The Complaints

22

Thursday morning, Fox woke up to a text from Caroline Stoddart.

Feeling better?

As a matter of fact, he was. The swelling was starting to go down, and his palms only stung a little when he rubbed them together. His chin was okay, so long as he didn’t touch it. He reckoned he might postpone shaving that particular spot for another day or two. As for his back, it hurt when he twisted or leaned too far in one direction, but it was manageable, so he texted her back:

Yes.

Her next and final text told him to be at Fettes at ten. Fox sent a message of his own to Jamie Breck, letting him know he’d be tied up until lunchtime. Breck called back immediately.

‘Is it Stoddart?’

‘The one and only.’

‘Do you know what you’re going to say?’

‘I’m going to reiterate that I had nothing to do with Vince’s death and that none of this is your fault.’

‘It’s a plan, I suppose. What about afterwards?’

‘Thought I might go speak to Ernie Wishaw.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s a councillor, isn’t he? Maybe I’ve got a problem I want him to help me with.’ Fox paused. ‘No point you being there, Jamie.’

Breck gave a snort. ‘Try and stop me.’

‘Haven’t you got a game of Quidnunc to be playing?’

‘I’m the one who knows about Wishaw – or had you forgotten?’

‘But you’ve never met him?’

‘No.’

‘It’s risky, Jamie – if word gets back to Stoddart or Giles…’

‘If you’re going, I’m going,’ Breck stated. ‘End of story.’

But first there was the little matter of Fettes and the Grampian Complaints. The three officers – Stoddart, Wilson and Mason – assumed positions as before. When Stoddart saw the state of Fox’s face, she stopped what she was doing.

‘What happened to you?’

‘I fell down the stairs.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Isn’t that usually your sister’s excuse?’

‘At least it means I wasn’t shitting you yesterday.’ Fox accepted the clip-on microphone from Mason and fixed it to his shirt before sitting down.

‘I suppose not,’ Stoddart was saying in reply to Fox’s remark. ‘But I was just about to congratulate you…’

‘On what?’

‘Not getting into any more trouble in the interim.’ She paused. ‘Now I’m not so sure.’

Fox leaned forward a little in his chair, though the effort cost him a twang of pain. ‘You calling me a liar, Inspector Stoddart?’ he asked accusingly.

‘No,’ she answered, sifting through her paperwork. Fox ran his fingers down the laminated visitor’s pass that hung around his neck.

‘Any news from the Faulkner inquiry?’ he asked innocently.

‘I wouldn’t know.’ She glanced up from her work. ‘Why did you attack DS Dickson?’

‘I was emotionally fragile.’

‘Would you mind repeating that?’

‘My sister had just lost her partner,’ he was happy to explain. ‘That had an effect on me, which I hadn’t reckoned with. It was only afterwards that I realised the force had made a mistake.’

‘The force?’

‘In not cancelling my duties and making me take a few days’ compassionate leave.’

Stoddart sat back in her chair. ‘You’re shifting the blame?’

Fox shrugged. ‘I’m just saying. But how come you were watching me, Inspector? Who was it ordered the surveillance, and what story did they use?’

Stoddart gave a cold smile. ‘That’s confidential information.’

‘I’m glad to hear it – too many leaks around here for my liking…’ He sat back, mimicking her posture.

‘Shall we get started?’ she asked.

‘Ready when you are,’ Fox told her.

An hour and a half later, he was handing his pass back to Frank on the front desk, grateful not to have bumped into anyone he knew – it would only have meant lying about his bumps and bruises. On the other hand, Tony Kaye, Annie Inglis and the others would probably find out anyway. Fettes was like that. On his way to his car, Fox took a call on his old mobile. It was Jude, just wanting a chat.

‘How you doing, sis?’ he asked her.

‘I’m okay.’

‘Are your pals still rallying round?’

‘Everybody’s been great.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘How about Dad – have you seen him?’

‘I’m probably in his bad books as well…’

‘I didn’t say you were in my bad books,’ she chided him.

‘I’ll try to visit at the weekend. Maybe we could take Dad out somewhere.’ Fox was behind the steering wheel by now. ‘Any news of them releasing the body?’

‘Nobody’s told me anything – could you maybe put in a word?’

‘I don’t see why not – everybody on the team loves me to bits.’

‘Are you being sarcastic, Malcolm?’

‘Maybe just a little.’ He started the ignition. ‘You sure you’re okay?’

‘I think I sound better than you do, actually.’

‘You’re probably right. I’ll ring you tomorrow if I can.’

He ended the call and put the car into first. He was just easing his foot off the clutch when his new phone rang. He exhaled loudly and answered.

‘Where are you?’ The voice sounded breathless.

‘Tony, is that you?’

‘Where the hell are you?’ Tony Kaye growled.

‘I’m on Lothian Road.’ The car was exiting its parking bay.

‘You’re rubbish at this game, Foxy. I’ve been lying to my wife since the morning after the honeymoon…’

‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’ Fox almost dropped the phone when a body flung itself against the front of the Volvo. He slammed on the brakes. ‘Stupid bastard!’

