The Impossible Dead

27

He had parked his Volvo on the street outside the police station. Sergeant Alec Robinson looked to left and right as he crossed the car park, and craned his neck to make sure there were no witnesses at the windows. He got into the passenger seat without ceremony.

‘Drive,’ he ordered.

Fox did as he was told. When they’d left the police station behind, Robinson relaxed a little. He was wearing a force-issue outerwear jacket over his uniform – not quite mufti, but as close as he could get.

‘Thanks for this,’ Fox acknowledged. Robinson shrugged off the show of gratitude.

‘I’m not going to shit on my own kind,’ he warned.

‘I’m not asking you to. I’m just trying to find out a bit more about Gavin Willis. In police terms, Sergeant, you’re as close to Methuselah as I’m going to get.’

Robinson looked at him. ‘Not exactly buttering me up, are you?’

‘Would you appreciate it if I did?’ Fox watched as Robinson shook his head. ‘What rank did you have, back in the mid-eighties?’

Robinson thought for a second. ‘Constable,’ he answered.

‘So you wouldn’t have had many dealings with CID?’

‘Not many.’

‘Probably didn’t know Willis and Alan Carter too well?’

‘There were times we worked together – door-to-door enquiries; scouring the area for a missing person…’

‘And nights in the pub, eh?’

‘Not just nights – not back then.’

Fox nodded his agreement. ‘Lunchtime sessions? They were being phased out by the time I signed on the line.’

Robinson was looking at him. ‘How long have you been in the Complaints?’

‘A few years.’

‘You like it?’

‘Maybe I want to make sure the force is on the side of the angels.’

‘That’s the answer you always give?’

Fox smiled. ‘I change the wording a bit.’

‘But is it the whole truth?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Fox paused, checking to left and right as they stopped at a junction. ‘I’m also not convinced Paul Carter killed his uncle.’

‘Then who did?’

‘That’s what I’d like to know. Got any ideas yourself?’

‘How does Gavin Willis fit into it?’

‘Willis and Alan were pals as well as colleagues. Alan obviously doted on the man – to the extent of buying his house when he died.’ Fox glanced at Robinson. ‘We found Francis Vernal’s car tucked away in a garage next to the cottage.’

‘Oh, aye?’

‘Have you any notion why Willis would have hung on to it, let everyone think it had been scrapped?’

Robinson shook his head.

‘Or why Alan Carter would have left it there?’

Another shake of the head.

‘It’s a mystery, then,’ Fox seemed to concede. ‘But here’s something else – the gun used to kill Alan Carter was part of a police haul that should have been destroyed back in the eighties, when Gavin Willis was on the detail.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Robinson repeated.

‘You knew both men – and you know Alan’s nephew. There’s something I’m not seeing here, and I was hoping you could help.’

‘Gavin Willis was a tough customer,’ Robinson admitted.

‘That much I sense.’

‘A rule-breaker too, from time to time.’

‘But back then that was the norm, more or less.’

‘I suppose it was. People were scared of Gavin Willis – but only if they deserved to be. If you kept your nose clean, there was no reason for him to be interested in you.’

‘He was Alan Carter’s mentor – you think some of that rubbed off?’

‘Alan was a different generation. He wasn’t just some sort of replica.’

‘But there were similarities?’ Fox thought for a moment. ‘So maybe he made enemies?’

‘In the force and out of it.’

‘You mean his security firm?’

‘There was a bit of trouble with the Shafiqs last year.’

‘Scholes seems keen on reminding everyone about that. I also know Alan Carter hired people for their brawn rather than their brain.’

‘If a fight breaks out in a club, college degrees aren’t the first thing you reach for. Alan Carter knew that. He joined the force straight from school, same as me. We learned on the job, Inspector, not from textbooks.’

‘Did Willis ever get into any trouble? Disciplinary hearings, that sort of thing?’

Robinson shook his head

‘What about Alan Carter?’

‘Nothing. Paul, on the other hand…’

‘A loose cannon from a family of cops – therefore protected.’

‘Ray Scholes kept him in the right – out of respect for his dad and uncle.’ Robinson had shifted a little in his seat, the better to face Malcolm Fox. ‘You really think Paul didn’t do it?’

‘I’m fighting the tide on that one.’

‘And your theory is that it all somehow ties to Gavin Willis?’

‘Maybe – if Gavin Willis saved that revolver from the furnace.’

‘And Francis Vernal…?’

‘I don’t know what happened there – either lazy policing or pressure from upstairs. But the case should have been investigated and wasn’t.’

‘I doubt Gavin Willis would have reacted well if someone had told him to drop it.’

‘Maybe that’s why he hung on to the car – evidence on its way to being destroyed.’

‘But then he didn’t do anything with it.’

‘And neither did Alan Carter – but Alan kept it there under the tarpaulin anyway.’

