The Impossible Dead

35

It was a large, modern house down a side road opposite the university and not far from the Wallace Monument. A low brick wall separated it from its neighbours. There were fake shutters either side of each set of windows, and Palladian-style pillars flanking the front door. The gates had been left open for him, and the driveway was tarmacked. As Fox parked alongside a sleek Maserati and a small, sporty Lexus, the door opened. Fox recognised Stephen Pears from his photographs. The man beckoned towards him, as if welcoming a guest to a party.

‘Alison’s taking a phone call,’ he said. ‘She’ll only be a minute.’ Then he stretched out his hand for Fox to shake. He had good teeth and that tan, but was a stone or two heavier than necessary. His permanent five o’clock shadow could not disguise the double chin and jowls. Life, it seemed to Fox, was close to proving too much of a good thing for Stephen Pears.

‘Find the place okay?’ he asked as he led Fox into a double-height hallway.

‘Yes thanks.’

A dog appeared at Pears’s side, a Labrador with a glossy black coat. Fox reached down a hand to stroke its head. ‘What’s she called?’ he asked.

‘He’s called Max.’

‘Hiya, Max.’

But the dog had already lost interest in the visitor and was turning away. Fox straightened up. There were photographs lining the wall next to him. Fox recognised a number of celebrities. They were all pictured standing alongside Pears, smiling, occasionally shaking hands.

‘Sean Connery,’ Fox commented, nodding towards one particular photo.

‘Bumped into him and just had to get a snap.’

‘Looks like the New Club,’ Fox commented.

Pears looked surprised. ‘Are you a member?’

Fox shook his head. ‘You?’ he asked.

‘It’s nice and central when I want to impress people,’ Pears explained. ‘Come on through, won’t you? I was just pouring Andy a drink.’

Andy being Justice Minister Andrew Watson. He rose from the sofa at Fox’s approach and they shook hands.

‘Malcolm Fox,’ Fox said by way of introduction. No reason for Watson to be told any more than that.

‘Lothian and Borders Police?’ Watson commented.

Okay, so the Justice Minister knew. Fox nodded and turned down Pears’s offer of a malt.

‘Water’s fine,’ he said.

It came with ice cubes and a wedge of lime in a heavy crystal tumbler. Pears clinked glasses with his brother-in-law and sniffed the whisky before sampling it.

‘Not bad, Stephen,’ Watson said approvingly.

‘Sit down, Inspector,’ Pears commanded, hands in movement again.

Most of the ground floor seemed to be devoted to this huge open-plan space. Four or five sofas, a vast glass dining table with a dozen chairs placed around it, a fifty-inch TV screen on one wall. Spotlights picked out undersized paintings in overwrought frames. Piano music was being piped from somewhere – Fox couldn’t see any speakers. The French doors to the rear of the room led out to a terrace with lawns and a tennis court beyond. The tennis court was floodlit, either in an effort to impress, or because Pears could well afford to waste the electricity.

‘How’s she bearing up?’ Watson asked his host.

‘Your sister doesn’t “bear up”,’ Pears chided him. ‘She commands, she overcomes, she triumphs.’

‘And how is she “triumphing” tonight?’

Pears smiled into his glass. ‘This is just the sort of thing she’s been needing. Otherwise it’s all meetings and number-crunching.’

Watson nodded. ‘I know the feeling.’

Fox was staring at the ice cubes in his drink.

‘You all right there?’ Pears asked.

‘Fine, yes.’

‘Sure?’

‘Sure.’ But something made Fox change his mind. ‘My dad’s in hospital. Just happened this afternoon.’

‘Sorry to hear that,’ Pears said, while Watson made a grunting sound that could have passed for commiseration. ‘Shouldn’t you be there? Alison can make a bit of space in her diary tomorrow.’

Fox gave a shrug. ‘I’m here now.’

Pears nodded, keeping his eyes on Fox. ‘Something serious?’ he enquired.

‘They’re doing tests…’

Pears smiled. ‘I meant your business with Alison. She’s been a bit cagey, hasn’t she, Andy?’

‘A bit.’

‘It was that Scotland Yard bloke who mentioned you’re Lothian and Borders…’

‘DCI Jackson?’ Fox guessed.