Tony Kaye had righted himself and stood with his hands cupped to his chest, trying to get his breathing back under control. His mobile was clutched in his right hand, his tongue lolling from his mouth. Fox left the car running and got out.

‘Can’t remember when I last ran that far,’ his friend was spluttering. ‘Egg-and-spoon race probably… last year of primary school.’ Kaye tried to spit, but the long thread of saliva just hung there until he wiped it away with a handkerchief. He took a few more gulps of air. ‘I cheated, mind – used chewing gum to fix the egg to the spoon…’

‘You couldn’t have heard already,’ Fox was saying.

‘Wildfire,’ Kaye was able to gasp. ‘So who did it and why didn’t you tell me?’

‘First explain to me how you know.’

‘Bumped into Stoddart’s boys in the toilet.’ Kaye paused, and Fox knew what he wanted.

‘I was jumped,’ Fox duly obliged.

‘When was this?’

‘Night before last.’

‘Thanks for the heads-up.’ Kaye sounded genuinely slighted. ‘Where did all this happen?’

‘Outside a sauna on the Cowgate. The inquiry got word that a cab dropped Vince Faulkner nearby. I was retracing his steps.’

Kaye was studying Fox’s injuries. ‘Whoever it was let you off lightly.’

Fox gave a twitch of the head in acknowledgement. ‘Anyway… I’m touched by your show of concern.’

‘I was hoping for something a bit more gruesome.’ Kaye tried to sound peeved. ‘You know… something I could post on YouTube…’

‘You’re all heart, Sergeant Kaye. Anything happening I should know about?’

Kaye gave a shrug. ‘McEwan seemed to think there might be a job for us in the north-east…’

‘He mentioned it to me a couple of weeks back. It’s been given to Strathclyde, right?’

Kaye stared at him. ‘How do you know that?’

‘McEwan told me. Shame, too – I’d have liked some ammo to tease Stoddart and her boys with…’ Fox broke off. Kaye could see he was thinking of something.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ Fox assured him.

‘Don’t give me that…’

‘Why are you miffed about Strathclyde getting it?’

‘Because they’re rubbish, Foxy! Everybody knows that. Last time I looked, our success rate was twice what theirs is.’

Fox nodded slowly. ‘That’s true,’ he said.

The two men stood in silence for a moment. Kaye leaned his backside against the front wheel arch of the Volvo. ‘Was it just a coincidence?’ he asked.

‘The attack?’ Fox watched as Kaye nodded his head. ‘It wasn’t a mugging; nothing got taken.’

‘Someone could have interrupted…’

Fox gnawed at his bottom lip. He was remembering Jack Broughton. Broughton hadn’t said much of anything at all about what he’d seen or not seen. ‘These things happen,’ he eventually offered.

‘Remember that night we were in a bar and some arsehole went for us with pepper spray?’ Kaye chuckled quietly.

‘Did you ever track him down?’

Kaye’s face tightened a little. ‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Is that what you’d have done to Vince Faulkner – kicked the crap out of him?’

‘Would the world have lost anything in the process?’

Fox knew how he wanted to reply – he wanted to say ‘yes’. But then Kaye would have asked ‘What exactly?’ and Fox didn’t have an answer for that…

‘I’ve got to get going,’ he said instead.

‘Anything else I should know about?’

Fox shook his head, but then thought of a question. ‘You said you lied to your wife the morning after the honeymoon?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was the lie?’

‘I told her she was really something in the sack…’

The Gyle hadn’t really existed when Malcolm Fox had been growing up in the city. The land must have been there, of course, but with nothing on it and no roads leading to it. He remembered walking to the airport one day with friends, so they could go plane-spotting. And he would take his bike along the canal, reaching Wester Hailes and beyond. Maybe the Gyle had been fields or wasteland, meriting no place in his memory. These days, it was more a city within a city, with its own railway station and vast corporate buildings and a shopping complex. Ernie Wishaw’s haulage business had its HQ in an industrial estate, next door to a parcel delivery company. Lorry cabs sat in a row on the pale concrete apron. Empty trailers had been unhitched and lined up in similar fashion. There were also stacked pallets and a couple of fuel pumps, and bundles of rubbish awaiting collection. The perimeter fencing, unlike neighbouring properties, lacked any windblown shreds of plastic and polythene. There was a well-equipped garage where a couple of mechanics wrestled with what sounded to Fox like an air-brake problem. They had a radio playing and one of them was singing along.

Jamie Breck had arrived first, content to wait in his car outside the compound until Fox trundled up. They entered the open gates as a convoy of two, and parked in front of the garage. There was a door to the right with a sign on it saying OFFICE. The two men greeted one another with a nod.

‘How do you want to run this?’ Breck asked, stretching his neck muscles.

