The Complaints

24

Next morning at eleven a.m., Fox had a meeting with Linda Dearborn. There was no resemblance to her brother – she was petite and fizzing with energy, and her outfit would have had church ministers walking into lamp posts. The miniskirt was pleated, the bare, tanned legs reaching all the way down to pale-brown cowboy boots. Beneath her suede jacket she wore a blouse with the first four buttons undone, showing ample bronzed cleavage. Just a hint of make-up, and straw-blonde shoulder-length hair.

She had picked the rendezvous – a café called Tea-Tree Tea on Bread Street. There was a bearded guy behind the counter and he tutted audibly when Fox ordered coffee. Fox had arrived twenty minutes early, giving him time to scan the newspaper. He’d added a cheese scone to his order, and settled himself at a table by the window. The sun outside had some warmth to it, hinting that spring was maybe finally on its way. Linda Dearborn arrived for the meeting ten minutes early. She smiled as if in recognition.

‘Linda?’ he asked anyway.

‘I hate to say it,’ she laughed, ‘but you do look like a cop. I think it’s the posture, or the way your eyes flit around all the time – Max is just the same.’ She had placed her heavy-looking satchel on the chair next to Fox.

‘Well, I’m not sure you look like a news-hound,’ Fox responded.

‘It’s my day off.’

‘You’ve chosen a brave get-up.’ She didn’t seem to understand.

‘Bare legs in winter.’

She looked down at them. ‘With what this tan cost, I can’t afford to hide them. Some of us suffer for our art, and my legs are a work of art, don’t you think?’

‘What can I get you?’

But she was already bounding towards the counter. The proprietor had perked up, and knew her order before she got the chance to tell him. Lapsang souchong with a slice of lemon. Fox pretended to read his paper while the two of them chatted. Dearborn stood on tiptoes with her elbows on the counter. She twirled a hank of hair while she talked. Fox tried not to think how attractive she was. She was Max Dearborn’s sister. She was a journalist.

The proprietor insisted on carrying the tea to the table for her. She thanked him with a crinkling of her nose, then sat down next to Fox rather than across the table from him, having removed her satchel from the chair. She crossed one leg over the other while he assumed an interest in the art on the walls around them.

‘Nice place,’ he said.

‘It’s handy – my flat’s on Gardner ’s Crescent.’

Fox nodded and turned his attention to the window. There were two shops across the street. One was a hairdresser’s, the other a vet’s. Linda Dearborn had leaned down to find something in her bag. When she placed the laptop on the table, she peered down the front of her own blouse.

‘Almost a wardrobe malfunction there,’ she pretended to apologise.

‘Does the act always work?’ Fox asked, fixing his eyes on hers.

‘Mostly,’ she eventually conceded.

‘Well, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the effort, but maybe we could…’ He tapped the laptop. Dearborn gave a little pout but lifted the screen anyway and switched the machine on. Fox looked away as she typed in her password. Twenty seconds and a couple of clicks later and she was angling the screen towards him.

‘Companies House is all well and good,’ she began. ‘But it helps that my newspaper hasn’t yet scaled down its business desk. The accountants aren’t even halfway through dealing with everything Mr Brogan left behind, but what seems clear is that CBBJ was buoyed in the early days by large injections of cash. As far as anyone can tell, these weren’t always accompanied by effective paperwork. ’

‘Meaning?’

‘We don’t know where the money came from. But there are plenty of other actual shareholders.’

‘Would one of them happen to be called Wauchope Leisure?’

Dearborn ran one long-nailed finger down the mouse pad, the names and numbers on the screen scrolling with her.

‘Not quite,’ she said, placing the cursor over a name and highlighting it – ScotFuture (Wauchope).

‘Would that company be Dundee-based, by any chance?’ Fox asked.

Dearborn just nodded. ‘Remember you asked me to look at Lovatt, Meikle, Meldrum’s client base? They just happen to represent a company called Wauchope Leisure. As far as I can ascertain, LMM’s job was to disguise the sleaze factor in a series of adverts for lap-dancing clubs up and down the country. Meantime, Wauchope’s managing director has been put in jail…’

‘Fancy that,’ Fox mused. When the journalist saw she wasn’t going to get anything more out of him, she turned her attention back to the screen.

‘There are a lot of small companies listed here – private companies, meaning they don’t have to file much in the way of information about themselves. The lads on the business desk were intrigued. Charles Brogan seems to have had friends all over the country – Inverness, Aberdeen, Glasgow, Kilmarnock, Motherwell, Paisley… and further afield, too – Newcastle, Liverpool, Dublin…’

‘I don’t suppose these friendships survived the financial melt-down, ’ Fox mused.

‘No, I don’t suppose they did. Anyone who bought into Salamander Point, for example… well, nobody seems to think they’ll get back more than five pence in the pound.’

‘Ouch.’

‘And our benighted banks take yet another hit – Brogan had loans totalling just over eighteen million, and he was behind on his payments.’

‘Could they go after his widow?’

‘Unlikely – that’s the beauty of a limited company.’

‘Is Joanna Broughton’s name on none of the paperwork? She wasn’t company secretary or anything?’

Dearborn was shaking her head. ‘She didn’t hold a single share.’

‘Yet her initials are right there in the company’s name.’

‘That’s why I dug back a little further. She was a partner at one time, but her husband bought her out, around the same time she started her casino.’

‘Does CBBJ happen to own a slice of the Oliver?’

‘I don’t think so.’ She cupped her chin in her hand. ‘And neither does Wauchope Leisure. So where’s this all leading, Malcolm?’

‘You tell me.’

‘You think some of the money in CBBJ was dirty?’

‘Is that just an inspired guess?’

She smiled. ‘It’s what my business editor thinks. Problem is, the paper trail is almost impossible to follow.’

‘Maybe if you gave it a bit longer…’

She stared at him. Her eyes were almost violet. He wondered if they were tinted lenses. ‘Maybe,’ she said. Then: ‘By the way, how’s suspension treating you?’

‘Can’t complain.’

‘That’s funny… sort of.’

‘Because I’m in the Complaints, you mean?’ He watched her nod.

‘Story is, you were trampling all over your brother-in-law’s murder.’

‘He wasn’t my brother-in-law.’ Fox paused. ‘And it’s not a story.’

‘Oh, but it might be, if you let it.’ The tip of her tongue protruded from between her lips.

‘Grieving Cop Errs on the Side of Zeal – that’s about as much as you could do with it.’

‘But now all that zeal seems aimed at Charles Brogan…’

‘Do you reckon your own zeal will get you anywhere?’

‘My editor describes me as “tenacious”.’

‘But so far you can’t prove a link between Brogan and Ernie Wishaw?’

‘I know they met several times.’

‘But nobody saw any money change hands?’ Fox guessed. Dearborn angled her head to one side.

‘Strange, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘The way he went missing just after your friend Vince died? Took me about fifteen minutes to make the connection – Vince worked at Salamander Point.’ She looked like a schoolgirl with a gold star on her latest essay. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ And, when he didn’t say anything: ‘See, Malcolm? I’m not just a pretty face.’

‘I never thought you were.’

‘Hot water?’ a voice from behind them called. It was the proprietor, standing with a fresh pot in his hand.

Fox had parked his car on a yellow line outside. A warden was hovering as he emerged from the café. The man was wondering whether to honour the POLICE sign Fox had left on the inside of the windscreen. When Fox scowled at him, the warden decided there might be easier pickings elsewhere. Fox had offered Linda Dearborn a lift, but she’d said she was happy walking. Her destination was George Street, ‘for a little window shopping’. Fox could bet that she liked walking, knowing male heads were turning as she passed them; knowing eyes were fixed on her from cars and vans and office windows. He was turning the key in the ignition when his phone – his new phone – sounded. The number belonged to Jamie Breck.

‘Morning,’ Fox said, answering.

‘I’ve just had a call from Mark Kelly.’

‘What’s he got for us?’

‘He visited Norquay’s widow. She didn’t seem fazed by his request.’

‘She showed him hubby’s phone bills?’

