The Complaints

6

Wednesday morning, Fox was brushing his teeth when the home phone started ringing. The upstairs handset needed recharging, and he knew the caller would have hung up before he could reach the living room, so he stayed where he was. He’d woken early, Tony Kaye’s words in his head – good guy, seems like. Kaye had meant that Breck was the sort to help out a colleague. Didn’t mean he couldn’t be other things, too… Just as Fox was wiping his mouth, his mobile let out its little chirrup. It was on the dresser in the bedroom, and he walked through, tossing the towel on to the just-made bed.

‘Fox,’ he said, pressing the phone to his ear.

‘Mr Fox, it’s Alison Pettifer.’

Fox’s stomach tightened. ‘Is Jude all right?’

‘They’ve taken her.’

‘Who?’ But already knowing the answer.

‘Some policemen. C Division, they said.’

Meaning Torphichen. Fox looked at his watch – half seven. ‘It’s just routine,’ he started to explain.

‘That’s what they said – “routine questions”. All the same, I thought you’d want to know.’

‘That’s kind of you.’

‘Should I stay here, do you think?’ Fox wasn’t sure what she meant: was she suggesting she head to Torphichen herself? ‘To keep an eye on them, I mean.’

Fox lifted the phone from his ear and read the display. She was calling from Jude’s home phone. ‘They’re still there?’ he asked.

‘Some of them, yes.’

‘With a search warrant?’

‘They did get Jude to sign something,’ the neighbour confirmed.

‘Where are you now, Mrs Pettifer?’

‘The foot of the stairs.’ He heard her apologise as someone pushed past her. Heavy footsteps making for the upstairs landing. ‘They don’t seem to like me sticking around.’

‘What happened to Jude’s other friends, the ones who were going to look after her?’

‘Joyce stayed the night, but she had to leave for work at six thirty. The police started arriving just after, so I got dressed and…’

‘Thanks for everything, Mrs Pettifer. You can go home now.’

‘A couple of reporters came to the door yesterday evening, but I gave them short shrift.’

‘Thanks again.’

‘Well… I might just nip home then, if you think that’s for the best.’

Fox ended the call, fetched a fresh shirt from its hanger and decided yesterday’s tie would suffice. He was halfway down the stairs when the landline started ringing again. He lifted the receiver from the sofa and pressed it to his ear.

‘Fox,’ he said.

‘It’s McEwan.’

‘Morning, sir.’

‘You sound harassed.’

‘No, sir, just getting ready to leave.’

‘So I’ll see you here in half an hour?’

‘Actually, I need to stop off somewhere first.’

‘I don’t think that’s advisable, Malcolm.’

‘Sir?’

‘Torphichen have told me what’s happening. I got the call half an hour ago. That stunt you pulled with the PNC is going to take a bit of work to defuse.’

‘I was going to tell you, sir…’ Fox paused. ‘Truth is, they’ve taken my sister in for questioning. She needs someone with her.’

‘Not you, Malcolm. You need to be here.’

‘They know she’s my sister, Bob. They don’t like what I’ve done to their pal Heaton.’

‘I know people at Torphichen, Malcolm. I’ll see to it everything’s squared.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Half an hour, then. You, me and Tony Kaye are going to have a fine wee natter…’ The phone went dead in Fox’s hand.

In fact, the journey took him longer than expected. His excuse: tram works. Really, he’d detoured to Jude’s street in Saughtonhall. Her front door was open. A Scene of Crime van stood kerbside. Someone had been dispatched to the corner shop – the crew were drinking from polystyrene cups and munching on pastries and crisps. He saw just a couple of plain-clothes cops – faces he recognised dimly from visits to Torphichen. No sign of either Billy Giles or Jamie Breck. A neighbour on the opposite side of the road stood watching from her window, arms folded. Fox let his engine idle, knowing there was nothing to be gained from going in. Eventually he signalled back out into the traffic. The drivers were all being polite; didn’t mind braking on his behalf.

It gave them more time to gawp.

‘My dabs will be all over the place,’ Fox told McEwan. They weren’t in the office: McEwan had found an empty meeting-room. An elliptical table and eight or nine chairs. There was a marker board on a tripod. Three words written there:

VISIBILITY VIABILITY VERSATILITY

Tony Kaye had found the only chair in the room with castors. He was rolling himself backwards from the table, then forward again.

‘That’s annoying me,’ McEwan warned him.

‘What are we going to do about Bad Billy?’ Kaye asked, still moving.

‘He’s DCI Giles to you, Sergeant Kaye – and we’re going to let him do his job.’ He turned his head in Fox’s direction. ‘Isn’t that right, Malcolm?’

Fox nodded. ‘Only thing we can do. They’ll feel better once they’ve given us a kicking.’

McEwan gave a sigh. ‘How many times have I told you? PSU has to be above reproach.’

‘Like I say, sir, searching the database for Vince Faulkner was my idea.’

McEwan glared at Fox. ‘That’s a load of balls and you know it. Tony here is the kind who’d decide a protocol could be bent – isn’t that right, Sergeant?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Kaye admitted.

‘Last night we told Giles something different,’ Fox cautioned.

‘Then you better stick to that,’ McEwan snapped back. ‘If he catches you in one lie, he’ll go looking for others…’ He paused. ‘Are there any others?’

‘No, sir,’ both men said in unison.

McEwan was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Billy Giles is all bile and bluster. Scratch the surface and there’s a lot less of him to be scared of.’ He held up a finger. ‘Doesn’t mean you should underestimate him.’

Malcolm Fox took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘Are they treating Jude’s house as a crime scene?’

‘Possible crime scene.’

‘They won’t find anything.’

‘I thought you just said they’d find your prints.’

‘I was there on Monday, and then again yesterday.’

‘Best make sure they know that.’

Fox nodded slowly, while McEwan’s attention shifted back to Kaye.

‘Tony, I swear to God, if you don’t stop swivelling on that damned chair…’

Kaye leapt to his feet so suddenly, the chair rolled all the way back to the marker board. He strode over to the window and peered down at the car park. ‘This doesn’t feel right,’ he muttered with a shake of the head. ‘Foxy starts looking at Jamie Breck – next thing we know, C Division’s sniffing at our balls. What if Bad Billy got wind of it and decided he’d lost enough rotten apples for one season?’

‘And did what?’ McEwan reasoned. ‘Killed a man in cold blood? Is that seriously what you’re suggesting?’

‘I’m not saying he…’ But Kaye couldn’t finish what he’d started. It turned into an elongated snarl instead.

‘Do I put myself forward for questioning?’ Fox calmly asked of his boss.

‘They’ve already requested the pleasure of your company.’

‘When do they want me?’

‘Soon as this meeting’s done,’ McEwan said.

Fox stared at him. ‘So?’

‘So you’re idiots, the pair of you. Nobody accesses the PNC without good reason.’

‘We had good reason,’ Kaye insisted.

‘You had a good personal reason, Tony, and that’s far from being the same thing.’

‘He’d been involved in a domestic,’ Kaye ploughed on. ‘We were looking for evidence of priors.’

‘Keep telling yourself that,’ McEwan offered with a tired-looking smile.

‘Sir?’ Fox interrupted, needing to hear the word.

‘Go,’ Bob McEwan obliged.

‘Is my sister all right?’

‘You want to see her?’ Giles asked. He was dressed in the same clothes as the previous night, but with the addition of a tie. His neck had outgrown the collar of his shirt, and the top button was undone, visible behind the tie’s loose knot.

