The Complaints

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Did someone die?’ he asked.

  Fox shook his head slowly. ‘Your councillor ...’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘With the lorry business.’

  ‘What about him?’ Breck’s face showed puzzlement.

  ‘He might connect to Charlie Brogan.’

  Breck thought for a moment. ‘Because of the casino?’

  ‘There’s a journalist looking to prove that Brogan was giving a backhander to Ernie Wishaw.’

  Breck slowly unwrapped his sandwich, sliding it on to the same plate that had earlier held his croissant.

  ‘Brogan,’ Fox continued to explain, ‘wanted to offload some of his white elephants on to the council. Wishaw was going to make sure the council didn’t get too much of a bargain.’

  Breck shrugged. ‘Sounds feasible. Who’s the journalist?’

  ‘Max Dearborn’s sister.’

  ‘And who’s Max Dearborn?’

  ‘A DS at Leith. He’s on the team investigating Brogan’s little disappearing act.’

  Breck looked at Fox. ‘Not suicide?’

  Fox just shrugged. ‘If the reporter’s right, you could get your hands on Ernie Wishaw after all.’ Fox paused. ‘If you were Brogan and you wanted to twist his arm, maybe you’d show him a good time first.’

  ‘At the wife’s casino?’

  ‘Give him a pile of chips to play with ...’

  ‘I’m not sure Wishaw’s that gullible.’

  ‘Depends on the deal Brogan was offering.’

  Breck was still looking at him. There was a sandwich in his hand, but he’d forgotten about it. Prawns were falling loose and landing back on the plate. ‘This is a rumour, right? So far, that’s all it is?’

  Fox shrugged again. He’d peeled open the ham sandwich, staring at the filling, but his appetite was gone. He reached for the lemonade instead. When he unscrewed it, it fizzed out of the neck and made a puddle around itself on the table. He got up and fetched a cloth from the kitchen. Breck still had to make a start on his own sandwich.

  ‘Can’t be many prawns left in there,’ Fox warned him. Breck noticed what had happened and started replacing the prawns between the two triangles of brown bread.

  ‘Linda Dearborn,’ he said at last. ‘That’s her name?’

  ‘You know her?’ Fox asked, busy wiping up the spillage.

  ‘I remember her now. When Wishaw’s drug-running driver was arrested, she came sniffing around. I think her general argument was, Wishaw had to have known.’

  ‘I seem to recall that was your general argument, too.’

  Breck smiled at this. ‘I only spoke to her that one time ...’ His voice drifted off.

  ‘Seems she’s kept the councillor on her radar.’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it? Reckon she’s worth talking to?’

  ‘If we can keep our names out of the story. Problem is, if she gets a quote from us, we’d be her “unnamed police sources”.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Her brother’s part of the Brogan inquiry.’

  Breck nodded his understanding. ‘Everyone would assume it was him.’

  ‘So I doubt she’d let us stay “unnamed”.’

  ‘Then why did Dearborn tell you in the first place?’

  ‘I think he wants me to take it to Joanna Broughton.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In the hope that she blows a fuse and maybe lets something slip.’

  ‘That won’t happen.’

  ‘What about Ernie Wishaw?’

  ‘He’s hardly going to incriminate himself, is he?’

  ‘You watched him for a while... where’s he most vulnerable?’

  ‘I’d have to think about that.’

  ‘In the meantime, how about this - we tell him we’ll forget about the bung he sent to the driver’s wife, so long as he fills us in on the deal Charlie Brogan was offering.’

  ‘Are you serious? We don’t even have warrant cards.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Silence filled the room for a few moments, until Jamie Breck broke it.

  ‘You’re going to do it anyway,’ he stated.

  ‘Probably,’ Fox conceded.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Brogan’s the key to everything.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  Fox thought for a second. ‘No,’ he decided. ‘I’m not really sure of that at all.’

  That evening, Fox found himself back at the Cowgate. He stayed in his car, watching passers-by, on the lookout for faces he knew. There were just the two: Annabel Cartwright and Billy Giles. Fox slid far down into his seat, even though it sent spasms of pain down his spine. Cartwright was first - talking to another member of the inquiry team. The man seemed to be following her orders. He had a fresh bunch of flyers with him. They moved along the street and he lost sight of them. Then, ten minutes later, it was the turn of Billy Giles, sauntering along as if he owned the place. He was chewing on a stubby cigar and had his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. The night was overcast and mild, with hardly any breeze. When Giles headed off in the same direction as Cartwright and her colleague, Fox pushed himself back up out of his hiding place. Three quarters of an hour later, a car drove past - the driver had picked up all three detectives. Giles was talking animatedly, gesturing with his arms, the others listening tiredly. Fox waited a further thirty minutes, then got out of his own car and locked it. Pete Scott was not on duty outside Rondo. There were two doormen tonight, one black and one white. They paid Fox not the slightest attention. One of them was showing the other something amusing on the screen of his phone.