‘Mark says the whole house is a shrine. She’s bought a job lot of photo frames. There are hundreds of family pics strewn across the living-room floor as she sorts them all out. She took him into her husband’s den – the paperwork was immaculate. She’s got it all boxed in chronological order – bank statements, bills and receipts, credit card stuff…’

‘And phone bills?’ Fox prompted.

‘Right.’ Fox listened as Breck picked up a sheet of paper. ‘Luckily he opted to have everything itemised – calls in as well as calls out. Towards the end of that dinner he was at, he got a call from a local number. It’s a payphone in a bar called Lowther’s. Mark tells me it’s pretty grim, but slap-bang in the centre of town.’

‘Okay.’

‘Call lasted two minutes and forty seconds.’

‘And do we know his state of mind immediately afterwards?’

‘Mark hadn’t thought to go that particular extra mile…’

‘But you’ve asked him now?’

‘He’s going to talk to the friends who were with Norquay at the dinner.’

‘I don’t suppose it’ll get us much further.’

‘No…’ Breck drew the word out, and Fox knew there was something else.

‘In your own time, Jamie,’ he prompted.

‘Well, Mark knows Lowther’s by repute – there’s often a bit of trouble there on a Saturday night, except actually the trouble always seems to happen a hundred yards or so from the pub itself.’

‘Out on the street, you mean?’

‘If an argument starts, it’s always taken outside.’

‘And why would that be?’ Fox asked, already with an inkling of the answer.

‘Nobody wants to get on the wrong side of the owners.’

‘Wauchope Leisure Holdings?’

‘Who else?’ Jamie Breck said.

‘In a way, that’s a bit of a shame – means none of the punters are going to tell us who made the call.’

‘Probably not,’ Breck agreed. ‘But it’s certainly got Mark interested. ’

‘He needs to ca’ canny.’

‘Don’t worry about him. How did your meeting with Linda Dearborn go? Was she asking after me?’

‘Your name didn’t quite come up.’

‘She’s a little stunner, isn’t she?’

‘She’s also pretty good at her job. There’s a link between Wauchope and Brogan’s company. Do you think we could tie Wauchope to Norquay’s outfit too?’

‘We can try… or rather, Mark can – it’s a Tayside shout.’

‘Wauchope’s company also employs a PR firm…’

‘Let me guess – LMM?’

‘They ran an advertising campaign for lap-bars.’

‘On the sides of buses – I remember that. Do we need to talk to them about it? Their HQ’s slap-bang next to the Parliament…’

‘Maybe for later,’ Fox advised. ‘Get back on the phone to your friend in Tayside and see if he can find anything else to tie Wauchope to our Dundee developer.’

‘Will do. What’s next on your own list, Malcolm?’

‘Family,’ Fox said, signalling out into traffic.

Jude opened the door. When she saw it was him, she turned and headed back to the living room, knowing he would follow. Her hair and clothes looked like they could do with a wash, and she was sunken-cheeked. There was a cigarette waiting for her in the ashtray on the arm of her chair.

‘I thought you weren’t coming round till the weekend,’ she said. ‘This isn’t a good day for me to go see Dad.’

Fox noted the two empty wine bottles on the breakfast bar and the remains of the bottle of cheap vodka on the coffee table. Jude was seated and pretending an interest in the television, but her eyes were heavy-lidded.

‘You okay, sis?’ he asked.

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ She looked up at him and her eyes widened. ‘What happened to you?’

Fox rubbed his face with his fingers. ‘I fell down some stairs.’

Her look hardened, but then she turned away, lifting the cigarette and sucking on it. Fox wandered into the kitchen and filled the kettle. He couldn’t see any tea or coffee, and there was no milk in the fridge. Plenty of food, though – it didn’t look as though she’d eaten anything since her shopping trip.

‘Has your pal Sandra not been in?’ Fox called to his sister.

‘Not for a few days. She’s phoned me a couple of times, just to check.’

‘How about Mrs Pettifer next door?’

‘Visiting her brother in Hull. He’s had a stroke or something.’

‘So you’re having to manage on your own?’

‘I’m not an invalid.’

‘You’re not exactly taking care of yourself either.’

‘Fuck off, Malcolm.’ She slung her legs over the arm of the chair, almost knocking the ashtray to the floor.

Fox allowed her a few moments to calm down. ‘When I was round here the other day, you seemed to be coping…’ Opening cupboards, he found a fresh jar of instant coffee. He rinsed two mugs, and decided to add two spoonfuls to Jude’s.

‘You okay with black?’ he asked. She didn’t answer. ‘What are you doing for money?’

‘There’s some in the account.’

‘But probably not much…’

‘When I’m reduced to begging on the street, I’ll let you know.’

He picked up some of the mail from the breakfast bar. There was a letter explaining that the mortgage repayments were being reduced in line with the recent cut in interest rates. ‘Did Vince have life insurance?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Have you done anything about it?’

‘Sandra did… phoned them and then got me to sign a letter.’

‘Well, that’s something.’ Fox was sifting through the rest of the mail, some of which had yet to be opened. There was an O2 bill addressed to Mr V. Faulkner. Fox peeled it open, eyes on his sister’s back. He gave a little twitch of the mouth when he saw that it wasn’t itemised. A hundred and twelve pounds was owing. The kettle came to the boil and Fox took Jude’s mug through to her.

‘You could do with some milk,’ he said, handing it over. She stubbed out her cigarette and took the drink from him. ‘And maybe not so much wine and spirits.’

‘You’re not my dad.’

‘I’m the next best thing.’ He reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet. When she saw what he was doing, she flew from her chair and headed into the kitchen, pulling open one of the drawers and coming back into the living room brandishing a wad of banknotes, which she flung up into the air in front of him.

‘See?’ she said. ‘I don’t need any of your bloody charity!’

Fox stared down at the notes strewn across the carpet. Jude was back in her chair, staring at the TV, knowing he was awaiting an explanation.

‘I found it,’ she obliged. ‘About two grand in total.’

‘Found it where?’

‘Hidden in Vince’s room upstairs. Lucky I got to it before your lot turned the place over – they might’ve pocketed it.’

‘Where did it come from?’

Jude managed a shrug. ‘Winnings from the casino?’ she guessed. ‘Maybe that’s where he was on all those nights he didn’t bother coming home.’

‘He was there on the Saturday,’ Fox said quietly, crouching down and beginning to gather up the cash. ‘When he left, he took a taxi to the Cowgate…’

She wasn’t really listening to him. ‘The sod kept it from me, Malcolm. Hid it away in that bloody room of his with his porn mags and DVDs. I didn’t want anyone to know he was like that… that’s why I didn’t say anything.’ She looked at him again. ‘What happened to your face?’

‘I got into a fight.’ He placed the money on the coffee table.

‘Did you win?’

‘Not yet.’ This produced a thin but palpable smile. She picked up her drink and blew across its surface. ‘Shouldn’t be too hot,’ he told her. ‘I added some cold from the tap.’ She took a slurp and squirmed. ‘A bit strong?’ he guessed.

She nodded, but took another mouthful.

‘There’s tinned soup in the cupboard…’

‘I’m fine with this,’ she told him, but he went into the kitchen anyway and got out a pot. The hob was spotless, evidence that nothing had been cooked for a few days. No dishes in the sink, just mugs and glasses. Fox emptied the soup into the pot. It was cream of chicken – the same stuff their mum used to give them when they were sick.

‘Jude,’ he called, ‘the police gave you back Vince’s personal items, right?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Could I take a look at them?’

‘Envelope in the drawer.’ She pointed towards a unit in the living room. It had shelves above, drawers and cupboards below. He found the large padded envelope in the first drawer. Below it were several folded sheets of unused Christmas paper. Fox reached into the envelope, interested in only one thing – Faulkner’s mobile phone. It had been dusted for prints, and was also edged with dirt. At some point, it had been lying on the ground. When Fox tried switching it on, nothing happened.

‘Got the charger?’ he asked his sister.

‘Upstairs landing.’

