The Complaints

21

At seven next morning, his mobile phone – his old one, rather than the pay-and-go – chirruped to let him know he had a message. It was from DI Caroline Stoddart. She wanted him at Fettes at nine for another interview. Fox texted back: unwell, sorry – can we postpone?

Did ‘unwell’ cover it, though? He’d had colds and flu and ear-ache and migraines, but never anything like this. Had he just gone three rounds with a grizzly bear? It took him over a minute to cross from his bed to the bathroom. Face nicely swollen and chin scabbed over but stinging when touched. And from what he could see of his back, bruising either side of his spine in the perfectly legible shape of two human paws. After twenty minutes in the shower, he found another text waiting for him in the bedroom. It was from Stoddart.

Tomorrow then, it said.

Fox decided he would stay at home the rest of the day. He had milk and bread, enough food to see him through. By nine he was lying along the sofa nursing his second mug of coffee and with the BBC’s news channel on the television. When his doorbell sounded, he considered not answering. Maybe it was Stoddart, checking his story. But curiosity got the better of him and he crossed to the window. Jamie Breck had taken a couple of steps back from the door and was staring straight at him. He lifted a grocery bag and gave a smile. Fox went to let him in.

‘I got croissants from the supermarket,’ Breck was saying. But then he got his first close-up of Fox’s damaged face. ‘Christ! What happened to you?’

Fox led the way back into the house. He was still in his pyjamas with his dressing gown wrapped around him. ‘Somebody jumped me,’ he explained.

‘Last night? Between Hunters Tryst and here?’ Breck sounded incredulous.

‘The Cowgate,’ Fox corrected him. He’d switched the kettle on and found a clean mug for his visitor. ‘Coffee or tea?’ he asked.

‘Because Vince took a taxi there?’ Breck was nodding to himself. ‘After Hunters Tryst you headed down for a recce? So who was it gave you the doing?’

‘They came at me from behind; I didn’t see anything. But when I woke up, Jack Broughton was standing over me.’

‘Say that again.’

‘You heard the first time. Tea or coffee?’

‘Tea’s fine. What was Jack Broughton doing there?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘Was he the one who…?’

‘I don’t think so.’ The two men stood in silence for a minute or so as the kettle came to the boil. When the tea was made, they headed through to the living room. Fox brought a plate for each of them, and they shared the croissants. Breck sat on the very edge of his chair, leaning well forward.

‘I just thought we’d have a quiet breakfast.’

‘We still can.’

‘You doing a spot of spring-cleaning?’ Breck gestured towards the piles of books.

‘Anything takes your fancy, it’s yours.’ Fox lifted his plate from the table, trying not to hiss in pain as he stretched. ‘Something I wanted to ask you…’ He bit into the croissant.

‘Fire away.’

‘Why don’t you want Annabel to know?’

Breck chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. ‘You mean about SEIL Ents and my credit card? I’m still weighing up the pros and cons.’

‘If she finds out the hard way, she’s not going to be too happy,’ Fox said. ‘And we really need her on our team…’

‘So you’re not just thinking of my best interests?’

‘Perish the thought.’

Breck picked crumbs from the knees of his trousers. ‘She keeps asking, though, why I’ve not gone to the Federation to ask them for a lawyer.’

‘It’s a fair question – why haven’t you?’

Breck decided not to answer. Instead, he had a question of his own. ‘What in God’s name did you hope to find in the Cowgate?’

‘Torphichen had been along, handing out flyers.’

‘So at least you know they’re doing their job. Where were you when you got thumped?’

‘There’s an alley with a sauna down it…’ Fox noticed the change in Jamie Breck’s face. ‘You know it?’ he guessed.

‘There’s a sign, just says “Sauna”? Narrow little lane?’

‘Spit it out.’

But Breck needed some tea first. He placed his plate on top of some of the books on the coffee table, half the croissant still untouched. ‘I went there once with Glen Heaton,’ he admitted.

‘What?’

