by Ian Rankin
Brogan considered this. ‘I really thought it would work,’ he muttered to himself at last.
Fox gave a snort. ‘Vince’s body was found Tuesday afternoon; a few hours later you’re suddenly checking your will at your solicitor’s office, and by Thursday you’re supposed to be dead?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘No, Charlie, it was never going to work.’
‘The deck shoes were a nice touch, though,’ Breck conceded. ‘Left bobbing about on the water like that ...’
‘They were Joanna’s idea.’
‘And she helped you come ashore, too?’ Fox guessed. ‘Dinghy, was it?’
‘I swam.’ Brogan puffed out his chest a little. ‘Time was, I could have swum the whole estuary ...’
‘Good for you,’ Breck said.
Fox had thought of something else. ‘The money from the paintings ... it was to tide you over, right? Did Wauchope find out you were holding on to it? Is that what finally blew his fuse?’
‘Men like Bull Wauchope, their fuses are long blown.’
‘You know Glen Heaton, don’t you? When I started sticking my oar in, did you have Joanna go see him? Did she tell him to fill me in on Bull Wauchope?’
Brogan gave a resigned smile. ‘You said it yourself, Inspector - you’re the one card left in this lousy hand I’ve been dealt ...’
There was the sound of someone clearing their throat nearby. All three turned, expecting trouble, but it was only the cleaner.
‘Sorry,’ the man said, ‘but I’ve got to lock up now. Don’t blame you for loitering, though.’ He nodded in the direction of the painting. ‘It’s a great thing, isn’t it? So true to life ...’
‘True to life,’ Fox agreed. But it was a shroud, and it reminded him of Vince Faulkner’s ice-cold corpse, lying in the darkness of a mortuary drawer. All because of the shaven-headed fat man who was staring at the painting one final time.
All because Charlie Brogan had something to prove to the world.
It was Annabel Cartwright who met them at Torphichen. She’d already checked that Billy Giles and his team had left for the night. There was a desk sergeant on duty, but he was on the telephone when they arrived. Cartwright ushered them through the door and along the corridor to the interview room. She’d brought a videotape for the camera and audiotape for the recorder. Once everything was set up, Fox mentioned that it would be best for all concerned if she left them to it. She gave the curtest of nods and left the room. She hadn’t so much as acknowledged Jamie Breck’s existence.
‘The debts are piling up,’ Breck commented to Fox.
‘Let’s get on with this,’ Fox replied.
An hour later, they had as much as they needed. Fox pocketed both sets of tapes and they left the station without seeing anyone. There was a locked patrol car outside. Fox looked to left and right, thinking back to the day he’d taken that first walk with Jamie Breck.
‘What now?’ Brogan asked, fixing his hat to his head.
‘Is it safe, wherever you’re staying?’ Fox asked him.
‘Yes.’
‘Does Joanna know the address?’
Brogan gave him a look, and Fox rolled his eyes. ‘If she knows, then it’s not safe.’
‘She’d never tell.’
‘Maybe so ...’ Fox didn’t bother with the rest of the sentence. ‘We keep in touch by phone, right?’ He waited until Brogan had nodded his agreement. ‘Okay then. Keep your head down for another day or two while I discuss options with DS Breck.’
Brogan nodded again. A taxi had swept around the corner, its ‘hire’ light illuminated. Brogan stuck out a hand and the driver signalled to stop. Brogan got in and closed the door after him. Whatever destination he gave the driver, neither Fox nor Breck heard it. They watched the cab as it headed for the Morrison Street junction.
‘What now?’ Breck asked.
‘I thought you were the one with the ideas.’
‘You might not like them.’
‘If they’re better than nothing, they’re worth hearing.’ They started walking uphill towards the traffic lights. There was a pub just across the road.
‘What did you think of Brogan?’ Breck asked.
‘I wanted to punch him in the face.’
‘That would have looked good on the video,’ Breck said with the hint of a smile.
‘Wouldn’t it, though,’ Fox agreed. ‘I should have done it when we were in that chapel.’
‘In the sight of God?’ Breck’s voice feigned outrage at the notion. Fox reached out and touched his shoulder.
‘These ideas of yours, Jamie ...’
‘To be honest, there’s only the one.’ Breck paused. ‘And you’re really not going to like it.’
‘Because it’s risky?’ Fox guessed.
‘Because it’s stupid,’ Breck corrected him.
Sunday 22 February 2009
28
Dundee the following night, and people were out to have one last good time before the working week began again.
Fox and Breck sat in Fox’s car. Back in Edinburgh, Breck had suggested taking his Mazda, ‘for a change’, but Fox had declined, explaining that he just couldn’t get comfortable.
‘I’m not built for a sports car, Jamie.’
So they had travelled to Dundee in the Volvo and were parked on the street outside Lowther’s bar. Breck had interrupted Mark Kelly’s weekend that afternoon with a request for recent photos of Bull Wauchope and Terry Vass. The resulting printouts from Dundee CID were in the glove compartment, having been committed to memory. So far, no one entering or leaving Lowther’s had offered a precise match - though some came close.
