was to her PR guy.’
‘That’s who was giving the statement?’
‘His name’s Gordon Lovatt. As in Lovatt, Meikle, Meldrum.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘Big PR firm. They do lobbying, too.’
‘You’ve done your research.’
‘They’ve strayed into my orbit on occasion . . .’ Breck’s voice drifted off. Fox could hear a siren. He lowered the phone from his ear to confirm that it was coming from the earpiece. ‘You’re out somewhere, ’ he stated.
‘I’m headed to Torphichen.’
‘Why?’
‘No real reason.’
‘Is it because of Joanna Broughton? Did she ever get back to you about the CCTV?’ Fox moved aside as two of the drinkers emerged from the bar to smoke a cigarette. They coughed a few times and continued the conversation they’d been having.
‘Which pub?’ Breck asked. ‘Minter’s?’
‘I was asking about Joanna Broughton. How come I just saw her on TV?’
‘She’s married to Charlie Brogan. Didn’t change her name, but they’ve been together three or four years.’
‘Has his body washed ashore yet?’
‘It’s dark out, if you hadn’t noticed. Coastguard have called off the search until daybreak.’
‘But you’re still going into the station.’ It was a statement rather than a question.
‘Yes,’ Jamie Breck answered.
‘Will you let me know if you find out anything?’
‘If it’s pertinent to the case. I don’t doubt I’ll be talking to you sometime tomorrow . . . whether I like it or not. Meantime, Inspector, take the rest of the evening off.’
‘Thanks, I’ll do that.’
‘Or at least try,’ Breck said, ending the call.
Fox headed back indoors, rubbing some heat back into himself.
‘Good news is,’ he told Naysmith, ‘you’d have been wasting your time anyway.’
‘Breck’s not at home?’ Kaye guessed.
‘The office,’ Fox confirmed.
‘Is that why Gilchrist cried off?’ Naysmith asked. ‘Could he have known?’
‘Doubtful,’ Fox answered after a moment’s thought.
Friday 13 February 2009
11
Next morning, he was in the office early, but no one was at home in Room 2.24. Fox went downstairs to the canteen and found Annie Inglis there, slumped over a black coffee with a half-eaten scrambled-egg roll pushed to one side.
‘You look rough,’ he offered as he pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her.
‘Duncan,’ was all she said.
‘What’s he done?’
She rubbed her hands down her face. ‘Nothing really. He’s just at that age . . .’
‘Rebelling against Mum?’
She offered a tired smile. ‘He stays out late - later than I like. He always comes home eventually . . .’
‘But you wait up for him?’
She nodded. ‘And if it’s a school night, next morning’s like trying to raise the dead.’
‘Is he running with the wrong crowd?’
She managed another smile, this time at his wording. ‘When you’re a mother, everyone’s the wrong crowd.’
‘Right.’
‘I think they drink a little . . . take drugs a little.’
‘Not skunk?’
She shook her head. ‘Duncan just seems a bit . . .’ She sought the right description. ‘Tipsy,’ she eventually decided, ‘on occasion. Plus, the school say he’s falling behind, not handing in home-work. ’
‘He’s g
ot O Grades next year?’
‘Standard Grades, they call them these days.’ She tried shaking some life back into herself and picked up the coffee. ‘Third one of these I’ve had.’