by Ian Rankin
‘Glen Heaton did it often enough,’ Fox commented in an undertone.
Giles’s eyes were full of fire, his voice just about under control.
‘Listen to the hypocrisy of the man,’ he growled. Then he leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders and neck. ‘None of this looks good. Time was, maybe the force would have dealt with it in its own way . . .’ He pretended a rueful sigh. ‘But with all the checks and balances these days, the need to be whiter than white . . .’ He was staring straight at Fox. ‘Well . . . you of all people, Inspector, you know how it is.’ And he offered a shrug. Almost on cue, there was a knock at the door. The woman officer opened it, and two men entered. One was Chief Inspector Bob McEwan. The other was in uniform, carrying his peaked hat tucked beneath one arm.
‘A bloody disgrace!’ were the man’s opening words. Giles had risen to his feet, as had Breck and Fox. It was what you did when the Deputy Chief Constable announced his presence. And he did have presence. He’d stuck it out at Lothian and Borders while rejecting the advances of other forces; stuck it out while several Chief Constables had been promoted over him or drafted in from outside. His name was Adam Traynor and he was ruddy-cheeked, steely-eyed, tall and barrel-chested. ‘A copper’s copper’ was the consensus; admired by the lower ranks as well as the higher-ups. Fox had met the man several times. Minor cases of misconduct could be dealt with by the DCC. Only the more serious cases had to go to the Procurator Fiscal.
‘Disgrace,’ Traynor was repeating to himself, while McEwan had eyes only for his errant employee. Fox remembered their conversation of that morning. Have things been quiet in my absence? McEwan had asked. As the grave, Fox had answered. Now Traynor’s attention turned to McEwan and Giles. ‘Your men,’ he was telling them, ‘will have to be suspended pending the outcome of the inquiry.’
‘Yes, sir,’ McEwan muttered.
‘Sir,’ Giles agreed.
‘Don’t fret,’ Traynor went on, half turning his head in the direction of Fox and Breck. ‘You’ll be on full pay.’
Giles’s eyes were on Fox too, and Fox knew what his nemesis was thinking: Just like Glen Heaton . . .
‘Excuse me,’ the woman officer interrupted. ‘We’re still taping . . .’
‘Then switch it off!’ Traynor roared. She did so, having first informed the microphone that the interview was ending at two fifty-seven p.m.
‘Internal inquiry, sir?’ Bob McEwan was asking.
‘Bit late for that, Bob - Grampian have had your man under surveillance these past four days.’ Traynor was sifting through the photographs on the table. ‘They’ll be the ones sorting it all out, same as we’d do for them if the tables were turned.’
McEwan was frowning. ‘My officer has been under surveillance? ’
The Deputy Chief Constable silenced him with a glare. ‘Your man’s been misbehaving, Chief Inspector.’
‘And no one saw fit to inform me,’ McEwan stated.
‘A topic for later discussion.’ Traynor was glaring at McEwan, but McEwan’s attention was concentrated on Malcolm Fox, and there was an unspoken question there: what the hell is going on here?
‘Right,’ Traynor said, straightening up and running a thumb along the brim of his cap. ‘Is that all clear enough for you?’
‘I’ve got paperwork I could do with finishing,’ Breck said.
‘Not a chance,’ Traynor barked back at him. ‘Don’t want you trying to cook the books.’
The blood rose up Jamie Breck’s neck. ‘With all due respect, sir . . .’
But the Deputy Chief Constable was already in the process of leaving.
‘We’ll need your warrant cards and any pass keys,’ Billy Giles was stating, hand held out in preparation. ‘You walk out of here and you don’t go near either of your offices, even to pick up a jacket or bag. You go home and you stay home. Grampian Police will doubtless be in touch - you’ll know the protocol off by heart, Inspector Fox . . .’
McEwan had followed Traynor out of the room as if keen to collar the man, and without so much as a backward glance. But Fox trusted his boss. He’d be arguing Fox’s case, fighting his corner.
‘Warrant cards,’ Giles repeated, fingers twitching. ‘After which you’ll be escorted from the premises.’
‘The Federation has lawyers,’ the woman officer piped up. Giles gave her a hard stare.
‘Thanks, Annabel,’ Jamie Breck said, throwing his warrant card down well short of Billy Giles’s hand.
12
There was a pool hall on the corner, and that was their first stop, if only because they needed a place to sit and take it all in. Breck seemed to be known to the proprietor. A table by the window was wiped down for their use, and coffees arrived ‘on the house’.
‘No, we’ll pay for them,’ Breck insisted, producing a handful of coins from his pocket. ‘One man’s gift is another man’s bung.’ His eyes met Fox’s and the two men managed wary smiles.
‘Not exactly the most pressing of our worries,’ Fox offered. ‘Annabel was right, though - there are lawyers we could be consulting.’