‘Not exactly a cocktail clientele, is it?’ Breck commented, as they studied three men who had come outside to smoke cigarettes, check texts on their phones and hawk gobbets of phlegm on to the pavement. One man kept rearranging his crotch; another offered gravel-toned enticements to any young women who dared to pass within his orbit. All three men wore T-shirts stretched over distended stomachs. All three sported tattooed forearms and gold chains around their necks and wrists. What hair they had was gelled and spiky, faces shiny and fat and pockmarked. One was missing most of his front teeth.
‘So do we just walk in there or what?’ Breck was asking.
‘It’s your plan, Jamie - you tell me.’
‘We could sit here all night otherwise.’
They had already been to the address they had for Wauchope Leisure Holdings. It was one of a row of shops on an estate to the north of the city centre. The door had looked solid, and the blinds in the unwashed window had been shut tight. No answer to their knock. Lowther’s was all they had left - it was the pub owned by Wauchope, the pub with the payphone. Someone in there had lured one property developer to his death and harried another into faking his own suicide.
Lowther’s was all they had ...
Breck seemed to realise as much and pushed open the passenger-side door. Fox pulled the key from the ignition and followed suit. The three men still hadn’t noticed them. They were laughing about something, a message or a photo on one of their phones. Breck found himself standing just behind them.
‘Can anyone join in?’ he asked.
The men turned as one. Fox had caught up with his partner by now, but didn’t fancy their chances. The good humour had disappeared from all three faces.
‘That’s some smell of bacon coming off you two,’ one of the men stated, while another spat on the pavement, just missing Breck’s shoes.
‘Need a word with Bull,’ Breck went on, folding his arms. ‘Inside, is he?’
‘Why would he want to waste his breath on a twat like you?’ the first man went on. ‘Away you go and take Gene fucking Hunt with you.’ He nodded towards Fox while his two friends grinned.
‘We’re not looking for trouble,’ Breck continued. ‘But we’re always happy to provide it when necessary. Three of you in the same holding cell - gets a bit crowded on a weekend.’
‘I’m shaking in my fucking boots.’<
br />
‘Is he inside or not? That’s all we’re asking.’
Fox had risen up on to his toes so he could peer in through the pub window. The bottom half was frosted glass, the top half clear. A couple of drinkers glared back at him, but he’d already seen enough.
‘He’s inside,’ he stated, answering Breck’s question. He made to move past the men, but they stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the door. ‘Bull won’t thank you for this,’ he explained to the leader. ‘Think about it for a second - right now it’s just the two of us he’s dealing with. But if we have to round up a posse, we’ll be sure to bring him out with his hands cuffed behind his back. It’ll be into the van and down to headquarters for the night. If you think that’s what he’d want, fair play to you. But I’m guessing you’re wrong, and he’ll know who’s to blame when the blues and twos come screeching to a halt...’ Fox took a step back, raising his hands in a show of surrender. ‘Just think it over, that’s all I’m saying. Maybe go talk to him, see what he says.’ He pointed across the road. ‘We’ll wait by the car.’ Then he started walking, Breck following him.
‘Nicely played,’ Breck commented in an undertone.
‘That remains to be seen.’ But by the time they reached the Volvo, the ringleader had disappeared inside, the door swinging behind him. Fox and Breck bided their time. A face neither of them knew appeared at the window of the pub.
‘You saw him?’ Breck asked.
‘Holding court at the bar,’ Fox confirmed. ‘Amount of jewellery he’s toting, I’m surprised he can lift a glass.’
It was another couple of minutes before the door opened. No one emerged, but something was either said or signalled. The two smokers flicked away their cigarettes and headed inside.
‘Now what?’ Breck asked. It was a fair question. ‘Do we just stand here while they have a good laugh at us?’ A few more faces had appeared at the window. One man flicked the V sign. ‘Maybe that posse of yours isn’t such a bad idea.’
‘It’s a terrible idea,’ Fox corrected him.
‘Don’t tell me you want us to walk in there without back-up?’
‘Is that what you’d do in Quidnunc, Jamie - wait for reinforcements before you make a move?’
‘By this stage of the game, I’d be mob-handed, same as the person I’m fighting.’
‘Then we’ll just have to be a mob of two.’ Fox paused. ‘But meantime, we’d be warmer in the car.’
‘We make a better impression standing our ground.’
‘Is that from Quidnunc again? Place probably won’t close for another three or four hours.’
‘It won’t take that long.’
Sure enough, after only a few minutes, they started to hear the sound of an engine. It was whining as it approached at speed, and when it turned the nearest corner its tyres squealed. There was no attempt to pull in kerbside. The driver just slammed the brakes on with the car still in the middle of the road. It was a Ford Sierra, but with a modified engine and an oversized exhaust pipe. The driver let it growl one last time before allowing it to idle. The tyres had left marks on the road and there was a smell of burning rubber.
