by Ian Rankin
There were lights on in the cottage and just the one car outside, Carter’s own Land Rover. As Fox closed the door of the Volvo, he heard a voice call out:
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Ray Scholes was standing in the doorway, hands in pockets.
‘Is it Alan Carter?’ Fox asked.
‘What if it is?’
‘I was out here yesterday.’
‘Regular bloody Jonah, then, aren’t you?’
‘What happened?’ Fox was standing directly in front of Scholes, peering past him into the hallway.
‘Had a good go at topping himself.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘If I lived out here, I might do the same.’ Scholes sniffed the air, looked at Fox again, and relented, turning and heading indoors.
Fox himself hesitated. ‘Don’t we need…?’ He looked down at Scholes’s feet.
‘Not a crime scene, is it?’ Scholes answered, walking into the living room. ‘Cordon’s just to stop weirdos drifting up here for a gawp. Thing I’m wondering is, what are we going to do about the dog?’
Fox had reached the doorway of the living room. The fire had been reduced to a few embers. To the left of it, Jimmy Nicholl lay panting in his basket, eyes open just a fraction. Fox crouched down and stroked the old dog’s head and back.
‘No note,’ Scholes commented, popping a strip of chewing gum into his mouth. ‘Not that I can see, anyway.’ He waved a hand across the dining table. ‘Hard to tell with all this mess…’
Mess.
Papers strewn everywhere, removed from their folders. Crumpled, some torn into strips, others swept to the floor. Those left on the table were spotted with blood, a darker pool where Carter had been seated on his chair.
‘Gun?’ Fox said quietly, his mouth dry.
Scholes nodded towards the table. It was half-hidden beneath a magazine. Looked to Fox’s untrained eye like an old-style revolver.
‘How was he when you spoke to him?’ Scholes asked.
‘He seemed fine.’
‘Until you came calling, eh?’
Fox ignored this. ‘Who found him?’
‘Pal of his. Makes the regular walk from Kinghorn. They neck a few glasses of whisky and off he toddles. Only today he comes waltzing in and finds this. Poor old bastard…’
Fox wanted to sit down, but couldn’t. He didn’t know why; it just felt wrong. Scholes’s phone rang. He listened for a moment, gave a grunt, then ended the call.
‘Died in the ambulance,’ he said.
The two men fell silent. The only sound was the dog’s laboured breathing.
‘The pair of you talked about Paul?’ Scholes asked eventually.
Fox ignored the question. ‘Where’s this pal now?’
‘Michaelson’s running him home.’ Scholes checked his watch. ‘Wish he’d hurry up – there’s a beer waiting for me in the pub.’
‘You knew Alan Carter – doesn’t it bother you?’
Scholes continued chewing the gum as he met Fox’s eyes. ‘It bothers me,’ he said. ‘What is it you want to see – wailing and gnashing of teeth? Should I be waving my fist at the skies? He was a cop…’ He paused. ‘Then he wasn’t. And now he’s dead. Good luck to him, wherever he is.’
‘He was also Paul Carter’s uncle.’
‘That he was.’
‘And the first complainant.’
‘Maybe that’s why he did it – an overwhelming sense of guilt. We can play the amateur psychology game all night if you like. Except here’s my lift.’
Fox heard it too: engine noise as a car approached the cottage.
‘What are you going to do?’ he asked. ‘Just shut the place up?’
‘I wasn’t planning on bunking down. We’ve had a look and seen what’s to be seen – uniforms can take it from here.’
‘And next of kin…?’
Scholes shrugged. ‘Might even be Paul.’
‘Have you told him?’
Scholes nodded. ‘He’ll be here.’
‘How did he sound when you told him?’
There was silence in the room as Scholes stared at Fox. ‘Why don’t you just piss off back to Edinburgh? Because if I were you, I wouldn’t be here when Paul arrives.’
‘But you’re not staying? I thought he was your mate.’
Scholes cocked his head, having obviously just thought of something. ‘Hang on a sec – what are you doing here in the first place?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Is that right?’ Scholes raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll make sure to put that in the report.’ He paused. ‘Underlined. In bold.’