‘Left here half an hour ago,’ Pears stated. ‘I think he was keen to stick around.’

The Justice Minister was loosening his tie, undoing the top button of his shirt. ‘He said you’ve got some case in Fife.’

Fox nodded slowly. ‘Started off pretty straightforwardly,’ he admitted. ‘Then it got complicated.’

‘The opposite of my business,’ Pears commented, getting up to refill his glass. He offered to do the same for Watson, but Watson shook his head. ‘I like taking complex things and turning them into something that’s simple to understand and communicate. That way you sell it to people. Problem with the way finance was going the past ten or so years, nobody could grasp any of it, so nobody questioned it. Back to basics, that’s my motto.’

Watson looked as if he had heard this speech many times. He did everything short of roll his eyes. When the financier was seated again, he leaned forward towards Fox.

‘Is it anything you can talk about?’ Pears asked. ‘I swear I won’t breathe a word, though I can’t vouch for the Justice Minister…’

‘There was a CID officer, misusing his position,’ Fox began. He felt a crushing tiredness all of a sudden, and had to grip the tumbler for fear he would drop it. ‘Then his uncle died – looked like suicide, but it wasn’t. CID seem to have the nephew in the frame for it…’

‘But?’ Fox had Pears’s full attention.

‘The nephew’s dead now too. Someone chased him into the sea and he drowned.’

Pears sat back in his chair as if to think this through. Watson, however, was checking his phone for messages, apparently uninterested.

‘The uncle was doing some research into the death of an SNP activist called Francis Vernal,’ Fox went on.

Watson stopped what he was doing. Now he was interested. ‘I know that name,’ he said. ‘He was in the news around the time I joined the party.’

‘I thought you were still in a Babygro when you took the pledge,’ Pears teased his brother-in-law.

‘Not quite – I was in high school. One of our teachers was an SNP councillor.’

‘You underwent the indoctrination process?’ Pears swallowed some more whisky.

Watson grew prickly. ‘We all know your politics, Stephen.’

‘I don’t,’ Fox countered.

Watson looked at him. ‘Take a wild guess. I’m even hearing rumblings of a peerage, now the Tories are in power down south. Cameron’s stuffing them into the House of Lords like there’s no tomorrow.’

Pears laughed and shook his head, while still seeming gratified. ‘I’ll bet you fifty quid your boss’ll end up in the same place eventually – maybe when he gets a drubbing at the next election.’

‘That’s not going to happen.’

‘With the lead Labour have got?’

‘We’ll pick up votes from the Lib Dems – they hate what your lot have done to their party in Westminster.’

Pears seemed to think about this, then turned back to Fox. ‘What’s your opinion, Inspector? Are you a political animal?’

‘I try to keep my head down, sir.’

‘One way of avoiding the shrapnel,’ Pears conceded. ‘But you’ve got me intrigued now – what has all this stuff about drownings and activists got to do with my wife?’

‘She was a student at St Andrews at the time Mr Vernal died. There’s a theory she may have known him.’

‘St Andrews?’ Watson was shaking his head. ‘Two years at Aberdeen, then she jacked it in and joined your lot instead.’

Pears was nodding. ‘Someone’s fed you a line, Inspector.’

Watson was holding his phone to his ear, having punched in a number. ‘Rory?’ he asked. ‘What time’s the car picking me up?’ He listened, checking his watch. ‘Fine,’ he said, ending the call.

‘Such a busy life,’ Pears said, feigning sympathy. ‘All of it paid for by the Inspector and me.’

‘And worth every bloody penny,’ Watson muttered. He glanced towards the sweeping staircase. ‘Is she ever coming down? Maybe I should go up…’

‘Finish your drink, man.’ Pears found to his surprise that he’d finished his own – again. He rose to his feet, and this time Fox needed his own tumbler refilling. ‘One more,’ Pears stated, ‘and I’ll call it a night.’

Watson pursed his lips, telling Fox that this might not necessarily be the case. There was the sound of a door closing upstairs. Alison Pears made an exasperated sound as she descended the staircase, phone in hand.

‘Do I need to be there every minute of every day?’ she complained. Then, to Fox: ‘Hello again.’

