The Complaints

14

Annie Inglis lived on the top floor of a Victorian tenement in Merchiston. Her name was on the intercom, and when Fox pressed the buzzer a male voice answered.

‘Who is it?’

‘Is that Duncan? My name’s Malcolm Fox.’

‘Okay.’

Fox pushed open the door and found himself in a tiled stairwell with two bicycles parked just inside the entrance. He climbed the stairs slowly, peering up towards the glass cupola, through which the lunchtime sun was streaming. His morning had comprised coffee, shopping, and more newspapers. He carried a bag within which lay a bottle of wine and a bunch of early daffodils for his hostess, along with an iTunes token for her son. Duncan was waiting for him at the top, loitering just outside the door to the flat. Fox tried to make light of the climb.

‘Must keep you fit,’ he offered. Duncan just grunted. He had lank brown hair falling into his eyes, and was tall and gangly. His chosen outfit of denims and T-shirt would have fitted someone twice his girth. He headed indoors and crooked a finger to let Fox know he should follow. The flat’s main hallway was long and narrow with half a dozen doors off. The original flooring had been sanded and varnished. There was a cycle helmet next to the phone on the only table, above which was fixed a row of hooks with keys dangling from them.

‘Mum’s…’ Duncan pointed vaguely, before disappearing into his bedroom. There was a ‘Legalise Cannabis’ sticker on the door, and Fox could hear the low hum of a computer’s cooling fan. At the far end of the hall was an open door leading to the drawing room. It looked spacious, with a bay window allowing views across the chimneypots north to the city centre and beyond. But just before Fox reached it, he heard sounds from the room to his immediate right. The door was open an inch, allowing him a glimpse into the kitchen. Annie Inglis was stirring a pot. Her face was red and she seemed flustered. He decided to leave her be, and walked into the drawing room. A table had been set next to the window, laid for three. Fox placed his carrier bag on it and took a look around. Sofa and chairs, TV and hi-fi, shelves filled with books, DVDs and CDs. There were framed photos, too – Annie and Duncan, an elderly couple (presumably her parents), but no indication that Duncan’s father played any role in the family’s life.

‘You’re here.’ She was standing in the doorway, carrying three wine glasses.

‘Duncan let me in.’

‘I didn’t hear you.’ She placed the glasses on the table, then noticed the bag.

‘For you,’ he said. ‘And something for Duncan, too.’

She peered inside and smiled. ‘That’s kind of you.’

‘If you’re busy in the kitchen, don’t worry – I can entertain myself. Or I can come and help…’

She shook her head. ‘Nearly done,’ she said, grabbing the bag. ‘Just give me two minutes.’

‘Sure.’

‘I can fetch you a drink.’

‘I’m not really a drinker.’

‘Cranberry juice? It’s just about the only source of vitamins Duncan gets.’

‘Cranberry juice is fine.’

‘Two minutes,’ she repeated, making her exit. Fox recommenced his tour of the room. Her preferred Sunday paper was the Observer. She liked the novels of Ian McEwan and films with subtitles. Her taste in music stretched from Alan Stivell to Eric Bibb. All of which left Fox not much the wiser. He returned to the view, envying her this sweep of the city and of the firth to its north.

‘Mum says to say thanks.’ It was Duncan in the doorway this time. He was waving the credit-card-sized token.

‘I wasn’t even sure if you used downloads,’ Fox said.

Duncan nodded to let him know he did. Then he waved the token a final time and was gone again. Fifteen years old – Fox tried to think back to himself at that age. There’d been rows with Jude, and plenty of them. He could always wind her up until she was at screaming point. Throwing things at him, even. Fifteen… he’d started drinking by that stage. Bottles of cider in the park with his pals. Screw-top wine and quarter-bottles of whisky.

‘Here you go…’ It was Annie Inglis again, bringing him his tall glass of cranberry juice. She looked around. ‘I told Duncan to…’

‘He did. Seems a nice kid.’

She handed him the glass. ‘Why don’t you sit down? I’ll just fetch my drink.’

It was white wine in a tumbler. She decanted it into one of the proper wine glasses on the table, then brought it over and sat next to him on the sofa.

