The Complaints

18

Tuesday morning, Fox was waiting for Annie Inglis outside her tenement. Duncan appeared first, slouching his way to school under the weight of his backpack. Ten minutes later, it was Inglis’s turn. Fox, seated across the road in his car, sounded his horn and waved her across. Traffic was busy – people on their way to work or dropping their kids off at the school gates. A warden had paused his scooter beside Fox’s car, but had scuttled off again when he saw that the indicators were flashing and there was someone behind the steering wheel. Annie Inglis stood her ground for a moment, and when she did cross the road she didn’t get into the car. Instead, she leaned down so her face was at the passenger-side window. Fox slid the window down.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. He handed her a business card, on the back of which was written the number of his new mobile phone.

‘That’s in case you need to reach me,’ he explained. ‘But keep it to yourself.’ Then: ‘I need a favour, Annie.’

‘Look, Malcolm…’

‘It would be easier to talk if you got in. I can even give you a lift.’

‘I don’t need a lift.’ When he made no answer to this, she sighed and opened the door. He’d removed the sweet-wrappers from the passenger seat. There was a street map on the floor, which she handed to him. He tossed it into the back.

‘Is it to do with Jamie Breck?’ she asked.

‘Gilchrist’s being obstructive.’

‘You’re suspended, Malcolm! It’s not his job to help you out.’

‘All the same…’

She gave another heavy sigh. ‘What is it you want?’

‘A contact at the Australian end – someone from the team there. Name, phone number, e-mail… anything at all, really.’

‘Do I get to ask why?’

‘Not yet.’

She looked at him. Her work face differed from the one she wore at home – there was a little more make-up. It hardened her features.

‘They’re going to know it was me,’ she stated. She didn’t mean the cops in Australia; she meant Fettes.

‘I’ll say it wasn’t.’

‘That’s all right, then – after all, there’s no reason for them not to take you at your word, is there?’

‘No reason at all,’ he said with a smile.

Annie Inglis opened her door and started to get out. She was still holding his business card. ‘What’s the matter with your old phone?’ she asked. Then: ‘No… on second thoughts, I really don’t want to know.’ She closed the door after her and crossed the road again, unlocking her own car.

It took Fox five minutes to drive to the café on Morningside Road, but another five to find a parking space. He put enough coins in the meter for an hour, and walked the short distance to his destination. Jamie Breck was already there, plugging his laptop into one of the power sockets next to the corner table he’d secured.

‘Just got here,’ he told Fox as the two men shook hands.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘I didn’t get much sleep, thanks to your confession.’

Fox’s mouth twitched at the word. He shrugged off his coat and asked what Breck wanted to drink.

‘Americano with a spot of milk.’

Fox did the ordering, adding a cappuccino for himself. ‘Anything to eat?’ he asked Breck.

‘Maybe a croissant.’

‘Make that two,’ Fox told the assistant. By the time he got back to the table, Breck had angled the laptop so that the low sun wouldn’t hit the screen. Fox drew a chair round to Breck’s side of the table. This had been Fox’s idea, and looking around at the other customers he felt vindicated. Even if someone was outside in a surveillance van – and he’d taken a good look, spotting no obvious candidates – there were half a dozen people in the café logged on to the internet, courtesy of the free wi-fi. Most looked like students, the others business people. Naysmith had told him once how hard it was to untangle one user from another in such a cluster.

‘So what is it we’re looking for?’ Breck asked. He looked and sounded businesslike, the shock of the previous night assimilated and squeezed into a compartment in his mind.

‘Something you said a while back,’ Fox began, leaning forward in his chair. ‘You’ve come across the PR company before.’

Breck nodded. ‘Lovatt, Meikle, Meldrum have a lobbying arm.’ He got online and searched the firm’s name, coming up with the home page of their website. A further couple of clicks later, he was showing Fox a photographic portrait. The man was bald and bullet-headed and smiling. ‘Paul Meldrum – LMM’s political Mr Fixit. I was telling you about the local councillor – Paul here bent my ear about it. He said he was representing the council.’

‘Who was the councillor?’

‘Ernie Wishaw.’

‘I’ve never heard of him.’

‘He runs a lorry business out by the Gyle.’

‘What’s he supposed to have done?’

‘One of his drivers was delivering a few packages too many…’

‘Dope?’

Breck nodded. ‘Drug Enforcement got him, and he’s due to serve five years. But they wondered how far up the ladder things went. Wishaw had a meeting at the Oliver with the driver’s brother-in-law. DEA reckoned maybe it was hush money to be given to the wife. If she was kept sweet, the driver wouldn’t go blabbing.’

‘How come you got involved?’

‘DEA wanted local knowledge. Their boss was tight with Billy Giles, so they got us.’

Fox frowned. ‘Was Glen Heaton part of the team?’

Breck nodded. ‘Up until then, I hadn’t really doubted him.’ ‘Something changed your mind?’

Breck offered a shrug. ‘I think they were on to us from the start – don’t ask me why; it was just a feeling I got.’

‘So you weren’t surprised when there was nothing from the Oliver’s CCTV?’

‘No,’ Breck agreed.

Fox took a sip of coffee. ‘How long ago did you say this was?’

‘Best part of six months.’

‘It never came up.’ Breck looked as if he didn’t quite understand. Fox enlightened him: ‘We’d been looking into Glen Heaton for nearly a year, and this is the first I’ve heard of it.’

Breck shrugged again. ‘He didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘You could have voiced your suspicions.’

‘Seemed to me you were doing fine on your own. And like I say, I’d nothing to back them up.’ Breck reached for his own drink, then changed his mind and bit into a croissant instead, brushing crumbs from his trousers. Fox stared at the photo of Paul Meldrum.

‘The drug-smuggling had nothing to do with the council,’ Fox stated. ‘How come LMM got involved?’

‘Good question.’

‘Did you ask it at the time?’

‘Ernie Wishaw had bought out a rival firm a few years earlier. It all got a bit ugly, and he used LMM to win round the media.’

Both men looked up as a new customer entered the café. But she was pushing a baby buggy, so they dismissed her. When they made eye contact, they shared a smile. Better safe than sorry…

‘So they might have been working for him personally, rather than the council?’ Fox asked.

Jamie Breck could only shrug once more. ‘Anyway, the whole thing ended up going nowhere. DEA dropped it and thanked us for our help.’

Fox concentrated on his breakfast, until he thought of something else to say.

‘You’re not the only one who was under surveillance, Jamie. The Deputy Chief Constable let slip that I’d been watched all last week, but Vince’s body wasn’t found until Tuesday morning – it takes a bit of time to decide that a cop might be breaking the rules and you should put a watch on him.’

‘How long did it take till you decided I merited the van?’

‘Not long,’ Fox conceded. ‘But that’s beside the point. I was being watched before I started misbehaving.’

‘Then there’s something you’re obviously hiding from everybody. ’

‘I’m honest as the day is long, DS Breck.’

‘This is winter, Inspector Fox – the days are pretty short.’

Fox ignored this. ‘In the interview room at Torphichen, when Traynor was spelling it all out and Billy Giles was trying hard not to do a little dance around the table, there was a look my boss gave me…’

‘McEwan?’

Fox nodded. ‘I don’t think he knew. I mean, he knew, but he hadn’t been in the loop for long. He was asking himself what was going on.’

‘Maybe he can find out for you.’

‘Maybe.’

‘You don’t trust him?’

‘Hard to know. But here’s the thing – the tail on me coincides with the new assignment I’d been given.’

‘By “assignment” you mean me?’

‘Yes.’ The caffeine was getting to Fox; he could feel it pounding through him. When his mobile started ringing, he didn’t recognise the tone. It was the first time someone had called him on his new phone.

