The Complaints

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Mitch asked quietly. ‘Why now?’

  ‘Because of what happened to Vince,’ his son explained. ‘I’ve always hated him, hated the way he treated Jude, but now that he’s dead . . .’

  Mitch waited for Fox to make eye contact. ‘You’re not like him,’ he stated. ‘Don’t go thinking you are.’

  They settled back to watch the football on TV, staying for the results. It was five o’clock and nearly dark when they emerged. Fox drove his father back to Lauder Lodge in silence, receiving a firm look from one of the staff members. Mr Fox, it transpired, was late for supper.

  ‘Lucky we’ve kept it for you,’ the woman advised.

  ‘That’s debatable,’ Mitch muttered, stretching a hand out towards his son. The two men shook.

  On his way home, Fox thought about stopping and buying some flowers for Annie Inglis. She had texted him her address, unaware that he already knew it. He wondered, too, if he should buy something for her son. But what? And might flowers not start to wilt overnight? Straight home then, to dinner from the fridge and more sorting of books. He thought back to the pub. You’re not like him . . . don’t go thinking you are. When he unlocked his door, there was a note inside his letter box. It was from Jamie Breck.

  CALL ME WHEN YOU GET IN.

  Fox took out his phone but then paused, tapping it against his teeth. He locked the door after him and got back into his car. Five minutes later, he was parking on the street outside Breck’s home. The houses had their own driveways and garages, meaning there was plenty of space kerbside. It struck him, though, that the surveillance van really must have stood out because of this. As he pressed the remote-locking button, he noticed that a young woman was just coming out of Breck’s, shrugging her arms into her coat and wrapping a scarf around her neck. She was heading towards Breck’s Mazda, but saw him and managed to place him. She gave a wave and a smile.

  ‘Just nipping out for pizza - do you want any?’

  Fox, halfway down the path by now, shook his head. ‘It’s Annabel, isn’t it?’

  She nodded and got into the driving seat. ‘There’s a bottle of wine open,’ she informed him, giving another wave before driving off. Fox rang the doorbell and waited.

  ‘Forgotten something?’ Jamie Breck was asking as he opened the door. Then his eyes widened. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ He was dressed in T-shirt and denims, his feet bare. There was music playing - it sounded vaguely Brazilian to Fox.

  ‘Didn’t mean to interrupt,’ Fox began.

  ‘Annabel’s just gone for pizza . . .’ Breck broke off. ‘How did you know where I live?’

  Yes, Malcolm, good question . . . ‘I thought I knew the street,’ he explained. ‘Then I just got lucky - saw Annabel coming out and recognised her from Torphichen.’

  ‘So now my guilty little secret is out.’

  ‘She’s your girlfriend?’ Fox deduced.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does Giles know?’

  ‘I reckon he suspects, not that it’s a state secret or anything. It’s just that we’ll both take a ribbing when it gets out.’

  ‘What rank is she?’

  ‘Detective constable - her surname’s Cartwright, if you want to keep things nice and formal.’ Breck broke off again. ‘Come in, won’t you?’

  Fox followed him inside. The place had a very modern feel - well decorated and laid out. The music was coming from an MP3 system and there was a flat-screen TV attached to one wall. The lights had been dimmed but Breck powered them up again. On the floor by the sofa sat a wine bottle, two glasses and Breck’s shoes and socks.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to interrupt anything,’ Fox said.

  ‘Not a problem, Malcolm. I think I’m still in shock from yesterday - how about you?’

  Fox nodded and slipped his hands into his coat pockets. ‘You had something to tell me?’ he prompted.

  Breck had collapsed on to the sofa. He stretched out a hand towards his wine glass and lifted it to his mouth. ‘It’s your friend Kaye,’ he said before drinking.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Annabel told me this afternoon. I was going to phone you, but I thought maybe it was best done in person. We were heading out for a drive, so we dropped by and when you weren’t home I put that note through your door.’

  ‘You were saying about Tony Kaye . . .?’

  Breck sloshed the wine around in his glass. ‘Remember you told me about your sister’s mystery visitor on the Monday night?’ He stared at Fox above the rim of the glass.

  ‘Kaye?’ Fox guessed.

  ‘Seems that a “concerned citizen” called to let police know of a car parked illegally in Jude’s street - one front and one back tyre up on the pavement.’ Breck managed the faintest of smiles. ‘You’ve got to love Edinburgh’s army of nosy parkers.’ He lifted a remote control from the sofa and used it to turn down the music. ‘Anyway, they called it in and eventually someone noticed it. Turns out our concerned citizen had made a note of the make and model of car, plus a partial registration. Nissan X-Trail.’

  ‘That’s what Tony Kaye drives.’

  ‘And his registration matches.’

  ‘Partially,’ Fox stressed.

  ‘Partially,’ Breck conceded. ‘But it’s enough to satisfy Billy Giles.’