‘Cheers,’ she said, chinking glasses.

‘Cheers. And thanks for the invite.’

‘We don’t normally do Sunday lunch.’ Her eyes widened a little. ‘You’re not vegetarian, are you?’

‘Perish the thought.’

‘I’ve got pork and apple sauce. Plus a burger for Duncan.’

‘He won’t eat pork?’

‘He’d pick at it.’ She took a mouthful of wine and exhaled. ‘That’s better.’ She smiled at him. ‘Not that I need it, you understand.’

‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

‘Did you hear about Gilchrist?’

Fox nodded. ‘I was going to ask if you knew.’

‘I don’t know what it is the Complaints have got that CEOP hasn’t.’

‘It’s only temporary, though.’

‘He was quick enough to accept.’

‘You think they should have offered it to you?’

‘I’d have turned it down,’ she said quickly. ‘And not just because it’s your job we’re talking about.’ She trained her eyes on him. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m fine. You know that sign on the CEOP door, the one that says two people have to be present when you look at anything…?’

‘Working solo is going to present problems,’ she agreed.

‘I don’t know how you can do the job you do,’ he stated with a slow shake of the head.

‘The secret is, you never focus on what’s happening in the photo – you look for the clues in the background, anything that can identify where the abuse took place…’

‘But it must get to you – you’ve got a kid of your own.’

‘We limit our time on the computer to a couple of hours a day, plus three times a year we get counselling – mandatory counselling. When I come home, the office doesn’t come with me.’

‘It still sounds tough.’

‘It’s a job,’ she said, taking another gulp of wine. Then: ‘What about you, Malcolm? What’s going to happen?’

He shrugged and lifted his own drink to his mouth. ‘What are you going to do about Breck?’

‘What can I do?’

‘Can you at least talk about it?’

She shook her head.

‘Why not?’ When she just stared at him, he lifted his hands in a show of surrender.

‘I’ll check on the meat,’ she said, getting back to her feet. She was wearing tight black cords and a cream-coloured woollen sweater. Fox couldn’t help enjoying his view of her as she left the room.

Lunch itself was fine. Duncan said almost nothing, hiding behind his curtain of hair. The pork was tender, and accompanied by mountains of veg, Duncan partaking of two boiled potatoes and one roast to accompany his burger. There was trifle for dessert, which the teenager asked if he could take to his room. After a theatrical sigh, his mother relented. With dessert finished, Fox helped her clear the table. The kitchen was a mess, but she insisted she’d clean up later – ‘Duncan will help, trust me.’ So they settled back on the sofa with coffee and little cubes of home-made tablet. She’d put his flowers in a vase of water.

‘You’ve been married, right?’ she asked.

‘Right.’

‘No kids, though?’

‘We weren’t together long enough.’

‘What happened?’

‘We hooked up for all the wrong reasons.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m not about to bore you with the details.’ He crossed one leg over the other. ‘How does Duncan feel about your job?’

‘He knows not to ask questions.’

‘Fair enough, but he knows what you do, and he has to tell his mates something…’

‘We’ve never talked about it much.’ She tucked her legs beneath her, having kicked off her shoes. Fox could hear some sort of brass instrument being practised nearby.

‘Is that Duncan?’

She shook her head. ‘One of the kids downstairs. Tuba, his mum tells me. And there’s a drummer through that wall.’ She nodded in the direction of the shelving unit.

‘How about Duncan?’

‘An electric guitar for his birthday last year, but he won’t take lessons.’

‘I was like that when my parents bought me a set of golf clubs – reckoned I’d teach myself.’

‘Teenage boys can be stubborn. Are your parents still alive?’

‘My dad is.’

‘And how’s your sister doing? There’ll be the funeral to plan, I suppose.’

‘Might take a while for them to release the body.’

‘And there’s still no news?’ It was his turn to shake his head. ‘So you started making your own enquiries…’

‘As a result of which, I get a nice paid holiday.’

‘Are you thinking of going somewhere?’

‘I might just stay close to home.’ He paused. ‘Is there any point in me asking Gilchrist a few questions?’

She looked at him. ‘I wouldn’t think so, Malcolm. You do understand what the word “suspension” means?’

