The Complaints

13

Saturday, Fox slept late, but then he hadn’t fallen asleep until two. By eleven, he was seated at the kitchen table with three newspapers – Scotsman, Herald and the very earliest printing of the Evening News. He was looking for background on Charlie Brogan, and Scottish journalism was happy to oblige. Working-class roots, raised and schooled in Falkirk. His father had been a joiner, Charlie picking up some skills even before school had kicked him out. His CV was copious and wide-ranging, taking in everything from carpet-fitting to door-to-door selling. The two had combined eventually, Brogan setting up a company that sold floor coverings to factories and businesses. By twenty-three, he had enough money going spare that he could afford a punt – buying flats and either letting them out or refurbishing them for resale. The economy was buoyant and Brogan prospered further, moving into full-scale land development and rubbing shoulders with the rich and influential. He enjoyed the hospitality of bankers and other businessmen, dated some of Scotland’s most eligible young women and eventually met and married Joanna Broughton.

The papers carried several snapshots of Joanna. She’d always been a looker, but there was a hardness to her features and her stare. Even smiling, she let the photographer know she was the boss. The interior of the Inverleith penthouse featured in one picture, its walls festooned with art. A sidebar had been contributed by a professional psychologist who warned that more tragedies involving one-time high-flyers might be the inevitable outcome of the credit crunch.

The sole public failure in Brogan’s long career had come when his attempt to join the board of Celtic FC was rebuffed. One of his friends reminisced for the Herald about the incident: ‘Charlie never got used to people saying no to him. It festered to the extent that he discussed switching his allegiance to Ibrox – that’s the kind of guy he was.’

The hot-headed kind, Fox thought to himself. Not the kind to rationalise a snub if he could stew about it instead. A man who would see the economy’s doldrums as a personal affront. But that phrase about Ibrox… about not giving in but getting even… it didn’t hint that Brogan was the sort to just give up. He would want to fight back. The psychologist had focused on the economy without bothering to debate the most important question: could Charlie Brogan have been classed as a suicide risk? There was no mention that any note had been left; no evidence that he had tidied up his affairs before taking the plunge. But then maybe that was fair enough – he’d taken his boat out, drifting further and further from his troubles, tranquillising himself with pills and alcohol. He could have gone on deck, stumbled and fallen overboard. Or that impetuous streak might have suggested to him suddenly that he should finish things properly. Not a planned suicide, but absolutely of the moment.

There had been no comment from the family, apart from the original statement issued through Gordon Lovatt. Fox stared at Joanna Broughton’s photograph.

‘You made sure you had a media angle,’ he told her, ‘before you let anyone else in on it.’

Was that cold? Was it calculating? Or just a smart woman being smart? Fox stared and stared and couldn’t decide. He took a break, stretching his spine and loosening his shoulders. Through in the living room, he saw that the coffee table was covered in books. There were more on the floor in front of the shelves, the shelves themselves denuded. Dust hung in the air. So far, he’d found only half a dozen titles that he felt no further use for, heavily outnumbered by those he wanted to read again. When his phone rang, he had to hunt for the handset. It was hidden between two of the piles.

‘Malcolm Fox,’ he said by way of greeting.

It was Lauder Lodge. Mitch wanted to know if he’d be visiting today or tomorrow. He wanted to see him. Fox was about to suggest Sunday until he remembered lunch with Annie Inglis. He glanced at his watch, then asked the caller to tell his father he was on his way.

He took the city bypass to the Sheriffhall roundabout, and headed for The Wisp, cutting through Niddrie and reaching the care home in under twenty minutes. Mitch was seated in reception, dressed in coat, scarf and hat.

‘I want to go out,’ he told his son.

‘Sure,’ Fox agreed. ‘I can bring the car round.’

‘My legs haven’t seized up entirely.’ So they walked around the corner to where Fox had found a parking space. He had to help his father with his seat belt, and they took the short drive to Portobello, parking on a side road by the promenade.

‘We should have invited Mrs Sanderson.’

‘Audrey’s spending the day in her bed,’ Mitch explained. ‘She’s got a cold coming.’ Then, as Malcolm unclipped his seat belt for him: ‘I asked them to phone Jude for me, but she wasn’t answering. ’

‘She’s been getting a lot of calls from journalists. Or it could be she’s next door with a neighbour.’