  ‘That’s terrible!’ Fox heard one of them say, but in a tone that suggested the opposite. He kept walking. It wasn’t even ten o’clock, and he didn’t know why he was bothering. If he’d wanted to do this right - a re-enactment scenario - he would have come here after midnight. The lane was deserted. The neon sign still said SAUNA. Fox studied the territory around him and decided he was safe from attack. Nevertheless, he kept his head half turned as he walked down the alley, stopping at the door. He pressed the buzzer and stared into the camera lens. When nothing happened, he pressed again. He couldn’t hear anything from inside. There was no glass; nothing but the glinting eye of the camera. He waved his fingers in front of it, leaned down close to it, even gave it an exploratory tap. Then he tried the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. He bunched up a fist and rapped three times, then three more. Still nothing.

  Eventually he turned to go, pausing next to where he’d lain unconscious not twenty-four hours before. He crouched down and lifted a circular object from the ground. It was the missing button from his trouser waistband. He pocketed it, got back to his feet and headed for home.

  There was a detour to take first, however, and it was a long one. In daylight, the A198 out of the city was a meandering coastal road with eye-catching views. Fox remembered that it had been a weekend favourite with his ex-wife. They would stop at Aberlady for lunch, or Gullane for a stroll along the edges of the golf course. There were car parks leading to the seashore, and for the adventurous there was the mass of Berwick Law to climb. Tantallon Castle, just the other side of North Berwick, was as far as they ever got before heading across country. There might be a bacon roll at the Museum of Flight or fish and chips in Haddington. But North Berwick was Elaine’s favourite. She would peer through one of the Sea Life Centre’s telescopes or wander along the beach, coaxing him to catch up with her (he was always the ambler, she the strider). North Berwick was Fox’s destination tonight. He knew the route, but took it slowly: the road was twisty and unpredictable. Cars sped past him, their modified exhausts roaring, the drivers overtaking on blind bends and flashing their lights. These drivers were young, the other seats crammed with whooping friends. Maybe they were from the city, but Fox thought them more likely to be locals. This time of night, what else was there to do in East Lothian?

  When he reached North Berwick, he headed for a particular narrow street not far
from the shore. There was a house there he’d parked outside before, though never in his own car. The house was single-storey, but had been extended into the roof space, a balcony allowing views towards several islands and outcrops - Fidra, Craigleith, Bass Rock - not that any were visible tonight. The wind had risen, but the temperature remained a few degrees the right side of zero. Elaine had always wanted to live on the coast. Fox’s objection had been purely selfish: he hadn’t fancied the commute. But that same commute did not seem to worry Glen Heaton. Heaton had lived in this town for eight years. The Complaints had looked into his purchase of the house. These days it was probably worth half a million plus. No way should he have been able to afford it, a point put to him more than once during their several interviews. Heaton had told them to look at the paperwork.

  ‘Nothing dodgy,’ he’d stated.

  And: ‘You lot are just jealous.’

  And: ‘It eats you up that someone’s done better than you.’

  This was the house where Fox parked now, turning off his engine in the realisation that an idling motor might cause curtains to twitch. The next house along was a bed and breakfast, its front garden converted into a driveway where three cars sat. This time of year, Fox doubted any of them belonged to tourists. Heaton’s own car - an Alfa - would be stowed in its garage to the rear of the property. The car was two years old and had cost its owner just under twenty grand. Heaton had spent almost the same amount on holidays in the twelve months leading up to the conclusion of the inquiry - jaunts to Barbados, Miami and the Seychelles. One of those trips, he and his wife had opted for business class, while the others had been economy plus. Four- and five-star resort hotels waiting for them. Sadly, the Complaints’ budget had not stretched to surveillance of these breaks. On the drive here tonight, Fox had caught some news headlines on his radio. Questions were being asked about MPs’ allowances. It wasn’t that anyone was being corrupt, apparently, but they were playing the system for all it was worth. Fox reckoned this tied in to the furore about bankers’ bonuses and pensions. People wanted to scream that it was unfair, but, there being little they could do about it, attention had turned to politicians with their snouts in the trough instead.

  Just jealous...

  Heaton’s accusation had rankled because it was accurate. Tony Kaye in particular had seethed and spat as he listed the outgoings and purchases.

  ‘How’s he doing it on his salary?’ he kept asking anyone who would listen. The answer was: he wasn’t. Many of the transactions were paid in cash, and Heaton couldn’t explain why. Fox stared at the house and imagined Glen Heaton in bed with his wife. Then he considered the son she didn’t yet know about - not unless Heaton had confessed. The son was eighteen and lived in Glasgow with his mother. Added to which there was Sonya Michie, again kept secret from the wife. But then in Fox’s experience, often the wives didn’t want to know. They suspected ... they sort of knew anyway ... but they were happy to feign ignorance and get on with their lives.