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s not far.’ They were in one of the interview rooms at Torphichen. The place had a Precinct 13 feel to it – crumbling and circumferenced by dereliction and roadworks. There wasn’t much for the tourists, once you got west of Princes Street and Lothian Road. The one-way system dragged buses, cabs and lorries around it, but it was a thankless spot for pedestrians. Inside the building there were the usual smells of mildew and desperation. The interview room bore battle scars – scratched walls, chipped desk, graffiti on the back of the door. They’d kept Fox waiting a good long time in the reception area, giving uniforms and plain-clothes officers alike the chance to come and glare at him. When he’d eventually followed Giles down the corridor towards the interview room, there had been plenty of hissing and cursing from office doorways.

‘Is she all right, though?’ Fox persisted.

Giles made eye contact with him for the first time since coming in. ‘We’ve not started the waterboarding yet, if that’s what you’re asking. Tea and biccies and a female officer for company last time I looked in.’ Giles leaned forward so his elbows rested against the table. ‘It’s a bad business,’ he stated. Fox just nodded. ‘When did you last see Mr Faulkner?’

‘Before Christmas – November maybe.’

‘You didn’t have much time for him?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t blame you. You knew he was using your sister as a punch-bag, though?’ Fox stared at him but didn’t answer. ‘See, if that’d been my kith and kin, I’d’ve been on the bastard like a ton of shit.’

‘I’d spoken to her about it. She told me her arm was an accident. ’

‘No way you believed her.’ Giles leaned back again, bunching his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘So how come you didn’t face up to him?’

‘I never got the chance.’

‘Or you were yellow…’ Giles let the accusation float in the air between them. When Fox didn’t rise to it, he bared his teeth. ‘Her arm was broken Saturday, wasn’t it?’

‘So she says.’

‘When did you find out about it?’

There was a noise in the corridor outside. A young male by the sound of it, not exactly cooperating as he was led to or from his cell.

‘That’ll be Mollison,’ Giles explained. ‘Wee wanker’s a one-man crime wave. Soon as I’m done here, I’ll be having words with him.’

‘Is he anything to do with…?’

Giles shook his head. ‘Mollison’ll break into your home or car, but it’s unlikely he’d bludgeon you to death. Takes rage, that sort of attack. The sort of rage that comes from a grudge.’

‘I hadn’t seen Faulkner since before Christmas.’

‘Did you know back then?’

‘Know what?’

‘That he was a wife-beater.’

‘Jude wasn’t his wife.’

‘Did you, though?’ Giles’s small eyes, staring out from his fleshy face, were drilling into Fox. Though he fought against it, Fox wriggled in his chair.

‘I knew their relationship was tempestuous.’

Giles offered a snort. ‘You’re not here to write a Mills and fucking Boon!’

‘Jude always said she gave as good as she got.’

‘Didn’t make it right, Inspector. Seems to me you shied away from saying anything. You never pulled Faulkner aside for a quiet word?’

‘After the arm I would’ve done, if there’d been the chance.’

‘So we’re back to my original question – when did you find out?’

‘A neighbour called me on Monday afternoon.’

Giles nodded slowly. ‘Mrs Pettifer,’ he stated. Yes, stood to reason she’d have been questioned by the inquiry team… ‘I’m assuming you then went looking for him?’

‘No.’ Fox was peering down at his hands, clasped across his lap.

‘No?’ Giles sounded unconvinced.

‘What difference would it have made – he was already dead, wasn’t he?’

‘Come on, Fox – you know time of death’s always open to debate… a few hours this way or that.’

‘Did he turn up for work Monday morning?’

Giles paused a moment before answering, weighing up what he did and didn’t want Fox to know. Eventually, he shook his head.

‘So what was he doing? Where was he hiding himself from Saturday night onwards? Someone must have seen him.’

‘Whoever killed him saw him.’

‘You can’t think it was Jude.’

Giles pursed his lips and removed his hands from their pockets, cupping them behind his head. As his shirt stretched, gaps appeared between the buttons, revealing a white string vest beneath. The room felt warm to Fox. He knew they probably kept it stuffy: didn’t want suspects getting too comfortable. His scalp felt itchy, perspiration cloying there. But if he scratched or wiped, Giles would think the interview was getting to him.

‘I’ve seen Faulkner on the slab,’ the detective was saying. ‘Plenty of muscle on him. Not sure a one-armed alcoholic girlie weighing all of eight stone could have outpointed him.’ Giles was watching for a reaction. ‘Someone could’ve helped her, though.’

‘You’re not going to find anything in the house.’ In the distance, a door slammed. A truck or bus was idling outside, causing the frosted window pane to shiver noisily in its frame.

‘Plenty of evidence of a chaotic lifestyle,’ Giles went on. ‘Even when someone’s had a go at tidying up.’

‘That was the neighbour; she did it out of kindness.’

‘I’m not suggesting anyone was trying to cover their tracks.’ Giles gave a cold smile. ‘And by the way – how’s your case against Glen Heaton shaping up?’

‘Wondered how long it would take you…’

‘He’s loving it, you know – full pay, feet up at home while we shiver and scrape ice off the windscreen of a morning.’ Giles’s meaty hands came to rest on the table. He leaned over them. ‘And exonerated at the end of it.’

‘I go easy on Heaton and you lay off my sister?’

Giles tried for a look of mock outrage. ‘Did I say that? I don’t think I said that.’ He paused. ‘But I can’t help feeling a sense of… what? Irony? Poetic justice?’

‘A man’s dead, in case you’d forgotten.’

‘I’ve not forgotten, Inspector. You can be absolutely sure of that. Every detail of Faulkner’s life is going to be pored over by my men. Your sister’s going to have to get used to questions and more questions. The media are showing an interest, too, so she might want to stop answering her door and her phone.’

‘Don’t take this out on her,’ Fox said quietly.

‘Or you’ll make a complaint?’ Giles smiled. ‘Now wouldn’t that be the cherry on the top?’

‘Are we finished?’ Fox was starting to get to his feet.

‘For now – unless there’s anything you want to tell me.’

Fox could think of a few things, but all he did was shake his head.

Out in the hallway, he tried a few of the doors, but Jude wasn’t in any of the other interview rooms. At the far end was the door leading to the station’s cramped reception area, and beyond that the outside world. A familiar face was loitering on the steps when Fox emerged.

‘Can we take a walk?’ Jamie Breck asked, cutting short the phone call he’d been making on his mobile.

‘My car’s right here.’ Fox nodded towards it.

‘All the same…’ Breck gestured and started moving up the slope towards the traffic lights. ‘How did it go with DCI Giles?’

‘How do you think it went?’

Breck gave a slow nod. ‘I reckoned you’d want to know how things are shaping up.’

‘Is that how it works – Giles gives me a doing and then you start in with the “good cop” routine?’

‘He’d kill me if he knew I was talking to you.’ Breck looked over his shoulder as they rounded the corner into Morrison Street.

‘Then why are you?’

‘I don’t like the politics – us on our side, you on yours.’ Breck was walking briskly. It was a young man’s gait, purposeful and strong, as if the future held a clear destination. Fox, struggling to keep up, could feel the sweat growing chill at his hairline.

‘Where’s my sister?’ he asked.

‘On her way home, I think.’

‘Off the record, what’s your view of Glen Heaton?’

Breck’s nose wrinkled. ‘I could see that he cut a few corners.’

‘He drove on every pavement he saw.’

‘That’s his style – pretty effective, too.’

‘I think your boss just tried to do a deal with me.’

‘What sort of deal?’

‘Heaton for my sister…’ Breck gave a little whistle. ‘But since my sister hasn’t done anything…’

‘You turned him down?’ Breck guessed.

‘You don’t seem surprised he made the offer.’