Breck shrugged. ‘At least you were right when you said you were being tailed. Might explain that van outside my house . . .’
‘Yes,’ Fox commented, feeling suddenly awkward.
‘So what happens now? I’d say you’re the resident expert here.’
Fox didn’t answer immediately. He listened to the sounds around him - pool balls clacking against each other; mild cursing from the players; the low rumble of traffic outside. Now we’re in the same boat, he thought.
‘What was the last you heard about Brogan’s yacht?’ he asked.
Breck stared at him. ‘We’re not interested in any of that, Malcolm. We’re suspended from our jobs.’
‘Sure.’ Fox shrugged. ‘But you’ve got friends, right? Annabel - she’s one of them? That means you can keep tabs on what’s happening. ’
‘And if it gets back to Billy Giles?’
‘What’s the worst he can do? We’re Grampian’s problem from now on.’ Fox picked up the cup and blew across its surface. He knew it was going to be the cheapest brand of powdered instant; knew the cup wasn’t as clean as it could be. But he would remember the smell and the taste and the pattern on the saucer for the rest of his life.
‘We’re civilians now, Jamie,’ he went on. ‘That gives us more room to manoeuvre, not less.’
‘I’m not sure what you’re saying.’
Fox proffered a huge shrug. ‘I thought you were the risk-taker, Jamie, the one who reckons we all make our own luck, affect the way our lives are going to turn out?’
‘And you’re the one who thinks the opposite.’
Fox just shrugged again. A couple of players had come in. They carried their two-piece cues in little travel cases. One of the men had a rolled-up copy of the day’s Evening News in his pocket. When he slipped out of his jacket and made to hang it up, Fox sauntered over.
‘Mind if I take a look?’ he asked. The man shook his head, so Fox retreated to his table with the paper. Charlie Brogan had made it to the front page - not that there was much to report.
‘Remember what you said, Jamie? Joanna Broughton’s first phone call seems to have been to this PR agency. The media knew about the boat before we did. What does that say to you?’
‘That the lady has skewed priorities.’ Breck paused. ‘What do you make of it?’
‘I’m not sure . . . not yet.’
‘You’re not just going to go home and put your feet up, are you?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Who’s to say they’ll stop tailing you?’
‘That’s another thing - I want to know precisely how long it’s been going on.’
‘Why?’
‘Because timing is everything, Jamie.’ Fox stared at Breck. ‘You really didn’t know I was under surveillance?’
Breck shook his head determinedly.
‘Traynor said four days - that takes it back to Monday.’
Fox nodded. ‘I still want to know what’s on the CCTV footage from the Oliver.’
‘I doubt it’ll be useful.’
Fox leaned back in his seat. ‘Maybe it’s time for you to tell me why you seem to know so much about the place.’
Breck considered for a moment, weighing up how much to say. ‘It was a few months back,’ he began. ‘Just someone we were trying to build a case against . . .’
‘Who?’
‘A councillor - suspected of being a naughty boy. There were rumours of a meeting at the Oliver, so we asked Joanna Broughton for any recordings.’
‘And?’
‘And there weren’t any - not by the time we went looking.’
‘They’d been wiped?’
‘Story we got was, there’d been a glitch of some kind.’
‘But I’ve seen the tapes from Saturday night - I know they’re there.’
‘Doesn’t mean there won’t be another glitch. The Oliver is Broughton’s pride and joy - her way of saying she can make it on her own.’
‘Without Father Jack, you mean?’
Breck nodded. ‘She doesn’t want the place getting a rep - dodgy meetings; last known sightings of murder victims . . .’
‘That’s why she uses the PR company?’
‘Lovatt, Meikle, Meldrum,’ Breck recited.
Fox thought for a moment. ‘The night we went to the Oliver, you told me you’d never been to the Oliver in your life.’
‘I lied.’
‘Why?’
‘Empathy?’ Breck suggested. He’d taken the paper from Fox, skimming the front page and then flipping to the leader column. ‘Seen this?’ he asked. Then he started to quote from the piece: ‘“The value of the various development sites along the Edinburgh Waterfront has dropped by £220 million over the past year ... Land in the city has fallen from a high of £2 million an acre to less than a quarter of that . . .” Fountain Brewery project in trouble . . . Ditto Caltongate and the projected new town at Shawfair. Eighty per cent of the land holdings in Edinburgh now have no development value at all . . .’ He placed the newspaper on the table in front of them. ‘No development value at all,’ he repeated. ‘Seems to me Charlie Brogan had every reason to walk the plank.’
‘Hard to disagree.’ Fox was scanning the piece for himself. ‘Fountain Brewery,’ he mused. ‘That’s where Vince was found.’
Breck nodded.
‘Would Brogan have been one of the developers?’
‘It’s possible,’ Breck conceded.
‘Hundreds of millions of pounds that have just vanished into thin air,’ Fox commented.
