The Complaints

4

Next morning, Fox called Jude but got no answer. He’d tried her the previous night, too. She probably had caller ID. She was almost certainly ignoring him. After breakfast, he drove to work. Kaye and Naysmith wanted to know their ‘plan of action’. Fox’s idea was that Annie Inglis should brief them, but there was no one at home in 2.24. He texted her mobile instead, asking her to get back to him.

‘We’ll wait,’ he told his colleagues. ‘No rush.’ They were heading back to their own desks when Fox’s phone rang. He picked it up, and heard a voice he didn’t know asking him if he was Malcolm Fox.

‘Who’s this?’ Fox asked back.

‘My name’s Detective Sergeant Breck.’ Fox’s spine stiffened, but he didn’t say anything. ‘Am I speaking to Malcolm Fox?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Fox, I’m calling on behalf of your sister.’

‘Is she there? What’s happened?’

‘Your sister’s fine, Mr Fox. But I’m afraid we’re on our way to the mortuary. I asked her if there was anyone, and she…’

The voice was professional without being cold.

‘Tell me what’s happened.’

‘Your sister’s partner, Mr Fox – do you know how to find the City Mortuary…?’

He knew all right: it was on the Cowgate. An inconspicuous brick building you’d drive past without guessing what went on there. Traffic was hellish slow; there seemed to be roadworks and diversions everywhere. It wasn’t just the trams – there were gas mains being replaced, and resurfacing at the Grassmarket. It seemed to Fox that he passed more traffic cones than pedestrians. Kaye had asked if he wanted company, but he’d shaken his head. Vince Faulkner was dead, and that was as much as Jamie Breck was going to tell him. Breck – managing to sound concerned and thoughtful. Breck – waiting at the mortuary with Jude…

Fox parked the Volvo in one of the loading bays and headed inside. He knew where they’d be waiting. The viewing room was one floor up. He flashed his ID at any staff he passed, not that they showed the slightest interest. They wore foreshortened green rubber galoshes and three-quarter-length smocks. They had just washed their hands or were on their way to do so. Jude heard his footsteps on the stairs and was running towards him as he came into view. She was bawling her head off, body shuddering, eyes bloodshot behind the tears. He held her to him, being careful of her arm. After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked over her shoulder to where DS Jamie Breck was standing.

You don’t know his name’s Jamie, Fox reminded himself. On the phone, he called himself DS Breck. Breck was walking towards him now. Fox managed to push Jude back a little, but as gently as possible. He held out a hand to the other detective. Breck was smiling, almost sheepishly.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have known it was a Fettes number.’ He gestured towards Jude. ‘Your sister tells me you’re a DI.’

‘Just plain Inspector,’ Fox corrected him. ‘In PSU we drop the Detective bit.’

Breck nodded. ‘PSU means the Complaints?’

Fox nodded back at him, then turned his attention to Jude. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘Are you all right?’ She shivered in response, and he asked Breck if the identification had taken place.

‘Two minutes,’ Breck said, pretending to look at his watch. Fox knew what was happening behind the door: they were making the corpse as presentable as possible. Only the face would be visible, unless identification necessitated the revealing of a tattoo or distinguishing feature.

‘Where was he found?’ Fox asked.

‘A building site by the canal.’

‘Where they’re knocking down the brewery?’

‘He wasn’t working there,’ Jude stated tremulously. ‘I don’t know what he was doing there.’

‘When was he found?’ Fox asked Breck, squeezing his sister’s hand a little more tightly.

‘Early this morning. Couple of joggers on the towpath. One got a stitch, so they stopped. Leaning against the fence, doing stretches or whatever. That’s when they saw him.’

‘And you’re sure it’s…?’

‘Couple of credit cards in the pocket. I gave Ms Fox a description of the deceased and his clothing…’

Jamie Breck had blonde hair tending towards the curly, and a face speckled with freckles. His eyes were a milky blue. He stood an inch or so shorter than Fox, and was probably only two thirds his waist measurement. He wore a dark brown suit with all three buttons done up. Fox was trying to dismiss from his mind everything he knew about him: schooled at George Watson’s… parents both doctors… lives near the supermarket… has yet to comply with the twenty-five-pic minimum… He found himself stroking Jude’s hair.

‘They beat him up,’ she was saying, voice cracking. ‘They beat him up and left him for dead.’ Fox looked to Breck for confirmation.

‘Injuries consistent with,’ was all the younger man said. Then the door of the room behind them slid open. The body lay on a trolley, swaddled except for the face. Even the hair and ears had been covered. The face was pulpy, but recognisable, even from a distance. Fox caught sight of it before his sister.

