Authors: Ian Rankin

The Complaints (47 page)

BOOK: The Complaints

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Malcolm Fox slipped his hands into his pockets and offered a shrug.

‘She’s the Complaints,’ Breck protested.

‘So am I, remember. Let’s fight about it on the way. If you’re not convinced, I won’t get out of the car ...’

Fox didn’t get out of the car. It was his car and he sat in the driver’s seat with the radio playing, watching as Breck marched into Police HQ. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, staring ahead of him, but with his eyes focused on nothing. After five minutes, he heard a noise and turned his head. Breck was coming back, and he was not alone. Inspector Caroline Stoddart looked less than enthusiastic. Her two colleagues, Wilson and Mason, watched from the doorway. Fox got out of the car, not knowing quite what to say. Breck skipped forward and opened the passenger-side door for Stoddart. She glared at Fox.

‘You two were told to cease communication.’

‘We’re bad boys,’ Breck seemed to concur. Stoddart stood her ground for a moment, then ducked her head and got into the car. Breck offered Fox a wink before climbing into the back. Fox stood for a further moment, staring at Wilson and Mason. They turned and headed back indoors.

‘Let’s get this little pantomime over with,’ Stoddart was saying. Fox sat back down and closed his door. ‘All right,’ she went on, ‘you’ve got five minutes.’

‘Might take a bit longer,’ Breck warned her. Then, to Fox: ‘We’d be better doing this elsewhere - if walls have ears, then windows definitely have eyes.’

Fox looked at the building, realised Breck had a point, and switched the engine on.

‘Am I being abducted?’ Stoddart complained.

‘You can leave any time you like,’ Breck assured her. ‘But what we’re about to tell you ... trust me, this isn’t exactly the best place.’

‘Do I just drive around?’ Fox asked, eyes on the rearview mirror. He was aware of Stoddart next to him, tugging at the hem of her skirt.

‘As long as you can drive and talk at the same time,’ Breck responded.

So Malcolm Fox drove.

Their route took them around the periphery of the Botanic Gardens and uphill towards the city centre. Traffic became sluggish, and Fox said less, concentrating his attention on the road. Breck filled in, and soon they were crossing the top of Leith Walk. Royal Terrace, then Abbeyhill, and down past the Parliament building and the Palace of Holyrood, before entering Holyrood Park itself. Past St Margaret’s Loch and entering the one-way section that snaked around the immensity of Arthur’s Seat. It felt like the middle of nowhere. There were stretches where no signs of habitation could be glimpsed; just heath and hill. The drive had lasted almost thirty minutes, and Stoddart was asking Fox to pull over.

‘A bad place to leave us,’ Breck warned her. ‘Taxis don’t come by here.’

She looked around her. ‘Where
is
here?’

Fox had brought the car to a stop next to Dunsapie Loch. A couple of joggers trotted past. A young mother had paused with her baby buggy. There was a nest in the middle of the loch. In a few weeks, a pair of swans would be setting up home.

‘Another side of Edinburgh,’ Breck was explaining to Stoddart. ‘I’d be happy to act the tour guide some time ...’

She said nothing to this, just opened her door and tried to get out. She flinched, perhaps thinking they were holding her down, but it was only her seat belt. She unlocked it and stepped from the car, slamming the door behind her.

‘What now?’ Breck muttered. Fox met his eyes in the rearview. Breck had been sounding enthusiastic and confident, but it had been a front. Inwardly, he was all nerves.

‘Give her a minute,’ Fox said. Stoddart was standing with arms folded, legs slightly apart, her eyes on the loch and the view beyond.

‘But say she walks ... say she goes straight to your boss or mine?’

‘Then that’s what she does.’

Breck stared out at her. ‘She thinks we’re spinning her a line.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Conniving together ever since we were put on suspension ... and this is all we could come up with! That’s what she’s thinking.’

‘Jamie, you don’t know what she’s thinking,’ Fox muttered, hands wringing the life out of the steering wheel.

