The Complaints

15

Malcolm Fox’s alarm woke him at seven as usual. He was in the shower before he realised there was no necessity to be up this early. Nor did he have to wear a clean shirt and a fresh tie, or his suit and braces, but that didn’t stop him putting all of them on. As he was eating breakfast, there was a phone call. It was a woman called Stoddart from Grampian Police PSU. She was ‘inviting’ him to a meeting at Fettes HQ.

‘Shall we say three p.m.?’

‘Three’s fine,’ Fox informed her.

The day was cold and overcast. Snowdrops were starting to appear in his front garden, and he reckoned there’d be some brave crocuses already sticking their heads above the parapet in the Meadows and the city’s other parks. He tried to work out a route that would take him through the Meadows on his way to Leith. It would be circuitous, but with the added bonus of a drive through Holyrood Park. Besides, he wasn’t exactly in a hurry.

A few years back, Fox and his team had investigated an officer based at Leith Police Station. He’d been taking backhanders and turning a blind eye. One of his own men had come to them, but only with a promise of anonymity. Meetings had taken place at a greasy spoon near the docks, and this was Fox’s destination today. The café was called The Marina, its paintwork peeling, interior walls shiny with grease. There were half a dozen Formica-topped tables and a ledge by the window where you could stand and eat if you preferred. The owner was a large, red-faced woman who did much of the cooking while an Eastern European girl worked the till and the tables. Fox had been seated for fifteen minutes, nursing a mug of industrial-strength tea, when Max Dearborn walked in. Dearborn saw him and his whole body seemed to sag. He’d put on half a stone or more since they’d last met, and had developed jowls. There was still acne around his mouth, and his dark hair was slick-looking, combed straight down. More than ever, he resembled Oliver Hardy’s Scottish nephew.

‘Hiya, Max,’ Fox said.

Dearborn’s breathing was hoarse as he wedged himself into the seat opposite Fox.

‘Is this just some horrific coincidence?’ the young man pretended to guess.

Fox was shaking his head. The waitress had arrived, and he ordered a bacon roll.

‘Usual for you, Max?’ she asked Dearborn, who nodded a reply, keeping his eyes on Fox. When she moved away, Fox spoke in an undertone.

‘I hear you’re a DS these days – congratulations.’

Dearborn responded with a twitch of the mouth. Fox remembered him the way he’d been – a detective constable with ideals and principles still intact, yet fearful of alienating his colleagues. ‘Serpico’, Tony Kaye had called him.

‘What do you want?’ Dearborn was asking. He’d taken a good look around the café, seeking out enemies and sharp ears.

‘Are you working the Charlie Brogan drowning?’ Fox could feel sweat forming on his back. His heart was beating far too fast. The tea had enough tannin in it to fell an ox, so he pushed the mug to one side.

‘It’s not a drowning yet,’ Dearborn corrected him. ‘And what’s it to you anyway?’

‘I’m just interested. Reckon maybe you owe me a favour.’

‘A favour?’

‘For keeping your name under wraps.’

‘Is that some sort of threat?’

Fox shook his head. Dearborn’s coffee had arrived and he shovelled two spoonfuls of sugar into it, stirring noisily.

‘Like I say, I’m just interested. I’m hoping someone can keep me up to date.’

‘And that’s me, is it?’ Dearborn stared at him. ‘Why the interest? ’

Fox shrugged. ‘Brogan might tie in to another case.’

‘To do with the Complaints?’ Dearborn was suddenly less hostile, and more interested.

‘Maybe. It’s all hush-hush, but if anything did come to light, I’d be willing to share the credit.’ Fox paused. ‘You know my boss had a say in your promotion?’

‘Thought he might have.’

‘It can happen again, Max…’ Fox let his voice drift away. Dearborn took a slurp of coffee and then another, and started to do some thinking. Fox just sat there, hands in his lap, not wanting to rest any part of his suit against the surface of the table. The waitress was returning with their food – Fox’s filled roll; Dearborn’s fry-up. The young man’s plate was heaped, and he turned towards the cook and gave her a nod and a smile. She smiled back. Fox had peeled open his roll. The bacon looked pale and stringy. He closed it again and left it on the plate. Dearborn was squeezing brown sauce across the array of bacon, fried egg, sausage, beans and mushrooms.

‘Looks good,’ Fox commented. Dearborn just nodded and took his first mouthful, eyes on Fox as he chewed.

‘Body’s still not surfaced,’ Dearborn said.

‘Is that unusual?’

‘Not according to those in the know. Currents are irregular in the channel. He could have been swept out into the North Sea. A container ship’s propeller could have snagged him and turned him to mush. Coastguard were out again at first light. We’ve got patrols working both seashores, north and south.’

‘I heard Fife Constabulary was claiming jurisdiction.’

Dearborn shook his head. There were already traces of egg yolk either side of his mouth. ‘That’ll never wash. We’ve asked for their cooperation, but this is D Division territory, fair and square.’

‘So where’s the boat?’

‘Dalgety Bay.’

‘Last time I looked, that was in Fife.’

‘It’s going to be towed to Leith later today.’

‘I’m assuming you’ve already given it a once-over?’

‘Forensics have,’ Dearborn confirmed.

‘Evidence of alcohol and pills,’ Fox stated.

‘You’re well informed. No suicide note, but I’m told that’s not so unusual. He’d contacted his solicitor a few days back to check some of the details of his will.’

Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘When exactly?’

‘Tuesday afternoon.’

‘Did he want to change anything?’

Dearborn shook his head.

‘I’m assuming everything will go to the widow?’

‘That depends on us finding a body. If we don’t, then she’s got a wait on her hands – it’s a legal thing.’ Dearborn concentrated on his food, then decided to share something with Fox. ‘His shoes have been found. Deck shoes, they’re called. Bobbing in the water off Inchcolm Island.’ He paused. ‘Supposing this does tie in to whatever you’re working on… how do I get my share of the spoils without anyone on my side knowing I’ve been talking to you?’

‘There are ways,’ Malcolm Fox said. ‘Trust me.’

When the meal was finished, their waitress asked if something was wrong with the bacon roll.

‘Just not hungry,’ Fox reassured her. Then, to Dearborn: ‘Let me get this.’

‘Your money’s no good in here.’

‘How come?’

Dearborn offered a shrug. ‘There was a break-in a few months back. I made sure we put in an extra bit of effort…’

‘You sure you should be telling this to someone from the Complaints?’

Max Dearborn winked and, with a certain amount of effort, got back to his feet. He insisted on leaving first. Fox watched him go and speculated as to a future of high blood pressure and diabetes, maybe even the odd coronary. About a year back, his own doctor had foretold much the same for him. Since when he’d dropped a stone, while feeling little better for it. He stood outside the café, listening to the screaming of gulls on the nearby roofs. Then he started walking. D Division HQ was on Queen Charlotte Street. As with Torphichen, it boasted a solid if drab Victorian exterior, but unlike Torphichen its interior still held traces of a certain faded grandeur – marble floors, carved wooden balustrades, ornate pillars. Dearborn would be inside by now. His last words to Fox had consisted of a promise to keep him posted. Fox had given him a card with his mobile number – ‘Your best bet for catching me,’ he’d said. Last thing he wanted was Dearborn calling his Fettes office and being told that Inspector Malcolm Fox was out of the game. Word would spread fast enough – Billy Giles would see to that – but meantime Dearborn might prove useful. He’d already given Fox something to think about.

Tuesday morning – Vince Faulkner’s body is found.

Tuesday afternoon – Charlie Brogan contacts his solicitor.

Thursday – his boat is found drifting, its owner missing.

Missing presumed dead.

Without really meaning to, Fox found that he’d strolled the quarter-mile to Leith Police Station. He walked as far as the corner of Constitution Street, then turned. He was just passing the building’s public entrance when a woman came out, sliding her oversized sunglasses back on to her face. She was dressed not in black but coordinated brown. She reached into her leopard-print handbag for cigarettes and lighter, but the breeze kept foiling her attempts.

