The Complaints

9

Fox had been in the office three hours when Tony Kaye arrived, looking bleary.

‘Well,’ Kaye said, ‘that’s a chunk of my life I’m not getting back.’

‘What happened?’ Fox paused in his typing. He was making a record of a meeting he’d just had with two lawyers from the Procurator Fiscal’s office. They’d warned him that the case against Glen Heaton would take ‘no little time to prepare’. The pair had been young – one male, one female. They could almost have been brother and sister, the way they dressed, moved and spoke. It was as if they’d spent their whole life together, to the point where Fox had asked if they were an item.

‘An item?’ The female lawyer hadn’t seemed to understand the term.

‘We’re not,’ her colleague had stated, blood colouring his neck.

‘What happened?’ Tony Kaye was saying now, mimicking Fox’s question as he sloughed off his overcoat. ‘Nothing happened, Malcolm. The sod didn’t get home until midnight. He’d left a light on upstairs, so we didn’t know. Then, when he finally arrives, he logs on to the computer straight off. That’s when we think we’ve got him. Know what he does?’ Kaye had hung up his coat and placed his leather satchel on the floor next to his desk.

‘What?’

‘He starts looking at some online RPG. Know what that is?’

‘A role-playing game.’

Kaye gave him a look, surprised by his colleague’s breadth of knowledge. ‘Joe Naysmith had to tell me,’ Kaye admitted. ‘Playing his game takes him over an hour, after which he catches up on e-mails – really exciting stuff like one to his brother in the US and another to his niece and nephew.’

‘I thought the brother was gay.’

Kaye looked at him again. ‘What makes you say that?’

He told me, Fox thought to himself. But he didn’t want Kaye to know how intimate some of his chats with Breck had become, so he shifted in his chair and explained that the info had been in Breck’s personnel file.

‘Now that’s what I call full disclosure… The guy from the Chop Shop says maybe he’s grooming them, but that’s just paranoia talking.’ Kaye paused. ‘And that’s something else you and me will be having words about, old friend.’ Kaye nodded in Fox’s direction, to reinforce the point. ‘No sign of DS Inglis. She’s got a son to tuck in, so she swaps with the world’s most boring man. And surprise surprise – he gets on like a house on fire with Naysmith. Take a guess why.’

‘They like computer games?’

‘They love computer games. And gadgets, new technology, blah blah blah… Ten minutes in and they’re showing one another their mobiles. Another ten after that, it’s modems and streaming and God knows what. I had four hours of it.’ Kaye gave a sigh and stared in the direction of the lifeless coffee machine. ‘Don’t tell me Naysmith’s still in bed.’

Fox blew his nose. ‘Haven’t seen him,’ he admitted.

‘And McEwan’s still at his conference,’ Kaye added. ‘Maybe I’ll just tuck a duvet around myself at my desk.’

‘Be my guest.’

‘Breck went to bed around two. We waited to see if he’d maybe taken his laptop with him, but there was nothing, so we left it at that.’

‘Does the Chop Shop want another try?’

Kaye shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me, if only so Gilchrist and Naysmith can compare Freeview boxes.’ Kaye sighed again. He wasn’t yet seated; in fact had taken a couple of steps in the direction of Fox’s desk and was looking at him.

‘What?’ Fox prompted.

‘One other thing, compadre… He Googled your name.’

Fox’s eyebrows dipped. ‘He did what?’

Kaye shrugged by way of reply. ‘And that took him to some media websites. He wasn’t long, so we reckon he was printing stuff off rather than reading it online.’

‘He won’t have found much.’

‘Except that he Googled “Complaints and Conduct”, too. Pretty much everything we’ve done in the media eye this past couple of years.’ Kaye paused. ‘Including Heaton, of course.’

‘Why would he be doing that?’

Kaye shrugged again. ‘Maybe he just likes you.’

Fox was considering telling his colleague about Breck’s unannounced visit to his home, and their little jaunt to the Oliver. But Kaye was speaking again.

‘On the other hand… the guy who beat up your sister has just found himself deceased. Billy Giles is on the hunt for suspects.’

‘Using Breck as his bloodhound?’ Fox was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I got the feeling there wasn’t much love between those two.’

‘Could be a front. Breck wanting you to think that…’

Fox nodded slowly.

‘Have you seen him recently?’ Kaye asked.

‘Who? Breck?’ Fox reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and started blowing his nose again, playing for time. The door swung open and Joe Naysmith walked in. He was carrying his notebook in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

‘Says here,’ he began, laying the paper on Fox’s desk, ‘that detectives are making progress.’

The story was prominent on page three of The Scotsman. Not so surprising: Edinburgh wasn’t exactly a murder capital – maybe one a month on average, usually cleared up quickly. When they did occur, the local media were keen to react, usually at length. There was a large photo of the scene of crime with a grainy inset of a smiling Vince Faulkner, and a smaller shot of Billy Giles, looking no less fierce than in the flesh.

‘Eyes like lasers,’ Naysmith commented.

‘Where did the paper come from?’ Kaye was asking. ‘Thought you were a Guardian reader.’

‘Helen said she was finished with it.’

‘Helen?’

‘In HR… the desk nearest the door…’

Kaye rolled his eyes. ‘We just about merit the time of day, and he’s on first-name terms with them.’ He wagged a finger at Naysmith. ‘Next you’ll be telling me Mrs Stephens shines your shoes while you’ve got your feet under her desk.’

‘She’s all right,’ Naysmith mumbled, making for the coffee machine. ‘They all are…’

‘Three sugars!’ Kaye called out.

‘He knows that by now,’ Fox stated.

‘Never makes it sweet enough.’ Kaye turned his attention to Fox. ‘What does it say?’

‘Not much. Marooned gets a mention. They’re asking for people to come forward if they saw the victim elsewhere that weekend.’

‘Memories are short,’ Kaye commented. ‘What’s Marooned?’

‘A pub in Gorgie – Vince got into an argument with some Taffs.’ Fox scanned the story again. ‘They don’t say anything about the bus stop…’ He was talking to himself, but loud enough for Kaye to overhear.

‘What bus stop?’

‘After the rugby fans, Vince headed for Dalry Road. Looks like he was going to catch a bus but he ended up in a shouting match with some kids.’

Kaye’s eyes narrowed.

‘He took a taxi instead,’ Fox finished.

‘And how have you come by this information, Inspector Fox?’

Fox licked his lips. ‘I have my sources, Sergeant Kaye.’

‘Breck?’ Fox couldn’t deny it, so kept quiet instead. Kaye rolled his eyes once more. ‘What have we just been talking about? He’s dangling worms in front of you so you can’t see Giles hiding behind him with the hook!’

‘Nicely put,’ Naysmith called out.

‘Shut up, Joe,’ Kaye spat back. He was pressing the palms of his hands against Fox’s desk, leaning down over it. ‘Tell me you get that. Tell me you can see right through him.’

‘Sure,’ Fox stated, not really sure of very much any more. He bit down on the pen he was holding, felt the plastic casing crack.

There was a health club just in front of the Asda on Chesser Avenue. Fox knew this because he’d had a trial membership when it first opened. He’d never been inside the supermarket, though, and was surprised by its size. He selected a hand basket and added a couple of items, then headed for the checkout. The woman in front of him in the queue pointed out that there was another checkout nearby where he wouldn’t have to wait to be served. She was emptying the extensive load from her trolley while her young son sucked a lollipop. He was seated inside the trolley, swinging his legs in repeated attempts to connect with Fox’s basket.