‘The inspector has been telling us what he’s working on,’ Pears said, handing her a gin and tonic. ‘All very mysterious, but also a wasted trip – got you mixed up with someone who was a student at St Andrews.’

The Chief Constable toasted the room with her drink and took a slug, exhaling afterwards.

‘Better?’ her husband asked.

‘Better,’ she confirmed. Then, to Fox: ‘Let’s go into the study and clear this up.’

Her brother got to his feet. ‘I need a word first, Ali – when my boss asks, what can I tell him about these bloody bombers?’

‘Nothing so far to indicate they won’t be charged,’ she said after a moment’s thought. ‘The house they were renting is a gold mine – material, blueprints and manuals, even a list of targets.’

‘Glasgow Airport again?’ her husband guessed.

‘RAF Leuchars,’ she corrected him. ‘And the naval dockyard. And our ex-prime minister.’

‘Whoever caught them should get a medal,’ Pears said, staring with purpose at the Justice Minister.

‘They might at that,’ Watson conceded.

‘Come on then,’ Alison Pears said to Fox. ‘Let’s hear this story of yours – might take my mind off things.’

‘Be gentle with the inspector,’ her husband suggested. ‘He’s had some bad news…’

She led him to a door in the corner of the room. It opened on to a study with wood-panelled walls and a fake bookcase. A small brass telescope stood on a tripod by the window. There was a two-seater brown hide sofa, and a swivel chair in front of the desk. Pears took the chair and signalled that Fox should take the sofa. The leather creaked as he settled.

She was dressed casually – baggy pink T-shirt, black joggers, Nike trainers. Fox wondered if there was a gym somewhere on the property.

‘Bad news?’ she said, echoing her husband’s words. Fox shrugged the question aside, ready with one of his own.

‘He doesn’t know?’

She considered the range of answers and evasions open to her.

‘Know what?’

Fox gave her a look that said: let’s not do this. ‘Neither of them do?’ he persisted, bringing out the matriculation photographs. ‘Wonder what they’ll say when I show them these. You’ve changed, but not quite enough to be unrecognisable.’

She studied the photos, saying nothing for a moment. ‘Andy knows I did some undercover work in my early years on the force,’ she eventually conceded.

‘But not that you posed as a St Andrews University student for two years?’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Though he may be wondering about it now.’ She was using her feet against the floor to swivel gently in the chair. There was a slice of lime in her glass, and she extracted it, placing it on a corner of the desk.

‘DCI Jackson filled you in?’ Fox surmised.

‘Some; maybe not all.’ She squeezed the bridge of her nose, as if trying to ward off a headache. ‘What’s this bad news you’ve had?’

‘Never mind,’ Fox said. ‘Let’s concentrate on your affair with Francis Vernal.’ He ignored the glower she gave him. ‘It was a way of infiltrating the Dark Harvest Commando?’

She was still giving him the same hard stare.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Fox went on. ‘It was a long time ago, you were a different person. And this isn’t the best time for it all to come bobbing up again.’ He paused, placing the photos back in his pocket.

‘I’ll tell you what it was,’ she eventually said, keeping her voice low in case anyone outside the door might be listening. ‘It was two years down the pan.’

‘Because of the car crash?’

She nodded slowly. ‘The whole bloody edifice just crumbled after that. Some were too scared to go on – they thought MI5 were out to assassinate the lot of them.’

‘And were they?’

‘I wasn’t MI5.’

‘You were recruited by Special Branch?’

‘They needed someone on the inside – a pretty face usually does the trick. But it couldn’t be a pretty face from south of the border, could it? The English were supposed to be the enemy.’

‘While you were fresh out of Tulliallan and looked younger than your years. So Special Branch managed to get you into St Andrews, where you could become political, burrow ever deeper and feed information back?’

‘If you know so much, why do you need me?’

‘I need you because a man was murdered, and no one at the time or since has done anything about it.’ He watched her for a moment; it was impossible to read her face. ‘The home address in Glasgow…?’

‘Short-term office let,’ she explained. ‘Used for mail drops.’

‘And all the time you were edging closer to Francis Vernal?’

‘Francis was the conduit. He was supposed to lead to the people we were really interested in.’

Fox was thoughtful for a moment. ‘He was with you that evening, the night he died?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you knew he was being tailed?’

