The Complaints

‘They’re digging in the garden.’

‘What?’

‘The police – your lot – they’re…’ She gulped down another sob.

‘I’m on my way,’ Fox told her. Ending the call, he shrugged his arms back into his jacket. Kaye asked him what was happening.

‘Got to go,’ was all Fox said. Out in the car park, the interior of his car still retained a trace of warmth.

Some of Jude’s neighbours were at their windows again. Three patrol cars, two white vans. Jude’s front door was open. There was no sign of any disruption in the front garden. The back could be accessed only from a door in the kitchen. It wasn’t much of a garden either, maybe sixty feet by twenty, most of it paving slabs and weeds. There was a uniformed officer on duty at the front door, but Fox was waved inside when he showed his warrant card. The interior of the house was ice cold – both front and rear doors open, defeating anything the radiators could do.

‘Who let you in?’ DCI Billy Giles roared. He was standing in the kitchen, holding a mug of tea in one hand and a half-eaten Mars Bar in the other.

‘Where’s my sister?’

‘Next-door neighbour’s,’ Giles stated, chewing on the snack. Fox had advanced far enough into the room to be able to see out of the rear window. There was a team hard at work with shovels and pickaxes. They were digging in some spots, lifting the paving slabs in others. Muck had been trailed into the house, so recently cleaned by Alison Pettifer. Someone from Forensics was ru

‘You still here?’ Giles growled, tossing the empty chocolate wrapper on to the floor.

‘What are you playing at, Giles?’

‘I’m not playing at anything – I’m being a cop.’ He glowered at Fox. ‘Something your lot don’t seem to like. I’m begi

‘I can’t decide what this smacks of more – intimidation or desperation. ’

‘We got a call from a concerned neighbour,’ Giles said. His voice was coarse, his breathing ragged as he bore down on Fox. ‘Heard digging in the garden Sunday night. Horticulture at midnight – is that something your family makes a habit of?’

‘Did this neighbour give a name?’ Giles didn’t say anything to that, and Fox barked out a laugh. ‘Are you really going to lend an ear to every nutter who phones you? Did you bother trying to track them down?’ Fox paused. ‘I’m assuming you noted their number?’

‘Pub in Corstorphine,’ Giles stated. Then, snapping his head round as one of his team walked in from the garden: ‘Anything?’

‘A few bones… been there for years – Phil says a pet cat or maybe a puppy.’

‘What is it you think you’re going to find?’ Fox asked into the silence. ‘You know damned well this isn’t about cats or puppies… it’s about the wild goose you’ve been sent to chase.’

Giles pointed a stubby finger at him. ‘This man’s contaminating my crime scene and I want him out of here!’

A hand grabbed Fox’s arm from behind. He made to shrug it off, but turned and saw that it was Jamie Breck.

‘Come on, you,’ Breck said sternly, leading Fox towards the front door.

Outside on the path, both men kept their voices low. ‘This is horseshit,’ Fox hissed.

‘Maybe so, but we’re duty-bound to follow any and all leads. You know that, Malcolm.’

‘Giles is trying to get at me and mine, Jamie – that’s what this boils down to. You’ve got to tighten his leash.’

Breck’s eyebrows went up. ‘Me?’

‘Who else is going to stand up to him?’

‘You looked to be doing a pretty good job…’ There was a tapping sound. Fingers against the window of the house next door. ‘You’re wanted,’ was all Breck said. Fox turned to look, saw Alison Pettifer gesturing for him to join her. Fox held up his hand, signalling that he was on his way, but then turned back to face Jamie Breck.

‘Tighten his leash,’ he repeated, making for the door of the neighbouring house.

He’d stayed for the best part of an hour, downing two mugs of tea while both women sat on the sofa, Pettifer occasionally taking Jude’s hand and patting or stroking it. He’d asked the neighbour if he could unlock her back door, take a look over the fence as another flagstone was lifted. Giles had glowered at him, but there was nothing he could do.

‘Can’t you stop them?’ Jude had asked her brother more than once. ‘Surely you can make it stop.’

‘I’m not sure I can,’ he’d answered defensively, knowing how weak it made him sound. He could have added that it was precisely his fault it was happening. Giles couldn’t get to him, so he was getting at his loved ones instead. Fox knew he could make a complaint to McEwan, but he knew, too, that the complaint would make him look foolish. It was simplicity itself for Giles to defend the charge: there’s been a murder… we have to pursue every avenue… I can’t believe a fellow officer wouldn’t appreciate that…

No, he couldn’t take it to McEwan. He’d considered telling Jude to get a lawyer, but he knew how that would look – and all cops, the Complaints included, had a deep-seated mistrust of lawyers. The truth was, he couldn’t take it anywhere, and Giles knew as much. So instead Fox had said goodbye, pecking Jude on the cheek and shaking Pettifer’s hand. Then he’d sat in his car for five minutes, trying to decide whether to go back to Fettes or not. Mind made up, he’d driven to the supermarket in Oxgangs, lugging the bags into his house and spending half an hour putting away the food, checking the sell-by dates of everything so he could arrange what needed eating when – stuff for later to the back of the fridge and stuff for sooner to the front. Fresh pasta with pesto sauce for his evening meal. At the supermarket, he’d found himself in the drinks section, wondering about buying a couple of bottles of alcohol-free beer, then had walked past the wines and spirits, noting that some whiskies were actually cheaper than when he’d last bought any of them. The pricier bottles had little neck-band alarms to deter shoplifters. Back at one of the chill cabinets, he’d picked up a litre carton of mango and pear juice. Better for you by far, boy, he’d told himself.

After the meal, he tried watching TV, but there was nothing to grab his attention. He kept swimming back through the day’s events. When his phone bleeped with a message, he sprang towards it. Tony Kaye was inviting him to Minter’s. It took Fox all of five seconds to make up his mind.

‘It’s almost as if we have nothing better to do with ourselves,’ Fox said as he made for the usual table. There was a different barman on duty – much younger, but still glued to a quiz show on TV. Two clients standing at the bar – Fox recognised neither of them. Margaret Sime, Kaye’s friend, was at her own table. She nodded a greeting. On the way back into town, Fox had taken the slightest of detours past Jamie Breck’s house. No sign of life, and no van parked in the vicinity.

‘Cheers,’ Kaye said, taking delivery of the fresh pint and placing it beside the one he was halfway to finishing. Fox placed his own tomato juice on a coaster and slipped out of his sports jacket. He had left his tie at home, but was still wearing the same shirt, braces and trousers.

‘So what was happening at Jude’s?’ Kaye asked.

‘Bad Billy had his men digging up the garden. Anonymous caller said they heard some activity on Sunday night.’

‘That’s Billy’s excuse anyway,’ Kaye sympathised with a shake of the head. ‘Hope you didn’t leave any prints at the locus, Foxy. If he sees an opening, he’s going to come at you with teeth bared and claws out.’

‘I know.’

‘Bastard put a lot of trust in Glen Heaton… defended him to the hilt.’

Fox stared at his colleague. ‘You don’t think Giles knew what Heaton was like?’

Kaye shrugged. ‘We can’t know for sure one way or the other. All I’m saying is, I can appreciate the man is hurting.’