‘How is she?’

‘Bearing up.’

‘Are you any nearer catching whoever did it?’

‘It’s not my case, Dad.’

‘I’d hope you’d be keeping a bloody eye on it, though.’

Fox nodded slowly. ‘I don’t think there’s been much progress…’

The sun was shining, and the seafront was busy. There were dog-walkers and children down on the beach itself. Kids with in-line skates were being guided along the concrete walkway by their parents. A sharp wind was whipping across the Firth of Forth. Fox wondered if Charlie Brogan’s boat would have been visible from here. According to the papers, it had been towed to North Queensferry, which meant that Fife Constabulary were vying with Lothian and Borders for jurisdiction. The respective Chief Constables would sort it out, with Edinburgh the likely winner, much as the Fife cops might fancy a few days or weeks stationed in the capital.

‘What are you thinking?’ Fox’s father asked him. They were standing by the sea wall, staring out at the view.

‘Weekends aren’t for thinking,’ Malcolm stated.

‘Meaning you had your mind on work.’

Fox couldn’t deny it. ‘Things have been a bit rough,’ he admitted.

‘You need a holiday.’

‘I had a decent break at Christmas.’

‘And did what exactly? I mean a proper holiday with sunshine and a hotel swimming pool and meals served on the terrace.’ Mitch Fox paused. ‘You could well afford it, if you didn’t have my bills hanging over you.’

Fox looked at his father. ‘Lauder Lodge was a godsend, Dad. I don’t begrudge a penny of it.’

‘I’m betting your sister doesn’t chip in.’

‘She doesn’t need to – I can afford it.’

‘But it leaves things tight, doesn’t it? I know damned well how much my room costs, and I can guess how much you make…’

Fox gave a short laugh, but said nothing.

‘What if you meet a nice girl and want to take her away somewhere? ’ his father continued.

‘What’s brought this on?’ Fox asked with a smile.

‘I’m not going to be here much longer, Malcolm – we both know that. I just want to be sure in my mind that my son and daughter are all right.’

‘We’re fine.’ Fox touched the sleeve of his father’s coat. ‘And you shouldn’t be talking like that.’

‘I think I’ve earned the privilege.’

‘Maybe so, but all the same…’ Fox blew his nose and looked up and down the promenade. ‘Let’s get something to eat,’ he said.

They ate fish and chips from the paper, seated by the sea wall. ‘Sure you’re not too cold?’ Fox asked his father. The old man shook his head. ‘The smell of vinegar,’ Fox confided, ‘always takes me back to holidays and high days.’

‘A treat on Saturday night,’ Mitch Fox agreed. ‘Except your mother was never so keen on the fish – had to be chicken or steak pie for her.’

‘What was the name of the chippie near us?’ Fox was frowning in concentration, but his father thought for a moment and shook his head.

‘Can’t help.’

‘Maybe I should ask Lauder Lodge if there’s a room there for me…’

‘You’ll get it eventually.’

‘The room, or the name of the chippie?’

Mitch Fox smiled at this. He’d had enough to eat, so offered the remainder to Malcolm, who shook his head. They rose to their feet and started walking. Mitch was stiff at first, but tried not to show it. People they passed either nodded a greeting or said hello. There were plenty of gulls around, but Fox dumped the remains of the food in a bin instead.

‘Are Hearts home or away?’ Mitch asked.

‘Couldn’t even tell you who they’re playing.’

‘You loved going to a game when you were a kid.’

‘I think it was the swearing I liked. And I’ve not been to a match all season.’ Fox’s father had paused again, leaning against the sea wall.

‘Are things really okay, son?’ he asked.

‘No, not really.’

‘Do you want to tell your old man about it?’

But all Malcolm Fox could do was shake his head.

They found a pub and went inside, Mitch selecting their table while Malcolm fetched the drinks – a sparkling water and a half of IPA. His father asked him how long it was since he’d had a ‘real’ drink, and confessed that Audrey Sanderson kept a supply of brandy in her bedside cabinet. Fox sat in silence for a minute, then took a deep breath.

‘Do you really want to know why I stopped drinking?’

‘Because you realised it was going to end up killing you?’ his father guessed. But Fox shook his head.

