The Complaints

27

‘What makes you think you can trust him?’ Jamie Breck asked.

‘You reckon he was lying?’

Fox and Breck were discussing Glen Heaton. They were seated in Fox’s Volvo. It was eight o’clock in the morning. Daylight was definitely coming earlier as spring stopped cowering. Breck didn’t respond to Fox’s question; probably because he didn’t have the answer. He held a cardboard beaker of coffee in both hands. It was from a baker’s and was now lukewarm as well as weak. Fox had already emptied his out of the driver’s-side window. They were parked by a set of wrought-iron gates, waiting for those gates to open.

‘Twenty minutes,’ Breck muttered, checking his watch.

‘Kids don’t wear watches any more, have you noticed that?’

‘What?’ Breck turned his head towards him.

‘They use their phones – that’s how they tell the time.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Just making conversation. How was the carpaccio last night?’

‘Fine – Tom’s a great chef.’

‘Did you apologise to Annabel for my phone call?’

‘She forgives you, and I still don’t think you can trust Glen Heaton.’

‘Who said I was going to trust him? Someone’s using him to send us a message. What we do with it is up to us.’

‘You’ve thought it through?’ Breck stared at Fox, but then something caught his attention. ‘Hang on… what’s that noise?’

It was the low humming of a motor, accompanied by the rattle of a metal grille as it slowly opened. Fox turned the key in the ignition and waited. SeeBee House boasted an underground car park, and one of the residents was about to head out. From his vantage point, Fox could only see the top few inches of the grille that protected the slope down into the car park, but it was sliding upwards all right. And now he could make out the purring of a car engine.

‘Porsche,’ Breck drawled. ‘Bet you any money you like.’

Yes, a silver Porsche, driven by a man who didn’t really need the sunglasses he was wearing. It was light out, but there was no sun as yet. The gates seemed to shiver, then opened inwards slowly. The Porsche had to bide its time, though it sounded impatient. As soon as the gap allowed, it sped out of the compound and past Fox’s car. Fox drove inside and parked at the front door, just as on his previous visit. He was out of the car before the gates had started to close again.

‘Did you recognise him?’ Breck asked.

‘You mean the driver?’ Fox nodded. ‘Gordon Lovatt.’

‘Bit early for a PR meeting, isn’t it?’

Fox agreed that it was. He was standing by the intercom, his finger pressed to the bell for the penthouse. There was a little camera watching him, and he stared into its lens.

‘What do you want?’ a voice asked from the speaker.

‘Just a quick word, Ms Broughton.’

‘What about?’

‘Mr Brogan. There’s some news.’

‘I’m not dressed yet.’

‘I thought you were used to hosting meetings in your nightie.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I could have sworn I just saw Gordon Lovatt’s Porsche…’

As the silence stretched, Fox locked eyes with Jamie Breck. Breck was whistling, but without making any noise.

‘It really can’t wait?’ Joanna Broughton’s voice crackled from the metal speaker.

‘It really can’t,’ Fox confirmed.

The door buzzed as if in irritation. Fox pushed at it and it opened.

The foyer was deserted. Fox led the way to the triplex’s private lift and pushed the button. It arrived and they got in. Fox pressed the button and the P sign lit up, the doors beginning to close. He recalled meeting Jack Broughton and Gordon Lovatt on his previous visit. They had gained access to the compound without needing anyone to open the gates for them. At the time, Fox had reckoned Jack Broughton must own one of the little remote-opening boxes – gifted to him by Daddy’s little girl – but now he was beginning to wonder.

When they reached Joanna Broughton’s floor, the door to her apartment was standing open in readiness. Joanna Broughton was fully dressed, her hair and make-up immaculate.

‘Fast work,’ Fox commented.

‘What is it you want to tell me?’ she asked. She sounded in a hurry, but that wasn’t Fox’s problem.

‘You know DS Breck?’ he asked by way of introduction, as Breck busied himself closing the door. Breck waved a hand in greeting, without making eye contact. He was too busy examining the view.

‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’

‘Yours for three million,’ she snapped, folding her arms and placing one foot in front of the other, ready for combat.