‘I’m not in a hurry,’ Fox told the woman. She looked at him strangely, then got on with the task of filling the conveyor belt. Transaction complete, she paid not with a credit card but with handfuls of notes from her purse. The checkout assistant counted these into the till and handed the woman a receipt like a length of ticker tape. She then smiled towards Fox and asked him how he was.

‘Not too bad, Sandra,’ he replied.

Sandra Hendry had already finished running his items through the scanner. At mention of her name, she looked him in the face for the first time. ‘It’s you,’ she stated. Then: ‘Cooking Indian tonight?’

Fox considered the items he’d bought: basmati rice, Madras sauce. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘How’s Jude?’ There was no one behind Fox, so Sandra reached under her till and, for want of any other job, started wiping down the conveyor belt with the cloth stored there.

‘She’s okay,’ Fox said.

‘I’m looking in on her later.’

‘She’ll appreciate that.’ Fox paused. ‘You know you said you sometimes went to the Oliver? I was just wondering if you and your husband were there on Saturday.’

‘Saturday?’ She considered this. ‘Saturday I was at my sister’s. Bunch of us had a night on the town.’

‘But not at the Oliver?’

Sandra Hendry shook her head. ‘Too far from the centre for Maggie. George Street’s what she likes.’

‘Was your husband with you?’

‘Ronnie? On a girlie night?’ She gave a snort. ‘Joking, aren’t you?’

‘So he was at home then?’

Having finished wiping, she fixed him with a stare. ‘What’s this all about?’

Fox had his answer prepared. ‘We think Vince may have gone to the Oliver. Just wondering if he was on his own.’

She considered this and nodded slowly, accepting the explanation as being reasonable.

‘Did he know anyone else who frequented the casino?’ Fox asked.

‘No idea.’ The tone she used, he knew he was losing her – too many questions. In her eyes, he’d stopped being Jude’s brother and turned back into a cop.

‘Times you went there with him, he didn’t bump into people he knew?’

She shrugged, straightening up as a new customer approached and started emptying his trolley. The man was unkempt and unshaven, eyes bloodshot. He was buying enough booze to kickstart Hogmanay. Sandra Hendry wrinkled her nose as she made eye contact with Fox. Her meaning was clear: one of her regulars, but by no means a favourite.

‘Is Ronnie at work just now?’ Fox asked her quickly.

‘Unless they’ve laid him off… Nobody’s safe these days.’

Fox nodded his agreement, picked up his shopping, and thanked her for everything.

When Fox had driven into the Asda car park, a black Vauxhall Astra had been thirty yards behind him. Now, driving away, he caught the same car in his rearview mirror. It wasn’t close enough for him to make out the licence plate. He kept to a crawl of ten miles an hour as he headed towards the main road, but the Astra never came any closer. His phone rang and he answered it.

‘Where are you?’ Tony Kaye asked.

‘Keeping busy,’ Fox replied.

‘Want to hear some news?’

‘Good or bad?’

‘Vince Faulkner did indeed take a cab. Driver remembers interrupting the rammy and his cab taking a dunt in the process.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘You’re not the only one with sources – and there aren’t that many cab outfits in Edinburgh. Giles’s boys got hold of the info about an hour before I did.’

‘Does the cabbie remember where he dropped Vince?’

‘The casino near Ocean Terminal. Driver got out to inspect the damage.’

‘He saw Vince go into the Oliver?’

‘You sound like you already know all this…’

‘I had an inkling, but the confirmation is greatly appreciated.’ Fox said his goodbyes and ended the call, rewarding himself with a little smile. He didn’t know why he’d come up with the Oliver as Vince’s probable destination, but he’d been proved right. He’d never been the type to rely on gut instinct – at every step, he worked from the evidence presented. He liked to think this was one reason the Complaints had maintained their near-perfect record. But maybe instinct had its place.

As he neared the city centre, he lost sight of the Astra. Could be it had turned off. The area around Haymarket was as bad as ever. A sandwich board outside a newsagent’s informed him that the day’s Evening News was leading with a dispute between the local council and the German company behind the construction of the tram system. The Germans wanted more money, because of sterling’s weakened exchange rate.

‘The best of British luck to you,’ Fox muttered, awaiting his turn through the contraflow. He was wondering if he should have taken another route – cut straight across the south of the city maybe. But then there were delays there too. It really did feel as if the whole city – with the blessing of those empowered to manage and nurture it – was grinding to a halt. For want of anything better to do, he lifted his phone from the passenger seat and punched in the number for Jamie Breck’s mobile. Listening to it ring, he happened to glance in the rearview mirror again. A familiar-looking black Astra was three cars behind him.

‘Hello?’

‘Jamie, it’s Malcolm Fox.’

‘Morning, Malcolm. Thanks again for playing chauffeur last night.’

‘No problem. I was just wondering if there was any news.’

‘Taxi driver remembers Vince Faulkner. Dropped him outside the Oliver.’

‘So you’ll be talking to the staff?’

‘Somebody on the team will. I’m a bit busy elsewhere just at the minute.’

‘I’m interrupting you?’

‘No, but I can’t talk for long. Was there anything else?’

Fox realised there probably wasn’t – all he’d wanted to know was whether Breck would share with him about the taxi, and Breck had passed that test. Besides, traffic had eased and Fox wasn’t far from his destination. The Astra seemed to have taken a turning, but now Fox was wondering about the green Ford Ka – it was a couple of cars back, and how long had it been there?

‘Nothing else,’ Fox said in answer to Breck’s question. He ended the call and took a right turn at the next set of lights, pulling over to the kerb and stopping. He watched in his rearview as the Ka went straight ahead at the junction instead of following him. ‘Just because you’re paranoid, Malcolm,’ he muttered to himself, not bothering to complete the sentence.

There were plenty of signposts showing potential buyers the way to Salamander Point. A few blocks were already finished – curtains and blinds in some of the windows; plants sitting in pots on the corner balconies. But it was a huge site, and foundations were under way on a further four high-rise constructions. Large billboards attached to the fence around the site showed an approximation of the finished ‘city within the city by the sea’. There were capitalised buzz-words such as EASE and QUALITY and SPACE drifting into the blue-painted sky, below which the artist had depicted smiling people walking past a café, outside which other shiny people sat at tables with their espressos and cappuccinos. This was their LIFESTYLE, but the present reality was somewhat different. The occupants of Salamander Point were living in the middle of a building site that resembled, to Fox’s eye, a World War One battlefield, all mud and trench-digging, noise and diesel fumes. A corner of the site had been turned into an encampment for the workforce – ten or twelve Portakabins were stacked at double height, fronted by scaffolding and ladders. Men in high-visibility jackets and yellow hard hats scanned blueprints as they pointed with their fingers. Diggers were digging, cranes lowering pipes and slabs of concrete into place. The single extent of finished pavement led to the door of a temporary sales office. Behind the windows, Fox could see a young woman seated at her desk. She had no customers to deal with, and her phone didn’t seem to require answering. The glazed look on her face indicated to him that this had probably become her daily routine.

Nobody was buying.

In a moment, he would walk up the path and she would see him, and there would be a momentary lifting of her spirits, dashed when he introduced himself and asked to see the gaffer. But first he locked his car, leaving it by the kerb. A truck rumbled past, kicking up a mini dust storm. Fox held his hands over his eyes and mouth until everything had settled, then headed up the path. When his phone started ringing, he answered it.

‘Fox,’ he stated.

‘Anything you want to tell me, Malcolm?’ It was Breck’s voice.