‘Hello?’ he answered.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ Annie Inglis said. She was speaking so softly, he could hardly hear her. He held the phone more firmly to his ear, and pressed a finger into his other ear.

‘Is there anybody else there?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Then why are you whispering?’

‘Do you want this or not?’ she asked, sounding irritated. Then, without waiting for his answer, she reeled off a phone number.

‘Hang on,’ he said, scrabbling for a pen and brushing flakes of croissant from the paper napkin on his plate. While she repeated the number, Fox jotted it down.

‘Her name’s Dawlish. Cecilia Dawlish.’ Inglis ended the call before Fox could utter any form of thanks.

‘What’s the code for Australia?’ he asked Breck. It took Breck thirty seconds and a few keystrokes to come up with the answer.

‘Zero-zero-six-one,’ he said. ‘They’re eight to ten hours ahead of us.’

Fox looked at his watch. ‘Meaning it’s evening there – and hellish expensive.’ He held up his new phone. ‘This is pay-as-you-go,’ he explained.

‘My treat,’ Breck responded, handing over his own Motorola.

‘They might be able to trace the number back to you,’ Fox warned him, but Breck just shrugged.

‘I’m not the one making the call, though, am I?’ he countered.

It turned out that the number Inglis had given Fox was for a mobile. Dawlish was in her car when she answered.

‘It’s Detective Constable Gilchrist here,’ Fox explained, concentrating his attention on the world outside the café window.

‘Yeah?’

‘CEOP Edinburgh. You had us looking into a local officer called Breck?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Is this a bad time to talk?’

‘I’m headed home, DC Gilchrist. What is it you need?’

‘I’ve been put in charge of the paperwork.’

‘Just bear in mind what we told you at the start – the more who know about this, the tougher it is to keep it quiet.’

‘Understood.’ Fox paused. ‘So you’ve not arrested him yet?’

‘We’ll let you know when that happens.’

‘Right,’ Fox said, turning his attention to the listening Breck. ‘So what is it you want us to do with Breck?’

‘Just get us anything you can. Now tell me about these bloody forms you’re filling in.’

‘Just wondered if it was okay to put you down as our main contact. ’

‘Sure.’

‘And this phone number?’

‘Seems to be the one you’ve got.’

‘I suppose so, yes.’ Fox thought of something. ‘We managed to gain entry to Breck’s home.’

‘Yeah?’

‘His computer was clean, but we took a look at his latest credit card bill – SEIL Ents.’

‘That’s the one.’

‘What do the letters stand for?’

‘The bastard’s initials – Simeon Edward Ian Latham. Sim to his mates.’

‘The payment was in US dollars…’

‘He’s got an account in the Caribbean. Latham’s been running this thing for years without us knowing – he’s learned all the old tricks and invented a few of his own.’ Dawlish paused. ‘This is a secure line, right, Gilchrist?’

‘Absolutely,’ Fox assured her. ‘And thanks for your help.’

‘Paperwork’s killing this job,’ Dawlish commented, ending the call.

Fox stared at Jamie Breck. ‘Far as the Aussies are concerned, you’re still in the frame.’

‘Thanks for not setting the record straight.’

‘Thing is, Jamie, we did one night’s surveillance on you, and the second night was pulled. Thinking seemed to be that the Aussies didn’t need you any more, or had crossed your name off their list. When I spoke to Gilchrist last night, he as good as said the same thing – Sim Latham was headed for trial.’

‘And he’s not?’

‘Inquiry’s ongoing, according to Dawlish.’

‘So why did Gilchrist tell you different?’

‘Maybe we should ask him.’

‘I can go solo on this,’ Breck said, ‘if you’d rather keep out of it.’

But Fox shook his head before attacking the final chunk of croissant.

‘Are we done here?’ Breck asked, tapping the edge of his laptop’s screen. Fox glanced at his watch: fifteen minutes left on the meter.

‘There’s one final thing,’ he said. ‘And that computer of yours could come in handy.’ He wiped the pastry crumbs from his mouth. ‘Something I asked you when we were at the pool hall.’

‘Yes?’

‘I asked if Charlie Brogan could have been one of the developers. ’

‘We can take a look,’ Breck said, busying himself at the keyboard. Within a couple of minutes, he had found enough information to confirm that CBBJ was indeed part of the consortium.

‘CB stands for Charles Brogan,’ Fox commented, ‘but what about BJ?’

‘Broughton, Joanna?’ Breck guessed.

‘That makes sense, I suppose.’ Fox was peering at the screen. ‘I got a look at his diary, you know…’

‘What?’ Breck was staring at him.

‘Brogan’s diary. Joanna Broughton asked me to drop it into Leith Police Station.’ Fox paused. ‘It’s a long story.’

Breck folded his arms. ‘I’ve got time, partner.’

‘I recognised her when she was standing outside the station. Offered her a lift home.’

‘To the penthouse?’

Fox nodded. ‘Triplex, actually.’

‘You were inside? She knew you were a cop?’

Fox kept nodding. ‘Leith wanted to see Brogan’s appointments diary. She asked me if I’d take it.’

Breck was chuckling. ‘It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch out for. I can’t believe you got away with it.’

‘I didn’t. On the way out, I bumped into Gordon Lovatt. She told him who I was, and he got on to Leith, who got on to DI Stoddart and her merry men.’

Breck gave a low whistle, then was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Was the diary worth the effort?’ he eventually asked.

‘Not really. Work was drying up for Charlie Brogan. He spent more time planning what TV shows to watch than scheduling meetings.’ Fox paused to collect his thoughts. ‘Think it through, though. Vince Faulkner works on one of Brogan’s projects. He’s last seen in a casino owned by Brogan’s other half. He winds up dead and his body’s dumped at yet another site owned by Brogan’s company. Then, just to put some icing on top, Brogan goes for a swim in the Forth and doesn’t bother coming up for air.’

Breck was rubbing the stubble on the underside of his chin. ‘You should take this to Billy Giles.’

‘Oh, sure,’ Fox replied. ‘Because I’m dead sure DCI Giles would take me seriously.’ Breck had opened his mouth, but Fox stilled him with a gesture of the hand. ‘And you can hardly go to him with it, because you’re his little Judas. So where exactly does that leave us?’ When Breck didn’t answer, Fox glanced at his watch again. ‘I need to put more money in the meter,’ he said.

‘Let’s finish up here and I’ll come with you.’ Breck had already started shutting down the laptop. Fox noticed that he’d left most of his coffee untouched.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘Back to Salamander Point.’

They used the same Portakabin as before. Breck had asked the site manager what would happen now that the developer was dead.

‘We keep working until we’re ordered to stop – or the wages dry up,’ the man had replied.

But Malcolm Fox had noticed some changes. The sales office was locked shut, no sign of life inside. And once they’d climbed the ladder to the upper level of temporary offices, he could see that over to one side of the site an impromptu game of football was in progress, piles of bricks substituting for goalposts. When Ronnie Hendry arrived, he was sweating and breathing hard.

‘We’re waiting for a delivery of ready-mix,’ he explained, removing his hard hat and wiping a sleeve across his face.

Breck gestured for him to sit at the table. The three men were then positioned as before, Fox maintaining his silence.

‘Just a couple of follow-up questions,’ Breck was telling Hendry. ‘How have things been since Charlie Brogan jumped ship?’

Hendry stared at him, wondering how to react to the pun, but Breck remained stony-faced.

‘The men are worried about pay day.’

‘Your gaffer just said much the same thing.’

‘He’s got more at stake, money he makes for standing around all day with his dick in his hand and not a clue in his head.’

‘You sound aggrieved.’

Hendry wriggled in his chair. ‘Not really.’ But he folded his arms across his chest – a defensive gesture, in Fox’s eyes. ‘You any closer to finding out who killed Vince?’