‘Of course.’

A smile spread across her face. ‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a rebel.’

‘That’s because I wear braces with my suit.’

Now she laughed. ‘Maybe.’

Duncan stuck his head around the door. ‘I’m just going out.’ ‘Where?’ his mother asked.

‘Princes Street.’

‘Meeting up with anyone?’ He shrugged. ‘Okay, then. Say goodbye to Malcolm.’

‘Bye,’ Duncan said. ‘Thanks again for the…’

‘Maybe see you again,’ Fox replied. He sat in silence with Inglis until the front door had closed.

‘I thought he was going to help you in the kitchen,’ Fox said.

‘He’ll do it when he comes back.’

‘Must be hard.’ Fox paused. ‘Not having his dad around, I mean. Do your parents still help out?’

‘We see them some weekends.’

‘Are they still in Fife?’

She gave him a look. ‘I never told you I grew up in Fife.’

‘You must have.’

But she was shaking her head slowly, never taking her eyes off him. ‘You saw it in my file, didn’t you?’

‘I like you, Annie…’

‘So you had a trawl through my personnel file. Find out anything interesting, Inspector?’

‘Only that you never bothered to mention Duncan.’

Her voice was steely. ‘I didn’t want anyone seeing me as a single parent first, and a cop second.’

‘I can understand that.’

‘I can’t believe you checked up on me!’

‘It’s what I do.’ He paused. ‘What I used to do,’ he corrected himself.

‘It was still out of order, Malcolm.’

He was trying to shape an explanation, but Annie Inglis had risen to her feet.

‘Time for you to leave, I think.’

‘Annie, I just wanted to know a little more about you…’

‘Thanks again for the wine and the flowers and…’ She looked about her, avoiding eye contact, then turned towards the door. ‘I need to get started in the kitchen.’

He watched her go. He was standing by this time, still holding his coffee cup. He placed it on the table and put his jacket back on. She had closed the kitchen door. He could hear her moving stuff around. His fingers brushed the door handle, without enough force to open it. He stayed there a further minute, willing her to come out. But she had switched the radio on. Classic FM: same station he sometimes listened to.

Out of order, Malcolm…

He could open the door and apologise. But instead, he padded down the hall and let himself out. On the pavement outside, he craned his neck. There was no one watching from the bay window, or from the next window along. The car next to Fox’s was being washed by its owner.

‘Nice day, for a change,’ the man said. Fox drove away without responding. He was halfway home when his phone rang. He answered it, hoping to hear Annie’s voice. But it was Tony Kaye.

‘What do you want?’ Fox asked.

‘You were the one who told me to ring,’ Kaye complained. ‘And it went okay, thanks for asking.’

Fox remembered then: Torphichen. ‘Sorry, Tony. I was lost for a minute there.’

‘Bad Billy wants me in the frame for Faulkner’s demise – he wants it a lot, but he knows it’s not going to happen, and that’s driving him nuts.’

‘Good,’ Fox said.

‘Other scenario he’s got is you thumping Faulkner and me acting the messenger. He said maybe it wasn’t my idea, or even yours – maybe Jude got you to do it.’ Kaye paused. ‘She didn’t, did she?’

‘Look, Tony, I’ve just had lunch round at Annie Inglis’s flat.’

‘Nice one.’

‘It ended badly. She worked out that I’d taken a look at her personnel file.’

‘Christ, when did that happen?’

‘I was down at HR for background on Jamie Breck…’

‘And thought you’d take a peek at Annie while you were at it? Seems fair enough to me.’

‘She didn’t see it that way.’

‘Sounds like an overreaction.’

Fox thought so too, but he still had a favour to ask. ‘I need you to have a word with her.’

‘What?’

‘Let her know I’m not some sort of stalker.’

‘Well, I’ve only got your word for that…’

‘It’ll give you something to do tomorrow while Naysmith and the new boy are getting cosy.’

Kaye let out a hiss of air. ‘I’d forgotten we were getting lumbered with Gilchrist.’

‘While the Techie Twins are chatting, you can be at the Chop Shop.’

‘Interceding on your behalf? I’d’ve thought Annie Inglis was the least of your worries.’