He gave the soup a stir, then headed for the stairs and brought the charger down, plugging it into the spare socket next to the kettle. When he attached it to the phone, a tiny pulsing green light came on. Fox left it while he poured the soup into a bowl and found a clean spoon. There was bread in a bag, but it had begun to go mouldy. He cut away the green bits and laid what was left on the edge of the bowl.

‘You’ll have to sit at the table for this,’ he said, sliding the coffee table closer to Jude’s chair. She swung her legs on to the floor and put her mug on the table.

‘I’m not really hungry,’ she warned him.

‘But you’re going to eat anyway.’

‘Or what?’

‘Or I’m grounding you, young lady.’ It was a passable imitation of their father, and Jude smiled again before picking up her spoon.

‘What’s so important about Vince’s phone?’

‘Just wondering if there’s anyone we’ve not talked to yet.’

‘The other ones… Giles and his lot… they went through all that.’

‘Maybe I just don’t think they’re as good as I am.’

She took her first mouthful of soup, savouring its aftertaste. ‘Know what this reminds me of?’ she said.

He nodded. ‘I was just thinking the same thing myself.’ He went back to the kitchen and switched on the phone.

‘His pass number’s four zeros,’ Jude called to him.

Figured: Vince was too lazy to change the default setting. On the other hand, maybe it also proved that he had little – if anything – to hide from Jude. Fox punched in the numbers. Vince’s screen-saver was a photograph from 1966. It showed Bobby Moore hoisting the World Cup. It took Fox a few moments to figure out how to navigate the phone, but eventually he got the call log. There were almost two hundred entries. He reckoned that Giles’s team would have been interested only in the most recent additions, but Fox went back further. He got a notepad from his pocket and started jotting down the numbers that recurred, adding date, time and duration. Some were listed by name – Jude, Ronnie, garage, Marooned, Oliver – but many weren’t.

‘How’s the soup?’ he asked Jude.

‘I ate it all up like a good girl.’ She had risen from her chair, bringing the empty bowl into the kitchen and depositing it in the sink. Then she leaned across and pecked him on the cheek.

‘What’s that for?’

‘I just felt like it.’ She studied the numbers on his pad.

‘Any of them look familiar?’ he asked.

‘Not really. You think maybe the person who…?’ She broke off, unable to finish the sentence. She cleared her throat and found a different form of words. ‘You think it was someone he knew?’

Fox shrugged. Some of the numbers appeared only once. He decided to try one at random and took out his own phone. The call was answered by a woman.

‘Wedgwood,’ she said in a sing-song voice.

‘Sorry?’

‘Wedgwood Restaurant.’

Fox ended the call and turned to Jude. ‘Wedgwood?’ he prompted.

She nodded. ‘We had dinner there in December.’ She smiled at the memory.

‘Just the two of you, or were the Hendrys in tow?’

‘Just the two of us – we did manage a social life without Sandra and Ronnie.’

Fox acknowledged this with a grunt. There was one number that appeared eleven times between October and January. He asked Jude again if she recognised it and she shook her head, so he made the call.

‘Hello?’ The voice was quiet, hesitant. It was a woman again, but not a stranger.

‘Ms Broughton?’ Fox asked. There was no answer. ‘This is Inspector Fox. I gave you a lift from Leith Police Station…’ It was a few more moments before she spoke.

‘Gordon Lovatt wasn’t very happy about that, Inspector. Did Charlie’s diary reach its destination?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did you take a peek?’

Fox took a deep breath. ‘Ms Broughton, I’m calling you from Vince Faulkner’s phone.’

‘Yes?’

‘You remember the name?’

‘You mentioned him. Then you went to my casino to watch the CCTV footage.’

‘From the Saturday night, yes. But what I’m wondering now is, why does he have your number, and why did the two of you speak on eleven separate occasions between October and January?’ The silence at the other end stretched past twenty seconds. Fox gave Jude a look to gauge her reaction. She placed her hand on his arm, as if to reassure him.

‘Ms Broughton?’ Fox prompted.

‘It’s not my phone,’ he heard her state. ‘It’s Charlie’s. The two of them must have been discussing work.’

Fox stared at his sister again. ‘Mr Faulkner was pretty low down the food chain.’

‘It’s the only explanation,’ Broughton said. Fox thought for a moment.

‘You’re keeping your husband’s phone switched on…’ There was another lengthy pause on the line.

‘In case people call. He had very many business contacts, Inspector. There’s a chance some of them don’t know what’s happened. ’

‘That makes sense, I suppose.’

‘You suppose?’

‘But there’s one thing that doesn’t,’ Fox went on. The silence stretched again.

‘And what’s that?’ Broughton eventually asked.

‘Why wasn’t the phone on the boat?’

‘It was on the boat,’ she growled. ‘It was returned to me afterwards. You understand that I’ll be telling Gordon Lovatt about this conversation? He’s bound to interpret it as further harassment.’

‘Tell him he can interpret it any way he likes. And thanks for speaking to me, Ms Broughton.’ Fox ended the call and placed the phone on the worktop.

‘So that’s what you’re like when you’re working,’ Jude commented. Fox gave a shrug. ‘Broughton as in Joanna Broughton?’ she went on. ‘The one who owns the Oliver?’

‘That’s her. Vince seems to have known her husband pretty well.’

‘He sent over champagne one night…’

‘Yes, he did. Did you ever see him talk to Vince?’

Jude nodded. ‘They spoke that night. And I think there was another time we bumped into him there…’ She looked at her brother. ‘Where do you think that money came from, Malcolm? Was Vince mixed up in something?’

Fox gave Jude’s good arm a squeeze, offering a smile but no words. She lingered a moment, then headed back to the living room and the television. Fox was thinking of his meeting with Joanna Broughton… the penthouse and its bare white walls… meeting Jack Broughton and Gordon Lovatt at the lift… sitting in the car with Charlie Brogan’s diary…

And did you take a peek?

Maybe not thoroughly enough. Pretty much all that he remembered were the TV shows Brogan kept tabs on. Jude was watching something on the television involving houses and warmer climes. Television… TV for short…

TV.

‘Oh, Christ,’ Fox said suddenly. Jude turned towards him.

‘Are you all right?’

He’d placed a hand to his head and his knees were just about holding. His other hand was grasping the edge of the worktop.

‘Bloody idiot,’ he muttered.

‘Malcolm?’

‘I’m an idiot, Jude – that’s all there is to it.’

‘Not better than Giles and his team?’

Fox shook his head, then wished he hadn’t. The room swam and he had to steady himself.

‘You look terrible,’ Jude was saying. ‘Can I do anything? When was the last time you ate?’

But Fox was making for the living-room door. ‘I’ll call you,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got to go now.’

‘Is it about Vince? Tell me, Malcolm – is it?’

‘Maybe,’ was as much as Fox could manage to say.

25

‘Slow down,’ Jamie Breck said. He was dressed as if for jogging and his hair was wet from the shower. ‘You look like you’ve just bitten through a mains cable.’

They had reached Breck’s living room. There was ambient music on the hi-fi. Breck sat down and used a remote control to lessen the volume. Malcolm Fox was pacing up and down.

‘How can you be so laid-back?’ Fox asked, accusingly.

‘What else am I supposed to do?’

‘Someone’s tried setting you up as a paedophile.’

‘True – and if I start complaining, everyone knows you told me.’

‘You should do it anyway.’

But Breck was shaking his head. ‘We find out why it happened – after that, everything falls into place.’

Fox paused in his walking. ‘You think you know?’

Breck folded his arms. ‘It’s both of us. They brought us together knowing we’d get along… start to trust one another. You’d see it was a set-up and maybe tell me. Meantime, I’d be letting you walk all over the Faulkner case. Once that was established, we could both be kicked into touch.’

‘It’s other cops, then? Has to be.’ Fox had started pacing again.

‘What’s on your mind, Malcolm?’

