The Complaints

2

Monday morning, Malcolm Fox spent almost as much time finding a parking space at HQ as it had taken him to drive there in the first place. Tony Kaye and Joe Naysmith were already in the office. As the ‘junior’, Naysmith had brewed a pot of coffee, and provided a carton of milk to go with it. Come Friday, he would ask the others to chip in. Sometimes they would and sometimes they wouldn’t, and Naysmith would continue the pretence of keeping tabs on what he was owed.

‘A quid outstanding,’ he said now, standing in front of Fox’s desk, hands bunched in pockets.

‘Double or quits at the end of the week,’ Fox answered, hanging up his coat. It was a beautiful bright day outside, the road surfaces free of ice. Gardens Fox had driven past on his estate had boasted blobs of white where snowmen had once stood. He removed his jacket, displaying the same dark-blue braces. His tie today was a more vibrant red than Friday’s, his shirt white with stripes of yellow as fine as strands of hair. There wasn’t much in his briefcase, but he opened it anyway. Naysmith had retreated to the coffee jug.

‘Three sugars,’ Kaye was reminding him, receiving the expected gesture in reply.

‘No sign of Bob?’ Fox asked.

Naysmith shook his mop of hair – his weekend hadn’t included a trim – and pointed towards Fox’s desk. ‘Should be a message there, though.’

Fox looked, but couldn’t see anything. He slid back his chair and peered beneath the desk. A slip of paper was lying on the floor, already boasting the imprint of his shoe sole. He lifted it up and turned it over, studying McEwan’s writing.

Inglis – CEOP – 10.30.

CEOP meant Child Protection – Child Exploitation and Online Protection, to give it its full title. Most of the cops pronounced it ‘chop’. Room 2.24, at the far end of the corridor and round the corner, was the Chop Shop. Fox had been inside a couple of times, stomach clenched at the very thought of what went on there.

‘Know anyone called Inglis?’ he asked out loud. Neither Naysmith nor Kaye could help. Fox looked at his watch: 10.30 was over an hour away. Naysmith was stirring a mug noisily. Kaye was leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms and yawning. Fox folded the piece of paper and placed it in his pocket, got up and slipped his jacket back on.

‘Won’t be long,’ he said.

‘We’ll soldier on somehow,’ Kaye assured him.

The corridor was a few degrees cooler than the Complaints office. Fox didn’t rush, but it still took him only a few moments to reach 2.24. It was the very last door, and unusual in that it had its own high-security lock and entryphone. There were no names listed; the Chop Shop kept itself to itself – not unlike the Complaints. A sign on the door spelled out a warning: ‘There may be disturbing sounds and images in this room. When working at screens, a minimum of two people must be present.’ Fox took a deep breath, pressed the button and waited. A male voice came from the speaker.

‘Yes?’

‘Inspector Fox. I’m here to see Inglis.’

There was silence, then the voice again: ‘You’re keen.’

‘Am I?’

‘Ten thirty, wasn’t it?’

‘Says half nine here.’

Another silence, then: ‘Hang on.’

He waited, studying the tips of his shoes. He’d bought them on George Street a month back, and they still rubbed the skin from his heels. Quality shoes, though: the assistant had said they’d last ‘till Doomsday… or the tram line’s up and running… whichever comes first’. Bright kid; sense of humour. Fox had asked why she wasn’t in college.

‘What’s the point?’ she’d answered. ‘No good jobs anyway, not unless you emigrate.’

That had taken Fox back to his own teenage years. A good many of his contemporaries had dreamed of earning big money abroad. Some of them had succeeded, too, but not many.

The door in front of him was being opened from within. A woman was standing there. She wore a pale green blouse and black trousers. She was about four inches shorter than him, and maybe ten years younger. There was a gold watch on her left wrist. No rings on any of her fingers. She held out her right hand for him to shake.

‘I’m Inglis,’ she said by way of introduction.

‘Fox,’ he replied, then, with a smile, ‘Malcolm Fox.’

‘You’re PSU.’ It was a statement, but Fox nodded anyway. Behind her, the office was more cramped than he remembered. Five desks with just enough room between them for anyone to squeeze by. The walls were lined with filing cabinets and free-standing metal shelves. On the shelves sat computers and their hard drives. Some of the hard drives had been stripped back to show their workings. Others were bagged and tagged as evidence. The only free wall space had been covered with head shots. The men didn’t all look the same. Some were young, some old; some had beards and moustaches; some were dull-eyed and shifty, others unapologetic as they faced the camera. There was only one other person in the room, presumably the man who had spoken over the intercom. He was seated at his desk, studying the visitor. Fox nodded towards him and the man nodded back.

