The Complaints

11

Next morning, he was in the office early, but no one was at home in Room 2.24. Fox went downstairs to the canteen and found Annie Inglis there, slumped over a black coffee with a half-eaten scrambled-egg roll pushed to one side.

‘You look rough,’ he offered as he pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her.

‘Duncan,’ was all she said.

‘What’s he done?’

She rubbed her hands down her face. ‘Nothing really. He’s just at that age…’

‘Rebelling against Mum?’

She offered a tired smile. ‘He stays out late – later than I like. He always comes home eventually…’

‘But you wait up for him?’

She nodded. ‘And if it’s a school night, next morning’s like trying to raise the dead.’

‘Is he running with the wrong crowd?’

She managed another smile, this time at his wording. ‘When you’re a mother, everyone’s the wrong crowd.’

‘Right.’

‘I think they drink a little… take drugs a little.’

‘Not skunk?’

She shook her head. ‘Duncan just seems a bit…’ She sought the right description. ‘Tipsy,’ she eventually decided, ‘on occasion. Plus, the school say he’s falling behind, not handing in home-work. ’

‘He’s got O Grades next year?’

‘Standard Grades, they call them these days.’ She tried shaking some life back into herself and picked up the coffee. ‘Third one of these I’ve had.’

‘Want a fourth?’

But, having drained the cup, she shook her head.

‘Does he see his dad?’ Fox asked, but she wasn’t about to answer.

‘Was there something you wanted, Inspector?’ she asked instead.

‘Yes, but it can wait.’

‘Tell me. Might help get this brain of mine started.’

‘You know the surveillance got pulled last night?’

She looked at him. ‘No,’ she said.

‘It’s just that… you were so keen for it to go ahead. I was wondering what had changed.’

‘I’ve not seen Gilchrist this morning.’

‘They were getting the van ready. Gilchrist took a call, and told my guy it wasn’t happening.’

‘I’ll ask him when I see him. Maybe something else came up.’

‘Maybe,’ Fox conceded.

‘I’ll ask him,’ Annie Inglis repeated.

‘Okay.’ Fox got back to his feet. ‘Sure about that coffee? We actually make better stuff upstairs – four-star leaded.’

‘We can smell it every time we walk past.’

‘Feel free to drop in.’

She thanked him. ‘Malcolm… what I was saying about Duncan…’

‘My lips are sealed,’ Fox assured her, turning to leave.

In the Complaints office, McEwan was back.

‘Did you bring us a souvenir?’ Fox asked him.

McEwan snorted, then asked if things had been quiet in his absence.

‘As the grave,’ Fox stated, moving towards the coffee machine. But there was hardly any coffee left in the tin. He considered heading downstairs again to the canteen, but decided against it. There were tea bags, and he could boil some water. No milk, though. He checked his watch. Naysmith could have no excuses this morning – no surveillance to explain away a late start. He’d be here inside the quarter-hour.

‘RBS headquarters has its own Starbucks,’ McEwan commented, as though reading his mind.

‘We’re not the RBS,’ Fox replied.

‘Thank Christ for small mercies.’

‘How was the conference?’

‘Boring.’

‘Are riots likely this summer?’

‘Couple of the pundits seem to think so. Rising unemployment… unrest… people fearful of the future… tension needing to be broken somehow… And plenty of extremists ready to make it happen. ’

‘An Edinburgh riot would be something to see.’ Fox was back at his desk.

‘Plenty of them in times past, Malcolm – the mob was a thing to be feared.’

Fox was shaking his head. ‘Not these days. Even when they’re protesting outside the RBS boss’s house, they use placards for the graffiti so as not to damage anything – that’s your Edinburgh mob, Bob.’

‘I hope to God you’re right.’ McEwan sneezed three times, then picked up his phone. ‘On top of everything, I’ve caught that cold of yours.’

‘Happy to share, sir,’ Malcolm Fox told him. ‘Mine’s actually a little better.’ He watched as Joe Naysmith walked into the room. Naysmith held up the plastic bag he was carrying – coffee and milk. Fox offered him the thumbs-up and received a gesture in return – Naysmith’s palm held out as if for money. It was Friday – accounts day as far as the coffee was concerned. Fox ignored Naysmith and got down to the first of the day’s chores. Copies of testimony in the Heaton case were beginning to arrive from the lawyers in the Fiscal’s office, queries and comments attached to most of the pages. Fox would pass some off to Naysmith and some to Kaye, keeping the juiciest ones for himself. Half an hour later, Kaye sauntered in, rolling his eyes as he saw McEwan was back.

‘What time do you call this?’ McEwan complained.