‘Vince and Brogan kept phoning one another; means they weren’t just boss and employee. The day I took Joanna Broughton home, she gave me Brogan’s diary to hand in at Leith. There were a lot of mentions of programmes he wanted to watch. TV – 7.45… TV – 10.00… that sort of thing.’ Fox stopped pacing again and stared at Breck. ‘Remember what Mark Kelly said? Bull Wauchope’s side-kick? ’

‘Terry Vass,’ Breck said quietly, nodding to himself. ‘Same initials.’

‘They weren’t TV shows, Jamie. Brogan must have been meeting Vass. Now why would that be? Why would Wauchope keep sending his enforcer down to Edinburgh?’

‘Brogan owed him money.’

‘Brogan owed him money,’ Fox echoed. ‘And here’s another thing – Joanna Broughton keeps her hubby’s phone next to her, even now. I called and it took her about five seconds to answer.’

‘So?’

‘She says it’s because people might call who don’t know what’s happened.’

‘Seems plausible,’ Breck said with a shrug. Fox gnawed at his bottom lip, then got out his phone and called Max Dearborn.

‘Max, it’s Malcolm Fox.’

‘Linda says you talked to her.’

‘This morning. I’m going to help her if I can, but listen… I’ve got a quick question – was Charlie Brogan’s phone on the boat?’

‘We had it checked, then gave it back to the wife.’

Fox’s shoulders slumped. He placed his palm over the mouthpiece. ‘It was on the boat,’ he told Breck.

‘Why do you want to know?’ Dearborn was asking.

‘It’s probably nothing, Max. In fact, it is nothing.’ But Breck was clicking his fingers, trying to get Fox’s attention. ‘Hang on a sec,’ Fox said, placing his hand over the mouthpiece again.

‘Wouldn’t someone like Brogan have more than one phone?’ Breck asked, voice just above a whisper. Fox took a moment to digest this, then spoke to Dearborn again.

‘Max… do you happen to know the number of the phone?’

‘It’ll take me a minute.’ Dearborn was obviously in the inquiry room. There was a rustling sound as he cupped the phone between shoulder and chin, then a clacking sound as he worked at a keyboard.

‘How are things anyway?’ Fox decided to ask.

‘Still no trace of the sod, one way or the other.’

‘You keeping a watch on the widow?’

‘We’re thinking about it.’

‘She’d know it was happening.’

‘Maybe… Okay, here’s the number.’ Dearborn reeled it off.

‘Thanks, Max,’ Fox said, ending the call and looking at Breck. ‘Good tip,’ he said with a nod.

‘The numbers don’t match?’ Breck guessed.

‘No.’

‘So the phone she’s keeping beside her isn’t the one that was left on the boat?’

‘No.’

‘Yet she told you it was?’

‘She did.’

‘Might be the sort of thing better discussed in person?’

‘If we can get to her,’ Fox mused. Breck suddenly sat bolt upright.

‘Time is it?’ he asked.

‘Just gone one.’

Breck cursed under his breath. ‘I’m due at Fettes at half past.’

‘That might be a bit tight – unless you don’t bother changing.’

Breck had risen to his feet. He studied himself. ‘That’s an idea,’ he said.

‘Here’s another one – I’m coming with you.’

Breck stared at him. ‘Why?’

‘Because we have no idea who we can trust on our own patch.’ Breck’s eyes narrowed. ‘Stoddart?’

Malcolm Fox slipped his hands into his pockets and offered a shrug.

‘She’s the Complaints,’ Breck protested.

‘So am I, remember. Let’s fight about it on the way. If you’re not convinced, I won’t get out of the car…’

Fox didn’t get out of the car. It was his car and he sat in the driver’s seat with the radio playing, watching as Breck marched into Police HQ. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, staring ahead of him, but with his eyes focused on nothing. After five minutes, he heard a noise and turned his head. Breck was coming back, and he was not alone. Inspector Caroline Stoddart looked less than enthusiastic. Her two colleagues, Wilson and Mason, watched from the doorway. Fox got out of the car, not knowing quite what to say. Breck skipped forward and opened the passenger-side door for Stoddart. She glared at Fox.

‘You two were told to cease communication.’

‘We’re bad boys,’ Breck seemed to concur. Stoddart stood her ground for a moment, then ducked her head and got into the car. Breck offered Fox a wink before climbing into the back. Fox stood for a further moment, staring at Wilson and Mason. They turned and headed back indoors.

‘Let’s get this little pantomime over with,’ Stoddart was saying. Fox sat back down and closed his door. ‘All right,’ she went on, ‘you’ve got five minutes.’

‘Might take a bit longer,’ Breck warned her. Then, to Fox: ‘We’d be better doing this elsewhere – if walls have ears, then windows definitely have eyes.’

Fox looked at the building, realised Breck had a point, and switched the engine on.

‘Am I being abducted?’ Stoddart complained.

‘You can leave any time you like,’ Breck assured her. ‘But what we’re about to tell you… trust me, this isn’t exactly the best place.’

‘Do I just drive around?’ Fox asked, eyes on the rearview mirror. He was aware of Stoddart next to him, tugging at the hem of her skirt.

‘As long as you can drive and talk at the same time,’ Breck responded.

So Malcolm Fox drove.

Their route took them around the periphery of the Botanic Gardens and uphill towards the city centre. Traffic became sluggish, and Fox said less, concentrating his attention on the road. Breck filled in, and soon they were crossing the top of Leith Walk. Royal Terrace, then Abbeyhill, and down past the Parliament building and the Palace of Holyrood, before entering Holyrood Park itself. Past St Margaret’s Loch and entering the one-way section that snaked around the immensity of Arthur’s Seat. It felt like the middle of nowhere. There were stretches where no signs of habitation could be glimpsed; just heath and hill. The drive had lasted almost thirty minutes, and Stoddart was asking Fox to pull over.

‘A bad place to leave us,’ Breck warned her. ‘Taxis don’t come by here.’

She looked around her. ‘Where is here?’

Fox had brought the car to a stop next to Dunsapie Loch. A couple of joggers trotted past. A young mother had paused with her baby buggy. There was a nest in the middle of the loch. In a few weeks, a pair of swans would be setting up home.

‘Another side of Edinburgh,’ Breck was explaining to Stoddart. ‘I’d be happy to act the tour guide some time…’

She said nothing to this, just opened her door and tried to get out. She flinched, perhaps thinking they were holding her down, but it was only her seat belt. She unlocked it and stepped from the car, slamming the door behind her.

‘What now?’ Breck muttered. Fox met his eyes in the rearview. Breck had been sounding enthusiastic and confident, but it had been a front. Inwardly, he was all nerves.

‘Give her a minute,’ Fox said. Stoddart was standing with arms folded, legs slightly apart, her eyes on the loch and the view beyond.

‘But say she walks… say she goes straight to your boss or mine?’

‘Then that’s what she does.’

Breck stared out at her. ‘She thinks we’re spinning her a line.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Conniving together ever since we were put on suspension… and this is all we could come up with! That’s what she’s thinking.’

‘Jamie, you don’t know what she’s thinking,’ Fox muttered, hands wringing the life out of the steering wheel.

‘She’s corporate, Malcolm – same as you used to be. She’s not about to break ranks.’

‘She just did.’ Fox paused until he had Breck’s full attention. ‘She got into the car, didn’t she? Left her cronies back at the homestead. That’s not exactly company policy.’

‘Good point,’ Breck agreed. Then: ‘Where’s she going?’

The answer was: she was heading towards an incline away from the road. She had to clamber up it, slipping a couple of times in her sensible shoes. Fox didn’t think there was anything on the other side until you reached Duddingston. She paused at the top of the outcrop, then turned her head towards the car.

‘Let’s go see the lady,’ Fox said, drawing the key from the ignition.

She had found a dry, moss-fringed rock to sit on. She was huddled over, arms on her knees, wind whipping at her hair. The pose made her look younger. She could have been a teenager, mulling over some perceived injustice.

‘You asked a good question,’ she told Fox. He had crouched down next to her, Breck standing off to one side with his hands stuffed into the front of his fleece. ‘It’s the timing – that’s the one thing that niggles in all this.’

‘Just the one?’ Breck gave a hoot of disbelief.