‘Not inside,’ Breck quickly corrected himself. ‘We’d been out to Jock’s Lodge… talking to a witness. On the way back, Heaton said to take the route through the Cowgate. Then he sent a text, and told me to pull up when we reached that lane. He got out of the car and a woman came out of the building. She was wearing a raincoat, but I got the feeling there wasn’t a whole lot underneath. The two of them did some talking. At the end, she pecked him on the cheek. I think he might even have given her some money.’ Breck’s face was creased in concentration. ‘She was tiny – had to stand on tiptoe to reach his face. Younger than him; maybe late twenties. Anyway, she headed back indoors and he got into the car.’ He gave a shrug.

‘Did he tell you her name?’

‘No. I asked him what it was all about and he just winked and hinted that she was a contact of some kind.’

‘An informer?’

Breck gave another shrug. ‘There were things I knew it was best not to ask. Glen had a way of letting you know…’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Last autumn.’

Fox thought for a moment. ‘She was tiny, you say?’

‘Under five foot.’

‘Curly blonde hair?’ Breck stared at him, and Fox decided to explain. ‘We had Heaton under surveillance for months – checked his e-mails, taped his phone calls, followed him. There was a woman he was seeing behind his wife’s back. Worked as a lap-dancer on Lothian Road. Little slip of a thing called…’ But Fox couldn’t summon up her name.

‘Looks like she’s holding down two jobs,’ Breck commented. Then, fixing Fox with a stare: ‘You don’t think…?’

It was Fox’s turn to shrug. ‘Whoever it was, they just wanted to dole out a bit of punishment – not a huge amount; just enough.’

‘Glen Heaton would have motive,’ Breck agreed. Fox was already punching Tony Kaye’s number into his phone.

‘Wondered when I’d be hearing from you,’ were Kaye’s answering words. ‘Give me a sec, will you?’

Fox listened as Kaye got up from behind his desk and moved into the corridor. ‘Can I assume Gilchrist’s hard at work?’

‘McEwan’s got him busy on a few bits and pieces,’ Kaye acknowledged. ‘I’m assuming this is purely a social call?’

‘I need you to look something up for me, Tony – might mean a trip to the Fiscal’s office, if they’re the ones with the paperwork.’

‘Or I could just call them…’

‘Fewer people in the know, the better I’ll like it,’ Fox countered.

‘Fair enough – so what do you need?’

‘Info on Glen Heaton’s squeeze.’

‘The lap-dancer?’

‘Do you recall her name?’

‘We never bothered interviewing her. She was going to be leverage, remember? If we needed Heaton to ’fess up.’

‘Just get me what you can, Tony.’

‘Mind telling me why?’

‘Later.’ Fox ended the call and made to tap the phone against his chin, before remembering that it would sting.

‘What was Jack Broughton doing there?’ Breck was asking himself.

‘Customer maybe – his wife’s dead and the old bastard’s probably still got some juice.’ Fox paused. ‘Or could he be the proprietor?’

‘A pimp, you mean?’

Fox shook his head. ‘Might own the building, though… maybe he’s the landlord or leaseholder.’ He looked at Breck. ‘Could Annabel do some digging?’

‘Under what pretext?’

‘The inquiry team’s not finished with the Cowgate – she could be looking for background…’

Breck puffed his cheeks and expelled some air. ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘You want me to call her?’ He had his own phone in his hand.

‘Why not?’ Malcolm Fox said.

Breck started to make the call. ‘I’m just wondering…’

‘What?’

‘Now that I think about it, why did Heaton do that? Why take me with him when he went to see his bit on the side?’

‘He was showing off,’ Fox decided. ‘Pure and simple.’

Breck considered this, then nodded. His call had been picked up. ‘Hey, Annabel,’ he said, his face breaking into a smile. ‘You’ll never guess what I’m after…’

By mid-afternoon, Fox knew several things.

Courtesy of Tony Kaye, he now knew that the lap-dancer’s name was Sonya Michie and that she lived in a block of flats in Sighthill. She was a single mum with two kids at the local primary school. There was no mention in her file of any employment in a sauna, and she had no arrests to her name.