‘Sorry, sir,’ Kaye replied, reaching for the coffee Naysmith had poured him. Then he drew a newspaper from his coat pocket and tossed it on to Fox’s desk. ‘Page three,’ he said. ‘No topless shots, though…’

It was the morning’s Scotsman. The story took up the whole page. There were photos of Brogan, his boat, Joanna Broughton and her father Jack. None of the pictures looked particularly recent, except for one of Gordon Lovatt at the press conference. The story itself was long on background and short on substance. Brogan’s company owned swathes of commercial land and property in the city. Debt had become an issue. Brogan was a ‘keen weekend sailor’ who kept his million-pound yacht moored at South Queensferry. His wife was owner of the successful Oliver casino and his father-in-law a wealthy and retired ‘local businessman, known for his cavalier approach’. Fox had a little smile to himself at that. When he looked up, Kaye was watching him.

‘Doesn’t add much,’ Fox commented.

‘Maybe because there’s not much to add. Did you check the TV this morning?’

Fox nodded. ‘Body’s still out there somewhere.’

‘Empty bottle of posh wine left on the deck, plus a smattering of sleeping tablets as prescribed to the wife.’ Kaye paused, angling his head towards the newspaper. ‘She’s a looker, though – wonder what first attracted her to the pot-bellied, balding tycoon.’

‘Says here they live in the penthouse of one of his developments. ’

‘Top three storeys of a new-build by Inverleith Park,’ Kaye confirmed. ‘It was in the papers at the time – priciest flat in Scotland.’

‘But that was before the slump.’

‘I doubt she needs to sell – Daddy’s on hand to bail her out.’

‘Begs the question why he hasn’t done the same for his son-in-law. ’

‘You two,’ Naysmith broke in, ‘are like a couple of checkout girls with the latest copy of Heat.’

The phone on Fox’s desk rang and he picked it up.

‘Hallway in two,’ Annie Inglis said, before the line went dead. Fox put the phone back down and patted the stacks of paperwork in front of him.

‘Which is mine?’ Kaye asked. Fox tapped the relevant pile.

‘And mine?’ Naysmith added. Another tap.

‘Meaning yours is the smallest, Malcolm,’ Kaye said with his usual frown.

‘As per,’ Naysmith agreed.

‘Tough,’ Malcolm Fox told them, getting to his feet.

Outside in the corridor, Annie Inglis was already waiting. She was leaning with her back to the wall, one foot crossed over the other, hands behind her.

‘It’s been pulled,’ she said.

‘That much I knew.’

‘We won’t be pursuing a case against DS Breck.’ Her face was as stony as her voice.

‘Why?’

‘Orders.’

‘Says who?’

‘Malcolm…’ Her eyes fixed on his. ‘All you need to know is, we no longer require the assistance of Complaints and Conduct.’

‘Is that how you were told to phrase it?’

‘Malcolm…’

He took a step towards her, but she was already on her way back to her office. As his eyes followed her, he saw her head go down. She knew he was watching, knew he’d take it as a sign.

A woman who’d just done something she wasn’t happy about, and wanted him to know.

At lunchtime, he told the office he was going out. He took a detour into the canteen, hoping Inglis might be there, but she wasn’t. As he drove out of the compound he offered up a prayer that his parking space would still be vacant on his return, while knowing from experience that there was maybe a cat-in-hell’s chance. As had become his custom, he kept a regular watch on any traffic behind him, but there were no black Astras or green Kas. Within ten minutes he was parking outside the Oliver. Simon was again behind the bar, chatting up one of the female croupiers while another eked out a shift at the blackjack table for the two hunched punters who were providing the casino’s only custom.

‘I already told you you’d need to talk to the boss,’ Simon said, recognising Fox.

‘Actually, it was my colleague you told that to, and we did consult with Ms Broughton.’ Fox paused. ‘Thought you might have been closed today as a mark of respect.’

‘Nuclear war, that’s about all we close for.’

‘Lucky for me.’ Fox pressed his palms against the bar counter. Simon stared at him.

‘She said you could watch the tapes?’ he guessed.

‘Of Saturday night,’ Fox confirmed. Then: ‘Go call her; she’ll tell you.’ But they both knew Simon wasn’t about to pick up the phone to Joanna Broughton. For one thing, she had other things on her mind. For another, Simon didn’t have the clout – not that he would want the slim blonde croupier across the bar from him to suspect as much, which was why he told Fox it was fine, and that he could use the office. Fox nodded his thanks, inwardly congratulating himself on having read the young man correctly, and explained that he would be out of their way in no time at all.