She gave a slow nod.

‘Did you know about the money he kept in the car?’

‘He usually had some. Every meeting the DHC held, someone needed a bit of cash.’

‘For buying weapons?’

‘All sorts of reasons.’

‘According to Donald MacIver, there could have been as much as forty grand hidden in the boot – that was a chunk of money back then.’

‘Donald MacIver?’ She gave a wistful smile. ‘He lives in a fantasy world, Inspector; he always did.’

‘He remembers you fondly.’

‘It’s Alice he remembers,’ she corrected him.

‘How about John Elliot?’

‘I see him on TV sometimes.’

‘He’s never gleaned that you’re Alice Watts?’

‘We didn’t know one another back then – John was only interested in women who were on heat.’ She stared at him. ‘As far as I know, you’re the first to make the connection, so well done you.’ Her voice dripped sarcasm.

‘Alan Carter never got in touch?’

‘He’s the ex-detective?’ She watched Fox nod. ‘I didn’t know anything about that until Jackson mentioned it.’

‘Do you know the name Charles Mangold?’

She gave a heavy sigh. ‘This really can’t wait a week or two?’

‘It really can’t,’ Fox stated. ‘Charles Mangold?’ he repeated.

‘Francis’s partner in the law firm. He had a thing for Mrs Vernal, I seem to remember. Francis thought so, anyway.’

‘Mangold was paying Alan Carter to look into Vernal’s death. He wanted to prove something to the widow.’

‘What?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Either that her husband was a political assassination…’

‘Or?’

‘Or that he was a terrorist and sleazebag she’s been a fool to idolise all these years.’

‘You sound like you favour the latter theory.’

‘I think I do. You never met the wife?’

She shook her head. ‘I’d no interest in her. All I wanted was whatever information Francis could provide.’

‘Did you get any?’

‘Not much.’

‘But you went to quite a lot of trouble to seek it out.’

The glower was back. ‘Meaning?’

‘Sleeping with him.’

‘Who says I did?’

‘You’re telling me you didn’t?’

‘I’m telling you it’s none of your business.’

He let the silence sit between them for a moment, then mentioned that he had the letters.

‘What letters?’ She failed to stop a spot of colour appearing on either cheek.

‘The letters you sent him. Imogen Vernal found them and hung on to them.’ He waited for her to take this in. ‘You’re telling me you never loved him?’

She squeezed shut her eyes, then blinked them open again. ‘I’m telling you it’s ancient history – and also none of your business. You’re a Complaints officer. This is not a Complaints matter.’

‘You’re right. Maybe I should just hand everything over to CID…’

‘Don’t be crass.’

Fox waited a beat before continuing. ‘There was a cop called Gavin Willis. He led the inquiry – such as it was – when Vernal died. But you’d vanished by then.’

‘Special Branch didn’t want me sticking around – the questions could have been awkward. Besides, the DHC had scattered…’

‘So you said. For some reason, Willis held on to Vernal’s car.’

Her eyes widened a little. ‘Why did he do that?’

‘I’m not sure. One thing I do know: he was selling guns to groups like the DHC. Specifically to a man called “Hawkeye”.’ Fox handed her the photograph. She took her time studying it.

‘I haven’t seen this in years.’

‘The man you’ve linked arms with?’ Fox prompted.

‘Hawkeye, yes. He looks a bit awkward, doesn’t he? The arm thing would have been my idea. He wasn’t much of one for socialising… or for the ladies. Never went to the pub after meetings – most people, that was what they looked forward to: not the political theory but the booze-up.’

‘After Vernal’s death, you never spoke to any of them again?’

She shook her head and folded her arms across her chest, as if suddenly chilled. ‘I was another person,’ she stated quietly.

‘How do you think Francis Vernal died?’

‘I think he shot himself.’

‘Why?’

‘The drink, his marriage, the fear of discovery. He knew we were monitoring him.’

‘The two of you didn’t argue that night?’

‘Not really. I think it annoyed him that all I ever wanted to talk about was the group. He said it was a madness in me.’ She unfolded her arms, and studied the photograph again.

‘He never twigged you were undercover?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘If he had…?’

‘It might have led him to do something, I suppose.’