‘I imagine Mr Brogan would sell, too,’ Fox said, sliding his hands into his pockets. ‘But the market’s against him, and it would still be a drop in the ocean.’ He paused, locking his eyes on Broughton’s. ‘How much is he into them for, Joanna?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Bull Wauchope and his syndicate,’ Fox informed her. ‘We’ve been trying to work it out, DS Breck and me. Could be anywhere from ten to a hundred million. CBBJ owns a lot more real estate than either of us realised. A journalist’s been doing some research. Hunting lodges in the Highlands with thousands of acres attached… a couple of islands… land in Dubai… a few dozen flats on spec sites in London and Bristol and Cardiff… All of it bought at the height of the boom, a boom nobody thought was about to be punctured. He was in the middle of setting up a company in Bermuda, wasn’t he? That’s something else the journalist learned. Soon it would all have been offshore and a damned sight more secret. But then everybody got twitchy and wanted their money back. Wanted it in the same cold, hard cash they’d given him to launder in the first place.’

During this speech, Joanna Broughton’s face had shown no emotion. She hadn’t so much as blinked. But when Fox paused, she turned away and headed for one of the cream leather sofas, settling herself there and making sure her knee-length skirt didn’t reveal anything she didn’t want it to.

‘You said you had news,’ she said coolly. ‘I’m not hearing any.’

‘What was Gordon Lovatt doing here?’

She glared at him. ‘The police force is leaking like a sieve – mostly to that reporter you mentioned. Gordon is preparing a response.’ She paused. ‘I dare say you’ve been speaking to her, too… dripping poison into her ear…’

‘That’s from Hamlet, isn’t it?’ Breck said, hands behind his back, pretending still to be interested in the panorama.

‘That time I dropped you home,’ Fox started to ask, regaining her attention, ‘when I mentioned Vince Faulkner’s name it didn’t seem to mean anything to you.’

‘Why should it?’

‘Your husband used him on occasions – specifically, occasions when he feared he might be in for a thumping.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘How about the name Terry Vass?’

She was shaking her head, refusing to meet his eyes.

‘I’m guessing it was pretty late in the day before Mr Brogan told you what was going on. I’m also betting you’re furious with him about it. Wouldn’t do for your father to find out what sort of numpty you’ve gone and got hitched to.’ Fox’s voice softened a little. ‘But Charlie needed your help, Joanna, and you’ve been giving it, furious or not. That phone you keep beside you, the one you said came from the boat… you lied to us about that. Your story’s holed at the waterline and I think the pair of you are sinking…’

Her eyes were growing glassy with tears, but she angled her head skywards so as to trap them there.

‘We need to speak to him,’ Fox went on, measuring out his words. ‘He hasn’t fooled the investigators and I very much doubt he’s had more luck with Bull Wauchope. Criminals the length and breadth of the country will be on the lookout for him. There’s a good chance they’ll get to him before we do – and I think you know what that means. I don’t suppose he had much time for planning. He saw what happened to Vince Faulkner and knew he had to do something quick.’ Fox gestured towards the empty walls. ‘On the other hand, he flogged off the family jewels. I’m guessing some of the money was an attempt to stave off Wauchope. The rest’ll be paying his way right now and for the foreseeable.’ He paused again, but there was no reaction from the figure on the sofa. Her whole body seemed frozen and she could have been posing for a portrait in oils.

‘Is he even in the country?’ Fox asked her. ‘I’m guessing he is – hard not to leave a trail otherwise. He could even be in one of the flats on the floors below… sneaking up here at night… living like a hermit in the daytime…’

‘I want you to leave.’

‘If you care about him, you’ll talk to him about this. We’re not his friends, Joanna, but we’re far and away his best bet. What did you tell your father? Did you even think of asking him for help?’ Her eyes burned into his. ‘Probably not,’ he went on. ‘Because you can look after yourself, and Jack’s never had much faith in your husband anyway… that’s how it is with fathers and daughters.’ Fox offered a shrug.

‘Get out,’ she repeated, with fresh venom.