The information from Annabel Cartwright was more intriguing still. The building in which the sauna was housed was owned by a Dundee-based company called Wauchope Leisure Holdings Limited. Wauchope Leisure owned all sorts of interesting properties in the city, mostly saunas and strip clubs. The list happened to include the lap-dancing bar where Sonya Michie worked. Cartwright had sourced the register of directors, including a certain J. Broughton. Just to be on the safe side, Jamie Breck had asked her to verify the first name. A further hour later had come confirmation: John Edward Alan Broughton.

‘Better known as Jack,’ Fox had commented.

‘So at least he had a reason to be there,’ Breck had added. ‘Business rather than pleasure, I mean.’

‘At that time of night?’

But Cartwright hadn’t been finished. Wauchope got its name from Bruce Wauchope, who was currently serving fifteen years at Her Majesty’s Pleasure for his role in a drug-smuggling scheme in the north-east.

‘Fishing boats working out of the likes of Aberdeen,’ she explained. She’d arrived at Fox’s house with a sheaf of photocopied pages – mostly newspaper articles about Wauchope, but also the transcript of the interview with the cabbie who’d dropped Vince off at the Cowgate. It hadn’t added much.

Took him the best part of a minute to decide he was getting out, the cab-driver stated. I thought he was going to change his mind…

Cartwright had been offered a drink and decided on water. Breck had given her a kiss. Her cheeks were flushed, and she appeared energised by completion of her tasks. She had noted Fox’s injuries but hadn’t asked anything, knowing she’d be told if necessary. Nor had she mentioned the piles of books, which had been lifted from the coffee table and now sat on the floor, threatening to fall over at any moment.

‘Nobody noticed what you were up to?’ Fox thought to check, receiving a shake of the head in answer.

‘The trawlers would meet with other boats out in the North Sea,’ she explained between sips of water. ‘The drugs would come ashore, finding a ready market with fishermen and oil workers…’

Fox was studying a grainy photograph of a scowling Bruce Wauchope. The man would be in his early fifties.

‘He looks like a right thug,’ Jamie Breck offered.

‘Wait till you see his son.’ Cartwright sifted through the paperwork. The photo she found was small, and accompanied a news report from Bruce Wauchope’s trial. ‘His name’s Bruce, too – Bruce Junior, I suppose – but he goes by the nickname “Bull”.’

Fox and Breck studied the article while Cartwright added a few details.

‘He’s got a fierce reputation in Dundee. Kicked out of half a dozen schools by the time he was fifteen. Ran a local gang. No doubt made his dad proud of him. With Wauchope Senior out of action, Bull’s the one in charge.’

‘In charge of what exactly?’

‘For that, I’d probably need to chat up Tayside CID – either of you got a contact there?’

‘I might know someone,’ Breck admitted.

‘Does Wauchope own anything else in Edinburgh?’ Fox asked, still intent on his reading.

‘Again, that would need a bit more work.’ Cartwright paused. ‘Why is it so important?’ The question had been asked of Breck, but he fixed his attention on Fox, who could only shrug. The room remained quiet as Fox continued to pore over the photocopies. Breck had walked over to the window.

‘I don’t see your car,’ he commented.

‘I left it round the corner,’ Cartwright explained. ‘Didn’t want anyone seeing it here.’

‘Probably wise.’ Fox glanced up from his reading.

She was checking her watch. ‘I’ve got to get back. Doesn’t normally take me this long to buy a sandwich.’

‘Thanks for all this,’ Fox said.

‘I just hope it helps.’ She slung her bag over her shoulder. Jamie had already left the room and opened the front door for her. Fox couldn’t make out what was said, but he heard a final wet-sounding kiss before the door closed. Breck came back into the room and watched her from the window.

‘She’s too good for you,’ Fox told him.

‘Don’t I know it.’ Breck turned and came back to his chair.

‘She’d stand by you, I’m sure of it,’ Fox went on. ‘If you told her, I mean. She wouldn’t believe any of it.’

‘I’ll do it in my own time, if that’s all right with you, Inspector.’ Fox took the hint and held up his hands in surrender. Breck rubbed his own hands together.