‘How about I play the bad cop,’ Fox suggested. ‘And you play the bad cop too.’ Then he offered a smile and a wink. ‘Let’s just see what he has to say.’ He pushed open the door, expecting the room beyond to be cramped, but it was long and light and airy. There were four women and two men working telephones and computers from their individual desks. A photocopier was humming, a laser printer printing, and a fax machine halfway through sending a document. There were two smaller offices off to one side. One of these was empty; in the other sat a woman who removed her glasses as Fox and Breck walked in, the better to scrutinise these new arrivals. She rose to her feet, smoothing her skirt before leaving the office to greet them.

‘I’m Inspector Fox,’ Fox said, handing over one of his business cards. ‘Is there any chance of a word with Mr Wishaw?’

The woman’s glasses hung around her neck on a cord. She slipped them back on so she could study the writing on the card.

‘What seems to be the problem?’ she asked.

‘Just something we need to talk to Mr Wishaw about.’

‘I’m Mrs Wishaw. Whatever it is, I’m sure I can help.’

‘You really can’t,’ Fox informed her, looking around the room. ‘My colleague called not fifteen minutes ago and was told Mr Wishaw was here.’

The woman turned her attention to Breck.

‘Isn’t that his Maserati outside?’ Breck decided to ask.

Mrs Wishaw looked from one detective to the other. ‘He’s very busy,’ she countered. ‘You probably know that he’s a councillor as well as running a successful business.’

‘We only need five minutes,’ Fox said, holding up his right hand, fingers splayed.

Mrs Wishaw had noticed that the desks were quiet. The staff were holding their phones to their faces, but they were no longer talking. Fingers had ceased clattering against keyboards.

‘He’s next door.’

‘You mean the garage?’

Mrs Wishaw nodded: she meant the garage.

As they left the office, Breck added some information for Fox’s benefit. ‘She’s his second wife, used to be one of the desk-jockeys… ’

‘Right,’ Fox said.

The two mechanics were finishing off the job. One was tall and brawny and young. He was gathering together all the tools they’d used. The other was much older, with wavy silver hair receding at the temples. He was below five and a half feet and the waistband of his blue overalls was bulging. He was concentrating on wiping his oily hands on an even oilier rag.

‘Mr Wishaw,’ Breck said, having recognised him at last.

‘You two look like cops,’ Wishaw stated.

‘That’s because we are,’ Fox told him.

Wishaw glowered at him from under a set of dark, bushy eyebrows, then turned towards the mechanic.

‘Aly, off you go and get a coffee or something.’

The three men waited until Aly had done as he’d been told. Wishaw stuffed the rag into the pocket of his overalls and wandered over towards a workbench. There was a concertina-style toolbox there and he hauled it open.

‘Notice anything?’ he asked.

‘Everything’s in the right place,’ Fox stated after a few seconds.

‘That’s right. Know why that is?’

‘Because you’re anal?’ Breck offered. Wishaw tried him with the glower, but he had decided that Fox was the man worth talking to.

‘Business is all about confidence – reason the banks have started teetering is because people are losing confidence. Someone wants to work with me, maybe offer me a contract, I always bring them here. They see two things – a boss who’s not afraid of hard work, and a boss who makes sure everything runs like clockwork.’

‘That’s why all the lorries are lined up outside?’

‘And why they’ve been given a good wash, too. Same goes for my drivers…’

‘Do you hand them the soap personally?’ Breck couldn’t help asking. Wishaw ignored him.

‘If they’re going to be late on a pick-up or delivery, they call ahead and explain why. And the explanation better be twenty-two carat, because I’m the very next person they call. Know what I do then?’

‘You phone the customer and apologise?’ Fox guessed. Wishaw gave a brusque nod.

‘It’s the way things get done.’

‘It tends not to be how councils work,’ Fox argued.

Wishaw threw his head back and hooted. ‘I know that. Amount of red tape I’ve tried getting rid of… Nights I’ve sat in that chamber and argued till I’m blue in the face.’

‘You sit on the housing committee,’ Fox said. ‘Is that right?’

Wishaw was quiet for a moment. ‘What is it you want?’ he asked.

‘We want to ask you about a man called Charles Brogan.’

‘Charlie.’ Wishaw bowed his head and shook it slowly. ‘Hell of a thing.’

‘How well did you know him?’

‘I met him a number of times – council business and suchlike. We got invites to the same sorts of parties and functions.’

‘You knew him pretty well then?’

‘I knew him to talk to.’

‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’

Wishaw’s eyes met Fox’s. ‘You’ve probably been through his phone records – you tell me.’

Fox swallowed and tried to sound nonchalant. ‘I’d rather you did the talking, sir.’

Wishaw considered this. ‘Couple of days before he died,’ he finally admitted. ‘Only for five minutes or so.’

‘I meant to ask… Did your firm ever do any work for CBBJ?’ Fox watched Wishaw shake his head. ‘So you weren’t owed money?’

‘Thankfully.’ Wishaw had taken the rag from his pocket and was wiping his fingers more thoroughly, making little or no difference.

‘But the call was business?’ Fox persisted calmly.

‘I suppose so.’