Fox was holding a business card by the tips of his thumb and forefinger. ‘My new number’s on the back,’ he explained, setting it on the arm of the sofa. ‘We figured it out,’ he reminded her. ‘Wauchope will figure it out – and he will come asking, Joanna.’

‘My dad would have something to say about that. He’ll have something to say about you, too!’

Fox shook his head slowly. ‘Jack’s tired – you can see it in his eyes, the way he walks. I know you still respect him, but that’s because you remember him the way he was. Maybe you were even more than a little scared of him. But that’s all changed. Think about it – if Charlie had been scared of him, he’d never have got involved with Wauchope and the others. He’d have run a mile, for fear of offending the infamous Jack Broughton.’ Fox bent at the knees a little, the better to sustain eye contact. ‘Some of the stuff Wauchope owns in Edinburgh… I’m guessing it used to be part of your father’s empire. He’s been letting Wauchope buy into it because he knows the future when he sees it. These days, Jack’s not much more than a minority shareholder. And Wauchope knows weakness when he sees it. Bull wants your husband, Joanna, and I’m not sure you can stop that happening on your own.’

This time, Joanna Broughton was unable to stop the tears. She wiped them away with the arm of her blouse, smearing mascara across both cheeks.

‘Go,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

‘You’ll talk to Charlie?’

‘Just go, will you?’ She pushed her shoulders back and filled her lungs with oxygen. ‘Get out!’ she screamed. ‘I want you out of here!’

‘My card’s there when you need it,’ Fox reminded her.

‘Out.’

‘We’re going.’

In the lift on the way down, Breck nodded in appreciation of his partner’s performance.

‘Couldn’t really fault it,’ he commented. Fox shrugged away the compliment.

‘Let’s see if it gets us anywhere,’ he cautioned.

Outside, a large black BMW with tinted windows was being parked next to the Volvo. When the driver emerged, Fox recognised him.

‘It’s Mr Broughton, isn’t it?’ he asked.

Jack Broughton stared at the proffered hand but decided against shaking it.

‘You probably don’t recognise me,’ Fox went on. ‘I was in a bit of a state last time we met.’

‘You’re that cop… you were here once before.’

Fox nodded. ‘But I was also attacked one night in the Cowgate…’

Broughton’s eyes narrowed as he studied Fox afresh. ‘I hope you’ve not been upsetting Joanna?’

‘Perish the thought. That sauna on the Cowgate… you used to own it, didn’t you?’

‘I owned the building – whatever happens inside is nobody’s business, so long as it’s legal.’

‘With the Wauchopes in charge, there’s not much hope of that.’

It took Jack Broughton a few moments to decide not to respond. ‘I’m taking my daughter out for breakfast,’ he said, making to move past Fox. When the two men were side by side, he paused. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret, though… I did see something that night. There were two of them. I only saw them from behind, but… well, you get a feeling for these things after a while.’

‘What sort of feeling?’

‘They were cops – and bloody good luck to them.’

He used his own key to enter the building. Fox stared at the door. Two of them… Yes, one to kneel on his back, while one swung a foot at his jaw. Two cops.

‘He’s just trying to rattle you,’ Jamie Breck commented. Fox turned towards him.

‘You reckon?’ Fox wasn’t so sure. Breck was checking his watch.

‘I need to be at Fettes for my session with Stoddart…’

‘I’ll take you.’ Fox unlocked the Volvo and started to get in, fastening his seat belt but then just sitting there, hands on the steering wheel.

‘In your own time,’ Breck prompted him.

‘Sure.’ Fox started the engine and angled the car towards the gate, which had already started opening inwards.

‘You’re not taking the old bastard seriously?’ Breck asked.

‘Of course not, but do me a favour, will you?’

‘What?’

‘Call Annabel and ask her a question.’

Breck dug into his pocket for his phone. ‘What is it you want to know?’

‘The team handing out the Vince Faulkner flyers on Tuesday night…’

‘You are taking him seriously.’

‘Two cops, Jamie… one of them dying for payback…’

Breck eventually got it. ‘Dickson and Hall,’ he stated.

‘Dickson and Hall,’ Malcolm Fox concurred.