‘Jude,’ he cautioned her, ‘I can do this if you don’t want to.’

‘I need to do it,’ she answered. ‘I need to…’

‘You’ll want to go home with her,’ Breck was telling Fox. Both men held plastic beakers of tea. They were standing in the Family Room. A pile of children’s books had been placed on one of the chairs, and someone had pinned up a poster of a sunflower. Jude was seated a few feet away, head bowed, holding a beaker of her own – water was all she’d asked for. They were waiting for the forms, the forms she would need to sign. Vince Faulkner’s battered corpse was already on its way to the autopsy suite, where a couple of the city’s pathologists would get to work on it, their assistants weighing and measuring, bagging and tagging.

‘What time was he found?’ Fox asked quietly.

‘Just after six.’

‘It’s still dark at six.’

‘There were streetlights.’

‘Was he attacked there or just dumped there?’

‘Look, Inspector Fox, this can all wait… you’ll want to be with Jude now.’

Fox stared at his sister. ‘There’s a neighbour,’ he found himself saying. ‘Alison Pettifer. Maybe she could take Jude home and stay with her.’

Breck pulled back his shoulders. ‘Due respect, I know you outrank me, but…’

‘I just want to see the locus. Any harm in that, DS Breck?’

Breck seemed to consider this for a moment, then let his shoulders relax. ‘Call me Jamie,’ he said.

Twenty-five-pic minimum, Fox thought to himself.

It was another hour before the paperwork was finalised and Alison Pettifer was fetched from her home. Fox shook hands with her and thanked her again for calling him the previous day.

‘And now this,’ was all she said. She was tall and slim and in her fifties. She took charge, coaxing Jude to her feet and telling her everything was going to be fine. ‘You’re coming home with me…’

Jude’s eyes were still raw-looking as Fox kissed her on both cheeks.

‘I’ll come as soon as I can,’ he said. A uniformed officer was waiting for the women, his patrol car parked outside. He looked almost bored, and Fox wanted to shake him. He checked his mobile phone instead: two messages from Tony Kaye, which were actually the same message sent twice – Do u need me?

Fox started to punch in ‘no’, but lengthened it to ‘not yet’. As he was sending it, Jamie Breck reappeared.

‘Not needed at the autopsy?’ Fox asked.

‘They can’t get to it for another hour.’ Breck looked at his wristwatch. ‘Means I can take you out there, if you like.’

‘I’ve got my car.’

‘Then you can drive us…’

Four minutes into the journey, Breck commented that they’d have been quicker walking. It was a straight run – Cowgate to West Port to Fountainbridge – but traffic had stalled again: a contraflow controlled by two workmen in fluorescent jackets and toting signs saying STOP and GO.

‘It can drive men mad,’ Breck said, ‘suddenly having all that power…’

Fox just nodded.

‘Mind if I ask something?’

Fox minded a lot, but gave a shrug.

‘How did your sister break her arm?’

‘She fell over in the kitchen.’

Breck pretended to mull this over. ‘Mr Faulkner worked as a builder?’

‘Yes.’

‘Didn’t seem to be dressed for the job – good-quality chinos; polo shirt and leather jacket. The jacket was a Christmas present from Ms Fox.’

‘Was it?’

‘Were they getting married?’

‘You’d have to ask her.’

‘The two of you aren’t close?’

Fox could feel his grip tightening on the steering wheel. ‘We’re close,’ he said.

‘And Mr Faulkner?’

‘What about him?’

‘Did you like him?’

‘Not especially.’

‘Why not?’

‘No particular reason.’

‘Or too many to mention?’ Breck nodded to himself. ‘My brother’s partner… I don’t get on too well with him, either.’

‘Him?’

‘My brother’s gay.’

‘I didn’t know.’

Breck looked at Fox. ‘No reason why you should.’

That’s right, and no reason to know that that same brother’s an engineer in America…

Fox cleared his throat. ‘So what’s your feeling about this?’ he asked.

Breck took his time answering. ‘There’s a hole in the fence, next to where the body was found. Little side road there, too, where a car or van could park.’

‘The body was dumped?’

Breck shrugged and began working his neck muscles. ‘I asked Ms Fox when she last saw Mr Faulkner.’

‘And?’

‘She says Saturday afternoon.’ Fox could hear the grinding of gristle in the younger man’s neck and shoulders. ‘That cast looks pretty new…’

‘Happened Saturday,’ Fox confirmed, keeping his voice level, concentrating on the road ahead: two more sets of traffic lights and one roundabout and they’d be there.

‘So she heads to A and E and Mr Faulkner goes out on the town.’ Breck stopped exercising and leaned forward a little, turning his head so he could make eye contact with Fox. ‘Fell over in the kitchen?’