‘She’s
corporate
, Malcolm - same as you used to be. She’s not about to break ranks.’

‘She just did.’ Fox paused until he had Breck’s full attention. ‘She got into the car, didn’t she? Left her cronies back at the homestead. That’s not exactly company policy.’

‘Good point,’ Breck agreed. Then: ‘Where’s she going?’

The answer was: she was heading towards an incline away from the road. She had to clamber up it, slipping a couple of times in her sensible shoes. Fox didn’t think there was anything on the other side until you reached Duddingston. She paused at the top of the outcrop, then turned her head towards the car.

‘Let’s go see the lady,’ Fox said, drawing the key from the ignition.

She had found a dry, moss-fringed rock to sit on. She was huddled over, arms on her knees, wind whipping at her hair. The pose made her look younger. She could have been a teenager, mulling over some perceived injustice.

‘You asked a good question,’ she told Fox. He had crouched down next to her, Breck standing off to one side with his hands stuffed into the front of his fleece. ‘It’s the timing - that’s the one thing that niggles in all this.’

‘Just the one?’ Breck gave a hoot of disbelief.

‘Nothing else you’ve told me has any proof attached, but Inspector Fox appeared on our radar several days before Vince Faulkner’s murder. I’ve wondered at that myself.’

‘Good for you,’ Breck said, while Fox’s eyes warned him to shut up.

‘Someone must have given you a reason,’ Fox stated quietly.

Stoddart shook her head. ‘It doesn’t always work like that.’ Then, after a pause: ‘You should know ...’

Yes, he knew. Someone higher up the command chain just had to give you the nod. They were the ones taking care of the paperwork. They were the ones who would take responsibility. All you had to do was watch and record what you saw. There had been a case a few years back - a force down in England. A Chief Constable who suspected a junior officer of an affair with his wife had put a 24/7 surveillance on the man. As far as the team was concerned, the paperwork was in order and the Boss could do as he pleased.

‘Who did you get the order from?’ Fox asked quietly.

‘My boss,’ she eventually answered. ‘But
he
got it from the DCC.’ Meaning the Deputy Chief Constable, Grampian Police.

‘So someone must have gone to the DCC,’ Breck was saying. Roles had been reversed: Breck had started pacing now, while Fox felt an almost unnatural calm.

‘There’s something else ...’ Stoddart broke off and raised her eyes to the heavens. ‘I could get in so much trouble for this.’

‘Meaning you believe us?’ Fox asked her.

‘Maybe,’ she replied. ‘See, there’s this ...’ She sought the right words. ‘There’s been a rumour that something went badly wrong on a murder case a few months back. The victim was a kid, and CID went after his family - turned out the killer had form and was living only a couple of streets away. There was cover-up after cover-up, trying to paper over the cracks.’

‘You think that’s what the Complaints in Edinburgh were going to be looking into?’ Fox asked. Stoddart shrugged.

‘It’s become Strathclyde’s case instead,’ she said.

‘But everyone knows Strathclyde are second-raters.’

‘Yes, they are,’ Stoddart agreed.

Fox was thoughtful. ‘Does that sound like a trade-off to you? The bosses in Edinburgh saying that if Aberdeen puts one of our men under surveillance, we’ll find an excuse not to come chasing you?’

‘Maybe,’ she said again. She had clasped her hands between her knees, and one of her feet was pumping up and down.

‘Are you cold? Do you want to go back to the car?’

‘What do I tell Wilson and Mason?’

‘Depends how much you trust them,’ Breck said. He was taking swipes with his trainers at the tufts of grass. ‘Reason we came to you in the first place is,
we
don’t know who we can trust.’

‘I can see that ...’ She looked from Fox to Breck and back again. ‘So what are you going to do?’

‘We might try talking to Terry Vass,’ Fox said.

‘So if we’re found floating face-down in the Tay,’ Breck went on, ‘at least
you’ll
know where to start.’

Stoddart managed the beginnings of a smile. ‘It
is
a bit chilly up here,’ she said, getting to her feet.