‘Nineteen eighty-five, Inspector – long time back. You really think you’re going to make progress now?’

‘Would anyone care if I didn’t?’

Robinson shook his head again. ‘But they might if you did.’ He peered through the windscreen. ‘You can drop me here, I’ll walk the rest.’

‘You sure?’

‘Better that than the pair of us being seen together.’

Fox signalled and drew to a stop by the side of the road. Robinson undid his seat belt and got out. Fox thought he might have some parting words – a helpful sentence or two – but he just closed the door and marched away, zipping up his jacket. Fox drummed his fingers against the steering wheel.

You’re nowhere, he told himself. When his phone rang, he answered it with a half-hearted ‘Yes?’

‘Sounds like you’ve already heard,’ Evelyn Mills said.

‘Heard what?’

‘My boss has ordered us to pull the surveillance. I tried fighting your corner, but with Paul Carter looking like a murder suspect…’

‘Surveillance could jeopardise any trial,’ Fox said, finishing the argument for her.

‘Sorry, Malcolm.’

‘To be honest, my own boss would have pulled it anyway.’

‘You eventually owned up?’

‘Someone let it slip.’

‘Pissing him off in the process. Well, we gave it our best shot.’

‘And I’m grateful.’

‘Then you can buy me dinner some time.’ She waited, but Fox stayed silent. ‘To be honest, Malcolm, the tap was getting us nowhere anyway.’

‘Just that one call?’

‘A second one this morning – arranging a drink together tonight.’

‘Carter and Scholes?’

‘And the other two.’

‘Haldane and Michaelson?’

‘Yes.’

‘Whose idea was that?’

‘Paul Carter’s. I think he wants reassurance that he still has a few pals. Sounded to me like the pressure’s getting to him.’

‘What did Scholes say?’

‘He sounded pretty reluctant, but Carter kept on at him.’ She paused. ‘Is it important?’

‘First time the four of them will have been together since the trial.’

‘That we know of.’

‘That we know of,’ he agreed.

‘You wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall?’

‘Are you saying you’d steer clear?’

She gave a little laugh. ‘Would it really matter what I said?’

‘Where are they meeting?’

‘The Wheatsheaf, at eight o’clock. Mind you don’t bump into anyone from the Murder Squad.’

‘Thanks, Evelyn.’

‘I tried calling you last night, Malcolm…’

‘I must’ve been asleep.’

‘Not giving me the brush-off, then?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

He assured her he was, then ended the call, punched in Tony Kaye’s number and waited. When Kaye picked up, Fox asked him if he was in the middle of something.

‘Wee chat with Tosh Garioch.’

‘Is he giving you anything?’

‘I doubt he’d give me the smell from his farts – no, tell a lie: in that one respect he’s being more than generous.’

‘Paul Carter’s taking his mates out for a drink tonight.’

‘All of them?’

‘All of them.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It’s the last thing we’ll glean from the phone tap.’

‘You reckon we should be there?’

‘Pub’s called the Wheatsheaf – why don’t you check it out, see if there’s any chance of us blending in.’

‘They know all our faces.’

‘There’s always the dressing-up box.’

‘Hat and scarf and a pair of glasses?’ Kaye sounded doubtful.

‘Joe’s always been in the background – you and me have done all the talking.’

‘True.’

‘One guy standing at the bar… who’s to know?’

‘Joe might have plans for tonight.’

‘Nothing he can’t cancel.’

Kaye seemed to be thinking it through. ‘Can’t do any harm to give the place the once-over. Soon as I’ve finished with Garioch.’

‘Thanks, Tony.’

‘Listen, one last thing…’

‘Yes?’

‘Your pal Evelyn Mills.’

‘What about her?’

‘She phoned me. I got the feeling she was after some gen on you – relationship status and such.’

‘Thanks for letting me know.’

‘I’m not trying to put you off or anything – quite the opposite.’

‘She’s married, Tony.’

‘Not always a bad thing, Malcolm.’

‘I’m putting the phone down now.’ He could hear Kaye chuckling as he ended the call.

Fox started driving again, not really sure where he was headed. Not for the first five minutes anyway, after which he realised he was on the Kinghorn road. He passed the filling station where Paul Carter had been spotted on the night of the murder. Signalling right, the Volvo climbed the gradient, coming to a stop at the door to the cottage. The field was empty; no vans or patrol cars. With the incident room set up in Kirkcaldy, the team had finished with Gallowhill Cottage, but not before boarding up the window of the living room to deter gawpers. Fox got out and checked, but the door was padlocked and there was no key beneath the flowerpot on the windowsill. He walked to the garage – judging by the outline under the tarpaulin, Francis Vernal’s car was still there. He was starting down the slope again when he heard another vehicle approaching. Paul Carter parked his silver Astra directly behind the Volvo, blocking Fox in.