  Fox thought for a moment. ‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe not.’ Breck took another mouthful of wine. ‘Anyway, I thought you’d want to know, since Kaye doesn’t seem to have mentioned it to you himself.’

  Fox didn’t know how to answer, so nodded slowly instead. ‘Does he know he’s been rumbled?’

  ‘His presence at Torphichen has been requested first thing tomorrow. ’

  ‘Giles has the team working a Sunday?’

  ‘He reckons the budget will stretch to it. Will you stay and have some pizza?’

  ‘I can’t. Listen . . . thanks for letting me know. I wouldn’t want Annabel to get into trouble . . .’

  ‘Annabel’s cleverer than you and me combined - and wilier, too.’ Breck had risen to his feet.

  ‘Sorry again to burst in on you . . .’

  Breck waved the apology aside. He opened the front door for his guest and stood there as Fox made his way back along the path towards the pavement.

  ‘Malcolm!’ Breck called out, causing Fox to stop and turn towards him. ‘How did you know my street? The night you dropped me off, I don’t remember mentioning it.’

  But instead of waiting for a reply, Breck just closed the door. A few seconds later, the music had been turned up again. Malcolm Fox was still rooted to the spot.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

  Tony Kaye was in a restaurant with his wife. He seemed to have excused himself from the table and was dodging waiters and other diners as he talked. Fox was back at his car by this time, seated behind the steering wheel but with the key not yet in the ignition.

  ‘Just exactly what did you think you were doing?’ he asked. ‘And when were you going to tell me?’

  ‘I’ve got a more interesting question for you, Foxy - who the hell told you?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Is it true?’

  ‘Is what true?’

  ‘You went round to Jude’s Monday night.’

  ‘What if I did?’

  ‘Why in God’s name did you do that?’ Fox was massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

  ‘Christ, Foxy, you’d just told me he’d broken your sister’s arm.’

  ‘My problem, not yours.’

  ‘But we both know, don’t we? We know you weren’t planning on doing anything about it!’

  ‘And what were you going to do, Tony? Take a swing at him?’

  ‘Why not? Might’ve stopped him doing it again.’

  ‘And both of them would think I’d put you up to it.’

  ‘What does it matter?’ Kaye’s voice was rising. ‘He wasn’t at home.’

  Fox gave an elongate
d sigh. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

  ‘Your sister was paralytic - I reckoned she’d have forgotten about it by morning.’

  ‘Instead of which, you’re now going to have Billy Giles crushing your nuts in a vice.’

  ‘Make a change from the wife.’

  ‘Don’t go thinking this is funny - it isn’t. Giles is going to want to know everything you did on Monday evening. If there are gaps, suddenly you’re a suspect. McEwan’s already lost one man, Tony . . .’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘Giles would love to blow our whole show to smithereens.’

  ‘Received and understood.’

  Fox paused for a moment. ‘Which restaurant?’

  ‘Cento Tre on George Street.’

  ‘Special occasion?’

  ‘We’re celebrating not killing each other so far this weekend.

  Mind you, that makes it like every other weekend. Did you catch the Hearts game?’

  ‘Be careful tomorrow.’

  ‘You mean at Torphichen? It’s a Sunday away from home... far as I’m concerned, that’s a holiday and a lotto win rolled into one.’ The background noises had changed - Kaye had obviously stepped outside. There were shrieks of drunken female laughter and the sound of a car horn. ‘You’d think people would have the decency to stop having fun,’ Kaye commented. ‘Does nobody realise this is Credit Crunch Ground Zero?’

  ‘Be careful tomorrow,’ Malcolm Fox repeated, watching the woman detective called Annabel returning with the pizzas in Jamie Breck’s Mazda. ‘And let me know how it goes.’

  Sunday 15 February 2009

  14

  Annie Inglis lived on the top floor of a Victorian tenement in Merchiston. Her name was on the intercom, and when Fox pressed the buzzer a male voice answered.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Is that Duncan? My name’s Malcolm Fox.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Fox pushed open the door and found himself in a tiled stairwell with two bicycles parked just inside the entrance. He climbed the stairs slowly, peering up towards the glass cupola, through which the lunchtime sun was streaming. His morning had comprised coffee, shopping, and more newspapers. He carried a bag within which lay a bottle of wine and a bunch of early daffodils for his hostess, along with an iTunes token for her son. Duncan was waiting for him at the top, loitering just outside the door to the flat. Fox tried to make light of the climb.

  ‘Must keep you fit,’ he offered. Duncan just grunted. He had lank brown hair falling into his eyes, and was tall and gangly. His chosen outfit of denims and T-shirt would have fitted someone twice his girth. He headed indoors and crooked a finger to let Fox know he should follow. The flat’s main hallway was long and narrow with half a dozen doors off. The original flooring had been sanded and varnished. There was a cycle helmet next to the phone on the only table, above which was fixed a row of hooks with keys dangling from them.

