The Impossible Dead mf-2

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Bit of a blessing,’ his colleague added.

  ‘Does the sarcasm come at no extra charge?’ Fox asked. ‘And a disciplinary’s only if you’ve been negligent – I don’t think break-ins count.’

  They’d had their fun at the Complaints’ expense, so stopped smirking and suggested getting a team in to dust for prints, Fox argued it wasn’t worth the bother.

  ‘Not so sure about that, Inspector,’ the elder of the two countered. ‘Been a few homes broken into round here in the past six months. Might be able to tie yours to them.’

  ‘Then when we catch the wee bastards…’ the younger officer said.

  ‘Fine, then,’ Fox said.

  It took an hour for a forensic car to arrive. A young woman brought her box of tricks into the house and got to work. Fox had got the bedroom back to normal. He watched her as she brushed powder on to the front door.

  ‘Didn’t take much,’ she commented.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even your telly. Means they were probably on foot.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She paused in her work. ‘I’m not getting much here,’ she admitted. A few minutes later she was in the living room. He asked her to dust the surface of the dining table. She came up with a few prints.

  ‘Probably mine,’ Fox conceded.

  She lifted a few samples anyway, then took his prints to check them against. Fox was reminded of the scene outside Alan Carter’s cottage. He was still wondering if he was lucky to have been out of the house.

  But if they’d really wanted him there, they could have chosen their moment. Relatively easy to find his home address – a word in the right ear, maybe even a bit of computer hacking. He wasn’t in the phone book, though Jude was. Hell, he could even have been tailed from Police HQ. They had either watched him leave the house, or they’d known he was on his way to the hospital after his brief trip to the office.

  Were they listening to his phone calls?

  Had someone planted bugs in his house, office or car?

  He tried to snort the thought away, but knew it would bother him for the rest of the day.

  ‘The woolly-suits gave you a reference number?’ the forensics officer was asking, having finished with the upstairs bedroom.

  ‘Woolly-suits?’

  ‘Uniforms,’ she explained with a smile. ‘There was a DI who used to call them that.’

  ‘They gave me a reference number, yes.’

  ‘All you can do is put in a claim, then – and get a stronger door for next time.’

  Fox nodded.

  ‘Could have been worse, eh?’ she said with a smile.

  He seemed to agree with her that it could.

  The same meeting room as before at Mangold Bain. And as expected, Charles Mangold could spare only a few minutes. There was no offer of a drink – time, as Mangold himself put it, did not permit. He pressed his hands together, lips brushing the tips of his fingers, and listened to what Fox had to say.

  ‘My home’s been broken into. The stuff you gave me got left behind, but they took my laptop. Some of my own work on the Vernal case was on it. They’ll have your name now…’

  Mangold waved this aside. ‘Who do you think is responsible?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ve had a few run-ins with someone from Special Branch…’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And last night I went to see Alice Watts.’

  Mangold didn’t bother trying to conceal his surprise. ‘The girl Francis was seeing? You found her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is she? What’s she doing?’ He watched Fox shake his head slowly. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I have my reasons.’

  Mangold seemed to be considering pressing the point, but Fox’s look told him it would be futile. ‘Did she talk to you about Francis?’ he asked instead.

  Fox nodded.

  ‘Well?’ the lawyer demanded.

  ‘She didn’t love him.’

  Mangold stared at him. ‘You’re sure of that?’ He watched Fox nod again. ‘Why did she disappear off the face of the earth? Did she have something to do with his death?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Not directly. ‘But you can put Imogen Vernal’s mind at rest.’ Fox paused. ‘Though I’m not sure that’s ever been your intention.’ The two men locked eyes. ‘I think what you really want is for the scales to fall from her eyes.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It galls you that all these years she’s held fast to an image of her husband – the crusader, the patriot. No matter what you’ve done for her – including adding her name to the law firm – she’s never given you your due, has she?’

  ‘I don’t see that this outburst serves any purpose, Inspector.’

