The Complaints

29

Monday afternoon, Breck and Fox were playing cards at Breck’s house when the call came. They’d been drinking tea and coffee all day. Three newspapers had been read from cover to cover. TV news had been watched, music listened to, and there’d been phone calls to Annabel and Jude. Lunch had comprised supermarket sandwiches and chocolate eclairs. The sun had been shining earlier, bringing a little warmth with it, but now the sky was a sheet of unbroken cloud the colour of old dishwater.

‘It’s him,’ Fox said, glancing at the phone’s tiny screen.

‘How do you know?’

‘I don’t recognise the number.’ Fox waggled the phone at Breck but didn’t answer it.

‘Don’t tease the man,’ Breck chided him. He was attempting levity, but Fox could see he was anxious. Fox pressed the answer button and placed the phone to his ear.

‘Malcolm Fox speaking.’ He realised his own voice sounded higher than usual – Breck wasn’t the only one suffering nerves.

‘It’s me.’ Bull Wauchope’s voice. He probably thought he was being clever, not identifying himself by name. As if the latest technology couldn’t match a voice to its owner as surely as fingerprints.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m still not sure I get it.’

‘There’s nothing to get – we meet, we ask you a few questions. If we’re happy with what we hear, you get your little reward.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’

‘So why don’t we do it over the phone?’

‘Because a phone could be bugged, couldn’t it? Same as my car yesterday. I’m just trying to put your mind at rest…’

‘I choose where we meet?’

‘Somewhere you know you’ll be safe.’

‘I like Lowther’s.’

‘Fine, but I don’t want too many people around – could it be after closing time?’ Fox was looking at Breck and Breck winked back – he had bet twenty quid Wauchope would choose the pub.

‘I’ll make sure everybody’s gone by eleven.’

‘Then we’ll be there at quarter past.’

‘But not with Brogan?’

‘Not till we’ve had our little chat.’

‘I’ll need proof you know where he is.’

‘Not a problem.’

‘And I swear to God, if you try anything I’ll have you nailed to the wall before your buddies can kick the door down.’

‘Understood. But I want us to be clear on something – Heaton and Vass are not negotiable.’

‘Give me Brogan and they’re yours.’ The line went dead. Fox held the phone in his hands for a moment.

‘Well?’ Breck asked.

‘We’ve got more calls to make.’ Fox held the phone in front of him and found the number he was looking for.

‘Five hours till we have to leave,’ Breck calculated. ‘Is that enough time?’

‘It better be,’ Malcolm Fox said as the first of his calls was answered.

They parked the car outside Lowther’s at precisely one minute to eleven. People were leaving, not all of them happy at having their evening curtailed. But the grumbling was muted, and even then it only started once they were safely on the street. At five past, Terry Vass emerged. He recognised the Volvo but ignored it. His job seemed to be reconnaissance. He walked up and down the street, looking for signs that Fox and Breck had brought company. Seemingly satisfied, he headed inside again. At ten past, Fox asked Breck if he was ready.

‘Few more minutes,’ Breck replied with a glance at his watch. They sat in silence, and saw the bar staff making to leave, shrugging themselves into their jackets, lighting cigarettes as they headed home. Vass came out of the pub again, this time signalling for them that it was time. Fox looked at Breck and nodded. Breck fetched the laptop from the back seat and they crossed the road. There hadn’t been time for anyone to do more than the most cursory amount of tidying up. A few chairs had been placed upside down on tables, and the top of the bar was lined with dirty glasses. The fruit machine’s lights were flashing, tempting players who no longer existed.

At a corner table sat Bull Wauchope. His arms were draped along the edge of the bench behind him.

‘Search them,’ he ordered.

Vass stood in front of the two detectives. ‘Take off your jackets and undo your shirts.’

‘As long as you’re not after The Full Monty,’ Breck said, placing the laptop on the nearest table. They slid their jackets off and unbuttoned their shirts, untucking them so Vass could check for wires. He patted down each jacket, squeezing the pockets and reaching in to check they only had wallets and phones.

‘Trousers, Terry,’ Wauchope barked, so Vass ran his hands down their legs, too, checking their ankles and socks.

‘Nothing,’ he said, struggling to get back to his feet.

‘Take their phones off them – don’t want anyone eavesdropping, do we?’

Vass ended up with three phones. ‘This one’s got two,’ he told his boss, nodding towards Fox.

Wauchope stared at Fox and Breck, then pointed to the chairs on the other side of the table. Breck placed the laptop between them. ‘Okay if I plug this in?’ he asked, looking down at the floor for the nearest socket.