‘We think the “why” might help answer that. But meantime, I wanted to ask about Mr Brogan.’

‘What’s he got to do with it?’

‘Well, now that he’s gone the same way as Vince Faulkner…’ Breck’s voice drifted off.

‘But there’s no connection,’ Hendry stated, eyes shifting from one detective to the other. ‘Is there?’

‘We can’t know that for sure. I’m assuming Mr Brogan visited Salamander Point?’

‘He was pretty hands-on,’ Hendry agreed.

‘How often did you see him?’

‘Maybe once a week, twice a week sometimes. Gaffer would be able to say for sure.’

‘But it’s you I’m asking. Did he just sit in here with a mug of tea and the plans spread out in front of him?’

Hendry shook his head. ‘He liked to give the whole site a good look-see.’

‘So you’d have met him, then?’

‘Spoke to him a few times. He always had a couple of questions. Seemed like a good guy – not all developers are.’

‘How do you mean?’

Hendry shifted in the chair again. ‘Some jobs I’ve worked on, they turn up wearing pinstripe suits and shiny brogues – one or two from CBBJ were that way inclined. But Mr Brogan… with him it was work boots and jeans. And he always shook your hand without brushing the dirt off after.’ Hendry was nodding slowly at the memory. ‘Like I say, a good guy.’

‘Did Vince Faulkner think the same?’

‘Never said any different, not to me.’

‘He met Brogan, too?’

Hendry nodded again. ‘Mr Brogan knew most of the guys by name. And he remembered who you were. There was always some detail or other he’d toss into the conversation.’

‘Gleaned from the personnel files?’ Fox interrupted. Hendry turned his head towards him.

‘Maybe,’ he said.

‘How often did the two of them meet?’ Breck asked, drawing Hendry’s attention back to him.

It took the man a few seconds to answer. ‘Don’t know,’ he eventually stated.

‘You see what we’re getting at?’ Breck persisted.

‘Not really.’

‘If the two of them knew one another… well, you add Vince Faulkner’s death to anything else happening in Mr Brogan’s life…’

‘And he goes and tops himself?’ Hendry seemed to consider this. He offered a shrug, his arms still folded.

‘Last time we spoke,’ Breck continued, ‘you said you sometimes went out for the evening – a meal and some drinks at the Oliver casino.’

‘Right.’

‘You knew it was owned by Mr Brogan’s wife?’

‘Sure.’

‘Ever see him there?’

‘Probably.’

‘You can’t be sure?’

Hendry had unfolded his arms and was pressing his palms against his thighs, preparing to stand up.

‘I’ve got to get back to work,’ he said.

‘What’s the rush?’

‘There’s nothing I can tell you about Charlie Brogan or why he decided to end it all.’ He was on his feet now, and readying to put his yellow hard hat back on. Breck got up from the table too.

‘Maybe we’re not finished,’ he said.

‘You’re clutching at straws,’ Hendry stated. ‘You’ve hit a wall with Vince, so you’re focusing on Brogan instead. But there’s no connection between the two.’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘Definitely.’

‘What makes you such an expert, Mr Hendry?’

Hendry glared at him. He seemed to try half a dozen answers for size, dismissing each of them in turn. With a cold smile, he opened the door and exited the Portakabin. Fox closed the door and rested his weight against it, eyes on Breck.

‘Well?’ Breck asked him.

‘About three quarters of the way through…’

Breck was nodding. ‘He’d been cagey enough before that.’

‘But he started holding back. I wonder why.’

‘Might be different if we were talking to him at Torphichen. Maybe having cautioned him first… But we can’t do that, can we?’

Fox shrugged his agreement. They moved out of the room and on to the wooden walkway. Hendry was clambering over foundations and lengths of pipe and ducting, heading back to the football game. The sun had come out, and a few of the men were now topless.

‘Makes you proud,’ Fox commented. ‘Temperature’s halfway to double figures, but at the slightest glimmer of sunshine…’

‘The Scotsman in his prime,’ Breck agreed, as he started back down the ladder.

They were leaving the site when a car pulled up, two men climbing out. Breck cursed under his breath.

‘Dickson and Hall,’ he muttered.

‘I know the faces,’ Fox confirmed. They were Torphichen CID; Bad Billy Giles’s men. Both were smiling, without a trace of humour between them.

‘Well, well,’ Dickson said. He was the older and heavier of the two. His partner was, as Fox’s father would have put it, ‘twa ply o’ reek’, but with a shaven head and Ray-Bans.

‘What brings you here?’ Breck asked, hinting to Fox at their strategy here – namely, brazen it out.

Dickson managed a chuckle as he slid his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘That’s more than a bit rich, Jamie. But since you ask…’

Hall took his cue. ‘Billy Giles has got us retracing your steps. He’s worried you might have left gaps in the paperwork or maybe tweaked your reports.’ He angled his head slightly to take in Malcolm Fox. ‘With a bit of help from Inspector Fox here…’

‘You’re wasting your time,’ Breck stated.

‘And yet here you are, Jamie – the pair of you,’ Dickson said, leaning forward a little from the waist and reminding Fox of one of those toddlers’ toys that you could rock to and fro without them ever falling over.

‘And you’ll be reporting all of this back, of course,’ Breck was saying.

‘You think we shouldn’t?’ Hall asked, feigning amazement. ‘Last I heard, you two were suspended from duty.’

‘So?’

‘So it begs the question what could you possibly be doing here?’

‘I’m in the market for a flat,’ Fox interrupted. ‘And if you ever watch those property shows on TV, you’ll know it’s advisable to bring a friend to the viewing – they can spot things you might miss.’

‘Billy Giles told us you were a smart-arse.’

Dickson leaned a little further forward without shifting his stance. ‘Remember me, Fox? You had a few questions for me about Glen Heaton…’

‘And you thought you were doing him a favour, not answering any of them.’

A grin spread across Dickson’s face. ‘That’s right,’ he said.

‘Thing is, though,’ Fox confided, ‘as soon as we sussed he had friends like you, we knew he had to be dirty.’ He turned towards Breck. ‘We’re done here.’ But as he made to move past Dickson, the man stuck a hand out into his chest. Fox grabbed the hand and yanked it sharply downwards, the rest of the body following. He watched as Dickson dropped to the ground. The mud was crusted on the surface, but wet just beneath. Hall was helping his colleague to his feet, Dickson swearing and spluttering and wiping his face clean.

‘We’re done,’ Fox repeated. Without bothering to look at Breck, knowing he’d be following, he made his way to the waiting car.

19

They drove in silence for the first half-mile or so. Fox was behind the steering wheel, Breck in the passenger seat. Eventually, Breck found the right form of words for what he wanted to say.

‘What was that all about?’

‘What?’

‘Back there – you and Dickson.’

‘Just wanted to check his centre of gravity, Jamie. Didn’t think he’d go down so easily.’ Fox made eye contact, then gave a wink.

Breck smiled, but he was shaking his head. ‘It’s not the way to play Dickson and Hall. That’s two enemies for life, right there.’

‘It was worth it,’ Fox stated.

‘Suddenly you’re Action Man…’

‘Some of us don’t have avatars to fall back on.’

Breck turned his attention to the world outside the car. ‘Where are we going?’

‘My sister’s.’

‘Does she live in an underground bunker?’

‘She lives in Saughtonhall.’

‘Might not be protection enough. Billy Giles is going to want to talk to us.’

‘Talk at us, you mean.’

‘Okay, but he’s going to haul us in if we don’t go to him first.’

‘You’re the guy who likes to take risks and show initiative…’

‘And that’s what you were doing back there?’

‘Was I being passive?’

‘Not really.’ Breck managed a short-lived laugh. ‘So why are we going to see your sister?’

‘You’ll see.’

