The Complaints

‘Remember when I asked you if there was anything you wanted to tell me about the victim?’ Breck was fixing Malcolm Fox with a stare. ‘How come you didn’t mention his previous?’

‘I don’t really know,’ Fox answered with a shrug.

‘What else did you find?’

‘Nothing.’

‘But you knew he was a naughty boy?’

‘Seems to have toed the line since coming north.’

‘Well, it takes time, doesn’t it? He’d want to be sure of the new terrain. How long had he been in town?’

‘A year, year and a half,’ Fox answered. The aroma was in his nostrils again: two fresh malts had just been poured at the bar.

‘How did your sister meet him?’

‘You’ll have to ask her.’

‘We’ll definitely do that.’ Breck glanced at his watch. ‘I said I was giving you a heads-up, but time’s nearly up.’

‘How do you mean?’

Breck locked eyes with Malcolm Fox. ‘I’m not your problem here, just remember that.’ All three turned as the door to the pub was pushed open with enough force to rattle it on its hinges. The man who lumbered in was almost as wide as he was tall. Despite the plummeting temperature outside, he wore only a checked sports jacket over his open-necked shirt. Fox recognised him, and with good reason. He was Detective Chief Inspector William Giles – ‘Bad Billy’ Giles. Judging from the well-lined face, the black wavy hair had to be a dye job, not that anyone was about to point this out to the owner. The eyes were a cold, crystalline blue.

‘Pint of eighty,’ Giles ordered, approaching the table. Breck rose to his feet, but hesitated long enough to start making introductions.

‘I know who they are,’ Giles growled back at him. ‘Three hours they spent grilling me – three hours of my life I’ll never get back.’

‘Glen Heaton didn’t deserve the effort you put in,’ Fox commented.

‘You can knock a man down as often as you like,’ Giles spat. ‘The measure is when he keeps getting up, and Glen Heaton’s a long way from being counted out by the likes of you.’ The chair – Breck’s chair – creaked as Giles lowered himself on to it. His eyes flitted between Tony Kaye and Malcolm Fox. ‘But now you’re mine,’ he stated with grim satisfaction.

Billy Giles wasn’t just the CID head honcho at Torphichen, not just Jamie Breck’s boss – and Glen Heaton’s, come to that. He was also Heaton’s oldest friend. Fox was thinking back to that three-hour interview. Thinking, too, of all the obstacles Giles had placed in the way of the PSU investigation.

‘Now you’re mine,’ Giles echoed with quiet satisfaction. From the bar, Breck made eye contact with Malcolm Fox. I’m not your problem here… Fox acknowledged as much with the same slight nod he’d earlier given to Tony Kaye. Then he turned his attention to Giles.

‘Not quite yet,’ he said, giving equal weight to each individual word. He rose to his feet, indicating that Kaye should do the same. ‘You want us, you know where to find us.’

‘Now’s as good a time as any.’

But Fox was shaking his head as he buttoned his coat. ‘You know where to find us,’ he repeated. ‘Just be sure to make an appointment – we’re always busy in the Complaints.’

‘You’re maggots, the pair of you.’

Even standing, Fox wasn’t much taller than the seated Giles. But he leaned down a little towards the man. ‘We’re not maggots,’ he stated. ‘You said so yourself – we’re the ones in the ring, the ones who floored your pal Heaton. And last time I looked, he was still on the canvas.’

Then he straightened up, turned and walked out. It was a few seconds before Tony Kaye joined him. Kaye was knotting his tartan scarf as he emerged from the pub.

‘What the hell do we do?’ he asked.

‘We don’t need to do anything – it’ll happen the way it happens. ’

‘We should at least tell McEwan.’

Fox nodded his agreement. ‘Giles will want us interviewed at Torphichen. We stick to my story. I might get a reprimand, but I doubt it’ll amount to much.’

Kaye considered this, then shook his head slowly. ‘Giles won’t let it go at that. Far as he’s concerned, this is payback time.’

‘All he’ll get is small change, Tony.’

Kaye thought for a further moment. ‘That bastard in Hull!’

‘We ought to have realised – everyone leaves traces, even on a computer.’

Kaye breathed out noisily through his nose. ‘So what now?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Do you need a lift? I don’t see your Nissan…’

‘I parked it legally for a change. It’s a couple of streets away.’

‘You didn’t want Torphichen nabbing you for that, too?’

Kaye shook his head. ‘How come you’re always so calm, Foxy?’

‘No point being anything else – like I say, what happens happens. ’

Kaye was staring at the door of Minter’s. ‘We should leg it before he comes out.’

‘He’s got that pint to drink, and maybe another one after it. By the way – what did you think of Jamie Breck?’

Kaye needed only a second to deliver his verdict. ‘Good guy, seems like.’

Malcolm Fox nodded his agreement. Seems like…

Wednesday 11 February 2009

6

Wednesday morning, Fox was brushing his teeth when the home phone started ringing. The upstairs handset needed recharging, and he knew the caller would have hung up before he could reach the living room, so he stayed where he was. He’d woken early, Tony Kaye’s words in his head – good guy, seems like. Kaye had meant that Breck was the sort to help out a colleague. Didn’t mean he couldn’t be other things, too… Just as Fox was wiping his mouth, his mobile let out its little chirrup. It was on the dresser in the bedroom, and he walked through, tossing the towel on to the just-made bed.

‘Fox,’ he said, pressing the phone to his ear.

‘Mr Fox, it’s Alison Pettifer.’

Fox’s stomach tightened. ‘Is Jude all right?’

‘They’ve taken her.’

‘Who?’ But already knowing the answer.

‘Some policemen. C Division, they said.’

Meaning Torphichen. Fox looked at his watch – half seven. ‘It’s just routine,’ he started to explain.

‘That’s what they said – “routine questions”. All the same, I thought you’d want to know.’

‘That’s kind of you.’

‘Should I stay here, do you think?’ Fox wasn’t sure what she meant: was she suggesting she head to Torphichen herself? ‘To keep an eye on them, I mean.’

Fox lifted the phone from his ear and read the display. She was calling from Jude’s home phone. ‘They’re still there?’ he asked.

‘Some of them, yes.’

‘With a search warrant?’

‘They did get Jude to sign something,’ the neighbour confirmed.

‘Where are you now, Mrs Pettifer?’

‘The foot of the stairs.’ He heard her apologise as someone pushed past her. Heavy footsteps making for the upstairs landing. ‘They don’t seem to like me sticking around.’

‘What happened to Jude’s other friends, the ones who were going to look after her?’

‘Joyce stayed the night, but she had to leave for work at six thirty. The police started arriving just after, so I got dressed and…’

‘Thanks for everything, Mrs Pettifer. You can go home now.’

‘A couple of reporters came to the door yesterday evening, but I gave them short shrift.’

‘Thanks again.’

‘Well… I might just nip home then, if you think that’s for the best.’

Fox ended the call, fetched a fresh shirt from its hanger and decided yesterday’s tie would suffice. He was halfway down the stairs when the landline started ringing again. He lifted the receiver from the sofa and pressed it to his ear.

‘Fox,’ he said.

‘It’s McEwan.’

‘Morning, sir.’

‘You sound harassed.’

‘No, sir, just getting ready to leave.’

‘So I’ll see you here in half an hour?’

‘Actually, I need to stop off somewhere first.’

‘I don’t think that’s advisable, Malcolm.’

‘Sir?’

‘Torphichen have told me what’s happening. I got the call half an hour ago. That stunt you pulled with the PNC is going to take a bit of work to defuse.’