‘That’s Gilchrist,’ Inglis said. ‘Come in and make yourself comfortable. ’

‘Is that even possible?’ Fox asked.

Inglis looked around her. ‘We do what we can.’

‘Are there just the two of you?’

‘At the moment,’ Inglis admitted. ‘High rate of attrition and all that.’

‘Plus we mostly end up passing cases to London,’ Gilchrist added. ‘They’ve got a hundred-strong team down there.’

‘A hundred seems a lot,’ Fox commented.

‘You’ve not seen their workload,’ Inglis said.

‘And do I call you Inglis? I mean, is there a rank, or maybe a first name…?’

‘Annie,’ she eventually told him. There was no one at the desk next to hers, so she motioned for Fox to seat himself there.

‘Give us a twirl, Anthea,’ Gilchrist said. From the way he said it, Fox got the notion that the joke was wearing thin for all concerned.

‘Bruce Forsyth?’ he guessed. ‘The Generation Game?’

Inglis nodded. ‘I’m supposedly named after the gorgeous pouting assistant.’

‘But you prefer Annie?’

‘I definitely prefer Annie, unless you want to keep things formal, in which case it’s DS Inglis.’

‘Annie’s fine by me.’ Fox, seated, picked a loose thread from the leg of his trousers. He was trying to avoid the file on the desk in front of him. It was marked ‘School Uniform’. He cleared his throat. ‘My boss told me you wanted to see me.’

Inglis nodded. She had settled in front of her computer. An additional laptop was balanced precariously atop the hard drive. ‘How much do you know about CEOP?’ she asked.

‘I know you spend your time rounding up perverts.’

‘Well put,’ said Gilchrist, hammering away at his keyboard.

‘I’m told it was easier in the old days,’ Inglis added. ‘But now we’ve all gone digital. Nobody hands their photos in for processing any more. Nobody has to buy magazines or even go to the trouble of printing anything, except in the privacy of their own home. You can groom a kid from the other side of the world, only meet up with them when you’re sure they’re ready.’

‘Good and ready,’ Gilchrist echoed.

Fox ran a finger around his shirt collar. It was hellishly warm in here. He couldn’t take off his jacket – this was a business meeting; first impressions and all that. He noted though that Annie Inglis’s jacket was over the back of her chair. It was pale pink and looked fashionable. Her hair was cut short, almost in what would have been called a pageboy. It was a glossy brown, and he wondered if she dyed it. She wore a little make-up; not too much. And no nail varnish. He noticed, too, that unlike the rest of the offices on this floor, the windows were opaque.

‘It gets hot in here,’ she was telling him. ‘All the hard drives we keep running. Take off your jacket if you like.’

He gave a thin smile: all the time he’d been trying to read her, she’d been reading him, too. He dispensed with the jacket, draping it across his knees. When Inglis and Gilchrist exchanged a glance, he knew it was to do with his braces.

‘Other problem with our “client base”,’ she went on, ‘is that they’re getting smarter all the time. They know the hardware and software better than we do. We’re always trying to catch up. Here’s an example.’

She had nudged the mouse on her desk with her wrist. The computer screen, which had been blank, now showed a distorted image.

‘We call this a “swirl”,’ she explained. ‘Offenders send each other pictures, but only after they’ve encrypted them. Then we need to devise software to allow us to un-swirl them.’ With a click of the mouse, the photo began to resolve itself into an image of a man with his arm around an Asian boy. ‘You see?’ Inglis asked.

‘Yes,’ Fox said.

‘Plenty of other tricks, too. They’ve gotten so they can hide images behind other images. If you don’t know that’s the case, you might not bother stripping them out. We’ve seen hard drives hidden inside other hard drives…’

‘We’ve seen everything,’ Gilchrist stressed. Inglis looked across at her colleague.

‘Except we haven’t,’ she reminded him. ‘Every week there’s something new, something more revolting. All of it accessible twenty-four seven. You sit at your computer at home, surfing, maybe buying stuff or reading the gossip, and you’re about four clicks away from hell.’