The office was cramped. Simon sat at the desk while he set up the playback. The recording could be viewed directly on the screen belonging to the desktop computer.

‘Hard-drive recorders,’ Simon explained.

Fox nodded as he studied the room: a couple of chairs, three filing cabinets, and a bank of CCTV screens, alternating between a dozen different cameras.

‘Do you depend on this to catch the cheats?’ Fox asked.

‘We have staff watching the floor. Sometimes we’ll put someone on a table, pretending to be just another punter. Everyone’s trained to be on the lookout.’

‘Have any scams actually worked?’

‘One or two,’ Simon admitted, using the mouse to navigate the screen. Eventually he was happy, and swapped places with Fox. He started asking if there was any news about ‘Mr Brogan’.

‘Did you know him?’ Fox asked back.

‘He came by pretty regularly. Didn’t gamble much, but liked to see Joanna.’

Simon looked as if he might hang about, so Fox told him he could get back to work. The young man hesitated, but then seemed to remember the blonde croupier. He nodded and left. Fox leaned in towards the screen and hit ‘play’. There was a time code at top right, showing him that it was nine o’clock Saturday evening. He fast-forwarded to ten. At times, the camera would zoom in to pick out one particular player, or even that player’s hand movements as they studied their cards. The place was busy, but, the tape being silent, there was a surreal quality to the footage, and the colour had a washed-out look. The cameras seemed to be focusing on the tables. Little attention was being paid to the doormen or the lobby or either of the bars. Fox couldn’t see Vince Faulkner anywhere. Simon had told Breck he’d been drunk, seated on a stool by the corner of the downstairs bar, but Fox was damned if he could find him. When a tapping came at the door, he let out a hiss of air.

‘Look,’ he called out, ‘I’m not halfway finished here!’

The door opened slowly. ‘Oh, but you are,’ a voice crooned. DCI Billy Giles was standing there, filling the whole doorway.

‘Gotcha,’ he said.

Torphichen police station.

Not the same room as before – one of the proper interview rooms. And set up for a proper interview, too – video camera pointing down at the table from the ceiling. Once it was operational, a red light would blink to indicate that recording was in progress. A tape deck plugged into the wall socket – two tapes, one for each party. One microphone on its stand in the centre of the table. The walls whitewashed, decorated with nothing but a reminder that smoking was punishable by a fine – as if any of the room’s usual inmates would worry about that. A foetid smell; the place had only recently been vacated.

They’d left Malcolm Fox there to stew in his own juices. No offer of tea or even water. Giles had asked him for his mobile; Fox had told him to get stuffed.

‘How do I know you won’t go calling chat lines on my tab?’ was his reasoning.

There was a uniform in the room with him, standing to one side of the door. Doubtless this man would have been chosen for his gift of recall – every station had one. So Fox pretended to be texting instead of making calls. Thing was… who was he supposed to tell? Who could help him clamber out of the midden he’d nosedived into? So he just pushed buttons at random, hoping he was getting on the uniform’s nerves. It was a further ten minutes before the door opened. Giles was followed into the room by two other detectives. One of them was a woman in her thirties; Fox seemed to remember seeing her around the place when he’d been working on Heaton, but couldn’t recall if he was supposed to know her name.

The male detective was Jamie Breck.

It was the woman’s job to make sure the tapes were spooling, the recorder picking up their voices. She also checked that the camera’s little red light was flashing, then gave Giles the nod. He had seated himself opposite Fox. He placed a folder and a large envelope on the table between them. Fox resisted looking interested in either.

‘DS Breck,’ Giles said with a nod of the head. The nod was directed towards the empty chair next to Fox. Breck seated himself slowly, avoiding eye contact, and Fox realised that the pair of them were in the selfsame mess. They sat side by side, with Giles across the desk from them like a headmaster with a pair of truants, and the woman officer replacing the uniform by the door.

‘Where do I start?’ Giles muttered, almost to himself. He was running his fingers over the folder and the envelope. Then he looked up, as though he’d just had an idea. ‘How about the pictures? Camera never lies and all that…’ He tipped the contents of the envelope on to the table. There were dozens of photos. They’d come from a desktop printer, and weren’t of the best quality.

But good enough, all the same.