Gary Michaelson was standing on the threshold of the room, glaring at Fox. ‘Thought there was a bad smell,’ he said. Then, to Scholes: ‘What’re you doing letting him tramp all over a crime scene?’
‘A what?’
‘Carter’s pal says he’d never have done himself in. Says they’d talked about it, what they’d do if they ever got cancer or something. Carter told the guy he’d cling on for dear life.’
‘Something changed his mind,’ Scholes speculated.
‘And there’s another thing – pal says he’d’ve known if Carter owned a gun. Something else they talked about – shooting the seagulls for the noise they made.’ Michaelson looked towards the basket. ‘What are we doing about the dog?’
‘You want it?’ Scholes asked. ‘Do we even know its name?’
‘Jimmy Nicholl,’ Fox said. ‘He’s called Jimmy Nicholl.’
The dog’s ears pricked up.
‘Jimmy Nicholl,’ Scholes echoed, folding his arms. ‘Owner might’ve done the decent thing and taken you with him, eh, Jimmy?’ Then, to Michaelson: ‘We ready for the off?’
Fox was torn between staying and going, but Scholes was not going to give him the choice. ‘Out, out, out,’ he said.
‘The dog,’ Fox remonstrated.
‘You want it?’
‘No, but…’
‘Leave it to the professionals, then.’
They emerged to blue flashing lights: another patrol car, with an unmarked van behind it.
‘It’s all yours,’ Scholes called to the driver at the front. But there was manoeuvring to be done: too many vehicles in a tight space. Someone had the idea of unlocking the gate to the neighbouring field. A bit of reversing, a three-point turn, and they were on their way. Scholes and Michaelson had made sure Fox’s Volvo was in front. As they approached the main road, the same constable as before undid the cordon to let them through. There was a white scooter parked next to his car. Brian Jamieson sat astride it, one foot on the tarmac for the sake of balance. He was on his phone again, pausing as he recognised the driver of the Volvo. Fox kept his eyes on the road ahead, Scholes and Michaelson tailing him for the first couple of miles, just to make sure.
Four
11
‘A right little Jonah.’
Fox gave Tony Kaye a look. ‘That’s what Scholes said, too.’
It was the following morning and they were back in Kirkcaldy. They’d ruled out ever using the storeroom again, so had commandeered the interview room.
‘We’ll be needing it all day,’ Fox had informed the desk sergeant. The man had put up no resistance, just nodded and gone back to his paperwork.
Fox had wondered about that: no gloating over Teresa Collins? ‘No,’ he’d said out loud, once seated in the interview room. The man’s in mourning…
‘No?’ Joe Naysmith had echoed, arriving with a spare chair from the storeroom.
‘Never mind,’ Fox had said.
Kaye had been out to a cafe and fetched them cardboard beakers of coffee. Fox had phoned him the previous night to tell him about Alan Carter.
‘Coincidence?’ Kaye had asked, getting right to the heart of it.
‘Got to be coincidence,’ Naysmith said now, prising the top from his cup and adding a couple of thimble-sized cartons of milk.
‘I don’t know,’ Fox coun
tered. ‘Scholes said something last night about guilt. Maybe he got wind that his nephew was out and might be lodging an appeal.’
‘So he went and stuck a pistol to his head?’ Kaye said, his tone one of disbelief.
‘Revolver,’ Fox corrected him.
‘Must be more to it than that, Malcolm.’
‘Or less,’ Naysmith added.
‘You didn’t tape your interview with him, did you?’ Kaye was asking Fox.
‘Wasn’t as formal as an interview… but the answer’s no.’
‘Reckon it might take some heat off? With this to occupy them, maybe Teresa Collins will stop being the headline.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Nobody’s spoken to you?’
Fox shook his head. ‘Far as I know, we’re still on the case.’
‘Such as it is.’
Fox allowed the point with a shrug of his shoulders.
‘So what are we doing today?’ Naysmith asked.
‘Good question.’ Kaye scratched his head. ‘Foxy?’