‘Or heaven,’ Gilchrist interrupted, eyes fixed on his own screen. ‘It’s all a matter of taste. We’ve got stuff that would make the hairs on your scrotum stand on end.’

Fox knew that the Chop Shop considered itself a breed apart, different from the other cops at Fettes HQ: thicker-skinned, resilient, toughened by the job. A macho outfit, too. He wondered how hard Annie Inglis had worked in order to fit in.

‘You’ve got my attention,’ was all he said. Inglis was tapping at her screen with the tip of a ballpoint pen.

‘This guy here,’ she said, indicating the man with the Asian boy. ‘We know who he is. We know quite a lot about him.’

‘Is he a cop?’

She looked at Fox. ‘What makes you ask?’

‘Why else would I be here?’

She nodded slowly. ‘Well, you’re right. But our man is an Aussie, based in Melbourne.’

‘And?’

‘And, like I say, we know a lot about him.’ She opened a folder and brought out some sheets of paper. ‘He runs a website for like-minded people. There’s an entrance fee to be paid before they come aboard.’

‘They have to share,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Twenty-five pics minimum. ’

‘Pics?’

‘Of them with kids. Share and share alike…’

‘But there’s a nominal cash fee, too, paid by credit card,’ Inglis added. She handed Fox the top two sheets, a list of names and numbers. ‘Recognise anyone?’

Fox went down the list twice. There were almost a hundred names. He shook his head slowly.

‘J. Breck?’ Inglis announced. ‘The J’s for Jamie.’

‘Jamie Breck…’ The name did mean something. Then Fox got it. ‘He’s Lothian and Borders,’ he said.

‘Yes, he is,’ Inglis agreed.

‘If it’s the same Jamie Breck.’

‘Credit card comes all the way back to Edinburgh. To Jamie Breck’s bank, in fact.’

‘You’ve already checked?’ Fox handed back the list. Inglis was nodding.

‘We’ve already checked.’

‘Okay, then. So where do I come in?’

‘As of right now, his credit card’s all we’ve got. He’s not posted the photos yet – maybe he’s not going to.’

‘The site’s still active?’

‘We’re hoping they don’t catch wind of us, not until we’re good and ready.’

‘Members in over a dozen countries,’ Gilchrist broke in. ‘Teachers, youth leaders, church ministers…’

‘And none of them know you’re on to them?’

‘Us and a dozen other forces across the globe.’

‘One time,’ Inglis added, ‘the office in London arrested a ringleader and took over the running of his site. It took the users ten days to start suspecting something…’

‘By which time,’ Gilchrist interrupted again, ‘there was plenty of evidence against them.’

Fox nodded and turned his attention back to Inglis. ‘What do you want PSU to do?’

‘Normally we would let London do the work, but this one’s local, so…’ She paused, fixing her gaze on Fox. ‘We want you to paint us a picture. We want to know more about Jamie Breck.’

Fox glanced at the image on the screen. ‘And it couldn’t be a mistake?’ When he turned his attention back to Annie Inglis, she was giving a shrug.

‘Chief Inspector McEwan tells us you’ve just busted Glen Heaton. Breck works in the same station.’

‘So?’

‘So you can talk to him.’

‘About Heaton?’

‘You make it look as though it’s about Heaton. Then you tell us what you think.’

Fox shook his head. ‘I’m not a well-liked man around those parts. I doubt Breck would give me the time of day. But if he’s dirty…’

‘Yes?’

‘We can look into it.’

‘Surveillance?’

‘If necessary.’ He had her attention now, and even Gilchrist had stopped what he’d been doing. ‘We can look at what he gets up to on his computer. We can scrutinise his personal life.’ Fox paused, rubbing at his forehead. ‘The credit card’s all you’ve got?’

‘For now.’

‘What’s to stop him saying someone else must’ve used it?’

‘That’s why we need more.’ Inglis had swivelled in her chair so that her knees were a millimetre from his. She leaned forward, elbows resting on her thighs, hands clasped. ‘But he can’t suspect anything. If he does, he warns all the others. We’ll lose them.’

‘And the kids,’ Fox added quietly.

‘What?’

‘It’s all about the kids, right? Child protection?’

‘Right,’ Gilchrist said.

‘Right,’ Annie Inglis echoed.