‘Did you ever see a gun in his car?’

‘Doesn’t mean one wasn’t there.’

‘That’s a no, then?’ Fox paused for a moment. ‘DCI Jackson doesn’t know?’

‘About Francis and me?’ She considered this. ‘I don’t think so. Why should he?’

‘He’s been digging in the files.’

‘Why?’

‘Wondering why I was interested. He told me something…’

‘What?’

‘The agents tailing Francis Vernal took a look at him after the crash.’ Fox was studying her reaction. ‘He was still alive. No head shot at that point.’

‘What did they do?’ The blood had drained from her face. Her voice was pitched just above a whisper.

‘If Jackson’s to be believed, they didn’t kill him. They just walked away and left him there. No call to the emergency services. Nothing.’

She seemed to wrap her arms more closely around herself. ‘That’s awful,’ she said.

‘I’m glad we agree.’

There was silence in the room for almost a full minute.

‘They could have shot him,’ Alison Pears eventually conceded. ‘Shot him and taken the money.’

‘They could,’ Fox agreed. ‘Tell me, was Vernal really just a job to you?’

Her look hardened a little. ‘How often do I need to say it? That’s something I’m not willing to discuss.’

‘It might be the one thing I can take back to Charles Mangold for him to give to the widow.’

‘I think this has gone far enough.’

‘Alan Carter really never contacted you? Never connected you to Alice Watts?’

‘I’ve already told you, Inspector – you’re the first.’ She stood up, indicating that the meeting was over. Reluctantly, Fox got to his feet. ‘I need to know how far you’re going to take this,’ she asked.

‘I can’t answer that.’

‘It would put my mind at rest,’ she persevered. ‘There’s a job I should be focusing on.’

He nodded his understanding. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’ He was holding out his hand for the photograph.

‘I’d like to keep it,’ she said.

Fox kept his hand held out. Her phone rang and she answered it, relinquishing the photo at the same time. ‘Speak to me,’ she said. As she listened, Fox watched her turn into a Chief Constable again. It was as if her talk with him had been slotted into a filing cabinet somewhere.

‘No,’ she was stating, ‘Govan can’t bloody well have them. They’re my suspects.’

Govan: the high-security police station in Glasgow. It was where terrorist suspects usually ended up, but Pears was fighting her corner. As the argument continued, Fox realised she craved the media attention because it gave her the chance to shine. What was it her husband had said? Something about her ‘needing’ this case. By the time she ended the call, she had made her determination clear to the other participant. She looked at Fox, and he knew what she was telling him: I’m a fighter. I’m used to winning. Just remember that… He nodded and opened the door for her. She marched out ahead of him, making for the stairs again. Stephen Pears was watching TV, but rose to greet Fox.

‘Everything cleared up?’ he asked, watching his wife disappear from view.

‘I’m fairly satisfied,’ Fox decided to answer. He noted that Andrew Watson seemed to have left. The lights by the tennis court had been switched off.

‘A case of mistaken identity, then,’ the financier was stating.

‘It happens,’ Fox concurred.

Pears patted him on the back and said he would show him out. ‘In fact, it’s such a lovely evening, I might take Max for a walk.’

‘Thank you again, Mr Pears,’ Fox said, shaking the man’s hand. Pears applied his free hand to Fox’s wrist.

‘Sorry again about your father. I hope he’s all right.’ He paused, still grasping Fox’s wrist. ‘And if you ever need anything, Inspector …’

Fox could see he meant nothing by it – it was just something the self-made millionaire had grown used to saying. But he thanked him again anyway.

Jude was asleep on her chair. The nurse said she hadn’t moved from the spot.

‘We told her to go stretch her legs, but she wouldn’t. I brought her tea and biscuits but she left them.’

They were standing at the nurses’ station, keeping their voices low. Almost all the patients were asleep. ‘My dad’s not woken up?’ Fox asked.

‘Not yet.’

‘What about the scan?’

‘CT’s a bit backed up. It’ll be tomorrow now.’

‘What’s the drip for?’ Fox nodded towards the tube inserted into his father’s arm.

‘Need to keep his fluids up,’ the nurse explained. ‘Do you want to rouse your sister, or will I do it?’