‘So,’ he said, perching himself on the arm of the chair, ‘what have we got exactly?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Fox paused. ‘Have you contacted your credit card company about that debit?’

Breck stared at him. ‘What makes you ask all of a sudden?’

‘Just popped into my head.’

‘I’ve been on to them. The payment to SEIL was an online transaction, so there’s not much they can say.’

‘Anyone with your card details could have done it?’

‘As long as they knew the security number, plus maybe my address and postcode.’

‘So we’re not really any further forward?’

‘I can’t prove it wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’ Breck got to his feet again. ‘Still got a nagging doubt, Malcolm?’

‘No.’

‘Try to sound a bit more convincing.’

Before he could answer, Fox’s phone rang. It was Annie Inglis. ‘Hey, Annie,’ Fox said, ‘what can I do for you?’

‘Nothing really.’

Breck had gestured that he would leave the room. Without waiting, he was already on his way. Fox leaned back in his chair with the phone to his ear, then recoiled in pain. His back throbbed a fresh complaint.

‘How are things at the Chop Shop?’ he asked through gritted teeth. ‘Have they given you a replacement for Gilchrist yet?’

‘Still working solo.’

‘That can’t be good.’

‘It’s not.’

‘How’s Duncan?’

‘He’s fine. How about you, Malcolm?’

‘I’ve got my feet up.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, sort of.’ He listened to her laugh.

‘How soon will you be back at work?’

‘That’s up to Grampian.’

‘I’ve met DI Stoddart. She seems very… efficient.’

‘Was she asking you about me?’

‘Just in passing.’

‘I was supposed to come in today for another session on the rack.’

‘So she said.’

‘I told her I was ill.’

‘But you’re all right really?’

‘Actually, I’ve got a few aches and pains.’

‘This time of year, who hasn’t?’

‘A bit more sympathy wouldn’t go amiss.’

She laughed again. ‘Do you want me to drop by after work? Bring you some grapes and Lucozade?’

Fox was touching his fingers to his bruised and battered face. ‘It’s a tempting offer, but no thanks.’

‘Don’t say I didn’t ask.’

‘I’ll be fine in a few days, Annie. Listen, there’s something I wanted to ask you. A while back, you warned me that the Australian police were getting ready to pounce on Simeon Latham. When I talked to Gilchrist about it, he said much the same.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, the cop you put me on to in Melbourne seems to have other ideas.’

‘You know I can’t talk about this, Malcolm.’ Inglis’s voice had hardened.

‘I’m just wondering who it is that’s lying to me, Annie.’ Breck had stuck his head round the door and was indicating that he was about to leave. Fox shook his head and listened as a beep in his ear told him Inglis had hung up. He snapped shut the device and waved Breck back into the room.

‘DI Stoddart,’ he said, ‘has been pumping Annie Inglis for information. ’

‘She’s thorough, if nothing else,’ Breck commented.

Fox was thoughtful as he let his fingers drift across his swollen cheek. ‘You shouldn’t be part of this, Jamie. What you should be doing is clearing your name.’

‘And how do I do that without them realising you must have tipped me off?’ Breck shook his head slowly. ‘Got to clear your name before I can clear mine – so what’s next on the day’s agenda?’

Fox looked at the front of his phone – three o’clock had come and gone. ‘Lunch?’ he suggested.

‘Another supermarket run?’ Breck guessed. Fox nodded, reaching into his pocket for money.

‘My shout,’ he said. ‘You paid for breakfast…’

Breck took the ten-pound note but stood his ground. ‘And after?’

‘Dundee’s an option – but again, it’s something I can do for myself. ’

Breck pointed at Fox’s face. ‘I’ve seen the results of your solo efforts. So you won’t mind if I tag along?’

After Breck had gone, Fox rose to his feet and walked to the window. He stared out at the street, his mind dazed. Then he went to the kitchen and helped himself to more painkillers. Annabel’s glass was waiting to be washed. There was a pale smear of pink lipstick on the rim. Was her boyfriend too good to be true? Then again, was she? Could she be feeding titbits back to the inquiry? Handing Malcolm Fox to Billy Giles on the understanding that Giles would then go easy on her lover? The list of people Fox felt he could trust was short, its margins filled with ifs and buts and question marks.