Fox was a few steps short of the Complaints office when he stopped. He’d put his jacket back on, and was running his fingers down the lapels, just for something to do. He was thinking about DS Anthea Inglis (who preferred to be known as Annie) and her colleague Gilchrist – he didn’t even know the man’s rank or first name. Thinking, too, about the whole Chop Shop operation. PSU might be called ‘the Dark Side’, but he got the feeling Inglis and her colleague would daily peer into more darkness than he would ever know. All the same, they were a cocky bunch. At PSU, you knew everybody hated you, but CEOP was different. Fellow cops didn’t like the thought of what you’d seen, and wouldn’t talk to you for fear of what you might open their eyes and minds to. Yes, that was it: the Chop Shop was feared. Properly feared, in a way the Complaints wasn’t. Behind the locked door of 2.24 lurked a lifetime’s supply of nightmare and bogeyman.

‘Malcolm?’ The voice came from behind him. He turned to see Annie Inglis standing there, arms folded, legs slightly parted. She came towards him, her eyes fixed on his. ‘Here,’ she said, holding something out in front of her. It was her business card. ‘It’s got my mobile and my e-mail, just in case you feel the need.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, pretending to study the printed lines. ‘I was just…’

‘Just standing there?’ she guessed. ‘Thinking about everything?’

He took out his wallet, sliding one of his own cards from it. She accepted it with a little bow of the head, turned and walked back along the corridor. An elegant walk, he decided. A woman sure of her abilities, confident in her own skin, aware she was being scrutinised. Nice arse, too.

The PSU office was a lot noisier than it had been. Bob McEwan was at his desk, busy with a phone call. He saw Fox coming towards him and made eye contact, nodding to let him know it was okay. McEwan’s desk was always tidy, but Fox knew this was because everything got tipped into its half-dozen drawers on a regular basis. Tony Kaye had gone looking for paracetamol one day and had called Fox and Naysmith over to take a look.

‘It’s like archaeology,’ Joe Naysmith had offered. ‘Layer upon layer…’

McEwan put the phone down and started making a note to himself, his handwriting barely legible. ‘How did it go?’ he asked quietly.

Fox rested his knuckles against the desk and leaned in towards his boss. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘It was fine. You okay with me doing this?’

‘Depends what you’re thinking of.’

‘Background check to start with, surveillance afterwards as needed.’

‘Hack into his computer?’

Fox shrugged. ‘First things first.’

‘They asked you to talk to him?’

‘Not sure that’s such a good idea. He might be mates with Heaton.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ McEwan said, ‘so I had a quiet word.’

Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who with?’

‘Someone in the know.’ Sensing that Fox was trying to decipher the handwritten note, McEwan turned it over. ‘Breck and Heaton are rivals more than buddies. That gives you your excuse.’

‘But our work on Heaton’s done and dusted.’

‘For now it is, but who’s to know?’

‘And you’ll back me up? Sign off on the paperwork?’

‘Whatever you need. DCC is already in the loop.’

Meaning the Deputy Chief Constable, Adam Traynor, whose authorisation was required for any of the small-scale covert stuff. McEwan’s phone rang and he placed his hand on the receiver, ready to pick it up, gaze still locked on to Fox. ‘I’ll leave it to your discretion, Foxy.’ Then, as Fox straightened up, readying to leave: ‘Did you enjoy your long weekend, by the way?’

‘Managed two nights in Monaco,’ Fox replied.

As he passed Tony Kaye’s desk, he wondered how much the Human Radar had picked up. Kaye appeared to be busy at his keyboard, typing in some notes. ‘Anything interesting?’ Fox asked.

‘I could ask you the same,’ Kaye responded, glancing in the direction of the Boss’s corner.

‘Might be room for you to climb aboard,’ Fox decided there and then, scratching at the underside of his chin.

‘Just give me a shout, Foxy.’

Fox nodded distractedly and made it to the relative safety of his desk. Naysmith was brewing another pot of coffee.

‘Three sugars!’ Kaye called to him.

Naysmith gave a twitch of the mouth, then noticed that he was being watched. He waved an empty mug in Fox’s direction, but Fox shook his head.