‘You’ll see the time and date on each one,’ Giles was saying, turning them around so Fox and Breck could view them more clearly. ‘That one’s you, DS Breck. You’re visiting Inspector Fox at his home. The two of you then took a little trip to a casino.’ Giles paused for effect. ‘Happens to be the same one Vince Faulkner visited the night he disappeared.’ He held up the appropriate photo. It was grainy, shot with a telephoto lens from some distance. Fox and Breck were depicted having their little word with the two doormen, prior to entering the Oliver. ‘What else have we got here?’ Giles made show of sifting through the photos again. ‘The pair of you at Salamander Point. DS Breck was there to gather information on our murder victim.’ Another pause. ‘Not sure why you were there, Inspector Fox. Hardly part of your remit as a member of Complaints and Conduct.’ Giles gave a little sniff. The man was loving every second, playing up to the camera and the microphone both. Fox thought back to the car – the two cars. He had his answer now. Even if you’re paranoid, he said to himself, it doesn’t mean they’re not after you.

‘Trying to influence the investigation, Inspector Fox?’ Giles was asking. ‘Barging in on the locus at your sister’s house?’

‘Her house isn’t a crime scene,’ Fox snapped back.

‘Until I say otherwise, that’s exactly what it is.’ The huge man’s voice was so calm, he could have been inhaling Prozac rather than oxygen.

‘That’s because you’re an arrogant prick.’ Fox decided a pause of his own was in order. ‘For the record,’ he concluded.

Giles took a few moments to shepherd his emotions back into the pen. ‘What were you doing when you were apprehended, Inspector?’

‘I was being a cop.’

‘You were in the office of the Oliver casino, viewing that venue’s CCTV footage for the night Vince Faulkner went missing.’

Fox could sense Jamie Breck’s disquiet at this news.

‘On whose authority did you go there?

‘Nobody’s.’

‘Did DS Breck tell you it would be all right? The pair of you had already been to that establishment not once, but twice.’ Giles sifted out another photo – Breck and Fox in daylight, standing beside Breck’s car just seconds before Joanna Broughton turned up.

‘This has nothing to do with DS Breck,’ Fox argued. ‘I went to Salamander Point on my own. It was coincidence he was there at the same time.’

Giles had turned his attention to Breck. ‘But you let the Inspector sit in on your interview with Mr Ronald Hendry?’

‘Yes,’ Breck admitted.

‘I outrank him,’ Fox began to explain. ‘I ordered him…’

‘Whether you did or you didn’t, here’s the thing…’ Giles opened the folder and produced a typed sheet. ‘DS Breck left that particular detail out of his account of the interview.’ Giles let the piece of paper fall on to the table. ‘And the night he came to your home – had you ordered him to put in an appearance?’ Giles allowed the silence to run its course. ‘Seems to me the two of you have become a bit too pally.’ He glared at Breck, while his finger stabbed in Fox’s direction. ‘He’s a suspect! You knew that! Since when do we get cosy with suspects?’

‘Glen Heaton did it often enough,’ Fox commented in an undertone.

Giles’s eyes were full of fire, his voice just about under control.

‘Listen to the hypocrisy of the man,’ he growled. Then he leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders and neck. ‘None of this looks good. Time was, maybe the force would have dealt with it in its own way…’ He pretended a rueful sigh. ‘But with all the checks and balances these days, the need to be whiter than white…’ He was staring straight at Fox. ‘Well… you of all people, Inspector, you know how it is.’ And he offered a shrug. Almost on cue, there was a knock at the door. The woman officer opened it, and two men entered. One was Chief Inspector Bob McEwan. The other was in uniform, carrying his peaked hat tucked beneath one arm.

‘A bloody disgrace!’ were the man’s opening words. Giles had risen to his feet, as had Breck and Fox. It was what you did when the Deputy Chief Constable announced his presence. And he did have presence. He’d stuck it out at Lothian and Borders while rejecting the advances of other forces; stuck it out while several Chief Constables had been promoted over him or drafted in from outside. His name was Adam Traynor and he was ruddy-cheeked, steely-eyed, tall and barrel-chested. ‘A copper’s copper’ was the consensus; admired by the lower ranks as well as the higher-ups. Fox had met the man several times. Minor cases of misconduct could be dealt with by the DCC. Only the more serious cases had to go to the Procurator Fiscal.

‘Disgrace,’ Traynor was repeating to himself, while McEwan had eyes only for his errant employee. Fox remembered their conversation of that morning. Have things been quiet in my absence? McEwan had asked. As the grave, Fox had answered. Now Traynor’s attention turned to McEwan and Giles. ‘Your men,’ he was telling them, ‘will have to be suspended pending the outcome of the inquiry.’

‘Yes, sir,’ McEwan muttered.

‘Sir,’ Giles agreed.

‘Don’t fret,’ Traynor went on, half turning his head in the direction of Fox and Breck. ‘You’ll be on full pay.’

