by Ian Rankin
‘And what is it that drives them?’
Jackson could only shrug.
‘What happened to him?’ Fox asked. ‘The black eye, I mean.’
‘Punched himself in the face. That way, when the media eventually get their photo, it looks as if he’s been roughed up.’ Jackson looked at Fox again. ‘Don’t worry – local Complaints have been informed, statements taken.’
‘That’s all right, then.’
‘Your cousin Chris… we were keeping tabs on him, but nothing serious. We didn’t see him as the real threat.’
‘Who was the real threat? Vernal? Donald MacIver? Or the foot soldiers like Hawkeye?’
‘Who’s Hawkeye when he’s at home?’
‘You didn’t come across his name?’ Fox watched Jackson shake his head. ‘Maybe you need another trip to the vaults, then.’
‘Easier just to ask you.’
‘I’ve no idea who he is.’
‘Hardly matters,’ Jackson speculated. ‘Whatever threat there was, we dealt with it at the time.’
Fox glowered at him. ‘I want to speak to the men who were tailing Vernal that night.’
‘It’s not going to happen.’
‘It’ll have to – if you want me off your back.’
‘All they’d tell you is what I’ve already said – they had nothing to do with his death.’
‘I need to hear it from them.’
‘Why?’
‘I just do.’
Jackson seemed to consider this, before shaking his head slowly. ‘Not good enough, Inspector,’ he said, pulling open the door and indicating that it was time to leave.
‘My house was broken into,’ Fox informed him. ‘Reckon if someone goes into your precious vaults in a couple of decades’ time they’ll find mention of it?’
‘No shortage of criminals out there.’
‘At least we agree on that,’ Fox replied.
They walked back down the corridor, past the interview rooms and the guards.
‘I hope your father improves,’ Jackson said, while Fox handed his pass back at reception.
‘Thanks.’
Jackson held out his hand for Fox to shake. ‘We really are on the same side,’ he stressed. ‘Don’t forget that.’
‘When do you head back south?’
‘Next day or two. But you always know where to find me if you need me.’
‘To be honest,’ Fox said, ‘I’m hoping I never see you again.’
At eight that evening, Fox was seated by his father’s hospital bed. Jude had been persuaded to go home for a few hours’ sleep. Mitch was asleep too. Fox had stopped off at Lauder Lodge for some bits and pieces, and had ended up bringing the shoebox full of photographs with him. He had looked at every single one of them, wondering what sort of story they were trying to tell him. A twentieth-century family, not very different from any other. A roof over their heads and food in their bellies. Trips to the seaside and Christmas mornings. There was Malcolm, dressed in his favourite T-shirt, hair longer than his father liked, tearing the wrapping from a present. Jude, posing with her mother in a theatre auditorium. It would have been a musical: their mother had a passion for them. Father and son would always stay home to watch American cop shows on TV.
Burntisland again: Chris Fox, with Jude up on his shoulders. And one of him showing off his motorbike, a polishing rag in one hand. Radical… violent picket… stirrer… Fox would have liked to have known the man. If his father wasn’t sleeping, he’d maybe have tried asking a few questions. Mitch’s breathing was ragged. Every now and then he would seem to choke, coughing a few times without waking. His cheeks seemed sunken to Malcolm. The drip was still feeding him. Awake, he’d not been able to swallow food. Fox tried to ignore the catheter’s tubing as it snaked from beneath the sheets towards the bag hanging from the bed’s metal frame.
Proper detective work, that’s what I’m doing, he wanted to tell his father. For better or worse, that’s what I’m doing…
When his phone started to vibrate, he checked the screen. The caller’s identity was blocked. He stood up and answered, walking past the nurses’ station towards the corridor.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Malcolm Fox?’ The voice sounded distinctly irritated.
‘Yes.’
‘They told me I had to talk to you.’
‘Oh?’
There was the sound of a throat clearing. Fox got the feeling the caller was a man in his sixties.
‘I was there that night. They said you needed to hear about it.’
‘Francis Vernal?’ Fox stopped walking. ‘You were tailing him?’