‘Was he offering you another bung?’ Breck interrupted. ‘Probably begging you by then…’

‘What did you say?’ The rush of blood to Wishaw’s face was impressive in its immediacy. ‘Would you be happy to repeat that in front of a lawyer?’

‘All my colleague meant was…’ Fox had his hands held up in supplication.

‘I know damned well what he meant!’ The man’s face was the colour of cooked beetroot; flecks of white were appearing at the corners of his mouth.

‘Come clean on Brogan,’ Breck was saying, ‘and we might forget all about the bung you handed to your driver’s family. Remember him? With the dope stashed in the fuel tank?’

Fox turned away from the spluttering Wishaw and propelled Jamie Breck backwards towards the garage opening. When they were out of earshot, Breck gave Fox the most fleeting of winks.

‘That felt good,’ he whispered.

‘Slight change of plan,’ Fox whispered back. ‘You stay here; I’m going to be good cop…’ He removed his hand from Breck’s chest and turned back towards Wishaw, reaching him in a few short strides.

‘Sorry about that,’ he apologised. ‘Younger officers don’t always have the…’ He sought the right word. ‘Decorum,’ he decided. Wishaw was rubbing hard at his palms with the rag.

‘Outrageous,’ he said. ‘Such an accusation… totally unfounded…’

‘Ah, but it’s not, is it?’ Fox said gently. ‘You did give the man’s family a sum of money – what it comes down to after that is interpretation. That’s the mistake my colleague made, isn’t it?’

Wishaw’s silence seemed to concede as much. ‘Outrageous,’ he echoed, but with only half as much force as before.

‘It’s Charles Brogan we were talking about,’ Fox reminded him. Wishaw gave a sigh.

‘Thing about men like Charlie… His whole generation…’ But he broke off, and Fox knew a bit more effort was required. He pretended to be studying the garage.

‘You’re a lucky man, Mr Wishaw. Except we both know luck has little or nothing to do with it – that fleet of lorries, the Maserati… they’re the result of hard work rather than luck. You’ve as good as said so yourself.’

‘Yes,’ Wishaw agreed. This was a subject he could talk about. ‘Sheer bloody hard work – I would say “graft” but you’d probably take it the wrong way.’

Fox decided this was worth a full-throated chuckle.

‘That’s what so many people don’t realise,’ Wishaw went on, buoyed by the effect of his words on the detective. ‘I’ve worked my arse off, and I do the same thing in the council chamber – to try to make a difference. But these days, people just want to sit back and let the money and all that goes with it find them. That’s not the way it works! There are businessmen out there…’ Wishaw made a stabbing motion with one finger, ‘who think money should come easy.’

‘Money from nothing?’ Fox guessed.

‘As good as,’ Wishaw agreed. ‘Buy a parcel of land, sit on it for a year and then sell at a profit. Or a house or a bunch of flats or whatever it might be. If you’ve got cash in a bank, you want a double-digit rate of interest – doesn’t matter to you how the bank finances it. Money from thin air, that’s what it seems like. And nobody asks any questions because that might break the spell.’

‘Your own company’s surviving, though?’

‘It’s hard going, I won’t deny it.’

‘But you’ll work your way through it?’

Wishaw nodded vigorously. ‘Which is why I resent it when… when…’ He was wagging a finger towards Jamie Breck.

‘He didn’t mean anything, sir. We’re just trying to build up a picture of why Charles Brogan did what he did.’

‘Charlie…’ Wishaw calmed again, his eyes losing focus as he remembered the man he’d known. ‘Charlie was incredibly likeable – genial company, all of that. But he was a product of his time. In a nutshell, he got greedy. That’s what it boils down to. He thought that money should come easy, and for the first few years it really did. But that can make you soft and complacent and gullible…’ Wishaw paused. ‘And stupid. Above all, it can make you incredibly stupid… yet for a while you’re still making money.’ He raised a hand. ‘I’m not saying Charlie was the worst, not even in the bottom fifty or hundred! At least he created things – he caused buildings to rise.’

Fox seemed to recall that Brogan had said much the same thing in one of his newspaper interviews. ‘But that becomes a problem when nobody wants those buildings,’ he suggested.

Wishaw’s mouth twitched. ‘It’s when your investors want to be paid back. Empty buildings might be an investment if you wait long enough – same goes for land. What’s worthless one year can turn to gold the next. But none of that’s relevant if you’ve promised a quick return to your investors.’

Fox was giving Wishaw his full attention. ‘Who were Mr Brogan’s investors?’

It took Wishaw fully fifteen seconds to answer that he didn’t know. ‘I’m just thankful I’m not one of the ones waiting for Salamander Point to turn a profit.’ He was trying for levity, and that told Malcolm Fox something.

Told him he’d just been lied to.

‘That last time you spoke with him – did he call you or did you call him?’

Wishaw blinked a couple of times and fixed the detective with a look. ‘You must know that from the logs.’

‘I just want confirmation.’

But there was a change taking place behind Wishaw’s eyes. ‘Should my lawyer be here?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’

‘I’m beginning to wonder. The man had money troubles and he took his own life – end of story.’