Breck shrugged. ‘All I’m wondering is why you’re telling me.’

‘When we nail Heaton, there’ll be a vacancy at DI.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You’re not ambitious?’

‘Of course I’m ambitious – isn’t everyone? Aren’t you?’

‘Not especially.’ The two men walked in silence for a few paces.

‘So how did it go with Bad Billy?’ Breck eventually asked.

‘He sees the investigation as a way of getting at me, and that may colour his judgement… take him down any number of wrong roads.’

Breck was nodding. ‘Did he tell you about the CCTV?’

Fox looked at the younger man. ‘What about it?’

‘I’ll assume he didn’t.’ Breck took a deep breath. ‘There’s a pub in Gorgie… Faulkner wasn’t exactly a regular, but he went in occasionally. They’ve got CCTV inside and out.’

‘And?’

Breck stopped suddenly and turned to face Malcolm Fox, studying him. ‘I’m not sure how much of this I should be telling you.’

‘What’s the pub called?’

‘Marooned. Do you know it?’ Breck watched the older man shake his head. ‘It’s only been open a year or so.’

‘Vince Faulkner was caught on camera?’ Fox prompted.

‘Saturday night. A few rugby fans were in – Welsh guys. Words were exchanged and they took it outside.’

‘They beat him up?’

Breck shook his head. ‘From the footage I’ve seen, he pushed one of them and they gave his head a slap. Three against one… Faulkner weighed it up and sloped off with a few final insults.’

‘They didn’t go after him?’

‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t bump into them again later.’

‘No.’ Fox was thoughtful.

‘Your sister says he doesn’t have any family left down south – is that right?’

Fox shrugged. ‘She’d know better than me.’ He paused. ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with her, you know.’

Breck nodded slowly. ‘All the same… it’s the way the game’s played.’

‘Will her house be a mess?’

‘I asked the SOCOs to go easy.’

‘They won’t have found anything.’ The two men had started walking again. When they turned left into Dewar Place, Fox realised they were doing a circuit. Another left into the lane and they’d be back at the police station and Fox’s car.

‘You live quite close to me,’ Breck was saying.

Fox opened his mouth to reply, then made a swallowing motion instead. He’d been about to say, I know.

‘Is that right?’ was what he eventually answered.

‘It came up,’ Breck explained with a shrug. ‘I’m on the estate behind Morrisons.’

‘You married?’

‘Girlfriend.’

‘How serious?’

‘Only a couple of months – she’s not moved in yet. How about you?’

‘I used to be married,’ Fox replied.

‘Family life’s tough when you’re a cop,’ Breck decided.

‘Yes, it is,’ Fox agreed. He was thinking about the girlfriend. Plenty of abusers and offenders had partners. It made for good cover – ‘the quiet family man’. Only a tiny part of their everyday life was given over to their secret self. On the other hand, there were probably lots of men out there who’d stumbled upon websites they wished they hadn’t, then had lingered… not altogether sure why. Drawn in by something.

How many, though, ended up handing over their credit card?

‘Is that what you’ve got so far?’ Fox asked. ‘Marooned and some Welsh rugby fans?’

‘That’s about it.’

‘No sightings Sunday or Monday?’

‘It’s early days, Inspector.’

Fox nodded and thought of something. ‘Where did he work?’ ‘You don’t know?’

‘I know he was a labourer…’

‘He was on a short-term contract at Salamander Point.’

‘I thought it had gone bust?’

‘Not quite.’ They had almost reached the end of Dewar Place Lane. Breck touched Fox on the shoulder. ‘Best if we split up here.’

Fox nodded. ‘Thanks for the chat.’

Breck smiled and stuck out his hand. The two men shook.

7

Fox called Lauder Lodge from the car. They asked if he wanted to speak to his father, but he told them just to pass on the message. He couldn’t take Mitch to Jude’s today. Maybe tomorrow.

Marooned was about halfway between Torphichen Place and Saughtonhall. It was down a side street, not far from the Heart of Midlothian stadium. Fox didn’t get out of the car, just sat there long enough to get an idea of the place. The single-storey brick building dated back to the seventies. Must have been a gap site at one time, maybe a garage or builder’s yard before that. Four-storey tenements flanked it, with another across the street. A chalkboard to the left of the main door promised quiz nights, karaoke and hot food. There was a double-measure/single-price deal on spirits. Just the one CCTV camera, bolted high up on the wall and protected by a wire cage. Fox knew he could go inside and flash his warrant card, ask to see the footage, but what good would it do? And if word got back to Billy Giles that he’d been there… Instead, he executed a three-point turn and got back on to the road to Saughtonhall.

The door was answered by a woman he didn’t know. He introduced himself as Jude’s brother.

‘I’m Sandra,’ the woman said. ‘Sandra Hendry.’ She was around Jude’s age, with dark, tired eyes and a blotchy face. The outfit – artfully ripped and patched denims; top trimmed to show her midriff – would have suited someone half her age and forty pounds lighter. Her hair resembled candyfloss, beginning to darken at its roots. Gold hoop earrings dangled from her lobes. Her nose and tongue were pierced and studded. ‘Jude’s in bed,’ she said, leading him inside. ‘Do you want to go up?’

‘In a minute.’ They were in the living room by now. The place looked relatively tidy. The woman called Sandra had retreated to the armchair and was crossing one leg over the other. The TV was on, but with the sound just audible. A tanned man seemed to be trying to train an unruly dog.

‘Love this,’ Sandra commented. Fox noticed that one of her ankles sported a tattoo of a scorpion.

‘How’s she doing?’ Fox asked, commencing a circuit of the room.

‘Just got back from the Gestapo…’ She broke off and stared at him, eyes widening as she remembered what Jude’s brother did for a living.

‘I’ve heard worse,’ he reassured her.

‘She was shattered, reckoned a nap might help.’

Fox nodded his understanding. Flipping open the lid of the kitchen bin, he saw that its inner bag had been removed. Forensics would be busy at their Howdenhall HQ, poring over its contents.

‘I appreciate you looking after her.’

Sandra shrugged. ‘My shift doesn’t start till four.’

‘Where do you work?’

‘The Asda on Chesser Avenue.’ She offered him a stick of gum, but he shook his head. The empty bottles and cans had gone. Ashtrays had been cleaned. The breakfast bar now boasted only a couple of dirty mugs and a pizza carton.

‘Did you ever meet Vince?’ Fox asked.

‘Four of us used to go out.’

‘You and your partner?’

‘He works with Vince.’ She paused, stopped chewing. ‘Past tense, I suppose.’

‘He’s in construction, then?’

She nodded. ‘Foreman – Vince’s boss, I suppose.’

‘So was it your partner who took Vince on?’

She shrugged. ‘Husband, not partner. Sixteen years – you’d get less for murdering someone, that’s what Ronnie says.’

‘He’s probably right. You and Ronnie knew Vince pretty well, then?’

‘Suppose so.’

‘Ever end up at a place called Marooned?’

‘That shit-hole? Not if we could help it. In the better weather, the boys liked the Golf Tavern – meant they could play pitch ’n’ putt on Bruntsfield Links.’

‘You and Jude didn’t play?’

‘Dinner and a few games of roulette or blackjack – that’s more my thing.’

‘Which casino?’

‘The Oliver.’

‘At Ocean Terminal?’ He’d finished looking around and was standing in the middle of the room, facing her as she stared at the TV.

‘That’s the one.’

‘Not far from Salamander Point, then.’

‘Within staggering distance.’

Fox nodded to himself. ‘What did you make of him, Sandra?’

At mention of her name, she peered up at him. ‘Vince, you mean?’ She considered his question. ‘He was all right – bit of a laugh when you got him in the right mood.’