‘What are you doing here?’ Carter asked, slamming shut his driver’s-side door.

‘Just came for a look,’ was all Fox could come up with.

Carter said nothing to this. He took some keys from his pocket, selected one and undid the padlock, kicking open the door.

‘This all yours now?’ Fox asked.

‘Until they do me for his murder,’ Paul Carter muttered. ‘Nobody’s found a will yet, and I’m next of kin.’ He walked inside, and Fox followed.

‘So what happens to your uncle’s company?’

‘Goes to the wall, I’m guessing – he’s the only one that can sign cheques.’ Carter was looking around the hallway. ‘Hell am I supposed to do with all this?’

‘There are companies who clear houses,’ Fox offered.

‘Bonfire might be a better bet. I could be back inside any day.’

‘Sheriff Cardonald’s still deliberating?’

‘Bastard’s taking his time.’

‘Are you surprised he let you out?’

‘Been better for me if he hadn’t.’ Carter walked into the living room. ‘Place has been given a good going-over,’ he commented.

‘They took my prints,’ Fox admitted.

‘And mine.’

Fox was studying Carter’s face. If he had killed his uncle, would it show as he stood here? Would images from the night flash before him? He looked flustered and fearful, but without remorse or obvious guilt. Fox noticed that the table had been cleared – every scrap of paper had been bagged and removed by the inquiry team. No one, however, had washed the fine spray of blood from the window. Carter opened a drawer – it, too, had been emptied of paperwork; all those neatly kept household bills and bank statements. Carter slid it shut again and stood in the middle of the room, running a hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp.

‘When was the last time you were here?’ Fox asked.

‘Night he died – after Ray phoned me. He wanted to be the one to break the news.’

‘And before that?’

‘Months… maybe a year.’

‘He said you came here drunk one day, spouting off about stuff.’

‘I was in court, remember?’ Carter muttered. ‘I heard it from his own lips.’

‘But he wasn’t lying?’

‘I was off my tits; no idea what I said or didn’t say.’

‘But would that have been the last time you were here?’

‘Yes.’

‘When he made the accusation, you didn’t come back here to ask him why?’

‘What good was that going to do me?’

‘So why do you think he phoned you the evening he died?’

‘No idea.’

‘He hadn’t spoken to you since the trial?’

Carter shook his head. He walked over to the wall next to the fireplace and ran a hand down the uneven wallpaper. ‘Did all this himself, you know. Top to bottom. My dad used to say he was cack-handed.’ He found a join in the paper and slid a finger underneath, tearing it. ‘Cack-handed’s just about right.’

Without uttering another word, he left the room and started climbing the stairs. After a few moments, Fox followed. There were three rooms in the eaves – two bedrooms and a bathroom.

‘Look at this,’ Carter said. He was showing how wallpaper, badly fitted to the ceiling in the main bedroom, was falling off. Then he knocked against a skirting board with the heel of his shoe, showing that nails were missing. The door didn’t close properly, and the knob was loose.

‘Cack-handed,’ he repeated.

Fox saw cracks in the plasterwork, badly fitted windows, loose floorboards. Some of the cupboards were open, showing that Alan Carter’s wife had not bothered taking all her clothes with her when she left him. Had he kept them in the hope that she might come back? And then, after her death, to keep her memory alive? In the bathroom, tiles were missing from the shower, and the bath looked antiquated. Both of the handbasin’s taps dripped. Fox tried not to linger on the dead man’s toiletries: his wet-razor, denture cream, nail scissors.

‘What would you do with the place?’ Carter asked.

‘Same thing your uncle presumably did when he got hold of it – rip it up and start again.’

‘When he first bought it, my dad dragged me along a few times. Dad found it hilarious, the way Uncle Alan thought he was tarting the place up, when he was actually making it worse…’ Carter seemed caught for a moment in the memory, but shook it away. ‘Maybe I should torch the place and collect on any insurance.’

‘Are you sure you should be telling me that?’

Carter managed a smile. He looked washed-out – the interviews had taken their toll; maybe the whispers and stares around town had too.

‘Thing is, I liked him when I was a kid – and I thought he liked me.’

‘I forget, what was his wife called?’

‘Aunt Jessica – you always had to get it right. If you tried “Jess” or “Jessie”, she’d be quick to correct you. Turned out she’d been seeing someone behind Uncle Alan’s back, and that was the end of that.’

‘Did you really make your parents’ lives a misery?’

‘Plenty of nippers do.’

‘But after you’d stopped being a nipper?’

Carter shrugged and moved from the bathroom to the small spare bedroom. This was used for storage, boxes and suitcases piled high.

‘Bonfire,’ he muttered again, before turning towards Fox. ‘I wasn’t so different from anyone else. If he told you I was some sort of monster, he was lying.’