Giles’s eyes were on Fox too, and Fox knew what his nemesis was thinking: Just like Glen Heaton…

‘Excuse me,’ the woman officer interrupted. ‘We’re still taping…’

‘Then switch it off!’ Traynor roared. She did so, having first informed the microphone that the interview was ending at two fifty-seven p.m.

‘Internal inquiry, sir?’ Bob McEwan was asking.

‘Bit late for that, Bob – Grampian have had your man under surveillance these past four days.’ Traynor was sifting through the photographs on the table. ‘They’ll be the ones sorting it all out, same as we’d do for them if the tables were turned.’

McEwan was frowning. ‘My officer has been under surveillance? ’

The Deputy Chief Constable silenced him with a glare. ‘Your man’s been misbehaving, Chief Inspector.’

‘And no one saw fit to inform me,’ McEwan stated.

‘A topic for later discussion.’ Traynor was glaring at McEwan, but McEwan’s attention was concentrated on Malcolm Fox, and there was an unspoken question there: what the hell is going on here?

‘Right,’ Traynor said, straightening up and running a thumb along the brim of his cap. ‘Is that all clear enough for you?’

‘I’ve got paperwork I could do with finishing,’ Breck said.

‘Not a chance,’ Traynor barked back at him. ‘Don’t want you trying to cook the books.’

The blood rose up Jamie Breck’s neck. ‘With all due respect, sir…’

But the Deputy Chief Constable was already in the process of leaving.

‘We’ll need your warrant cards and any pass keys,’ Billy Giles was stating, hand held out in preparation. ‘You walk out of here and you don’t go near either of your offices, even to pick up a jacket or bag. You go home and you stay home. Grampian Police will doubtless be in touch – you’ll know the protocol off by heart, Inspector Fox…’

McEwan had followed Traynor out of the room as if keen to collar the man, and without so much as a backward glance. But Fox trusted his boss. He’d be arguing Fox’s case, fighting his corner.

‘Warrant cards,’ Giles repeated, fingers twitching. ‘After which you’ll be escorted from the premises.’

‘The Federation has lawyers,’ the woman officer piped up. Giles gave her a hard stare.

‘Thanks, Annabel,’ Jamie Breck said, throwing his warrant card down well short of Billy Giles’s hand.

12

There was a pool hall on the corner, and that was their first stop, if only because they needed a place to sit and take it all in. Breck seemed to be known to the proprietor. A table by the window was wiped down for their use, and coffees arrived ‘on the house’.

‘No, we’ll pay for them,’ Breck insisted, producing a handful of coins from his pocket. ‘One man’s gift is another man’s bung.’ His eyes met Fox’s and the two men managed wary smiles.

‘Not exactly the most pressing of our worries,’ Fox offered. ‘Annabel was right, though – there are lawyers we could be consulting.’

Breck shrugged. ‘At least you were right when you said you were being tailed. Might explain that van outside my house…’

‘Yes,’ Fox commented, feeling suddenly awkward.

‘So what happens now? I’d say you’re the resident expert here.’

Fox didn’t answer immediately. He listened to the sounds around him – pool balls clacking against each other; mild cursing from the players; the low rumble of traffic outside. Now we’re in the same boat, he thought.

‘What was the last you heard about Brogan’s yacht?’ he asked.

Breck stared at him. ‘We’re not interested in any of that, Malcolm. We’re suspended from our jobs.’

‘Sure.’ Fox shrugged. ‘But you’ve got friends, right? Annabel – she’s one of them? That means you can keep tabs on what’s happening. ’

‘And if it gets back to Billy Giles?’

‘What’s the worst he can do? We’re Grampian’s problem from now on.’ Fox picked up the cup and blew across its surface. He knew it was going to be the cheapest brand of powdered instant; knew the cup wasn’t as clean as it could be. But he would remember the smell and the taste and the pattern on the saucer for the rest of his life.

‘We’re civilians now, Jamie,’ he went on. ‘That gives us more room to manoeuvre, not less.’

‘I’m not sure what you’re saying.’

Fox proffered a huge shrug. ‘I thought you were the risk-taker, Jamie, the one who reckons we all make our own luck, affect the way our lives are going to turn out?’

‘And you’re the one who thinks the opposite.’

Fox just shrugged again. A couple of players had come in. They carried their two-piece cues in little travel cases. One of the men had a rolled-up copy of the day’s Evening News in his pocket. When he slipped out of his jacket and made to hang it up, Fox sauntered over.

‘Mind if I take a look?’ he asked. The man shook his head, so Fox retreated to his table with the paper. Charlie Brogan had made it to the front page – not that there was much to report.

‘Remember what you said, Jamie? Joanna Broughton’s first phone call seems to have been to this PR agency. The media knew about the boat before we did. What does that say to you?’