‘How do you mean, Jamie?’

‘Take a look to your left, over by the Portakabins.’

With the phone still held to his ear, Fox turned his head, knowing what he would see. Breck was standing on the scaffolding. There was a hard hat on his head and another on the man standing next to him. Breck waved and spoke into his phone. A split second later, his words reached Fox.

‘Come on over, then…’

As he moved away, Fox caught sight of the saleswoman. She had risen from her desk, ready to greet him. He offered a shrug and a sheepish smile, and began picking his way across the treacherous terrain towards the site office. At the top of the ladder, Breck introduced him to Howard Bailey.

‘This is Mr Bailey’s show,’ Breck explained, stretching out an arm towards the expanse of the site. Then, turning to Bailey: ‘Could you give me a minute with my colleague?’

‘I should really fetch him a hard hat.’

‘He won’t be staying.’

Bailey nodded and headed for the door at the far end of the platform. Breck slid his hands into his pockets and stared at Fox.

‘Has that given you enough time to come up with a plausible story?’ he asked.

‘You know why I’m here – same reason you are.’

‘Not quite, Malcolm. I’m here because I’m part of the inquiry team. You, on the other hand, are here to stick your oar in.’

‘I was just hoping for a quiet word with Vince’s friend Ronnie.’

‘That’ll be Ronnie Hendry – Vince’s foreman. Mr Bailey was telling me the two of them were friends off-site as well as on.’

‘You’re going to speak to him?’

Breck nodded slowly. ‘And ask him the same questions you probably would.’ After a moment’s pause, Breck gave a sigh and looked down at his muddied shoes. ‘What if it had been Billy Giles waiting here instead of me? He’d have had you on report – not the sort of thing I’d imagine your boss would be thrilled with.’

‘My sister’s lost her partner. I’m just after a word with that partner’s best friend. Could be I want to discuss the funeral arrangements… ask Ronnie to be a pall-bearer.’

‘You really think Giles would fall for that?’

Fox shrugged. ‘I’m not really that worried about Billy Giles.’

‘You should be – and you know it.’

Fox turned and rested his hands against one of the scaffolding poles. The warehouses across the street were going to be redeveloped too, by the look of things. Their windows had been boarded up, and a small tree was doing its best to grow from the edge of the mossy roof. A car was driving past – a black Astra.

‘You’re not having me tailed by any chance?’ Fox asked Breck.

‘No.’

‘Could Billy Giles be doing it without you knowing?’

‘I doubt we’ve got men to spare. And why would he want you tailed?’

‘A black Vauxhall Astra? Green Ford Ka?’

Breck shook his head. ‘Odd thing, though…’

‘What?’

‘After I’d walked home last night, there was a van parked outside. Just after I got into bed, I heard it leave.’

‘So?’ Fox was still pretending to be taking in the view. His grip on the pole had tightened.

Breck had taken off his hard hat to rub a hand through his hair. ‘We’re all getting a bit twitchy,’ he decided. Below them, a man had come into sight. He was dressed for work, his spattered denims tucked into thick grey woollen socks and those socks emerging from steel-toed boots. He wore his hard hat cocked high on his head, and under his high-visibility jacket was a denim one, not unlike Breck’s from the previous night. Fox knew it had to be Ronnie Hendry. He turned to face Breck.

‘Let me sit in,’ he said.

Breck stared back at him. Hendry had reached the foot of the ladder and was starting to climb.

‘Please,’ Fox said.

‘You don’t say anything,’ Breck warned him. ‘Not one word. Has he met you before?’

Fox shook his head.

‘You’ve said it yourself,’ Breck went on, ‘he’ll see you at the funeral if not before. He’ll know then that he’s seen you somewhere…’ He rubbed a finger down his nose, obviously in a quandary. Then, as Hendry’s head appeared through the gap in the flooring, he uttered the one word Fox wanted to hear.

‘Okay.’

Fox stood back as Breck introduced himself to Ronnie Hendry and shook the man’s hand. Hendry had been wearing leather workmen’s gloves, but stuffed them into his pocket.

‘Mr Bailey’s letting us use this office here,’ Breck told Hendry, opening the door nearest them. ‘My colleague’s going to sit in.’ Breck was leading them inside, giving Hendry no time to study Malcolm Fox. It was a utilitarian space, just a desk with a plan lying on it, weighted down at all four corners with chunks of masonry. There were three folding chairs, a free-standing electric heater, and not much else. Hendry held his hands to the heater and rubbed some warmth back into them.

‘Not much of a job in this weather,’ Breck sympathised. Hendry gave a nod of agreement and removed his hard hat. His first name had been felt-penned across the back of it, and from what Fox could see of the gloves, they’d been name-tagged too. It was a building site, after all. Things would tend to go for a walk. Hendry’s hair was short-cropped and beginning to silver at the temples. He would be in his late thirties, Fox guessed. He was short and wiry – a physique not unlike Vince Faulkner’s. The face was lined and pitted, Hendry’s eyebrows black and bushy. He had now seated himself opposite Breck at the table, Fox opting to stay standing at the far end of the room, arms folded, making himself as inconspicuous as possible.

‘I wanted to ask you about Vince Faulkner,’ Breck told Hendry.

‘Hellish thing.’ The voice was gruffly local.

‘The two of you were friends.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You didn’t see him last Saturday?’

Hendry shook his head. ‘Got a text from him in the afternoon.’

‘Oh?’

‘Just a comment about the football half-times.’

‘You didn’t speak to him?’

‘No.’

‘Did you hear from him after that?’

Hendry shook his head again. ‘Next thing I knew, I was hearing he was dead.’

‘Must’ve come as a shock.’

‘Too true, pal.’ Hendry shifted in his chair.

‘The two of you worked together?’

‘Sometimes. Depends which gang you end up in. Vince was a solid worker, so I’d always pitch for him.’

‘Did he specialise in anything?’

‘He could lay bricks, mix the cement. He’d trained as a brickie, but he would turn his hand to pretty well anything you asked.’

‘He was English,’ Breck stated casually. ‘Was that ever a problem? ’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Did the guys ever give him stick?’

‘If they had, he’d’ve given them pelters.’

‘He was a bit hot-headed, then?’

‘I’m just saying he stood up for himself.’

‘Did you know he sometimes hit his partner?’

‘Jude?’ Hendry thought for a moment before answering. ‘Sandra tells me she’s got a broken arm.’

‘And that doesn’t exactly surprise you?’

‘The pair of them liked a good rammy. Oftentimes it was Jude who started it. She’d just keep having a go at him until he started to snap.’

‘I’ve known women like that.’ Breck was nodding his apparent agreement. ‘They seem to get a buzz out of it…’

Fox shifted his weight a little and bit down on his bottom lip. He’s only doing his job, he told himself, getting the man to open up…

‘So you can imagine him getting into a fight on Saturday night?’ Breck was asking.

‘I suppose so.’

‘When he didn’t turn up for work Monday morning, what did you think?’

Another shrug. ‘I was up to my eyes. Didn’t really have time to think. Tried phoning him…’ He paused. ‘Or did I? I know I texted him for definite.’

Breck nodded. ‘We checked his phone. The text was there, but no one had read it. We took a look at all the messages he had stored. There were a fair few to and from you.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘And mention of the Oliver…’

‘It’s a casino. Just around the corner from here, actually. We sometimes took the wives there.’

‘He liked gambling?’

‘He didn’t like losing,’ Hendry said with a thin smile.

‘We think maybe he went there Saturday night. Would that have been like him – going there without you?’