‘Meaning he sometimes wasn’t?’

‘I knew he had a temper – but Jude’s not exactly lacking in that department either.’

‘What do you think about him breaking her arm?’

‘She says she fell.’

‘But we both know she didn’t.’

‘My motto is: don’t get involved. Just leads to more grief.’ Her interest in him had waned. Onscreen, the dog-handler was making obvious progress.

‘But you’re her friend… you must’ve…’ Fox broke off, thinking to himself: you’re her brother, and you didn’t. ‘I’m going to go upstairs, ’ he said instead.

Sandra nodded distractedly. ‘I’d offer to make you a cuppa, but we’re all out.’

The door to Vince’s den was wide open and Fox saw that his computer had been removed by the investigators. Jude’s bedroom door was ajar. He knocked and pushed it all the way open. His sister was sitting on the bed, surrounded by piles of clothes. The fitted wardrobe had been half emptied, along with the chest of drawers. It was all Faulkner’s stuff – his jeans and T-shirts, socks and pants. Jude was holding a short-sleeved shirt in her good hand, working at the cloth with her fingers. She was sniffing back tears.

‘I can still smell him – on the sheets, the pillows… Part of him’s still here.’ She paused for a moment and gave her brother a look. ‘Know what they told me, Malcolm? They said we can’t have the funeral. They need to hold on to his body. Might take weeks, they said. Nobody knows how long.’

There was a corner of the bed going spare, so Fox rested his weight there, but stayed silent.

‘Sandra says we need to start cancelling stuff and telling the proper authorities. But what’s left of him after that?’ She sniffed again, and rubbed her forearm across her eyes. ‘They kept asking me all these questions. They think I did it…’

‘They don’t.’ Fox assured her, reaching out to give her shoulder a squeeze.

‘That man… Giles, his name was… he kept on at me about Vince being an abuser – that’s the word he used, “abuser”. He said Vince had past convictions. He said they were for violence. Told me no one would blame me for getting my own back. But that’s not what happened, Malcolm.’

‘Giles knows that, Jude – they all do.’

‘Then why did he keep saying it?’

‘He’s a prick, sis.’

She managed a fleeting smile at this. Fox wasn’t letting go of her shoulder just yet, but she turned to look at his hand. ‘That hurts,’ she explained, and he realised the shoulder belonged to her broken arm.

‘Christ, sorry.’

Another half-smile. ‘There was a nicer detective… Breck, I think. Yes, because we read that book one holiday when we were kids.’

‘Kidnapped,’ Fox reminded her. ‘The hero’s called Alan Breck. You wanted me to read it to you.’

‘At bedtime.’ She nodded, remembering. ‘Every night for two weeks. And now look at us…’ She turned to him, tears running down her cheeks. ‘I loved him, Malcolm.’

‘I know.’

She started wiping her tears on the shirt she was holding. ‘I’m not going to cope without him.’

‘Yes, you are… trust me. Can I get you anything?’

‘How about a time machine?’

‘Might take a while to build. Sandra says you’re out of tea and coffee – I could go to the shop and fetch some.’

She shook her head. ‘She’s going to bring some back from Asda – says there’s a discount for staff.’

‘She was telling me the four of you used to go to the casino. I never knew you liked a flutter.’

Jude took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘It wasn’t me so much as the other three. I liked the meal and a few drinks… They were always good nights.’ She paused. ‘They had people here, you know, rifling through all our stuff. I had to sign for some things they took. It’s why…’ She gestured towards the clothes surrounding her. ‘Drawers were already open, so I thought I might as well…’

Fox nodded. ‘I’ll leave you to it, if you’re sure there’s nothing I…’

‘Does Mitch know?’

‘Yes. I’ve put him off visiting.’

‘I’ll go see him. That would be easier, wouldn’t it?’

‘I can take you. How about later – three o’clock, four?’

‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’

Fox just shrugged.

‘Okay then,’ Jude said. Her brother started to get to his feet. He was at the door when she thought of something. ‘Monday night, someone came to the house.’

Fox paused with his hand on the handle.

‘Said he was looking for Vince,’ Jude went on. ‘I told him I didn’t know where he was. Closed the door on him and that was that.’

‘You didn’t know him?’

Jude shook her head. ‘Tall guy, dark hair. I went to the window and watched him leave, but all I saw was his back.’

‘Did he get into a car?’

‘Maybe…’

‘You told Giles this?’

She shook her head again. ‘Mad as it seems, I wasn’t in the mood. Maybe you could tell him instead?’

‘Sure. One thing, though, Jude…’

‘What?’

‘Was Vince in any sort of trouble? Maybe he’d been on a shorter fuse than usual?’

She considered this, holding the shirt up to her nose. ‘He was just Vince,’ she told Fox. ‘Always will be. But Malcolm…?’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you know about the convictions?’ She watched him as he gave a slow nod of the head. ‘You never told me.’

‘By the time I found out, he was already dead.’

‘You could still have told me. Better to hear it from you than that vile man.’

‘Yes,’ Fox agreed. ‘Sorry, sis. But how about you? Did you really not know?’

It was Jude’s turn to shake her head. ‘Doesn’t matter now,’ she said, her attention drifting back to her dead lover’s shirt. ‘Nothing matters now…’

At Fettes, there was a message that DS Inglis wanted to see him.

‘She delivered it herself,’ Tony Kaye teased as Fox read the note. ‘Tidy body on her…’

‘Where’s the boss?’ Fox asked.

‘Knocked off early; says he’s got a speech to write.’ When Fox looked at him, Kaye just shrugged. ‘Some conference in Glasgow.’

‘Methods of Policing an Expected Surge in Civil Unrest,’ Joe Naysmith recited. ‘All down to the credit crunch, apparently.’

Kaye tutted. ‘They’ll be lynching bankers next.’

‘What’s that got to do with the Complaints?’ Fox asked.

‘If our lads go in a bit too hard at the protesters,’ Kaye explained, ‘might end up coming to us.’ He had risen from his desk and was moving towards Fox’s. ‘Good to see you escaped unscathed – kept you there long enough.’

‘Bad Billy Giles was doing his Torquemada impression.’

‘Only to be expected. How’s your sister bearing up?’

‘Fine, so far. I went to see her after Torphichen.’

‘Did you learn anything?’

‘Faulker had a run-in with some rugby fans Saturday night.’

‘Oh?’

‘Seemed to peter out.’

‘All the same… Is that the last sighting?’ Kaye watched his colleague nod. ‘And Jude’s been interviewed?’

‘By both Giles and Jamie Breck.’

‘Did she have anything to tell them?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Fox was pinching the bridge of his nose. He wished the head cold would either explode into life or else burn itself out. At the moment, all it was doing was shadowing him like a stalker.

‘Are you going to go see the talent?’

‘What?’ Fox looked up at Kaye.

‘The Chop Shop glamour puss.’ Kaye gestured towards the note. ‘I can always nip along on your behalf, pass on a message.’

‘It’s fine,’ Fox said, getting back to his feet. Kaye shrugged and turned away.

‘Hey, Starbuck,’ he called to Joe Naysmith, ‘get the coffee on…’

Fox walked the short distance to the CEOP office and pressed the buzzer. Annie Inglis herself opened the door. Just an inch at first, checking it was him. She beamed a smile and ushered him inside. DC Gilchrist nodded a greeting. The blinds were drawn against the low mid-afternoon sun.

‘I haven’t got long,’ Fox warned Inglis.