‘Not for the police, Mr Wishaw. As far as we’re concerned, when someone disappears or dies… that’s the story just beginning.’

‘I suppose that’s true,’ Wishaw offered. ‘But I’ve told you all I can.’

‘Except for the details of that final phone call.’

Wishaw considered his response for a further ten or fifteen seconds. ‘It was nothing,’ he decided. ‘Nothing at all…’ He looked down at his overalls. ‘I need to get changed. There’s council business this afternoon – another dispute with the tram contractor.’ He offered a curt nod and made to move past Fox.

‘You’re sure you never had any business dealings with Mr Brogan?’ Fox asked. ‘Not even a tender for some work?’

‘No.’

‘And he wasn’t trying to persuade you to help him lay some of his tower blocks off on the council?’ Wishaw just glared, bringing a smile to Fox’s lips. ‘You know a man called Paul Meldrum, Mr Wishaw?’

The change of tack took Wishaw by surprise. ‘Yes,’ he admitted.

‘He works for a firm called Lovatt, Meikle, Meldrum,’ Fox went on. ‘They’re in PR, but Meldrum’s area of expertise is lobbying.’

‘I’m not entirely sure where this is going…’

‘I was just wondering if it was maybe Charles Brogan who put you on to the firm in the first place.’

‘Might have been,’ Wishaw conceded. ‘Is it important?’

‘Not really, sir. Thanks again for your time.’ Fox paused for a few beats, then leaned in towards Wishaw. ‘And maybe next time we’ll have that lawyer present,’ he added in an undertone.

‘Libel comes with a hefty price tag…’ Wishaw was about to add Fox’s name, but realised he didn’t know it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I don’t think you introduced yourself…’

‘I gave my card to your daughter,’ Fox answered.

‘My…?’ Realisation dawned on Wishaw. ‘That was my wife.’

‘Then you should be ashamed,’ Fox said, deciding this was as good a parting shot as any.

23

‘Something I should maybe have told you,’ Jamie Breck said. They had dropped Fox’s car back at the house and were now heading north out of the city. Fox was a nervous passenger at the best of times, and he wasn’t liking the RX8. He felt too low to the ground and the sports seat restricted his movement. Breck – a vital couple of inches shorter and probably half the girth – fitted in well, but not Fox. Cars like this were not built for people his size, and certainly not ones with injured backs.

‘What?’ Fox asked. Another thing: sometimes it felt as if the Mazda was about to mount the kerb; other times as if it were straying out into the opposite lane. Breck always seemed to wait until the final moment before making the correction.

‘It’s about Ernie Wishaw – I didn’t let his case drop exactly.’

Fox was in two minds about whether to let the conversation continue or suggest that Breck should shut up and concentrate on driving. Curiosity got the better of him.

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean I’ve been doing some digging – strictly in my own time. I’m one hundred per cent sure he was taking a cut from the trafficking. His lorries head over to Europe on a weekly basis. Always tempting to jack up the profit by bringing back some contraband.’

‘That usually means booze and cigarettes.’

Breck nodded. There was a sudden vibration in the car as the driver’s-side tyres once more connected with the cat’s eyes down the middle of the carriageway. Breck made the adjustment and started talking. ‘Booze and cigarettes for sure, plus porn and anything else that might turn a profit. Once you know you’re not getting caught, you might decide to up the stakes a little.’ He paused. ‘Or it could be that someone just comes along and makes you the right offer.’

Fox considered this. ‘Bruce Wauchope’s in jail for drug-dealing.’ ‘Indeed he is.’

‘You think his son’s…?’

‘I can’t prove anything as yet.’

‘But if he was, he might turn to Ernie Wishaw for advice?’

‘Wishaw’s had the equivalent of a near-death experience – one of his guys is doing time, and he was the thickness of a Rizla paper away from joining him.’

‘So Wishaw wouldn’t smuggle dope on Bull Wauchope’s behalf?’

‘Actually I think he would,’ Breck said quietly. ‘All it needs is for someone to scare him enough.’

Fox thought about it. Yes – the threat of violence against his precious wife or his even more precious fleet of lorries… ‘Think we might find an answer in Dundee?’

‘Isn’t it lucky we’re already headed there?’

And so they were – they’d already passed through Barnton and were sweeping out into the countryside, the road broadening into a proper dual carriageway, passing Dalmeny and South Queensferry on their right. In a moment, the Forth Bridges would be visible.

‘Why are you just telling me this now?’ Fox asked.

‘Maybe I have a problem with trust, Malcolm. Have you forgotten how long it took you to tell me I was a suspected paedophile?’

‘That’s different – you were under investigation.’

‘And you, my friend, were a suspect in the killing of Vince Faulkner. Didn’t take me long to see that Billy Giles was wrong in his assumption…’

Fox took a moment to digest this. ‘So how did you go about your own little inquiry into Ernie Wishaw?’