‘Let me,’ Fox said, opening his suit jacket so it provided a windbreak. She got the cigarette lit and gave him a nod of thanks. Fox nodded a response and then moved off. Once back at his car, he made a U-turn and headed in the direction of the police station. She was still standing there, looking up and down the street. Fox pulled to a halt next to her and slid down the passenger-side window.

‘It’s Ms Broughton, isn’t it?’

She took a moment to recognise him as her nicotine saviour, then leaned down a little towards the open window.

‘I take it you’ve just been talking to my colleagues?’ he asked her.

‘Yes,’ she said, her voice less husky than he’d imagined it would be.

‘Looking for a taxi?’ She was peering up and down the street again. ‘I’m headed in your direction, if you’re interested.’

‘How do you know?’

Fox offered a shrug. ‘Casino or Inverleith – they’re both on my route.’

She studied him for a moment. ‘Can I smoke in the car?’ she asked.

‘Sure,’ he said with a smile. ‘Hop in.’

They drove in silence for the first couple of sets of traffic lights. As they stopped at the third, she noticed that he had wound his window halfway down.

‘You didn’t mean it about the smoking,’ she said, flicking the remains of her cigarette out of her own window.

‘Where do you want dropped?’ he asked.

‘I’m going home.’

‘By Inverleith Park?’

She nodded. ‘SeeBee House.’

Fox worked it out. ‘Your husband’s initials?’

She nodded again. ‘I suddenly realise something,’ she began, twisting in her seat so she was facing him. ‘I’ve only got your word for it that you’re a police officer. I should ask to see some ID.’

‘I’m an inspector. What did my colleagues want with you?’

‘More questions,’ she answered with a sigh. ‘Why it can’t be done over the phone…’

‘It’s because the face says a lot about us – we give things away when we talk. I’m assuming it wasn’t DS Dearborn you saw?’

‘No.’

‘That’s because I had a meeting with him at the same time.’

She nodded, as though accepting that he had proved his credentials. Her phone trilled and she plucked it from her handbag. It was a text message, which she responded to with quick, sure movements of her thumbs.

‘Long nails help,’ Fox commented. ‘My fingers are too pudgy for texting.’

She said nothing until she’d sent the message. Then, just as she was opening her mouth, her phone trilled again. Fox realised that it was mimicking the sound of an old-fashioned bell on a hotel reception desk. Broughton busied herself punching buttons again.

‘Messages from friends?’

‘And creditors,’ she muttered. ‘Charlie seems to have had more of the latter.’

‘You know his shoes have surfaced?’ He saw her give him a hard look. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised, ‘not the best turn of phrase…’

‘They told me at the station.’ She was back to her texting again. But then another phone sounded from inside her handbag. She rummaged until she found it. Fox recognised the ringtone – it was the theme from an old western.

‘Sorry about this,’ Broughton said to him as she answered. Then, into the phone: ‘I can’t talk now, Simon. Just tell me everything’s all right.’ She listened for a moment. ‘I should be there by six or seven. If you can’t cope till then, start writing out your resignation.’ She ended the call and dropped the phone back into her bag.

‘Staff problems?’ Fox asked.

‘My own fault for not having a proper deputy.’

‘You don’t like to delegate?’

She looked at him again. ‘Have we met somewhere before?’

‘No.’

‘You look familiar.’ She had slid her sunglasses down her nose and was peering at him. When she’d applied the make-up around her eyes this morning, her hand hadn’t been too steady. Close up, her hair was clearly a dye job, the tan probably fake. There was some crêping of the skin around her neck.

‘I get that a lot,’ Fox decided to reply. Then: ‘I was sorry to hear about your husband – and I’m not just saying that. Guy I know used to work for him… only had good things to say.’

‘What’s your friend’s name?’

‘Vince Faulkner. I say he worked for your husband, but really he worked on the site at Salamander Point.’

Joanna Broughton didn’t say anything for a moment. ‘A lot of people liked Charlie,’ she eventually affirmed. ‘He was easy to like.’

‘It’s when you get into trouble, though, that you find out who your real friends are.’

‘So they say…’ She had twisted towards him again. ‘I never caught your name.’

It took Fox a second to decide not to lie. ‘Inspector Malcolm Fox.’

‘Well then, Inspector Malcolm Fox, are you trying to get me to say something?’

‘How do you mean?’ Fox tried for a hurt tone.

‘I didn’t know Charlie was going to do it. I certainly didn’t aid and abet. And despite appearances, I’m torn to shreds inside – all of which I’ve repeated time and again to you and your kind…’ She looked out of the window. ‘Maybe you should drop me off here.’

‘It’s only another five minutes.’

‘I can walk that far.’

‘In those heels?’ Fox exhaled noisily. ‘I’m sorry, and I suppose you’re right. Once you’re a cop, it’s hard to switch off the mechanism. No more questions, okay? But at least let me drive you the rest of the way.’

She pondered this. ‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘Actually, that’s ideal. Your colleagues want to see Charlie’s business diary – you can take it back and save me the trouble.’

‘Sure,’ Fox agreed. ‘Happy to.’

SeeBee House was a five-storey apartment building comprising mainly steel and glass. It sat within a compound of brick walls and metal security gates. Broughton had her own little remote-control box, which she pressed, initiating the mechanism on the gates. There was an underground car park, but she told Fox to stop at the main door. He turned off the ignition and followed her towards the building. The foyer was almost as big as the ground floor of his house. There were two lifts against one wall, but Broughton was marching over to the opposite wall, where a single, narrower lift stood.

‘Penthouse has its own,’ she explained as they got in. Sure enough, when the lift doors opened again, they stepped directly into a small carpeted lobby with just the one door off. Broughton unlocked it and Fox followed her inside. ‘They call it a triplex,’ she informed him, shrugging off her coat and pushing her sunglasses up on to the crown of her head, ‘but that’s a cheat – one floor has nothing but a couple of terraces.’

‘It’s still incredible,’ Fox said. There was glass on three sides, floor to double-height ceiling, and views across the Botanic Gardens towards the Castle. Turning to his left, he could make out Leith and the coastline. To his right he could see as far as Corstorphine Hill.

‘Great for entertaining,’ Joanna Broughton agreed.

‘Place looks brand new.’

‘One of the benefits of having no children.’

‘True enough – and a sort of blessing, too, I suppose.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Not having to explain things to them…’ Fox watched her begin to nod her understanding. ‘The worker who died didn’t have any children either.’

‘What worker?’

‘My friend, the one I was telling you about – did your husband not mention him?’

She ignored the question and instead told him to wait while she fetched the diary. Fox watched her as she started climbing the glass staircase to the next floor, then turned his attention to the room he was standing in. It was much as he remembered it from the newspaper photo. An L-shaped open-plan with pale stone flooring and modern furniture. The kitchen area was just around the corner. When he looked up, he could see a landing, probably with bedrooms and office off. The living area’s back wall – the only wall made of something more substantial than glass – seemed to have been stripped of its art. There were still a few hooks, plus holes where hooks had been removed. Fox remembered the newspaper article. It had described Brogan as ‘a collector’. He took a step back and watched as Joanna Broughton descended the stairs, taking her time, holding on to the handrail. She was keeping her high heels on, even at home. They added over an inch to her height, and he wondered if that was the reason.

‘Here you go,’ she said, handing over the large, leather-bound diary.

‘Any idea why they want it?’ Fox asked.

‘You’re the detective,’ she said, ‘you tell me.’

He could only shrug. ‘Just being thorough,’ he guessed. ‘See if there was any unusual activity prior to your husband’s…’ He swallowed back the end of the sentence.

‘You’re wondering at his state of mind? I don’t mind saying it again – he was absolutely fine when he left here. I hadn’t the slightest inkling.’

‘Look, I said I wasn’t going to ask anything…’

‘But?’