  Fox shrugged the complaint aside. ‘Why did you choose Alan Carter to be your bloodhound? You’d had years to look into Vernal’s death, and my guess is, that’s what you did. It didn’t get you very far. But you knew Gavin Willis had led the original inquiry, and you probably discovered that he’d been a mentor to Alan Carter.’ Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘You weren’t interested in what he found. You wondered how much he would try to conceal. That way you’d have a better understanding of the role Gavin Willis played. And you had a point – Carter didn’t tell you about Vernal’s car, for example, tucked away all these years in a garage behind Gallowhill Cottage. See, it works both ways: there was stuff he didn’t want you to know. That’s probably why he took the job on – he could control the investigation and make sure no mud stuck to Gavin Willis’s name.’

  ‘I don’t see,’ Mangold repeated, his voice quiet but trembling with anger, ‘that this gets us any further.’

  Fox sat in silence for a few seconds, then shrugged. ‘A couple more names have come up,’ he stated. ‘Andrew Watson, for one.’

  ‘Our current Justice Minister?’

  ‘The same. Do you know him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He was a lawyer, though, before becoming an MSP?’

  ‘A different generation from me. And he practised in Aberdeen.’

  ‘Criminal law?’

  It was Mangold’s turn to nod. ‘What has he got to do with Francis’s death?’ An eyebrow shot up. ‘You’re after him to reopen the investigation?’

  ‘Would you like that?’

  ‘It would be a nightmare for Imogen.’

  ‘She might reach out for someone to hold her hand…’

  The look Mangold gave told Fox the lawyer reckoned this a very cheap shot. ‘What’s the other name?’ Mangold asked.

  Fox shook his head slowly, as if to indicate that it wasn’t at all important. ‘Just that I saw a photo of his brother-in-law.’

  ‘Stephen Pears?’

  ‘Taken in the New Club.’

  ‘He’s a member.’

  ‘I thought it was mostly lawyers and judges.’

  ‘A fairly wide spectrum,’ Mangold corrected him.

  ‘Is the Justice Minister a member too?’

  Mangold thought for a moment. ‘Do you know, I don’t think he is.’

  ‘Would Vernal have known Andrew Watson?’ Fox asked. ‘Both lawyers

  … both keen nationalists…’

  ‘Wouldn’t Watson still have been at school when Frank died?’ Mangold did the arithmetic in his head. ‘Couldn’t have been much more than sixteen or seventeen.’

  ‘The age of idealism,’ Fox stated. ‘Sort of age when you’re open to ideas, too.’

  Though not, perhaps, the idea that your sister was sleeping with a man twice her age, a married man, a man called Francis Vernal…

  Lacking a computer at home, Fox returned to Fettes, hoping he wouldn’t bump into the Chief Constable. The car radio news told him that the three Kippen suspects were likely to be charged by the end of the day, but would remain in custody in any event, extra time for questioning having been granted. Fox knew that after the Megrahi case, the Scottish government would feel the spotlight was on them – and on the justice system.

 
; Next to the reception desk, the status was still CRITICAL.

  ‘Even with the bad guys detained?’ Fox asked the desk officer.

  ‘We don’t know how many more are out there,’ the man replied, ‘and maybe wanting revenge…’

  Fear: Fox had noticed the same thing when skimming the news reports from 1985. Fear was ever-present. When you’d stopped needing to fear a US-Soviet conflagration or an impending ice age, something else came along in its place. Fear of crime always seemed to outpace the actual statistics. Right now, people were fearing for their jobs and pensions, fearing global warming and dwindling resources. If these problems were ever resolved, new worries would fill the vacuum. He stared at the word CRITICAL, then moved past the sign and headed for the stairs.

  Joe Naysmith was in the Complaints office. He gave Fox a wave.

  ‘Done and dusted in Fife?’ Fox asked him. Naysmith nodded. ‘So where’s Tony?’

  Naysmith shrugged and asked Fox if he wanted a coffee.

  ‘Sure,’ Fox said, sitting down at his computer. He took a twenty-pound note from his pocket, folded it to make a paper plane, and launched it in Naysmith’s direction. The young man looked at him.

  ‘I’m paying off the kitty debts,’ Fox explained. ‘Does that cover it?’

  ‘With room to spare.’