But when they got there, Jude wasn’t at home. Fox rang the bell next door and Alison Pettifer answered. She had an apron tied around her and was wiping her hands on a towel.

‘Sorry,’ Fox said. ‘Is Jude with you?’

‘She went to the shops.’ Pettifer looked up and down the road. ‘Here she comes now…’

Jude had seen them but couldn’t wave, with one arm still in plaster and the other holding a full shopping bag. Fox thanked Pettifer and went to meet his sister, taking the bag from her.

‘What have you got in here?’ he asked. ‘Coal?’

‘Just some food.’ She smiled at him. ‘Reckoned it was time I learned to fetch for myself.’

Fox thought of something. ‘How are you doing for money?’

She gave him a look. ‘You’re already paying for Dad’s care home…’

‘There’s some to spare if you need it.’

‘I’m fine for now.’ But she leaned her head in towards his shoulder, her way of saying thanks. Then: ‘I seem to know him…’ They were walking up the path towards her front door, where Jamie Breck was waiting.

‘DS Breck,’ Fox explained. ‘He was on the inquiry team.’

‘Was?’

‘Long story.’

Breck greeted Jude with a slight bow of the head as she unlocked the door. ‘Lucky I got some coffee,’ she told both men. ‘In you come, then.’

Fox told her he’d help put the shopping away, but she shooed him off. ‘I can manage.’ And she did – filling the kettle and switching it on; placing her purchases in the fridge or a cupboard. Then she spooned coffee into three mugs and poured on the boiling water, adding milk.

When all three were seated in the tidied living room, Fox asked her how she was doing.

‘I’m managing, Malcolm – as you can see.’

Fox nodded slowly. He knew that people had ways of dealing with grief and loss. But keeping busy could lead to problems later, if all it meant was that you were in denial. Still, the lack of mess and empty bottles perhaps boded well.

‘You don’t mind talking a little about Vince?’ he asked her.

‘Depends,’ she answered, starting to light a cigarette. ‘Has there been any progress?’

‘Precious little,’ Breck admitted. She turned her attention to him.

‘I remember you,’ she said, blowing smoke through her nostrils. ‘You were here the day they dug up the back garden.’

Breck gave another bow of his head, acknowledging the fact. Fox cleared his throat until she focused on him again.

‘Did you hear about Charles Brogan?’ he asked.

‘It was in the paper. Fell from his yacht.’

‘You know he was married to Joanna Broughton?’

‘So the paper said.’

‘Did you know she owns the Oliver?’

Jude nodded and removed a sliver of tobacco from her tongue. ‘They showed her picture – I recognised her.’

‘From your nights at the casino?’

‘She was sometimes there. Always looked very glam.’

‘How about her husband? Did you ever see him?’

Jude was nodding. ‘Once or twice. He sent us over a bottle of champagne.’

‘Charles Brogan bought you champagne?’ Breck asked, seeking verification.

‘Didn’t I just say that?’ Jude took a slurp of coffee. ‘Cast’s coming off next week,’ she informed her brother.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Typical NHS balls-up. Turns out it’s a fracture – less serious than a break.’

‘I meant, why did Charles Brogan send you over a bottle of champagne? ’

She looked at him. ‘Well, both Vince and Ronnie worked for him, didn’t they?’

‘Not exactly.’

She pondered this. ‘Okay,’ she agreed, ‘not exactly. But he’d met them on the site; he knew who they were.’

‘Was it good champagne?’

Breck had asked the question, and Jude turned her head towards him. ‘It was Moët… or something like that. Thirty quid or thereabouts in Asda, so Sandra said.’

‘More like a ton in a casino.’

‘Well, it’s his wife’s place, isn’t it? I doubt he was paying full whack.’

Fox decided to step in. ‘It was a nice gesture, all the same. Did he come over and say hello?’

Jude shook her head. ‘Not that time.’

‘Another time, though?’

Now she was nodding. And Vince’s friend Ronnie didn’t want us to know, Fox thought. ‘He handed Sandra and me twenty quid’s worth of chips – each, mind you.’ She paused. ‘I think he was showing off.’

‘Is that what Vince thought?’

‘Vince thought he had style. When the champagne arrived, Vince had to go shake him by the hand. Brogan just patted him on the shoulder, like it was no big deal.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe it wasn’t.’

There was a phone ringing. It was Breck’s. He apologised as he lifted it from his pocket and checked the screen. His glance towards Fox confirmed what Fox had already been thinking: Billy Giles.

‘Don’t answer,’ Fox was saying, but Breck had already placed the phone to his ear.

‘Afternoon, sir,’ he said. Then, after listening for a moment: ‘Yes, he’s with me.’ And a few seconds later: ‘Right… yes… understood… Yes, I was there when it happened, but it was really more of a misund-’ Breck broke off and listened some more. Fox couldn’t hear what Giles was saying, but his tone was splenetic. Breck actually eased the phone away from his ear as the diatribe continued.

‘Sounds narked,’ Jude whispered for her brother’s benefit. Fox nodded back. By the time the call ended, blood had risen up Breck’s neck and into his cheeks.

‘Well?’ Fox asked.

‘Our presence is requested,’ Breck explained, ‘at Torphichen, any time within the next half-hour. Any later, and there’ll be patrol cars out trawling for us.’

Jude stared at her brother. ‘What have you done? Is it to do with Vince?’

‘It’s nothing,’ Fox assured her, while locking eyes with Jamie Breck.

‘You were always a terrible liar, Malcolm,’ his sister remarked.

Torphichen: not an interview room this time, but Bad Billy Giles’s inner sanctum. The office lacked any whiff of personality. There were no framed family snaps on the desk; no citations or certificates on the walls. Some people liked to brighten up their drab surroundings, but Giles was not among them. You could tell nothing about the inhabitant of this space, other than that he was behind with his filing. There were boxes awaiting storage elsewhere, and a three-foot-high pile of paperwork balanced precariously atop the only cabinet.

‘Cosy,’ Fox said, manoeuvring his way in. The place was crowded. Giles was behind his desk, swivelling slightly in his chair and with a pen gripped in his hand like a dagger. Bob McEwan was seated next to the filing cabinet, hands clasped in his lap and with Caroline Stoddart alongside him. She stood with arms folded. Then there were Hall and Dickson. Dickson had given himself a wash and changed into a spare set of clothes, which looked like the result of a whip-round of the other officers in the station. The ill-fitting brown cords did not match the pink polo shirt, which in turn clashed with the green blouson. He was also wearing tennis shoes, and his furious eyes never left Fox for a second.

Breck had managed to squeeze into the room behind Fox, but gave up on trying to close the door. Giles tossed his pen down on to the desk and looked towards McEwan.

‘With your permission, Bob…’ Permission was granted with the curtest of nods, and Giles turned his attention back to Fox and Breck.

‘One of my officers wants to make a complaint,’ he told them. ‘Seems he was manhandled to the ground.’

‘That was a misunderstanding, sir,’ Breck explained. ‘And we’re sorry about it. We’ll pay the dry-cleaning costs or any other reasonable expense.’

‘Shut up, Breck,’ Giles snapped. ‘You’re not the one who needs to do the grovelling.’

Fox pulled his shoulders back. ‘Dickson went for me first,’ he stated. ‘I’m not sorry for what I did.’ He paused for a beat. ‘I just didn’t expect him to go down like a sack of spuds.’

‘You prick,’ Dickson snarled, taking half a step forward.

‘Dickson!’ Giles cautioned. ‘My office, my rules!’ Then, to Fox: ‘What I want to know is what you and the Boy Wonder were doing there in the first place.’

‘I told Dickson and Hall at the time,’ Fox replied calmly. ‘I’d already paid one visit to Salamander Point and I liked what I saw. There’s a sales office, and not having much else to do, I decided to see if I could snag a bargain in these straitened times.’