  ‘Mum’s ...’ Duncan pointed vaguely, before disappearing into his bedroom. There was a ‘Legalise Cannabis’ sticker on the door, and Fox could hear the low hum of a computer’s cooling fan. At the far end of the hall was an open door leading to the drawing room. It looked spacious, with a bay window allowing views across the chimneypots north to the city centre and beyond. But just before Fox reached it, he heard sounds from the room to his immediate right. The door was open an inch, allowing him a glimpse into the kitchen. Annie Inglis was stirring a pot. Her face was red and she seemed flustered. He decided to leave her be, and walked into the drawing room. A table had been set next to the window, laid for three. Fox placed his carrier bag on it and took a look around. Sofa and chairs, TV and hi-fi, shelves filled with books, DVDs and CDs. There were framed photos, too - Annie and Duncan, an elderly couple (presumably her parents), but no indication that Duncan’s father played any role in the family’s life.

  ‘You’re here.’ She was standing in the doorway, carrying three wine glasses.

  ‘Duncan let me in.’

  ‘I didn’t hear you.’ She placed the glasses on the table, then noticed the bag.

  ‘For you,’ he said. ‘And something for Duncan, too.’

  She peered inside and smiled. ‘That’s kind of you.’

  ‘If you’re busy in the kitchen, don’t worry - I can entertain myself. Or I can come and help . . .’

  She shook her head. ‘Nearly done,’ she said, grabbing the bag. ‘Just give me two minutes.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I can fetch you a drink.’

  ‘I’m not really a drinker.’

  ‘Cranberry juice? It’s just about the only source of vitamins Duncan gets.’

  ‘Cranberry juice is fine.’

  ‘Two minutes,’ she repeated, making her exit. Fox recommenced his tour of the room. Her preferred Sunday paper was the Observer. She liked the novels of Ian McEwan and films with subtitles. Her taste in music stretched from Alan Stivell to Eric Bibb. All of which left Fox not much the wiser. He returned to the view, envying her this sweep of the city and of the firth to its north.

  ‘Mum says to say thanks.’ It was Duncan in the doorway this time. He was waving the credit-card-sized token.

  ‘I wasn’t even sure if you used downloads,’ Fox said.

  Duncan nodded to let him know he did. Then he waved the token a final time and was gone again. Fifteen years old - Fox tried to think back to himself at that age. There’d been rows with Jude, and plenty of them. He could always wind her up until she was at screaming point. Throwing things at him, even. Fifteen . . . he’d started drinking by that stage. Bottles of cider in the park with his pals. Screw-top wine and quarter-bottles of whisky.

  ‘Here you go . . .’ It was Annie Inglis again, bringing him his tall glass of cranberry juice. She looked around. ‘I told Duncan to . . .’

  ‘He did. Seems a nice kid.’

  She handed him the glass. ‘Why don’t you sit down? I’ll just fetch my drink.’

  It was white wine in a tumbler. She decanted it into one of the proper wine glasses on the table, then brought it over and sat next to him on the sofa.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said, chinking glasses.

  ‘Cheers. And thanks for the invite.’

  ‘We don’t normally do Sunday lunch.’ Her eyes widened a little. ‘You’re not vegetarian, are you?’

  ‘Perish the thought.’

  ‘I’ve got pork and apple sauce. Plus a burger for Duncan.’

  ‘He won’t eat pork?’

  ‘He’d pick at it.’ She took a mouthful of wine and exhaled. ‘That’s better.’ She smiled at him. ‘Not that I need it, you understand.’

  ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

  ‘Did you hear about Gilchrist?’

  Fox nodded. ‘I was going to ask if you knew.’

  ‘I don’t know what it is the Complaints have got that CEOP hasn’t.’

  ‘It’s only temporary, though.’

  ‘He was quick enough to accept.’

  ‘You think they should have offered it to you?’

  ‘I’d have turned it down,’ she said quickly. ‘And not just because it’s your job we’re talking about.’ She trained her eyes on him. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m fine. You know that sign on the CEOP door, the one that says two people have to be present when you look at anything . . .?’

  ‘Working solo is going to present problems,’ she agreed.

  ‘I don’t know how you can do the job you do,’ he stated with a slow shake of the head.

  ‘The secret is, you never focus on what’s happening in the photo - you look for the clues in the background, anything that can identify where the abuse took place . . .’

  ‘But it must get to you - you’ve got a kid of your own.’

  ‘We limit our time on the computer to a couple of hours a day, plus three times a year we get counselling - mandatory counselling. When I come home, the office doesn’t come with me.’

  ‘It still sounds tough.’

 
‘It’s a job,’ she said, taking another gulp of wine. Then: ‘What about you, Malcolm? What’s going to happen?’