  ‘Good,’ Fox said. Then he got to work, doing a search on Andrew Watson. As Mangold had suggested, the current Justice Minister would just have been starting at Aberdeen University when Francis Vernal died. Fox looked carefully, but could see no sign that Watson had ever been a hardliner or especially radical. He’d graduated with a first in law, then joined a practice. SNP councillor by the age of twenty-seven and an MSP at thirty-one. The party leader seemed to like and respect him. As a ‘back-room boy’, Watson was credited with helping the SNP canvass its way into government.

  The twenty-pound note seemed to have cheered Joe Naysmith up. He sat with Fox and let Fox bounce ideas off him, then got up and made more coffee while Fox texted Tony Kaye to ask him where he was. When his phone rang, he reckoned it would be Kaye, but it was Jude, phoning from the hospital.

  ‘He’s awake,’ she said. ‘But he’s not right…’

  Fox drove out to the Infirmary and found himself entering the car park just behind a slow-moving Rover. He sounded his horn in irritation and gestured for the driver to put his foot down. After a couple of circuits he found an empty bay. It was at the very furthest corner, and he had to walk past the Rover as he made for the hospital entrance. The driver was Fox’s father’s age and looked fearful as Fox stalked towards him. The CRITICAL sign flashed in Fox’s head and he paused for a moment, muttering the word ‘sorry’ before carrying on.

  When he reached his father’s bedside, Mitch’s eyes were closed, hands clasped on his chest. Jude was talking to a woman who introduced herself as Mae Ross.

  ‘Mrs Ross works at Lauder Lodge,’ Jude explained.

  ‘We were just wondering how he’s doing,’ Mrs Ross added.

  ‘And I was apologising for not getting in touch sooner.’

  Fox just nodded. ‘You said he was awake,’ he commented.

  ‘He is… sort of.’

  Fox leaned over his father and watched the eyelids flutter, then open. The eyes took a moment to focus.

  ‘Chris?’ his father said, voice slurred.

  ‘It’s Malcolm.’ Fox laid a palm against his father’s hands.

  ‘Malcolm?’ The word was barely recognisable.

  ‘Strokes do that,’ Mrs Ross stated. Then, to the patient, in the sort of sing-song voice usually reserved for children: ‘We’re all looking forward to seeing our favourite client back at Lauder Lodge!’

  Her wide smile disappeared as Fox turned to face her. ‘He’s not a “client”,’ he growled. ‘He’s my father!’

  She looked shocked. ‘I didn’t mean anything, Mr Fox…’

  Jude seemed stunned by the outburst. She placed a hand on Fox’s forearm.

  ‘Chris,’ Mitch Fox was repeating.

  ‘Not Chris – Malcolm,’ his son informed him.

  ‘Cousin Chris?’ Jude guessed. ‘Burntisland Chris?’

  ‘Chris is dead,’ Fox was telling his father. ‘He fell off his motorbike, remember?’

  Fox took the photograph from his pocket – the one showing Chris Fox cheering Francis Vernal. He unfolded it and thrust it into his father’s face.

  ‘See?’ he said. ‘That’s Chris.’ He pointed to the face. ‘That’s Chris and I’m Malcolm.’

  ‘It’s okay, Malcolm,’ Jude was telling him, while Mrs Ross looked at him as if he were mad. The hospital staff were taking an interest too. Fox lowered the photograph and watched his father’s face clear.

  ‘Chris was always so careful on that bike of his,’ Mitch Fox said.

  ‘Not careful enough, though.’ But a question was starting to form in Fox’s mind, a question only one person could answer. He turned towards Jude, who was still gripping him by his forearm.

  ‘There’s somewhere I need to go,’ he told her. ‘Will you be all right here?’

  She nodded slowly, looking a little fearful. Fox freed himself from her grasp and ran his hand down the side of her head. ‘But if anything changes…’

  ‘I’ll call you,’ she said.

  ‘I shouldn’t be too long.’

  ‘Just come back to us when you’re ready,’ Jude told him. She even managed a smile of sorts, as if keen to bolster him. Fox did something he hadn’t done in a while: leaned in towards her and kissed her on the cheek. She lifted herself a little, making it easier for him.