‘Just wondered how things were.’ She held her hand out towards the same chair he’d taken on his first visit. He sat down opposite her, their knees brushing for a moment. She was dressed in a skirt and black tights, and an open-necked white blouse with a string of pearls around her neck. The pearls looked old; maybe some sort of heirloom.

‘Things are fine,’ he said. Gilchrist, his back to them, was lifting the casing from a hard drive, peering inside for anything of interest.

‘Our opposite numbers in Melbourne are readying to jump the gun,’ Inglis said.

‘How do you mean?’

‘The cop down there, the one I showed you…’ She indicated her desk monitor. ‘They’re worried he has friends on the force, meaning he’ll find out we’re on to him.’

‘They’re getting ready to question him?’

Inglis nodded. ‘We might lose any number of his UK clients.’

‘The ones who’ve coughed up the cash,’ Gilchrist added without looking up, ‘but not the rest of the joining fee. They’ll have to be let off with a caution.’

‘Breck still hasn’t sent any pictures?’

Inglis shook her head. ‘Hasn’t posted anything on the group’s message board either.’ She paused. ‘This has happened before – information gets leaked, leaving plenty of time for evidence to disappear or be tampered with.’

‘But you’ve got the evidence.’ It was Fox’s turn to gesture towards the monitor.

‘We’ve just scratched the surface, Malcolm.’

‘Tip of the iceberg,’ Gilchrist agreed as he started to dismantle the drive unit. ‘What we could really do with…’ he seemed to be talking to himself, ‘…is access to the suspect’s home computer.’

Fox looked at Inglis. She was staring back at him. ‘Thing is,’ she said, ‘we’d have to apply for a search-and-seize. Breck’s bound to have a friend somewhere in the system who might be tempted to alert him.’

‘You on the other hand,’ Gilchrist added, still seemingly intent on his task, ‘can do a bit of breaking and entering – and all of it above board. The Complaints have got powers beyond us mere mortals.’

‘I thought it was general background you wanted?’

‘A bit of evidence would be nice,’ Inglis mused.

‘We’d get a gold star from London,’ her colleague continued.

‘Is that what this is about?’ Fox asked. ‘Impressing the big kids?’

‘You want them to think we’re all amateurs north of the border?’ Inglis waited for a response, which didn’t come. ‘He’ll have a store of images at home – either on his hard drive or a memory stick,’ she continued quietly but determinedly. ‘Even if he’s transferred them, they’ll have left traces.’

‘Traces?’ Fox echoed.

She nodded slowly. ‘It’s like forensics, Malcolm – everyone leaves a bit of a trail.’

‘Or a trail of bits,’ Gilchrist added, in what Fox assumed was a private joke. Inglis certainly offered her colleague a smile. Fox leaned back in his chair, thinking of the trail Tony Kaye had left on the PNC.

‘Nice line of patter the two of you have got. All for my benefit, or is it a tried and tested routine?’

‘Whatever it takes,’ Inglis said.

‘Thing is, though,’ he told her, ‘we don’t just go breaking into people’s homes without okaying it first.’

‘But permission can be granted retrospectively,’ Inglis stated.

‘It has to be justified to the Surveillance Commissioner,’ Fox cautioned.

‘Eventually,’ Inglis agreed. ‘As far as I understand it, in emergencies you’re allowed to act first and consult later.’

‘But this isn’t my case,’ Fox said quietly. ‘I’m not the one investigating Jamie Breck. In point of fact, he could argue that he’s investigating me. And how’s that going to look?’

There was silence in the room for a moment. ‘Not great,’ Inglis eventually conceded. The glimmer of hope had vanished from her eyes. She looked to Gilchrist, and received a shrug in reply.

‘We had to try,’ she told Fox.

‘We hate to lose one,’ Gilchrist added, tossing a small screwdriver on to the desk.

‘Maybe there’s some other way,’ Fox offered. ‘For B and E, we need the Surveillance Commissioner’s okay… but if Breck’s using his home computer, we could set up the van outside, zero in on his keystrokes and find out what he’s doing.’

‘You don’t need judicial approval for the van?’ Inglis asked, her spirits lifting.

‘Fox shook his head. ‘DCC can give the go-ahead, and even then it can be retrospective.’

‘Well, the DCC’s on our side,’ Inglis commented. She had nudged the mouse on the desk next to her. The computer screen sprang back into life, showing the same photograph as before – the Melbourne cop with the Asian kid. ‘You know what their defence is?’ she asked. ‘They call it a victimless crime. They share photos. In most cases that’s all they say they do. They’re not the ones doing the actual abusing.’

‘Doesn’t mean it’s not abuse,’ Gilchrist stated.

‘Look,’ Fox said with a sigh, ‘I appreciate the job you’re trying to do-’

‘With one arm tied behind our backs,’ Inglis interrupted.

‘Let me see if I can help,’ Fox went on. ‘The surveillance van’s a real option, if he is what you say he is…’

‘If?’

Gilchrist’s voice had risen. He was staring hard at Fox. But Inglis calmed him with a wave of her hand. ‘Thanks, Malcolm,’ she said to Fox. ‘Anything at all would be appreciated.’

‘Okay then,’ Fox said, rising to his feet. ‘Leave it with me.’

Her hand touched his forearm. They locked eyes and he nodded. She mouthed three words as he readied to leave.

Anything at all.

Back in the Complaints, he crooked a forefinger at Tony Kaye. Kaye approached Fox’s desk, arms folded.

‘How would you feel,’ Fox asked him, ‘about a night-time stint in the van?’

Kaye gave a snort and a grin. ‘What’s she giving you in return?’

Fox shook his head. ‘But how would you feel?’ he persisted.

‘I’d feel grumpy and tired. Is this in the hope that we catch Breck drooling over internet porn?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s not our customer, Foxy.’

‘He could be, if he’s doing what the Chop Shop say he is.’

‘A joint operation?’

‘I think DS Inglis or her colleague would need to be in the van…’

‘Is her colleague as tasty as she is?’

‘Not quite.’ Fox looked over towards the coffee machine. ‘You’d need Naysmith, too, of course.’

Kaye seemed to deflate. ‘Sadly, that’s true.’ Naysmith was the one who knew how to get the best out of the technology.

‘But while he’s breaking sweat,’ Fox added, ‘you’ll have plenty of time to work your charm on DS Inglis.’

‘Also true,’ Kaye agreed, perking up again. ‘But where would you be?’

‘I can’t get involved, Tony.’

Kaye nodded his acceptance of this. ‘Tonight?’ he asked.

‘Sooner the better. The van’s not on other duties?’

Kaye shook his head. ‘Cold night for it. Might need to snuggle up for warmth.’

‘I’m sure DS Inglis would like that. Go tell Naysmith and I’ll let the Chop Shop know.’

Fox watched Kaye retreat, then picked up the telephone and punched in the number for CEOP. Inglis answered, and he cupped his hand to his mouth so Kaye wouldn’t overhear.

‘We can do a surveillance tonight. It’ll be two of my men – Kaye and Naysmith.’

‘Nights are…’

Fox knew what she was about to say. ‘Difficult? Yes, with your son and everything. But as it happens, Sergeant Kaye would be a lot more comfortable with a male officer.’

‘Gilchrist would be up for it,’ Annie Inglis stated. Then, prickling: ‘Why’s Kaye uncomfortable working with a woman officer?’

‘It’s women in general, Annie,’ Fox explained in an undertone.

‘Oh,’ she said. Kaye and Naysmith were approaching his desk, so Fox ended the call.

‘That’s sorted, then,’ he told them.

Tony Kaye just rubbed his hands together and smiled.

