by Ian Rankin
When a taxi drew up outside, Fox got to his feet and watched Mangold get out. His face was reddened by alcohol. As he came inside, he spotted Fox immediately and offered his hand.
‘Good weekend, Inspector?’
‘I did a lot of reading.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Actually, a bit of a page-turner.’
Mangold seemed satisfied by this answer. ‘Coffee, please, Marianne – good and strong,’ he barked to the receptionist. Fox shook his head to let her know he wouldn’t be needing any. Mangold was already leading the way through the door to the right of reception. They entered what would have been the hallway of a private house at one time. There was an unused fireplace, and a grand staircase leading up. Another door at the foot of the stairs took them into what Fox guessed would have been a sitting room. Fireplace with antique mirror above it; intricate cornicing and ceiling rose. Mangold switched on some lights.
‘Marianne said it was urgent,’ he began, resting his hand against an electric radiator, then stooping to turn it on. ‘Should warm the place up,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.
‘Good lunch?’ Fox inquired. ‘New Club, was it?’
‘Ondine,’ Mangold corrected him.
‘The other night… you were waiting for guests…?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did Colin Cardonald happen to be one of them?’
Mangold shook his head. ‘Though I did spot him in the club that evening – dozing in his chair with the crossword half-finished.’ He checked his watch. ‘Did Marianne say?’
‘She told me I could only have fifteen minutes.’ Fox followed Mangold’s lead and seated himself at the polished oval table. ‘But that only holds if I’m working for you – which I’m not. I’m a police officer and this is a police matter, which means I take as long as I need.’
There was a knock and the coffee arrived, along with a bottle of water and two glasses. The receptionist asked Mangold if he wanted her to pour.
‘Yes please, Marianne.’
They waited until she’d gone, closing the door behind her. Mangold was gulping at the coffee, eyes closed.
‘Can’t drink like I used to,’ he explained. ‘And I do have a very full afternoon.’
‘Then I’ll get to the point – two points actually.’
‘Fire away.’
‘I want to talk to Imogen Vernal.’
‘Impossible,’ Mangold said with a flutter of one hand. ‘Next point, please.’
‘If I don’t see her, I’ll drop off those two box files at the front desk and that’s the last you’ll hear from me.’
Mangold stared hard at Fox, pushing out his bottom lip. ‘What is it you need from her?’ he asked.
‘What is it you think you’re protecting her from?’
‘I’ve already told you – she’s very sick. I don’t want her to be made to feel even less comfortable.’ Mangold paused. ‘Second point,’ he commanded, reaching into his pocket for a voluminous handkerchief.
‘Not until we’ve dealt with the first.’
‘It has been dealt with,’ Mangold stated, wiping around the sides of his mouth.
‘I want her take on things,’ Fox decided to explain. ‘I want to hear her talk about her husband.’
‘I can tell you about Francis!’
‘You weren’t married to him, though.’
‘I knew him as well as Imogen did.’
Fox didn’t bother responding to this. Instead, he moved to item two.
‘All these groups of the time… the SRSL, SNLA, Dark Harvest Commando… I forget the Gaelic one…’
‘Siol Nan Gaidtheal.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Seed of the Gael.’
‘How close was Vernal to them? I only know what I’ve read.’
‘Imogen can’t help you there. None of those rumours ever reached her.’
‘But you heard them?’
‘Of course.’
‘And believed them?’
‘I asked Francis a few times. He would just dismiss the suggestion with one of his looks.’
‘What’s your feeling, though?’
Mangold took a sip of coffee while he considered the question. ‘Was he an active paramilitary? No, I doubt that. But there are ways in which he could have helped.’
‘Legal advice?’
‘Possibly.’
‘What else?’
‘Money had to be raised, and then kept safe. Frank would have known what to do with it.’
Fox nodded. ‘He was their banker?’
‘I have absolutely no proof.’
‘Would he have kept the money on him?’
Mangold offered a shrug.
‘How much are we talking about?’
‘Thousands,’ Mangold speculated. ‘There were a few bank robberies early in the decade; a couple of security-van hold-ups.’