It was afternoon when the text arrived on Fox’s mobile. Breck had gone to meet Annabel for a coffee. There was some apologising to be done. They’d been planning to spend Saturday night in Amsterdam, flying back Sunday evening, and now Breck was cancelling. Fox had told him not to, but Breck had been adamant.

‘I need to be around for this,’ he’d explained.

‘What if there is no “this”?’ Fox had retorted.

But now here was a text – Waverley 7 p.m. buy ticket Dundee n wait WH Smith. There was no name, and when Fox called the number there was no reply. But he knew all the same. He paced his living room for a few minutes, then called Jamie Breck.

‘You still with Annabel?’ he asked.

‘She’s gone to the loo. I think she’s starting to hate me, Malcolm.’

‘You can make it up to her later. How did it go with Stoddart?’

‘As you suspected, I think it was for the benefit of her colleagues more than anything else.’

‘Did either of them think to ask you about the little jaunt we took with their boss?’

‘She didn’t give them the chance – escorted me on to and off the premises; never left the room for a minute.’

‘That’s good…’

Breck could tell from his tone that something had happened. ‘Tell me,’ he prompted.

‘We’ve got a meet. Seven tonight at Waverley station. He wants us to buy tickets to Dundee.’

‘Dundee? Am I missing something or is that the last place he’d hide?’

‘Plenty of stops between here and there.’ Fox took Breck’s silence for agreement. ‘Once we’ve got the tickets, he wants us to wait by the newsagent’s.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You didn’t ask him?’

‘It was a text message.’

‘Did you try calling back?’

‘No one’s answering.’

‘We should give the number to someone… get them to put a trace on it… Can we even be sure it’s from him? Did he give his name?’

‘No.’

‘So it might not be?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Annabel’s coming back,’ Breck said.

‘You should take her out tonight…’

‘You don’t get rid of me that easily. I’ll see you there at seven.’

The phone went dead. Fox slipped it back into his pocket and rubbed at his temples. He lifted a book from one of the piles and placed it on the half-filled shelf.

‘It’s a start,’ he told himself.

He took a taxi to the station. The driver’s conversation revolved around tram works and traffic diversions. ‘See the council,’ he would say at one moment and ‘See the government’ the next. ‘And don’t get me started about the banks…’

Fox had no intention of getting him started; the real problem was getting him to stop. Fox was trying to imagine himself into a role. He was a commuter on his way home from a tiring day. Maybe he worked Saturdays; maybe he’d been shopping. He would step from his taxi, head into the booking office, and pay for a ticket. The driver had even asked him – ‘This you on your way home?’ – without seeming interested in any answer.

‘Wouldn’t blame you for emigrating, pal… whole country’s a bloody shambles…’

The cab bumped its way down the slope into the station proper and pulled into a waiting bay. Fox paid the driver, adding a tip. The man was wishing him well for the rest of the weekend as Fox closed the door. It was six forty by the station clock. Plenty of time. The post-shopping rush had died back a bit, though the concourse was still busy. A train had obviously arrived from London. There was a lengthy queue at the taxi rank. He pitied whichever tourist or traveller ended up with the driver he’d just waved off. The booking office had another queue, but there were self-serve machines. Fox used his bank card and bought two off-peak returns.

You’re leaving a trail, he warned himself. But if things turned sour, that might be a plus – it would give the cops who came looking for him something to work with. He wandered past the coffee stall and the bar and the Burger King, then headed towards the platforms. There were people resting their backs against the window of the WH Smith. The place was doing a good trade, and Fox wasted a couple of minutes looking at the range of books and magazines. Even so, it was still seven minutes shy of the hour.

‘Hello, copper,’ a voice barked from behind. Fox swirled towards it. Jamie Breck was grinning.

‘Need to sharpen those spider senses, Malcolm,’ he said. ‘I’ve been here a while.’ Breck held up a ticket. ‘Got you this.’

In reply, Fox held up his own. ‘Snap,’ he said. Then: ‘How long since you arrived?’

‘Half an hour – decided to scope the place out, and saw you doing the same.’

‘I’m wondering if maybe he wants to meet us here.’