‘Top Gear’s got a lot to answer for,’ Fox commented.
The man who eventually emerged from the back seat was big and scowling. He’d worn the same face in the photo on the printout. The Sierra rose the best part of an inch on its shocks once relieved of its passenger. He rolled from the waist as he walked. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt the size of a two-man tent, baggy jeans and white trainers. His hair was black, slicked back from the forehead and over the ears, falling to just past his neck. He sported a gold tooth at the front of his mouth but no baubles or obvious body-art. His eyes seemed tiny, but piercing at the same time.
‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘Second thoughts - don’t answer that. Just get in the car and vamoose.’
‘We can’t do that, Terry,’ Fox said, managing to sound apologetic. ‘We need to speak to Bull first.’
‘I don’t want to hear another word from you,’ Terry Vass said, jabbing a finger in Fox’s direction. ‘Just you and your bum-chum hit the fucking road.’
There was silence for a moment before Jamie Breck uttered a single word. The word was ‘Interesting.’ This caught Vass’s attention.
‘What’s that?’
Breck offered a shrug. ‘It’s just that when people use homophobic insults, it’s often a sign.’
Vass’s face darkened further. ‘What sort of sign?’
Breck shrugged again and seemed to be searching for the right phrase. ‘Subconscious . . . leanings,’ he offered.
Vass lunged at him, but Breck was nimble. He ducked beneath the huge man’s outstretched arm and stepped past him. He bounced on his toes, ready for the next move.
‘Terry,’ Fox said, his voice a little louder than before, demanding to be heard. ‘We don’t need any of this. Bull’s got you here so you can find out what we want. It was meant to be for his ears only, but here’s the gist - we’ve got Charlie Brogan.’
Vass had been glowering at Breck, readying for another assault, but Fox’s words hit home. His breathing steadied and his shoulders relaxed a fraction.
‘I don’t mean he’s in custody,’ Fox went on. ‘I mean we’ve got him. And we want a trade.’
Vass turned towards Fox. ‘A what?’
‘A trade,’ Fox repeated. ‘Go tell your boss that. We’ll be waiting in the car.’ He was already opening the driver’s-side door. Vass watched as he got in and closed it after him. Then he turned his attention back to Breck, who was still up on his toes, halfway between the Volvo and the Sierra. From the car interior, Fox had only a partial view. He was hoping Breck wouldn’t rile the giant any further. But Vass seemed to dismiss his tormentor with a wave of the hand, and trundled towards the door of Lowther’s. Breck waited a few seconds, then returned to the Volvo and got in.
‘Scary bloke,’ he commented.
‘Didn’t stop you poking him with a stick.’
‘Happens in online games all the time.’ Breck paused. ‘Besides, I’ve always had fast reflexes - nice to test them now and then.’
‘Want some gum?’
Breck nodded and reached out towards the packet Fox was holding. The hand hardly trembled at all. They sat in silence, chewing and watching the world pass by. Some women were on a hen night. They wore identical pink T-shirts emblazoned with the words ‘We Are The Four And Twenty Virgins’. A group of local men were tagging along behind, trying out their various chat-up lines. Half a dozen teenagers slouched past, dressed in black hooded tops and baseball caps. The Sierra got a few stares. It hadn’t moved, and traffic was having to negotiate it. One or two cars sounded their horns. The driver kept his hands glued to the steering wheel and the engine ticking over.
‘Reckon that’s a full-time job?’ Breck asked. Fox went on chewing and watching. When the pub door next swung open, it was only a couple of smokers. They seemed interested in Fox and Breck, but stuck to their own side of the road. The door opened again, and this time it was one of the three men from earlier. He almost jogged towards the Volvo, leaning down at the driver’s-side window. Fox ignored him, so the man tapped on the glass. Fox gave it a few more seconds, then lowered the window.
‘Bull says to come in,’ the man said.
‘Tell him he can go fuck himself.’ Fox slid the window back up. The man stared through the glass as though he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. He tapped again, but Fox just shook his head. The messenger stood up and slunk back the way he’d come.
‘Reckon he’ll find another way of phrasing it?’ Breck asked.
‘Probably.’
‘You didn’t fancy going in, then?’
‘I like it better here.’
‘Me too.’ Breck leaned back a little in his seat. More minutes passed, and then Vass appeared, holding the door open for Bull Wauchope. He was everything Fox had expected. There was a feral look to him. He was never going to be half the man hi
s father was, and he knew it. He carried weight, but very little of it was muscle. His arms were flabby, and the belt around his jeans was straining at its last notch. The short hair was greasy, as was the complexion. Acne around the throat, almost certainly exacerbated by the cheap-looking gold chains. The ink tattoos on the backs of both hands looked self-inflicted, probably dating to adolescence. Rings on most of his fingers - dart-player chic. The young man looked brash and smug, the result of having grown up untouchable, thanks to a father feared by all. Vass was a couple of steps behind his boss. Fox slid his window down again.