‘Surveillance, yes.’
‘I need to call you back. Let me take down your number…’
‘I might be retired, but I’m not senile.’
‘A name, then.’
‘How about Colin? Or James? Or Fred?’
‘No names?’ Fox guessed.
‘No names,’ the voice confirmed. ‘I’ve been out of the service for a long time, and I certainly don’t owe them anything, so listen – you get to hear this once and once only.’ He paused, as if expecting Fox to respond in some way.
‘Okay,’ Fox obliged.
‘Vernal was driving like a maniac. He’d had more than a few drinks before setting out from Anstruther.’
‘He’d been there all weekend?’
‘With his lover,’ the voice confirmed. ‘If there’d been any traffic at all on that road, it could have been a lot worse. We heard the crash before we saw it. Straight into a tree he’d gone. Front end crumpled, and him with a few teeth missing in the driver’s seat.’
‘Unconscious?’
‘But breathing… pulse steady. If another car had stopped and seen us… well, we didn’t want that.’
‘But you hung around long enough to give the car the once-over.’
‘Too good a chance to miss.’
‘You didn’t take his money and cigarettes, though?’
‘We were asked about that at the time.’
‘Maybe your partner…?’
‘No.’
‘Any chance of him confirming that for himself?’
‘Died a year back. Natural causes, in case you’re wondering.’
‘Sorry to hear it. What do you think happened to Vernal’s cigarettes and his lucky fifty-pound note?’
‘No idea.’
‘And there wasn’t a gun in the car when you searched it?’
‘Plenty of places he could have hidden one.’
‘He’d also hidden thirty or forty thousand in cash.’
‘I was told you’d mention that.’
‘Kept in the boot, apparently.’
‘We didn’t open the boot.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘We didn’t know anything about any money.’
‘You’d been tailing Vernal. You must have seen him at DHC meetings – coming out to the car and disappearing back inside again?’
‘We never saw any money.’
‘Your mole didn’t mention it?’
The man paused again before answering. ‘I’ve told you what I know,’ he said.
‘Prove to me you were there.’
‘What?’
‘How am I supposed to know, otherwise?’
There was another long silence on the line. ‘The reason we hightailed it,’ the voice said eventually, ‘is that he started coming round. The first word out of his mouth was “Imogen”. We hadn’t been expecting that.’
‘You knew who Imogen was?’
‘She was his wife. He was obviously in a bit of pain, and she was the one he wanted to see. Not Alice – Imogen.’
‘But you just left him there – no thought of calling for help…’
‘We were called the Watcher Service, Fox. That’s what we did – and a phone call to a doctor wasn’t going to save him anyway, was it?’ Fox didn’t answer. ‘Are we done?’
‘Was someone called Hawkeye ever on your ra
dar?’
‘He was a DHC member. Slippery little bastard.’
‘Slippery how?’
‘Few times the watchers tried a follow, he either did a Houdini act or else clocked them.’ The caller paused, then repeated his previous question: ‘We done?’
‘I don’t know how you can live with it,’ Fox commented.
‘We’re done,’ the voice stated. The line went dead. Fox found that he was leaning with his back against the corridor’s wall. He rested his head against its cool surface and stared at the framed print on the wall opposite. Then he looked up Alison Pears’s number and punched it in.
‘What?’ she snapped.
‘Wanted to thank you for getting Jackson to talk to me.’
‘It doesn’t seem to have stopped you pestering me.’
‘I’ve just had a call from one of the two agents who were tailing Vernal that night.’
‘Yes?’
‘I just wondered – I’m assuming you met them?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t know them?’
‘We never had any direct contact. They were spooks, I was a junior police officer. Is that all you needed to know?’
‘Well, since I’ve got you…’
‘Yes?’
‘Bit of a coincidence – I come to your house, and not long afterwards, someone breaks into mine.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Was anything taken?’
‘Laptop, memory stick, Professor Martin’s book…’
‘I see.’
‘Am I being paranoid?’
‘Who do you think did it?’