‘The land’s still there,’ Breck argued. ‘Only thing that’s gone is the confidence. Banks stop lending, everyone gets the jitters.’ He thought for a moment. ‘So what are you going to do, Malcolm?’
‘Maybe go see Jude, check how she’s doing. What about you?’
‘Been a while since I could dedicate a whole day to Quidnunc.’ Breck broke off, staring down at the table. ‘I’m not sorry I did what I did.’
‘Don’t worry about it - this is all my fault, not yours. Tell it just the way it happened - I railroaded you, pulled rank, maybe even lied . . .’ He was on the verge of saying it: by the way, I’m not the only one who’s been under surveillance. But he swallowed the words back and gave a sigh instead. ‘You could have told me about the casino and the councillor.’
Breck just shrugged. ‘Giles was right, though - I never should have allowed you within a million miles of the case. He’s probably more furious with me than he is you - you’re the enemy he knew about, but me . . . turns out I’m Judas.’
‘I’m sure Judas had his good points.’
They shared a half-hearted laugh as they got to their feet, coffees unfinished. Stood facing one another and shook hands. Fox replaced the newspaper in the pool-player’s jacket and offered a wave of thanks. When he turned towards the door, Jamie Breck had already left.
Tony Kaye exited Police HQ with a scuffed briefcase swinging from one hand. He was whistling through his teeth, scanning the car park. When a horn sounded, he headed in that direction. The Volvo’s passenger-side door was already open, so he got in and closed it after him, handing the briefcase to its owner.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘They wouldn’t let me past the front desk,’ Malcolm Fox explained. ‘Word must already have gone out that I’m radioactive.’
‘McEwan has a face like fury.’
‘What’s he been saying?’
‘Not a cheep. He had some meeting in the DCC’s office, and there’s another scheduled for later.’ Kaye paused. ‘I’m hearing a lot of strange accents about the place . . .’
‘Grampian Police,’ Fox explained. ‘From the Complaints, I suppose. They’ve got me under investigation.’
Kaye puckered his lips to give a proper whistle. ‘Grampian Complaints? What’s going on, Foxy?’
‘I’ve walked right into it, Tony. Nobody to blame but myself.’
‘Did Breck grass you up?’
Fox thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘They were looking at me before I’d even met him.’
‘Looking’s one thing, but did they have any ammo until he came along? And why were they looking at you in the first place? Anything I should know about?’
Fox didn’t have even the beginnings of an answer. He unlocked his briefcase and peered in. ‘Where are the queries from the Fiscal’s office?’
It was Kaye’s turn to shake his head. ‘McEwan has already divvied them up.’
‘He’s bringing someone else in?’
‘Only temporary, till you’re back on your feet.’
‘Who said I wasn’t on my feet?’ Fox snapped. Then: ‘Who is it?’
‘Gilchrist.’
Fox stared at him. ‘Chop Shop Gilchrist?’
Kaye nodded slowly. ‘So now I’ll have him in one ear, Naysmith in the other, the pair of them vying to out-geek each other. And you know what that means . . .’
‘What?’
‘Means you’ve got to get his thing quashed pronto, before I go postal.’
Fox managed a tired smile. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’
‘It’s me I’m thinking of, Foxy.’ They sat in silence for a moment, staring through the windscreen. Then Kaye gave an elongated sigh. ‘You going to be all right?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know.’
‘Anything I can do to help?’
‘Keep your ear to the ground. Call me once a day so I know what’s happening.’ He paused. ‘Whose idea was it to bring in Gilchrist?’
‘No doubt Naysmith put in a good word . . .’
‘But from what I’ve seen, the Chop Shop’s short-handed as it is. With Gilchrist elsewhere, that only leaves Inglis.’
Kaye offered a shrug. ‘Not your problem, Foxy.’ He was opening the car door. ‘Minter’s later? Friday night, remember . . .’
‘I doubt I’ll be in the mood.’
Kaye was halfway out of the car when he paused and stuck his head back in. ‘By the way, Joe wanted me to remind you - you’re three weeks behind with the coffee kitty.’
‘Tell him the debt’s transferred to the new boy.’
‘I like your style, Inspector Fox,’ Kaye said with a grin. ‘Always have . . .’
Instead of going straight home, Fox stopped outside Jude’s house. There was no sign of any activity - no vans or officers. He rang her bell and she answered with a shout from the other side of the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Your brother.’
She opened the door and let him in. ‘Had reporters round?’ he guessed.
‘They wanted to know why your lot had been excavating my garden.’ She accepted his peck on the cheek and led him into the living room. She’d been smoking: a stub was still smouldering in the ashtray. But there was no evidence that she’d had a drink, other than coffee. A fresh jar
of instant sat on the breakfast bar, alongside the kettle and a mug and spoon.
‘Want one?’ she asked, but he shook his head.