by Ian Rankin
But Jude shook her head. She was staying, so Fox stayed too. Another chair was found for him and he placed it next to his sister. She was squeezing their father’s hand, and failing to dislodge the finger-clip.
‘They found him on the floor of his room,’ Fox explained quietly. ‘He hit his head when he fell.’ He paused, realising there was nothing else to add, apart from yet another apology. Jude wouldn’t look at him. When she did lift her face from the bed, she focused on the machine instead.
When the doctor arrived, he seemed impossibly young to Fox – barely out of his teens, surely. No white coat or stethoscope; just a shirt and tie and rolled-up sleeves.
‘No bones broken, no fractures,’ he recited, flicking through the notes he’d been handed. ‘Might just do a scan. We’ll keep him in a day or so…’
‘Someone mentioned a stroke,’ Fox said.
‘Mmm, it’s one possibility.’ Fox had been expecting the doctor to shine a light in Mitch’s eyes, or take his blood pressure and pulse… something like that. But the young man just glanced at the patient. The notes were telling him what he needed to know. ‘We’ll start to get a better idea when he comes round.’
‘Should we try rousing him?’ Fox asked.
‘Best leave it.’ The doctor had come to the end of his reading. ‘Scan later today or maybe tomorrow. After that, we’ll hopefully have some firmer news.’
And with that he was gone, moving to a patient on the other side of the room.
Jude didn’t say anything, and neither did Fox. He’d seldom felt as useless. When someone from the nurses’ station asked if they’d like a cup of tea, he nodded and felt pathetically grateful. Jude wanted water, and both drinks duly arrived. Fox said sorry again, and this time Jude looked at him.
‘You never think of me – either of you,’ she said.
‘Not now, Jude. Leave it for later.’ Fox nodded towards Mitch. ‘He might be able to hear.’
‘Maybe I want him to hear.’
‘Even so…’
She took a sip of water from the plastic glass, cupping it in both hands. Fox’s tea was too strong. The only way to make it drinkable was to add both sachets of sugar.
‘Look,’ he told his sister, ‘I was in the middle of something when they phoned me. I wasn’t thinking straight – even when I got here.’
‘No room in that head of yours for me, eh?’
‘Can we cut the martyr crap, Jude, just this once?’
He managed to hold her gaze, but only for a few seconds.
‘You’re some piece of work, Malcolm,’ she said, slowly and steadily. ‘You really are.’
‘Better to be something than nothing, eh?’ He made the mistake of glancing at his watch.
‘Somewhere you need to be?’ she asked.
‘Always.’
‘Don’t let family get in the way, will you?’
He was trying to calculate how long it would take him to get to Stirling. Would the evening rush hour slow him?
‘Christ, you really are planning to up and leave.’ Jude’s mouth stayed open. ‘Whatever it is, it can’t be more important than this.’
‘Just because you don’t understand doesn’t mean Dad wouldn’t.’
‘And I’m supposed to just sit here?’
‘You’ll do whatever you want to do, Jude, same as always.’
‘Said the kettle to the pot.’
It was hard to disagree, so Fox didn’t bother trying. He asked her if she needed money for the cafe. She kept him waiting for an answer before admitting that the taxi had cleaned her out. He placed a twenty-pound note on the bed, next to where she was holding Mitch’s hand.
‘I’ll be back later,’ he promised. ‘You going to be all right?’
‘What if I say no?’
‘Then I’ll feel worse than I already do.’
‘Just bugger off, Malcolm.’
Which was exactly what he did, after handing one of the nurses his card with his mobile number on it.
The nurse nodded, but then looked over towards Jude. ‘Is she going to throw another wobbly?’
Fox shook his head with some confidence. ‘Just so long as I’m not here,’ he explained.
35
It was a large, modern house down a side road opposite the university and not far from the Wallace Monument. A low brick wall separated it from its neighbours. There were fake shutters either side of each set of windows, and Palladian-style pillars flanking the front door. The gates had been left open for him, and the driveway was tarmacked. As Fox parked alongside a sleek Maserati and a small, sporty Lexus, the door opened. Fox recognised Stephen Pears from his photographs. The man beckoned towards him, as if welcoming a guest to a party.