3

The HR department were never happy to see someone from the Complaints. HR – Human Resources – used to be Personnel, a term Fox preferred. HR, meantime, would have preferred it if officers like him couldn’t come swanning in as if they owned the place. HR felt prickly, and with good reason. They had to provide open access, access denied to practically anyone else. McEwan had called ahead to let them know Fox was on his way. He’d then typed and signed a letter verifying Fox’s need to see the records. No names were mentioned, and this was what riled some of the HR staff – the assumption being that they couldn’t be trusted with the information. If they knew who the Complaints had their eye on, they might pass the information along, crippling any inquiry at its very start. It had happened once in the past – over a decade back – since when the rules had been changed so that the Complaints had total privacy when they did their search. To this end, the head of HR had to vacate her private room, so that Fox could use it. She had to log on to her computer, then leave it available for his use. She had to hand him the keys to the many filing cabinets in the main open-plan office. Then she had to stand with arms folded, fuming, eyes averted as he went about his business.

Fox had been through the procedure many times, and had tried at the start to be cordial, apologetic even. But Mrs Stephens was not to be placated, so he’d given up. She still took some pleasure in delaying him and his ilk, reading the Chief Inspector’s notification with the greatest care and attention, sometimes even phoning McEwan back to double-check. Then she would ask for Fox’s warrant card and note his details on a form, which he had to sign. She would then check his signature against the one on his ID, exhale noisily, and hand over the keys, her computer, her desk and her office.

‘Thank you,’ he would say, usually his first and last words of the encounter.

HR was on the ground floor of Police HQ. Lothian and Borders was not the largest force in Scotland, and Fox often wondered how they filled their time. They were civilian staff – most of them women. They stared at him from above their computer screens. One might wink or blow him a kiss. He knew some of their faces from the canteen. But there was never any conversation, no offer of coffee or tea – Mrs Stephens saw to that.

Fox made sure no one was watching as he lifted Jamie Breck’s file from the cabinet. He held it to his chest so the name couldn’t be seen, locked the drawer and headed back to Mrs Stephens’ office. Closed the door after him and sat down. The chair was still warm, which he minded only a little. Inside the slim file were the details of Breck’s police career, along with earlier academic attainments. He was twenty-seven and had joined the force six years previously, spending the first two in training and in uniform, before transferring to CID. His assessments were favourable, bordering on glowing. There was no mention of any of the cases he’d worked on, but also no indication of trouble or disciplinary concerns. ‘A model officer’ was one remark, repeated a little later on. One thing Fox did learn was that Breck lived in the same part of town as him. His address was on the new estate close by the Morrisons supermarket. Fox had driven around the estate when it had first been built, wondering if he needed a bigger house.

‘Small world,’ he muttered to himself now.

The computer data added little. There had been the occasional sick day, but nothing stress-related. There had never been a need for counselling or referral. Breck’s bosses at Torphichen Place – his base these past three years – couldn’t get enough of him. Reading between the lines, Fox could see that Breck was being fast-tracked. He was already young for a detective sergeant, and DI looked achievable before the age of thirty. Fox himself had been thirty-eight. Breck had been educated privately at George Watson’s College. He’d played rugby for the second fifteen. A BSc from the University of Edinburgh. Parents still alive, both of them GPs. An older brother, Colin, who had emigrated to the USA, where he worked as an engineer. Fox pulled out his handkerchief, found a dry bit, and emptied his nose into it. The noise was enough to have Mrs Stephens peering in at him through the narrow window next to the door. Her face had stiffened further with distaste. He’d be leaving his germs all over her office, defiling her private fiefdom. Though he didn’t really need to, he blew his nose again, almost as noisily.

Then he closed the online file. Mrs Stephens knew what he would do next – shut down her whole system. Yet another precaution – he wanted his search to be erased as far as possible. But before he did that, he typed in another name – Anthea Inglis. Definitely against procedure, but he did it anyway. It only took a couple of minutes for him to learn that she wasn’t married and had never been married.

That she’d grown up on a farm in Fife.

That she’d attended the local college before moving to Edinburgh.

That she’d had a variety of jobs before joining the force.

That her full name was Florence Anthea Inglis.

If one of her names had come from The Generation Game, he wondered if the other might have originated with The Magic Roundabout. Fox had to stifle a smile as he began closing everything down. He emerged from the office, leaving the door ajar, and replaced the file in its cabinet, making sure it couldn’t be differentiated from any of the others. When he was satisfied, he closed and locked the drawer and made to hand the key to Mrs Stephens. She was resting her weight against the edge of a colleague’s desk, arms still folded, so he placed the key down next to her instead.