‘It’s a bit public,’ Breck replied, his voice full of doubt. ‘Just that wee bit exposed.’ He seemed to remember something. ‘You know what you were saying? About him maybe living downstairs from the penthouse…?’

Fox shook his head. ‘It would put Joanna in the firing line.’

‘Isn’t she there already? When he scarpered, why did she stick around?’

‘She’s got a casino to run, Jamie. Besides, if they’d both done a midnight flit, Wauchope would have been on to them all the quicker.’

Breck nodded his agreement. ‘How come I’m the one being fast-tracked when you’re the better cop?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Maybe you bribed someone…?’

Breck gave a snort and checked his watch against the large digital clock above the departure and arrival boards. ‘There’s a train to Dundee, leaves on the dot of seven. If we miss that, next one’s half past. What do you think?’

‘Maybe we get on the train we’re told to catch and he jumps on at a station down the line.’

Breck nodded slowly. ‘Or?’

‘Or he meets us here. But you said it yourself – it’s risky.’

‘Or we’re being led a dance,’ Breck offered.

Fox gave a twitch of the mouth. ‘Was Annabel okay in the end?’

‘Dinner midweek at Prestonfield House, and Amsterdam the next window we get.’

‘She’s a tough negotiator.’

‘I thought it best to cave in straight away. You were right, by the way…’

‘Dickson and Hall?’

Breck nodded again. ‘Handing out flyers the night you got jumped. Any plans for a revenge attack?’ Breck watched Fox shake his head, then checked the station clock again. ‘Seven’s been and gone.’

‘Yes.’

‘And here we are, standing outside WH Smith.’

‘I can’t disagree.’

‘And nothing’s happening.’ Breck shuffled his feet. Fox was studying the passing parade of travellers. Some had obviously enjoyed a drink; maybe one or two of them had been to the football. They were voluble as they chatted with their friends. It was Saturday night and people from outside the city were arriving with only one aim in mind. Fox had even heard the Rondo mentioned as a probable destination for later.

Breck was studying his watch. ‘Just relax,’ Fox told him.

‘Are you on medication?’ Breck asked. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not fretting.’

‘My insides are dancing,’ Fox admitted.

More people passed them, some at a gallop in a bid to make this or that seven o’clock departure – there were delays on a few of the trains. The announcer explained as much through the Tannoy. Fox could make out the gist of what she was saying.

‘He’s late,’ he stated. Breck just nodded. The phone in Fox’s hand started to ring. He peered at the screen: same number the text had come from, but this time it was an actual call. He pressed the phone to his ear and answered. ‘Yes?’ he said.

The voice was unnaturally deep. Had to be fake – someone putting it on. ‘Leave by the back exit. Wait by the lights on Market Street.’ The phone went dead.

‘Message received and understood,’ Fox muttered. Then, to Breck: ‘Come on.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘He wants us on Market Street.’ Fox crossed the concourse, heading for the stairs.

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s watched too many Bourne films.’

‘Did you recognise the voice?’

‘I’ve never spoken to him.’

‘So maybe it’s not him.’

‘If this was Quidnunc and not real life, how would you play it?’

‘I’d forge alliances.’

Fox looked at him. ‘Not much time for that.’

‘Besides which, who’d want to side with us?’ Breck added.

‘Good question…’ When they reached the top of the footbridge, Fox had to pause to catch his breath. ‘Imagine what I’d be like if I smoked,’ he managed to say.

‘Half a stone lighter?’ Breck replied. Then: ‘What are we supposed to do when we get there?’

‘Await further instructions.’

Breck stared at him. ‘Tell me he didn’t use those words.’

Fox shook his head and started moving again. A further flight of steps and they emerged out on to the pavement. There were traffic lights to their right. Fox looked around, seeking their tormentor. The City Art Centre was in darkness. People scurried past, heads down. North Bridge was overhead to their left, buses nose to tail as they waited for the lights to change at Princes Street.

Breck was staring at the train tickets. ‘I hope he’s going to refund us,’ he said.

‘I think we’re at the very rear of that particular queue, Jamie.’

‘You’re probably right.’