‘Alison’s taking a phone call,’ he said. ‘She’ll only be a minute.’ Then he stretched out his hand for Fox to shake. He had good teeth and that tan, but was a stone or two heavier than necessary. His permanent five o’clock shadow could not disguise the double chin and jowls. Life, it seemed to Fox, was close to proving too much of a good thing for Stephen Pears.
‘Find the place okay?’ he asked as he led Fox into a double-height hallway.
‘Yes thanks.’
A dog appeared at Pears’s side, a Labrador with a glossy black coat. Fox reached down a hand to stroke its head. ‘What’s she called?’ he asked.
‘He’s called Max.’
‘Hiya, Max.’
But the dog had already lost interest in the visitor and was turning away. Fox straightened up. There were photographs lining the wall next to him. Fox recognised a number of celebrities. They were all pictured standing alongside Pears, smiling, occasionally shaking hands.
‘Sean Connery,’ Fox commented, nodding towards one particular photo.
‘Bumped into him and just had to get a snap.’
‘Looks like the New Club,’ Fox commented.
Pears looked surprised. ‘Are you a member?’
Fox shook his head. ‘You?’ he asked.
‘It’s nice and central when I want to impress people,’ Pears explained. ‘Come on through, won’t you? I was just pouring Andy a drink.’
Andy being Justice Minister Andrew Watson. He rose from the sofa at Fox’s approach and they shook hands.
‘Malcolm Fox,’ Fox said by way of introduction. No reason for Watson to be told any more than that.
‘Lothian and Borders Police?’ Watson commented.
Okay, so the Justice Minister knew. Fox nodded and turned down Pears’s offer of a malt.
‘Water’s fine,’ he said.
It came with ice cubes and a wedge of lime in a heavy crystal tumbler. Pears clinked glasses with his brother-in-law and sniffed the whisky before sampling it.
‘Not bad, Stephen,’ Watson said approvingly.
‘Sit down, Inspector,’ Pears commanded, hands in movement again.
Most of the ground floor seemed to be devoted to this huge open-plan space. Four or five sofas, a vast glass dining table with a dozen chairs placed around it, a fifty-inch TV screen on one wall. Spotlights picked out undersized paintings in overwrought frames. Piano music was being piped from somewhere – Fox couldn’t see any speakers. The French doors to the rear of the room led out to a terrace with lawns and a tennis court beyond. The tennis court was floodlit, either in an effort to impress, or because Pears could well afford to waste the electricity.
‘How’s she bearing up?’ Watson asked his host.
‘Your sister doesn’t “bear up”,’ Pears chided him. ‘She commands, she overcomes, she triumphs.’
‘And how is she “triumphing” tonight?’
Pears smiled into his glass. ‘This is just the sort of thing she’s been needing. Otherwise it’s all meetings and number-crunching.’
Watson nodded. ‘I know the feeling.’
Fox was staring at the ice cubes in his drink.
‘You all right there?’ Pears asked.
‘Fine, yes.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’ But something made Fox change his mind. ‘My dad’s in hospital. Just happened this afternoon.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ Pears said, while Watson made a grunting sound that could have passed for commiseration. ‘Shouldn’t you be there? Alison can make a bit of space in her diary tomorrow.’
Fox gave a shrug. ‘I’m here now.’
Pears nodded, keeping his eyes on Fox. ‘Something serious?’ he enquired.
‘They’re doing tests…’
Pears smiled. ‘I meant your business with Alison. She’s been a bit cagey, hasn’t she, Andy?’
‘A bit.’
‘It was that Scotland Yard bloke who mentioned you’re Lothian and Borders…’
‘DCI Jackson?’ Fox guessed.
‘Left here half an hour ago,’ Pears stated. ‘I think he was keen to stick around.’
The Justice Minister was loosening his tie, undoing the top button of his shirt. ‘He said you’ve got some case in Fife.’
Fox nodded slowly. ‘Started off pretty straightforwardly,’ he admitted. ‘Then it got complicated.’