‘That’s what she told me.’

‘And you repeated it for my benefit… but your face tightened just a little when you spoke.’

‘Are you supposed to be Columbo or something?’

‘Just observant, Inspector Fox. You need to take the next left.’

‘I know.’

‘And there’s that facial tightening again,’ Jamie Breck said, just loud enough for Fox to hear.

The police cordon was still in place, but the uniform on duty eased up the tape so they could pass beneath. There was a couple of journalists from the local paper, but both were old enough to know they would ask in vain for a quote. A few people watched from the towpath, not that there was much to see. The Scene of Crime Unit had already picked over the area. Photos showed the body in situ – Breck grabbed some from a SOCO and handed them to Fox. Vince Faulkner had been found face down, arms thrown in front of him. His skull had been crushed by something heavy. The hair was matted with blood. There were grazes to the palms and fingers – consistent with someone trying to defend himself.

‘We won’t know about internal injuries until after the autopsy,’ Breck commented. Fox nodded and looked around. It was a bleak spot. Mounds of earth and rubble from where some of the old brewery had been demolished. Warehouses remained, emptied of their contents and with windows pulverised. On the other side of the road, groundworks were under way for what would become a ‘mixed social development’, according to the billboard – shops, office space and apartments (no one seemed to call them flats these days). Cops in overalls were working in a line, trying to locate the murder weapon. There were tens of thousands of possibilities, from half-bricks to rocks and concrete rubble.

‘Could have been tossed into the canal,’ Fox mused.

‘We’ve got divers coming,’ Breck assured him.

‘Not much blood on the ground.’ Fox was studying the photos again.

‘No.’

‘Which is why you think he was dumped here?’

‘Maybe.’

‘In which case it’s not just a mugging gone wrong.’

‘No comment.’ Breck looked to the skies and took a deep breath.

‘I know,’ Fox said, intercepting the speech. ‘I can’t get involved. I shouldn’t make it personal. I mustn’t get in the way.’

‘Pretty much.’ Breck had taken the photos from him so he could flick through them. ‘Anything you want to tell me about your sister’s partner?’

‘No.’

‘He broke her arm, didn’t he?’

‘You’ll have to ask her that.’

Breck stared at him, then nodded slowly and kicked at a small stone, sending it rolling along the ground. ‘How long do you reckon this’ll stay a building site?’

‘Who knows?’

‘Someone told me HBOS were moving their corporate headquarters here.’

‘That might not happen for a while.’

‘I hope you didn’t have shares.’

Fox gave a snort, then stuck out a hand for the younger man to take. ‘Thanks for letting me come here. I appreciate it.’

‘Rest assured, Inspector, we’ll be doing all we can – and not just because you’re a fellow traveller.’ Breck gave a wink as he released Fox’s hand.

Twenty-five-pic minimum… You like looking at young kids, DS Breck, and it’s my job to hang you out to dry…

‘Thanks again,’ Malcolm Fox said. ‘Can I drop you back at the mortuary?’

‘I’m going to stay here a while.’ Breck paused, as if deep in thought. ‘PSU,’ he eventually said, ‘just got through mangling one of my colleagues.’

‘It’d take more than the Complaints to mangle Glen Heaton.’

‘Were you part of that team?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘No real reason.’

‘You’re not particularly a friend of his, are you?’

Breck stared at him. ‘What makes you ask?’

‘I’m the Complaints, DS Breck – I see everything and hear everything. ’

‘I’ll bear that in mind, Inspector,’ Jamie Breck said.

Fox called the office from his car and told Tony Kaye they’d have to hold fire on Jamie Breck. Kaye, naturally, asked why.

‘He’s in charge of Faulkner.’

Kaye was making a whistling sound as Fox ended the call. When his phone rang, he answered without thinking.

‘Look, Tony, I’ll talk to you later.’

There was silence for a moment, then a female voice: ‘It’s Annie Inglis. Is this a bad time?’

‘Not a great time, Annie, if I’m being honest.’

‘Anything I can do to help?’

‘No, but thanks for the offer.’

‘I got your message…’

The horn in the car behind Fox started blaring as he headed down a street meant only for taxis and buses.

‘There’s been a complication. My sister’s partner’s turned up dead.’

‘I’m sorry…’

‘Don’t be – he was an evil little sod. But I’ve just met the investigating officer. He’s a DS called Jamie Breck.’

‘Oh.’

‘So the job you wanted me to do should probably go to someone else. In fact, a couple of my colleagues are already briefed.’

‘Right.’ She paused. ‘So where are you now?’

