The Complaints

‘I knew their relationship was tempestuous.’

Giles offered a snort. ‘You’re not here to write a Mills and fucking Boon!’

‘Jude always said she gave as good as she got.’

‘Didn’t make it right, Inspector. Seems to me you shied away from saying anything. You never pulled Faulkner aside for a quiet word?’

‘After the arm I would’ve done, if there’d been the chance.’

‘So we’re back to my original question – when did you find out?’

‘A neighbour called me on Monday afternoon.’

Giles nodded slowly. ‘Mrs Pettifer,’ he stated. Yes, stood to reason she’d have been questioned by the inquiry team… ‘I’m assuming you then went looking for him?’

‘No.’ Fox was peering down at his hands, clasped across his lap.

‘No?’ Giles sounded unconvinced.

‘What difference would it have made – he was already dead, wasn’t he?’

‘Come on, Fox – you know time of death’s always open to debate… a few hours this way or that.’

‘Did he turn up for work Monday morning?’

Giles paused a moment before answering, weighing up what he did and didn’t want Fox to know. Eventually, he shook his head.

‘So what was he doing? Where was he hiding himself from Saturday night onwards? Someone must have seen him.’

‘Whoever killed him saw him.’

‘You can’t think it was Jude.’

Giles pursed his lips and removed his hands from their pockets, cupping them behind his head. As his shirt stretched, gaps appeared between the buttons, revealing a white string vest beneath. The room felt warm to Fox. He knew they probably kept it stuffy: didn’t want suspects getting too comfortable. His scalp felt itchy, perspiration cloying there. But if he scratched or wiped, Giles would think the interview was getting to him.

‘I’ve seen Faulkner on the slab,’ the detective was saying. ‘Plenty of muscle on him. Not sure a one-armed alcoholic girlie weighing all of eight stone could have outpointed him.’ Giles was watching for a reaction. ‘Someone could’ve helped her, though.’

‘You’re not going to find anything in the house.’ In the distance, a door slammed. A truck or bus was idling outside, causing the frosted window pane to shiver noisily in its frame.

‘Plenty of evidence of a chaotic lifestyle,’ Giles went on. ‘Even when someone’s had a go at tidying up.’

‘That was the neighbour; she did it out of kindness.’

‘I’m not suggesting anyone was trying to cover their tracks.’ Giles gave a cold smile. ‘And by the way – how’s your case against Glen Heaton shaping up?’

‘Wondered how long it would take you…’

‘He’s loving it, you know – full pay, feet up at home while we shiver and scrape ice off the windscreen of a morning.’ Giles’s meaty hands came to rest on the table. He leaned over them. ‘And exonerated at the end of it.’

‘I go easy on Heaton and you lay off my sister?’

Giles tried for a look of mock outrage. ‘Did I say that? I don’t think I said that.’ He paused. ‘But I can’t help feeling a sense of… what? Irony? Poetic justice?’

‘A man’s dead, in case you’d forgotten.’

‘I’ve not forgotten, Inspector. You can be absolutely sure of that. Every detail of Faulkner’s life is going to be pored over by my men. Your sister’s going to have to get used to questions and more questions. The media are showing an interest, too, so she might want to stop answering her door and her phone.’

‘Don’t take this out on her,’ Fox said quietly.

‘Or you’ll make a complaint?’ Giles smiled. ‘Now wouldn’t that be the cherry on the top?’

‘Are we finished?’ Fox was starting to get to his feet.

‘For now – unless there’s anything you want to tell me.’

Fox could think of a few things, but all he did was shake his head.

Out in the hallway, he tried a few of the doors, but Jude wasn’t in any of the other interview rooms. At the far end was the door leading to the station’s cramped reception area, and beyond that the outside world. A familiar face was loitering on the steps when Fox emerged.

‘Can we take a walk?’ Jamie Breck asked, cutting short the phone call he’d been making on his mobile.

‘My car’s right here.’ Fox nodded towards it.

‘All the same…’ Breck gestured and started moving up the slope towards the traffic lights. ‘How did it go with DCI Giles?’

‘How do you think it went?’

Breck gave a slow nod. ‘I reckoned you’d want to know how things are shaping up.’

‘Is that how it works – Giles gives me a doing and then you start in with the “good cop” routine?’

‘He’d kill me if he knew I was talking to you.’ Breck looked over his shoulder as they rounded the corner into Morrison Street.

‘Then why are you?’

‘I don’t like the politics – us on our side, you on yours.’ Breck was walking briskly. It was a young man’s gait, purposeful and strong, as if the future held a clear destination. Fox, struggling to keep up, could feel the sweat growing chill at his hairline.

‘Where’s my sister?’ he asked.

‘On her way home, I think.’

‘Off the record, what’s your view of Glen Heaton?’

Breck’s nose wrinkled. ‘I could see that he cut a few corners.’

‘He drove on every pavement he saw.’

‘That’s his style – pretty effective, too.’

‘I think your boss just tried to do a deal with me.’

‘What sort of deal?’

‘Heaton for my sister…’ Breck gave a little whistle. ‘But since my sister hasn’t done anything…’

‘You turned him down?’ Breck guessed.

‘You don’t seem surprised he made the offer.’

Breck shrugged. ‘All I’m wondering is why you’re telling me.’

‘When we nail Heaton, there’ll be a vacancy at DI.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You’re not ambitious?’

‘Of course I’m ambitious – isn’t everyone? Aren’t you?’

‘Not especially.’ The two men walked in silence for a few paces.

‘So how did it go with Bad Billy?’ Breck eventually asked.

‘He sees the investigation as a way of getting at me, and that may colour his judgement… take him down any number of wrong roads.’

Breck was nodding. ‘Did he tell you about the CCTV?’

Fox looked at the younger man. ‘What about it?’

‘I’ll assume he didn’t.’ Breck took a deep breath. ‘There’s a pub in Gorgie… Faulkner wasn’t exactly a regular, but he went in occasionally. They’ve got CCTV inside and out.’

‘And?’

Breck stopped suddenly and turned to face Malcolm Fox, studying him. ‘I’m not sure how much of this I should be telling you.’

‘What’s the pub called?’

‘Marooned. Do you know it?’ Breck watched the older man shake his head. ‘It’s only been open a year or so.’

‘Vince Faulkner was caught on camera?’ Fox prompted.

‘Saturday night. A few rugby fans were in – Welsh guys. Words were exchanged and they took it outside.’

‘They beat him up?’

Breck shook his head. ‘From the footage I’ve seen, he pushed one of them and they gave his head a slap. Three against one… Faulkner weighed it up and sloped off with a few final insults.’

‘They didn’t go after him?’

‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t bump into them again later.’

‘No.’ Fox was thoughtful.

‘Your sister says he doesn’t have any family left down south – is that right?’

Fox shrugged. ‘She’d know better than me.’ He paused. ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with her, you know.’

Breck nodded slowly. ‘All the same… it’s the way the game’s played.’

‘Will her house be a mess?’

‘I asked the SOCOs to go easy.’

‘They won’t have found anything.’ The two men had started walking again. When they turned left into Dewar Place, Fox realised they were doing a circuit. Another left into the lane and they’d be back at the police station and Fox’s car.

‘You live quite close to me,’ Breck was saying.

Fox opened his mouth to reply, then made a swallowing motion instead. He’d been about to say, I know.

‘Is that right?’ was what he eventually answered.

‘It came up,’ Breck explained with a shrug. ‘I’m on the estate behind Morrisons.’