‘That the lady has skewed priorities.’ Breck paused. ‘What do you make of it?’

‘I’m not sure… not yet.’

‘You’re not just going to go home and put your feet up, are you?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Who’s to say they’ll stop tailing you?’

‘That’s another thing – I want to know precisely how long it’s been going on.’

‘Why?’

‘Because timing is everything, Jamie.’ Fox stared at Breck. ‘You really didn’t know I was under surveillance?’

Breck shook his head determinedly.

‘Traynor said four days – that takes it back to Monday.’

‘Vince’s body wasn’t found till Tuesday.’

Fox nodded. ‘I still want to know what’s on the CCTV footage from the Oliver.’

‘I doubt it’ll be useful.’

Fox leaned back in his seat. ‘Maybe it’s time for you to tell me why you seem to know so much about the place.’

Breck considered for a moment, weighing up how much to say. ‘It was a few months back,’ he began. ‘Just someone we were trying to build a case against…’

‘Who?’

‘A councillor – suspected of being a naughty boy. There were rumours of a meeting at the Oliver, so we asked Joanna Broughton for any recordings.’

‘And?’

‘And there weren’t any – not by the time we went looking.’

‘They’d been wiped?’

‘Story we got was, there’d been a glitch of some kind.’

‘But I’ve seen the tapes from Saturday night – I know they’re there.’

‘Doesn’t mean there won’t be another glitch. The Oliver is Broughton’s pride and joy – her way of saying she can make it on her own.’

‘Without Father Jack, you mean?’

Breck nodded. ‘She doesn’t want the place getting a rep – dodgy meetings; last known sightings of murder victims…’

‘That’s why she uses the PR company?’

‘Lovatt, Meikle, Meldrum,’ Breck recited.

Fox thought for a moment. ‘The night we went to the Oliver, you told me you’d never been to the Oliver in your life.’

‘I lied.’

‘Why?’

‘Empathy?’ Breck suggested. He’d taken the paper from Fox, skimming the front page and then flipping to the leader column. ‘Seen this?’ he asked. Then he started to quote from the piece: ‘“The value of the various development sites along the Edinburgh Waterfront has dropped by £220 million over the past year… Land in the city has fallen from a high of £2 million an acre to less than a quarter of that…” Fountain Brewery project in trouble… Ditto Caltongate and the projected new town at Shawfair. Eighty per cent of the land holdings in Edinburgh now have no development value at all…’ He placed the newspaper on the table in front of them. ‘No development value at all,’ he repeated. ‘Seems to me Charlie Brogan had every reason to walk the plank.’

‘Hard to disagree.’ Fox was scanning the piece for himself. ‘Fountain Brewery,’ he mused. ‘That’s where Vince was found.’

Breck nodded.

‘Would Brogan have been one of the developers?’

‘It’s possible,’ Breck conceded.

‘Hundreds of millions of pounds that have just vanished into thin air,’ Fox commented.

‘The land’s still there,’ Breck argued. ‘Only thing that’s gone is the confidence. Banks stop lending, everyone gets the jitters.’ He thought for a moment. ‘So what are you going to do, Malcolm?’

‘Maybe go see Jude, check how she’s doing. What about you?’

‘Been a while since I could dedicate a whole day to Quidnunc.’ Breck broke off, staring down at the table. ‘I’m not sorry I did what I did.’

‘Don’t worry about it – this is all my fault, not yours. Tell it just the way it happened – I railroaded you, pulled rank, maybe even lied…’ He was on the verge of saying it: by the way, I’m not the only one who’s been under surveillance. But he swallowed the words back and gave a sigh instead. ‘You could have told me about the casino and the councillor.’

Breck just shrugged. ‘Giles was right, though – I never should have allowed you within a million miles of the case. He’s probably more furious with me than he is you – you’re the enemy he knew about, but me… turns out I’m Judas.’

‘I’m sure Judas had his good points.’

They shared a half-hearted laugh as they got to their feet, coffees unfinished. Stood facing one another and shook hands. Fox replaced the newspaper in the pool-player’s jacket and offered a wave of thanks. When he turned towards the door, Jamie Breck had already left.

Tony Kaye exited Police HQ with a scuffed briefcase swinging from one hand. He was whistling through his teeth, scanning the car park. When a horn sounded, he headed in that direction. The Volvo’s passenger-side door was already open, so he got in and closed it after him, handing the briefcase to its owner.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘They wouldn’t let me past the front desk,’ Malcolm Fox explained. ‘Word must already have gone out that I’m radioactive.’

‘McEwan has a face like fury.’

‘What’s he been saying?’