‘I spoke to the driver’s wife and her brother. I did some digging to see if there was any sudden cash swilling around – new TV or car, that sort of thing.’

‘And?’

Breck just shrugged. ‘I even went to Saughton as a visitor.’

‘You spoke with the lorry-driver?’

‘He wasn’t giving anything away.’

‘But he knew who you were?’ Fox watched Breck nod. ‘So it could have got back to Wishaw – or anyone else for that matter.’

‘I suppose.’

Fox was thoughtful. ‘Could Wishaw’s driver have been working for Bull Wauchope? Wauchope Senior’s doing time for bringing dope in by sea. Maybe intercontinental lorries started to look a better bet to his son.’

‘Maybe,’ Breck conceded. ‘You’ll have heard the stories as often as me – port officials sometimes “oiling the wheels”.’

‘They take a bung and don’t check the cargo too thoroughly?’

Breck was nodding. Fox reached into his pocket for his phone and a slip of paper – the one with the number of Max Dearborn’s sister.

‘Who are you calling?’ Breck asked.

‘A friend, maybe.’ He had the ringing tone, and a moment later the call was answered by a female voice.

‘Is that Linda Dearborn?’ Fox asked.

‘Speaking.’

‘My name’s Malcolm Fox. I’m a colleague of Max’s.’

‘Yes, he’s mentioned you. Word is, you’re on suspension.’

‘Funny, I’ve not read about it in the paper…’

‘Plenty time yet, Malcolm.’ Her voice had a teasing quality to it. This was probably her method, Fox reasoned: be chatty, gossipy, maybe your new best friend… and then repeat any confidences for the paying public.

‘Max tells me you’re looking into Charles Brogan’s disappearance. ’

‘Not exactly,’ she corrected him. ‘It’s Brogan’s method of doing business I’m interested in.’

‘In particular, whether he was trying to bribe a city councillor?’

‘Yes.’

‘And as a result, Joanna Broughton’s set Gordon Lovatt on you.’

‘Mmm. They’re an intriguing couple, Brogan and Broughton.’

‘Joanna, you mean?’

There was a momentary silence on the line. ‘You’re right to add Father Jack to the mix,’ she eventually said.

‘You reckon Brogan has done a Reggie Perrin on us?’

‘Or he’s crossed the pa-in-law in some way.’

‘And what way would that be?’

‘Malcolm…’ She almost sang his name. ‘You’re the detective, not me. My job’s to vacuum up the crumbs. Think of me as a house-maid… ’

‘That won’t be easy when I know your true identity, Linda.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘A hard-nosed investigative reporter – which is what I need you to be for me right now.’

‘You’ve got me intrigued, big boy.’

‘It would be useful to know how Brogan’s company is organised – maybe it’s a case of companies plural… we don’t know the extent of his empire. He’ll have shareholders, people he owed money to. Who exactly are they?’

‘Companies House is the place to start… I’ve already got quite a lot of info, including the details of his accountants. I suppose I could talk to them, but I’m not sure how helpful they’d be… to a journalist, I mean. On the other hand, they’d have to talk to the police.’

‘Sadly, as you’ve already noted, I’m suspended from duty.’

‘Which begs the question – what’s all this in aid of?’

‘It’s in aid of whatever the opposite of suspension is,’ Fox told her. They were just arriving at the road bridge. It was, as ever, magnificent. To the right sat the complex, intertwined geometry of the Forth Rail Bridge. There was talk of a new bridge being built to relieve the strain on the present road bridge. Some of the cables were showing their age. But where was the money to come from? Linda Dearborn was saying that she’d see what she could do.

‘One other thing that might be fun for both of us…’ Fox added.

‘Do tell.’

‘You could look up Lovatt’s firm at the same time, get an idea of just how far their tentacles stretch.’ Fox ended the call and Breck turned the radio back up a little.

‘Think we can trust her?’ he asked.

‘I’m not that stupid, Jamie.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

Forty minutes later they were on the outskirts of Dundee. The trip had been Breck’s idea. He hadn’t been to the city on business before, but a cop he’d gone through training with had ended up in Tayside CID. One phone call later, the friend had agreed to meet with them ‘on the quiet’.

‘How many roundabouts can one city have?’ Breck complained as he followed the signs towards the waterfront. He’d been told to park next to the train station and cross the road to where the Discovery was docked. Fox asked why the boat was moored there.

‘I think it was built in Dundee.’

Fox nodded. ‘Shackleton took it to the Arctic, right?’

‘Arctic… Antarctic… who knows?’

Whoever had the answer, it wasn’t Mark Kelly. He was a DS, same rank as Breck, and he was waiting for them by the metal fence in front of the ship. Fox pretended an interest in the mast and rigging while the two friends shared a brief hug and exchanged comments about hair loss and body mass. When Breck asked about the boat, Kelly said he’d no idea.

‘We going on board or what?’ Breck asked.