‘If he’d had an argy-bargy with Jude… gone out drinking… Yeah, maybe.’

‘What about you, Mr Hendry – what did you get up to on Saturday?’

Hendry puffed out his cheeks and expelled a ball of air. ‘Long lie-in the morning, as per… shopping at the Gyle with Sandra, also as per… football results and an evening kick-off on Sky. I fetched an Indian…’ He paused again, remembering something. ‘Hang on, that’s right – Sandra was out with her sister and some mates. I ate enough curry for two and fell asleep in front of the telly.’

‘And Sunday?’

‘Not much different.’

‘So there’s no weekend overtime going on?’

‘Phase One there was, but nobody’s buying now we’re in Phase Two. I’d say we’re a fortnight away from lay-offs. Another fortnight after that, the whole site could be mothballed.’

‘Not so nice for the people who’re already living here.’

‘We reckon if they tried selling up, they’d get half to two thirds what they paid originally.’

‘So there are bargains to be had?’

‘If you’re interested, make Helena in sales an offer. She’ll probably throw in a lap-dance.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ Breck managed a smile.

‘Tell you what’s really worrying the bosses, though,’ Hendry went on. ‘They can’t see an end in sight. This whole development – council sold the land for almost six million. Lucky if it would fetch a third of that.’

‘Ouch,’ Breck sympathised.

‘Well, that’s one way of putting it. The guys reckon the only reason we’ll finish the next high-rise is so the developer can top himself by jumping from it.’

‘What’s the developer’s name?’ Breck asked.

‘Charlie Brogan – you going to put him on suicide watch?’

‘Reckon we should?’

This got a bark of laughter from Ronnie Hendry. ‘Not before his bills are paid,’ he said.

Breck offered another smile and decided on a change of direction. ‘Did you know that Vince Faulkner has a criminal record?’

‘Plenty of guys in the building trade could say the same.’

‘So you knew?’

‘He never made it a secret – it was there on his job application.’

‘His partner doesn’t seem to have known.’

‘Jude?’ Hendry gave a shrug and folded his arms. ‘That’s between the two of them.’

‘Did he ask you not to mention it in front of her?’

‘What does it matter if he did? Ancient history’s what it was.’

It was Breck’s turn to shrug. ‘Okay, so let’s say he’s had a fight with his partner. Her arm gets broken and she heads to A and E. Vince opts not to go with her and heads out on the lash instead. Ends up at the Oliver and loses some money… What do you think he would do next, Mr Hendry?’

‘No idea.’ Hendry’s arms were still folded. He was definitely on the defensive. Fox decided an interruption was in order.

‘His partner says he sometimes stayed out all night, slept at friends’ houses…’

‘Yeah, that happened once or twice.’

‘So it could have happened that night?’ Breck asked.

‘Not at mine,’ Hendry stated with a shake of the head.

‘Where then?’

‘You tell me – you lot are supposed to be the ones with the brains.’

Jamie Breck’s car was parked on the site, just next to the Portakabins. It was a red Mazda RX8, low-slung and sporty. Breck leaned his elbows against its roof as he watched Ronnie Hendry go back to work.

‘Anything I forgot to ask?’

Fox shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘What did you make of him?’

‘I can see why Faulkner liked him. He’s the sort who’d back you up in a fight, but at the same time he’s probably canny enough to calm things down so the fight never quite happens.’

‘He didn’t seem exactly numb with shock, did he?’

‘Isn’t that the Scottish way?’

‘Bottling it up for later?’ Breck guessed. Then he nodded slowly in agreement.

‘Sorry for butting in like that.’

‘It was a fair point, though. I didn’t know he was prone to sleeping around.’

‘Jude never mentioned other women,’ Fox stipulated. ‘By the way, have you done anything about Jude’s mystery visitor?’

‘It’s now a matter of record,’ Breck confirmed.

‘So where next?’ Fox asked. ‘The Oliver?’

Breck looked at him. ‘And you’ll be wanting to tag along, I presume? ’

‘Might as well,’ Fox said. ‘Last one there’s a scabby dog…’

But in fact, by the time he’d unlocked his Volvo and executed a three-point turn, the Mazda was a hundred yards ahead. As he pulled into the casino car park, Breck was standing by the door of the building, trying to look as if he’d been there for hours.

‘Hiya, Scabby,’ Breck said in greeting. ‘Any suspicious-looking Astras to report?’

‘No,’ Fox admitted. Then he pulled open the door. ‘After you,’ he said.

Although the casino was open for business, no actual business was taking place. There was nobody on duty at the cloakroom, and only one croupier stationed at a blackjack table, practising her skills in front of three empty stools. A couple of tiny, foreign-looking women in tabards were polishing the brass fittings and rails. The downstairs barman looked to be doing a stock check, ticking off items on a clipboard. Upstairs, Fox could hear a vacuum cleaner at work.

‘Boss around?’ Breck asked the young croupier. She had blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and was dressed in regulation black waistcoat with a white blouse and sky-blue bowtie.

‘You’ll need to talk to Simon.’ She gestured towards the barman.

‘Thanks,’ Breck said. He started walking in that direction, pulling his warrant card from his pocket. ‘Need a word with you, Simon.’

‘Oh, aye?’ The barman hadn’t bothered looking up from the task in hand, but Fox knew he’d noticed the warrant card… and recognised it for what it was.

‘You in charge here?’ Breck was asking.

‘Boss is due back in quarter of an hour.’

‘Would you mind looking me in the eye when you speak?’ Breck was managing to sound polite, yet there was steel just below the surface. Simon took a few moments before complying. ‘Thank you,’ Breck said. ‘Okay if I put my ID away now? You’re satisfied you’re talking to a detective and not some neighbourhood divvy?’

The barman gave a half-smirk, but Breck had his attention. Fox noticed that his colleague had roughened his natural voice and was bringing in more glottal stops.

‘If it’s anything to do with licences or that,’ Simon was saying, ‘it’s the boss you need to speak to.’

‘But the boss isn’t here, so it’s your job to answer a few questions.’ Breck had put his warrant card away, but was now producing a photograph from the same pocket. It was a snap of Vince Faulkner. Fox reckoned it had been lifted from Jude’s house.

‘This guy’s a regular,’ Breck was saying, ‘so I’m assuming you know him.’

The barman looked at the photo and shrugged.

‘Actually,’ Breck went on, ‘I should’ve stipulated that he was a regular. Poor sod got himself killed at the weekend, after visiting this place.’

‘Which night?’

‘Saturday.’ The barman didn’t say anything for a moment. Breck decided to speak for him. ‘You’re trying to work out the odds, aren’t you? Do you lie or tell the truth – which is going to work out best? And that means just one thing, Simon – you were here Saturday night.’

‘It was busy,’ the barman admitted with another shrug.

‘But he was in here.’ Breck waved the photo to and fro. ‘And it was out of character, because whenever you’d seen him in the past, he’d always been with people.’

‘So?’

Fox had been scanning the corners of the ceiling. ‘We’ll need to see the recordings,’ he commented. ‘From your security cameras…’

Breck stiffened a little. He’d had a flow going, and Fox had broken it.

‘My colleague’s right,’ he stated eventually.

‘Talk to the boss.’

‘We will,’ Breck confirmed. ‘But you do remember Vince Faulkner?’

‘I never knew his name.’

‘You saw in the papers that he was dead?’

‘Suppose so.’ The admission was grudging at best. Simon was running a finger down the clipboard, as though hoping they would take the hint and leave him to his task. Fat chance, Fox thought to himself.