8

On his way home that evening, Fox stopped off at a Chinese restaurant. He’d half a mind to take a table, but the place was empty – it would just have been him and the staff. So instead he ordered some food to eat at home. Fifteen minutes later, he was in the car, the carrier bag on the passenger seat: chicken with fresh ginger and spring onion; soft noodles; Chinese greens. The owner had offered him a helping of prawn crackers on the house, but Fox had declined. Once home, he emptied the whole lot on to a plate, then decided it was too much and scooped half the noodles back into their container. He ate at the dining table, a dishtowel tucked into his shirt collar. There had been no messages on his phone, and no mail waiting for him. A couple of dogs were having an argument a street or two away. A motorbike passed the house, being driven too quickly. Fox turned the radio on to the Birdsong channel, poured himself a glass of Appletiser, and thought back to the visit to Lauder Lodge.

He’d picked Jude up at four as agreed, the two of them not saying much on the drive. The staff at the care home had tried not to look too interested in Jude. It wasn’t just the cast on her arm – they’d been reading their papers and watching the local TV news. They knew who she was and what had happened.

‘I forgot to wear my mourning veil,’ Jude muttered to her brother as they headed down the corridor to their father’s room. Mitch was waiting for them. He insisted on getting to his feet so he could offer Jude a consoling embrace. As they all sat down, two staff members arrived to ask if they wanted a cup of tea. Mitch decided this would be acceptable. But after the tea had been fetched, another staffer stuck her head round the door to see if they might like a biscuit. Malcolm Fox decided enough was enough, and closed the door. But almost immediately there was a knock. This time they wanted Mr Fox to know that it was whist night, starting straight after supper.

‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘Now bugger off and leave us in peace.’

He turned his attention back to his daughter. ‘How are you, Jude?’

‘I’m okay.’

‘You don’t look it. It’s hellish about that man of yours.’

‘His name’s Vince, Dad.’

‘Hellish,’ Mitch Fox repeated, staring at her arm.

‘Sorry, Dad,’ Fox apologised. ‘I should have told you…’

‘What happened?’

‘I fell in the kitchen,’ Jude blurted out.

‘I’m sure you did,’ her father muttered.

The visit hadn’t been a complete disaster. Mitch had managed not to say anything like ‘I told you so’ or ‘He was never right for you’; Jude had managed to say nothing to offend her father.

‘You’re quiet,’ Malcolm’s father had chided him at one point. Fox had just shrugged, making show of concentrating on the cup of tea he was holding.

Afterwards, he’d driven Jude home, asking her if she wanted any company. She’d shaken her head, told him Alison was going to look in. Then she’d pecked him on the cheek before exiting the car.

Sitting at his dining table, reflecting back on that moment, Fox wasn’t sure why he’d been so startled by Jude’s gesture. Maybe it was because, like many another family, they so seldom showed affection. There might be a kiss or a hug at Christmas. Or at funerals, of course. But he hadn’t seen Jude this past Christmas, and the last family funeral had been an aunt the previous summer.

‘Thanks,’ Jude had said, closing the car door. He’d watched her all the way into her house. She didn’t pause to wave. And after her front door was closed and the living-room light came on, she hadn’t come to the window to offer a signal of goodbye.

Back at Lauder Lodge, Mitch had asked if he should give Audrey Sanderson a buzz – ‘I’m sure she’d like to see you.’ But Jude had asked him not to, and Fox got the feeling Mrs Sanderson herself was keeping well out of the way, not wishing to interfere.

Scraping the leftovers into the bin, Fox wondered what his father thought of him. Mitch could have been living here with him – there was plenty of space. The stairs might have been an issue – the very argument Fox had used to himself when deciding his father’s future. Besides, at Lauder Lodge the old boy had made friends. True, that might have happened in Oxgangs as well – there was a daily get-together of older people at the local church. But no… Lauder Lodge had been the best option and outcome. Lauder Lodge had been the right thing to do.

He started to make himself some tea, but stopped – the taste of the cup he’d drunk at Lauder Lodge was still at the back of his throat, dissuading him from repeating the experience. There was more Appletiser in the fridge, but he didn’t fancy it. He didn’t know what he wanted. Through in the living room, he tried all the TV channels, without finding anything he was willing to waste time on. He supposed he could have an early night, catch up on some reading, but it wasn’t even nine o’clock. Two hours until the Breck surveillance was due to start. Joe Naysmith had asked the obvious question – ‘Is everything in order?’

Meaning paperwork. Meaning the green light from on high. Naysmith: cautious and scrupulous. Fox had assured him it was ‘in the post’, shorthand for ‘to be dealt with at a later date’. Kaye had told the younger man not to worry, ruffling his hand through Naysmith’s hair. Their excuse: McEwan’s absence. Plus the Chop Shop’s stipulation that it was an emergency.

‘We’ll be fine,’ Fox had stated.

Everything would be fine.

A DVD… maybe he could watch a film. But nothing jumped out at him as an obvious candidate. He thought of the DVDs in Jude’s house, none of them Vince Faulkner’s choices – romantic comedies; dreams of another, less imperfect life. He tried to remember what Jude’s ambitions had been, back when they’d both been kids, but nothing came to mind. What about him – had he always wanted to be a detective? Yes, pretty much. The Hearts first team had never come calling, and vacancies for film stars seemed not to be advertised. Besides, he’d liked telling friends, I’m going to be a cop, relishing the words and the effect they had on some people.

Cop, copper.

Filth, pig.

He’d been called worse, too, down the years – and sometimes by his own kind, colleagues who’d crossed the line, gone bad, been found out. He imagined Jamie Breck, clean and shiny on the surface, heading home and locking the door after him. Shutting the curtains. All alone, no prying eyes, warming up his computer, allowing his secret self to breathe. And unaware of the van parked outside, picking up every key he tapped, every site he visited. Everything he viewed, the people in the van viewed too. Fox had seen it in action. He’d felt a shiver up his spine as love affairs were revealed, criminal connections confirmed, frauds and frailties exposed.

That how you get your kicks? Peeping fucking Tom…

Yes, he’d been called worse. Twisted bastard… shafting your own kind… Lower than slime…

Lowest of the low. But still better than you – the only response possible.

Still better than you.

He was about the try the words out aloud when his doorbell sounded. He checked his watch. It was half past nine. He stood in the hall for a moment, listening for clues. When the bell rang again, he opened the door an inch.

‘Hiya,’ Jamie Breck said.

Fox opened the door all the way. He glanced to right and left. ‘This is a surprise,’ was all he managed to say.

Breck gave a little laugh. ‘I’d be lying if I said I was just passing, but in a way it’s true. I sometimes take a walk at night, just clearing my head. When I saw the sign for your street, it dawned on me where I was. Maybe I’d planned to end up here all along.’ He offered a shrug. ‘The subconscious is a wonderful thing.’

‘Is it?’ Fox was weighing up his options. ‘Well, you better come in.’

‘Only if I’m not disturbing you…?’

Fox led Breck into the living room. ‘Do you want something to drink?’

‘Are you having anything?’

‘I don’t drink.’

‘I don’t think I knew that.’

‘Well, now you can add it to my profile, can’t you?’

Breck smiled at this. ‘No alcohol in the house, not even for visitors?’ He watched Fox shake his head. ‘Meaning you don’t trust yourself with the stuff – am I right?’

‘What can I do for you, DS Breck?’

‘This isn’t an official visit, Malcolm – call me Jamie.’

‘What can I do for you, Jamie?’ Breck was seated on the sofa, Fox in the armchair to his right. Breck had twisted himself round so he was facing the older man. He had changed his clothes since leaving work – a denim jacket, black cords, purple polo neck.