‘Till next time,’ he said, turning away. One of the women glanced up at him as he passed, and he managed a wink of his own.

When he got back to the Complaints office, Naysmith told him there was a message waiting.

‘And would I find it on my desk or under it?’ Fox asked. But there it was, lying next to his telephone. Just a name and number. He looked at it, then up at Naysmith. ‘Alison Pettifer?’

Naysmith just shrugged, so Fox lifted the receiver and punched the number in. When it was answered, he identified himself as Inspector Fox.

‘Oh, right,’ the woman on the other end said. She sounded hesitant.

‘You called me,’ Fox persisted.

‘You’re Jude’s brother?’

Fox was silent for a moment. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I live next door,’ the woman stumbled on. ‘She happened to mention once that you were in the police. That’s how I got your number…’

‘What’s happened?’ Fox repeated, aware that both Naysmith and Kaye were now listening.

‘Jude’s had a bit of an accident…’

She tried to close the door in his face, but he pushed against it and her resistance evaporated. Instead, she marched back into her living room. It was a mid-terraced house in Saughtonhall. He didn’t know which side Alison Pettifer lived – neither set of net curtains had twitched. Each and every house on the street boasted a satellite dish, and Jude’s TV was tuned to some daytime chat-and-cookery show. She turned it off as he walked into the room.

‘Well now,’ was all he said. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. There was some faint bruising on her left cheek, and her left arm was in plaster, a sling cradling it. ‘Those stairs again?’

‘I’d had a drink.’

‘I’m sure.’ He was looking around the room. It smelt of alcohol and cigarettes. There was an empty vodka bottle on the floor next to the sofa. Two ashtrays, both full. A couple of crushed cigarette packets. A breakfast bar separated the living area from the small kitchen. Plates stacked up, next to discarded fast-food cartons. More empty bottles – lager; cider; cheap white wine. The carpet needed vacuuming. There was a layer of dust on the coffee table. One of the legs had been snapped off, replaced by a stack of four building bricks. Figured: Vince worked in the building trade.

‘Mind if I sit down?’ Fox asked.

She tried to shrug. It wasn’t easy. He decided his safest bet was the arm of the sofa. He still had his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. There didn’t seem to be any heating in the room. His sister was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt and a baggy pair of denims. Her feet were bare.

‘You look a right state,’ he told her.

‘Thanks.’

‘I mean it.’

‘You’re not exactly a poster boy yourself.’

‘Don’t I know it.’ He’d lifted the handkerchief from his pocket so he could blow into it.

‘You still haven’t got rid of that cold,’ she commented.

‘You still haven’t got rid of that bastard of yours,’ he replied. ‘Where is he?’

‘Working.’

‘I didn’t know anyone was building anything.’

‘There’ve been lay-offs. He’s hanging in.’

Fox nodded slowly. Jude was still standing up, shifting slightly from the hips. He recognised the movement. She’d done it as a kid, whenever she’d been caught out. Paraded in front of their father for a telling-off.

‘You not got a job yet?’

She shook her head. The estate agent had laid her off just before Christmas. ‘Who told you?’ she asked eventually. ‘Was it next door?’

‘I hear things,’ was all he said.

‘It wasn’t anything to do with Vince,’ she stated.

‘We’re not in a bloody police station, Jude. This is just the two of us.’

‘It wasn’t him,’ she persisted.

‘Who then?’

‘I was in the kitchen Saturday…’

He made show of peering over the breakfast bar. ‘Wouldn’t have thought there was room to fall over.’

‘Caught my arm on the corner of the washing machine as I went down…’

‘That the story you gave them at A and E?’

‘Is that who told you?’

‘Does it matter?’ He was staring towards the fireplace. There were shelves either side, filled with videos and DVDs – looked like every single episode of Sex and the City and Friends, plus Mamma Mia and other films. He gave a sigh and rubbed his hands down his face, either side of his nose and mouth. ‘You know what I’m going to say.’

‘It wasn’t Vince’s fault.’

‘You provoked him?’

‘We provoke each other, Malc.’

He knew as much; could’ve told her that the neighbour often heard slanging matches. But then Jude would have known who’d called him.

‘If we charged him – just one time – it might put a stop to it. We’d make it a requirement he got some counselling.’