  ‘What are you doing here, Malcolm?’ Fox muttered to himself. He was half hoping Heaton might appear on the doorstep in his dressing gown. He would walk to the car and get in. Then they could talk. Fox had told Breck that Charlie Brogan was at the centre of everything, but something had been niggling him even as he’d said it. Glen Heaton was more than unfinished business. There was a poison in the man that to Fox’s mind had infected more carriers than had come to light as yet. They were still walking around, some of them only dimly aware of the contagion. Sonya Michie was one of them, for sure. But now Fox was wondering about Jack Broughton and Bull Wauchope, too. He had wound his window down. He could smell and hear the sea. There wasn’t another soul about. He wondered: did it bother him that the world wasn’t entirely fair? That justice was seldom sufficient? There would always be people ready to pocket a wad of banknotes in exchange for a favour. There would always be people who played the system and wrung out every penny. Some people - lots of people - would keep getting away with it.

  ‘But you’re not one of them,’ he told himself.

  And then he saw something - movement at the door of Heaton’s bungalow. The door itself was opening, a man standing silhouetted against the lit hallway. He was wearing pyjamas and - yes - tying the belt of his white towelling robe. Glen Heaton was peering into the darkness, his focus directed at Fox’s Volvo. Fox cursed beneath his breath and turned the ignition. The parking space wasn’t huge and it took a bit of manoeuvring not to hit the vehicles in front and behind as he eased his own car out. Not that it mattered - Heaton seemed content to stand there, hands in pockets. Fox stared straight ahead as he drove off, headlights on full beam in an attempt to dazzle the man in the robe. Right, then right again, and he was on his way back towards Edinburgh, the image staying with him throughout.

  Glen Heaton standing there, as if delivered to him.

  And he, Malcolm Fox, had bottled it.

  Thursday 19 February 2009

  22

  Thursday morning, Fox woke up to a text from Caroline Stoddart.

  Feeling better?

  As a matter of fact, he was. The swelling was starting to go down, and his palms only stung a little when he rubbed them together. His chin was okay, so long as he didn’t touch it. He reckoned he might postpone shaving that particular spot for another day or two. As for his back, it hurt when he twisted or leaned too far in one direction, but it was manageable, so he texted her back:

  Yes.

  Her next and final text told him to be at Fettes at ten. Fox sent a message of his own to Jamie Breck, letting him know he’d be tied up until lunchtime. Breck called back immediately.

  ‘Is it Stoddart?’

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘Do you know what you’re going to say?’

  ‘I’m going to reiterate that I had nothing to do with Vince’s death and that none of this is your fault.’

  ‘It’s a plan, I suppose. What about afterwards?’

  ‘Thought I might go speak to Ernie Wishaw.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s a councillor, isn’t he? Maybe I’ve got a problem I want him to help me with.’ Fox paused. ‘No point you being there, Jamie.’

  Breck gave a snort. ‘Try and stop me.’

  ‘Haven’t you got a game of Quidnunc to be playing?’

  ‘I’m the one who knows about Wishaw - or had you forgotten?’

  ‘But you’ve never met him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s risky, Jamie - if word gets back to Stoddart or Giles...’

  ‘If you’re going, I’m going,’ Breck stated. ‘End of story.’

  But first there was the little matter of Fettes and the Grampian Complaints. The three officers - Stoddart, Wilson and Mason - assumed positions as before. When Stoddart saw the state of Fox’s face, she stopped what she was doing.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I fell down the stairs.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Isn’t that usually your sister’s excuse?’

  ‘At least it means I wasn’t shitting you yesterday.’ Fox accepted the clip-on microphone from Mason and fixed it to his shirt before sitting down.

  ‘I suppose not,’ Stoddart was saying in reply to Fox’s remark. ‘But I was just about to congratulate you ...’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Not getting into any more trouble in the interim.’ She paused. ‘Now I’m not so sure.’

  Fox leaned forward a little in his chair, though the effort cost him a twang of pain. ‘You calling me a liar, Inspector Stoddart?’ he asked accusingly.

  ‘No,’ she answered, sifting through her paperwork. Fox ran his fingers down the laminated visitor’s pass that hung around his neck.

  ‘Any news from the Faulkner inquiry?’ he asked innocently.

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ She glanced up from her work. ‘Why did you attack DS Dickson?’

  ‘I was emotionally fragile.’

  ‘Would you mind repeating that?’

  ‘My si
ster had just lost her partner,’ he was happy to explain. ‘That had an effect on me, which I hadn’t reckoned with. It was only afterwards that I realised the force had made a mistake.’

  ‘The force?’

  ‘In not cancelling my duties and making me take a few days’ compassionate leave.’

  Stoddart sat back in her chair. ‘You’re shifting the blame?’