by Ian Rankin
Fox stared at his sister again. ‘Mr Faulkner was pretty low down the food chain.’
‘It’s the only explanation,’ Broughton said. Fox thought for a moment.
‘You’re keeping your husband’s phone switched on ...’ There was another lengthy pause on the line.
‘In case people call. He had very many business contacts, Inspector. There’s a chance some of them don’t know what’s happened. ’
‘That makes sense, I suppose.’
‘You suppose?’
‘But there’s one thing that doesn’t,’ Fox went on. The silence stretched again.
‘And what’s that?’ Broughton eventually asked.
‘Why wasn’t the phone on the boat?’
‘It was on the boat,’ she growled. ‘It was returned to me afterwards. You understand that I’ll be telling Gordon Lovatt about this conversation? He’s bound to interpret it as further harassment.’
‘Tell him he can interpret it any way he likes. And thanks for speaking to me, Ms Broughton.’ Fox ended the call and placed the phone on the worktop.
‘So that’s what you’re like when you’re working,’ Jude commented. Fox gave a shrug. ‘Broughton as in Joanna Broughton?’ she went on. ‘The one who owns the Oliver?’
‘That’s her. Vince seems to have known her husband pretty well.’
‘He sent over champagne one night ...’
‘Yes, he did. Did you ever see him talk to Vince?’
Jude nodded. ‘They spoke that night. And I think there was another time we bumped into him there ...’ She looked at her brother. ‘Where do you think that money came from, Malcolm? Was Vince mixed up in something?’
Fox gave Jude’s good arm a squeeze, offering a smile but no words. She lingered a moment, then headed back to the living room and the television. Fox was thinking of his meeting with Joanna Broughton ... the penthouse and its bare white walls ... meeting Jack Broughton and Gordon Lovatt at the lift ... sitting in the car with Charlie Brogan’s diary ...
And did you take a peek?
Maybe not thoroughly enough. Pretty much all that he remembered were the TV shows Brogan kept tabs on. Jude was watching something on the television involving houses and warmer climes. Television ... TV for short ...
TV.
‘Oh, Christ,’ Fox said suddenly. Jude turned towards him.
‘Are you all right?’
He’d placed a hand to his head and his knees were just about holding. His other hand was grasping the edge of the worktop.
‘Bloody idiot,’ he muttered.
‘Malcolm?’
‘I’m an idiot, Jude - that’s all there is to it.’
‘Not better than Giles and his team?’
Fox shook his head, then wished he hadn’t. The room swam and he had to steady himself.
‘You look terrible,’ Jude was saying. ‘Can I do anything? When was the last time you ate?’
But Fox was making for the living-room door. ‘I’ll call you,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got to go now.’
‘Is it about Vince? Tell me, Malcolm - is it?’
‘Maybe,’ was as much as Fox could manage to say.
25
‘Slow down,’ Jamie Breck said. He was dressed as if for jogging and his hair was wet from the shower. ‘You look like you’ve just bitten through a mains cable.’
They had reached Breck’s living room. There was ambient music on the hi-fi. Breck sat down and used a remote control to lessen the volume. Malcolm Fox was pacing up and down.
‘How can you be so laid-back?’ Fox asked, accusingly.
‘What else am I supposed to do?’
‘Someone’s tried setting you up as a paedophile.’
‘True - and if I start complaining, everyone knows you told me.’
‘You should do it anyway.’
But Breck was shaking his head. ‘We find out why it happened - after that, everything falls into place.’
Fox paused in his walking. ‘You think you know?’
Breck folded his arms. ‘It’s both of us. They brought us together knowing we’d get along ... start to trust one another. You’d see it was a set-up and maybe tell me. Meantime, I’d be letting you walk all over the Faulkner case. Once that was established, we could both be kicked into touch.’
‘It’s other cops, then? Has to be.’ Fox had started pacing again.
‘What’s on your mind, Malcolm?’
‘Vince and Brogan kept phoning one another; means they weren’t just boss and employee. The day I took Joanna Broughton home, she gave me Brogan’s diary to hand in at Leith. There were a lot of mentions of programmes he wanted to watch. TV - 7.45 ... TV - 10.00 ... that sort of thing.’ Fox stopped pacing again and stared at Breck. ‘Remember what Mark Kelly said? Bull Wauchope’s side-kick? ’
‘Terry Vass,’ Breck said quietly, nodding to himself. ‘Same initials.’
‘They weren’t TV shows, Jamie. Brogan must have been meeting Vass. Now why would that be? Why would Wauchope keep sending his enforcer down to Edinburgh?’
‘Brogan owed him money.’
‘Brogan owed him money,’ Fox echoed. ‘And here’s another thing - Joanna Broughton keeps her hubby’s phone next to her, even now. I called and it took her about five seconds to answer.’
‘So?’
‘She says it’s because people might call who don’t know what’s happened.’