‘What’s it for?’ Wauchope demanded.

‘Proof,’ Fox told him. ‘And since I don’t have a phone, I’ll need to borrow yours.’ He had his hand held out.

‘Give him his phone back,’ Wauchope ordered Terry Vass. Then: ‘But I’m warning you…’

‘Crucifixion’s not high on my wish list,’ Fox assured him.

Breck had found a socket on the skirting board below the bench. Fox punched buttons on his phone and held it to his ear. Wauchope’s eyes had narrowed. They were flitting between the two men.

‘We’re ready, Tony,’ Fox said when the call was answered. Then he snapped the phone shut and tossed it towards Vass. Breck had powered up the laptop and turned it so it was facing Wauchope.

‘Give it a minute,’ he said, leaning over so he could make a few adjustments.

‘Mind if I…?’ Fox nodded towards the bench. Wauchope’s head twitched, which Fox took for agreement. He sat down next to the man so he too could view the screen. Wauchope’s body odour was almost overpowering.

‘What we’ve got,’ Fox explained, trying to keep his breathing shallow, ‘is a webcam.’ On the screen, a three-inch-square box had opened. There was a face there, Charles Brogan’s face.

‘Who’s Tony?’ Wauchope asked.

‘Just someone doing me a favour.’

‘He’s operating the camera?’

‘Didn’t think Brogan could be trusted to do it for himself.’

Wauchope leaned forward. Brogan’s head was moving from side to side as he stretched the muscles in his neck. There was no sound. ‘Why’s the picture so small?’

‘Blame the laptop,’ Fox explained. ‘Wages Breck’s on, he can’t always afford quality.’

‘I could magnify it,’ Breck added, ‘but you’d lose definition.’

Wauchope just grunted. Then, a few seconds later: ‘You’re telling me this is live?’ Instead of answering, Fox gestured for the phone again.

‘One way to prove it,’ he offered.

Vass looked to his boss for permission, then handed the phone over. Fox waited until he was connected.

‘Tony,’ he said, ‘tell him we need a wave.’

The face on the computer turned to one side, as if listening to an instruction. Then Charlie Brogan gave a half-hearted wave of one hand. Fox snapped shut the phone again, holding on to it this time. Wauchope kept staring at the screen.

‘So now you know we’ve got him,’ Fox said.

‘I know he’s in police custody,’ Wauchope corrected him, but Fox shook his head.

‘You’ve got friends in Lothian and Borders, Bull – you know he’s not handed himself in.’

Wauchope turned to look at him. ‘What is it you want?’

‘I want to know why my colleague here was targeted.’

Wauchope considered for a second, then turned his attention back to the screen. ‘He can’t hear me?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Fox confirmed.

Wauchope leaned his face right in against the screen. ‘Going to get you, you fucker!’ he yelled. Flecks of saliva spattered Brogan’s head and shoulders.

‘Will that be enough to appease the gangs in Lanarkshire and Aberdeen?’ Fox asked. Wauchope turned to him again.

‘It’s a start,’ he confirmed. ‘I told them he’d die.’

‘When he disappeared from the boat… you could’ve tried taking the credit.’ Fox saw Wauchope’s face change. ‘You did, didn’t you? You told them you’d had him executed? That’s why he can’t turn up alive and kicking…’

Wauchope was staring at him again. Breck cleared his throat.

‘Malcolm… maybe we’re cheating ourselves here.’

‘How do you mean?’ Fox asked.

‘We’re trading him for a few scraps of information. Seems to me he’s worth a whole lot more now.’

‘Don’t go getting greedy,’ Wauchope snarled.

‘Then start talking,’ Fox said. He had risen and shifted to the seat next to Breck. Wauchope’s eyes were on the screen again. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He had an inch of lager left in his glass, and he drained it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He made a smacking sound with his lips, then stared across the table.

‘I don’t trust you,’ he said.

‘The feeling’s mutual,’ Fox answered. ‘If it comes to it, it’s us two against you and your gorilla – I’m not entirely sure I fancy those odds.’

Wauchope almost smiled, but didn’t. He glanced in Vass’s direction. The man-mountain was resting his weight against the top of the bar, arms folded, breathing noisily through his mouth. Fox knew what Wauchope was thinking: if he stuck to the deal, he really was going to lose his lieutenant. When Wauchope turned his attention back to Fox, Fox knew the decision had been made.

Terry Vass could be replaced.

But there was something else: Vass couldn’t be handed over to the police; he might start talking. Fox gave the briefest of nods, letting Wauchope know this was the gangster’s problem and no one else’s.