‘There are two more victims we could talk to.’ Fox wasn’t managing to sound enthusiastic.
‘The drunken lassies?’ Kaye sounded keener. ‘That’s a point.’
‘What about the surveillance?’ Naysmith added.
‘Might be up and running,’ Fox conceded.
‘Or we just sit in here all day scratching our arses,’ Kaye offered. ‘I’ve a pack of cards in the Mondeo somewhere…’
‘There are heaps of questions still to ask DI Scholes,’ Naysmith reminded them. ‘We’d hardly started when he got called away.’
‘That’s true.’ Fox finished his coffee, trying to locate any flavour at all in the final mouthful.
‘And DCI Laird needs another going at,’ Kaye added. ‘Even if he gives us hee-haw.’
‘I hate to mention it,’ Naysmith added, ‘but we’re not really finished with Teresa Collins, either…’
‘Leave her for now,’ Fox cautioned.
‘Scholes, then?’ Kaye was making to rise to his feet. ‘Want me to fetch him?’
‘I’ll do it, Tony. You finish your drink.’
But as he headed for the stairs, Fox saw the unmistakable shape of Ray Scholes walking in the other direction. He was with a stooped elderly man, his hand resting lightly across the man’s shoulders. They were headed for reception. Scholes didn’t see the visitor out, though, just pointed him in the right direction before turning to head back to his office. He saw Fox and slowed his pace, jutting his chin out.
‘I keep thinking you’re going to bring me bad luck,’ he said.
‘Maybe I am. We need you in the interview room.’
Scholes shook his head. ‘Not now. Might be a bit of movement on Alan Carter.’
‘What sort of movement?’ Fox couldn’t help asking.
‘Never you mind.’ Having said which, Scholes headed for the staircase. Fox watched him, then turned and made for reception. The visitor had yet to leave. He was talking with the desk sergeant. They were shaking hands. When he did push open the front door, Fox followed.
‘Where you going?’ the desk sergeant barked, but Fox ignored him. The elderly man was standing at the bottom of the steps, looking bewildered.
‘Needing a lift back to Kinghorn?’ Fox asked him. ‘I can do it, if you like.’
The man peered at him. Short-sighted, but lacking glasses. What hair he had left was jet black. Fox reckoned it was dyed. His eyes were small and deep-set, his mouth drawn in on itself, as though he’d forgotten to put his teeth in.
‘I’m fine walking,’ he said, having studied Fox. ‘Do I know you?’
‘My name’s Fox. Sorry, I don’t know yours.’
‘Teddy Fraser.’
‘You’re the one who found Mr Carter?’
Fraser nodded solemnly. Fox noticed that he wore a thin black tie with his threadbare shirt. Mourning again. ‘A bad, bad thing,’ he muttered to himself.
‘You’ve just been seeing DI Scholes?’
‘Aye.’
‘I only met Mr Carter the one time, but I liked him.’
‘He was hard to dislike.’
‘Did you walk here this morning, Mr Fraser?’
‘I like walking. It’s not that far.’
‘Busy road, though.’
‘There are a few short cuts.’
‘Must have been a shock, finding Mr Carter…’
‘A shock?’ Fraser gave a short, cold laugh. ‘You might say that.’
‘What I mean is… I didn’t really know him, but he seemed fine in himself.’
Fraser nodded again. ‘There was nothing wrong with him. The DI’s saying they’re checking his health, in case the doctor had given him bad news. But he’d have told me, wouldn’t he? No secrets between us.’
‘You’d known one another a long time?’
‘We were at school together – two years between us, but we were in the team.’
Fox didn’t like to say that Fraser looked a lot older. If he were the elder by two years, then he’d be no more than sixty-four. ‘Football?’ he asked instead.
‘Fife champions two years in a row.’ Fraser sounded so proud, Fox wondered if anything since had given the man the same satisfaction.
‘Where did Mr Carter play?’
‘Right up front – a real poacher. Twenty-nine goals one season. That was a school record. If the minister doesn’t mention it at the funeral, I’ll be on my feet reminding everyone.’
Fox smiled at this. ‘What did DI Scholes want?’