‘Seems plausible,’ Breck said with a shrug. Fox gnawed at his bottom lip, then got out his phone and called Max Dearborn.
‘Max, it’s Malcolm Fox.’
‘Linda says you talked to her.’
‘This morning. I’m going to help her if I can, but listen ... I’ve got a quick question - was Charlie Brogan’s phone on the boat?’
‘We had it checked, then gave it back to the wife.’
Fox’s shoulders slumped. He placed his palm over the mouthpiece. ‘It was on the boat,’ he told Breck.
‘Why do you want to know?’ Dearborn was asking.
‘It’s probably nothing, Max. In fact, it is nothing.’ But Breck was clicking his fingers, trying to get Fox’s attention. ‘Hang on a sec,’ Fox said, placing his hand over the mouthpiece again.
‘Wouldn’t someone like Brogan have more than one phone?’ Breck asked, voice just above a whisper. Fox took a moment to digest this, then spoke to Dearborn again.
‘Max ... do you happen to know the number of the phone?’
‘It’ll take me a minute.’ Dearborn was obviously in the inquiry room. There was a rustling sound as he cupped the phone between shoulder and chin, then a clacking sound as he worked at a keyboard.
‘How are things anyway?’ Fox decided to ask.
‘Still no trace of the sod, one way or the other.’
‘You keeping a watch on the widow?’
‘We’re thinking about it.’
‘She’d know it was happening.’
‘Maybe ... Okay, here’s the number.’ Dearborn reeled it off.
‘Thanks, Max,’ Fox said, ending the call and looking at Breck. ‘Good tip,’ he said with a nod.
‘The numbers don’t match?’ Breck guessed.
‘No.’
‘So the phone she’s keeping beside her isn’t the one that was left on the boat?’
‘No.’
‘Yet she told you it was?’
‘She did.’
‘Might be the sort of thing better discussed in person?’
‘If we can get to her,’ Fox mused. Breck suddenly sat bolt upright.
‘Time is it?’ he asked.
‘Just gone one.’
Breck cursed under his breath. ‘I’m due at Fettes at half past.’
‘That might be a bit tight - unless you don’t bother changing.’
Breck had risen to his feet. He studied himself. ‘That’s an idea,’ he said.
‘Here’s another one - I’m coming with you.’
Breck stared at him. ‘Why?’
‘Because w
e have no idea who we can trust on our own patch.’ Breck’s eyes narrowed. ‘Stoddart?’
Malcolm Fox slipped his hands into his pockets and offered a shrug.
‘She’s the Complaints,’ Breck protested.
‘So am I, remember. Let’s fight about it on the way. If you’re not convinced, I won’t get out of the car ...’
Fox didn’t get out of the car. It was his car and he sat in the driver’s seat with the radio playing, watching as Breck marched into Police HQ. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, staring ahead of him, but with his eyes focused on nothing. After five minutes, he heard a noise and turned his head. Breck was coming back, and he was not alone. Inspector Caroline Stoddart looked less than enthusiastic. Her two colleagues, Wilson and Mason, watched from the doorway. Fox got out of the car, not knowing quite what to say. Breck skipped forward and opened the passenger-side door for Stoddart. She glared at Fox.
‘You two were told to cease communication.’
‘We’re bad boys,’ Breck seemed to concur. Stoddart stood her ground for a moment, then ducked her head and got into the car. Breck offered Fox a wink before climbing into the back. Fox stood for a further moment, staring at Wilson and Mason. They turned and headed back indoors.
‘Let’s get this little pantomime over with,’ Stoddart was saying. Fox sat back down and closed his door. ‘All right,’ she went on, ‘you’ve got five minutes.’
‘Might take a bit longer,’ Breck warned her. Then, to Fox: ‘We’d be better doing this elsewhere - if walls have ears, then windows definitely have eyes.’
Fox looked at the building, realised Breck had a point, and switched the engine on.
‘Am I being abducted?’ Stoddart complained.
‘You can leave any time you like,’ Breck assured her. ‘But what we’re about to tell you ... trust me, this isn’t exactly the best place.’
‘Do I just drive around?’ Fox asked, eyes on the rearview mirror. He was aware of Stoddart next to him, tugging at the hem of her skirt.
‘As long as you can drive and talk at the same time,’ Breck responded.
So Malcolm Fox drove.
Their route took them around the periphery of the Botanic Gardens and uphill towards the city centre. Traffic became sluggish, and Fox said less, concentrating his attention on the road. Breck filled in, and soon they were crossing the top of Leith Walk. Royal Terrace, then Abbeyhill, and down past the Parliament building and the Palace of Holyrood, before entering Holyrood Park itself. Past St Margaret’s Loch and entering the one-way section that snaked around the immensity of Arthur’s Seat. It felt like the middle of nowhere. There were stretches where no signs of habitation could be glimpsed; just heath and hill. The drive had lasted almost thirty minutes, and Stoddart was asking Fox to pull over.