Back at the coffee table, he picked up a sheaf of photocopied sheets – the transcript of the cabbie’s interview. It struck him that Vince might have had good reason for hesitating before leaving the taxi. He’d been agitated. He had a location in mind but showed some reluctance. At Marooned he’d tried picking a fight, then at the bus stop there had been a second confrontation. The doormen at the Oliver shouldn’t have let him in, but did. Why was that? Jamie Breck had said that Joanna Broughton didn’t want the place getting a reputation, yet Vince Faulkner was allowed to drink himself into a near-stupor. Two to three hours he’d been there… When Vince’s body had been found, he’d had only a few notes and coins in his pockets. Had he gone to the Cowgate to borrow money, or because he’d suddenly come into some?

Sifting through all the material, it struck Fox that here was another huge favour Annabel Cartwright had done him, without even really knowing him. She was helping because he was Jamie’s friend…

‘I trust you, Annabel,’ he said to himself. Then, after a moment: ‘Okay, maybe eighty per cent.’

He was back in the kitchen, pouring more tap water into his glass, when he realised his old mobile was ringing and headed through to the living room to find it. But whoever was calling gave up before he got there. Fox checked the number – another mobile – and called back.

‘I just missed you,’ he said when the phone was picked up at the other end.

‘It’s Max Dearborn.’

‘How are things with you, Max?’

‘Nose to the grindstone.’

‘Any sign of the errant developer?’

‘No.’

‘But that’s what he’s become, right? Errant rather than deceased?’

‘It’s one possibility among many.’

‘I can only think of five, Max. He’s dead and it was an accident; or he topped himself; or someone took care of him.’

‘That’s three…’

‘And if he’s alive, he either faked his suicide or someone else did it for him, meaning he’s been snatched.’

‘Wouldn’t the wife have had a ransom note by now?’

‘Maybe she’s just not telling you, Max. From what I know of Joanna Broughton, she’d want to deal with something like that in her own way.’

‘That’s a point,’ Dearborn conceded. ‘Speaking of which, her PR man’s on the warpath again.’

‘I’ve not been near her…’

‘It’s a reporter he’s got in his sights.’ Dearborn sounded tired. Fox reckoned he knew why he’d called – no hidden agenda, but rather the need to talk, to blow off a little steam, to gossip with someone outside the circle of wagons. Fox imagined Dearborn in a half-empty CID office, everyone flagging after the first few days of toil. Waiting for a break in the case, and made lethargic by too many sandwiches and chocolate bars. Maybe Dearborn had his chair pushed back, necktie undone, feet up on the desk…

‘What’s the reporter done?’

‘Not much. She’s got hold of a rumour that Brogan was tied up in something.’

‘Yes?’

‘Trying to bribe a councillor. It’s something to do with all these flats Brogan’s been putting up. Suddenly nobody’s buying. He was hoping the council might.’

‘What would the council want with them?’

‘Social housing – city’s short a few thousand homes, or hadn’t you noticed?’

‘Sounds as if Brogan might have had the solution.’

‘If the price was right…’

‘And how was a solitary councillor going to sugar the deal?’

‘Helps if the councillor sits on the Housing Board.’

‘Ah,’ Fox said. Then, after a pause: ‘I still don’t see much that’s wrong with it.’

‘To be frank, me neither.’

‘So who told you all this? Not Gordon Lovatt?’

‘The reporter.’

‘And why are you telling me?’

‘Because you’ve got form when it comes to getting up people’s noses. Next time you see Joanna Broughton or Gordon Lovatt, you might drop it into the conversation.’

‘In the hope that they’ll do what, exactly?’

‘Maybe nothing… maybe something.’

‘Seems to me you owe this reporter a favour, but can’t stick your own head above the parapet. Mine, on the other hand…’

‘It was just a thought. The reporter’s name is Linda Dearborn, by the way.’

‘That’s quite a coincidence, Max.’