‘The opposite of my business,’ Pears commented, getting up to refill his glass. He offered to do the same for Watson, but Watson shook his head. ‘I like taking complex things and turning them into something that’s simple to understand and communicate. That way you sell it to people. Problem with the way finance was going the past ten or so years, nobody could grasp any of it, so nobody questioned it. Back to basics, that’s my motto.’
Watson looked as if he had heard this speech many times. He did everything short of roll his eyes. When the financier was seated again, he leaned forward towards Fox.
‘Is it anything you can talk about?’ Pears asked. ‘I swear I won’t breathe a word, though I can’t vouch for the Justice Minister…’
‘There was a CID officer, misusing his position,’ Fox began. He felt a crushing tiredness all of a sudden, and had to grip the tumbler for fear he would drop it. ‘Then his uncle died – looked like suicide, but it wasn’t. CID seem to have the nephew in the frame for it…’
‘But?’ Fox had Pears’s full attention.
‘The nephew’s dead now too. Someone chased him into the sea and he drowned.’
Pears sat back in his chair as if to think this through. Watson, however, was checking his phone for messages, apparently uninterested.
‘The uncle was doing some research into the death of an SNP activist called Francis Vernal,’ Fox went on.
Watson stopped what he was doing. Now he was interested. ‘I know that name,’ he said. ‘He was in the news around the time I joined the party.’
‘I thought you were still in a Babygro when you took the pledge,’ Pears teased his brother-in-law.
‘Not quite – I was in high school. One of our teachers was an SNP councillor.’
‘You underwent the indoctrination process?’ Pears swallowed some more whisky.
Watson grew prickly. ‘We all know your politics, Stephen.’
‘I don’t,’ Fox countered.
Watson looked at him. ‘Take a wild guess. I’m even hearing rumblings of a peerage, now the Tories are in power down south. Cameron’s stuffing them into the House of Lords like there’s no tomorrow.’
Pears laughed and shook his head, while still seeming gratified. ‘I’ll bet you fifty quid your boss’ll end up in the same place eventually – maybe when he gets a drubbing at the next election.’
‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘With the lead Labour have got?’
‘We’ll pick up votes from the Lib Dems – they hate what your lot have done to their party in Westminster.’
Pears seemed to think about this, then turned back to Fox. ‘What’s your opinion, Inspector? Are you a political animal?’
‘I try to keep my head down, sir.’
‘One way of avoiding the shrapnel,’ Pears conceded. ‘But you’ve got me intrigued now – what has all this stuff about drownings and activists got to do with my wife?’
‘She was a student at St Andrews at the time Mr Vernal died. There’s a theory she may have known him.’
‘St Andrews?’ Watson was shaking his head. ‘Two years at Aberdeen, then she jacked it in and joined your lot instead.’
Pears was nodding. ‘Someone’s fed you a line, Inspector.’
Watson was holding his phone to his ear, having punched in a number. ‘Rory?’ he asked. ‘What time’s the car picking me up?’ He listened, checking his watch. ‘Fine,’ he said, ending the call.
‘Such a busy life,’ Pears said, feigning sympathy. ‘All of it paid for by the Inspector and me.’
‘And worth every bloody penny,’ Watson muttered. He glanced towards the sweeping staircase. ‘Is she ever coming down? Maybe I should go up…’
‘Finish your drink, man.’ Pears found to his surprise that he’d finished his own – again. He rose to his feet, and this time Fox needed his own tumbler refilling. ‘One more,’ Pears stated, ‘and I’ll call it a night.’
Watson pursed his lips, telling Fox that this might not necessarily be the case. There was the sound of a door closing upstairs. Alison Pears made an exasperated sound as she descended the staircase, phone in hand.
‘Do I need to be there every minute of every day?’ she complained. Then, to Fox: ‘Hello again.’
‘The inspector has been telling us what he’s working on,’ Pears said, handing her a gin and tonic. ‘All very mysterious, but also a wasted trip – got you mixed up with someone who was a student at St Andrews.’