‘A bad place to leave us,’ Breck warned her. ‘Taxis don’t come by here.’
She looked around her. ‘Where is here?’
Fox had brought the car to a stop next to Dunsapie Loch. A couple of joggers trotted past. A young mother had paused with her baby buggy. There was a nest in the middle of the loch. In a few weeks, a pair of swans would be setting up home.
‘Another side of Edinburgh,’ Breck was explaining to Stoddart. ‘I’d be happy to act the tour guide some time ...’
She said nothing to this, just opened her door and tried to get out. She flinched, perhaps thinking they were holding her down, but it was only her seat belt. She unlocked it and stepped from the car, slamming the door behind her.
‘What now?’ Breck muttered. Fox met his eyes in the rearview. Breck had been sounding enthusiastic and confident, but it had been a front. Inwardly, he was all nerves.
‘Give her a minute,’ Fox said. Stoddart was standing with arms folded, legs slightly apart, her eyes on the loch and the view beyond.
‘But say she walks ... say she goes straight to your boss or mine?’
‘Then that’s what she does.’
Breck stared out at her. ‘She thinks we’re spinning her a line.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Conniving together ever since we were put on suspension ... and this is all we could come up with! That’s what she’s thinking.’
‘Jamie, you don’t know what she’s thinking,’ Fox muttered, hands wringing the life out of the steering wheel.
‘She’s corporate, Malcolm - same as you used to be. She’s not about to break ranks.’
‘She just did.’ Fox paused until he had Breck’s full attention. ‘She got into the car, didn’t she? Left her cronies back at the homestead. That’s not exactly company policy.’
‘Good point,’ Breck agreed. Then: ‘Where’s she going?’
The answer was: she was heading towards an incline away from the road. She had to clamber up it, slipping a couple of times in her sensible shoes. Fox didn’t think there was anything on the other side until you reached Duddingston. She paused at the top of the outcrop, then turned her head towards the car.
‘Let’s go see the lady,’ Fox said, drawing the key from the ignition.
She had found a dry, moss-fringed rock to sit on. She was huddled over, arms on her knees, wind whipping at her hair. The pose made her look younger. She could have been a teenager, mulling over some perceived injustice.
‘You asked a good question,’ she told Fox. He had crouched down next to her, Breck standing off to one side with his hands stuffed into the front of his fleece. ‘It’s the timing - that’s the one thing that niggles in all this.’
‘Just the one?’ Breck gave a hoot of disbelief.
‘Nothing else you’ve told me has any proof attached, but Inspector Fox appeared on our radar several days before Vince Faulkner’s murder. I’ve wondered at that myself.’
‘Good for you,’ Breck said, while Fox’s eyes warned him to shut up.
‘Someone must have given you a reason,’ Fox stated quietly.
Stoddart shook her head. ‘It doesn’t always work like that.’ Then, after a pause: ‘You should know ...’
Yes, he knew. Someone higher up the command chain just had to give you the nod. They were the ones taking care of the paperwork. They were the ones who would take responsibility. All you had to do was watch and record what you saw. There had been a case a few years back - a force down in England. A Chief Constable who suspected a junior officer of an affair with his wife had put a 24/7 surveillance on the man. As far as the team was concerned, the paperwork was in order and the Boss could do as he pleased.
‘Who did you get the order from?’ Fox asked quietly.
‘My boss,’ she eventually answered. ‘But he got it from the DCC.’ Meaning the Deputy Chief Constable, Grampian Police.
‘So someone must have gone to the DCC,’ Breck was saying. Roles had been reversed: Breck had started pacing now, while Fox felt an almost unnatural calm.
‘There’s something else ...’ Stoddart broke off and raised her eyes to the heavens. ‘I could get in so much trouble for this.’
‘Meaning you believe us?’ Fox asked her.
‘Maybe,’ she replied. ‘See, there’s this ...’ She sought the right words. ‘There’s been a rumour that something went badly wrong on a murder case a few months back. The victim was a kid, and CID went after his family - turned out the killer had form and was living only a couple of streets away. There was cover-up after cover-up, trying to paper over the cracks.’
‘You think that’s what the Complaints in Edinburgh were going to be looking into?’ Fox asked. Stoddart shrugged.
‘It’s become Strathclyde’s case instead,’ she said.
‘But everyone knows Strathclyde are second-raters.’
‘Yes, they are,’ Stoddart agreed.
Fox was thoughtful. ‘Does that sound like a trade-off to you? The bosses in Edinburgh saying that if Aberdeen puts one of our men under surveillance, we’ll find an excuse not to come chasing you?’
‘Maybe,’ she said again. She had clasped her hands between her knees, and one of h
er feet was pumping up and down.
‘Are you cold? Do you want to go back to the car?’
‘What do I tell Wilson and Mason?’
‘Depends how much you trust them,’ Breck said. He was taking swipes with his trainers at the tufts of grass. ‘Reason we came to you in the first place is, we don’t know who we can trust.’