‘Can’t afford any more enemies right now, Tony.’

‘Good point. Consider it done. But if she starts falling for my charms in place of yours…’

‘I’ll be sure to let your wife of twelve years know.’

‘You miserable sod.’ Kaye gave a laugh. ‘I bet you would, too.’

‘Are you all done with Torphichen?’

‘I dare say Giles will drag me in again. Plus, Grampian will want a word, apparently.’

‘The Complaints?’

‘Giles was quick to tell them about me turning up at your sister’s. No chance of them investigating your misdemeanours without dragging me into it too.’

‘Things just get better and better, don’t they?’

‘Look on the bright side – the restaurant last night forgot to charge me for our second bottle of wine.’

Fox managed the beginnings of a smile, then reminded Kaye to talk to Annie Inglis.

‘Relax,’ Kaye told him. ‘So what are you doing the rest of the day? Want to meet up at Minter’s?’

‘I’ve got stuff to do.’

‘Such as?’

‘Alphabetising my bookshelves.’ Fox ended the call and drove home in silence.

The rest of the day, he couldn’t really concentrate on anything. The piles of books sat untouched. There were sections of the various papers still unbrowsed. The TV proved little comfort and he had no view from his window other than the house identical to his across the street. Then, at eight o’clock, someone rang his doorbell. He ticked off possible visitors – Jamie, Tony Kaye, Annie Inglis…

It was Jude. The taxi that had just dropped her was leaving. Her arm was still in a sling, so she’d only managed to drape her three-quarter-length coat around her shoulders.

‘Good to see you,’ he said, pecking her cheek and ushering her inside.

‘Are you moving out?’ she asked when she saw the state of the living room.

Fox shook his head. ‘Been a while since you were last here,’ he commented.

‘We never seemed to get invited.’ She had shrugged off her coat. Fox walked into the kitchen and started filling the kettle.

‘DCI Giles phoned me,’ she explained from the doorway. ‘He says the man who came to my door on Monday night was a friend of yours.’

‘He works with me.’

‘Giles thinks you sent him.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Sent him to do your dirty work,’ she continued. ‘His name’s Kaye… I think you’ve mentioned him to me before. How did he know where I live, Malcolm?’

Fox turned towards her. ‘Jude… this man Giles is trying every trick he knows in an effort to fuck things up for me.’

‘You told Kaye where I live?’

‘At some point I must have. But I didn’t know he was going to come to your house.’

‘He was looking for Vince. Only reason he’d be doing that is if you told him what happened… told him about my arm.’

‘So?’

She was blinking back tears. ‘DCI Giles thinks maybe you had Vince killed.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Then why send your friend round?’

‘I didn’t send him. He was looking for Vince, remember? But Vince was already dead, Jude – and that means Tony Kaye didn’t know.’ Pain was thrumming in Fox’s temples. He opened a drawer and took out a packet of paracetamol tablets, popping two of them from the blister pack and washing them down with water from the tap. Jude waited until she had his full attention again before she spoke.

‘Giles says Vince could have been killed Monday night. He says the tests always have a margin of error.’

‘He’s lying. Pathology has Vince dying on the Saturday or the Sunday.’

A single tear was running down Jude’s left cheek. ‘I just want this to be over,’ she said, her voice cracking. Fox stepped forward and placed his hands gently on her shoulders.

‘I know,’ he said, as she buried her face in his chest.

They spent the next hour and a half talking quietly in the living room. She drank the tea he prepared for her, but didn’t feel like eating. She promised him she had eaten something at lunchtime. She promised him she would have breakfast. He brought out a packet of Weetabix from the kitchen and said she’d be taking it home with her. When he offered milk, she gave a little laugh and told him to stop making such a fuss. But he got the feeling she liked it really.

He called a taxi for her and pressed a ten-pound note into her hand. Then he pecked her on the cheek again and closed the door of the cab for her, waving as she was driven away. She’d asked him if he’d seen their father and he had lied – because he hadn’t wanted her to feel left out. Next time he was visiting Mitch, he would take her along. She belonged there just as much as he did. She was family.

Malcolm Fox made himself a last mug of tea and headed for bed. It wasn’t yet ten, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do.