The Chief Constable toasted the room with her drink and took a slug, exhaling afterwards.
‘Better?’ her husband asked.
‘Better,’ she confirmed. Then, to Fox: ‘Let’s go into the study and clear this up.’
Her brother got to his feet. ‘I need a word first, Ali – when my boss asks, what can I tell him about these bloody bombers?’
‘Nothing so far to indicate they won’t be charged,’ she said after a moment’s thought. ‘The house they were renting is a gold mine – material, blueprints and manuals, even a list of targets.’
‘Glasgow Airport again?’ her husband guessed.
‘RAF Leuchars,’ she corrected him. ‘And the naval dockyard. And our ex-prime minister.’
‘Whoever caught them should get a medal,’ Pears said, staring with purpose at the Justice Minister.
‘They might at that,’ Watson conceded.
‘Come on then,’ Alison Pears said to Fox. ‘Let’s hear this story of yours – might take my mind off things.’
‘Be gentle with the inspector,’ her husband suggested. ‘He’s had some bad news…’
She led him to a door in the corner of the room. It opened on to a study with wood-panelled walls and a fake bookcase. A small brass telescope stood on a tripod by the window. There was a two-seater brown hide sofa, and a swivel chair in front of the desk. Pears took the chair and signalled that Fox should take the sofa. The leather creaked as he settled.
She was dressed casually – baggy pink T-shirt, black joggers, Nike trainers. Fox wondered if there was a gym somewhere on the property.
‘Bad news?’ she said, echoing her husband’s words. Fox shrugged the question aside, ready with one of his own.
‘He doesn’t know?’
She considered the range of answers and evasions open to her.
‘Know what?’
Fox gave her a look that said: let’s not do this. ‘Neither of them do?’ he persisted, bringing out the matriculation photographs. ‘Wonder what they’ll say when I show them these. You’ve changed, but not quite enough to be unrecognisable.’
She studied the photos, saying nothing for a moment. ‘Andy knows I did some undercover work in my early years on the force,’ she eventually conceded.
‘But not that you posed as a St Andrews University student for two years?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Though he may be wondering about it now.’ She was using he
r feet against the floor to swivel gently in the chair. There was a slice of lime in her glass, and she extracted it, placing it on a corner of the desk.
‘DCI Jackson filled you in?’ Fox surmised.
‘Some; maybe not all.’ She squeezed the bridge of her nose, as if trying to ward off a headache. ‘What’s this bad news you’ve had?’
‘Never mind,’ Fox said. ‘Let’s concentrate on your affair with Francis Vernal.’ He ignored the glower she gave him. ‘It was a way of infiltrating the Dark Harvest Commando?’
She was still giving him the same hard stare.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Fox went on. ‘It was a long time ago, you were a different person. And this isn’t the best time for it all to come bobbing up again.’ He paused, placing the photos back in his pocket.
‘I’ll tell you what it was,’ she eventually said, keeping her voice low in case anyone outside the door might be listening. ‘It was two years down the pan.’
‘Because of the car crash?’
She nodded slowly. ‘The whole bloody edifice just crumbled after that. Some were too scared to go on – they thought MI5 were out to assassinate the lot of them.’
‘And were they?’
‘I wasn’t MI5.’
‘You were recruited by Special Branch?’
‘They needed someone on the inside – a pretty face usually does the trick. But it couldn’t be a pretty face from south of the border, could it? The English were supposed to be the enemy.’
‘While you were fresh out of Tulliallan and looked younger than your years. So Special Branch managed to get you into St Andrews, where you could become political, burrow ever deeper and feed information back?’
‘If you know so much, why do you need me?’
‘I need you because a man was murdered, and no one at the time or since has done anything about it.’ He watched her for a moment; it was impossible to read her face. ‘The home address in Glasgow…?’
‘Short-term office let,’ she explained. ‘Used for mail drops.’
‘And all the time you were edging closer to Francis Vernal?’
‘Francis was the conduit. He was supposed to lead to the people we were really interested in.’
Fox was thoughtful for a moment. ‘He was with you that evening, the night he died?’