‘It would be, if she wasn’t my baby sister. Let me give you her number…’ He did so, and Fox jotted it down. He could hear another phone ringing somewhere in Max Dearborn’s vicinity. ‘Got to go.’

‘Any news about Brogan, you’ll let me know?’ Fox reminded him. But Dearborn had already ended the call. Fox scratched his head and tried to order his thoughts. There was something he should have asked, so he sent Dearborn a text.

Name of councillor?

It was five minutes before he received a reply:

Ernie Wishaw.

Fox was still staring at the name when Breck returned with the food. Breck didn’t appear to have noticed any change in him. He unloaded packets of sandwiches and crisps on to the coffee table, along with a couple of bottles of lemonade. He was halfway through asking Fox if he preferred prawn salad or ham and mustard when he broke off.

‘Did someone die?’ he asked.

Fox shook his head slowly. ‘Your councillor…’

‘Which one?’

‘With the lorry business.’

‘What about him?’ Breck’s face showed puzzlement.

‘He might connect to Charlie Brogan.’

Breck thought for a moment. ‘Because of the casino?’

‘There’s a journalist looking to prove that Brogan was giving a backhander to Ernie Wishaw.’

Breck slowly unwrapped his sandwich, sliding it on to the same plate that had earlier held his croissant.

‘Brogan,’ Fox continued to explain, ‘wanted to offload some of his white elephants on to the council. Wishaw was going to make sure the council didn’t get too much of a bargain.’

Breck shrugged. ‘Sounds feasible. Who’s the journalist?’

‘Max Dearborn’s sister.’

‘And who’s Max Dearborn?’

‘A DS at Leith. He’s on the team investigating Brogan’s little disappearing act.’

Breck looked at Fox. ‘Not suicide?’

Fox just shrugged. ‘If the reporter’s right, you could get your hands on Ernie Wishaw after all.’ Fox paused. ‘If you were Brogan and you wanted to twist his arm, maybe you’d show him a good time first.’

‘At the wife’s casino?’

‘Give him a pile of chips to play with…’

‘I’m not sure Wishaw’s that gullible.’

‘Depends on the deal Brogan was offering.’

Breck was still looking at him. There was a sandwich in his hand, but he’d forgotten about it. Prawns were falling loose and landing back on the plate. ‘This is a rumour, right? So far, that’s all it is?’

Fox shrugged again. He’d peeled open the ham sandwich, staring at the filling, but his appetite was gone. He reached for the lemonade instead. When he unscrewed it, it fizzed out of the neck and made a puddle around itself on the table. He got up and fetched a cloth from the kitchen. Breck still had to make a start on his own sandwich.

‘Can’t be many prawns left in there,’ Fox warned him. Breck noticed what had happened and started replacing the prawns between the two triangles of brown bread.

‘Linda Dearborn,’ he said at last. ‘That’s her name?’

‘You know her?’ Fox asked, busy wiping up the spillage.

‘I remember her now. When Wishaw’s drug-running driver was arrested, she came sniffing around. I think her general argument was, Wishaw had to have known.’

‘I seem to recall that was your general argument, too.’

Breck smiled at this. ‘I only spoke to her that one time…’ His voice drifted off.

‘Seems she’s kept the councillor on her radar.’

‘It does, doesn’t it? Reckon she’s worth talking to?’

‘If we can keep our names out of the story. Problem is, if she gets a quote from us, we’d be her “unnamed police sources”.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Her brother’s part of the Brogan inquiry.’

Breck nodded his understanding. ‘Everyone would assume it was him.’

‘So I doubt she’d let us stay “unnamed”.’

‘Then why did Dearborn tell you in the first place?’

‘I think he wants me to take it to Joanna Broughton.’

‘Why?’

‘In the hope that she blows a fuse and maybe lets something slip.’

‘That won’t happen.’

‘What about Ernie Wishaw?’

‘He’s hardly going to incriminate himself, is he?’

‘You watched him for a while… where’s he most vulnerable?’

‘I’d have to think about that.’