‘Taking DS Breck with you?’

‘Except,’ Hall interrupted, ‘that’s not what happened. You’d asked to speak to Mr Ronald Hendry. He wasn’t happy at being pulled away from his game of football, and even less happy when I asked for him again not ten minutes later.’ He offered Fox a cold smile. Giles allowed the silence to linger, then snatched up his pen and stabbed it in Stoddart’s direction.

‘I think maybe it would be wise,’ she said on cue, ‘if I brought forward my interview with DS Breck.’

‘To when?’ Breck asked.

‘Directly after this meeting.’

He offered a shrug. ‘Fine by me.’

‘Wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t,’ Giles snapped back. ‘And afterwards, I’m ordering the pair of you to cease communication.’

‘And how are you going to enforce that?’ Fox asked. ‘Have us tagged, maybe? Or kept under surveillance?’ As he said this, he glanced in McEwan’s direction.

‘I’ll use whatever methods I think necessary,’ Giles growled. Then, for Breck’s benefit: ‘You’re not doing your prospects much good, son – it’s high time you saw sense!’

‘Yes, sir,’ Jamie Breck replied. ‘Thank you, sir.’ Fox gave him a look, but Breck wasn’t about to make eye contact. He was standing with his hands behind his back, feet slightly apart, head bowed in a show of contrition. ‘And just to reiterate, sir,’ Breck went on, ‘I’d be more than happy to pay whatever compensation’s warranted for DS Dickson’s distress.’ He then leaned past Fox, hand stretched out towards Dickson. Dickson stared at the hand as if it might be booby-trapped.

‘Good man,’ Giles said by way of encouragement, leading Dickson to accept the handshake, but with a baleful stare directed at Fox.

‘Well then…’ Giles was half rising to his feet. ‘Unless Chief Inspector McEwan has anything to add?’

But McEwan didn’t, and neither did Stoddart. She was telling Breck she had a car waiting outside. Their little chat would take place at Fettes. Giles had already ordered Hall and Dickson back to work. ‘We’ve a case to clear up,’ he reminded them.

Fox waited to see if there’d be any further admonishment, but Giles was removing some paperwork from his desk drawer. You’re not important enough, he seemed to be telling Fox. Jamie Breck offered him the briefest of nods as he left.

Fox moved swiftly through the station, not knowing if Dickson and Hall might be ready to spring out at him. When he reached the pavement, Bob McEwan was standing there, knotting his coffee-coloured scarf around his neck.

‘You’re a bloody idiot,’ McEwan told him.

‘It’s hard to deny it,’ Fox offered, sliding his hands into his coat pockets. ‘But something’s behind all this – don’t tell me you don’t feel it too.’

McEwan looked at him, then gave a single, slow nod of the head.

‘That time in the interview room,’ Fox pressed on, gesturing towards the police station, ‘there was a moment where we caught sight of it. The Deputy Chief said I’d been under surveillance most of the week. But that means it was in place before any of this other stuff. So I’m asking you, sir…’ Fox planted himself firmly in front of his boss. ‘How much do you know?’

McEwan stared back at him. ‘Not much,’ he eventually conceded, adjusting the knot in his scarf.

‘Not too tight, Bob,’ Fox advised him. ‘If you end up strangling yourself, they’re bound to find a way to pin it on me.’

‘You’ve not done yourself any favours, Malcolm. Look at it from their point of view. You’ve interfered in an inquiry, and when ordered to stop you seemed to push your foot to the pedal that bit harder.’

‘Grampian Complaints already had me in their sights,’ Fox stressed. ‘Is there any way you can look into that?’ He paused. ‘I know I’m asking a lot under the circumstances…’

‘I’ve already set the ball rolling.’

Fox looked at him. ‘I forgot,’ he said, ‘you have friends in Grampian CID.’

‘I seem to remember telling you that I’ve friends nowhere.’

Fox thought for a moment. ‘Say that there is something rotten in Aberdeen. Could they be trying for a pre-emptive strike?’

‘It’s doubtful. The job I mentioned up there has gone to Strathclyde instead of us. And besides – why pick on you? If I were them, I’d have zeroed in on Tony Kaye. He’s the one with the history.’ McEwan paused. ‘Are you going to heed the warning and keep away from Breck?’

‘I’d rather not answer that, sir.’ Fox watched his boss’s face cloud over. ‘I think he’s being set up, Bob. There’s not a shred of evidence that he’s got inclinations that way.’

‘Then how did his name end up on the list?’

‘Someone got hold of his credit card,’ Fox said with a shrug. ‘Maybe you could ask DS Inglis if that’s possible. Could someone have signed up in Breck’s name without his knowledge?’ Fox broke off and held up a cautionary hand. ‘Best if Gilchrist doesn’t know, though.’

McEwan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

‘The fewer the better,’ Fox offered.

McEwan shuffled his feet. ‘Give me a single good reason why I should go out on a limb for you.’

Fox considered this, then gave another shrug. ‘To be honest, sir, I can’t actually think of one.’

McEwan nodded slowly. ‘That’s the word I was looking for.’

‘What word, sir?’

‘Honest,’ Bob McEwan said as he marched towards his car.

Home felt like a cage. Fox did everything but dismantle the landline to look for bugs. Thing was, that was straight out of The Ipcress File. These days, you eavesdropped in other ways. A couple of months back, the Complaints had attended a series of seminars at Tulliallan Police College. They’d been shown various bits of new technology. A suspect might be making a phone call, but it was software doing the listening, and it would only start to record if certain pre-programmed keywords came up. Same went for computers – the gadgets in the van could isolate an individual laptop or hard drive and withdraw information from it. Fox kept walking over to the windows and peering out. If he heard a car engine, he’d be at the window again. He held his new phone in his hand, wondering who he could call. He’d made toast, but the slices sat untouched on their plate. When had he last eaten something? Breakfast? He still couldn’t summon up any appetite. He’d made a start at replacing the books on the living-room shelves, but had given up after the first few minutes. Even the Birdsong channel had begun to annoy him, and he’d switched the radio off. As night fell, his lights remained off, too. There was a car parked across the street, but it was just a parent picking up her son from a friend’s house. The same thing had happened before, so he decided he could dismiss it. Then again… He tried to recall if any of the houses nearby had come on the market recently. Had any ‘To Let’ signs come and gone? Could a surveillance team be sitting in its own darkened living room, surrounded by the same equipment he’d been shown at Tulliallan?

‘Don’t be so bloody stupid,’ he admonished himself.

Making a mug of tea in the unlit kitchen, he poured in too much milk, and ended up tipping the drink down the sink. Drink… now there was a thing. The supermarket was open late. He could almost recite from memory the bottles in its malt whisky display: Bowmore, Talisker, Highland Park… Macallan, Glenmorangie, Glenlivet… Laphroaig, Lagavulin, Glenfiddich…

At half past eight, his phone gave a momentary chirrup. He stared at it. Not a call, but a text. He tried to focus on the screen.

Hunters Tryst 10 mins.

Hunters Tryst was a pub nearby. Fox checked the texter’s identity: Anonymous Caller. Only a handful of people had his new number. The pub was a ten-minute walk, but there was parking. Then again, it might be good to arrive early: reconnaissance and all that. And why was he going anyway?

Well, what else was he going to do?

But when he eventually headed out to the Volvo, he looked up and down the street, then, once in the car, made a circuit of his estate, slowing at every corner and junction, until he was confident no one was following.