‘On my way to my sister’s place.’

‘How is she?’

‘That’s what I’m going to find out.’

‘Let me know, will you?’

Fox glanced in his rearview mirror. A patrol car was behind him, blue roof-lights flashing. ‘Got to go,’ he said, ending the call.

It took him a whole five minutes to discuss his situation with the officers. He’d tried showing them his warrant card without letting them see he was Complaints and Conduct, but they seemed to know anyway. Was he aware he’d made an illegal manoeuvre? And did he recall the law about driving while holding a conversation on a mobile phone? He managed to sound apologetic; managed not to explain where he was headed and why – didn’t see any reason the sods needed to know. In the end, they wrote him out a penalty ticket.

‘Nobody’s above the law,’ the elder of the two cautioned him. Fox thanked the man and got back into his car. They did what they always did – tailed him a few hundred more yards before signalling right and heading elsewhere. It was what happened when you were the Complaints – no favours from your colleagues. In fact, just the opposite. Which got Fox thinking about Jamie Breck again…

He found a parking space along the street from Jude’s house. Alison Pettifer opened the door. She’d closed the curtains in the living room and kitchen – out of respect, Fox surmised.

‘Where’s Jude?’ he asked.

‘Upstairs. I made her some tea with plenty of sugar.’

Fox nodded, looking around the living room. It seemed to him that Pettifer had started the process of tidying up. He thanked her and signalled that he was going to go see his sister. She pressed a hand to his arm. Didn’t say anything, but her eyes told a story. Go easy on her. He patted the hand and went out into the hall. The stairs were steep and narrow – difficult to fall down them without becoming wedged halfway. Three doors led off the cramped landing – bathroom and two bedrooms. One bedroom had been turned into Vince Faulkner’s lair. Boxes of junk, an old hi-fi and racks of rock CDs, plus a desk with a cheap computer. The door was ajar, so Fox peered in. The slatted blinds had been drawn closed. A couple of men’s magazines lay on the floor – Nuts and Zoo. Their covers showed near-identical blondes with their arms covering their breasts. Fox tapped on the next door along, and turned the handle. Jude was lying on the bed with the duvet cocooned around her. She wasn’t asleep, though. The tea sat untouched on the bedside table, beside an empty tumbler. The room smelled faintly of vodka.

‘How you doing, sis?’ He sat down on the bed. All he could see were her head and her bare feet. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead. She sniffled and started to sit up. Beneath the duvet she was fully dressed.

‘Somebody killed him,’ she said.

Best thing that could have happened. But what he said out loud was: ‘It’s hellish.’

‘Do they think…?’

‘What?’

‘Maybe I had something to do with it.’

Fox shook his head. ‘But they’ll want to talk to you. Standard procedure, so don’t worry about it.’ She nodded slowly and he stroked her hair again. ‘When did you last see him, Jude?’

‘Saturday.’

‘The same day he…’ Fox gestured towards the plaster cast.

‘I came back from the hospital and he wasn’t here.’

‘Did you hear from him?’

She took a deep breath and exhaled, then shook her head. ‘Wasn’t so unusual, to tell the truth. Some nights, I was lucky if I saw him for five minutes. He’d be out with his mates, and come home next day with the story that he’d bunked on a couch or a spare bed.’

‘Did you try phoning him over the weekend?’

‘Texted him a couple of times.’

‘No answer?’

She shook her head. ‘I expected him home on Sunday, but then…’ She gazed at her broken arm. ‘Maybe he was feeling more ashamed than usual.’

‘And by last night?’ Fox coaxed.

Another deep breath. ‘By last night… maybe I was getting worried.’

‘Or anaesthetised.’ Fox gestured towards the empty glass. She shrugged as best she could. ‘When I dropped in yesterday,’ he went on, ‘why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I didn’t want you to know.’

‘I tried calling you last night… there was no answer.’

‘You said it yourself – anaesthetised.’

‘And again this morning?’

She stared at him. ‘Have they sent you here to interrogate me?’

‘I’m just asking the questions they’ll ask.’

‘You never liked him,’ she commented.

‘I can’t deny it.’

‘Maybe you’re even glad he’s dead.’ Her voice was turning accusatory. Fox lifted her chin with one finger, so she was facing him.

‘That’s not true,’ he lied. ‘But he was never the man you deserved.’

‘He was what I got, Malcolm. And that was plenty enough for me.’

5

He met Annie Inglis for coffee at the Fettes canteen. Apart from the staff, the place was deserted. Inglis insisted on fetching the drinks while he sat at a table near the window.

‘I’m not an invalid,’ he told her with a smile, as she pushed the mug towards him.