‘Nice place,’ he said, studying the room. ‘Bigger than mine, but then mine’s newer – they tend to build smaller these days…’

‘Yes,’ Fox agreed, waiting to hear what Breck really wanted to say.

‘We’ve done what we can with the footage from outside the pub,’ Breck duly obliged. ‘I don’t think we’re going to get anything useful by way of an ID. Might let the police in Wales take a look anyway, just on the off-chance… Thing is, only a few minutes after the spat, the rugby lads were back inside Marooned, laughing it off and ordering more drink.’

‘Says who?’

‘A couple of regulars – the Welsh stood them a round. Even apologised for having a go at Faulkner.’ He paused. ‘Plus there was CCTV inside the bar as well as outside – the story stacks up. So unless they bumped into him again later on in the evening…’

‘You’re ruling them out?’

‘We’re not ruling out anything, Malcolm.’

‘Why are you telling me?’

‘Thought you’d want to know – just between us, you understand. ’

‘And what do I give you in return?’

‘Well… seeing how this is a dry house, I’m not too sure.’

Fox managed a smile, and eased himself a little further back in his chair. ‘There’s one thing,’ he said at last. ‘Jude didn’t give it to Billy Giles because she didn’t like his attitude…’

‘Yes?’ Breck prompted, leaning forward.

‘Monday night, someone turned up at her door asking for Faulkner.’

‘If the pathologist is right, Faulkner was already growing cold by then.’

Fox nodded. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ he agreed. ‘And all I got from her by way of description was that the caller was a man.’

It was Breck’s turn to smile. ‘Well, thanks for that, Malcolm. A man? That certainly narrows things down…’ The two sat in silence for a moment until Breck started shaking his head slowly. ‘I don’t know why they bother with CCTV,’ he declared.

‘Deterrent value,’ Fox suggested.

‘Or comfort blanket,’ Breck countered. ‘People are fitting it in their houses now, did you know that? To make them feel safer. There was a housebreaking in Merchiston a few months back. Glen Heaton took me along for a look. The footage was so grainy the guys responsible looked barely human. They got half a million in antiques and jewellery – know what Heaton told the owners? Sell the cameras and buy a dog.’

Fox nodded his agreement.

‘Preferably a big one,’ Breck continued, ‘and keep it half starved.’

‘Did you work with him often?’

‘Hardly at all – I’m assuming that’s why you never bothered to interview me.’

‘We had everything we needed.’

‘But you still gave Billy Giles a grilling?’

‘Just for a spot of fun.’

‘I didn’t think “fun” was in the dictionary, so far as the Complaints are concerned.’ Breck considered for a moment. ‘I dare say by now you know more about Glen Heaton than I do – how long did you have him under surveillance?’

‘Months.’ Fox shifted in his chair, less comfortable now.

‘Should we even be discussing him?’ Breck asked, seeming to take the hint.

‘Probably not. But now you know he was breaking every rule in the book, how do you feel about him?’

‘Way Billy Giles tells it, Heaton only broke a rule if he stood to gain a result. He’d trade gen with criminals, but the stuff he got in return put plenty of bad guys away.’

‘And that makes it all right?’ When Breck shrugged, Fox gave a sigh. ‘Change of subject – any other news on Vince Faulkner?’

‘We still don’t have any sightings from Sunday or Monday.’

‘And no pools of blood to report from the vicinity of that building site?’

Breck shook his head. ‘Billy Giles thinks he was maybe killed Saturday night and kept somewhere… By Monday, the killer’s nerve was starting to go, and that’s when the body got dumped.’

Fox nodded slowly, staring down at the carpet.

‘One last thing,’ Breck added. ‘Two youths were seen having a bit of a shouting match with a guy at a bus stop on Dalry Road – not too far from Marooned and about thirty or forty minutes after Faulkner left the place.’

‘Meaning what sort of time?’

‘Around half past nine.’

‘Does the description fit?’

‘There isn’t much of a description. A woman saw it from her tenement window. She was two floors up and fifty yards across the other side of the street. But she’s a law-abiding busybody, so she came forward to tell us.’

‘What does she say happened?’

‘Couple of younger guys arguing with an older guy. He seemed to be waiting for a bus as they were walking past. Words were exchanged. A taxi came along and the man stuck his hand out. Got in, and one of the kids gave the back of the cab a bit of a kick as it headed off.’

‘Which direction?’

‘Haymarket.’

Fox was thoughtful. ‘Which buses go that route?’

Breck shook his head. ‘Needle in a haystack, Malcolm – they go all over: west towards Corstorphine and the Gyle, north to Barnton, east to the likes of Ocean Terminal…’

‘Vince used to go to a casino near Ocean Terminal,’ Fox mused. ‘Him and his gaffer, plus the gaffer’s wife and my sister…’

‘Is that the Oliver?’ Breck asked, sounding interested. Fox nodded.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘No real reason. You ever been there?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither.’ Breck had something on his mind. He was rubbing the underside of his jaw with the back of his hand.

‘Are you trying to track down the taxi driver?’ Fox asked into the silence.

‘Yes.’

‘Shouldn’t be too hard – if nothing else, he’ll remember the kicking his cab got.’

‘Mmm.’ Breck seemed to make up his mind, slapping his hands against his knees. ‘I really do fancy a drink, Malcolm – are you allowed to join me?’

‘I don’t drink.’

‘I meant, can you come out to the pub?’

‘Sure,’ Fox said after a moment’s hesitation. He checked his watch. They’d have picked up the van by now… checked its equipment. They’d be discussing tactics before heading out. ‘But it’s getting pretty late.’

Breck looked at his own watch and raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s not even ten.’

‘All I meant was, just a quick one.’

‘A quick one,’ Breck agreed. ‘Is it all right if we take your car?’

‘Where did you have in mind?’

‘The Oliver. I’m guessing it’ll have a bar.’

Fox’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t thinking about options now, but consequences. ‘Why there?’

‘Maybe we can ask if Vince Faulkner visited on Saturday night.’

‘That’s not exactly going by the rules, Jamie. Your boss’ll have a fit if he finds out.’

‘Rules are there to be broken, Malcolm.’

Fox wagged a finger. ‘Careful who you say that to.’

Breck just smiled and got to his feet. ‘Are you game?’ he asked.

‘Long way to go for one drink…’ Breck was neither budging nor about to say anything. With a sigh, Fox placed his hands on the arms of his chair and began to rise.

The area around Ocean Terminal was an odd amalgam of dockside wasteland, warehouse conversions and new buildings. Ocean Terminal itself was a shopping centre and cinema complex, with the royal yacht Britannia berthed permanently as a tourist attraction in a marina to the far side of the building. Nearby a vast, shiny construction housed the city’s army of civil servants – or at least a few battalions of them. A handful of lauded restaurants had opened up, perhaps with one eye on the cruise ships that occasionally docked in Leith. The Oliver was rotunda-shaped, and liked to think that it had been the harbourmaster’s residence at some time. Fox wasn’t even sure they’d be allowed inside – Breck was wearing trainers – but Breck had waved his objection aside and reached for his warrant card.

‘Accepted nationwide,’ he’d said, waving it in Fox’s face. So they’d parked between a Mercedes and a sporty Toyota in the car park. Liveried doormen stood guard at the well-lit entrance. Breck pointed out the CCTV camera to Fox, though Fox had already spotted it. He was wondering if he should text Kaye to let him know there was no point in tonight’s stakeout. On the other hand, if they did only stay for the one drink…

‘Good evening,’ one of the doormen said. It sounded more warning than greeting.

‘How are you doing?’ Breck asked. ‘Busy, is it?’

‘Just starting to be.’ The man looked him up and down, eyes lingering on the denim jacket. ‘Sightseeing trip, is it?’

