The Complaints

‘It’s been pulled,’ she said.

‘That much I knew.’

‘We won’t be pursuing a case against DS Breck.’ Her face was as stony as her voice.

‘Why?’

‘Orders.’

‘Says who?’

‘Malcolm…’ Her eyes fixed on his. ‘All you need to know is, we no longer require the assistance of Complaints and Conduct.’

‘Is that how you were told to phrase it?’

‘Malcolm…’

He took a step towards her, but she was already on her way back to her office. As his eyes followed her, he saw her head go down. She knew he was watching, knew he’d take it as a sign.

A woman who’d just done something she wasn’t happy about, and wanted him to know.

At lunchtime, he told the office he was going out. He took a detour into the canteen, hoping Inglis might be there, but she wasn’t. As he drove out of the compound he offered up a prayer that his parking space would still be vacant on his return, while knowing from experience that there was maybe a cat-in-hell’s chance. As had become his custom, he kept a regular watch on any traffic behind him, but there were no black Astras or green Kas. Within ten minutes he was parking outside the Oliver. Simon was again behind the bar, chatting up one of the female croupiers while another eked out a shift at the blackjack table for the two hunched punters who were providing the casino’s only custom.

‘I already told you you’d need to talk to the boss,’ Simon said, recognising Fox.

‘Actually, it was my colleague you told that to, and we did consult with Ms Broughton.’ Fox paused. ‘Thought you might have been closed today as a mark of respect.’

‘Nuclear war, that’s about all we close for.’

‘Lucky for me.’ Fox pressed his palms against the bar counter. Simon stared at him.

‘She said you could watch the tapes?’ he guessed.

‘Of Saturday night,’ Fox confirmed. Then: ‘Go call her; she’ll tell you.’ But they both knew Simon wasn’t about to pick up the phone to Joa

The office was cramped. Simon sat at the desk while he set up the playback. The recording could be viewed directly on the screen belonging to the desktop computer.

‘Hard-drive recorders,’ Simon explained.

Fox nodded as he studied the room: a couple of chairs, three filing cabinets, and a bank of CCTV screens, alternating between a dozen different cameras.

‘Do you depend on this to catch the cheats?’ Fox asked.

‘We have staff watching the floor. Sometimes we’ll put someone on a table, pretending to be just another punter. Everyone’s trained to be on the lookout.’

‘Have any scams actually worked?’

‘One or two,’ Simon admitted, using the mouse to navigate the screen. Eventually he was happy, and swapped places with Fox. He started asking if there was any news about ‘Mr Brogan’.

‘Did you know him?’ Fox asked back.

‘He came by pretty regularly. Didn’t gamble much, but liked to see Joa

Simon looked as if he might hang about, so Fox told him he could get back to work. The young man hesitated, but then seemed to remember the blonde croupier. He nodded and left. Fox leaned in towards the screen and hit ‘play’. There was a time code at top right, showing him that it was nine o’clock Saturday evening. He fast-forwarded to ten. At times, the camera would zoom in to pick out one particular player, or even that player’s hand movements as they studied their cards. The place was busy, but, the tape being silent, there was a surreal quality to the footage, and the colour had a washed-out look. The cameras seemed to be focusing on the tables. Little attention was being paid to the doormen or the lobby or either of the bars. Fox couldn’t see Vince Faulkner anywhere. Simon had told Breck he’d been drunk, seated on a stool by the corner of the downstairs bar, but Fox was damned if he could find him. When a tapping came at the door, he let out a hiss of air.

‘Look,’ he called out, ‘I’m not halfway finished here!’

The door opened slowly. ‘Oh, but you are,’ a voice crooned. DCI Billy Giles was standing there, filling the whole doorway.

‘Gotcha,’ he said.

Torphichen police station.

Not the same room as before – one of the proper interview rooms. And set up for a proper interview, too – video camera pointing down at the table from the ceiling. Once it was operational, a red light would blink to indicate that recording was in progress. A tape deck plugged into the wall socket – two tapes, one for each party. One microphone on its stand in the centre of the table. The walls whitewashed, decorated with nothing but a reminder that smoking was punishable by a fine – as if any of the room’s usual inmates would worry about that. A foetid smell; the place had only recently been vacated.

They’d left Malcolm Fox there to stew in his own juices. No offer of tea or even water. Giles had asked him for his mobile; Fox had told him to get stuffed.

‘How do I know you won’t go calling chat lines on my tab?’ was his reasoning.

There was a uniform in the room with him, standing to one side of the door. Doubtless this man would have been chosen for his gift of recall – every station had one. So Fox pretended to be texting instead of making calls. Thing was… who was he supposed to tell? Who could help him clamber out of the midden he’d nosedived into? So he just pushed buttons at random, hoping he was getting on the uniform’s nerves. It was a further ten minutes before the door opened. Giles was followed into the room by two other detectives. One of them was a woman in her thirties; Fox seemed to remember seeing her around the place when he’d been working on Heaton, but couldn’t recall if he was supposed to know her name.

The male detective was Jamie Breck.

It was the woman’s job to make sure the tapes were spooling, the recorder picking up their voices. She also checked that the camera’s little red light was flashing, then gave Giles the nod. He had seated himself opposite Fox. He placed a folder and a large envelope on the table between them. Fox resisted looking interested in either.

‘DS Breck,’ Giles said with a nod of the head. The nod was directed towards the empty chair next to Fox. Breck seated himself slowly, avoiding eye contact, and Fox realised that the pair of them were in the selfsame mess. They sat side by side, with Giles across the desk from them like a headmaster with a pair of truants, and the woman officer replacing the uniform by the door.

‘Where do I start?’ Giles muttered, almost to himself. He was ru

But good enough, all the same.

‘You’ll see the time and date on each one,’ Giles was saying, turning them around so Fox and Breck could view them more clearly. ‘That one’s you, DS Breck. You’re visiting Inspector Fox at his home. The two of you then took a little trip to a casino.’ Giles paused for effect. ‘Happens to be the same one Vince Faulkner visited the night he disappeared.’ He held up the appropriate photo. It was grainy, shot with a telephoto lens from some distance. Fox and Breck were depicted having their little word with the two doormen, prior to entering the Oliver. ‘What else have we got here?’ Giles made show of sifting through the photos again. ‘The pair of you at Salamander Point. DS Breck was there to gather information on our murder victim.’ Another pause. ‘Not sure why you were there, Inspector Fox. Hardly part of your remit as a member of Complaints and Conduct.’ Giles gave a little sniff. The man was loving every second, playing up to the camera and the microphone both. Fox thought back to the car – the two cars. He had his answer now. Even if you’re paranoid, he said to himself, it doesn’t mean they’re not after you.