‘Not a cheep. He had some meeting in the DCC’s office, and there’s another scheduled for later.’ Kaye paused. ‘I’m hearing a lot of strange accents about the place…’

‘Grampian Police,’ Fox explained. ‘From the Complaints, I suppose. They’ve got me under investigation.’

Kaye puckered his lips to give a proper whistle. ‘Grampian Complaints? What’s going on, Foxy?’

‘I’ve walked right into it, Tony. Nobody to blame but myself.’

‘Did Breck grass you up?’

Fox thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘They were looking at me before I’d even met him.’

‘Looking’s one thing, but did they have any ammo until he came along? And why were they looking at you in the first place? Anything I should know about?’

Fox didn’t have even the beginnings of an answer. He unlocked his briefcase and peered in. ‘Where are the queries from the Fiscal’s office?’

It was Kaye’s turn to shake his head. ‘McEwan has already divvied them up.’

‘He’s bringing someone else in?’

‘Only temporary, till you’re back on your feet.’

‘Who said I wasn’t on my feet?’ Fox snapped. Then: ‘Who is it?’

‘Gilchrist.’

Fox stared at him. ‘Chop Shop Gilchrist?’

Kaye nodded slowly. ‘So now I’ll have him in one ear, Naysmith in the other, the pair of them vying to out-geek each other. And you know what that means…’

‘What?’

‘Means you’ve got to get his thing quashed pronto, before I go postal.’

Fox managed a tired smile. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘It’s me I’m thinking of, Foxy.’ They sat in silence for a moment, staring through the windscreen. Then Kaye gave an elongated sigh. ‘You going to be all right?’ he asked.

‘Don’t know.’

‘Anything I can do to help?’

‘Keep your ear to the ground. Call me once a day so I know what’s happening.’ He paused. ‘Whose idea was it to bring in Gilchrist?’

‘No doubt Naysmith put in a good word…’

‘But from what I’ve seen, the Chop Shop’s short-handed as it is. With Gilchrist elsewhere, that only leaves Inglis.’

Kaye offered a shrug. ‘Not your problem, Foxy.’ He was opening the car door. ‘Minter’s later? Friday night, remember…’

‘I doubt I’ll be in the mood.’

Kaye was halfway out of the car when he paused and stuck his head back in. ‘By the way, Joe wanted me to remind you – you’re three weeks behind with the coffee kitty.’

‘Tell him the debt’s transferred to the new boy.’

‘I like your style, Inspector Fox,’ Kaye said with a grin. ‘Always have…’

Instead of going straight home, Fox stopped outside Jude’s house. There was no sign of any activity – no vans or officers. He rang her bell and she answered with a shout from the other side of the door.

‘Who is it?’

‘Your brother.’

She opened the door and let him in. ‘Had reporters round?’ he guessed.

‘They wanted to know why your lot had been excavating my garden.’ She accepted his peck on the cheek and led him into the living room. She’d been smoking: a stub was still smouldering in the ashtray. But there was no evidence that she’d had a drink, other than coffee. A fresh jar of instant sat on the breakfast bar, alongside the kettle and a mug and spoon.

‘Want one?’ she asked, but he shook his head.

‘That cast looks different,’ he commented.

She lifted her arm a fraction. ‘Brand new this lunchtime. Bit less cumbersome, and at least I got to have a good scratch when they took off the old one.’

He smiled at this. ‘Didn’t you break your other arm once?’

‘Wrist,’ she corrected him. ‘I wondered if you’d remember.’

‘Mum took me along when you went to the hospital to have the cast removed.’

Jude was nodding. She had returned to her favoured armchair and was preparing to light a fresh cigarette.

‘You’ve just put one out,’ Fox reminded her.

‘Meaning it must be time for another. Didn’t you used to smoke?’

‘Not since leaving school.’ He settled himself on the sofa across from her. The TV was playing with the sound turned down – looked like a nature documentary.

‘Seems a lifetime ago,’ Jude was saying.

‘It was a lifetime ago.’

She nodded, growing solemn, and Fox knew she was thinking of Vince. ‘They still can’t tell me when they’ll release the body,’ she said in an undertone.

‘I was wondering something,’ Fox began, leaning forward a little. ‘I’m not sure you’ve ever told me how the two of you met.’

She stared at him. ‘I didn’t think you were interested.’

‘I am now.’