‘I’ve no idea. Have you maybe mentioned me to your handlers at Special Branch?’
‘Handlers? This isn’t John le Carre, Fox.’
‘You’ve not spoken to anyone?’
‘Believe it or not, I’ve had more important things on my plate.’
There was silence on the line for a moment, then she asked him how his father was doing.
‘Thanks, but that’s none of your business.’
Fox heard a doorbell and guessed Alison Pears was at home. ‘That’ll be my brother,’ she said by way of confirmation. ‘He’s here for an update. Do we end this conversation before I open the door to him?’
‘That’s up to you.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything else to say, is there? Hang on, though…’ He heard her unlock her door and tell the Justice Minister: ‘Him again; that makes twice today…’
The telephone changed hands. Fox listened as Andrew Watson began his tirade. Eight or nine words in, Fox ended the call and went back to his father’s bedside.
39
Tony Kaye met Tosh Garioch at the door of the Dakota Hotel in South Queensferry. Neutral territory, just the Edinburgh side of the Forth Road Bridge. The hotel itself was a modern black box with its name picked out in neon, in a retail park boasting a late-night supermarket and not much else.
‘Thanks for coming,’ Kaye said, hand held out. Garioch hesitated for a moment before pressing his own hand against Kaye’s. It didn’t quite turn into a test of strength, but it was close. ‘Thought we could have a drink,’ Kaye added with a thin smile. Garioch nodded and they went in. The main restaurant to the rear of the bar was doing a good trade: businessmen eating alone; couples whispering over the seafood platters. There were some bar stools, but Kaye opted for a sofa. Garioch took the squishy chair opposite, the low wooden table separating them.
‘It’s good you kept my number,’ Kaye said.
‘I had to dig in the bin to find it.’ Garioch held up Kaye’s business card. It had been torn in half. The waiter arrived and they both ordered pints. The young man couldn’t help staring at Garioch’s thistle tattoo. A bowl of nuts was placed on the table and Garioch dug a paw into it, filling his mouth.
‘So what’s this deal?’ he said.
Kaye leaned forward. ‘Way I see it, we can go easy on you. You had every right to be angry with Paul Carter. Came to blows and he took off. You ran after him but gave up when he went into the water.’ Kaye shrugged. ‘We don’t ask how far you followed him; we don’t mention the wet trouser-legs. He drowned – not your fault he was stupid enough to go swimming.’
Kaye gave the man time to think this over. The drinks arrived and he paid for them, took a mouthful and began again.
‘If we want to go a bit harder on you, it comes out in a different light – beating up a cop and hounding him to his doom… wading into the water until you could be sure he wasn’t coming out again.’ He paused, swirling the contents of his glass. ‘But for the deal to work, we’ll need to know about Alan Carter and Paul.’
‘You’re not even CID,’ Garioch countered. ‘It’ll be Cash giving evidence in court, not you.’
‘Cash will listen to me. He’ll have to.’ Kaye paused. ‘I blame myself anyway. You were there when I took the call from my colleague, talked to him about Paul Carter. I jotted it down in my notebook, didn’t I? “Paul Carter… Wheatsheaf…”’ Kaye produced the notebook and showed Garioch the relevant page. ‘Problem with that is, if I tell Cash about it, then suddenly there’s an element of premeditation. See what I mean, Tosh? You didn’t just stumble across Paul Carter – you were lying in wait for him.’
Kaye left it at that, concentrating on his drink again. Garioch was right: he had no power. And as for Cash doing what he told him… No matter: he just needed to sound confident here and now.
Garioch slouched a little in his chair, and Kaye knew he had him.
‘Alan was good to me,’ Garioch said quietly. ‘Gave me a job and everything. Not so easy when you’ve done time.’
‘When he asked a wee favour, you weren’t going to say no?’
Garioch nodded his agreement with this. ‘Paul usually went to that club on a Friday night. Couple of times we’d had to drag him off some woman he was drooling over. Billie and Bekkah were supposed to follow him out when he left, get chatting to him, then make a complaint.’
‘Whether he’d done anything or not?’