‘Sugar?’ She tipped half a dozen sachets on to the table. He shook his head and watched her draw her chair in. She’d chosen hot chocolate for herself. She fidgeted a little, dabbed a finger against the surface of the liquid and sucked on it. Then she made eye contact.

‘So,’ she said.

‘So,’ he agreed.

‘Any idea what happened?’

‘Building site by the canal. Someone did a job on him.’

‘How’s your sister doing?’

‘Her name’s Jude, short for Judith. I’m not sure how she’s doing.’

‘You went to see her?’

‘She was tucked up in bed with a bottle of vodka.’

‘Can’t begrudge her that.’

‘Jude has a history with alcohol.’ He stared down at his coffee. It was meant to be a cappuccino, but the foam was non-existent. Inglis gave a twitch of the mouth and allowed the silence to linger.

‘So,’ she asked at last, ‘you got to meet DS Breck?’

‘Wondered how long it would take you,’ he muttered.

She ignored this. ‘How did he strike you?’

‘I’d say he’s good at his job. The conversation never really got round to his predilection for kiddie-fiddling.’

She bristled, but only for a moment. ‘Malcolm,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m only asking.’

‘Sorry.’

‘And the reason I’m asking is because Gilchrist and me have been talking…’

‘Is he your boss, by the way?’

‘Gilchrist?’ She widened her eyes a little. ‘He’s my DC.’

‘He’s older than you.’

‘So your immediate thought was that he had to outrank me?’

Fox was saved from answering by the sound of her phone. She lifted it from the table and checked the screen.

‘I’ve got to take this,’ she said. ‘It’s my son.’ She held the phone to her ear. ‘Hey, Duncan.’ She listened for the best part of a minute, eyes fixed on the world outside the window. ‘Okay, but I want you home by seven. Understood? Bye then.’ She placed the phone back on the table, her fingers resting against it.

‘I didn’t think you were married,’ Fox said.

‘I’m not.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But what made you…?’

He swallowed before answering. There was stuff about her he wasn’t supposed to know. ‘No wedding ring,’ he eventually said. Then, a little too quickly: ‘How old is Duncan?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘You must’ve been young.’

‘My last year at school. Mum and Dad were furious, but they looked after him.’

Fox nodded slowly. There’d been no mention of a son in Inglis’s personnel file. An oversight? He took a sip of his drink.

‘He’s headed to a friend’s,’ Annie Inglis explained.

‘Can’t be easy – single mum, teenage boy…’

‘It’s fine,’ she stated, her tone telling him things could be left at that.

Fox held the mug to his mouth and blew across it. ‘You were telling me,’ he said, ‘that you’d been talking with Gilchrist…’

‘That’s right. We’re thinking that this could work out for us.’

‘Me and Breck, you mean?’

She nodded. ‘You’re not involved in the inquiry, so it’s not really a conflict of interest.’

‘What you’re saying is, while Breck investigates the murder, I busy myself keeping an eye on him?’

‘The two of you have already met… and you’ve got the perfect excuse for keeping in touch with him.’

‘And it’s not a conflict of interest?’

‘We’re only asking you for background, Malcolm, gen we can pass on to London. Nothing you do is going to come to court.’

‘How can we be sure?’

She thought for a moment and shrugged. ‘Gilchrist’s checking with your boss and the Deputy Chief.’

‘Shouldn’t that be your job?’

She shrugged and made eye contact. ‘I wanted to see you instead. ’

‘I’m touched.’

‘Are you up to the task, Malcolm? That’s what I need to know.’

Fox thought back to the piece of waste ground. We’ll be doing all we can…

‘I’m up to it,’ Malcolm Fox said.

Back upstairs, the Complaints office was empty. He sat at his desk for a good five minutes, gnawing on a cheap ballpoint pen, thinking of Vince Faulkner and Jude and Jamie Breck. The door, already ajar, was pushed all the way open by Bob McEwan. He was wearing a trenchcoat and carrying a briefcase.

‘You all right, Foxy?’ he asked, standing in front of the desk, feet planted almost a yard apart.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Heard about your brother-in-law… compassionate leave if you want it.’

‘He wasn’t a relation,’ Fox corrected his boss. ‘Just a guy my sister fell in with.’

‘All the same…’

‘I’ll look in on her when I can.’ The words, as they emerged from his mouth, made him think of his father. Mitch needed to be told.

‘And about the Chop Shop,’ McEwan began. ‘Reckon you can still help them out?’

‘You don’t think there’s a problem?’

‘Traynor doesn’t see one.’ Adam Traynor – Deputy Chief Constable. ‘I’ve just been speaking with him.’