‘Oh, Vince would love that.’ She managed a smile; it wiped years from her face.

‘You’re my sister, Jude…’

She looked at him, blinking, but not about to cry. ‘I know,’ she said. Then, indicating the cast on her arm: ‘Think I should still go see Dad?’

‘Maybe leave it.’

‘You won’t tell him?’

He shook his head, then looked around the room again. ‘Want me to tidy up? Wash some dishes maybe?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Has he said sorry?’

She nodded, keeping eye contact. Fox didn’t know whether to believe her – and what did it matter anyway? He rose to his feet, towering over her, then leaned down to peck her on the cheek.

‘Why does someone else have to do it?’ he whispered into her ear.

‘Do what?’

‘Phone me,’ he answered.

Outside, it was snowing again. He sat in his car, wondering if Vince Faulkner’s working day would be curtailed. Faulkner was from Enfield, just north of London. Supported Arsenal, and hadn’t a good word to say for football north of the border. This had been his opening gambit when the two men had been introduced. He hadn’t been keen on the move to Scotland – ‘but she keeps bending me bleedin’ ear’. He was hoping she’d get bored and want to head south again. She. Malcolm had seldom heard him use her name. She. Her indoors. The other half. The bird. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, wondering what to do for the best. Faulkner could be working on any one of three or four dozen projects around the city. The recession had probably put the brakes on the new flats in Granton, and he reckoned Quartermile was dormant, too. Caltongate wasn’t up and running yet, and the developer was in trouble, according to the local paper.

‘Wild goose chase,’ he said to himself. His phone vibrated, letting him know he had a text. It was from Tony Kaye.

We r at Minters.

It was gone four. McEwan had obviously clocked off for the day, giving the others no reason to loiter. Fox closed his phone and turned the key in the ignition. Minter’s was a New Town bar with Old Town prices, tucked away where only the cognoscenti could find it. Never easy to find a parking space, but he knew what Kaye would have done – stuck a great big POLICE placard on the inside of the windscreen. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t: depended on the mood of the warden. Fox tried to work out a way back into the city centre that would avoid the tram works at Haymarket, then gave up. Anyone who could solve that, they should give them the Nobel Prize. Before driving off, he looked to his right, but there was no sign of Jude at her living-room window, and still nobody visible in the homes on either side. If Vince Faulkner were to turn into the street right now, what would he do? He couldn’t remember the name of the character in The Godfather, the one who’d chased the brother-in-law and thumped him with a bin lid.

Sonny? Sonny, wasn’t it? That’s what he’d like to think he would do. Bin lid connecting with face, and don’t you touch my sister!

What he’d like to think he would do.

Minter’s was quiet. But then it had been quiet for several years, the landlord first blaming the smoking ban and now muttering about the downturn. Maybe he had a point: plenty of banking types lived in the New Town, and they’d be wise to keep their heads down.

‘Other than bankers,’ Tony Kaye said, placing Fox’s glass of iced cola on the corner table, ‘who else can afford a house here?’

Naysmith was drinking lager, Kaye Guinness. The landlord, sleeves rolled up, was intent on a TV quiz show. Two further customers had gone outside with their cigarettes. There was a woman seated in another corner with a friend. Kaye had taken her over a brandy and soda, then explained to Fox and Naysmith that she was a pal of his.

‘Does the missus know?’ Joe Naysmith had asked.

Kaye had wagged a finger at him, then pointed it towards the woman. ‘Her name’s Margaret Sime, and if you’re ever in here and I’m not, I’d better hear that you’ve sent a drink over…’

‘Did you get parked?’ Naysmith was now asking Malcolm Fox.

‘Halfway up the bloody hill,’ Fox complained. Then, to Kaye: ‘I see you didn’t have any trouble.’ Kaye’s Nissan X-Trail was outside the pub’s front door, on a double yellow line and with the POLICE notice wedged in between dashboard and windscreen. Kaye just shrugged and gave a smirk, making himself comfortable and attacking what remained of his pint. Wiping a line of foam from his top lip, he fixed his gaze on Fox.

‘Vince has been a naughty boy again,’ he said. Fox just stared at him, but it was Naysmith who provided the explanation.

‘Soon as you’d left, Tony phoned the caller’s number.’

‘She told me about Jude’s “accident”,’ Kaye confirmed.