A week night in February: the Tryst was quiet. He walked in and took a good look around. Three drinkers in the whole place: a middle-aged couple who looked as if they’d fallen out a decade before, each still waiting for the other to offer the first apology; and an elderly man whose face was known to Fox. The guy had owned a dog, used to walk it three times a day. When he’d stopped being visible, Fox had assumed he’d croaked, but now it looked as if the dog had been the victim rather than its master. There was a young woman behind the bar. She managed a smile for Fox and asked him what he was having.

‘Tomato juice,’ he said. His eyes lingered on the row of optics as she shook the bottle and prised off its top.

‘Ice?’

‘No thanks.’

‘It’s a bit warm,’ she warned him.

‘It’ll be fine.’ He was reaching into his pocket for some coins when the door opened again. The couple who entered had their arms around one another’s waist. The middle-aged couple gave a disapproving look.

‘Look who’s here,’ the male half of this new couple said. Breck held out his hand for Fox to shake.

‘This is a coincidence,’ Annabel Cartwright added. She wasn’t much of an actress, but then maybe she thought the charade unnecessary.

‘What are you having?’ Fox asked.

‘Red wine for me, white for Annabel,’ Breck said. The barmaid had perked up at the arrival of customers with a bit of life to them. She poured what seemed to Fox’s eye generous measures.

‘Let’s grab a table,’ Breck said, as though chairs were at a premium. They headed for the furthest corner, and got themselves settled, removing coats and jackets. ‘Cheers,’ Breck said, chinking glasses.

‘How was it?’ Fox asked him without preamble.

Breck knew what he was referring to and pretended to give it some thought. ‘DI Stoddart’s a piece of work,’ he told Fox, keeping his voice low, ‘but I didn’t think much of those two blokes she’s saddled with – and I don’t think she reckons them much cop either… if you’ll pardon the pun.’

Fox nodded and took a sip of his drink. The barmaid had been right: it was like soup that had been left to cool for a few minutes. ‘What’s with the text?’ he asked. ‘You changed your number?’

‘New phone,’ Breck explained, waving the handset in his face. ‘Rental, believe it or not. Visitors from the States and suchlike use them all the time. I’d no idea till I started looking…’

‘What he means is, he asked me and I told him.’ Annabel Cartwright gave Breck’s arm a playful punch.

‘So what’s with the pow-wow?’ Fox asked.

‘Again, that was Annabel’s idea,’ Breck said.

She looked at him. ‘I wouldn’t go that far…’

Breck turned to face her. ‘Maybe not, but you’re the one with the news.’

‘What news?’ Fox asked.

Cartwright looked from Fox to Breck and back again. ‘I could get in so much trouble for this.’

‘That’s true,’ Fox said. Then, to Breck: ‘So why don’t you tell me, Jamie? That way, we can say hand on heart that the only person Annabel told was her boyfriend.’

Breck thought for a moment and then nodded. He asked Cartwright if she wanted to leave them to it, but she shook her head and said she’d just sit there and finish her drink. Breck leaned a little further over the table, elbows resting either side of his glass.

‘To start with,’ he said, ‘there’s new information on Vince. Another cab-driver’s come forward. This one had been waiting for fares outside the Oliver. He reckons he picked Vince up around one in the morning.’

‘He’s sure it was Vince?’

Breck nodded. ‘The team showed him photos. Plus, he ID’d Vince’s clothes.’

‘So where did he take him?’

‘The Cowgate. Where else are you going to go if you want to keep drinking at that time of night?’

‘It’s a bit…’

‘Studenty?’ Breck guessed. ‘Trendy?’

But Fox had thought of something else. ‘Isn’t the Cowgate closed to traffic at night?’

‘Driver knew all the little short cuts and side streets. Dropped him outside a club called Rondo – do you know it?’

‘Do I look the type?’

Breck smiled. ‘Annabel dragged me there once.’ She jabbed him in the ribs by way of complaint and Breck squirmed a little. ‘Live music in the back room, sticky carpets and plastic glasses in the front.’

‘That’s where he was headed?’

‘Driver wasn’t sure. But it was where he got out.’

‘Meaning he was still alive in the small hours of Sunday morning? ’

Breck nodded. ‘So now the inquiry team’s going to be doing a sweep of the Cowgate – must be about a dozen pubs and clubs; more if they widen the search to the Grassmarket. They’re printing up flyers to hand out to the clubbing fraternity.’

‘Doormen might remember him,’ Fox mused. ‘He probably wasn’t typical of their clientele. Did the cabbie say what sort of state he was in?’

‘Slurring his words and a bit agitated. Plus he didn’t tip.’

‘Why was he agitated?’

‘Maybe he was wondering what was waiting for him back home,’ Breck offered. ‘Maybe he was just the type who gets that way after a skinful.’

‘I’d like to listen to the interview with the cabbie…’

‘I could probably get you a transcript,’ Cartwright offered.

Fox nodded his thanks. ‘The first cab would have dropped him at the Oliver around ten – means he was in there three hours.’

‘A fair amount of time,’ Breck agreed.

‘Well, it’s progress, I suppose. Cheers, Annabel.’

Cartwright gave a shrug. ‘Tell him the rest,’ she commanded Breck.

‘Well, this is just something Annabel picked up when she was talking to a colleague based at D Division…’

‘Meaning Leith and Charlie Brogan?’ Fox guessed.

‘The inquiry team’s beginning to wonder why no body’s been washed ashore. They’re digging a bit deeper into the whys and wherefores.’

‘And?’

‘Brogan had recently sold a large chunk of his art collection.’

Fox nodded again. ‘Worth about half a million.’

Annabel Cartwright took up the story. ‘Nobody seems to know where that money is. And Joanna Broughton’s not exactly being cooperative. She’s got her lawyers setting up their wagons in a circle. She’s also got Gordon Lovatt reminding everyone involved that it won’t look good if we start harassing a “photogenic widow” – his very words.’

‘Leith think the suicide was staged?’

‘As Jamie says, they’re definitely beginning to wonder.’

‘Has any other cash gone AWOL?’

‘Hard to know until the lawyers stop denying access. We’d need a judge to issue a warrant, and that means convincing him it’s right and proper.’

‘There’s no way of knowing if any of Brogan’s accounts or credit cards are still being used?’ Fox didn’t expect an answer. He lifted his glass, but paused with it halfway to his mouth. ‘When I was in her flat, I saw the spaces on the wall where those paintings had been.’

‘You’ve been to her house?’ Cartwright asked.

‘There wasn’t any paperwork lying around, but then she had to fetch Brogan’s diary from elsewhere. Must be a room he uses as an office.’

‘He could always have siphoned some cash off from CBBJ,’ Breck added. ‘We’ve got specialist accountants for that kind of digging.’

‘But there still needs to be a judge’s signature,’ Cartwright cautioned.

Fox shrugged. ‘If Joanna Broughton’s being obstructive,’ he argued, ‘I’d have thought that might be reason enough.’

‘I’m sure they’ll fight their corner,’ Breck said, running his finger down the wine glass.

‘Any more revelations?’ Fox’s eyes were on Annabel.

‘No,’ she said.

‘I really do appreciate this.’ Fox got to his feet. ‘So much so that I’m going to buy you another drink.’

‘This one’s on us,’ Breck said, but Fox was having none of it. When he placed the order, the barmaid smiled and nodded towards the table.

‘Nice when you bump into friends, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Malcolm Fox replied. ‘Yes, it really is.’

20

At midnight, he was standing at the foot of Blair Street, staring towards the illuminated doorway of Rondo. There was just the one doorman. They usually operated in pairs, so the partner was either inside or on a break of some kind. The street was almost deserted, but wouldn’t have been at the same sort of time on a Saturday. Plus the Welsh rugby fans had been in town the night Vince died, gearing up for Sunday’s encounter – some of them would have known that the Cowgate was the late-licence district.