Fox’s phone rang again. He put it to his ear. The voice had changed, unable to sustain its previous tone.

‘Cross the road and head for Jeffrey Street. Once you’re past the bridge, look for a church.’ The caller hung up. Fox turned to Breck.

‘I think we’re about to repent our sins,’ he said, readying to cross at the lights. Fox wasn’t really expecting any church to be open to visitors on a Saturday night, so when they arrived at the doors to Old St Paul’s he stood there, looking to left and right. He checked that he was still getting a signal on his phone – Edinburgh was full of dead zones.

‘What now?’ Breck asked. ‘More waiting?’

‘More waiting,’ Fox agreed.

‘Whatever else happens, this guy’s getting a slap from me.’ Breck paused. ‘Do you think he’s watching us?’

‘Maybe.’

Breck looked up and down the street. ‘Not too many candidates,’ he concluded. It was quieter here than on Market Street. There was a single-decker bus parked outside the Jurys Inn, but no sign of its passengers. ‘Could he be staying there?’

‘Maybe.’

Breck swore beneath his breath while Fox studied the wall of the church. There was a couple of signs, one indicating that Old St Paul’s belonged to the Scottish Episcopal Church, the other giving a taste of its history. The church had been founded in 1689, and was an eighteenth-century refuge for Jacobites. It proclaimed itself a place ‘for all who seek faith’.

‘Amen to that,’ Fox was muttering under his breath as his phone sounded again. He put it to his ear and had already uttered a terse ‘Yes?’ when he realised it was an incoming text. There was just the one capitalised word:

INSIDE.

He showed Breck the screen, and Breck reached out to turn the door handle. With the slightest of pushes, the door opened inwards. There was a flight of stone steps. Fox used the handrail as he climbed. When he turned the corner at the top, he was in a church much larger than its exterior had suggested. There were modern-looking paintings at one end, a pulpit and altar at the other, with a chapel off. A young man was sweeping between the pews. He didn’t pay them any attention, even though Breck was staring at him. But Fox’s attention had shifted to the lit chapel. A huge painting covered most of one wall. Some folding chairs had been placed in front of it. He sat down on one and saw that the painting comprised four square canvases, placed together to make up a vast swirl of white material. Was it meant to be a cloak or a shroud? He couldn’t tell, but he was mesmerised by it.

‘Is that him?’ Breck was whispering. He meant the floor-sweeper.

‘Too young,’ Fox stated.

‘This is just stupid.’ Breck ran his fingers through his hair.

‘Sit down,’ Fox suggested. ‘Take the weight off.’

Breck didn’t look convinced, but he sat down anyway.

‘One of the paintings Brogan sold,’ Fox said quietly, ‘looked a bit like this, only smaller.’ He was remembering the photo of the penthouse’s interior, the one published in the newspaper.

‘Is that why he’s brought us here?’

Fox just shrugged and let his gaze move across the painting. Someone was coming up the stairs. Their footsteps sounded like busy sandpaper. Breck had turned to watch. The footsteps were quieter as they entered the chapel. Breck had risen to his feet, nudging Fox, but Fox was continuing to study the painting. The new arrival crossed in front of him and sat down on the next chair along.

‘The artist’s name is Alison Watt,’ Charles Brogan said. ‘I know a bit about art, Inspector.’

‘Must’ve been a wrench to sell it all…’ Fox turned his head and found himself looking at the drowned man. Brogan had removed a lumberjack-style hat, revealing that his already thinning hair had been shaved off.

‘Did the missus do that?’ Fox asked.

Brogan ran a hand across his skull. He was wearing fingerless black woollen gloves. He looked to have lost some weight and his skin was sallow. He finished rubbing his head and dragged his fingers down around his jaw. He hadn’t shaved in a while. The black workman’s jacket could have been borrowed from one of his building sites. The denims had seen better days, as had the scuffed boots. As disguises went, it wasn’t bad.

Then again, it wasn’t great.

‘You weren’t followed,’ Brogan said. ‘And you didn’t bring the cavalry with you.’

‘How come we didn’t spot you at Waverley?’

‘I was on the overhead walkway. When I called on the phone and saw you answer, I knew you were my guys.’