  And then he was gone.

  38

  When Fox got to Police HQ in Stirling, the media presence had not lessened, and armed officers still gave his warrant card a thorough inspection. He texted the Chief Constable’s mobile with a message: Tell Jackson I’m downstairs.

  Ten minutes later, the Special Branch man was standing in front of him. Fox took his time getting up from the same seat he’d used on his previous visit.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ Jackson snarled.

  ‘Charged them yet?’ Fox asked casually.

  Jackson folded his arms and said nothing.

  ‘I had a good chat with the Chief Constable last night,’ Fox went on. ‘Sorry she felt the need to keep you out of it.’

  Jackson exhaled noisily through his nostrils. His phone sounded and he checked the message on his screen. Fox waited until he had the man’s attention again, then started to speak.

  ‘Chris Fox – does the name mean anything to you?’

  Jackson stared at him, then gave the slightest of nods. ‘Wondered when you’d get round to that,’ he muttered. ‘Come on…’

  Fox was given a visitor’s pass by the same receptionist as the previous day. He followed Jackson along a corridor and down a flight of stairs. Another corridor, but this time with an armed officer checking IDs. Two interview rooms, facing one another across the corridor. Kevlar-vested officers standing guard outside both of them. Jackson pushed open one of the doors.

  ‘Take a look,’ he said.

  Standing in the doorway, Fox saw that a man was seated at a table. He was handcuffed and refused to look up. Light-brown skin, thick wavy hair, dark rings under his eyes, the left eye swollen shut. Jackson closed the door again and stared at Fox.

  ‘Military and political targets first, then civilian – supermarkets, football fixtures, even hospitals. He didn’t care who got killed as long as we took notice.’

  ‘What’s your point?’ Fox asked.

  ‘My point is, there’s a real and current threat and we’d be foolish to dwell on the past.’ Jackson could tell that the guards were listening. He paced further down the corridor, past shirtsleeved detectives who nodded a greeting at him. There was a small empty office next to a further set of doors, and Jackson walked in, waiting for Fox to follow.

  ‘Close the door,’ he ordered. Fox did so, and the two men faced one another. ‘A real and cur
rent threat,’ the Special Branch man repeated quietly. ‘We do what is necessary to stop it becoming a reality.’

  ‘I was asking about Chris Fox.’

  ‘I thought that’s what this was all about. When I saw that surname in the vaults – had to be a connection.’

  ‘When we spoke at the cafeteria?’

  ‘I already knew,’ Jackson confirmed. ‘Made me wonder why you didn’t bring it up. I was beginning to think maybe you had something to hide.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Jackson gave a shrug. ‘He’s a relative of some kind?’

  ‘Cousin. How come he’s in the Special Branch vaults?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ Jackson sounded genuinely surprised. Fox watched him calculate how much to say.

  ‘Strictly between us,’ Fox offered.

  Jackson took a few moments more to make up his mind. ‘He was a shop steward – a radical shop steward. Liked nothing better than a violent picket or stirring things up. Card-carrying member of the Communist Party – plenty of them in Fife. But he switched to separatism. He was a good friend to Francis Vernal in the early years. The two of them hatched plans for marches and demos against visiting royals. It would only have taken one hothead with a gun…’ Jackson paused. ‘It was the same back then as it is now – a real and current threat…’

  ‘With Special Branch doing everything necessary to stop it becoming a reality?’

  Jackson fixed Fox with a look. ‘We did not kill Chris Fox.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It was a motorbike accident, pure and simple. So if that’s what all this is about…’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of people getting away with murder.’

  ‘We can agree on that, at least.’ Jackson paused. ‘What did the Chief Constable say to you last night?’

  ‘Nothing she wants you to know, or she’d have said.’

  ‘Her brother’s furious with you.’

  ‘I can live with that.’

  Jackson stared down at his feet, as if studying his shoes. ‘He looks quite normal, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Who?’

  Jackson gestured towards the corridor. ‘They always seem so ordinary. Just that bit more… driven.’