‘It’s just a landmark, Jamie – I seem to remember navigation’s not your strong point and Dundee’s a tough gig for the first-timer. Come on…’ He led them back across the road and past another roundabout. Their destination was a café, whose clientele seemed to be biding their time until they could be elsewhere. Once seated with their coffees, the real conversation began.

‘I took a look at Bull’s file,’ Kelly said, keeping his voice low.

‘The file didn’t come with you,’ Breck commented.

‘Couldn’t do it, Jamie. Alarm bells would have sounded.’

‘Then let’s hope your memory’s better than it used to be.’

Kelly accepted this with a smile. ‘Bull keeps being lucky – bullets bounce off him… metaphorically speaking.’

‘Has anyone tried the other kind?’ Fox interrupted.

‘There are stories… But it seems Bull’s been taking a few tips from his old man. He used to be quite a physical sort, if you get my meaning.’

‘And now?’

‘Now he’s building bridges rather than knocking them down.’

‘This all sounds like code to me,’ Jamie Breck complained. ‘Can we go somewhere a bit more private so you can just spit it out?’

Kelly leaned across the table towards him. ‘Bull’s been driving up and down Scotland with his trusted lieutenant, meeting some of the other players – the ones that count. Aberdeen one day, Lanarkshire the next.’

‘Has this been going on a while?’ Fox asked.

‘A few months… maybe a bit longer. It took time for us to notice what was happening.’

‘You thought maybe he was writing a guidebook?’ Breck asked.

Kelly just glowered at him. ‘We’ve no idea what he was doing.’

‘But you can hazard a guess,’ Fox said.

Kelly took a deep breath. ‘Maybe he’s playing peacemaker on his dad’s behalf. Or could be he’s scared that with the old man inside, a competitor will try muscling in.’

‘Then he could be trying to extend his own reach,’ Fox added. ‘Tentacles again…’

Kelly nodded at this. ‘On the surface, of course, he’s a legitimate businessman.’

‘Of course.’

‘But not too many of those need muscle like Terry Vass.’

‘His lieutenant?’ Fox guessed.

‘With a criminal record the approximate length of War and Peace.’

‘I’m assuming drugs play a part in all of this,’ Breck interrupted.

‘I’m sure they do,’ Kelly snorted.

‘But you’ve got no proof?’

Kelly shrugged. ‘Any help you can give…’ He looked from one man to the other. ‘Actually, you were pretty vague on the phone, Jamie. Maybe I should be asking what this is all about.’

‘It’s complicated,’ Breck replied.

‘But it might,’ Fox interrupted, ‘have to do with a murder and a missing person.’

‘The missing person being Charlie Brogan,’ Breck added.

‘Never heard of him,’ Kelly said, stirring his spoon in his cup.

‘He’s a developer in Edinburgh… don’t you watch the news, Mark?’

Kelly gave another shrug. ‘Bad time to be a developer… we had one top himself a couple of months back.’ He paused. ‘Hang on… is this the guy with the boat?’

‘What did you just say?’ Fox asked.

‘I asked if it was the guy who went missing from his boat.’

Fox was shaking his head. ‘Before that – you’ve got your own dead developer?’

Kelly nodded again. He was still stirring his coffee and it was driving Fox demented. Another minute or two and he’d be snatching the spoon and tossing it the length of the café.

‘Don’t recall the name,’ Kelly was saying. ‘There’s a bunch of high-rises they’re demolishing. He jumped from one of the upper floors.’ Kelly noticed that Fox and Breck were staring fixedly at one another. ‘You don’t think there’s a connection…?’

Now the two men were staring at him.

Jamie Breck’s study.

Darkness had fallen. Food had been fetched from a Chinese takeaway, but half of it sat congealing on the worktop in the kitchen. Breck had opened a bottle of lager for himself, while the takeaway had sold Fox a couple of cans of Irn-Bru. Breck had shifted over a little to make room for Fox’s chair in front of the computer screen.

‘And there we were accusing Dundee of being parochial,’ Fox said as Breck found the news item. There was a photograph of the ‘tragic suicide’. He was smiling at somebody’s wedding. There was a big, bold carnation pinned to his jacket lapel. The story put his age at sixty, but the photo showed a man of thirty-five or forty.

His name was Philip Norquay and he’d lived in the city all his life – local high school, local university, local businessman. He’d come to property developing ‘almost by accident’ – his parents had owned a shop, making their home in the flat above. On their death, there had been lots of interest in the property, leading the son to do some detective work. Turned out there were plans for a new housing estate nearby. Norquay hung on to his parents’ place until he could contact a supermarket group, who were glad of the chance to knock it down and rebuild, paying over the odds for the privilege.

That had given Norquay a taste, and by the time he was forty he’d built up a fair-sized portfolio of rental premises, moving on to full-scale development opportunities when his chance came. He’d made a name for himself by spearheading an attempt to buy the stadiums belonging to both the city’s football clubs. A new joint-share stadium would be built outside Dundee as part of the deal, but negotiations collapsed.

‘Charlie Brogan wanted to buy into Celtic at one time,’ Fox told Breck.

‘He had plans to pave Paradise?’