‘Leave it, will you?’ Fox cautioned, but Kaye was shaking his head. Again, it was Naysmith who spoke.

‘Tony looked up Vince Faulkner.’

‘“Looked up”?’ Fox’s eyes narrowed.

‘On the PNC,’ Naysmith said, slurping at his drink.

‘Police National Computer’s only for south of the border,’ Fox stated.

Tony Kaye gave another shrug. ‘I know a cop in England. All I did was give him Faulkner’s name and place of birth – Enfield, right? I remember you telling me.’

‘You know a cop in England? I thought you hated the English.’

‘Not individually,’ Kaye corrected him. ‘Look, do you want to know or don’t you?’

‘I doubt I could stop you telling me, Tony,’ Fox said.

But Kaye pursed his lips and folded his arms. Naysmith looked keen to bursting, but Kaye was warning him off with his eyes. The two smokers were coming back into the bar. The landlord slammed the palms of both hands against the bar top and yelled at the TV, ‘A schoolkid would’ve known that!’

‘Don’t be so sure, Charlie,’ one of the smokers said. ‘Not these days.’

‘He’s got previous,’ Naysmith blurted out, trying to keep his voice down. Kaye rolled his eyes and unfolded his arms, reaching for his glass and draining it.

‘Your shout, kiddo,’ he said.

Naysmith gawped, but then sprinted towards the bar with the empty glass.

‘Previous?’ Fox echoed. Tony Kaye leaned in towards him, keeping his voice low.

‘A few petty thefts from nine or ten years back. Couple of street brawls. Nothing too serious, but Jude might not know about them. How’s she doing?’

‘Her arm’s in plaster.’

‘Did you have words with Faulkner?’

Fox shook his head. ‘I didn’t see him.’

‘Something’s got to be done, Malcolm. Will she file a complaint?’

‘No.’

‘We could do it for her.’

‘She’s not leaving him, Tony.’

‘Then it’s up to us to have a word with him.’

Naysmith was back at the table, the landlord having taken his order. ‘Exactly what we should do,’ he confirmed.

‘You’re forgetting something,’ Fox said. ‘We’re the Complaints. Word gets out that we’re running around putting the fear on members of the great unwashed…’ He shook his head again, more firmly this time. ‘We don’t get to do that.’

‘Then there’s no fun left in life,’ Tony Kaye decided, throwing open his arms. Naysmith had marched off again and returned with Kaye’s drink. Fox studied his two colleagues.

His two friends.

‘Thanks all the same,’ he said. And then, lowering his voice still further: ‘In the meantime, maybe there’s some fun we could have.’ He checked that no one else in the bar was showing an interest. ‘McEwan’s put me on to a cop called Breck…’

‘Jamie Breck?’ Kaye guessed.

‘You know him?’

‘I know people who know him.’

‘Who is he?’ Naysmith asked, settling himself at the table. Only the top inch was missing from his lager.

‘CID, based at Torphichen,’ Kaye enlightened him. Then, to Fox: ‘He’s dirty?’

‘Maybe.’

‘That’s why you were at the Chop Shop this morning?’

‘Nothing gets past you, Tony.’

‘And HR this afternoon?’

‘Ditto.’ Fox leaned back in his seat. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, not exactly. No harm in Kaye and Naysmith being on board, but did he have anything for them to do? All he knew was, he needed to show his appreciation, and this was as good a way of doing it as any. Plus, now they could talk about work rather than Jude. And that was another thing: what did he do with the info about Vince Faulkner? Store it away? He couldn’t see himself confronting Jude with it. She’d accuse him of snooping, of interfering.

My life, Malcolm, my business… That was probably how she would put it. Of everything they had to do, all the cases they had to work, cops hated domestics the worst. They hated them because there was seldom a happy outcome, and precious little they could do to help or ease the situation. And that was how Jude would look to the majority of Fox’s colleagues. Hers was most definitely a domestic. The smokers were standing at the bar. One of them was drinking whisky. Fox could smell it, and even felt the faintest of tangs at the back of his throat. It was making his mouth water.

‘So tell us,’ Tony Kaye was enquiring. Joe Naysmith had leaned forward, elbows on knees.

His sister’s face was in his mind, and the aroma of the single malt in his nostrils. He told Kaye and Naysmith what he knew about Jamie Breck.