‘You saw him in here Saturday night?’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘He got here around ten.’

‘Place was heaving by then.’

‘But Mr Faulkner was on his own, and I’m betting that meant he’d be sitting on one of these stools.’ Breck slapped the seat of the bar stool next to him.

‘There’s another bar upstairs.’

‘But all the same…’ Breck decided to let the silence linger.

‘He was half cut when he got here,’ Simon finally admitted. ‘Doormen should never have let him in.’

‘Did he cause trouble?’

The barman shook his head. ‘But he had the look of a loser.’

‘And that’s not good for the ambience?’ Breck nodded his understanding.

‘Just sat slumped at the corner of the bar.’

‘How many drinks did he have?’

‘No idea.’

‘What was he drinking?’

‘Shorts… that’s all I remember. We had three staff working the bar that night.’

‘Did he meet anyone? Talk to them?’

‘Dunno.’ The fingers were now drilling against the clipboard, tapping out the sound of horses’ hooves at full gallop.

‘Did you see him leave?’

Simon shook his head.

‘What about Sunday or Monday?’

Another shake of the head. ‘I was off both nights.’

Breck glanced at his watch. ‘Your boss is running late.’

‘Bosses get to do that.’

Breck smiled and turned his head towards Fox for the first time. ‘Simon likes to think he’s smart.’ But every trace of humour had left Breck’s face by the time he turned back to the barman. ‘So do the smart thing, Simon – get thinking of anything else you can tell us about Saturday night or about Vince Faulkner in general.’ Where the snapshot had been, there was now a business card. ‘Take it,’ Breck commanded. The barman did as he was told. ‘How old are you, Simon?’

‘Twenty-three.’

‘Been in the trade long?’

‘Started bar work when I was at uni.’

‘What did you study?’

‘I didn’t study much of anything – that was the problem.’

Breck nodded his understanding. ‘Ever see any trouble around here?’

‘No.’

‘Not even once the punters get outside? A good evening gone sour?’

‘By the time I’ve closed the bar, cleaned up and done a tally, people are long gone.’

‘Do the management stand you to a cab home?’ Breck watched as the barman nodded. ‘Well, that’s something at least.’ Then, turning to leave: ‘Jot a few thoughts down and give me a call. Plus, pass the number on to your boss. If I haven’t heard back by end of play today, I’ll be round tonight with some squad cars and uniforms. Got that?’

Simon was studying the writing on the card. ‘Yes, Mr Breck,’ he said.

It was strange to step out of the gloom – the casino boasted no natural light at all – and find that it was still daytime in Edinburgh, the sky overcast but boasting enough glare to have Jamie Breck slipping on a pair of Ray-Bans. He’d taken up the same position as after the meeting with Ronnie Hendry – elbows resting against the roof of his Mazda. Fox squeezed the bridge of his nose and squinted into the light. It had been quite a performance: Breck was a natural. Just the right mix of authority and empathy. Too bullish and the barman would have blustered or clammed up…

I like you, Fox thought. Even though you’ve been checking up on me behind my back. Even though you may not be what you seem…

‘You really got into character there,’ Fox complimented him. ‘I liked what you did with your voice.’

‘That’s the thing about RPGs and avatars – you get to pretend to be someone you’re not.’

‘Handy training for CID.’ And for other things, Fox thought to himself. ‘So what now?’

‘Nothing much. I’ll head back to base, write up what I’ve got – might leave out a few salient details.’ Breck glanced in Fox’s direction.

‘Sorry I butted in again,’ Fox apologised. ‘Broke my promise…’

‘I’d have got round to the cameras in my own time, Malcolm.’

‘I know you would.’

Both men turned at the sound of a car approaching. It was a ‘baby’ Bentley, the GT. Glossy black bodywork and tinted windows. The engine stopped and the driver’s-side door opened. Fox caught a glimpse of burgundy leather upholstery. The woman who stepped out was wearing high heels, black tights and a black knee-length skirt. The skirt clung to her. White silk blouse, open at the neck to show a pendant of some kind. Cream-coloured jacket with a little padding at the shoulders. Her hair was auburn, thick and flowing. She had to push some back from her face as a gust of wind caught her. Red lipstick and, when she removed her oversized sunglasses, dark eyeshadow and a hint of mascara. She gave them an inquisitive look as she headed towards the door of the casino.

‘Simon will tell you all about it,’ Breck called to her. She ignored this and headed inside. Fox turned to Breck.

‘Shouldn’t we talk to her?’

‘She’s going to call me, remember?’

‘But she’s management, right?’

‘Later.’

‘Don’t you want to know who she is?’

Breck smiled. ‘I know who she is, Malcolm.’ He pointed at a spot just above the casino’s main door. There was a plaque sited there, announcing that the premises were licensed for the sale of alcohol. The name of the licensee was J. Broughton.

‘Who’s J. Broughton?’ Fox asked.

Breck opened the door of the Mazda and started to get in. ‘Stick to watching the detectives, Malcolm. Let us other cops do the real work…’

10

‘Does it mean anything to you?’

Fox was back in the Complaints office, standing in front of Tony Kaye’s desk. Kaye mouthed the name a few times. As usual, he had pitched his chair back, and now swung slowly backwards and forwards.

‘Wasn’t there a villain called that?’ he said at last. ‘Well, by “villain”, obviously I mean an upstanding local businessman whose tangled web of dodgy dealings Lothian and Borders Police could never unravel.’ Kaye paused. ‘But he’d be in his seventies now… haven’t heard his name in years.’

‘Will he be in the system somewhere?’ Fox nodded in the direction of Kaye’s computer hard drive.

‘I can check, just as soon as you give me the reason.’

‘Vince was at the Oliver on Saturday night. Licence is in the name of J. Broughton.’

‘Jack Broughton – that was your man.’ Kaye stared at his colleague. ‘But Vince isn’t really your territory, Foxy. Shouldn’t you be busying yourself liaising with the Fiscal’s office about Glen Heaton? Or readying a report on Jamie Breck to send to the Chop Shop?’

‘Just do it, will you?’ Fox turned and walked over to the coffee machine. Breck’s words were still niggling at him – us other cops… the real work… He knew that a lot of CID felt that way. The Complaints was for the cold fish, the oddities, the cops who could never make it as bona fide detectives. It was for voyeurs with chips on their shoulders. Joe Naysmith was opening a fresh consignment of coffee and Fox watched him at work. Naysmith didn’t fit the description; nor did Tony Kaye, come to that…

‘I love that smell,’ Naysmith commented, holding the bag to his nose.

‘Tell me something, Joe – why the Complaints?’

Naysmith raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve had six months to ask me that.’

‘I’m asking now.’

Naysmith considered for a moment. ‘It suits me,’ he eventually offered. ‘Isn’t that why we’re all here?’

‘Christ knows,’ Fox muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Then he asked if Naysmith was planning another evening in the van.

‘DC Gilchrist thinks we should.’

‘Well, I don’t,’ Fox stated. ‘Far as I can see, you’d be wasting your time. So why don’t you trot along the hall and tell him so?’

‘I’m making the coffee…’

Fox snatched the bag from him. ‘Not any more. Now hop it.’ He gave a jerk of the head as added incentive and watched Naysmith leave the room. He poured the coffee into the filter, slid it home, and filled the water reservoir before placing the emptied glass jug on its hotplate.

‘I like it better when Joe makes it,’ Kaye chided him. He’d risen from his chair and walked over to the room’s shared printer. It was in the process of churning out a final sheet of paper. ‘You’ll see a note at the bottom,’ he explained. ‘Says there’s a bit more in the DFW.’