‘Except we’re not your guys,’ Breck corrected him.

Brogan just shrugged. Fox turned his head a little and fixed him with a stare. ‘What happened to Vince Faulkner?’ he asked.

Brogan was quiet for a moment. He turned his attention to the painting. ‘I’m sorry that happened,’ he said at last.

‘You sent him to meet with Terry Vass, didn’t you?’

Brogan nodded slowly.

‘And Vass decided to send you a message,’ Fox stated.

‘If I’d gone to the sauna…’ Brogan’s voice drifted off.

‘That was the deal, was it? Vass was expecting to see you, but Vince turned up instead?’ For the first time, Fox felt a pang of sorrow for Faulkner’s fate. Brogan had found out about the man’s history of violence, and had thought him a useful ‘soldier’. Vince would have loved playing that role. Maybe he’d goaded Terry Vass, and maybe not. But he had died horribly.

‘You knew from Vince’s personnel file that he had previous,’ Fox went on. ‘You could have gone to Jack Broughton to borrow some muscle, but you had to be your own man, which is why you opted for Vince. He came to you on Saturday night. He’d just clobbered his girlfriend and was angry and ashamed, drinking away the memory of it. Barman at the casino says he should never have got past the door – makes me think you’d primed the bouncers for his arrival…’ Fox paused, but Brogan wasn’t taking his eyes off the painting. ‘You needed him to go meet Vass, so he could take a beating on your behalf. Suited you just fine that he was too drunk to refuse.’ There was a bitter taste at the back of Fox’s throat. He tried swallowing it down.

‘I was desperate,’ Brogan muttered.

‘The cabbie who dropped him near the sauna says he nearly changed his mind about going – he was sobering up fast and he was scared.’

‘Then he shouldn’t have played the tough guy.’ Brogan managed a quick glance in his tormentor’s direction.

Fox was thinking again of Vince Faulkner. With his hidden stash of money at home, payment for past services rendered…

‘Was he killed at the sauna?’ Breck interrupted. ‘Maybe Forensics could take a look.’

But Brogan shook his head. ‘They took him somewhere else… kept him there.’

‘How do you know?’ Fox was giving Brogan his full attention. He watched the man swallow before he answered.

‘They phoned me. They put Vince on…’ He squeezed shut his eyes, trying to block out the memory. ‘I never want to hear anything like that again.’

‘You might,’ Fox said. ‘When they come for Joanna.’

Brogan opened his eyes and glowered at Fox. ‘I’d kill them,’ he spat. ‘They know that.’

‘Maybe.’

‘And if I didn’t, Jack would.’

‘Jack’s what all this is about, isn’t it?’ Fox asked. ‘You were doing something you thought might impress your father-in-law – playing money-man for the big boys. I’m not saying Jack Broughton knew, but you were thinking maybe it would get back to him some day and he’d start to respect you just a little bit more.’

Brogan’s face tightened, and Fox knew he’d struck a nerve.

‘But here’s the thing, Charlie,’ Fox went on. ‘When they come for Joanna – and they will come for her – Jack’s not going to go after them.’ Fox paused. ‘He’s going to come gunning for you. You’re the one he’ll blame.’

Brogan seemed to consider this. ‘I’m in hell,’ he said weakly, eyes back on the painting.

‘That’s why you’re here,’ Fox said. ‘You know we’re your only chance.’

‘What can you do?’ Brogan was bowing his head as if in prayer.

‘I don’t know.’

With head still bowed, Brogan turned his neck so he could watch Fox’s face.

‘I really don’t,’ Fox stated with a shrug of the shoulders. Then, to Breck: ‘Have you got any ideas?’

‘One or two,’ Breck replied after a moment’s consideration.

‘That’s all right, then,’ Fox said. ‘But Charlie… you’re going to have to tell us everything. And it’s got to be done properly.’

Brogan considered this. ‘I really thought it would work,’ he muttered to himself at last.

Fox gave a snort. ‘Vince’s body was found Tuesday afternoon; a few hours later you’re suddenly checking your will at your solicitor’s office, and by Thursday you’re supposed to be dead?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘No, Charlie, it was never going to work.’