‘Then that’s that,’ Fox said, placing the pen back on the desk.

At work’s end, he headed over to Lauder Lodge. One of the staff told him he’d find his father in Mrs Sanderson’s room. Fox stood in front of her door and couldn’t hear anything. He knocked and waited until the woman’s voice invited him in. Mitch was seated facing Mrs Sanderson. The two chairs were positioned either side of the room’s fireplace. This fireplace was for show only. A vase of dried flowers sat in the unused grate. He’d been in Mrs Sanderson’s room once before, when his father had introduced him to his ‘new, dear friend’. The old boy was doing the same thing again.

‘This is my son, Audrey.’

Mrs Sanderson gave a tinkling laugh. ‘I know, Mitch. I’ve met Malcolm before.’

Mitch Fox’s brow furrowed as he tried to remember. Fox leaned down over Mrs Sanderson and placed a kiss against her cheek. She smelled faintly of talcum powder and her face was like parchment; her hands and arms, too. She’d probably always been thin, but now the skin on her face matched the exact contours of the skull beneath. Yet for all that, she was a handsome woman.

‘You’re feeling better?’ Fox asked.

‘Much better, dear.’ She gave his hand a pat before releasing it.

‘Twice in a few days,’ Fox’s father was saying. ‘Am I supposed to feel flattered? And when’s that sister of yours going to put in an appearance?’

There was nowhere for Fox to sit except the bed, so he stayed standing. It seemed to him that he towered over the two seated figures. Mrs Sanderson was arranging the tartan travel rug that lay spread across her lower body.

‘Jude’s had some bad news, Dad,’ Fox said.

‘Oh?’

‘It’s Vince. He’s been killed.’

Mrs Sanderson stared up at him, mouth opening in an O.

‘Killed?’ Mitch Fox echoed.

‘Do you want me to…?’ Mrs Sanderson was trying to rise to her feet.

‘You sit back down,’ Mitch ordered. ‘This is your room, Audrey.’

‘Looks like he got himself into a spot of bother,’ Fox was trying to explain, ‘and ended up taking a beating.’

‘No more than he deserved.’

‘Now really, Mitch!’ Mrs Sanderson protested. Then, to Fox: ‘How’s Jude taking it, Malcolm?’

‘She’s bearing up.’

‘She’ll need all the help you can give her.’ She turned to Mitch. ‘You should go see her.’

‘What good would that do?’

‘It would show her that you cared. Malcolm will take you…’ She looked at Fox for confirmation. He managed something between a nod and a shrug. Her voice softened a little. ‘Malcolm will take you,’ she repeated, leaning forward and stretching out an arm. After a moment, Mitch Fox copied her. Their hands met and clasped.

‘Maybe not just yet, though,’ Fox cautioned, remembering the plaster cast. ‘She’s not really up to visitors… She’s sleeping a fair bit.’

‘Tomorrow then,’ Mrs Sanderson decided.

‘Tomorrow,’ Fox eventually conceded.

On the drive home, he thought about visiting Jude, but decided he would phone her instead, just before bedtime. She’d given Alison Pettifer the details of a couple of her closest friends, and the neighbour had promised Fox she would call them and get them to take turns with Jude.

‘She won’t be alone,’ had been Pettifer’s closing words to him.

He wondered, too, what Annie Inglis would be doing. She’d told her son to be home by seven. It was seven now. Fox had memorised her address from the HR file. He could drive there in ten or fifteen minutes, but to what purpose? He was curious about the kid. Tried to imagine what it had been like for the schoolgirl to confront her farming father with the news. Mum and Dad were furious… but they looked after him. Yes, because that’s what families did – they rallied round; they dug in.

But Duncan ’s not on your file, Annie…

At the next set of traffic lights, he stared at an off-licence’s window display. Little halogen spotlights threw each bottle into sharp relief. He wondered if Jude’s friends were drinkers. Would they turn up with carrier bags and a collection of memories, tragic stories for the telling and retelling?

‘Cup of tea for you, Foxy,’ he told himself as the queue of traffic began its crawl across the junction.

The mail waiting for him on the hall carpet was the usual stuff: bills and junk and a bank statement. At least the Royal Bank of Scotland was still in business. There was nothing in the envelope with the statement, no letter of grovelling apology for getting above itself and letting down its customers. Lauder Lodge’s monthly payment had gone out. The rest seemed to be petrol and groceries. He looked in the fridge, seeking inspiration for a quick dinner. Denied, he tried the cupboards and emerged with a tin of chilli and a small jar of jalapenos. There was long-grain rice in a jar on the worktop. The radio was tuned to Classic FM, but he changed the channel to something he’d come across recently. The station was just called Birdsong and birdsong was precisely what it delivered. He went back to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Appletiser, sat with his drink at the table and rubbed a hand across his face and forehead, kneading his temples and the bridge of his nose. He wondered who would pay for his nursing home when the time came. He hoped there’d be someone like Mrs Sanderson waiting for him there.