‘After Elaine left, I took to it hard. Kept pestering her, to the point where I could probably have been done as a stalker. I went round to see her one night. I’d had a skinful, and I ended up punching her.’ He went quiet, but his father wasn’t about to interrupt. ‘She could have had me prosecuted. My career would have been in tatters. When I phoned her to apologise… well, it took some persuading before she’d even talk to me, and then all she said was “stop drinking”. And I knew she was right.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ Mitch asked quietly. ‘Why now?’

‘Because of what happened to Vince,’ his son explained. ‘I’ve always hated him, hated the way he treated Jude, but now that he’s dead…’

Mitch waited for Fox to make eye contact. ‘You’re not like him,’ he stated. ‘Don’t go thinking you are.’

They settled back to watch the football on TV, staying for the results. It was five o’clock and nearly dark when they emerged. Fox drove his father back to Lauder Lodge in silence, receiving a firm look from one of the staff members. Mr Fox, it transpired, was late for supper.

‘Lucky we’ve kept it for you,’ the woman advised.

‘That’s debatable,’ Mitch muttered, stretching a hand out towards his son. The two men shook.

On his way home, Fox thought about stopping and buying some flowers for Annie Inglis. She had texted him her address, unaware that he already knew it. He wondered, too, if he should buy something for her son. But what? And might flowers not start to wilt overnight? Straight home then, to dinner from the fridge and more sorting of books. He thought back to the pub. You’re not like him… don’t go thinking you are. When he unlocked his door, there was a note inside his letter box. It was from Jamie Breck.

CALL ME WHEN YOU GET IN.

Fox took out his phone but then paused, tapping it against his teeth. He locked the door after him and got back into his car. Five minutes later, he was parking on the street outside Breck’s home. The houses had their own driveways and garages, meaning there was plenty of space kerbside. It struck him, though, that the surveillance van really must have stood out because of this. As he pressed the remote-locking button, he noticed that a young woman was just coming out of Breck’s, shrugging her arms into her coat and wrapping a scarf around her neck. She was heading towards Breck’s Mazda, but saw him and managed to place him. She gave a wave and a smile.

‘Just nipping out for pizza – do you want any?’

Fox, halfway down the path by now, shook his head. ‘It’s Annabel, isn’t it?’

She nodded and got into the driving seat. ‘There’s a bottle of wine open,’ she informed him, giving another wave before driving off. Fox rang the doorbell and waited.

‘Forgotten something?’ Jamie Breck was asking as he opened the door. Then his eyes widened. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ He was dressed in T-shirt and denims, his feet bare. There was music playing – it sounded vaguely Brazilian to Fox.

‘Didn’t mean to interrupt,’ Fox began.

‘Annabel’s just gone for pizza…’ Breck broke off. ‘How did you know where I live?’

Yes, Malcolm, good question… ‘I thought I knew the street,’ he explained. ‘Then I just got lucky – saw Annabel coming out and recognised her from Torphichen.’

‘So now my guilty little secret is out.’

‘She’s your girlfriend?’ Fox deduced.

‘Yes.’

‘Does Giles know?’

‘I reckon he suspects, not that it’s a state secret or anything. It’s just that we’ll both take a ribbing when it gets out.’

‘What rank is she?’

‘Detective constable – her surname’s Cartwright, if you want to keep things nice and formal.’ Breck broke off again. ‘Come in, won’t you?’

Fox followed him inside. The place had a very modern feel – well decorated and laid out. The music was coming from an MP3 system and there was a flat-screen TV attached to one wall. The lights had been dimmed but Breck powered them up again. On the floor by the sofa sat a wine bottle, two glasses and Breck’s shoes and socks.

‘Look, I don’t want to interrupt anything,’ Fox said.

‘Not a problem, Malcolm. I think I’m still in shock from yesterday – how about you?’

Fox nodded and slipped his hands into his coat pockets. ‘You had something to tell me?’ he prompted.

Breck had collapsed on to the sofa. He stretched out a hand towards his wine glass and lifted it to his mouth. ‘It’s your friend Kaye,’ he said before drinking.

‘What about him?’

‘Annabel told me this afternoon. I was going to phone you, but I thought maybe it was best done in person. We were heading out for a drive, so we dropped by and when you weren’t home I put that note through your door.’

‘You were saying about Tony Kaye…?’

Breck sloshed the wine around in his glass. ‘Remember you told me about your sister’s mystery visitor on the Monday night?’ He stared at Fox above the rim of the glass.