Fox stood at the corner, hands in pockets. This was where Vince had been dropped. Access to the main thoroughfare was curtailed between ten at night and five in the morning. Fox knew that this was because the Cowgate boasted narrow pavements. Drunks kept stumbling from them into the path of oncoming traffic. Cars had been banned because people were stupid. But then no one surely would pass this way sober at dead of night. It was a dark, dank conduit. There were homeless hostels and rubbish-strewn alleys. The place reeked of rat piss and puke. But there were plenty of little oases like Rondo. Lit by neon and radiating warmth (thanks to the heaters above their doors), they coaxed the unwary inside. As Fox crossed to the other side of the road, the doorman sized him up, loosening his shoulders under his three-quarter-length black woollen coat.

‘Evening, Mr Fox,’ the man said. Fox stared at him. There was a smile playing at the edges of the mouth. Stubble on the scarred chin. Shaven head and piercing blue eyes.

‘Pete Scott,’ the man eventually said, having decided that Fox needed help.

‘You’ve shaved your hair off,’ Fox replied.

Scott ran a hand over his head. ‘I was beginning to lose it anyway. Long time no see.’ He held out a hand for Fox to shake.

‘How long have you been out, Pete?’ Fox remembered Scott now. Six years ago, in his pre-Complaints life, he’d helped put him away. Housebreaking, a string of convictions stretching back to adolescence.

‘Almost two years.’

‘You served four?’

‘Took me a while to see the error of my ways.’

‘You battered someone?’

‘Another con.’

‘But you’re doing okay now?’

Scott shuffled his feet and made show of looking up and down the street. There was a Bluetooth connected to his left ear. ‘Keeping out of trouble,’ he eventually offered.

‘You’ve a good memory for names and faces.’

Scott just nodded at this. ‘You having a night out?’ he asked.

‘Working,’ Fox corrected him. ‘There was a murder the weekend before last.’

‘They’ve been round already.’ Scott reached into his coat and pulled out a sheet of paper. Fox unfolded it and saw that it was a head-and-shoulders photo of Vince Faulkner, with a few salient details and a phone number. ‘They’ve left them on the tables inside, with another stack on the bar. Won’t do any good.’

Fox handed back the sheet. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Guy didn’t come in here. I was on the door that Saturday. I’d have known about it.’

‘Did you see him get out of the cab?’

‘Might’ve done – taxis drop people off all the time.’

‘You saw somebody like him?’

Scott just shrugged. The scrawny nineteen-year-old Fox had interviewed had bulked up, but the eyes had definitely softened.

‘There was a guy wandered off in that direction.’ Scott was nodding towards the east. ‘Wasn’t too steady on his pins, so I was glad he hadn’t tried coming in.’

‘You’d have stopped him?’

Scott nodded. ‘But there was just something about him… don’t ask me what. It made me think he’d have relished it.’

‘Relished being turned away?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it would have given him every excuse.’

‘For a fight, you mean?’

‘The guy was wound tight, Mr Fox. I think that’s what I’m trying to get at.’

‘Did you tell this to the other cops, Pete?’ Fox watched Scott shake his head. ‘Why not?’

‘They never thought to ask.’ Scott was distracted by the arrival of two teenage girls. They wore teetering high heels, miniskirts and plenty of perfume. One was tall and skinny, the other short and plump. Fox could sense that they were cold but trying not to show it.

‘Hiya, Pete,’ the shorter one said. ‘Any talent in tonight?’

‘Plenty.’

‘That’s what you always say.’ She patted his cheek as he held open the door.

‘The job has its compensations, Mr Fox,’ Pete Scott told the detective.

As he walked eastwards along the Cowgate, Fox wondered just how invisible he’d become. Neither girl had paid him the slightest attention. On the other hand, it was good that Scott didn’t hold a grudge. Good, too, that he was holding down a job – any kind of a job. Before Fox had left, the young man had confessed that he was now the father of an eighteen-month-old daughter called Chloe. He was still seeing Chloe’s mum but living together hadn’t worked out. Fox had nodded and the two had shaken hands again. The meeting had made Fox feel better, though he couldn’t say exactly why.

He knew that if he kept walking, he’d come to the St Mary’s Street junction. Past that and he’d soon be at Dynamic Earth and the Scottish Parliament. He was coming to the end of the short strip of bars and clubs. There were shops, but with their windows empty or boarded up. The city mortuary was along here, but he’d no desire to pay a visit. He assumed Vince’s body would still be in the fridge there. Across the road, a church had decided that the best way to raise funds was to build a hotel in its grounds. The hotel seemed to be doing reasonable business; Fox wasn’t sure if the church could say the same thing. He decided to turn and retrace his route. There were too many paths Vince could have taken: narrow lanes and flights of steps. He could have headed towards Chambers Street or the Royal Mile. For all Fox knew, he could have checked into the hotel and slept things off. He was trying to see the area’s attraction for Vince. Yes, it was full of bars, but then so was Lothian Road. Vince would have paid good money to have a cab bring him here from Leith. On the way, he would have passed dozens of places still open at that hour. He had to have had a destination in mind. Maybe Fox could talk to the cabbie; maybe Annabel would find out the man’s details for him.

‘Maybe,’ he muttered to himself.

The temperature was dipping still further. He had pulled up the collar of his coat, trying to protect his ears. There was a chip shop at the Grassmarket, but that suddenly seemed like a long haul. Besides, would it still be open? The curfew was in place, meaning all traffic had ceased. His own car was parked near the top of Blair Street. Five more minutes and he would be snug – there was nothing for him here.

But then he saw another neon light. This one was down a narrow alley – a dead end, in fact. He hadn’t spotted it before, but now that he looked there was a sign on the brick wall, pointing towards the lit doorway. Just one word above the sign’s arrow – SAUNA. He wondered if any of the team had got round to leafleting this particular business. He took a couple of steps deeper into the alley so he could better see the door. It was solid wood, painted gloss black, with a tarnished brass handle and an assortment of graffiti tags. There was a video intercom off to one side. Edinburgh’s sex industry liked to keep itself to itself, which was fine by the police.

Fox was readying to turn and head back to the car when a massive force detonated between his shoulders, sending him flying. His face hit the ground. He’d had just enough time to half turn his head, so that his nose escaped the worst of the impact. The weight bore down on him – someone was kneeling on his back, punching the air out of his lungs. Dazed, Fox tried to wrestle free, but a foot had connected with his chin. A black shoe, nothing fancy or memorable about it. It snapped his head back and he felt himself spiralling into the dark…

When his eyes blinked open, the shoe was back. It was jabbing at his side. He lashed out a hand to grab it.

‘Wake up,’ a voice was saying. ‘You can’t sleep here.’

Fox clambered to his knees and then his feet. His spine ached. So did his neck and his jaw. The man standing in front of him was old, and Fox thought for a second that he knew him.

‘Too much to drink,’ the man was saying. He’d taken a step away from Fox. Fox was checking himself for damage. There was no blood, and no teeth seemed to have been dislodged.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘You’d be better going home to your bed.’

‘I’m not drunk – I don’t drink.’

‘Are you ill, then?’

Fox was trying to blink away the pain. The world sounded offkilter, and he realised it was the blood surging in his ears. His vision was blurred.

‘Did you see him?’ he asked.

‘Who?’

‘Pushed me to the ground and swung a kick at me…’ He rubbed his jaw again.

‘Did they take anything?’

Fox checked his pockets. When he shook his head, he felt like he might throw up.

‘It’s a bad part of town.’

Fox tried to focus on the man. He had to be in his seventies – cropped silver hair, liver-spotted skin… ‘You’re Jack Broughton.’

The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do I know you?’

‘No.’

Broughton stuffed his hands into his pockets and moved in until his face was a few inches from Fox’s. ‘Best keep it that way,’ he said. Then he turned to leave. ‘You might want to get yourself checked out,’ was his parting nugget of advice.