DFW: the Dead Files Warehouse. Every now and again, the police stations in and around the city had a clear-out. Files were dusted off, their existence recorded for posterity, and they were then sentenced to life imprisonment on a shelf in a vast warehouse on Dumbryden Industrial Estate. Fox had had reason to visit the facility at times in the past. By rights everything in the archives should have been transferred to digital format – the process had been green-lighted by a previous Chief Constable – but funding had become an issue. When Kaye handed Fox the three A4 sheets, the first thing Fox did was study the foot of the final page. There were several references to the DFW. The references were dated – 1968, 1973, 1978. The computer printout listed further brushes with the law in 1984 and 1988. One was for aiding and abetting a fugitive. It never made it to trial. The other was for receiving stolen goods – again, charges dropped. Jack Broughton’s year of birth was given as 1937, making him seventy-one, going on seventy-two.

‘Over twenty years since he was in any trouble,’ Fox commented. ‘And now he’s the same age as my dad.’

Kaye was reading the report over Fox’s shoulder. ‘I remember one of the older cops telling me about him when I was a probationary. Guy definitely had a reputation in those days.’

‘At the casino, there was a woman in her thirties – I think she’s front-of-house.’

‘You’ve been there?’

Fox glowered at him. ‘Don’t ask.’ He started reading the next page. Jack Broughton had two sons and a daughter, but both sons had predeceased their father, one dying in a car crash, the other in a bar brawl gone wrong. ‘I wonder if it’s the daughter…’

‘The licensing board will know,’ Kaye informed him. ‘Want me to get on to them?’

‘You know someone there?’

‘Might do.’ Kaye started to retreat to his desk. ‘Bring me over a mug when it’s brewed, will you?’

‘Three sugars?’ Fox asked, with just a hint of sarcasm.

‘Heaped,’ Tony Kaye confirmed.

But Joe Naysmith was back before the machine had finished its business. He seemed concerned that something terrible might have happened to the percolator in his absence.

‘How did it go with Gilchrist?’ Fox asked him.

‘DS Inglis wants a word with you.’ Naysmith was avoiding eye contact.

‘Why? What have I done?’

‘She just said she wants a word.’

‘Better run along and see her, Foxy,’ Kaye said, his hand pressed over the telephone receiver. ‘Maybe a quick skoosh of Lynx beforehand…’

But when Fox looked, Annie Inglis was standing in the doorway, arms folded. She gave a twitch of the head, signalling for him to meet her in the hall. Fox handed Naysmith the empty mug he’d been holding. Then he made his exit, closing the door after him.

‘Why?’ she asked without preamble.

‘Why what?’

‘Why pull the surveillance on Breck?’

‘It didn’t get us anywhere last night.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve had meetings with him, haven’t you?’

‘You having me followed, DS Inglis?’

‘Just answer the question.’

‘Answer mine first.’

‘No, I’m not having you followed.’

‘He’s investigating a murder pretty close to home, unless you’d forgotten – I’m keeping tabs on it, so yes, I’ve talked to him.’

‘From what I hear, he puts up a good front: conscientious, likeable, generous…’

‘So?’

‘They all do, Malcolm. It’s how they win the trust of children and sometimes even the kids’ parents. It’s why we don’t catch them nearly often enough – they’re good at this. They’re good at acting as if they’re just like you and me…’

‘He’s not like me,’ Fox stated.

‘Is that what’s getting to you?’

‘Nothing’s getting to me.’ There was irritation in his voice. Inglis looked down towards the floor and gave a sigh. ‘He spent an hour last night on an online role-playing game called Quidnunc. He has an avatar. You know what that is?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s someone he creates so he can hide his true self – it lets him become someone else.’

‘Him and a few million other players.’

She looked up at Fox. ‘He told you about it?’

‘Yes.’

Inglis was thoughtful for a moment. She pushed the hair back from her forehead, taking her time. ‘Is there any possibility he knows we’re on to him?’

Fox thought back to what Breck had told him – the van outside his home, driving away soon after he’d gone to bed. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

‘Because if he does, he’ll start getting rid of the evidence.’

‘I don’t think he does,’ Fox repeated.

She considered this for a few moments more. ‘It fits with offender profiling,’ she said at last, her voice softening. ‘These men, they’ll join online communities, pretend to be fourteen or fifteen, ask others in the group to send them photos…’

‘I get it,’ Fox told her.

‘They’re good at role-playing. They hone their skills by playing online games. Sometimes they even get to meet other players along the way…’

‘You want Gilchrist and Naysmith to go out again tonight?’

‘They’re keen.’

Fox nodded slowly. ‘Can they park further away? Same spot two nights running and there’s more likelihood of them standing out.’

Inglis nodded back at him, and reached out to touch his arm. ‘Thank you,’ she said, turning to go. But then she paused.

‘Your sister’s boyfriend – is there any news?’

Fox shook his head and watched her retreat. Then he took out his phone and called Jude, guilty that he hadn’t done so earlier. But there was no answer, so he left a message and went back into the office.

‘You’re out in the wagon again tonight,’ he told Naysmith.

‘Tell me I’m not needed,’ Kaye pleaded. He had just put down his receiver, and was holding a slip of paper.

‘That for me?’ Fox asked.

‘The very name you wanted.’ Kaye waved the slip.

‘All right,’ Fox told him, ‘you’re exempt from holding Joe’s hand tonight.’

‘You’ve got Gilchrist for that, haven’t you, Joe?’ Kaye teased, folding the piece of paper into a glider and sending it flying towards Fox’s desk. It landed on the floor, and Fox stooped to retrieve it. A name was printed there. The J in J. Broughton didn’t stand for Jack.

It was Joanna, the daughter.

Fox thought back to the woman who’d pulled up outside the Oliver. Pulled up in her Bentley and sauntered inside. She hadn’t stopped to ask them what they were doing in her car park, because she’d had a bit of training at her father’s knee – she could smell a cop a mile off.

Joanna Broughton. Fox called Jamie Breck on his mobile.

‘The J is for Joanna, right?’ he asked without introduction. There was a smile in Breck’s voice as he answered.

‘Fast work.’

‘And I’m assuming you know who she is?’

‘Jack Broughton’s daughter?’ Breck pretended to guess.

‘So is she fronting the place for him or what?’

‘You’re assuming the woman we saw earlier today is Ms Broughton.’

‘I’m not assuming anything,’ Fox corrected him. ‘But I think you know it was. What is it about the Oliver and her? Something you’re holding back on me, Jamie?’

‘I’m working on a murder inquiry, Malcolm. There may be times when I can’t open my heart to you.’

‘Is this one of them?’

‘Maybe I’ll tell you later. For now, I need to get back to work.’ Breck ended the call and Fox placed his mobile phone on his desk and settled himself in his chair. His braces were cutting into his shoulders, and he adjusted both straps. Inglis’s words were bouncing around his head: conscientious… likeable… generous… Is that what’s getting to you? When his mobile rang, he picked it up and studied the number on the screen – Jude.

‘Hey, sis, thanks for getting back to me…’ There was silence on the line, but for a muffled sound, very like someone sobbing. ‘Jude?’ he prompted.

‘Malcolm…’ Her voice cracked halfway through his name.

‘What’s going on?’

‘They’re digging in the garden.’

‘What?’

‘The police – your lot – they’re…’ She gulped down another sob.

‘I’m on my way,’ Fox told her. Ending the call, he shrugged his arms back into his jacket. Kaye asked him what was happening.