‘Where is he?’ Wauchope asked, jabbing a fat finger at the screen.

‘We need to hear the story first.’

‘What’s to tell?’ Wauchope said with a shrug. ‘You already know the way it happened. Your pal here was sniffing around a councillor called Wishaw, but Brogan needed Wishaw.’

‘Why?’

‘He was the last lifebelt on the Titanic. Brogan’s plan was to get the council to buy his unfinished flats and all that spare land he had on his books. They’d then have a place to put all the dregs on their waiting lists. Wishaw was supposed to be made head of housing, but it never happened. Still, he sat on the committee – there was a chance he could swing it. But then he got panicky, said the police were hassling him about some drug thing from way back.’ Wauchope was looking at Breck. ‘So it’s all your fault, really.’

‘I had to be discredited?’ Breck asked. Wauchope nodded and leaned back against the bench. It creaked under the strain.

‘You already knew Ernie Wishaw, didn’t you?’ Fox asked Wauchope. ‘Glen Heaton had done you a favour, made sure Wishaw didn’t get dragged into the case against his driver. That meant Wishaw owed you, but at the same time you owed Heaton, and Heaton wanted a favour – if he went to trial, stuff would start spilling out. That couldn’t happen. Your job was to set me up for Vince Faulkner’s murder.’

‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Wauchope gave a slow shake of the head. ‘Like I said before, I only know about him.’ He stabbed a finger in Jamie Breck’s direction, and it was Breck who responded.

‘You had to have someone inside the force. Someone who knew what was happening in Australia. Someone with access to my credit card…’

‘Think I’m going to tell you?’

‘If you want Brogan, you’re going to have to,’ Fox interrupted. ‘Only problem is, it’s not going to go down well with your dad, is it?’

Wauchope glared at him. ‘You already know,’ he said.

‘I’m the Complaints, Bull. Other cops are an open book to me. I just had to go back through the files far enough.’ Fox paused. ‘Long before he became Deputy Chief Constable, Adam Traynor worked right here on Tayside. He had a couple of run-ins with your dad, but nothing ever came to trial. Funny that… the way those cases kept falling apart… Did you ask your dad to put you in touch?’

Wauchope kept glaring. The silence lengthened. When he eventually moved his head, the signal was ambiguous.

‘Is that a yes?’ Fox asked.

‘It’s a yes,’ the gangster said.

‘Traynor arranged all the details?’

‘Yes.’

‘For old times’ sake?’

‘He owed Dad a few favours – plenty of cops owe my dad favours, Fox.’

‘Probably explains why it took Tayside so long to lock him up.’ Fox watched the scowl spread across the son’s face. ‘So Brogan needs DS Breck kicked into touch and you arrange the details. But then what happens? He sets Vince Faulkner on you?’

‘Faulkner was amateur hour. Terry saw him as a living, breathing insult.’

‘You didn’t give an order?’

Wauchope shook his head. ‘First I knew of it was when Terry phoned me.’

Fox turned in his chair so he was half facing the man at the bar. ‘The argument got out of hand? You whacked him a bit too hard? See, Brogan has a different take – he says Faulkner was tortured and his screams fed down the phone to send him a message.’ When Vass said nothing, Fox turned back to Wauchope. ‘Did Brogan lie to me?’

‘What do you say, Terry?’ the gangster called to his lieutenant. Then, to Fox: ‘Like I said, Terry felt insulted. Maybe the phone call was to let Brogan know.’ Wauchope gazed at the screen again. ‘He’s still sitting there. Can you get your pal to punch him or something? ’

‘Where was Vince Faulkner killed? That sauna of yours in the Cowgate?’

Wauchope turned his attention back to Vass. ‘Terry?’

‘Back of the van,’ Vass muttered.

‘I didn’t catch that,’ Fox complained.

‘Terry took one of the vans down to Edinburgh,’ Wauchope explained. ‘You didn’t really mean for him to die, did you, Terry? You just thought you were putting him in hospital.’

Fox didn’t bother checking Vass’s reaction. ‘Where do I come in?’ he asked instead.

‘You don’t,’ Wauchope said with a shrug. ‘Not as far as I’m concerned. ’

‘I was under surveillance… then I got put on to DS Breck’s case. No coincidence.’

‘Nothing to do with me.’

‘I need more than that,’ Fox said.

‘There isn’t any more than that!’ Wauchope slapped his palm against the surface of the table.

‘Then you need to ask another favour from Traynor – because if you really don’t know, maybe he does.’

Wauchope wagged a finger. ‘No more favours till I’ve got my hands on Charlie Brogan.’