‘In the meantime, how about this – we tell him we’ll forget about the bung he sent to the driver’s wife, so long as he fills us in on the deal Charlie Brogan was offering.’

‘Are you serious? We don’t even have warrant cards.’

‘You’re right.’ Silence filled the room for a few moments, until Jamie Breck broke it.

‘You’re going to do it anyway,’ he stated.

‘Probably,’ Fox conceded.

‘Why?’

‘Because Brogan’s the key to everything.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

Fox thought for a second. ‘No,’ he decided. ‘I’m not really sure of that at all.’

That evening, Fox found himself back at the Cowgate. He stayed in his car, watching passers-by, on the lookout for faces he knew. There were just the two: Annabel Cartwright and Billy Giles. Fox slid far down into his seat, even though it sent spasms of pain down his spine. Cartwright was first – talking to another member of the inquiry team. The man seemed to be following her orders. He had a fresh bunch of flyers with him. They moved along the street and he lost sight of them. Then, ten minutes later, it was the turn of Billy Giles, sauntering along as if he owned the place. He was chewing on a stubby cigar and had his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. The night was overcast and mild, with hardly any breeze. When Giles headed off in the same direction as Cartwright and her colleague, Fox pushed himself back up out of his hiding place. Three quarters of an hour later, a car drove past – the driver had picked up all three detectives. Giles was talking animatedly, gesturing with his arms, the others listening tiredly. Fox waited a further thirty minutes, then got out of his own car and locked it. Pete Scott was not on duty outside Rondo. There were two doormen tonight, one black and one white. They paid Fox not the slightest attention. One of them was showing the other something amusing on the screen of his phone.

‘That’s terrible!’ Fox heard one of them say, but in a tone that suggested the opposite. He kept walking. It wasn’t even ten o’clock, and he didn’t know why he was bothering. If he’d wanted to do this right – a re-enactment scenario – he would have come here after midnight. The lane was deserted. The neon sign still said SAUNA. Fox studied the territory around him and decided he was safe from attack. Nevertheless, he kept his head half turned as he walked down the alley, stopping at the door. He pressed the buzzer and stared into the camera lens. When nothing happened, he pressed again. He couldn’t hear anything from inside. There was no glass; nothing but the glinting eye of the camera. He waved his fingers in front of it, leaned down close to it, even gave it an exploratory tap. Then he tried the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. He bunched up a fist and rapped three times, then three more. Still nothing.

Eventually he turned to go, pausing next to where he’d lain unconscious not twenty-four hours before. He crouched down and lifted a circular object from the ground. It was the missing button from his trouser waistband. He pocketed it, got back to his feet and headed for home.

There was a detour to take first, however, and it was a long one. In daylight, the A198 out of the city was a meandering coastal road with eye-catching views. Fox remembered that it had been a weekend favourite with his ex-wife. They would stop at Aberlady for lunch, or Gullane for a stroll along the edges of the golf course. There were car parks leading to the seashore, and for the adventurous there was the mass of Berwick Law to climb. Tantallon Castle, just the other side of North Berwick, was as far as they ever got before heading across country. There might be a bacon roll at the Museum of Flight or fish and chips in Haddington. But North Berwick was Elaine’s favourite. She would peer through one of the Sea Life Centre’s telescopes or wander along the beach, coaxing him to catch up with her (he was always the ambler, she the strider). North Berwick was Fox’s destination tonight. He knew the route, but took it slowly: the road was twisty and unpredictable. Cars sped past him, their modified exhausts roaring, the drivers overtaking on blind bends and flashing their lights. These drivers were young, the other seats crammed with whooping friends. Maybe they were from the city, but Fox thought them more likely to be locals. This time of night, what else was there to do in East Lothian?

When he reached North Berwick, he headed for a particular narrow street not far from the shore. There was a house there he’d parked outside before, though never in his own car. The house was single-storey, but had been extended into the roof space, a balcony allowing views towards several islands and outcrops – Fidra, Craigleith, Bass Rock – not that any were visible tonight. The wind had risen, but the temperature remained a few degrees the right side of zero. Elaine had always wanted to live on the coast. Fox’s objection had been purely selfish: he hadn’t fancied the commute. But that same commute did not seem to worry Glen Heaton. Heaton had lived in this town for eight years. The Complaints had looked into his purchase of the house. These days it was probably worth half a million plus. No way should he have been able to afford it, a point put to him more than once during their several interviews. Heaton had told them to look at the paperwork.