Jude drew on her cigarette, screwing shut her eyes against the smoke. She had slid around in the armchair so that her legs hung over one of its arms. Fox was reminded that his sister had a good figure. The jeans she was wearing were tight, showing the lines of her slender thighs and hips. Just the beginnings of a roll of fat around her waist. No bra discernible beneath the T-shirt, which was baggy at the sleeves, allowing glimpses of the flesh either side of her breasts. She’d been bright at school, a bit of a swot. The rebel in her had only come to light later, with her first tattoo – a red rose on her left shoulder, complete with a thorny stem. Fox recalled that Sandra Hendry, too, boasted a tattoo – a scorpion on her ankle. And Vince Faulkner’s arms had been scarred by the amateur needle-and-ink methods of his youth.

‘Vince,’ Jude was saying, drawing the name out beyond its natural length. ‘Vince was drinking with some of his friends in the West End. It was a Sunday night and I was out with this girl, Melissa, from the office. It was her birthday and, tell the truth, she was called the Frumpster behind her back. She’d asked half a dozen of us to go out that night, and I’d said yes before realising that everybody else had made some excuse.’ Jude sighed. ‘So there were just the two of us, and that had its compensations.’

‘How so?’

‘Being out with the Frumpster meant I got all the attention.’

‘Beauty and the Beast?’

‘She wasn’t that bad, Malcolm.’ But the putdown was half-hearted at best. ‘Anyway, we ended up in a pub on St Martin’s Lane or somewhere… You don’t know London, do you?’ She watched Fox shake his head. ‘You’d hate it – too big, too full of itself…’ She seemed to be drifting away, but managed to stop herself. ‘Vince was in a crowd of half a dozen. There’d been a football game that lunchtime and it looked like they’d been celebrating ever since. They insisted on buying us drinks…’ She paused again, lost in thought. ‘Vince was the same as them but different. He didn’t seem to have put as much away as his pals. He was quieter, almost shy. He wrote his mobile number on the back of my hand, said he’d leave the rest to me.’

‘It was up to you to take the initiative?’

‘I suppose…’

‘And it turns out you did.’

But Jude was shaking her head. ‘I had a shower the next morning, and the number was gone. Far as I was concerned, he was just a fella in a Sunday-night boozer. But Melissa had hooked up with one of the guys. Week later, he turned up to fetch her from the office…’

‘Vince was with him?’

She smiled. ‘Wanted to know why I hadn’t called.’

‘The four of you went out together?’

‘The four of us went out together,’ she confirmed. ‘Melissa broke up with Gareth after about a fortnight.’ Her eyes were glassy with tears, but she blinked them back. ‘I never expected us to last.’

Fox watched his sister rub her eyes against either shoulder of her T-shirt. There was writing on the front of the shirt, along with an illustration. It was from a rock tour, and Fox remembered that Vince Faulkner had often taken Jude to concerts. They’d travelled as far afield as Paris and Amsterdam for certain bands.

‘You never really knew him,’ Jude was saying. ‘You never made the effort.’

All Fox could do was nod his agreement.

‘He wasn’t all candyfloss and ice cream, Jude.’

‘Because he’d been in trouble with the law?’ Her eyes were fixing on his. ‘That’s the thing, though – people like you can’t see past that. It was ancient history, yet that man Giles kept harping on about it, and the papers keep saying it.’

‘And he kept it from you, Jude. He didn’t want you to know.’

‘Because it wasn’t him any more!’ Her voice was rising. ‘And don’t start saying he was beating me up – I don’t want to hear it! The papers have got hold of that, too, and who is it’s been feeding them all this crap if not your lot?’

‘They’re not my lot,’ Fox said under his breath. ‘Not any more.’

He spent much of the evening lifting books from the bookshelves in his living room and placing them on the coffee table. His intention was to put them in alphabetical order, maybe with a split into two categories – ones he’d read; ones he hadn’t. But then he wondered if maybe some of them couldn’t go to a charity shop. And of the ones left for reshelving, should he initiate a further subdivision into fiction and non-fiction? He’d eaten chicken curry for his supper, using up the ingredients bought from Asda when he’d gone there to talk to Sandra Hendry. The chicken had come from a Co-op on the way back from Jude’s. He was now suffering from discomfort, having eaten too much.

‘Maybe they could all go,’ he told himself, staring at the piles of books. That would mean he could dispense with the shelving, creating more space. But space for what, exactly? A bigger TV, one of those home cinema systems? He would just end up watching more rubbish than ever. When his mobile trilled, he was happy to answer it. It was a text message from Annie Inglis, inviting him to lunch on Sunday. She provided her address and ended her message with the simplest of questions:

OK?

Fox ran his fingers through his hair and found that he was sweating from his work with the books. Never the world’s most expert texter, it took him three trial runs before he decided he was happy with his reply. Only then did he press the ‘send’ button. His message had been a succinct OK, no question mark required.