Fox rested for a moment, then shuffled back towards the main road. He angled his watch towards a street lamp. Twelve forty. Could only have been out cold for a matter of minutes. He held on to some of the buildings for support as he made his way back along to Rondo. His back felt like fire whenever he inhaled. Pete Scott saw him coming and stiffened his stance, mistaking him for trouble. Fox held up a hand in greeting and Scott moved towards him.

‘Did you trip or something?’ he asked.

‘Have you seen anybody, Pete? Had to be a big guy…’

‘There’ve been a few,’ Scott conceded.

‘In the time since I saw you?’

Scott nodded. ‘Some of them are inside.’

Fox gestured towards the door. ‘I’m going to take a look,’ he said.

‘Be my guest…’

The bar was rammed, with a sound system that could loosen fillings. The queue was three deep for drinks. Young men in short-sleeved shirts; women sipping cocktails through dayglo straws. Fox’s head took a fresh pummelling from the bass speakers as he squeezed his way through. In the back room, the stage was lit but no band was playing. More drinkers, more noise and strobing. Fox didn’t recognise anyone. He found the gents’ toilets and headed inside, gaining some respite from the din. There were paper towels strewn across the floor and none at all in the dispenser. He ran water over his hands and dabbed at his face, staring at his reflection in the smeared mirror. His chin was grazed and his cheek had swollen. The bruising would come soon enough. His palms stung where they’d connected with the ground, and one of his lapels had been ripped at the seam. He took off his coat and checked it for evidence of the force that had hurled itself at him, but there was nothing.

His attacker hadn’t taken anything – credit cards, cash, both mobile phones, all accounted for. And once he was unconscious, it didn’t appear as if they’d continued the beating. He took a good look at his teeth and then manipulated his jaw with his hand.

‘You’re okay,’ he told his reflection. Then he noticed that one button was missing from his waistband. It would need replacing, or his braces wouldn’t sit right. He took a few deep breaths, ran the water over his hands again and dried himself off with his handkerchief. One of the drinkers from the bar came weaving in, paying him almost no attention as he headed for a urinal. Fox put his coat back on and left. Outside, he nodded towards the doorman. Pete Scott was busy talking to the same two women as before. They’d stepped out for a cigarette and were complaining about the lack of ‘hunks’. If Fox had been invisible to them before, he seemed more so now. Scott asked him if he was really okay, and Fox just nodded again, heading across the road to where his car waited. Someone had left the remains of a kebab on the Volvo’s bonnet. He gave it a swipe on to the roadway, unlocked the doors and got in.

The journey home was slow, the lights against him at every junction. Taxis were touting for business, but most people seemed content to walk. Fox tuned his radio to Classic FM and decided that Jack Broughton had not recognised him. Why should he have? They had met for approximately ten seconds at the triplex penthouse. Broughton hadn’t known until some minutes later that the man waiting for the lift was a cop. Could Broughton himself have been the attacker? Doubtful – and why would he have hung around? Besides, his shoes had been brown brogues; not at all the same as the one Fox had watched connect with his chin.

Pete Scott on the other hand…Pete’s shoes had been black Doc Martens, and Pete was strong enough… But Fox didn’t think so. Would Pete have deserted his post for a spot of small-minded revenge? Well, maybe he would, but Fox had him down as a ‘possible’ rather than a ‘probable’.

Once home he stripped off his clothes and stood under a hot shower, training the water on to his back for a good nine or ten minutes. It hurt when he tried towelling himself dry, and he was able to get a look at himself in the bathroom mirror – no visible damage. Maybe it would be different in the morning. Slowly, he pulled on a pair of pyjamas and went downstairs to the kitchen, finding an unopened bag of garden peas in the freezer compartment, wrapping a tea towel around it and holding it to his jaw while he boiled the kettle for tea. There was a box of aspirin in one of the drawers, and he swallowed three tablets with a glass of water from the tap.

It was nearly two o’clock by the time he settled himself at the table. After a few minutes of staring at the wall, he got up and went through to the dining room. His computer sat on a desk in the corner. He got it working and started a search of three names: Joanna Broughton, Charlie Brogan and Jack Broughton. There wasn’t much on the last of these – his heyday had been before the advent of the internet and the twenty-four-hour news cycle. Fox hadn’t thought to ask him what he was doing in the Cowgate at that time of night. But then Jack Broughton was no ordinary seventy-one-year-old. Probably he still fancied his chances against the majority of the drunks and chancers.

Fox couldn’t get properly comfortable. If he leaned forward, he ached; if he leaned back, the pain was greater. He was grateful for the lack of alcohol in the house – it stopped him reaching for that quickest of fixes. Instead, he held the bag of peas to his face and concentrated on Charlie Brogan, finding several interviews culled from magazines and the business pages of newspapers. One journalist had asked Brogan why he’d become a property developer.

You’re creating monuments, Brogan had replied. You’re making a mark that’s going to outlast you.

And that’s important to you?

Everybody wants to change the world, don’t they? And yet most of us, all we leave behind is an obituary and maybe a few kids.

You want people to remember you?

I’d rather they noticed me while I’m here! I’m in the business of making an impression.

Fox wondered to himself: an impression on who? Joanna Broughton? Or her successful dad, maybe? Didn’t men always want to prove themselves to their in-laws? Fox recalled that he’d been nervous when he’d met Elaine’s parents, even though he’d known them when he was a school-kid. He’d been to birthday parties at their house. But flash forward two decades and he was greeting them as their daughter’s boyfriend.

‘Elaine tells us you’re in the police,’ the mother had said. ‘I’d no idea you were that way inclined…’ The tone of voice said it all: our lovely, talented daughter could have done so much better. So much better…

Fox could well imagine Brogan’s first encounter with Pa Broughton. Both sons were dead, meaning there was a lot for Joanna to prove. She’d left it late to get married. Fox reckoned her doting and protective father would have chased off many a previous suitor. But Charlie Brogan knew what he wanted – he wanted Joanna. She was glamorous and her family had money. More than that, her father had about him the whiff of power. When you got hitched to the daughter, you kept her father’s name in your pocket like a number for the emergency services. Anybody tried to turn you over, the name would be dropped into the conversation.

Not that Fox could imagine Jack Broughton liking that.

So when CBBJ started hitting the skids, there was no insurance policy. Maybe Brogan had approached the old boy on the quiet – definitely wouldn’t want Joanna knowing about it – but if he had, he’d given Jack the perfect opportunity to tell his son-in-law just how useless he’d always reckoned him. You say you lost all your money in the downturn? Well, Charlie, I didn’t know you were that way inclined.

And by the way, my lovely talented daughter could have done so much better.

‘Poor sod,’ Fox said to himself.

Half an hour later, he was done with the three of them. He found a link to Quidnunc but couldn’t enter the game without the relevant software. Instead, he stared at the website’s home page with its colourful graphics. Some sort of monster was being dispatched by half a dozen muscle-men.

‘The Warrior Is In You’ ran the strapline. Fox thought of Jamie Breck. He hadn’t been much of a warrior in Billy Giles’s office. Breck: losing himself in this fiction while a real life with Annabel was kept on pause. Fox wondered what sort of role he himself had played throughout his life. Had he used alcohol the same way Breck used the online game – sinking into a virtual world as an escape from the real thing? He wondered, too, whether he really did trust Jamie Breck. He thought he did, but then again, Breck had said it himself: does it just mean I’m your very last hope? Failing to come up with an answer, he set the computer to ‘sleep’ mode and headed for bed. He lay on his side, the only way he could rest without pain. The curtains were illuminated by the sodium glare of a street lamp. The peas were defrosting in their bag. Birdsong was playing on the radio…