The two men stared at one another.

‘I hand him over,’ Fox guessed, ‘and you rip him to pieces in front of an invited audience?’

‘That’s the deal we had.’

Fox turned towards Breck. ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘We folded when we should have raised.’

‘We can still raise,’ Breck commented.

‘Not if you want to leave here without the help of paramedics,’ Wauchope growled. ‘Fun’s over – all I want from you now is the address.’

Fox drew a beer mat towards himself and took out a pen. ‘It’s quarter to twelve now,’ he said. ‘It’s going to take you an hour and a bit to get to Edinburgh. At half past one, my pal walks out of the house. Once he’s gone, you can go in whenever you like.’ He had written down an address. He pushed the mat in Wauchope’s direction.

‘And if this is all a ruse?’ the gangster asked.

‘Come and get us,’ Fox answered with a shrug. Wauchope slid a fingernail under the mat and lifted it to peer at the address.

‘Is this a joke?’ he asked.

‘No joke,’ Fox assured him, tucking the pen back into his pocket. ‘There are dozens of finished properties still on the books at Salamander Point. Some of them are even furnished – an enticement to buy, I suppose.’

Wauchope was staring past Fox towards Terry Vass. ‘First place we should have looked,’ he rasped.

‘You’re cleverer than Breck and me, then,’ Fox stated. ‘It was number three or four on our list.’ He paused. ‘Are we done here?’

Wauchope fixed him with another long, cold stare. Breck was unplugging the laptop and shutting it down.

‘We’re done,’ the gangster eventually said. And then: ‘Terry, go fetch the van…’

30

Fox and Breck drove back to Edinburgh at speed and with Breck on his phone for most of the way. Their destination was Police HQ at Fettes. Tony Kaye’s Nissan was parked outside the main entrance. Fox pulled up next to him and got out, Breck following suit. Kaye came to meet them, while Charles Brogan stayed in the Nissan’s passenger seat.

‘He all right?’ Fox asked.

‘Scared shitless,’ Kaye answered with a smile.

‘He heard the whole thing?’

‘Clear as a bell.’

‘So he’s convinced it’s us or nothing?’

‘He’s convinced. Doesn’t mean he’s happy about it.’

‘He did well, though,’ Jamie Breck said. ‘If Wauchope had screamed at me like that, I’d have started running for the hills.’

‘I kept the volume low,’ Kaye explained. ‘And there was a bit of prep beforehand…’

Breck had bent a little at the knees so he could give Brogan a thumbs-up sign, while Brogan resolutely ignored him.

‘Have you tried playing it back?’ Fox was asking Kaye.

‘It’s fine – sound and vision, and copied on to an external hard drive, date- and time-stamped.’

‘What would we have done if he’d spotted the camera?’ Breck asked Fox.

‘Told him the truth,’ Fox replied. ‘It’s built into the laptop, meaning there’s nothing to be done about it.’

‘He’d have wanted it covered up.’

‘We’d still have the audio.’ Fox looked to Kaye for confirmation. Kaye nodded back at him and Fox patted his friend’s arm. Truth to tell, he’d harboured doubts about Tony Kaye, had even wondered for a time if Kaye might have been got at. He felt a little bad about that… but not too bad.

Fox’s phone rang and he answered it. It was Bob McEwan, letting them know the squad was in position at Salamander Point.

‘The van’s got to go to Forensics,’ Fox reminded him. ‘Could well be the same one they used with Vince Faulkner.’

‘Relax, Malcolm,’ McEwan said, ending the call.

‘He says we should relax,’ Fox informed Breck and Kaye.

‘Want to go watch the fun?’ Breck asked. Fox checked his watch.

‘If they catch so much as a glimpse of us,’ he warned, ‘they’ll know something’s up.’

‘What about our resident scaredy-cat?’ Kaye gestured towards Brogan.

‘We keep him at HQ for the interview – I’d hate for him to have an “accident”.’

‘You’re saying Leith’s not safe?’

‘Is anywhere?’ Fox asked, sounding deadly serious.

It was another five minutes before the surveillance vehicle arrived, driven by Joe Naysmith and with Gilchrist as his passenger. Fox hauled open the driver’s-side door.

‘Well?’ he asked.

Naysmith jumped down from the van and Breck tossed him the three-pin adaptor. This, rather than the laptop’s mains cable, was what he’d plugged into the wall socket at the pub. The device only looked like an adaptor, but was actually a bug with its own transmitter and a range of seventy-five metres. Terry Vass had looked up and down the street, but the van had been parked around the corner.