‘Claimed by the SNLA?’
‘Those were the stories at the time.’
‘All the years you worked with him – dodgy visitors… locked-door meetings… odd phone calls…?’
‘No more than any other lawyer,’ Mangold replied with a lopsided smile. He stared into the bottom of his cup. ‘I really do need to stop drinking at lunchtime. I’ll feel bloody awful later on.’ He glanced up at Fox. ‘Are we finished here, Inspector?’
‘Not quite. Did you ever hear names?’
‘Names?’
‘Members of these various groups.’
‘MI5 would know more about that than me.’
‘But they’re not here right now…’
Mangold conceded the point and furrowed his brow in thought. ‘No, no names,’ he said at last.
‘Any of Vernal’s friends seem a bit out of place?’
‘We met all sorts, Inspector. You’d visit a couple of pubs and end up in the company of vagabonds and cut-throats. Never knew if you were going to wake up with a tattoo or an infection – or not wake up at all.’
Fox managed the smile he felt was expected of him. ‘How about your own politics, Mr Mangold?’
‘Unionist now…’
‘But back then?’
‘Broadly the same.’
‘Funny you were such good friends with a dyed-in-the-tweed nationalist.’ Fox paused. ‘Or is that where Mrs Vernal comes in?’
‘I’d rather she didn’t come into it at all,’ Mangold said quietly.
‘But she must,’ Fox insisted, dropping his own voice a little. Mangold looked suddenly tired and defeated. He held up his hands in surrender, then slapped them down against the table.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He paused, staring down at his cup again. ‘More coffee, I think.’
‘Thank you for your time.’ Fox started to get up. ‘But just remember – you came to me.’
‘Yes,’ Mangold said, with almost a trace of regret.
‘Oh, one other thing…’
Mangold had risen and was facing Fox.
‘Did Alan Carter ever mention the car to you?’
Mangold seemed confused. ‘What car?’
‘Francis Vernal’s Volvo.’
‘No, I don’t think so – why do you ask?’
‘No reason really,’ Fox said with a shrug. But inside he was thinking: What else did he keep from you… and why?
Mangold stayed in the room, Fox insisting that he could see himself out. He stopped at the receptionist’s desk. She looked up from her work and smiled.
‘Marianne, isn’t it?’ Fox enquired. She added a nod to her smile. ‘Something I’ve always meant to ask Charles and somehow keep forgetting…’
‘Yes?’
‘The firm’s name – Mangold Bain: is there still a Bain?’
‘It was Vernal Mangold,’ she explained.
‘Ah yes, until poor Francis died…’ He tried his best to sound like one of Mangold’s oldest clients. ‘You’re too young to have known him, of course?’
‘Of course,’ she agreed, looking slightly pu
t out that he could mistake her for someone of that vintage.
‘So Mr Bain…?’ he prompted.
‘There’s never been a Mr Bain. It’s a maiden name.’
‘Mr Vernal’s widow Imogen?’ Fox guessed. ‘She’s a partner of some sort?’
‘Not that, no. Mr Mangold meant it as a… well, a kind of memorial, I suppose.’
‘Wouldn’t it have been more of a memorial if he’d just kept the name Vernal on the stationery?’ Fox asked. Marianne seemed never to have considered this. ‘Thanks for your help,’ Fox told her, bowing his head slightly and taking his leave.
21
Fox sat at his desk in the Complaints office, staring at the blank screen of his computer. Bob McEwan was taking a phone call. As ever, it seemed to concern the upcoming reorganisation. The Complaints would be swallowed up by ‘Standards and Values’. They would go, in the words of McEwan, from ‘micro’ to ‘macro’.
‘Just don’t ask me what that means.’
Fox had sent texts to both Tony Kaye and Joe Naysmith and was waiting to hear back from them. He had thought about visiting the Central Library, digging into its newspaper archive. He had cuttings from the Scotsman, but not from the Herald or any other Scottish paper of the time. He doubted he would find anything. The media had soon lost whatever interest it had had in the story.