When the food was ready, he took it through to the living room and switched on the TV. There was birdsong still audible from the kitchen; sometimes he left it on all night. He flicked through the Freeview channels until he found Dave. It was all repeats, but still watchable. Fifth Gear followed by Top Gear followed by another Top Gear.

‘Can I stand the pace?’

He’d left his mobile to recharge on the worktop in the kitchen. When it started ringing, he considered not answering. A scoop of dinner, a half-groan, and he placed the tray on the carpet. The phone had gone dead by the time he reached it, but the readout showed two capitalised letters: TK. Meaning Tony Kaye. Fox unplugged the phone from its charger, punched in his colleague’s number, and retreated to the sofa.

‘Where are you?’ Kaye asked.

‘I’m not pubbing tonight,’ Fox warned him. He could hear the background hubbub. Minter’s or some place like it.

‘Yes, you are,’ Kaye informed him. ‘We’ve got trouble. How soon can you get here?’

‘What sort of trouble?’

‘Your friend Breck’s been on the blower.’

‘Get him to call me at home.’

‘It wasn’t you he wanted – it was me.’

Fox had dug his fork back into the chilli, but now left it there. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re going to have to square this, Foxy. Breck’s going to be here at the top of the hour.’

Fox lifted the phone from his ear long enough to check its clock. Seventeen minutes. ‘I can be there in twenty,’ he said, rising from the sofa and switching off the TV. ‘What does he want with you?’

‘He’s keen to know why I had a mate look up Vince Faulkner on the PNC.’

Fox cursed under his breath. ‘Twenty,’ he repeated as he grabbed his coat and car keys. ‘Don’t say anything till I get there. Minter’s, right?’

‘Right.’

Fox cursed again and ended the call, slamming the front door on his way out.

The same two customers were at the bar, conferring with the landlord on a question from yet another TV quiz show. Jamie Breck recognised Fox and nodded a greeting. He was seated at Tony Kaye’s regular table, Kaye himself seated opposite, his face stern.

‘What can I get you?’ Breck asked. Fox shook his head and sat down. He noted that Kaye was drinking tomato juice, Breck a half-pint of orange and lemonade. ‘How’s your sister doing?’

Fox just nodded and rolled his shoulders. ‘Let’s get this sorted, eh?’

Breck looked at him. ‘I hope you appreciate,’ he began, ‘that I’m trying to do you a favour here.’

‘A favour?’ Tony Kaye didn’t sound convinced.

‘A heads-up. We’re not idiots, Sergeant Kaye. First thing we did was a background check. PNC keeps a record of recent searches, and that’s what led us to your pal in Hull CID.’

‘Some pal,’ Kaye muttered, folding his arms.

‘He was slow enough giving us your name, if that’s any consolation. Took his boss to do a bit of the strongarm.’

‘How did the autopsy go?’ Fox interrupted.

Breck turned his attention to him. ‘Blunt trauma, internal injuries… We’re pretty sure he was dead when they dumped him.’

‘Dead how long?’

‘Day, day and a half.’ Breck paused, rotating his glass on its coaster. ‘The PNC search was yesterday. Is that the same day you found out about Jude’s broken arm?’

‘Yes,’ Fox admitted.

‘You went looking for Faulkner?’

‘No.’

Breck raised an eyebrow, though his stare remained focused on the glass in front of him. ‘The man who’d just broken your sister’s arm – you didn’t want a word with him?’

‘I wanted a word, but I didn’t go looking.’

‘And how about you, Sergeant Kaye?’

Kaye opened his mouth to answer, but Fox held up a hand to stop him. ‘This has nothing to do with Sergeant Kaye,’ he stated. ‘I asked him for a background check on Faulkner.’

‘Why?’

‘Ammunition – if there was anything there, I was hoping maybe Jude would see sense.’

‘Leave him, you mean?’ Fox nodded. ‘You told her?’

‘Never got the chance – Faulkner was already dead, wasn’t he?’

Breck didn’t bother answering. Fox made eye contact with Tony Kaye, giving the slightest of nods to let him know this was how he wanted it. If there was going to be flak, it was Fox’s to take.

‘Remember when I asked you if there was anything you wanted to tell me about the victim?’ Breck was fixing Malcolm Fox with a stare. ‘How come you didn’t mention his previous?’