‘Picked up every word,’ Naysmith said, beaming a smile.

‘And duly recorded.’ Gilchrist was holding a freshly burned CD in his hand.

Breck started counting off on his fingers. ‘Brogan’s evidence… plus the laptop… plus the surveillance…’

‘Any evidence Forensics can lift from the van,’ Fox added. ‘And the fact they’re about to be caught red-handed…’

‘Just about wraps it up,’ Breck concluded. ‘Doesn’t it?’

‘Just about,’ Fox seemed to agree. The two men stared at one another.

‘All right then,’ Fox relented. ‘Let’s go.’

It took them only a few minutes to reach Salamander Point, helped by the fact that the roads were deserted. They had borrowed Kaye’s car to make them less recognisable to Wauchope and Vass. Fox was in the driving seat, slowing only marginally for red lights and then going through them if there was no other traffic.

‘We’re not going to get much of a view if we stay in the car,’ Breck complained. ‘There’s nowhere nearby to park.’ So they left the Nissan on a side street and walked around the perimeter of the site. The temporary fencing had been removed from that part of Salamander Point boasting finished abodes. Grass had been laid, and a few trees and shrubs planted. The address handed to Wauchope belonged to one of the few actual houses. It was semi-detached and stood in a row of six. There was light coming from its upstairs window. Fox had plumped for it because there was less chance of neighbours getting in the way. Many of the flats were occupied, but four of the six houses stood empty. Fox and Breck kept their distance, peering from behind a brick wall that sheltered the neighbours’ dustbins from general view. There was no sign of life from any of the properties.

‘We can’t have missed them,’ Breck whispered. ‘Maybe the van wouldn’t start, or they got cold feet…’

‘Ssh,’ Fox advised. ‘Listen.’

The low rumble of an engine. A scruffy white van slowly turning the corner into the cul-de-sac. Each homeowner had a parking bay, but these were grouped together at the rear of the row of houses. The roadway was to be kept clear at all times, and boasted an unbroken run of double yellow lines. Not that this bothered the van. Its headlights had been turned off, and it pulled to a stop in the middle of the tarmac. When the engine died, Fox realised he was holding his breath. The burning bulb in the upstairs bedroom had been Tony Kaye’s idea. A good one, too. The van doors creaked open and two men got out. Fox recognised both of them. They padded over to the front door of the house, Wauchope’s face illuminated by the screen of his phone. Fox realised he was checking the time. When he nodded, Vass tried the door handle. Having opened it a fraction, proof that it hadn’t been locked, they pulled it closed again and went to check through the downstairs window. Then Bull Wauchope took a couple of steps back and angled his head towards the lit window upstairs. He seemed to whisper something to Vass, who nodded his agreement. Vass retreated to the van, looking to left and right, and returned carrying a length of clothes line and a roll of tape.

It was Wauchope who pushed the door open, but he let Vass lead the way. When both men were inside, Fox nodded towards Breck. They left their hiding place and started crossing the road. They were halfway to the door when they heard the shouts. Suddenly the doors of the houses on either side flew open, officers pouring out and following Wauchope and Vass inside. There were figures in the upstairs window – more officers. They were dressed in black and protected by visors and stab vests. They carried pepper spray and truncheons. There were yelled commands and the sounds of a struggle. Fox and Breck had no means of identifying themselves to their colleagues, so stayed outside on the path, moving aside when the team started pouring back out again. Wauchope and Vass had been handcuffed and were led downstairs, an officer behind them toting an evidence bag containing the clothes line and tape. Breck stayed to watch, but Fox had walked over to the van. He used the sleeve of his jacket when he turned the handle, opening its back doors and staring at the shadowy interior. Neighbours were finally coming out, alerted to the commotion. Officers were reassuring them that there was nothing to be worried about. Fox kept staring. He could make out Terry Vass’s voice, cursing the arresting officers. Police cars were arriving on the scene, lights flashing, bringing out more spectators. Fox flipped his mobile phone open, using the light from its screen as a torch. A sheet of plywood separated the rear compartment from the front seats. Wedged in against the furthest corner was a big, ugly-looking steel hammer. It looked stained, matted with something very like human hair. The phone’s screen went dark again, but Fox only turned his head away from the scene when he felt Jamie Breck’s hand land lightly on his shoulder.

‘You okay, Malcolm?’ Breck was asking.

‘I’m not sure,’ Fox admitted. He saw that Bob McEwan was standing in the doorway of the house, hands in pockets. McEwan spotted Fox and Breck, but made no gesture of recognition. Instead, he turned and wandered back indoors.