When the office door opened, Fox saw that the Chief Constable was leading a visitor inside. The Chief’s name was Jim Byars. He was in full uniform, peaked cap included, which meant he was on his way to a meeting or else was out to impress someone. The visitor was a man in his late forties with a tanned face, square jaw and greying hair. He wore a three-piece suit and what looked like a silk tie. A handkerchief was visible in his breast pocket.
‘Ah, Malcolm,’ the Chief Constable said. Then, for the guest’s benefit: ‘This is Professional Standards – PSU.’
‘The “rubber heels”?’ the visitor said with a slight smile. His accent was English. The hand he held out for Fox to shake bore no rings. Fox had glanced in McEwan’s direction. He could see that his boss was torn. It would be polite to end the call and greet the visitor, but he wanted Byars to know that he was earning his keep. He gave the Chief a wave, then motioned that he would wrap up the call. Byars’ gesture let him know this wasn’t necessary.
‘Just giving DCI Jackson the tour,’ the Chief explained to Fox. Then, to Jackson: ‘Malcolm Fox is an inspector – detective rank, but we don’t use the term.’
‘How’s your workload?’ Jackson asked Fox.
‘Manageable,’ Fox replied, wishing he had turned on his computer. His desk looked bare; half an inch of paperwork in the in-tray. Was Jackson something to do with the coming reorganisation? Was he seeking posts that could be cut? He had that look to him – a brisk, hard-nosed bean-counter.
‘Working in Fife, aren’t you?’ the Chief asked, frowning as he realised how stupid the question sounded.
‘Not today, sir. Rest of my team are.’ Fox swallowed. There was no reason to suppose the Chief Constable would know he’d been kicked into touch. Even if he did know, it wasn’t the sort of thing you wanted to advertise to a visitor. ‘What brings you here?’ Fox asked Jackson instead. Byars got in first with the answer.
‘DCI Jackson is based at Special Branch – anti-terrorism.’
‘Didn’t know we had much of that in Edinburgh,’ Fox felt obliged to state.
Jackson gave the same brief smile. ‘The blast in the forest outside Peebles?’ he offered. ‘And Lockerbie before that?’
Fox nodded to let him know he’d heard.
‘We’re thinking they may have been a trial run, Inspector.’
‘Why Peebles?’
‘Anywhere would have done.’ Jackson paused. ‘Remember Glasgow Airport? The perpetrators lived quietly in the suburbs.’
‘And as Peebles is part of Lothian and Borders,’ Byars explained, ‘we’re assisting DCI Jackson and his team.’
Not quite a bean-counter, then.
Jackson was looking around the office, as if filing every detail of it away. Bob McEwan was trying desperately to wind up his conversation. ‘What’s happening in Fife?’ the Englishman asked.
‘Not much,’ Fox said.
‘CID officer,’ Byars told Jackson. ‘In court for overstepping the line. We’ve been asked to check whether his colleagues covered up for him.’
Jackson looked at Fox, and Fox knew what he was thinking: I’m with you, chum – never give away more than you have to.
McEwan had ended the call and was coming towards them. Byars made the fresh round of introductions and explanations.
‘Interesting,’ McEwan said, folding his arms. ‘Never goes away, does it?’
‘How do you mean?’ Jackson asked him.
‘Domestic terrorism. Malcolm’s latest case has an angle…’
‘Really?’ Jackson sounded suddenly interested.
It had to be Naysmith. Had to be Joe Naysmith who’d let it slip to McEwan.
Fox made show of shrugging it off. ‘A very slight connection,’ he mooted.
But Jackson was not to be deflected. ‘As in?’ he prompted.
‘Someone Malcolm interviewed,’ McEwan obliged. ‘He was doing some research into a lawyer who got himself involved with Scottish separatists.’
‘Quarter of a century back,’ Fox stressed.
The Chief Constable looked at Jackson. ‘Not quite the same as your Peebleshire bombers.’
‘Not quite,’ Jackson admitted. His next question was aimed at Fox: ‘What happened to the lawyer?’
‘Died in a car crash,’ Fox stated.