‘Nothing dodgy,’ he’d stated.

And: ‘You lot are just jealous.’

And: ‘It eats you up that someone’s done better than you.’

This was the house where Fox parked now, turning off his engine in the realisation that an idling motor might cause curtains to twitch. The next house along was a bed and breakfast, its front garden converted into a driveway where three cars sat. This time of year, Fox doubted any of them belonged to tourists. Heaton’s own car – an Alfa – would be stowed in its garage to the rear of the property. The car was two years old and had cost its owner just under twenty grand. Heaton had spent almost the same amount on holidays in the twelve months leading up to the conclusion of the inquiry – jaunts to Barbados, Miami and the Seychelles. One of those trips, he and his wife had opted for business class, while the others had been economy plus. Four- and five-star resort hotels waiting for them. Sadly, the Complaints’ budget had not stretched to surveillance of these breaks. On the drive here tonight, Fox had caught some news headlines on his radio. Questions were being asked about MPs’ allowances. It wasn’t that anyone was being corrupt, apparently, but they were playing the system for all it was worth. Fox reckoned this tied in to the furore about bankers’ bonuses and pensions. People wanted to scream that it was unfair, but, there being little they could do about it, attention had turned to politicians with their snouts in the trough instead.

Just jealous…

Heaton’s accusation had rankled because it was accurate. Tony Kaye in particular had seethed and spat as he listed the outgoings and purchases.

‘How’s he doing it on his salary?’ he kept asking anyone who would listen. The answer was: he wasn’t. Many of the transactions were paid in cash, and Heaton couldn’t explain why. Fox stared at the house and imagined Glen Heaton in bed with his wife. Then he considered the son she didn’t yet know about – not unless Heaton had confessed. The son was eighteen and lived in Glasgow with his mother. Added to which there was Sonya Michie, again kept secret from the wife. But then in Fox’s experience, often the wives didn’t want to know. They suspected… they sort of knew anyway… but they were happy to feign ignorance and get on with their lives.

‘What are you doing here, Malcolm?’ Fox muttered to himself. He was half hoping Heaton might appear on the doorstep in his dressing gown. He would walk to the car and get in. Then they could talk. Fox had told Breck that Charlie Brogan was at the centre of everything, but something had been niggling him even as he’d said it. Glen Heaton was more than unfinished business. There was a poison in the man that to Fox’s mind had infected more carriers than had come to light as yet. They were still walking around, some of them only dimly aware of the contagion. Sonya Michie was one of them, for sure. But now Fox was wondering about Jack Broughton and Bull Wauchope, too. He had wound his window down. He could smell and hear the sea. There wasn’t another soul about. He wondered: did it bother him that the world wasn’t entirely fair? That justice was seldom sufficient? There would always be people ready to pocket a wad of banknotes in exchange for a favour. There would always be people who played the system and wrung out every penny. Some people – lots of people – would keep getting away with it.

‘But you’re not one of them,’ he told himself.

And then he saw something – movement at the door of Heaton’s bungalow. The door itself was opening, a man standing silhouetted against the lit hallway. He was wearing pyjamas and – yes – tying the belt of his white towelling robe. Glen Heaton was peering into the darkness, his focus directed at Fox’s Volvo. Fox cursed beneath his breath and turned the ignition. The parking space wasn’t huge and it took a bit of manoeuvring not to hit the vehicles in front and behind as he eased his own car out. Not that it mattered – Heaton seemed content to stand there, hands in pockets. Fox stared straight ahead as he drove off, headlights on full beam in an attempt to dazzle the man in the robe. Right, then right again, and he was on his way back towards Edinburgh, the image staying with him throughout.

Glen Heaton standing there, as if delivered to him.

And he, Malcolm Fox, had bottled it.