‘Nothing else you’ve told me has any proof attached, but Inspector Fox appeared on our radar several days before Vince Faulkner’s murder. I’ve wondered at that myself.’

‘Good for you,’ Breck said, while Fox’s eyes warned him to shut up.

‘Someone must have given you a reason,’ Fox stated quietly.

Stoddart shook her head. ‘It doesn’t always work like that.’ Then, after a pause: ‘You should know…’

Yes, he knew. Someone higher up the command chain just had to give you the nod. They were the ones taking care of the paperwork. They were the ones who would take responsibility. All you had to do was watch and record what you saw. There had been a case a few years back – a force down in England. A Chief Constable who suspected a junior officer of an affair with his wife had put a 24/7 surveillance on the man. As far as the team was concerned, the paperwork was in order and the Boss could do as he pleased.

‘Who did you get the order from?’ Fox asked quietly.

‘My boss,’ she eventually answered. ‘But he got it from the DCC.’ Meaning the Deputy Chief Constable, Grampian Police.

‘So someone must have gone to the DCC,’ Breck was saying. Roles had been reversed: Breck had started pacing now, while Fox felt an almost unnatural calm.

‘There’s something else…’ Stoddart broke off and raised her eyes to the heavens. ‘I could get in so much trouble for this.’

‘Meaning you believe us?’ Fox asked her.

‘Maybe,’ she replied. ‘See, there’s this…’ She sought the right words. ‘There’s been a rumour that something went badly wrong on a murder case a few months back. The victim was a kid, and CID went after his family – turned out the killer had form and was living only a couple of streets away. There was cover-up after cover-up, trying to paper over the cracks.’

‘You think that’s what the Complaints in Edinburgh were going to be looking into?’ Fox asked. Stoddart shrugged.

‘It’s become Strathclyde’s case instead,’ she said.

‘But everyone knows Strathclyde are second-raters.’

‘Yes, they are,’ Stoddart agreed.

Fox was thoughtful. ‘Does that sound like a trade-off to you? The bosses in Edinburgh saying that if Aberdeen puts one of our men under surveillance, we’ll find an excuse not to come chasing you?’

‘Maybe,’ she said again. She had clasped her hands between her knees, and one of her feet was pumping up and down.

‘Are you cold? Do you want to go back to the car?’

‘What do I tell Wilson and Mason?’

‘Depends how much you trust them,’ Breck said. He was taking swipes with his trainers at the tufts of grass. ‘Reason we came to you in the first place is, we don’t know who we can trust.’

‘I can see that…’ She looked from Fox to Breck and back again. ‘So what are you going to do?’

‘We might try talking to Terry Vass,’ Fox said.

‘So if we’re found floating face-down in the Tay,’ Breck went on, ‘at least you’ll know where to start.’

Stoddart managed the beginnings of a smile. ‘It is a bit chilly up here,’ she said, getting to her feet.

‘Colder than Aberdeen?’ Fox teased. But she took the question seriously.

‘In a funny way, yes.’ The three of them started back towards the car. ‘I know I’ve not been here long, but there’s something about this city… something lacking.’

‘Blame the trams,’ Breck joked. ‘It’s what everybody else does.’

But Fox stayed silent. He thought he knew what she meant. People in Edinburgh might be quick to take offence, but they were slow to do anything about it other than seethe. And meantime, on the outside, they seemed reticent and unemotional. It was as if there were some vast game of poker being played, and no one wanted to give anything away. He caught Stoddart’s eye and nodded slowly, but she was retreating back into her own shell and didn’t respond. What would she say at Fettes? How would she frame her report? Might she begin to resent them for dragging her into their story, a story she wanted no part of? As they reached the car, she stopped with her hand on the door handle.

‘Maybe I’ll walk,’ she said.

‘You sure?’ Breck asked. But Fox knew she’d made up her mind.

‘It’s downhill from here,’ he explained, pointing. ‘You’ll come to Holyrood Park Road and that leads out on to Dalkeith Road. Should be taxis there…’

‘I’ll be fine.’ She slid her hands into her pockets. ‘You’ve given me a lot to think about.’ Then she paused and fixed Breck with a look. ‘But I’ll still need you to come in for interview, DS Breck. Say tomorrow at nine?’

Breck scowled. ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday.’

‘We don’t take weekends off, DS Breck, not on the taxpayer’s tab.’ She waved and headed down the footpath. Breck got into the passenger seat and shut the door. ‘What’s the point of pulling me in for another Q and A? We’ve just filled her in on every sodding thing.’

‘It’s for her colleagues’ benefit. So they don’t get more suspicious than they probably already are.’ Fox started the car and released the handbrake. Ten seconds later, they were passing her. She kept her eyes to the ground, as if the car and its occupants were strangers to her.

‘Have we just made a huge fucking mistake?’ Breck asked.

‘If so,’ Fox reassured him, ‘we can always blame the trams.’

26

That evening, Breck was going for a meal with Annabel Cartwright. Fox had asked which restaurant.

‘Tom Kitchin’s place – booked it before all this blew up.’ Breck had paused. ‘I’m sure we could squeeze in an extra chair…’ But Fox had shaken his head.

‘Brogan used to take Joanna there,’ he commented.

‘How do you know?’

‘It was in his diary.’

Afterwards, thinking back on this exchange, he’d felt gratified that Breck had asked him to come to the meal. It was the act of a friend, or at the very least the act of a man with little to hide. Fox had asked Breck if he was any nearer to telling Annabel about the website.

‘Later,’ was all Breck had said.

Fox had gone out to his car and driven to Minter’s, texting Tony Kaye to let him know he was on his way. When he was five minutes from his destination, a reply had arrived from Kaye: Cant make it sorry TK. Another minute later, there was a PS: Joe n gilchrist might be there.

Fox wasn’t sure that he wanted to see Joe Naysmith and his new best friend. On the other hand, he couldn’t be bothered turning back, and the deal was sealed when a car drew out of a parking bay just as Fox was arriving. He backed the Volvo in and checked that he didn’t need to pay for a ticket at this hour. Turned out he’d beaten the system by a good five minutes. He locked the car and crossed the road to Minter’s. There wasn’t anyone standing at the bar, and no quiz show on the TV. The barmaid was young, with tattooed arms and pink streaks in her hair. Fox looked around. The woman Kaye knew was chatting with a friend at a corner table. Recognising Fox, she gave him a wave. Fox dredged up her name: Margaret Sime. The drink in front of her looked like a brandy and soda. Her cigarettes and lighter sat at the ready. Fox nodded back a greeting and ordered a tomato juice.

‘Do you want it spicy?’ the barmaid asked. Her accent was Eastern European.

‘Thanks,’ Fox said. ‘And a round of drinks for the table over there.’ Then, as she went about her business: ‘Are you Polish?’

‘Latvian,’ she corrected him.

‘Sorry.’

She shrugged. ‘I get that a lot. You Scots are used to the Poles invading your country.’

‘I hear a lot of them are heading home.’

She nodded at this. ‘The pound is not so strong, and people are getting angry.’

‘About the exchange rate?’

She shook the bottle of tomato juice before opening it. ‘What I mean is, jobs are becoming difficult to find. You don’t mind immigrants when they’re not stealing work from you.’

‘Is that what you’re doing?’

She was adding Tabasco to the drink. ‘Nobody’s complained as yet – not to my face.’

‘What would you do if they did?’

She made a claw of her free hand. The nails were long and looked sharp. ‘I bite, too,’ she added. Then she rang up the drinks. Fox was trying to decide where to sit when the door opened and Naysmith came in, followed by Gilchrist. Fox noticed that Joe’s whole demeanour had changed. He rolled his shoulders when he walked, as if filled with new confidence. His smile to Fox was that of an equal rather than an understudy. A couple of paces behind him, Gilchrist had his hands in his pockets, seemingly pleased with the transformation and ready to take credit for it.

‘Hiya, Foxy,’ Naysmith said, voice louder than usual.

‘Joe,’ Fox said. ‘What are you having?’

‘Pint of lager, thanks.’