‘But I’m wondering if it hurt you, him not leaving a note.’

She considered this for a moment. ‘I’d like to know why, of course I would. Money worries, yes, but all the same… we could have worked it out. If he’d asked, I’m sure we could have put our heads together.’

‘Maybe he was too proud to ask for help?’

She nodded slowly, arms hanging loosely by her sides.

‘Did he sell all his paintings?’ Fox asked into the silence. She nodded again, then started as the intercom sounded. She walked over to it.

‘Yes?’ she demanded.

‘Joanna, it’s Gordon. I’ve got Jack with me.’

Her face relaxed a little. ‘Come on up,’ she said. Then, turning to Fox: ‘Thanks again for the lift – I’d probably still be waiting there.’

‘My pleasure.’

She held out her hand and he shook it. The diary was too big for any of his pockets, so he carried it with him into the lobby. When the lift doors opened, Gordon Lovatt emerged, momentarily surprised to find someone facing him. Lovatt was dressed to the nines in what looked like a bespoke three-piece pinstripe suit. A gold watch chain dangled from the pockets of the waistcoat. His silk tie boasted an extravagant knot and his hair looked freshly barbered. He nodded a greeting but then decided more was needed.

‘Gordon Lovatt,’ he said, holding out his hand.

The two men shook. ‘I know who you are,’ Fox told him, not bothering to reciprocate with an introduction. The man next to Lovatt was much older, but dressed in what looked like an even more expensive suit. He too held out his hand.

‘Jack Broughton,’ he announced.

Fox just nodded and squeezed past both men, turning to face them once he was inside the lift. He pressed the button for the ground floor, and waited for the doors to close. Jack Broughton seemed already to have dismissed him, and was entering the penthouse, greeting his only surviving child with a kiss. Lovatt, on the other hand, had stayed in the lobby to stare at Fox, the same enquiring look on his face.

‘Going down,’ the lift’s automated female voice said. The doors slid shut and Fox let go of the breath he’d been holding.

There was no sign of the PR man’s car outside, so he’d either left it in the car park or come by taxi. If the car park, then he had to have some way of accessing the compound. But then the same was true if he’d been dropped off from a cab – he still had to get past the gates. So then maybe Joanna had gifted her father one of the small black remote-control boxes…

Fox got into his own car and placed Charlie Brogan’s diary on the passenger seat. Then he stared at it, wondering what the Grampian Complaints would make of his recent activities. He’d been very careful all morning – watching for cars tailing him, for people loitering or following him. It had been easy for them to keep tabs on him the previous week – he’d not been alerted to the probability. But now he knew he’d been under surveillance, that made things a great deal harder for any team trying to track him. Then again, if he was going to keep pulling stunts like this one… It took him a further three or four minutes to decide, but at last he picked up the diary and flipped it open.

He started with the Monday of the previous week, but found nothing immediately of interest. It wasn’t that Brogan used a code, but like most people he used initials and abbreviations. The J in ‘8 p.m. – J – Kitchin’ Fox assumed was Joanna Broughton. The Kitchin was a fancy restaurant in Leith, run by a chef with the surname Kitchin. There were notes of meetings, but it hadn’t exactly been an action-packed week. Flipping back to January, Fox found that Brogan had been far busier. By February, he’d been reduced to noting TV shows he was planning to watch.

After quarter of an hour, Fox closed the book and turned the ignition. On his way back to Leith Police Station he made two stops. One was at a stationer’s, where he bought a padded envelope big enough to take the diary. The other was at a phone shop, where he bought a pay-as-you-go mobile, using his credit card. If he was still under surveillance, this new phone wouldn’t keep him off the radar for long… but maybe long enough.

And it was certain to annoy any Complaints team when they eventually worked out what he’d done.

He parked his car outside the police station just long enough to drop the envelope off at reception. He’d written Max Dearborn’s name on the front. It would puzzle Max, perhaps, but Fox didn’t mind that in the least. Back in the car, his old mobile started ringing. Fox checked the caller ID but made no attempt to answer. When the ringing stopped, he used his new phone and called Tony Kaye back.

‘Who’s this?’ Kaye asked, not recognising the number.

‘It’s Malcolm. This is how to get me from now on.’

‘You’ve changed phones?’

‘In case they’re tracking me.’

‘You’re paranoid.’ Kaye paused. ‘Good thinking, though – reckon I should do the same?’

‘Have they spoken to you again?’ They: Grampian Complaints.

‘No – how about you?’

‘Later today. So why were you calling?’

‘I just wanted a moan. Hang on a sec…’ Fox listened as Kaye moved from the Complaints office to the hallway. ‘Those two are driving me nuts,’ he said. ‘It’s like they’ve known one another since the playground.’

‘Other than that, how’s Gilchrist settling in?’

‘I don’t like that he’s sitting at your desk.’

‘Then offer to swap.’

‘He’s not having my desk.’

‘Then we’re stuck with it. Has McEwan been in?’

‘He’s not speaking to me.’

‘We’ve piled his plate high with shit,’ Fox conceded.

‘And not even tied a bib around his neck,’ Kaye added. ‘Is your afternoon grilling to be courtesy of a woman called Stoddart?’

‘Any tips for handling her?’

‘Asbestos gloves, Malcolm.’

‘Great, thanks.’ Fox thought for a moment. ‘Can you get Naysmith for me?’

‘What?’

‘I want a word with him – but out of Gilchrist’s earshot.’

‘I’ll fetch him.’ It was Kaye’s turn to pause. ‘Are you playing it cool, or has it actually slipped your mind?’

Fox realised immediately what he meant. ‘Have you had a chance to talk to her?’

‘She hasn’t been in this morning. Gilchrist had to fetch something from his desk at the Chop Shop, so I went along with him and took a look. I asked him if she had any meetings, but he didn’t know.’

‘Well, thanks for trying.’

‘I’m not giving up yet. Joe!’ Fox realised that Kaye was calling from the doorway. ‘Here he comes,’ Kaye said. The phone was handed to Naysmith. ‘It’s Foxy,’ Fox heard Kaye explain.

‘Malcolm,’ Naysmith said.

‘Morning, Joe. I hear you and Gilchrist are getting on famously.’

‘I suppose.’

‘So there’s no reason why you shouldn’t invite him out for a drink after work.’

‘No…’ Naysmith drew the word out way past its natural length.

‘You’d probably suggest Minter’s, and you’d be there by five thirty.’

‘Right.’ Again the word took on elasticated form in Naysmith’s mouth.

‘No need to tell him it was my idea.’

‘What’s going on, Malcolm?’

‘Nothing’s going on, Joe. Just take him for that drink.’ Fox ended the call. He had plenty of time to kill before his meeting at Fettes. At a newsagent’s, he bought the Evening News, a salad roll and a bottle of water, then headed in the general direction of Inverleith, parking by the north entrance to the Botanics. He located Classic FM on the radio and ate his roll while flicking through the paper. Charlie Brogan was no longer news, and neither was Vince Faulkner. People were foaming at the mouth about the former RBS boss’s pension and perks. The tram dispute had entered its ‘eleventh hour’, with the council telling the contractors there was no more cash to put on the table. And now the Dunfermline Building Society was in trouble. Fox seemed to remember the Prime Minister was from Dunfermline… No, Kirkcaldy, but Dunfermline was in his constituency. Fox’s parents had held an account with the Dunfermline – he wondered if Mitch still had money there. Fox’s own money was in the Co-op. It was the one bank he hadn’t heard anything about. He wasn’t sure if that was reassuring or not.

The piece of music finished and the announcer declared that it had been by Bach. Fox had recognised it – he recognised a lot of the tunes on Classic FM without being able to name them or their composer. He looked at his watch again, checking that it hadn’t stopped.

‘Hell with it,’ he said, closing the newspaper and turning the ignition key.

He’d just have to turn up early to his crucifixion.

16

The officer on duty at the reception desk – a man Fox had known for a couple of years – had the good grace to apologise that he would have to take a seat. Fox nodded his understanding.