Garioch nodded again. His head had fallen between his massive shoulders. ‘A woman had already complained about him, but she’d been scared off. Alan got me and Mel to have a quiet word with her.’
‘Mel Stuart?’ Kaye checked. ‘Mel’s done a bit of time too, hasn’t he? Didn’t it feel a bit strange, the pair of you taking a wage from an ex-cop?’
‘Alan was all right. You knew where you stood with him.’
‘So he’d had you put a bit of pressure on Teresa Collins…’ Kaye prompted.
‘Billie and Bekkah were by way of an insurance policy,’ Garioch acknowledged. ‘But when they left the club they couldn’t see him. After a bit, Bekkah needed to pee, and that’s when he drew up in his car. We didn’t know he would have them lifted, but it worked out okay for us.’
‘Your boss was happy?’
‘He hated his nephew. Never quite understood it myself, but that’s families for you – grievances get nursed.’
‘You never asked him why he was doing it?’
Garioch shook his head.
‘And getting the girls involved – that was Alan Carter’s idea?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did Paul try anything with Billie and Bekkah?’
‘Just like they told it.’
‘Another reason for you to be furious with him.’
Garioch stared at Tony Kaye. ‘It was for what he did to Alan,’ he stated.
‘Actually, Tosh, we’re not so sure he killed your boss,’ Kaye commented. ‘Meaning he might have died for nothing. If you had a conscience, I dare say that fact could end up troubling it.’
Kaye rose slowly to his feet. ‘We’ll get a statement from you,’ he said. ‘Best if you talk to DI Cash direct – tell him everything you’ve told me.’
‘I thought you were going to talk to him?’
‘And I will. But best if it looks like you’ve made up your own mind. Take your lawyer with you.’ Kaye was buttoning his coat.
He nodded towards Garioch’s empty glass. ‘And no more of those tonight – don’t want to add drink-driving to the list, do we?’
Fox was asleep fully dressed on his sofa when the doorbell went. He had an ache in his neck, and rubbed at his eyes before checking the time: five minutes shy of midnight. The TV news was playing, but just barely audible. He got up and stretched his spine. The bell went again. He opened the living-room curtains and peered out, then went into the hall and opened the door.
‘Bit late to be canvassing,’ he told Andrew Watson.
‘I need a word with you,’ the politician replied. A car was parked outside Fox’s gate, engine idling and a driver at the wheel.
‘Better come in, then,’ he said.
‘Bit of trouble?’ Watson had noticed the damage to the door.
‘Break-in.’
Watson didn’t seem interested. He followed Fox into the house. ‘I’m not used to people hanging up on me,’ he said, as if reading from a script. But Fox wasn’t about to apologise. Instead, he was pouring the dregs from a bottle of fruit juice into a glass and gulping it down. There was no offer of anything for the Justice Minister. Fox sat down on the sofa and switched the TV sound to mute. Watson stayed on his feet.
‘I need to know what’s going on,’ he said.
‘Ask your sister.’
‘She won’t tell me.’
‘Then I can’t help.’
‘Why are the Complaints so interested?’
‘That’s between her and me.’
‘I could make it my business.’
‘I dare say you could.’
Watson glared at him. ‘She’s running the highest-profile case we’ve seen in this country for several years.’
‘Maybe even since Megrahi,’ Fox agreed.
The SNP man’s eyes did everything short of glowing red. ‘I intend to see to it that you don’t come within ten miles of her.’
Fox was rubbing at his eyes again. He blinked them back into focus, sighed, and motioned for Watson to sit down.
‘I prefer to stand.’
‘Sit down and listen to what I have to tell you.’
Watson sat down, pressing his palms together as if to aid his concentration.
‘Remember at the house?’ Fox began. ‘I mentioned Francis Vernal…’
‘Yes.’
‘Your sister was fresh out of Tulliallan – first job she got was deep cover, posing as a student at St Andrews. Matriculation, tutorials, the lot. Student politics got her closer and closer to some of the groups on the fringes. She was feeding back any information she could get.’