Fox had been informed on his arrival that there was a bed ready for his father on a proper ward. Orderlies would be coming to wheel the bed along to its new berth.

‘I’ll do it,’ he said. He walked up behind Jude and rested a hand against her neck. Her skin was cool. She inhaled, twitched and jolted awake, giving a moan of complaint.

‘They’re putting him on a ward,’ Fox explained. ‘Nothing we can do till tomorrow. Let me give you a lift home.’

‘I can manage.’ Sleepily, she pushed the hair out of her eyes. ‘There’s buses and a taxi rank outside.’

‘Be a lot quicker if I did it.’ He paused. ‘Please, Jude.’

She focused on him, and saw something in his eyes. For whatever reason, he needed to do this for her. She was giving a little nod of acquiescence as the orderlies arrived for their patient.

The nurse made sure brother and sister had the ward details and a contact number. Fox thanked her and walked with Jude back along the corridor past the A and E desk. He didn’t recognise any of the people waiting. The doors swung open, Jude sucking in lungfuls of the cold night air.

‘Better?’ he asked her. She made a non-committal sound and followed him to his car.

They didn’t say much during the drive. Fox was thinking back to the house in Stirling, the Chief Constable and her politician brother. And the money man making sure everyone got what they needed.

Fox was wondering if he had got what he needed. It took him a moment to realise that Jude was crying. He assured her that everything would be fine.

‘What if it isn’t, though?’

Then it isn’t.

But he found himself saying ‘It will be’ instead.

He dropped her at her terraced house. She had a neighbour called Pettifer and Fox said she should knock on her door.

‘I’ll do it for you, if you like,’ he offered.

But Jude shook her head. ‘I’ll just go to bed,’ she countered. ‘Bit of a lie-down.’

Fox could only nod. ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow – we’ll go see him together.’

‘Don’t put yourself out on my account.’

‘Let’s not do this, Jude.’

She rubbed at her eyes. ‘What time, then?’

‘I’ll phone you.’

‘Something might come up,’ she warned him.

‘I won’t let it.’

‘Didn’t stop you tonight, did it?’ She studied his face, then gave a sigh. ‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ She closed the passenger-side door and began walking up the path towards her house with its curtainless front window and unkempt garden. Fox remembered a promise he’d made three or four months back – I’ll help you tidy it; only take us a couple of hours. A couple of hours he had never quite found. Jude didn’t glance back over her shoulder towards the car, didn’t turn and wave. Once indoors, her lights went on but she didn’t come to the window. Fox put the car into gear and drove off.

Twenty minutes later, he was sitting outside another house – nicer, more modern. No front garden for Tony Kaye, just lots of lovely monoblock so he could park his Mondeo off-road. Fox had just ended the call. He watched shadows moving behind the living-room curtains. Then the curtains parted and Kaye gestured towards him. But Fox shook his head. The door opened and Kaye padded out in what looked like a pair of leather carpet-slippers. His shirt was untucked, open at the neck.

‘My place not good enough for you?’ he said, yanking open the passenger-side door and getting in.

‘Didn’t want to disturb you. How’s Hannah?’

‘She was fine till five minutes ago. Now she’s wondering what she’s done to offend you.’ Kaye peered towards the house, as if expecting to see his wife scowling at a window.

‘I’ve had a hell of a day and I need to dump it on someone,’ Fox confided.

‘Think you’ve had it hard? I spent about three hours on the phone to Cash, trying to persuade him to bring Tosh Garioch in for an interview.’

‘And?’

‘Tomorrow morning first thing.’ Kaye sounded proud of the achievement.

‘What about the report?’

‘On your desk. McEwan likes it well enough.’

‘Has it gone to Fife Constabulary?’

‘Not without your say-so, Foxy.’

‘Then I’ll look at it in the morning.’

Kaye nodded, then fixed his eyes on Fox. ‘Is it Evelyn Mills?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘Throwing herself at you, and you need my advice?’

‘I haven’t heard a cheep from her.’

‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’

‘Give it a rest, Tony.’

Kaye gave a low chuckle and patted Fox’s leg, then shifted a little in the passenger seat, the better to face his friend. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘small talk done and dusted – time for you to spit it out. And I want every single gory detail.’

So Fox gave him the lot.