‘You’re just following orders, Frank,’ he said. So Fox sat down on one of the chairs and pretended an interest in his newspaper, while other officers came and went. Most of them gave him a glance or an outright stare – word had gotten around – and one or two paused to offer a word of sympathy.

When Stoddart made her entrance, she was flanked by two heavyset men. Stoddart herself was tall and elegant with long fair hair. If someone had told Fox she sat on the board of a bank or corporation, he wouldn’t have been surprised. She had a visitor’s pass around her neck, and ordered Frank to get one for Fox. Fox took his time getting to his feet. He closed his paper, folded it, slipped it into his pocket. Stoddart didn’t offer to shake hands; didn’t even bother to introduce herself or her henchmen. She handed the pass to Fox and turned on her heels.

‘This way,’ she said.

It wasn’t a long walk. Fox didn’t know whose office they had commandeered. The bulletin board and desk gave few clues. There was space for a circular coffee table and several chairs, which looked to have been borrowed from the canteen. On the desk sat a laptop and some cardboard folders. There was another laptop on the coffee table. A video camera had been fixed to a tripod and aimed at the desk.

‘Sit,’ Stoddart commanded, walking around to the far side of the desk. One of her goons had seated himself at the coffee table. The other was peering into the camera, making sure it didn’t need adjusting. He came forward and handed Fox a tiny microphone.

‘Can you clip that to your lapel?’ he asked. Fox did so. A wire ran from the mic to the camera. The officer had slipped a pair of headphones on, and was checking the apparatus again.

‘Testing, testing,’ Fox said into the mic. The man gave him the thumbs-up.

‘Before we get started,’ Stoddart began. ‘You’ll appreciate how awkward this is. We don’t like finding out a complaint has been made against one of our own-’

‘Who made the complaint?’ Fox interrupted. She ignored him, her eyes on the laptop’s screen as she spoke.

‘But these things have to be done properly. So don’t expect any favours, Inspector Fox.’ She nodded towards the cameraman, who pressed a button and announced that they were rolling. Stoddart sat in silence for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts, then she announced the date and time.

‘Preliminary interview,’ she went on. ‘I am Inspector Caroline Stoddart and I am accompanied by Sergeant Mark Wilson and Constable Andrew Mason.’

‘Which is which?’ Fox interrupted again. Stoddart gave him a stare.

‘Constable Mason is operating the camera,’ she informed him. ‘Now, if you’ll identify yourself…’

‘I’m Inspector Malcolm Fox.’

‘And you work for the Complaints and Conduct department of Lothian and Borders Police?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Specifically the Professional Standards Unit?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long have you been based there?’

‘Four and a half years.’

‘And before that?’

‘I was at St Leonard’s for three years, and Livingston before that.’

‘This was in your drinking days?’

‘I’ve been sober for five years. Didn’t realise my tippling was a matter of record.’

‘You’ve never looked at your personnel file?’ She sounded unconvinced.

‘No,’ he told her, crossing one leg over the other. In doing so, he dislodged the newspaper, which fell from his pocket on to the floor. He stooped to pick it up, stretching the microphone cord so that it came unplugged from the camera.

‘Hang on,’ Mason said, removing his headphones. Fox apologised and straightened himself, his eyes on Caroline Stoddart.

‘Having fun?’ she asked.

‘Are we speaking on the record or off?’

Her mouth twitched, and she went back to checking whatever was on her computer screen. ‘Your sister likes a drink too, doesn’t she?’

‘This isn’t about my sister.’

‘Ready,’ Mason announced.

Stoddart took a moment to collect her thoughts again. ‘Let’s talk about Vincent Faulkner,’ she said.

‘Yes, let’s. He was found dead on Tuesday morning of last week – when did you get the word to put me under surveillance?’

‘He was living with your sister?’ Stoddart asked, ignoring his question.

‘That’s right.’

‘And you’d recently discovered that there had been an argument between the two of them, during which her arm was broken?’

‘A week ago, yes.’

‘What were you working on at that time?’

‘Not much. My team had just finished expending considerable effort putting together a case against DI Glen Heaton of C Division.’

Stoddart was scrolling down a page. ‘Anything else in your in-tray? ’

‘I’d been asked to take a look at someone…’

‘This would be Detective Sergeant Jamie Breck?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Also stationed at C Division?’

‘Yes.’

‘What were the circumstances of the request?

‘My boss, Chief Inspector McEwan, had been contacted by CEOP. DS Breck had come on to their radar and they wanted him checked out.’

Stoddart reached over to the top folder and opened it. There were surveillance photos inside, the same ones Giles had had at Torphichen.

‘Bit of a conflict of interest,’ Stoddart mused. ‘You’re looking at Breck, while he’s looking into your sister’s partner’s murder…’

‘I was aware of that.’

‘You didn’t attempt to distance yourself from the case?’

‘Which case?’

‘Either, I suppose.’

Fox gave a shrug. ‘How are things in Aberdeen?’ he asked.

The change of direction didn’t appear to have any effect on Stoddart.

‘We’re not here to talk about me,’ she drawled, pushing her hair back behind her ears. ‘You seem to have become friendly with DS Breck in a very short space of time.’

‘The relationship was always professional.’

‘That’s why he came to your house on Wednesday night? You went to a casino together.’

‘It was work-related. Besides, CEOP had asked for my assessment of DS Breck.’

‘Yes, there was a Complaints van parked outside his home. Did you advise them they were wasting their time?’

‘He headed back there eventually.’

‘But you told them about the trip to the casino?’

‘No,’ Fox admitted.

‘So two of your colleagues were sitting in a surveillance van on a cold February night…’

‘It’s what we do.’

She looked at him, then back to the screen again. Fox enjoyed a momentary fantasy of punching his fist through it. When he peered over his shoulder, Wilson was busy studying his own laptop.

‘Is it patience you’re playing there, or Minesweeper?’ Fox asked him. Wilson didn’t respond.

‘DS Breck,’ Stoddart was saying, ‘was at the casino because Vincent Faulkner might have visited it the night he died?’

‘He did visit it,’ Fox corrected her.

‘And that visit was on the Saturday, after he’d broken your sister’s arm?’

Fox nodded. ‘And I didn’t find out about her arm until Monday.’

‘Mr Faulkner’s body was found on Tuesday morning?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Your sister was visited on Monday evening by one of your colleagues? ’

‘Sergeant Kaye.’

‘Did you know that was happening?’

‘No.’

‘You’d told him about her arm?’

‘Yes.’

A phone started to ring. Stoddart realised it was hers. She signalled for Mason to pause the recording, then reached into her jacket pocket.

‘One moment,’ she advised the room, getting to her feet and making for the door. After she’d gone, Fox stretched his spine, feeling the vertebrae click.

‘This is interesting,’ he commented. ‘Being on the receiving end for a change. So how are things in Aberdeen? Got anything on the go?’

The two Grampian officers shared a look. It was Wilson who spoke. ‘Grampian’s pretty clean these days,’ he offered.

‘Must be a nice change then, visiting Gomorrah. Have they given you a decent hotel?’

‘Not bad.’

‘Well then, you’ll want to string this out as long as possible.’

Mason managed a smile, but only for a second. Stoddart was coming back into the room. She returned her phone to her pocket and settled back down behind the desk.

‘Ready,’ Mason advised. Stoddart stared at Fox as she began forming her next question.

‘What,’ she asked, ‘were you just doing at the home of a woman called Joanna Broughton?’

Fox took a moment to collect himself. ‘I gave her a lift. She was standing outside Leith Police Station and I happened to be passing and recognised her. She’s just lost her husband and seemed a bit upset, so I offered to drop her somewhere.’

The room was silent until Stoddart asked: ‘You expect me to believe that?’

Fox just shrugged, while inwardly uttering a stream of curses.

‘She employs a public relations company,’ Stoddart went on, ‘and they got straight on the telephone screaming harassment.’