Still, Norquay was vocal in his support for the regeneration of the city, pitching in when the council put forward a proposal to regenerate the waterfront.

‘Just like Brogan,’ Breck commented.

‘They were going to get rid of that roundabout we walked past.’ Fox was tapping his finger against the computer screen.

‘And reroute the roadway – makes sense,’ Breck agreed. ‘Read further down, though.’

The next few paragraphs explained Norquay’s fall from grace. He had overstretched himself financially, buying up one of the ugliest pieces of real estate around, a hotchpotch of 1960s high-rise blocks on the city’s periphery. His plan was to knock the whole thing down and start again, but difficulties had presented themselves almost immediately. The buildings were stuffed with asbestos, which made them expensive to demolish. Then old mine-workings were discovered, meaning half the land was unsuitable for construction without spending a fortune on underpinning. In his enthusiasm for the project, Norquay had paid over the odds as it was. When the market tumbled south, so did confidence. Still, his suicide had come as a shock to all who knew him. He had been at a formal dinner that evening, and had seemed relaxed and jovial. His wife had sensed no change in him that might indicate growing despair. ‘Philip was a fighter,’ she had told one reporter.

‘Remind you of anyone?’ Fox asked Breck.

‘Maybe,’ Breck conceded. ‘But Norquay’s dead for certain, not just AWOL.’

‘He didn’t leave a note… didn’t visit his lawyer to make sure his will was up to date…’

Breck scrolled a little further down the page, then clicked on a link to an associated story. It didn’t add anything to their knowledge. According to the search engine, there were more than 13,000 matches still to go, but Fox had risen to his feet. There wasn’t much to see from the window, but he looked anyway.

‘Reckon they’re watching us?’ Breck asked him.

‘No… not really.’ Fox sipped from his can. There was a slight tremor running through him, and he didn’t know whether to blame the sugar, the caffeine, or Breck’s driving on the trip back from Dundee.

‘You don’t think he killed himself?’ Breck asked.

‘Do you?’

Breck considered for a moment. ‘Guy was haemorrhaging money… probably about to lose everything… and here was this white elephant just sitting there mocking him. He climbs to the top and decides to end it.’

‘Except everyone says he wasn’t the type.’

‘Maybe they just didn’t know him.’ Breck leaned back with his hands behind his head. ‘Okay, then – what’s the alternative?’

‘He could have been pushed.’ Fox gnawed at his bottom lip. ‘He was at a dinner… told everyone he was headed straight home… instead, he jumps into his BMW and makes for the asbestos jungle he’s just bought. I can think of better ways to die, Jamie.’

‘Me too.’ Breck paused. ‘Could he have been meeting someone?’

‘Either that or they followed him – can you get your pal on the phone?’

‘Mark?’ Breck picked up his rented mobile. ‘What am I asking him?’

‘Mind if I do the talking?’

‘No.’ Breck punched in the number and handed over the phone. Fox pressed it to his ear.

‘That you, Jamie?’ Mark Kelly answered.

‘Mark, it’s Malcolm Fox. Jamie’s here next to me.’

‘What’s got you so excited, Malcolm?’

‘We were just looking at some of the stuff on the internet about Philip Norquay.’

‘I hope you’re on overtime.’

‘We do this as a hobby, Mark. Listen, one thing you could help us with…’

‘Fire away.’

‘Did anyone think to check Norquay’s phone records?’

Kelly considered for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose it ever came up. The guy killed himself; there wasn’t anything you’d describe as an “investigation”. What’s your thinking, Malcolm?’

‘Just wondering what took him to the block of flats… the straw that broke the camel’s back…’

‘I suppose I could ask the widow.’

‘Or give us her details and we’ll do it,’ Fox suggested. There was silence on the line. ‘Mark? You there?’

‘You don’t think he jumped,’ Kelly stated.

‘Chances are, that’s exactly what he did, but with this thing in Edinburgh…’

‘How are the two connected?’

‘Again, I’m not sure they are…’

‘But they might be.’ It was statement rather than question. Kelly exhaled noisily, causing static on the line. ‘You think we might have missed something?’

‘I’m not trying to score points here…’

‘Okay, look – if I get the info to you, and you do find anything…’

‘We come to you first. That’s not a problem, Mark. How long till you get back to us?’

‘Depends how merry the widow is. Talk to you soon.’

The phone went dead and Fox handed it back to Breck. ‘He thinks we’ll try to throw some custard in Tayside’s face.’

‘It might come to that,’ Breck said.

Fox nodded. ‘But if so, he wants to be the one to break the news.’

‘Wouldn’t do his career any harm. Did he say how long we’d have to wait?’

Fox shook his head.

‘So what do we do now?’

‘I think I’m going to go home.’

‘I can run you.’

Fox shook his head again. ‘The walk will do me good. I’m sure you’ll want an hour or two on your game.’ He wafted his hand over the top of the computer.

‘Funny thing is,’ Breck told him, ‘it’s lost some of its appeal, now the real world’s turned more interesting…’