Gilchrist added that he’d take a half of cider. The barmaid had just returned from delivering the drinks to Mrs Sime and her friend. She started pouring as Fox dug into his pocket for more cash.

‘How’s it going?’ Naysmith was asking. He went so far as to place a hand on Fox’s shoulder, as if to console him. Fox glared at the hand until it was removed. Gilchrist pursed his lips, trying to suppress a grin.

‘Still suspended,’ Fox answered Naysmith. ‘What’s keeping Kaye from his usual skinful?’

‘Crisis at home,’ Naysmith explained. ‘Mrs Kaye says if he doesn’t start spending some time there, she’s going to walk.’

‘So now we know who wears the trousers,’ Gilchrist added from over Naysmith’s shoulder. Naysmith laughed and nodded.

Fox didn’t know whether to be impressed or outraged. It had taken the interloper only a few days to turn Joe Naysmith around. The notion of Joe making jokes about Tony Kaye… laughing at domestic troubles… gossiping within hearing distance of a barmaid… With Fox out of the picture, Kaye was team leader, and now his authority was being eroded from within. Malcolm Fox didn’t like it. He didn’t like the way Joe had changed, or had let himself be remoulded.

‘What happened to your face?’ Gilchrist was asking.

‘None of your business,’ Fox answered.

‘Let’s grab a seat,’ Naysmith was saying, oblivious to Fox’s scowl of disapproval. Gilchrist had seen it, though, and understood perfectly. The smile he gave was lopsided and humourless. Divide and conquer – Fox had seen it before in his career. A team was seldom a team. There would always be the naysayer, the dissenting voice, the stirrer. You either gelded them or you moved them elsewhere. One cop he’d known had been offered a promotion to pastures new but had asked for it to be offered to a rival. Why? To move the bastard on and leave the rest of the crew intact. Fox wasn’t sure he’d have done the same. Maybe now he would, but not until recently. Until recently, he’d have taken the promotion and moved on, leaving his old team to its troubles.

‘Bloody quiet in the office,’ Naysmith was saying. ‘Bob’s talking about us taking on some of the meat-and-potatoes stuff.’

‘I’m not missed, then?’ Fox asked.

‘Of course you are.’

‘But if I was still there, you wouldn’t be.’ Fox gestured towards Gilchrist.

‘It’s not as cloak-and-dagger as I was expecting,’ Gilchrist complained. ‘Joe’s told me about some of your previous work. I wouldn’t have minded a piece of that.’

‘Don’t go getting too comfy,’ Fox warned him. ‘I could be back at my desk any day.’

‘It’ll happen, Malcolm,’ Naysmith assured him. But Fox was staring at Gilchrist, and Gilchrist didn’t seem so sure. Fox got to his feet, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor. ‘Joe,’ he said, ‘I need a word with your compadre.’ Then, this time to Gilchrist: ‘Outside.’

It sounded like an order because that was what it was. Gilchrist, however, was in no rush. He took another sip of cider and slowly placed the glass on its beer mat. ‘That okay with you?’ he asked Naysmith. Joe Naysmith nodded uncertainly. Fox had waited as long as he could and was now striding towards the door.

‘See you later,’ the barmaid called to him.

‘For definite,’ he answered her.

Outside, he took several deep breaths. His heart was pumping and there was a hissing in his ears. Gilchrist didn’t just annoy him – it went well beyond that. The door behind him swung open. Fox grabbed Gilchrist by his lapels and drew him forwards, then slammed him back against the stone wall. Gilchrist was staring at Fox’s bunched fists. He could boast almost half his opponent’s body weight and none of his indignation. There wasn’t going to be a fight.

‘Do what you’ve got to do,’ was all he said, turning his head so Fox couldn’t make eye contact.

‘You’re a turd,’ Fox said, his voice rasping. ‘What’s worse, you’re the turd who got me into this. So I’m going to ask you again – who was it brought Jamie Breck to you?’

‘Why does it matter?’

‘It just does.’

‘You going to slap me about a bit? We could compare bruises after.’

Fox pulled Gilchrist forward, then hurled him into the wall again.

‘McEwan’s going to love this when I…’

‘Tell him whatever you like,’ Fox said. ‘All I want to know is – whose idea was it?’

‘You already know.’

‘I don’t.’

‘I think you do… you just don’t want to believe it. She wanted me gone, Fox. Never, ever liked me. Sure, I was keen on a move, but I didn’t have anything to negotiate with. She did.’

Fox had loosened his grip. ‘You mean Annie Inglis?’

Now Gilchrist turned his eyes towards him. ‘Who else?’

‘You’re lying.’

‘Fine… doesn’t matter. You asked me the question and I’ve given you the only answer I’ve got. Inglis was the one who said we were going to ask the Complaints for help – and it was your name she had.’

‘Was it Inglis who called you that night to cancel the surveillance? ’

Gilchrist hesitated, and Fox knew that whatever came out of his mouth, it wouldn’t be the truth.

‘You’re still a turd,’ Fox stated, breaking the silence. ‘I want you to lay off Joe.’

‘Lay off him? I can’t get away from him! You and Kaye must have treated him like shit.’

Fox released his grip completely, his hands falling to his sides. ‘I’m coming back,’ he said quietly.

‘And that’s when they move me elsewhere – anywhere Annie Inglis isn’t.’ Gilchrist was straightening his jacket. ‘Are we finished here?’

Fox shook his head. ‘Whether it was Annie Inglis or you, the order had to come from somebody upstairs.’

‘So go ask Inglis.’

‘I’ll definitely do that.’ Fox paused, remembering something. ‘Do you recall me asking what was happening about Simeon Latham? You told me the Aussies were readying to go to trial. But when I spoke to someone on the inquiry, they contradicted that.’

‘So?’

‘So you lied.’

Gilchrist shook his head. ‘It’s what I was told. How often do you want me to say it – go ask your girlfriend.’ He looked Fox up and down. ‘Except she’s not, is she? Not now she’s got what she needed from you.’ Gilchrist gave a smirk. ‘There was that look of desperation about you, first time you walked into the office, wearing your braces and your red tie, hoping they’d get you noticed. Annie Inglis is good at her job, Fox. She’s good at pretending to be what she’s not – she does it each and every day online…’

The door was opening. Fox expected to see Naysmith, but it was Margaret Sime, cigarette at the ready. She assessed the scene in an instant.

‘No nonsense, lads,’ she warned them.

‘We done?’ Gilchrist asked Fox.

Fox just nodded, and Gilchrist headed back inside.

‘Since I first set eyes on that young man,’ Margaret Sime commented as she lit her cigarette, ‘I’ve had just the one thought.’

‘What’s that?’ Fox felt compelled to ask.

‘He’s got a face deserving of a good hard skelp.’

‘Sorry I let you down, Mrs Sime,’ Fox apologised.

He spent an hour on the sofa, with the TV playing, sound turned down. He was wondering what sort of conversation he could have with Detective Sergeant Annie Inglis. She had invited him into her home… made up with him after their falling-out. Was he really now going to accuse her of setting him up in the first place? Was he going to accept Gilchrist at face value? If so, then Inglis had set Jamie Breck up, too…

Fox thought about Deputy Chief Constable Adam Traynor, confronting him with Bad Billy Giles in the interview room at Torphichen. Then he spooled further back, to the Complaints office, McEwan teasing him: Chief thinks there’s the whiff of something septic up in Aberdeen… After the chat with Stoddart, Fox’s thinking was that a deal had been done. But if all of this had been the Chief Constable’s idea, why would he have hinted to McEwan that the team might have to investigate Grampian Police? No, it had to be Traynor, didn’t it? And that was when Fox knew he had his question. He swung his legs off the sofa and reached over to the coffee table for his phone, punching in Annie Inglis’s number. When she answered, he hesitated.

‘Hello?’ she said, her voice taking on an edge. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s me,’ Fox eventually admitted. He was gouging his thumb into the space between his eyebrows, just above the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed shut.

‘Malcolm? What’s the matter? You sound-’

‘Just a yes or no answer, Annie. That’s all I need, and I won’t bother you again.’