‘I can assure you I did anything but harass her – ask her, if you like. Besides which, it’s got nothing to do with any of this.’

He knew what Stoddart would say to that – same thing he’d have said if he’d been her side of the desk – and she duly obliged.

‘I’ll be the judge of that, Inspector.’ Then: ‘You say you were just passing Leith Police Station? Isn’t it rather a long way from anywhere? ’

‘Not particularly.’

‘So if I go asking, none of the officers there will tell me they spoke with you this morning?’

She watched Fox shake his head, and went back to looking at her computer again.

It was another three quarters of an hour before she decided they’d take a break for the rest of the day.

‘You’re not thinking of heading off somewhere?’ she asked, closing the lid of her laptop. ‘A holiday or anything?’

‘I won’t be leaving the country,’ he assured her, as Mason unclipped the microphone. ‘Same time tomorrow?’

‘We’ll let you know.’

Fox nodded, then thanked them, and made for the door. He paused with his hand on its handle. ‘One last thing,’ he said. ‘DS Breck has no inkling that he’s being investigated. If news leaks to him, all three of you will be suspects…’ He opened the door and closed it after him. Since he was in the building, he climbed to the next floor, removing his visitor’s pass and stuffing it in his pocket. He walked past the door of the Complaints office and headed for 2.24. But there was still no one home, so he returned to his old haunt, peering around the door to make sure Bob McEwan wasn’t on the premises. Then he rapped against the frame with his knuckles, announcing his arrival. Gilchrist was seated next to Naysmith at the latter’s desk while Naysmith showed him something on his computer. Kaye was tipped back in his chair, hands behind his head. Fox managed not to stare at his own desk, though he couldn’t help catching a glimpse of Gilchrist’s stuff scattered across it.

Kaye got to his feet. ‘You been to the headmaster’s office?’ he asked.

‘Yep.’

‘Got a sore bottom?’

‘Nope.’

Kaye smiled, shrugging himself back into his jacket. ‘Let’s go to the canteen,’ he said.

Out in the hallway, he gripped Fox by the sleeve. ‘Gilchrist could bore for Scotland.’ He rolled his eyes and shook his head in exasperation. Then: ‘So how did it really go?’

‘They didn’t come up with much I wasn’t expecting. Seemed to know about my relationship with the demon drink.’

‘Must be in your files somewhere.’

‘Meaning one of my previous bosses must have noticed…’

‘But never said anything?’ Kaye made a clucking sound. ‘Just hoping the problem would go away.’

‘Well, it did.’

‘They trying to say you’re an alkie?’

‘I’m not sure. Maybe they were told to ask.’

‘What did you think of Stoddart?’

‘She’s the Ice Queen.’

‘Wouldn’t mind trying to thaw her out.’

They had reached the canteen. Half a dozen people were dotted around the tables, mostly staring into space as they chewed their snacks. ‘You sure you want to be seen with me?’ Fox asked.

‘Maybe some of that rebel glamour will rub off on me.’ Kaye placed two mugs on a tray. ‘Still haven’t seen hide or hair of DS Inglis,’ he admitted. ‘What did you do to her?’

Fox ignored this. His old phone was buzzing, so he held up a finger to let Kaye know he was taking it. Turning away and walking towards the windows, he pressed the ‘receive’ button.

‘Malcolm Fox,’ he said.

‘It’s Dearborn.’

‘Max – can I assume you’ve got something for me?’

‘My boss is apoplectic. He gets a call from Gordon Lovatt, complaining about a D Division cop called Fox. The only Fox anyone has heard of is you, and when Lovatt is given the description, he says it’s spot-on.’

‘After we’d had our little chat,’ Fox explained, ‘I saw Joanna Broughton looking up and down the street for a non-existent taxi. She seemed a bit distraught so I offered her a lift. She must have assumed I was stationed in Leith.’

‘So it was you she gave her husband’s diary to?’

‘Happy to help, Max.’

Fox listened as Dearborn expelled some air. Kaye had taken the tray to one of the tables, having added two chocolate bars to his purchases. He was already unwrapping one of them.

‘Is there anything else?’ Fox asked into the phone. ‘Any news of Charlie Brogan?’

‘Give me a break,’ Dearborn muttered, hanging up. Fox called him straight back.

‘One last thing,’ he said, by way of warning. ‘Grampian Complaints may come sniffing around. Best if you don’t tell them we shared breakfast.’

‘You’re bad news, Fox.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Fox managed to end the call before Dearborn could, then went over to the table and seated himself opposite Kaye. He tried to work out if he’d been bought tea or coffee. The look and aroma weren’t giving much away.

Kaye had stopped chewing. He was looking over Fox’s shoulder. When Fox turned his head, he saw why. Mason and Wilson had just entered the canteen.

‘Bugger,’ Kaye said through a mouthful of chocolate. Fox, however, waved the two men over. They seemed to discuss it for a moment, then shook their heads and took a table as far away from Fox’s as possible. Each man had opted for a bottle of still water and a piece of fresh fruit.

‘They’re bound to tell Stoddart,’ Kaye commented.

‘Nobody’s banned us from seeing one another, Tony. It’s not like we have ASBOs or anything. You can say you were already here… the whole thing just a chance meeting.’

‘She won’t believe it.’

‘But she’ll have to accept it – same as we would if we were doing her job.’

‘I’m a bollock-hair away from joining you on the subs’ bench.’

‘You haven’t done anything wrong, Tony.’

‘But I’m like you, Foxy – guilty until proven otherwise. And all because everybody hates us.’

‘Do you want this?’ Fox was offering Kaye the spare chocolate bar. Kaye took it and put it in his pocket. ‘And answer me something – what the hell is it we’re drinking?’

Kaye stared down at his mug. ‘I thought it was tea.’

‘But you’re not sure?’

‘Maybe I asked for coffee…’

Having handed his pass back to Frank at the front desk, Fox went out to the car park. He passed his own Volvo and kept walking. There were spaces at the furthest corner of the compound, next to the playing fields. They were marked for the use of visitors, and that was where he found the black Astra and the green Ka, parked side by side. The stickers on their back windows identified them as having been bought at garages in Aberdeen. There was a fresh-looking graze to the metallic paintwork on the Ka, and Fox hoped that local traffic was to blame.

He returned to his own car, exited the car park and crawled up the long steep slope back into town until he reached Queen Street. An auction house had its headquarters there, and Fox seemed to remember they specialised in paintings. He didn’t have any trouble finding a parking bay. Drivers were either counting the pennies or else had been dissuaded from coming into town by the tram works. Fox put a pound coin in the parking meter, attached the sticker to his windscreen and headed inside. There was a long counter in the main reception area, and at the end of it a couple of windows resembling the tellers’ positions in a bank. A customer was standing at one of the windows, writing out a cheque for a recent purchase.

‘Can I help?’ the woman behind the counter asked.

‘I hope so,’ Fox said. ‘I’m a police officer.’ In lieu of a warrant card, he offered her one of his printed business cards. They were about three years out of date, but looked nice and official. ‘I’ve got a problem I’m hoping one of your experts can help me with.’

The woman, having studied his card, asked him to wait while she fetched someone. The man who eventually appeared was younger than Fox had been expecting. He wore a pinstriped shirt and pale yellow tie and shook hands vigorously, introducing himself as Alfie Rennison. His voice was educated Scots. He, too, was pleased to receive one of Fox’s business cards.

‘What is it I can do for you?’ Rennison asked.

‘It’s about some paintings.’

‘Modern or classical?’

‘Modern, I think.’

Rennison lowered his voice. ‘Fakes?’ he hissed.

‘Nothing like that,’ Fox assured him. The young man looked relieved.

‘It happens, you know,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘People try to offload all kinds of stuff on us. Follow me, will you?’