‘Got to go,’ was all Fox said. Out in the car park, the interior of his car still retained a trace of warmth.

Some of Jude’s neighbours were at their windows again. Three patrol cars, two white vans. Jude’s front door was open. There was no sign of any disruption in the front garden. The back could be accessed only from a door in the kitchen. It wasn’t much of a garden either, maybe sixty feet by twenty, most of it paving slabs and weeds. There was a uniformed officer on duty at the front door, but Fox was waved inside when he showed his warrant card. The interior of the house was ice cold – both front and rear doors open, defeating anything the radiators could do.

‘Who let you in?’ DCI Billy Giles roared. He was standing in the kitchen, holding a mug of tea in one hand and a half-eaten Mars Bar in the other.

‘Where’s my sister?’

‘Next-door neighbour’s,’ Giles stated, chewing on the snack. Fox had advanced far enough into the room to be able to see out of the rear window. There was a team hard at work with shovels and pickaxes. They were digging in some spots, lifting the paving slabs in others. Muck had been trailed into the house, so recently cleaned by Alison Pettifer. Someone from Forensics was running a hand-held scanner down the walls in the living room, seeking any microscopic bloodstains.

‘You still here?’ Giles growled, tossing the empty chocolate wrapper on to the floor.

‘What are you playing at, Giles?’

‘I’m not playing at anything – I’m being a cop.’ He glowered at Fox. ‘Something your lot don’t seem to like. I’m beginning to think it’s jealousy.’

‘I can’t decide what this smacks of more – intimidation or desperation. ’

‘We got a call from a concerned neighbour,’ Giles said. His voice was coarse, his breathing ragged as he bore down on Fox. ‘Heard digging in the garden Sunday night. Horticulture at midnight – is that something your family makes a habit of?’

‘Did this neighbour give a name?’ Giles didn’t say anything to that, and Fox barked out a laugh. ‘Are you really going to lend an ear to every nutter who phones you? Did you bother trying to track them down?’ Fox paused. ‘I’m assuming you noted their number?’

‘Pub in Corstorphine,’ Giles stated. Then, snapping his head round as one of his team walked in from the garden: ‘Anything?’

‘A few bones… been there for years – Phil says a pet cat or maybe a puppy.’

‘What is it you think you’re going to find?’ Fox asked into the silence. ‘You know damned well this isn’t about cats or puppies… it’s about the wild goose you’ve been sent to chase.’

Giles pointed a stubby finger at him. ‘This man’s contaminating my crime scene and I want him out of here!’

A hand grabbed Fox’s arm from behind. He made to shrug it off, but turned and saw that it was Jamie Breck.

‘Come on, you,’ Breck said sternly, leading Fox towards the front door.

Outside on the path, both men kept their voices low. ‘This is horseshit,’ Fox hissed.

‘Maybe so, but we’re duty-bound to follow any and all leads. You know that, Malcolm.’

‘Giles is trying to get at me and mine, Jamie – that’s what this boils down to. You’ve got to tighten his leash.’

Breck’s eyebrows went up. ‘Me?’

‘Who else is going to stand up to him?’

‘You looked to be doing a pretty good job…’ There was a tapping sound. Fingers against the window of the house next door. ‘You’re wanted,’ was all Breck said. Fox turned to look, saw Alison Pettifer gesturing for him to join her. Fox held up his hand, signalling that he was on his way, but then turned back to face Jamie Breck.

‘Tighten his leash,’ he repeated, making for the door of the neighbouring house.

He’d stayed for the best part of an hour, downing two mugs of tea while both women sat on the sofa, Pettifer occasionally taking Jude’s hand and patting or stroking it. He’d asked the neighbour if he could unlock her back door, take a look over the fence as another flagstone was lifted. Giles had glowered at him, but there was nothing he could do.

‘Can’t you stop them?’ Jude had asked her brother more than once. ‘Surely you can make it stop.’

‘I’m not sure I can,’ he’d answered defensively, knowing how weak it made him sound. He could have added that it was precisely his fault it was happening. Giles couldn’t get to him, so he was getting at his loved ones instead. Fox knew he could make a complaint to McEwan, but he knew, too, that the complaint would make him look foolish. It was simplicity itself for Giles to defend the charge: there’s been a murder… we have to pursue every avenue… I can’t believe a fellow officer wouldn’t appreciate that…

No, he couldn’t take it to McEwan. He’d considered telling Jude to get a lawyer, but he knew how that would look – and all cops, the Complaints included, had a deep-seated mistrust of lawyers. The truth was, he couldn’t take it anywhere, and Giles knew as much. So instead Fox had said goodbye, pecking Jude on the cheek and shaking Pettifer’s hand. Then he’d sat in his car for five minutes, trying to decide whether to go back to Fettes or not. Mind made up, he’d driven to the supermarket in Oxgangs, lugging the bags into his house and spending half an hour putting away the food, checking the sell-by dates of everything so he could arrange what needed eating when – stuff for later to the back of the fridge and stuff for sooner to the front. Fresh pasta with pesto sauce for his evening meal. At the supermarket, he’d found himself in the drinks section, wondering about buying a couple of bottles of alcohol-free beer, then had walked past the wines and spirits, noting that some whiskies were actually cheaper than when he’d last bought any of them. The pricier bottles had little neck-band alarms to deter shoplifters. Back at one of the chill cabinets, he’d picked up a litre carton of mango and pear juice. Better for you by far, boy, he’d told himself.

After the meal, he tried watching TV, but there was nothing to grab his attention. He kept swimming back through the day’s events. When his phone bleeped with a message, he sprang towards it. Tony Kaye was inviting him to Minter’s. It took Fox all of five seconds to make up his mind.

‘It’s almost as if we have nothing better to do with ourselves,’ Fox said as he made for the usual table. There was a different barman on duty – much younger, but still glued to a quiz show on TV. Two clients standing at the bar – Fox recognised neither of them. Margaret Sime, Kaye’s friend, was at her own table. She nodded a greeting. On the way back into town, Fox had taken the slightest of detours past Jamie Breck’s house. No sign of life, and no van parked in the vicinity.

‘Cheers,’ Kaye said, taking delivery of the fresh pint and placing it beside the one he was halfway to finishing. Fox placed his own tomato juice on a coaster and slipped out of his sports jacket. He had left his tie at home, but was still wearing the same shirt, braces and trousers.

‘So what was happening at Jude’s?’ Kaye asked.

‘Bad Billy had his men digging up the garden. Anonymous caller said they heard some activity on Sunday night.’

‘That’s Billy’s excuse anyway,’ Kaye sympathised with a shake of the head. ‘Hope you didn’t leave any prints at the locus, Foxy. If he sees an opening, he’s going to come at you with teeth bared and claws out.’

‘I know.’

‘Bastard put a lot of trust in Glen Heaton… defended him to the hilt.’

Fox stared at his colleague. ‘You don’t think Giles knew what Heaton was like?’

Kaye shrugged. ‘We can’t know for sure one way or the other. All I’m saying is, I can appreciate the man is hurting.’

‘If he goes on tormenting my sister, he’ll really get to know that feeling.’

Kaye chuckled into his glass. Fox knew what he was thinking: You’ve no ammo, Foxy, no stomach for that kind of fight. Maybe. Maybe not. He sipped at his own drink.

‘Would it kill you to put a dash of vodka in there?’ Kaye chided him. ‘It makes me feel like the town drunk when I’m sitting with you.’

‘You asked me to come.’