There was silence on the line. When she spoke, it was with a tone of concern. ‘Malcolm, what’s happened? Do you want me to come over?’

‘One question, Annie,’ he persisted.

‘I’m not sure I want to hear it. You’re in a bit of a state, Malcolm. Maybe wait till tomorrow…’

‘Annie…’ He swallowed hard. ‘What did Traynor promise you?’ He listened to the silence. ‘If you brought me in on Jamie Breck, he’d move Gilchrist out – was that the deal? Was that all it took?’

‘Malcolm…’

‘Just answer!’

‘I’m putting the phone down.’

‘I deserve to be told, Annie! This whole thing’s a stitch-up and it wouldn’t have worked without you!’

But he was talking to the dial tone. She’d hung up on him. Fox cursed and considered calling her again, but he doubted she would answer. He could drive to her flat, keep his finger pressed to her buzzer, but she wouldn’t let him in. She was too wise.

Too wise and too calculating.

Good at pretending to be what she’s not…

Fox paced the room. He had half a mind to call Jamie, but Jamie was wining and dining Annabel. And how come he was doing that? Why wasn’t he pacing his own living room, snarling at the unfairness of it all? Fox grabbed his phone again and made the call.

‘Hang on a sec,’ Breck said upon answering. ‘I’m taking this outside. ’ Then, to Annabel: ‘It’s Malcolm, sweetheart.’

‘Tell her I’m sorry for butting in,’ Fox said.

‘I will, when I get back to the table.’

‘Nice dinner?’

‘What is it that can’t wait till morning, Malcolm?’ Fox listened to the sound of a door opening and closing. The atmosphere changed – Breck had stepped out of the restaurant. Fox thought he could hear distant traffic, the sounds of the city at night.

‘If it wasn’t urgent, Jamie…’

‘But obviously it is, so let’s hear it.’

Fox began to walk a diagonal of the room, and explained as best he could. Breck didn’t interrupt once, except to posit the theory that Gilchrist, being so keen to take a beating, might well be a masochist. When Fox finished, there was silence for a good fifteen seconds.

‘Yes,’ Breck eventually said. ‘Well…’

‘You mean you’d already figured this out?’ Fox blurted out, sinking down on to the sofa.

‘I’m a gamer, Malcolm. Role-playing games – and that’s just what this has been. There are roles someone knew we’d end up playing – I’d get to like you; you’d come to trust me… and we’d end up with our careers blown to smithereens because of it. It’s down to our natures, Malcolm.’ Breck paused. ‘We’ve been played.’

‘By one of our own? Our Deputy Chief Constable?’

‘I’m not sure that really matters. What’s more important is the why.’

‘And have you come to any other conclusions? Ones you’ve seen fit to keep from me?’

‘We’re back in the game, Malcolm. We got blown up once, but they misjudged us – we’ve got a second life, and that’s down to our natures, too.’

‘I’m not sure I follow…’

‘You don’t need to. All this work we’ve been doing…’ Breck paused to correct himself. ‘Work you’ve been doing… it’s leading to one thing and one thing only.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Endgame.’ Breck paused once more. ‘They’re going to have to destroy us again, and that’s when we’ll know the who and the why.’

‘How can you sound so bloody calm?’

‘Because that’s how I feel.’ Breck gave a laugh – a tired laugh, but a laugh all the same. ‘Remember when we talked in the car on the way back from the casino?’

‘I remember.’

‘You’re not a spectator any more.’

‘Is that necessarily a good thing?’

‘I don’t know – what do you think?’

‘I just want this done and dusted, one way or the other.’

‘That doesn’t sound like the old, cautious Malcolm Fox.’

‘Sorry I interrupted your dinner, Jamie.’

‘I’m sure we’ll talk tomorrow, Malcolm. Maybe I’ll call after my meeting with Stoddart. Meantime, I’ve got razorfish and carpaccio of scallop waiting for me…’

‘Rather you than me.’ Fox ended the call and went into the kitchen. Appletiser… various fruit teas… Rooiboos… decaf coffee… none of it appealed. He wanted something altogether edgier and more life-affirming. He thought back to the spiced tomato juice in Minter’s and imagined it with the added injection of a thirty-five-centilitre shot of Smirnoff.

‘In your dreams, Foxy,’ he told himself. But he could taste it all the same, smooth at the back of his throat, and then the burn as it trickled its way downwards into his belly. Vodka had been his childhood drink, swigs stolen from the cupboard where the bottles were kept. Through his teenage years he’d shifted to rum, Southern Comfort, Glayva and whisky, coming back to vodka again for a short second honeymoon before a dangerous liaison with gin. Then whisky again – the good stuff this time round. And always with beer and wine, wine and beer. Lunches and dinners and inbetweeners. Kidding himself that a champagne breakfast with Elaine didn’t count…

Kahlua – he’d never drunk Kahlua. Nor had he got far with the huge variety of alcopops. If he wanted lemonade in his vodka, he would add it himself – along with a few splashes of Angostura. As a five-year-old, for an experiment, he’d mixed a couple of spoonfuls of Creamola Foam into a glass of vodka. His father had torn a strip off him for that, and had moved the alcohol to a higher shelf in the pantry. Not high enough, though…

Fox went back through to the living room and decided to close the curtains. There was a car parked across the street. Its lights were off but its engine was still running. There was a figure in the driver’s seat. Fox finished the job at hand, then headed upstairs in darkness. In the main bedroom, he stuck close to the walls as he approached the window. The car was a dark-coloured, sleek-looking saloon. The angle didn’t allow him any view of the number plate. Fox thought he could hear music. Yes – coming from the car. Nothing he recognised, but growing in volume. A neighbour across the street opened their own curtains to peer out, but then closed them again and didn’t come to the door. A black cab stopped to let a couple out. They’d obviously been to the late-night shopping in town. The wife was toting a couple of expensive-looking carrier bags. The husband’s name was Joe Sillars – Fox had met him a few times to talk to. They’d only been in the street a couple of months. Husband and wife stared at the loudly parked car as their cab rumbled away. They had a quick word with one another and decided not to get involved. The driver acknowledged this by sliding his front windows down. And now Fox recognised the song. It was called ‘The Saints Are Coming’. It was by an old punk outfit called The Skids. Fox had heard it at many a party in his youth. But he’d listened to it more recently, too…

After Glen Heaton had mentioned it at one of their interviews.

Bloody fantastic song… a real rallying call…

Fox had asked him if he thought of himself as one of the saints, but Heaton had just punched the air, belting out the first couple of lines.

The music outside had stopped, but then started again. The bloody thing was on repeat. A fist was emerging into the night from the driver’s-side window.

Glen Heaton was singing his heart out.

Fox walked downstairs on unsteady legs. He stopped in the doorway outside the living room. There were things he could do, calls he could make. He could hear bass and drums join the guitar as Heaton cranked the volume up another notch. Fox grabbed his jacket and headed outside, pausing for a moment on the doorstep…

Then down the garden path, breathing the night air…

Opening the gate…

Crossing the road…

Heaton watching him all the time, fist no longer visible but still singing along. When Fox was a couple of feet away, the music died. The silence was punctuated only by the Alfa’s engine ticking over.

‘Knew you’d twig eventually,’ Heaton said.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘You’re not the only one who can sit around outside people’s houses.’

‘Is that what this is?’

‘Did you think I hadn’t clocked you? Skulking in the dark, scuttling away as soon as you saw me coming… But I’m bigger than you, Fox. I saw you coming and I’m still here.’

‘What do you want, Heaton?’

‘It’ll never come to trial – you know that, right?’

‘You’ll be tried fairly in a court of law and then you’ll go to jail.’

Heaton puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. ‘There’s no telling some people.’

‘Did your pal Giles give you my address? Maybe you just wanted to check the bruises.’

‘Now that you mention it…’ Heaton angled his head. ‘Not that you were much of a looker to start with. Still, I must stand whoever did it a couple of drinks.’

‘You’re saying it wasn’t you?’

Heaton gave a smirk. ‘Trust me, I wouldn’t be slow to take the credit.’