He led Fox towards the back of the premises until they reached a stairwell. A red rope provided the sole deterrent to anyone wishing to descend to the next level, and Rennison unhooked it long enough for both men to pass through. Fox followed him down into the bowels of the building, which proved far less grand than the public areas. They squeezed past canvases stacked against walls, and manoeuvred between busts and statues and grandfather clocks.

‘Sale coming up,’ Rennison explained. ‘Viewing’s next week.’

They reached his office, which consisted of two rooms knocked into one. Fox had believed them below ground, but there were frosted windows, albeit barred on the outside.

‘This was somebody’s house at one time,’ Rennison was saying. ‘I’m guessing the kitchen, laundry and servants’ quarters would have been down here. Four upper storeys of Georgian elegance, but with the engine room hidden below.’ He smiled and gestured for Fox to take a seat. Rennison’s desk was disappointingly bland. Fox reckoned it was an IKEA kit-build. On it sat a laptop computer, hooked up to a laser printer. There was only one painting in the whole room. It measured about six inches by four and sat on the wall behind Rennison’s chair.

‘Exquisite, isn’t it? A French plage by Peploe. I can hardly bear to part with it.’

Fox knew next to nothing about art, but he liked the thick swirls of paint. They reminded him of melting ice cream. ‘Is it going into the sale?’

Rennison nodded. ‘Should fetch fifty to sixty.’

‘Thousand?’ Fox gazed at the work with new respect, mixed with a stunned sense that this was a world he was going to have trouble comprehending.

Rennison had clasped his hands together, elbows on the desk. ‘So tell me about these paintings.’

‘Have you heard of a man called Charles Brogan?’

‘Alas, yes – the latest victim of our challenging times.’

‘But you knew of him before he drowned?’

Rennison was nodding. ‘There are several auction houses in the city, Inspector. We work hard to maintain a client’s fidelity.’

‘You’re saying he bought from you?’

‘And from some of the city’s actual galleries,’ Rennison felt duty-bound to add.

‘You’ve seen his collection?’

‘Much of it.’

‘Had he started selling it off?’

Rennison studied him, resting his chin against the tips of his fingers. ‘Might I ask why you’re interested?’

‘We’re looking into the reasons why he would kill himself. You mentioned finances, and it’s just that Mr Brogan’s decision to sell his paintings might chime with that theory.’

Rennison nodded to himself, happy with this explanation.

‘Some pieces he sent to London; some he sold here. Three or four are actually consigned to our next auction. Naturally, we’ll hold them back until we know what his estate wants us to do.’

‘How many are we talking about in total?’

Rennison did a quick calculation. ‘Fourteen or fifteen.’

‘Worth…?’ Fox prompted.

Rennison puffed out his cheeks. ‘Half a million, maybe. Before the recession, it would have been closer to seven fifty.’

‘I hope he didn’t buy at the height of the market.’

‘Unfortunately, mostly he did. He was selling at a loss.’

‘Meaning he was desperate?’

‘I would say so.’

Fox thought for a moment. ‘Have you ever met Mr Brogan’s wife?’

‘She accompanied him to a sale once. I don’t think it was an experience she was keen to repeat.’

‘Not an art-lover, then?’

‘Not in so many words.’

Fox smiled and started getting to his feet. ‘Thanks for taking the trouble to talk to me, Mr Rennison.’

‘My pleasure, Inspector.’

As they shook hands, Fox took a final look at the Peploe.

‘You’re thinking of melted ice cream?’ Rennison guessed. Then, seeing the look on Fox’s face: ‘You’re by no means the first.’

‘Fifty grand buys a lot of Cornettos,’ Fox told the man.

‘Maybe so, but what would their resale value be, Inspector?’

Rennison led the way back to the ground floor.

17

Fox was parked fifty yards from Minter’s when Naysmith and Gilchrist arrived. They’d come by taxi, obviously intending to have more than just the one drink; no driving home for either of them. Fox gave it another twenty minutes, by which time Kaye, too, had arrived, parking on a double yellow and slapping his POLICE sign on the windscreen. He was checking messages on his phone as he headed inside. Fox was listening to Radio 2, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music. But when a quiz was announced, two listeners vying for the ‘star prize’, he switched channels. There was some local news, so he listened to that without taking much of it in. More economic grief; more trams grief; a spell of good weather imminent. The travel report warned of long tail-backs on the Forth Road Bridge and eastbound on the ring road.

‘And the city centre is its usual rush-hour mayhem,’ the report concluded. Fox felt snug in the parked car, cosseted from chaos. But the time came to turn off the radio and get out. He’d finally plucked up the courage to send Annie Inglis a text message:

Hope u can forgive me. Wd like us 2 b pals.

He wasn’t sure now about the ‘pals’ bit. He was attracted to her, but had never had much luck with women, Elaine excepted – and even that had proved to be a mistake. Maybe it wasn’t Annie who intrigued him, but rather the combination of the woman and the career she had chosen. For the past half-hour he’d been hoping she might send a return message, or call him, and as he pushed open the door to the pub, his old phone started buzzing. He plucked it from his pocket and pressed it to his ear.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me,’ the voice said.

‘Annie… thanks for getting back to me.’ He had retreated to the pavement, narrowly avoiding a pedestrian. ‘Look, I just wanted you to know how sorry I am about what happened yesterday. I know I was stupid…’

‘Well, I’m sorry I blew up at you. Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight. Duncan had got me wound up as usual.’ Fox waited for more, but she had come to a stop.

‘Doesn’t mean I wasn’t in the wrong,’ he said into the silence. ‘And I really enjoyed the meal and seeing you and everything. Maybe I can repay the favour?’

‘Cook for me, you mean?’

‘The word “cook” may be a bit strong…’ When she laughed, a weight fell from him. ‘But I’m an expert on the local carry-outs.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We’ll see.’

‘Any night this week is good for me.’

‘I’ll let you know, Malcolm.’ She paused. ‘That’s Duncan coming home.’

‘I came looking for you, to apologise in person,’ Fox told her.

‘At Fettes? I thought you were suspended?’

‘Grampian Complaints had me in for a chat.’

‘You’ve a lot you should be focusing on, Malcolm. Maybe we should give this week a miss.’

‘You’d be doing me a favour, Annie – honestly.’

‘Okay then, let me think about it. I’ve got to go now.’

‘Say hello to Duncan for me. Tell him I want to know what music he buys with that token.’

‘Trust me, you won’t want to hear any of it.’

The phone went dead, and Fox managed a smile as he stared at its tiny glowing screen. Then the screen went dark, and he took a deep breath, adjusting his demeanour before walking into the pub.

Tony Kaye saw him first. Kaye wasn’t at the usual table, but the one next to it, giving Naysmith and Gilchrist some space to themselves. He had been reading the evening paper, but with little apparent interest in it. His eyebrows lifted when he saw Fox, but then he bounded to his feet and reached the bar before him.

‘Let me get this one,’ he stated, delving into his trouser pocket for money.

‘Glad to see me?’ Fox asked.

‘You better believe it. I feel like the spare prick at an orgy.’ He twitched his head in the direction of the corner table. ‘Half the stuff they drone on about I can’t understand, and the other half bores the knackers off me.’ He paused and stared at Fox. ‘Just passing by, were you?’

‘Actually, I wanted a word with Gilchrist.’

Kaye thought about this. ‘That’s why you spoke to Naysmith? He’s baited the trap for you?’

Fox just shrugged and asked the landlord for a tomato juice. The man nodded and brought a bottle from the glass-fronted fridge, shaking it vigorously before pouring.

‘Did you see Deal or No Deal?’ he asked, not waiting for an answer. ‘Dealt at seventeen and a half; had the hundred grand.’ He shook his head at the idiocy of some people.

‘I love it when they lose,’ Kaye commented, handing over the money and asking for a half-pint for himself.

‘Remember you’re driving,’ Fox chided him.

‘Pint and a half, that’s all I’m having.’

‘All the office needs now is for you to fail a breathalyser – McEwan would have a seizure. Besides which, are you sure you can trust Gilchrist not to clype?’