Breck patted his pocket. ‘I’ve got some cash burning a hole.’

The other man was staring at Fox. ‘This one’s a cop,’ he informed his colleague. ‘I’d bet my life on it.’

‘Are cops not allowed a night off?’ Fox asked him, taking a step forward so he was in the man’s face.

‘Long as you’re not looking for freebies,’ the first doorman said.

‘We can pay our way,’ Breck assured him.

‘You better,’ the man warned him. And then they were in. Breck left his jacket at the cloakroom, which helped him blend in a little. At first glance the place offered glitz, but it was fairly casual: businessmen playing some tables, their wives and girlfriends the others. A few onlookers stood around, sizing things up. One of them looked to Fox like the waiter who’d taken his order earlier at the Chinese restaurant – confirmed when the man grinned and waved and gave him a little bow.

‘Friend of yours?’ Breck asked.

There were slot machines as well as the tables for cards, dice and roulette, plus a well-lit bar. Each croupier had someone from the house staff watching over them, just to be on the safe side. Fox had heard stories of croupiers who were too regular in their actions; meant the players could work out which quadrant of the wheel the roulette ball was most likely to stop, cutting the odds. Down the years, a few cops had got into trouble over gambling debts, entering the orbit of the Complaints as a result – not everyone was good at reading cards and roulette wheels.

A curving staircase, each step artfully illuminated, led to the mezzanine level. Fox followed Breck up. There was another bar here, and the casino’s restaurant off to one side. The restaurant itself was just half a dozen booths and three or four extra tables, doing no business at all tonight. All the stools at the bar were taken, and other drinkers were watching the action beneath from the relative safety of the balcony.

‘What can I get you?’ Breck asked.

‘Tomato juice,’ Fox said. Breck nodded and squeezed between two of the bar stools. The barman was pouring a cocktail into an old-fashioned champagne glass. Fox joined the other drinkers and peered down towards the floor below. The added attraction seemed to be that you could occasionally catch a glimpse down the front of a woman’s dress, but the tables had been angled and lit so that it was impossible to make out the contents of any hand of cards. The man nearest Fox nodded a half-greeting. He looked to be in his early sixties, his face deeply lined, eyes rheumy.

‘Table three’s the lucky one tonight,’ he offered in an undertone. Fox puckered his mouth, as if considering this.

‘Thanks,’ he said. He had three twenty-pound notes in his pocket, and knew he would have to offer to break one of them to buy Breck back a drink. Hopefully Breck wouldn’t accept, and they’d go home instead. Fox certainly had no intention of handing any of the cash to the tables, even lucky number three.

‘Virgin Mary,’ Breck said, handing him his drink. Fox thanked him and took a sip. It was spiced to the hilt: Worcestershire Sauce, Tabasco, black pepper. Fox felt his lips go numb.

‘Reckoned that’s how you’d like it. Cheers.’

Breck was holding a chunky glass filled with ice and a dark concoction. ‘Rum and Coke?’ Fox guessed, receiving a nod of confirmation.

‘Used to be my dad’s drink,’ Breck said.

‘Used to be?’

‘He’s like you – off the booze. Being a doctor, he’s seen more than his fair share of damaged livers.’

The man next to them had been listening in. ‘What doesn’t kill you,’ he said, offering it up as a toast, the iced remains rattling in his whisky glass as he tipped it to his mouth.

‘Gentleman here,’ Fox informed Breck, ‘thinks table three’s the good one.’

‘That right?’ Breck peered over the balcony. Table three was hosting blackjack, and Breck turned back towards Fox. ‘What do you think?’

‘I’m enjoying my drink,’ Fox replied, taking another fiery sip. ‘But don’t let me stop you…’

It was after Fox bought them their second – ‘and final’ – round that Breck decided he might ‘have a flutter’. Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, he lost the best part of thirty quid, while Fox watched from the wings.

‘Ouch,’ was all Breck said as he ended the experiment.

‘Ouch indeed,’ Fox agreed. They retreated to a spot near the machines. ‘Why did we come here, Jamie?’ Fox asked.

Breck studied his surroundings. ‘Not exactly sure,’ he appeared to admit. Then, spotting that Fox’s glass was empty: ‘One for the road?’

But Fox shook his head. ‘Home,’ was all he said.

On the drive back, Breck started talking about chance and how he didn’t really believe in it. ‘I think we decide how things are going to be, and we make those things happen.’

‘You reckon?’

‘You don’t agree?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Far as I’m concerned, stuff just happens and goes on happening and there’s not a lot we can do about it.’

Breck studied him. ‘Have you heard of a band called Elbow? They’ve got a song about how when we’re drunk or just happy we can start to believe that we’ve created the whole world around us.’

‘But that’s an illusion.’

‘Not necessarily, Malcolm. I think we shape each and every moment. We choose the way our lives are going to go. That’s why I get such a buzz from games.’

‘Games?’

‘Online games. RPGs. There’s one called Quidnunc that I play a lot. I’ve got an avatar who roams the galaxy having adventures.’

‘How old are you?’

Breck just laughed.

‘I don’t believe we have any control over the world,’ Fox went on. ‘My dad’s in a care home – he has almost no control over his daily life. People just come and do things around him, making decisions for him – same as politicians and even our bosses do for us. They’re the ones who run our lives. Adverts tell us what to buy, government tells us how to live, technology tells us when we’ve done something wrong.’ In demonstration, Fox undid his seat belt. A warning light came on, accompanied by the ping-ping-ping of an alarm. He slotted the buckle home again and glanced in Breck’s direction. ‘Ever managed to use a computer without it asking if you need help?’

Breck was smiling broadly. ‘Free will versus determinism,’ he stated.

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘I’m betting you don’t have a Facebook page or anything like that?’

‘Christ, no.’

‘Friends Reunited?’

Fox shook his head. ‘It’s getting hard enough to hold on to any sort of private life.’

‘My girlfriend likes to Twitter – know what that is?’

‘I’ve heard of it and it sounds like hell.’

‘You’re one of life’s spectators, Malcolm.’

‘And that’s the way I like it…’ Fox paused. ‘You didn’t ask the staff about Vince Faulkner.’

‘Another time,’ Breck said with a shrug.

Fox knew he had a decision to make. Ideally, he would drop Breck on the main road and let him walk the final few hundred yards home. That way, the three residents of the surveillance van wouldn’t spot him. But if he failed to take Breck all the way home, would Breck himself become suspicious of his motives? And once his suspicions had been aroused, might he spot the van? In the end, it was Breck who made the decision. They’d just turned on to Oxgangs Road when he asked if Fox could pull over and let him out.

‘You don’t want me to drop you nearer home?’

Breck shook his head. Fox was already signalling to stop at the kerb. ‘I want to finish that walk I was taking,’ Breck explained. When Fox pulled on the handbrake, he saw that Breck had his hand outstretched for him to shake.

‘Thanks,’ Breck said.

‘No, Jamie, thank you.’

Breck smiled and opened the door, but once outside, he stuck his head back into the car again.

‘This stays strictly between us, right? Wouldn’t do either of us any good otherwise.’

Fox nodded slowly, and watched as Breck drew himself upright. But then the head dipped back into the car again.

‘One thing you need to know,’ the younger man said. ‘We’re not all like Glen Heaton – or Bad Billy Giles, come to that. Plenty of us at Torphichen were cheering when you nailed him. So thanks for that, Malcolm.’

The passenger door was pushed closed. A hand slapped twice against the car roof. Fox signalled back out into the road and released the handbrake. He drove home with his thoughts swirling and eddying, refusing to coalesce.