‘Colder than Aberdeen?’ Fox teased. But she took the question seriously.

‘In a funny way, yes.’ The three of them started back towards the car. ‘I know I’ve not been here long, but there’s something about this city ... something lacking.’

‘Blame the trams,’ Breck joked. ‘It’s what everybody else does.’

But Fox stayed silent. He thought he knew what she meant. People in Edinburgh might be quick to take offence, but they were slow to do anything about it other than seethe. And meantime, on the outside, they seemed reticent and unemotional. It was as if there were some vast game of poker being played, and no one wanted to give anything away. He caught Stoddart’s eye and nodded slowly, but she was retreating back into her own shell and didn’t respond. What would she say at Fettes? How would she frame her report? Might she begin to resent them for dragging her into their story, a story she wanted no part of? As they reached the car, she stopped with her hand on the door handle.

‘Maybe I’ll walk,’ she said.

‘You sure?’ Breck asked. But Fox knew she’d made up her mind.

‘It’s downhill from here,’ he explained, pointing. ‘You’ll come to Holyrood Park Road and that leads out on to Dalkeith Road. Should be taxis there ...’

‘I’ll be fine.’ She slid her hands into her pockets. ‘You’ve given me a lot to think about.’ Then she paused and fixed Breck with a look. ‘But I’ll still need you to come in for interview, DS Breck. Say tomorrow at nine?’

Breck scowled. ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday.’

‘We don’t take weekends off, DS Breck, not on the taxpayer’s tab.’ She waved and headed down the footpath. Breck got into the passenger seat and shut the door. ‘What’s the point of pulling me in for another Q and A? We’ve just filled her in on every sodding thing.’

‘It’s for her colleagues’ benefit. So they don’t get more suspicious than they probably already are.’ Fox started the car and released the handbrake. Ten seconds later, they were passing her. She kept her eyes to the ground, as if the car and its occupants were strangers to her.

‘Have we just made a huge fucking mistake?’ Breck asked.

‘If so,’ Fox reassured him, ‘we can always blame the trams.’

That evening, Breck was going for a meal with Annabel Cartwright. Fox had asked which restaurant.

‘Tom Kitchin’s place - booked it before all this blew up.’ Breck had paused. ‘I’m sure we could squeeze in an extra chair ...’ But Fox had shaken his head.

‘Brogan used to take Joanna there,’ he commented.

‘How do you know?’

‘It was in his diary.’

Afterwards, thinking back on this exchange, he’d felt gratified that Breck had asked him to come to the meal. It was the act of a friend, or at the very least the act of a man with little to hide. Fox had asked Breck if he was any nearer to telling Annabel about the website.

‘Later,’ was all Breck had said.

Fox had gone out to his car and driven to Minter’s, texting Tony Kaye to let him know he was on his way. When he was five minutes from his destination, a reply had arrived from Kaye: Cant make it sorry TK. Another minute later, there was a PS: Joe n gilchrist might be there.

Fox wasn’t sure that he wanted to see Joe Naysmith and his new best friend. On the other hand, he couldn’t be bothered turning back, and the deal was sealed when a car drew out of a parking bay just as Fox was arriving. He backed the Volvo in and checked that he didn’t need to pay for a ticket at this hour. Turned out he’d beaten the system by a good five minutes. He locked the car and crossed the road to Minter’s. There wasn’t anyone standing at the bar, and no quiz show on the TV. The barmaid was young, with tattooed arms and pink streaks in her hair. Fox looked around. The woman Kaye knew was chatting with a friend at a corner table. Recognising Fox, she gave him a wave. Fox dredged up her name: Margaret Sime. The drink in front of her looked like a brandy and soda. Her cigarettes and lighter sat at the ready. Fox nodded back a greeting and ordered a tomato juice.

‘Do you want it spicy?’ the barmaid asked. Her accent was Eastern European.

‘Thanks,’ Fox said. ‘And a round of drinks for the table over there.’ Then, as she went about her business: ‘Are you Polish?’

BOOK: The Complaints

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