Kaye gave a snort, but changed his order to orange and lemonade. Naysmith and Gilchrist were watching them as they approached the table with their drinks. Kaye moved the newspaper and seated himself. Fox took the chair closest to Gilchrist.

‘All right, lads?’ he asked, noting that Gilchrist was near to finishing his first gin and tonic of the evening. ‘Settling in, are you?’

‘Look, I know it’s awkward…’

Fox cut Gilchrist off with a wave of his hand. ‘I’m fine with it; none of it’s your fault, is it?’ It sounded like a rhetorical question, but Fox’s eyes told a different story. Gilchrist held the man’s gaze, then shook his head slowly.

‘No,’ he eventually said.

‘No,’ Fox echoed. ‘So that’s all right, then. Makes things hard on DS Inglis, though…’ He took a sip of tomato juice.

‘Yes,’ Gilchrist agreed.

‘Bit sudden, too, the way you were plucked from the Chop Shop…’

‘They knew I was keen to try something different.’ Gilchrist paused. ‘It’s only temporary, after all.’

‘Course it is,’ Kaye stressed, while Naysmith nodded along.

Fox smiled at the show of support, but his eyes were still on Gilchrist. ‘What’s happening about Jamie Breck?’ he asked. Gilchrist gave a shrug. ‘Has the Aussie inquiry started crumbling?’

‘Far as I know, they think they’ve got enough.’

‘So they’ll be bringing the main suspect to trial.’ Fox nodded his understanding. ‘But what about his clients?’

Gilchrist gave another shrug. ‘I can do a bit of digging, if you like.’

Fox reached over and patted Gilchrist on his thigh. ‘Don’t worry about it. You’re in the Complaints now – you’ve got different fish to fry. Same again?’ Fox signalled to the glasses on the table.

‘Thanks, Malcolm,’ Naysmith said, but Gilchrist was shaking his head.

‘I was only staying for the one,’ he explained. This seemed to come as news to Naysmith, but Gilchrist was draining his glass. ‘Meeting someone in town…’ He was already rising to his feet. ‘See you all tomorrow, eh?’

‘Not me,’ Fox reminded him.

‘No… But good luck.’

‘You think I need it?’

Gilchrist didn’t answer this. He was pulling on his thermal jacket. Fox reached out and grabbed him by the arm.

‘Who was it pulled the surveillance on Breck? You got the call – who was it on the other end of the line?’

Gilchrist wrestled the arm free, his jaw clenched. With a wave in Naysmith’s direction, he was gone.

‘Did you get what you wanted?’ Kaye asked Fox.

‘I’m not sure.’

Naysmith was holding his empty pint glass. ‘Kronenberg, please,’ he told Fox.

‘Buy your own, you little quisling,’ Malcolm Fox replied.

‘Is it all right if I come in?’ Fox asked.

It was nine in the evening and he was standing on Jamie Breck’s doorstep. Breck had just opened the door to him and was wearing an open-necked polo shirt and green chinos, with socks but no shoes on his feet.

‘If it’s inconvenient…’ Fox continued, his voice trailing off.

‘It’s fine,’ Breck eventually conceded. ‘Annabel’s at her place tonight. ’ He turned and padded back down the short hallway into the living room. By the time Fox got there, Breck had switched on some of the lamps. The TV was off, and so was the stereo.

‘I was on the internet,’ Breck seemed to feel it necessary to explain. ‘Bit bored, to be honest with you.’

‘Playing Quidnunc?’

‘How did you guess? Four or five hours today…’ Breck paused. ‘Maybe longer, actually…’

Fox nodded and settled himself on the sofa. He’d been home and tried to eat a ready meal, giving up halfway through. ‘I had a talk with the Grampian Complaints,’ he said.

‘How did it go?’

‘It went.’

‘They want to see me in the morning… a woman called Stoddart.’

‘You’ll be fine.’

Breck fell into one of the armchairs. ‘Sure about that?’

‘Has Annabel come up with anything?’

‘You mean about Vince Faulkner?’ Breck gave a twitch of the mouth. ‘Seems to be getting nowhere. Instead of ploughing on, Giles is going over old ground, seeing if the team’s missed something. ’

‘It’s a lazy strategy,’ Fox commented.

‘They got access to the footage from the casino…’

‘And?’

Breck shrugged. ‘No sign of Faulkner on any of it. But guess what – there were gaps in the recording.’

‘Someone had tampered with it?’

‘A “glitch”, according to the management.’

‘Just as you predicted. Was Joanna Broughton there to explain matters?’

Breck shook his head. ‘She was nowhere to be seen. It was the guy behind the bar – he’s obviously had a promotion. Plus someone from Lovatt, Meikle, Meldrum.’

‘What’s it got to do with them?’

‘Their client had asked them to be present. I told you, Malcolm, she doesn’t want anything tarnishing the Oliver’s rep.’ Breck broke off. ‘Sorry, I should have asked if you wanted a drink.’

‘I’m fine,’ Fox assured him. The two men sat in silence for a moment.

‘Might as well spit it out,’ Breck said with the thinnest of smiles.

‘What?’

‘Something’s eating you.’

Fox looked at him. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

Breck gave a shrug. ‘I get the feeling you need to trust someone.’

Fox rubbed a finger across his forehead. He’d spent the past hour and a half thinking much the same thing. ‘Maybe I’ll have that drink,’ he said, playing for time. ‘Water will do.’

Breck was already on his feet and heading out of the room. Fox looked around, barely taking his surroundings in. It had been a long day. Dearborn and Broughton, Stoddart and Gilchrist… Breck was coming back with the tumbler. Fox accepted it with a nod. His stomach felt full of acid. His eyes stung when he blinked and there was a persistent throbbing at his temples.

‘Do you need an aspirin or something?’ Breck was asking. Fox shook his head. ‘You look shattered. I’m guessing not all of it courtesy of Inspector Stoddart.’

‘There’s something I’m going to tell you,’ Fox blurted out. ‘But I’m not sure how you’re going to take it.’

Breck hadn’t quite sat down. Instead, he rested his weight against the arm of his chair. ‘In your own time,’ he coaxed.

Fox took another sip. The water had a slightly sweet aftertaste, reminding him of the way tap water had tasted in his childhood, on a hot day after running around outside.

‘You’ve been under investigation,’ he stated, avoiding eye contact. ‘Up to and including surveillance.’

Breck thought for a few seconds, then nodded slowly. ‘That van?’ he said. ‘Yes, I sort of knew about that. And about you, too, of course.’ The two men fixed eyes. ‘You seemed to know a bit too much about me, Malcolm. Remember when I told you my brother was gay? You said you didn’t know, but that meant you knew I had a brother in the first place. Then when you came round here, you couldn’t really explain how you knew my street.’ He paused. ‘I was hoping you might eventually get round to saying something. ’

‘And here I am…’

‘I thought maybe you were trying to tie me to Glen Heaton.’

‘We weren’t.’

‘What then?’ Breck sounded genuinely curious.

‘Your name appeared on a list, Jamie. Subscribers to a website…’

‘What sort of website?’

Fox angled his head so he was staring at the ceiling. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this,’ he muttered.

‘Bit late for that,’ Breck told him. Then: ‘What sort of website…?’

‘Not the sort you’d want Annabel knowing about.’

‘Porn?’ Breck’s voice had risen a little. ‘S and M? Snuff…?’

‘Underage.’

Breck was silent for a moment, until a laugh of incredulity exploded from his mouth.

‘You paid by credit card,’ Fox went on. ‘So CEOP had us run a check.’

‘When did all this start?’

‘Beginning of last week. I started backing off once we’d met face to face…’

Breck had slid from the arm of the chair into the seat itself. ‘My credit card?’ he asked. Then he sprang up and left the room, returning a minute later with a folder. He held it over the coffee table and tipped out its contents, crouching down to sift through everything. There were bank statements, receipts, mortgage letters and credit card statements. Fox couldn’t help noting that Breck’s savings account was well into five figures. Breck himself was plucking out the credit card statements.