‘Kaye?’ Fox guessed.

‘Seems that a “concerned citizen” called to let police know of a car parked illegally in Jude’s street – one front and one back tyre up on the pavement.’ Breck managed the faintest of smiles. ‘You’ve got to love Edinburgh’s army of nosy parkers.’ He lifted a remote control from the sofa and used it to turn down the music. ‘Anyway, they called it in and eventually someone noticed it. Turns out our concerned citizen had made a note of the make and model of car, plus a partial registration. Nissan X-Trail.’

‘That’s what Tony Kaye drives.’

‘And his registration matches.’

‘Partially,’ Fox stressed.

‘Partially,’ Breck conceded. ‘But it’s enough to satisfy Billy Giles.’

Fox thought for a moment. ‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ he said.

‘Maybe not.’ Breck took another mouthful of wine. ‘Anyway, I thought you’d want to know, since Kaye doesn’t seem to have mentioned it to you himself.’

Fox didn’t know how to answer, so nodded slowly instead. ‘Does he know he’s been rumbled?’

‘His presence at Torphichen has been requested first thing tomorrow. ’

‘Giles has the team working a Sunday?’

‘He reckons the budget will stretch to it. Will you stay and have some pizza?’

‘I can’t. Listen… thanks for letting me know. I wouldn’t want Annabel to get into trouble…’

‘Annabel’s cleverer than you and me combined – and wilier, too.’ Breck had risen to his feet.

‘Sorry again to burst in on you…’

Breck waved the apology aside. He opened the front door for his guest and stood there as Fox made his way back along the path towards the pavement.

‘Malcolm!’ Breck called out, causing Fox to stop and turn towards him. ‘How did you know my street? The night you dropped me off, I don’t remember mentioning it.’

But instead of waiting for a reply, Breck just closed the door. A few seconds later, the music had been turned up again. Malcolm Fox was still rooted to the spot.

‘Shit,’ he said, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

Tony Kaye was in a restaurant with his wife. He seemed to have excused himself from the table and was dodging waiters and other diners as he talked. Fox was back at his car by this time, seated behind the steering wheel but with the key not yet in the ignition.

‘Just exactly what did you think you were doing?’ he asked. ‘And when were you going to tell me?’

‘I’ve got a more interesting question for you, Foxy – who the hell told you?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Is it true?’

‘Is what true?’

‘You went round to Jude’s Monday night.’

‘What if I did?’

‘Why in God’s name did you do that?’ Fox was massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

‘Christ, Foxy, you’d just told me he’d broken your sister’s arm.’

‘My problem, not yours.’

‘But we both know, don’t we? We know you weren’t planning on doing anything about it!’

‘And what were you going to do, Tony? Take a swing at him?’

‘Why not? Might’ve stopped him doing it again.’

‘And both of them would think I’d put you up to it.’

‘What does it matter?’ Kaye’s voice was rising. ‘He wasn’t at home.’

Fox gave an elongated sigh. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

‘Your sister was paralytic – I reckoned she’d have forgotten about it by morning.’

‘Instead of which, you’re now going to have Billy Giles crushing your nuts in a vice.’

‘Make a change from the wife.’

‘Don’t go thinking this is funny – it isn’t. Giles is going to want to know everything you did on Monday evening. If there are gaps, suddenly you’re a suspect. McEwan’s already lost one man, Tony…’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘Giles would love to blow our whole show to smithereens.’

‘Received and understood.’

Fox paused for a moment. ‘Which restaurant?’

‘Cento Tre on George Street.’

‘Special occasion?’

‘We’re celebrating not killing each other so far this weekend.

Mind you, that makes it like every other weekend. Did you catch the Hearts game?’

‘Be careful tomorrow.’

‘You mean at Torphichen? It’s a Sunday away from home… far as I’m concerned, that’s a holiday and a lotto win rolled into one.’ The background noises had changed – Kaye had obviously stepped outside. There were shrieks of drunken female laughter and the sound of a car horn. ‘You’d think people would have the decency to stop having fun,’ Kaye commented. ‘Does nobody realise this is Credit Crunch Ground Zero?’

‘Be careful tomorrow,’ Malcolm Fox repeated, watching the woman detective called Annabel returning with the pizzas in Jamie Breck’s Mazda. ‘And let me know how it goes.’