‘Unlike the researcher,’ McEwan added. ‘He put a revolver to his head.’
‘Dearie me,’ Jackson said. Then he gave Fox that same unnerving smile again.
When Naysmith called Fox’s mobile an hour or so later, Fox was alone in the office, McEwan having left for yet another meeting elsewhere in the building. Before Naysmith could say anything, Fox thanked him for telling McEwan all about Alan Carter and Francis Vernal.
‘He just asked me what I was up to,’ Naysmith responded.
‘Well, thanks anyway. Now we’ve got Special Branch interested.’ Fox went on to explain the circumstances.
‘Could be a bonus,’ Naysmith argued. ‘Can’t you ask him if there’s anything in the files on Vernal? Whether he really was being spied on?’
‘You think he’d tell me, even if he knew? This was twenty-odd years ago – reckon the spooks have instant access?’
‘Maybe not,’ Naysmith conceded. ‘But how else are we going to find out if they were keeping tabs on him?’
‘We aren’t,’ Fox said eventually. There was silence on the line for a moment.
‘Want to hear what I’ve got?’ Naysmith asked.
‘What have you got?’
‘Barron’s Wrecking.’
‘You spoke to him?’
‘He’s a good age now, but what a memory. When I said as much, he joked that it was because so much of his business was kept off the books. Told me I could grass him up to the taxman if I liked…’
‘But you got round to asking about the car eventually?’
‘He remembered it well. Tow-truck brought it in, but it was there hardly any time at all before someone came asking for it to be taken elsewhere.’
‘Gavin Willis?’ Fox guessed.
‘The very same,’ Naysmith confirmed. ‘They got it as far as the cottage, but it took four of them to push it up the slope into the garage.’
‘Did he tell them why he wanted it?’
‘I don’t think anybody asked. He paid Barron in cash and that was that.’
‘And no one came to the scrapyard asking for it?’
‘Willis slipped Mr Barron an extra twenty and told him to say it had gone into the crusher.’
‘And Barron never bothered asking why?’
‘The way he put it was, when a cop tells you to do something, you do it.’
‘I’
m not sure that’s so true these days.’ Fox thought for a moment. ‘Willis worked the firearms detail,’ he informed Naysmith. ‘Could have pocketed the revolver that was used on Alan Carter.’
‘Why, though?’
‘I’m still not sure. Did Barron remember anything else about the car? He didn’t swipe anything from it?’
‘Nothing he’s admitting to.’
‘Then that’s that,’ Fox said, pacing the empty office.
‘What do you want me to do next, Malcolm?’
‘Gavin Willis – I wouldn’t mind knowing how and when he died. Maybe he’s got some family left…’
‘I can check.’ Naysmith sounded as if he was writing himself a note to that effect.
‘Have you seen Tony?’ Fox asked.
‘Told me he was taking Billie and Bekkah out for coffee.’
‘The hairdressers?’ Fox stopped by the window. He had a view towards the car park, with Fettes College behind it. The pupils seemed to be heading home, a line of parental cars waiting to collect most of them. ‘What’s his thinking?’
‘Hormonal?’ Naysmith guessed.
Fox saw DCI Jackson being escorted to his car by the Chief Constable. Jackson had his own driver; nice executive saloon, too. He got into the back, Byars closing the door for him. As the car pulled away, a window slid down. Jackson was staring up towards the Complaints office. There was no way he could see Fox standing there, but Fox backed away all the same, though he wasn’t exactly sure why.
22
Francis Vernal’s widow lived in a detached Victorian mansion house in the Grange district of the city. The narrow streets were devoid of traffic and pedestrians. Almost no homes were visible. They remained hidden, like their owners and those owners’ wealth, behind high stone walls and solid wooden gates. Charles Mangold had been adamant that Fox could only visit if Mangold accompanied him. Fox had been just as adamant that this was a non-starter. Nevertheless, Mangold was waiting in an idling black taxi as Fox approached the driveway. As Fox got out of the car to announce his arrival at the intercom, Mangold emerged from the back of the cab.