‘Australian dollars, most likely,’ Fox explained.

‘There’s nothing here…’ Breck was running a finger down the columns. He used his card a lot – supermarkets, petrol stations, restaurants, clothing companies. Plus his internet and TV packages.

‘Wait a second,’ he said. The tip of his finger was running along one entry. ‘US dollars, not Australian. Ten dollars translates as eight pounds.’

Fox looked at the description. ‘SEIL Ents,’ he read.

‘I never paid any attention…’ Breck was almost talking to himself. ‘Sometimes I buy downloads from the States… Is this it, do you think?’

‘Have you bought anything else in dollars recently? This goes back five weeks.’

‘I swear to God, Malcolm…’ Breck was wide-eyed. He broke off from staring at the sheet of paper and got back to his feet. ‘Come on, there’s something I want to show you.’ He left the room, Fox following him. They entered what would have been the home’s second bedroom. This was Breck’s office. The computer was switched on, the screen-saver active. Breck nudged the mouse. His chosen wallpaper was a head-and-shoulders photo of Annabel.

‘Sit down,’ he was commanding Fox, indicating the swivel chair. ‘Take a look for yourself. I doubt I’ve browsed online porn more than half a dozen times in my life – and never anything… I mean, just the normal stuff.’

‘Look, Jamie…’

Breck spun around to face him. ‘I don’t know anything about this!’ he shouted.

‘I believe you,’ Fox said quietly.

Breck stared at him. ‘Right, because you had that van parked outside…’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘You were tapped into my system somehow… No, not you, not you personally… you were with me at the Oliver that night. Some of your guys, right? And someone from CEOP, too.’

‘His name’s Gilchrist. He’s got his feet under my desk at the Complaints.’

Breck’s eyes narrowed as he digested this. ‘We’ve got to talk to him, find out how this could have happened.’

Fox nodded slowly. ‘I had a word with him earlier on, but he wasn’t exactly cooperating.’

‘I need to talk to someone about this,’ Breck was saying. Then, eyes boring into Fox: ‘All the time we’ve been… and I let you… and you thought I was a paedophile?’

Fox couldn’t think of anything to say to this. Breck had taken a couple of steps towards the window and was peering around the edge of the blind.

‘It was just the one night,’ Fox explained. ‘We were planning another, but it got pulled – CEOP’s decision.’

Breck turned to look at him. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘They realised it was a mistake?’

Fox offered a shrug. Breck ran his hand through his hair again. ‘This is a fucking nightmare,’ he said. ‘You’ve met Annabel – I’ve got a girlfriend.’

‘Sometimes they do.’

‘Paedophiles, you mean?’ Fox could see that Breck’s mind was racing. ‘You had a van watching me! It’s like the Gestapo or something. ’

‘One thing the equipment in the van picked up…’

Breck looked at him. ‘What?’

‘You did some online digging into me.’

Breck thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘That’s true,’ he said. Then he fell silent, staring at the computer screen. ‘What’s the site called?’ he eventually asked. ‘We’ve got to contact them, find out how it happened.’

‘That’s the last thing you want to do,’ Fox cautioned.

‘They got my credit card number – how is that possible?’

‘It’s possible,’ Fox argued. ‘You’ve said it yourself – you buy stuff online. Do you pay a subscription to Quidnunc? Because if you do, your card details are out there…’

‘This is a nightmare,’ Breck repeated, staring blindly at the walls around him. ‘I need a drink…’ He fled the room, leaving Fox standing there. Fox waited a moment, then scrutinised the icons on the computer screen. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Quidnunc had been minimised, and he put it back on to full screen. Breck’s avatar seemed to be a muscular blond warrior toting a complicated-looking handgun. He was standing in a valley surrounded by mountains, beyond which explosions were going off, fighter jets or spaceships occasionally flying over. His hair fluttered in the breeze, but otherwise he would stand there until Breck came back to the game. Fox hit the ‘minimise’ icon again and left the room.

Jamie Breck was in his kitchen. It was spotless, but Fox had the feeling the place got used. There was a fruit bowl filled with oranges and plums, and a breadboard with half a wholemeal loaf sitting on it. Breck had brought ice cubes from the freezer and was pouring whisky over them.

‘There are occasions,’ he said, voice trembling slightly, ‘when only local remedies will do.’ He waved the bottle in Fox’s direction, but Fox shook his head. It was Highland Park: he’d tried it plenty of times in the past. Soft peat and sea spray… Breck downed half the drink without pausing. He squeezed shut his eyes and opened his mouth in a loud exhalation. Fox’s nostrils flared. Yes, that was the tang he remembered…

‘This isn’t happening,’ Breck said. ‘I’m being fast-tracked, everybody knows it. Another year and I’ll be a DI.’

‘That’s what your file seemed to say.’

Breck nodded. ‘And that’s how you knew all about me – you’d seen it in my personnel file.’ His eyes fixed on Fox. ‘So why own up now, Malcolm?’

Fox poured himself another glass of tap water. ‘You said it yourself, Jamie – I need somebody I can trust.’

‘And you think that’s me?’ Breck waited until Fox had nodded. ‘Well, thanks for that at least – or does it just mean I’m your very last hope?’

‘Thing is, Jamie, there’s a lot going on that I’m not even close to understanding. I think maybe you can help.’

‘What you’re saying is, me being a suspected paedophile is the least of your worries? And my girlfriend could come in useful along the way?’

Fox managed a smile. ‘Something like that, yes.’

Breck gave a snort as he smiled into his drink. ‘Well, at least we know where we stand. Is there any point in me contacting my credit card company? They must be able to trace the transaction back.’

Fox offered a shrug. ‘Worth a try,’ he said.

‘Meantime I can run a check on SEIL Ents.’

‘A word of caution – the guy behind the site is a cop in Australia. They’re on to him but they definitely don’t want him to know that. If he finds out and shuts everything down…’

‘There’ll be some who might think I’d warned him off?’ Breck nodded slowly. ‘How near are they to nailing him?’

‘I don’t really know.’

‘Can you find out?’

Fox nodded.

‘And I’ll make sure Annabel keeps in touch with Billy Giles and all his doings – does that sound fair?’

Fox gave another nod and watched Breck hold up a finger.

‘But I don’t want Annabel to know about this.’

‘She won’t hear it from me,’ Fox promised.

‘Does Stoddart know?’ Breck asked.

‘Yes.’

‘But I don’t want to let her know that I know?’

‘That’s up to you, Jamie.’

‘They’d realise it was you who told me. And that would look even worse for us.’

‘True.’

Breck had turned round, so that the small of his back rested against the edge of the black marble work surface. The glass was still in his hand, half an inch of liquid left in it.

‘Look at the pair of us,’ he said with another tired smile. And then, raising his glass in a toast: ‘But thanks for taking me into your trust, Malcolm – better late than never.’ He tipped the glass to his mouth, finishing the whisky and tossing the ice into the sink. ‘So,’ he said, smacking his lips, ‘do you have a particular plan of action in mind?’

‘I’m the one who thinks stuff just happens to us, remember? It’s you that thinks we control our destinies.’

‘Seems to me you’re in the process of changing.’

‘Speaking of changing…’ Fox lifted a card from his pocket and handed it over. ‘I’ve bought myself a new mobile phone.’

‘You think I should do the same?’ Breck studied the card. Fox’s old mobile number had been scored out and the new one written in biro. He looked up at Fox. ‘The Complaints can tap my phone?’

‘Not easily. But they can grab the records of any calls in or out.’

‘You said “they” rather than “we”…’ Fox didn’t say anything to this, and Breck was thoughtful for a further few seconds. ‘Why am I being set up, Malcolm?’ he asked quietly. ‘Who’d do something like that? An Australian porn site?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘It will,’ Fox stated, straightening his shoulders. ‘We just need to work at it.’