‘He grassed you up,’ Fox stated quietly.

‘Then maybe he’s the monster – you ever considered that?’

‘I have, actually.’

Paul Carter had not expected this. He studied Fox, eyes unblinking. Fox noted a slight nervous tremor just below one eye. Carter, conscious of it, pressed a finger to the flesh, as if this would cure it.

‘Know what they do to cops in jail?’ he asked quietly, before answering his own question. ‘Course you do – you put cops away all the time.’

‘Just the ones that deserve it.’

‘You think I deserve it?’ Carter’s voice was rising. ‘For asking one sad wee slut for half an hour of her oh-so-precious time?’

‘Why did the other two women come forward?’

Carter banged the heel of one hand against the wall. The whole building seemed to shudder. ‘I don’t know!’ he cried out. ‘She must have told them to!’

‘She didn’t know them.’

‘I never did anything to those two – never even tried!’ This time he took a swipe at the wall with his foot, cracking the plaster.

‘Remember, this is your place now,’ Fox cautioned.

‘I don’t want it!’ Carter ran his hand across his head again. ‘I’m sick of all this. I want my life back. Any minute now, that judge could make his mind up, or Cash could charge me with murder. Some choices, eh?’ He looked at Fox. ‘But what’s the point of telling you? You don’t give a damn.’

He shouldered Fox aside and descended the stairs two steps at a time. Fox waited a moment before following. By the time he reached the hallway, Carter had started the Astra’s engine and was making an awkward three-point turn. From the doorway, Fox watched the car head down the hill. The padlock hung loose. It wouldn’t lock without the key. Paul Carter hadn’t been bothered about that – the cottage was just another weight dragging him down. Fox closed the door as best he could, got into his own car and started the long journey home to Edinburgh.

The day’s post, waiting for him inside his front door, included the copy of No Mere Parcel of Rogues. It was scuffed, and the section of photos had come loose, but it was still serviceable. Fox skimmed it for an hour or so. Professor Martin was sparing with names. Fox jotted a few down anyway. Then, just before the index, he saw a note stating that the names were fictitious – ‘changed to protect the subjects’.

‘Thanks a bunch,’ Fox said.

He went back to the paperwork Charles Mangold had given him. There were trial reports from the early eighties, and this time the names would be real. There were photographs, too – taken at police stations after the suspects had been arrested. A few bruised faces, cuts on lips and noses, swollen eyes.

Donald MacIver merited a few mentions, along with John Elliot. Wikipedia had a whole page on the broadcaster. When Fox saw his photograph, he realised that he had seen him present the Scottish news a few times. His Wikipedia entry stated that he had been involved in ‘fringe politics’ as a student, and had faced trial for plotting the hijacking of a government minister’s car. Fox compared photos – yes, the newscaster and the radical student were one and the same. The hair had been longer back then, the clothes scruffier and the skin sallower. Fox wouldn’t have called the twenty-year-old Elliot handsome, but promotional shots of him these days showed a chiselled chin, gleaming eyes, and a healthy glow, the hair immaculate, the teeth pearly and the shirt crisp. Elliot employed a management company, and could be hired for ‘corporate and charity functions’. Fox noted the phone number, got up to stretch his spine, and went to make some tea.

When six o’clock came, he turned on the TV, but it was someone else presenting the day’s headlines. He went back to his desk for an hour, phoned his sister to tell her he’d visited Lauder Lodge, got into the usual argument with her, then ate a tin of tuna mashed with mayonnaise and mustard.

At half past eight, his phone rang. It was Tony Kaye.

‘Tell me,’ Fox said.

‘They clocked him,’ Kaye growled, meaning Joe Naysmith had not been able to blend in at the Wheatsheaf.

Fox exhaled slowly and noisily. ‘Did he get anything?’

‘Place wasn’t exactly mobbed, but they were at a table and he had to stick by the bar – a good eight or ten feet away.’

‘So what happened?’

‘He says it was Haldane. Kept staring, then said something to the others. Scholes comes storming over and tells Joe to sod off. After that, there’s silence in the bar – everybody knows who Joe is, and Joe knows he’s going to get hee-haw…’

‘It was a long shot,’ Fox conceded.

‘I blame Joe, though.’

‘Can I assume he’s listening in?’

‘We’re in the Mondeo, fifty yards downhill from the pub.’

‘Any point tailing them?’

‘Not if we can’t hear anything they’re saying,’ Tony Kaye suggested.

‘Okay, then. Might as well get yourselves home – and thank Joe for trying.’

‘Foxy says thanks for nothing,’ Fox heard Kaye tell the hapless Naysmith.

‘You’re a cruel man, Tony Kaye.’

‘Cruel but fair, I think you’ll find.’

Fox wished his colleague good night.