‘I know I did; I’m just saying…’

‘The first one wouldn’t kill me,’ Fox said after a moment’s thought. ‘But it would be a start. Somebody like me, Tony, a start’s all they need.’

Kaye wrinkled his nose. ‘You’re not an alky, Malcolm. I’ve seen alkies, used to hose their cells down when I was a probationary.’

‘Drink doesn’t like me, Tony. Besides…’ He picked up the tomato juice again. ‘This gives me the moral high ground.’

Both men drank in silence. A group of three new faces had arrived. Fox, his back to the door, watched Kaye make a quick appraisal. That was what you did when you were a cop – you watched the door for trouble. Trouble was the guy you’d once arrested; the guy whose uncle or cousin you once gave evidence against; the guy you’d persuaded to turn informer one time so he’d save his own skin. City the size of Edinburgh, it was difficult sometimes to escape your own history – things you’d done; people you’d used. But Kaye was back to concentrating on his drink: no reason to fret. Fox gave the men a quick glance anyway. Suits and ties – businessmen at day’s end, maybe with a curry-house appointment later.

When the door opened again, Fox watched Kaye, saw an eyebrow rise, and turned round to look. It was Joe Naysmith. He was dressed for a long, cold night in the van. Lumberjack shirt beneath Shetland sweater, sweater beneath jerkin, jerkin beneath duffel coat. He was shedding these layers as he approached the table.

‘Boiling in here,’ he complained. He unbuttoned the shirt, to show a plain black T-shirt.

‘Had a tiff with the boyfriend?’ Kaye asked slyly.

Naysmith ignored him and asked them what they were drinking.

‘Usual for me,’ Kaye was quick to say, while Fox shook his head. His eyes met the younger man’s.

‘So what did happen?’ he asked.

‘We were doing a final check on the van. Gilchrist gets a call and tells me we don’t need to go out.’ Naysmith shrugged and started to head for the bar.

‘Who was the call from?’ Fox persisted. Naysmith just shrugged again and went to fetch the drinks.

‘You think something’s happened?’ Kaye asked Fox.

‘I’m not a soothsayer, Tony.’

‘Nice excuse to call DS Inglis at home, invite her out for a late-night pow-wow with beverages supplied…’

‘She’s got a kid.’

‘Then invite yourself round there; take a bottle.’ Kaye broke off and rolled his eyes. ‘Except you don’t drink.’

‘That’s right.’

‘So it’s soft drinks for you, and a few hefty Bacardis for the lady.’

Naysmith was coming back, a pint in either hand. ‘I’d packed sandwiches and everything,’ he went on complaining. ‘Loaded some videos on to my phone to show him…’

‘And he didn’t say who the call was from or what was said?’ Fox watched Naysmith shake his head. ‘You couldn’t hear any of it – not even what he was saying?’

‘I was in the back of the van; he was out front.’

‘This was in the garage at Fettes?’

Naysmith nodded and gulped down the first inch and a half of beer, exhaling with satisfaction and wiping thumb and forefinger across his lips.

‘Inglis seemed keen enough earlier,’ Fox stated.

‘Maybe she came round to your point of view,’ Naysmith suggested.

‘Maybe,’ Fox conceded. ‘So where’s Gilchrist now?’

‘He said he didn’t fancy a drink.’

The three men sat in silence, and when the conversation resumed they were soon discussing other cases – past and present – moving on from there to McEwan’s current ‘jolly’.

‘It’ll be an hour of discussion over tea and biscuits, then four hours on the golf course,’ Tony Kaye proposed.

‘Does McEwan even play golf?’ Fox asked, rising to get the next round in. He was debating whether to stay. Maybe he’d get a pint apiece for Kaye and Naysmith, then tell them he had to be leaving. But as he waited to be served, he glanced up at the TV. The quiz show had finished, and the local news was on. A dapper-looking man was giving some sort of statement in what looked like his office. Reporters held microphones to his face. Then a still photograph appeared onscreen: a man and woman standing on the deck of a yacht, dressed to the nines and grinning for the camera, arms around one another. Fox thought he recognised the woman.

‘Turn that up,’ he ordered the barman. But by the time the remote control had been located, the news had moved to another story. Fox gestured to be given the remote, and used it to switch from TV to text, running down the list of options until he found ‘Regional News’. He clicked on Scotland and waited for the items to appear on the screen. Third story down he saw what he was looking for.

Property Tycoon Missing At Sea

Fox hit the button again and scrolled down the story. Charles Brogan, 43, millionaire property developer… took his boat out from its Edinburgh mooring… boat found deserted and drifting at the mouth of the Firth of Forth…

‘What is it?’ Kaye asked. He was standing by Fox’s shoulder, studying the TV screen.

‘The guy behind Salamander Point. I heard his company was in trouble, and now he’s missing from his boat.’

‘Hara-kiri?’ Kaye guessed.

Fox laid the remote on the bar and paid for the round. Without having been asked, the barman had poured him another tomato juice. They took the drinks to the table.

‘Something on the news?’ Naysmith prompted.

‘Nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about,’ Kaye replied, tousling Naysmith’s hair. ‘Hadn’t you better get a trim before Jack Nicklaus gets back?’

‘I had it cut last month.’

Fox was rising from his chair again. ‘I need to make a phone call,’ he explained. ‘Back in a tick.’

He went outside and the cold hit him. Thought about retreating indoors for his jacket, but resisted the urge. Another urge was taking precedence. He punched Jamie Breck’s number into his mobile.

‘Wondered how long it would take you,’ Breck answered.

‘I just saw it on the news.’

‘Me too.’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘Looks like the wife’s first call was to her PR guy.’

‘That’s who was giving the statement?’

‘His name’s Gordon Lovatt. As in Lovatt, Meikle, Meldrum.’

‘Never heard of them.’

‘Big PR firm. They do lobbying, too.’

‘You’ve done your research.’

‘They’ve strayed into my orbit on occasion…’ Breck’s voice drifted off. Fox could hear a siren. He lowered the phone from his ear to confirm that it was coming from the earpiece. ‘You’re out somewhere, ’ he stated.

‘I’m headed to Torphichen.’

‘Why?’

‘No real reason.’

‘Is it because of Joanna Broughton? Did she ever get back to you about the CCTV?’ Fox moved aside as two of the drinkers emerged from the bar to smoke a cigarette. They coughed a few times and continued the conversation they’d been having.

‘Which pub?’ Breck asked. ‘Minter’s?’

‘I was asking about Joanna Broughton. How come I just saw her on TV?’

‘She’s married to Charlie Brogan. Didn’t change her name, but they’ve been together three or four years.’

‘Has his body washed ashore yet?’

‘It’s dark out, if you hadn’t noticed. Coastguard have called off the search until daybreak.’

‘But you’re still going into the station.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

‘Yes,’ Jamie Breck answered.

‘Will you let me know if you find out anything?’

‘If it’s pertinent to the case. I don’t doubt I’ll be talking to you sometime tomorrow… whether I like it or not. Meantime, Inspector, take the rest of the evening off.’

‘Thanks, I’ll do that.’

‘Or at least try,’ Breck said, ending the call.

Fox headed back indoors, rubbing some heat back into himself.

‘Good news is,’ he told Naysmith, ‘you’d have been wasting your time anyway.’

‘Breck’s not at home?’ Kaye guessed.

‘The office,’ Fox confirmed.

‘Is that why Gilchrist cried off?’ Naysmith asked. ‘Could he have known?’

‘Doubtful,’ Fox answered after a moment’s thought.