‘So you weren’t visiting your girlfriend’s sauna on Tuesday night?’ Fox’s spirits lifted when he saw the effect his words had. ‘Sonya Michie, Heaton – we know all about her, even if your wife doesn’t. Then there’s your son…’

The driver’s-side door flew open. Fox stood back, putting some distance between himself and Heaton. It struck him that they were the same height and probably much the same weight. There was more muscle on Heaton – the Complaints had followed him to his gym a few times – and almost certainly more aggression in him. But they weren’t so dissimilar. Heaton seemed to think better about making a move. Instead, he started to light a cigarette, flicking the spent match on to the roadway so it fell just short of Fox’s shoes.

‘What sort of cop,’ he drawled, ‘gets his kicks playing Peeping Tom? Raking through rubbish bins… sneaking around behind people’s backs.’

Fox thought about folding his arms, but didn’t – he needed to be ready in case Heaton tried something. ‘How is it,’ he asked back, ‘we never connected you to Jack Broughton?’

Heaton glared at him. ‘Maybe because there is no connection.’

‘Sonya Michie’s a connection.’ Fox watched Heaton’s face muscles stiffen.

‘Careful what you say,’ Heaton cautioned. ‘Besides, she’s ancient history.’

‘Not so ancient. A few months back you were still seeing her. You stopped to have a chat with her outside the Cowgate sauna.’

Heaton took a couple of seconds to work it out. ‘Breck told you,’ he said with a sneer.

‘Jack Broughton’s a sleeping partner in the sauna,’ Fox went on. ‘Bit more meat to add to your file. Something you might end up being asked about at the trial.’

Slowly, Heaton folded his arms, meaning he wasn’t about to attack. Fox allowed his shoulders to unknot a little. ‘I’ve already told you – it won’t come to that.’

‘You ever been inside that sauna, Heaton? Is that where you met her? Maybe you bumped into Jack Broughton there. Or it could have been the lap-dancing bar on Lothian Road, the one owned by Bull Wauchope…’

‘Never been near the place.’ The cigarette stayed in the corner of Heaton’s mouth as he spoke.

‘You’ve been to the Oliver, though?’

‘The casino?’ Heaton’s eyes narrowed; it could just have been the smoke, but Fox didn’t think so. ‘Yeah, I’ve lost the odd quid there.’

‘So you’ll know Broughton’s daughter – she runs the show.’

‘She’s wearing well,’ Heaton acknowledged with a nod of the head.

‘Did she ever introduce you to her husband?’

‘Charlie Brogan? Never had the pleasure.’

‘What about Bull Wauchope?’

Heaton shook his head. ‘And the company that owns the sauna belongs to Bull’s old man rather than Bull himself.’

‘But Bull’s in charge for the foreseeable,’ Fox argued.

‘Might be a short tenure. I hear Bruce Senior’s spending a small fortune on lawyers. They’re picking the original case apart, looking for anything that screams mistrial.’

‘So Bull’s not got long to make his mark… ’ Fox was thoughtful.

‘What’s any of this got to do with you, Fox?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘Well, let’s see if I can guess.’ Heaton unfolded his arms and removed the cigarette from his mouth, flicking ash on to the ground. ‘Your sister’s man gets himself killed. He worked on a building project. That project was about to doom Charlie Brogan to bankruptcy.’ Heaton paused. ‘And you’re trying to connect Brogan to Bull Wauchope?’

‘The connection’s already there,’ Fox stated.

‘Bull’s not a stupid man… some people think he is, and that suits him – means they underestimate him, right up to the moment when he pulverises them.’

‘Did Charlie Brogan underestimate him?’

Heaton smiled to himself. ‘Why should I tell you anything?’

‘They say confession’s good for the soul.’ Fox paused. ‘And maybe I could see to it that the stuff in your file about Sonya Michie gets lost in the system.’

‘You think it bothers me that much?’ Heaton watched as Fox shrugged. ‘You’d have crossed a line, Fox – hard to go back to the Complaints after that.’

‘I doubt I’m going back anyway.’

Heaton stared at him for a full quarter-minute. ‘When it comes time for the Fiscal to talk to you…’

‘I could say mistakes were made. I could suddenly remember that some procedure or other wasn’t followed…’

‘Then they’d have to chuck the case out,’ Heaton said quietly. ‘Ten minutes ago, you said it was going to trial.’

Fox nodded slowly.

‘What’s changed?’

‘Me,’ Fox stated. ‘I’ve changed. See, I’ve decided right of this minute that you’re not important. You’ll fuck up in future and someone will nab you then. For now, you’re a low priority. I want answers to other questions.’

Heaton managed a wry smile. ‘How do I know you’ll do it?’

‘You don’t.’

‘Case like this, Fiscal might take months or years getting it ready for trial. And all that time, I’m at home with my feet up and the salary going into my bank account.’

‘But that’s not you, Glen. It’s not what you were made for. You’d go stir-crazy.’

Heaton was thoughtful. ‘So the state of play is: I’ve no guarantees I can trust you, there’s stuff you want from me, and we still hate one another’s guts?’

‘In a nutshell,’ Fox agreed.

‘Do I get to come inside?’ Heaton nodded towards Fox’s house.

‘No.’

‘In that case, get in the car – I’m freezing my balls off out here.’ Heaton didn’t wait for Fox to agree. He got back in behind the steering wheel, closed the door and slid the window shut. Fox stood his ground for a few seconds more, watching Heaton avoid eye contact. Then he walked around to the car’s passenger side and got in. The interior of the Alfa smelt new: leather and polish and carpets.

‘You don’t smoke in the car,’ he commented. ‘Is that because your wife doesn’t like it?’

Heaton gave a snort.

‘So say your piece,’ Fox prompted.

‘You’re right about Bull not having long to make his mark. His plan was to act as a broker for all the other bosses. He told them he could launder their dirty money by putting it into property and property development.’

‘Did Jack Broughton tell you this?’ Fox asked. Heaton turned his head towards him.

‘Charlie Brogan told me.’

‘You said you’d never met him.’

‘I lied. But here’s the thing… now you know this, there’s every chance you’ll end up the same way as him.’

‘There was a developer in Dundee…’ Fox was thinking aloud. ‘When he lost Wauchope some money, he turned up dead. Did Terry Vass kill him?’

Heaton’s eyebrows lifted a millimetre. ‘You seem to know a hell of a lot.’

‘I’m getting there. So Brogan and the Dundee developer suddenly had a bunch of negative equity, and Wauchope wanted his money out – because it wasn’t actually his. What’s Vince Faulkner got to do with any of this?’

‘You ever see Charlie Brogan? He never had much heft.’

‘Vince was like his… bodyguard?’

‘That’s maybe too strong. But when you go to a meeting, you want someone at your back.’

Fox took a moment to mull this over. ‘Remember a few months back? One of Ernie Wishaw’s drivers was caught with a consignment of dope…’

‘I remember.’

‘Rumour is, you were feeding information back to Wishaw.’

‘Breck again,’ Glen Heaton spat.

‘You’re a regular gun for hire, aren’t you? And that means you know a lot… Is that why they need to protect you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ever since I handed your case over to the Fiscal’s office, there’ve been people following me, trying to set me up and scare me off.’

‘I don’t know anything about that.’

‘Your good friend Billy Giles hasn’t dropped any hints?’

‘I’m finished talking, Fox. Just remember what I said – way things are going, you might not be around to see me stand trial.’

‘Not that that’s going to happen.’

‘Exactly.’ Heaton paused. ‘Now get out of my fucking car.’

Fox stayed put. ‘When people speak up for you, they say you always got results. You’d do a favour for one villain, and that villain would repay the debt with a titbit about a competitor. Is that what’s happening here, Heaton? Someone’s told you to give me Wauchope?’

Heaton stared at him. ‘Get out of the car,’ he repeated.

Fox got out. The music blared back into life as Heaton revved the engine hard before setting off. A neighbour peered from behind the curtains of her living-room window. Fox didn’t bother trying to apologise. What was the point? He stuffed his hands into his pockets and headed back indoors.