‘Ach, he was just asking about the gun and stuff. How was Alan positioned when I found him? Had I moved anything?’
‘And had you?’
‘I picked up the phone and dialled 999.’
‘But Mr Carter wasn’t dead, was he?’
‘As good as.’
‘You tried rousing him?’
‘He was breathing. Not conscious, though. But a gun? Alan never owned a gun. And the door unlocked?’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘Kept it locked, even if he knew I was expected. If he heard me, he’d be at the door waiting, but otherwise I had to knock and Jimmy Nicholl would start barking.’
‘The door wasn’t locked?’
‘No barking when I knocked. Thought they must be out on a walk, even though the dog could only manage a few yards at a time without its back legs giving way. So I was expecting the door to be locked.’ He seemed to remember something. ‘In fact, it wasn’t even closed properly. That’s right… when I knocked, it opened a wee bit.’
‘I suppose,’ Fox said, playing devil’s advocate, ‘if he’d planned to do what he did, he might leave the door open so he could be found.’
Fraser considered this notion, but then dismissed it with a snort. ‘You know I’m looking after Jimmy Nicholl? It’s the least I could do. Alan doted on that hound – and you’re telling me he wouldn’t have taken Jimmy to a vet’s before doing away with himself?’ He screwed up his face.
‘Can I ask you something else, Mr Fraser?’
‘I’m Teddy, son. Everybody calls me Teddy.’
‘I was just wondering what he was working on – all those papers on his table.’
‘Ancient history.’
‘Nineteen eighty-five’s not that ancient.’
‘To some people it is. I’ll prove it to you right here.’ Fraser paused, readying himself to gauge Fox’s reaction. He clasped his hands together, then mentioned a name.
‘You’ve got me,’ Fox conceded after a moment. ‘Who’s Francis Vernal?’
‘You’d do better finding out for yourself.’
‘Why was Mr Carter so interested in him?’
‘I’m not sure he was – not at first.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Alan was a copper back then – that’s why he got the job.’
‘Someone was paying him to look back at 1985? Was this some case he’d worked on?’
Fraser dug a bony finger into Fox’s chest, stabbing out a beat to his ne
xt words. ‘Better – finding – out – for – yourself.’
Having said which, he gave a little bow, turned, and started walking away at a brisker pace than Fox had foreseen. It actually hurt where the little man had poked him. He rubbed the spot with the heel of his hand. Back inside, the desk sergeant was lying in wait.
‘Come here, you,’ he said from the other side of the desk. Fox walked up to him. ‘You’ve not been pestering Teddy, I hope?’
‘He gave as good as he got. I take it you know him?’
‘Donkey’s years.’
‘And you knew Alan Carter, too?’
‘Served with him.’ The desk sergeant puffed out his chest. ‘One of the old school…’
‘I got the same feeling, the one time we met. I’m sorry.’
The muscles in the sergeant’s face twitched.
‘I don’t even know your name,’ Fox apologised further.
‘Robinson. Alec Robinson.’
Fox held out his hand, and after the briefest of hesitations Robinson took it.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Fox said, causing the man to smile.
‘Sorry if I seemed to give you such a hard time,’ the sergeant responded. ‘You know what it’s like…’
‘I’ve had worse, trust me.’ Fox paused. ‘But can I ask you this – did you see much of Alan Carter in his later years?’
‘Not really. Maybe at the football or a reunion…’
‘He liked to keep busy, though, eh?’
‘Built that company of his from scratch.’ Robinson sounded impressed, so Fox nodded his agreement.
‘The day I saw him, he was still busy,’ he informed the sergeant.
‘Oh?’
‘All that work he was doing on Francis Vernal.’
Robinson’s face stiffened.
‘Care to shed some light?’
‘I’m not the one to talk to,’ Robinson eventually confided.
‘Then who is?’
‘These days?’ Robinson pondered his answer. ‘Probably no one…’
Back in the interview room, Fox pointed at Joe Naysmith.
‘I need you to do something for me. Got a laptop with you?’
‘No.’
‘Well there must be a spare computer somewhere around here.’