‘The deck shoes were a nice touch, though,’ Breck conceded. ‘Left bobbing about on the water like that…’

‘They were Joanna’s idea.’

‘And she helped you come ashore, too?’ Fox guessed. ‘Dinghy, was it?’

‘I swam.’ Brogan puffed out his chest a little. ‘Time was, I could have swum the whole estuary…’

‘Good for you,’ Breck said.

Fox had thought of something else. ‘The money from the paintings… it was to tide you over, right? Did Wauchope find out you were holding on to it? Is that what finally blew his fuse?’

‘Men like Bull Wauchope, their fuses are long blown.’

‘You know Glen Heaton, don’t you? When I started sticking my oar in, did you have Joanna go see him? Did she tell him to fill me in on Bull Wauchope?’

Brogan gave a resigned smile. ‘You said it yourself, Inspector – you’re the one card left in this lousy hand I’ve been dealt…’

There was the sound of someone clearing their throat nearby. All three turned, expecting trouble, but it was only the cleaner.

‘Sorry,’ the man said, ‘but I’ve got to lock up now. Don’t blame you for loitering, though.’ He nodded in the direction of the painting. ‘It’s a great thing, isn’t it? So true to life…’

‘True to life,’ Fox agreed. But it was a shroud, and it reminded him of Vince Faulkner’s ice-cold corpse, lying in the darkness of a mortuary drawer. All because of the shaven-headed fat man who was staring at the painting one final time.

All because Charlie Brogan had something to prove to the world.

It was Annabel Cartwright who met them at Torphichen. She’d already checked that Billy Giles and his team had left for the night. There was a desk sergeant on duty, but he was on the telephone when they arrived. Cartwright ushered them through the door and along the corridor to the interview room. She’d brought a videotape for the camera and audiotape for the recorder. Once everything was set up, Fox mentioned that it would be best for all concerned if she left them to it. She gave the curtest of nods and left the room. She hadn’t so much as acknowledged Jamie Breck’s existence.

‘The debts are piling up,’ Breck commented to Fox.

‘Let’s get on with this,’ Fox replied.

An hour later, they had as much as they needed. Fox pocketed both sets of tapes and they left the station without seeing anyone. There was a locked patrol car outside. Fox looked to left and right, thinking back to the day he’d taken that first walk with Jamie Breck.

‘What now?’ Brogan asked, fixing his hat to his head.

‘Is it safe, wherever you’re staying?’ Fox asked him.

‘Yes.’

‘Does Joanna know the address?’

Brogan gave him a look, and Fox rolled his eyes. ‘If she knows, then it’s not safe.’

‘She’d never tell.’

‘Maybe so…’ Fox didn’t bother with the rest of the sentence. ‘We keep in touch by phone, right?’ He waited until Brogan had nodded his agreement. ‘Okay then. Keep your head down for another day or two while I discuss options with DS Breck.’

Brogan nodded again. A taxi had swept around the corner, its ‘hire’ light illuminated. Brogan stuck out a hand and the driver signalled to stop. Brogan got in and closed the door after him. Whatever destination he gave the driver, neither Fox nor Breck heard it. They watched the cab as it headed for the Morrison Street junction.

‘What now?’ Breck asked.

‘I thought you were the one with the ideas.’

‘You might not like them.’

‘If they’re better than nothing, they’re worth hearing.’ They started walking uphill towards the traffic lights. There was a pub just across the road.

‘What did you think of Brogan?’ Breck asked.

‘I wanted to punch him in the face.’

‘That would have looked good on the video,’ Breck said with the hint of a smile.

‘Wouldn’t it, though,’ Fox agreed. ‘I should have done it when we were in that chapel.’

‘In the sight of God?’ Breck’s voice feigned outrage at the notion. Fox reached out and touched his shoulder.

‘These ideas of yours, Jamie…’

‘To be honest, there’s only the one.’ Breck paused. ‘And you’re really not going to like it.’

‘Because it’s risky?’ Fox guessed.

‘Because it’s stupid,’ Breck corrected him.