‘I don’t really know,’ Fox answered with a shrug.

‘What else did you find?’

‘Nothing.’

‘But you knew he was a naughty boy?’

‘Seems to have toed the line since coming north.’

‘Well, it takes time, doesn’t it? He’d want to be sure of the new terrain. How long had he been in town?’

‘A year, year and a half,’ Fox answered. The aroma was in his nostrils again: two fresh malts had just been poured at the bar.

‘How did your sister meet him?’

‘You’ll have to ask her.’

‘We’ll definitely do that.’ Breck glanced at his watch. ‘I said I was giving you a heads-up, but time’s nearly up.’

‘How do you mean?’

Breck locked eyes with Malcolm Fox. ‘I’m not your problem here, just remember that.’ All three turned as the door to the pub was pushed open with enough force to rattle it on its hinges. The man who lumbered in was almost as wide as he was tall. Despite the plummeting temperature outside, he wore only a checked sports jacket over his open-necked shirt. Fox recognised him, and with good reason. He was Detective Chief Inspector William Giles – ‘Bad Billy’ Giles. Judging from the well-lined face, the black wavy hair had to be a dye job, not that anyone was about to point this out to the owner. The eyes were a cold, crystalline blue.

‘Pint of eighty,’ Giles ordered, approaching the table. Breck rose to his feet, but hesitated long enough to start making introductions.

‘I know who they are,’ Giles growled back at him. ‘Three hours they spent grilling me – three hours of my life I’ll never get back.’

‘Glen Heaton didn’t deserve the effort you put in,’ Fox commented.

‘You can knock a man down as often as you like,’ Giles spat. ‘The measure is when he keeps getting up, and Glen Heaton’s a long way from being counted out by the likes of you.’ The chair – Breck’s chair – creaked as Giles lowered himself on to it. His eyes flitted between Tony Kaye and Malcolm Fox. ‘But now you’re mine,’ he stated with grim satisfaction.

Billy Giles wasn’t just the CID head honcho at Torphichen, not just Jamie Breck’s boss – and Glen Heaton’s, come to that. He was also Heaton’s oldest friend. Fox was thinking back to that three-hour interview. Thinking, too, of all the obstacles Giles had placed in the way of the PSU investigation.

‘Now you’re mine,’ Giles echoed with quiet satisfaction. From the bar, Breck made eye contact with Malcolm Fox. I’m not your problem here… Fox acknowledged as much with the same slight nod he’d earlier given to Tony Kaye. Then he turned his attention to Giles.

‘Not quite yet,’ he said, giving equal weight to each individual word. He rose to his feet, indicating that Kaye should do the same. ‘You want us, you know where to find us.’

‘Now’s as good a time as any.’

But Fox was shaking his head as he buttoned his coat. ‘You know where to find us,’ he repeated. ‘Just be sure to make an appointment – we’re always busy in the Complaints.’

‘You’re maggots, the pair of you.’

Even standing, Fox wasn’t much taller than the seated Giles. But he leaned down a little towards the man. ‘We’re not maggots,’ he stated. ‘You said so yourself – we’re the ones in the ring, the ones who floored your pal Heaton. And last time I looked, he was still on the canvas.’

Then he straightened up, turned and walked out. It was a few seconds before Tony Kaye joined him. Kaye was knotting his tartan scarf as he emerged from the pub.

‘What the hell do we do?’ he asked.

‘We don’t need to do anything – it’ll happen the way it happens. ’

‘We should at least tell McEwan.’

Fox nodded his agreement. ‘Giles will want us interviewed at Torphichen. We stick to my story. I might get a reprimand, but I doubt it’ll amount to much.’

Kaye considered this, then shook his head slowly. ‘Giles won’t let it go at that. Far as he’s concerned, this is payback time.’

‘All he’ll get is small change, Tony.’

Kaye thought for a further moment. ‘That bastard in Hull!’

‘We ought to have realised – everyone leaves traces, even on a computer.’

Kaye breathed out noisily through his nose. ‘So what now?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Do you need a lift? I don’t see your Nissan…’

‘I parked it legally for a change. It’s a couple of streets away.’

‘You didn’t want Torphichen nabbing you for that, too?’

Kaye shook his head. ‘How come you’re always so calm, Foxy?’

‘No point being anything else – like I say, what happens happens. ’

Kaye was staring at the door of Minter’s. ‘We should leg it before he comes out.’

‘He’s got that pint to drink, and maybe another one after it. By the way – what did you think of Jamie Breck?’

Kaye needed only a second to deliver his verdict. ‘Good guy, seems like.’

Malcolm Fox nodded his agreement. Seems like…