The Complaints

‘Nice one.’

‘It ended badly. She worked out that I’d taken a look at her perso

‘Christ, when did that happen?’

‘I was down at HR for background on Jamie Breck…’

‘And thought you’d take a peek at A

‘She didn’t see it that way.’

‘Sounds like an overreaction.’

Fox thought so too, but he still had a favour to ask. ‘I need you to have a word with her.’

‘What?’

‘Let her know I’m not some sort of stalker.’

‘Well, I’ve only got your word for that…’

‘It’ll give you something to do tomorrow while Naysmith and the new boy are getting cosy.’

Kaye let out a hiss of air. ‘I’d forgotten we were getting lumbered with Gilchrist.’

‘While the Techie Twins are chatting, you can be at the Chop Shop.’

‘Interceding on your behalf? I’d’ve thought A

‘Can’t afford any more enemies right now, Tony.’

‘Good point. Consider it done. But if she starts falling for my charms in place of yours…’

‘I’ll be sure to let your wife of twelve years know.’

‘You miserable sod.’ Kaye gave a laugh. ‘I bet you would, too.’

‘Are you all done with Torphichen?’

‘I dare say Giles will drag me in again. Plus, Grampian will want a word, apparently.’

‘The Complaints?’

‘Giles was quick to tell them about me turning up at your sister’s. No chance of them investigating your misdemeanours without dragging me into it too.’

‘Things just get better and better, don’t they?’

‘Look on the bright side – the restaurant last night forgot to charge me for our second bottle of wine.’

Fox managed the begi

‘Relax,’ Kaye told him. ‘So what are you doing the rest of the day? Want to meet up at Minter’s?’

‘I’ve got stuff to do.’

‘Such as?’

‘Alphabetising my bookshelves.’ Fox ended the call and drove home in silence.

The rest of the day, he couldn’t really concentrate on anything. The piles of books sat untouched. There were sections of the various papers still unbrowsed. The TV proved little comfort and he had no view from his window other than the house identical to his across the street. Then, at eight o’clock, someone rang his doorbell. He ticked off possible visitors – Jamie, Tony Kaye, A

It was Jude. The taxi that had just dropped her was leaving. Her arm was still in a sling, so she’d only managed to drape her three-quarter-length coat around her shoulders.

‘Good to see you,’ he said, pecking her cheek and ushering her inside.

‘Are you moving out?’ she asked when she saw the state of the living room.

Fox shook his head. ‘Been a while since you were last here,’ he commented.

‘We never seemed to get invited.’ She had shrugged off her coat. Fox walked into the kitchen and started filling the kettle.

‘DCI Giles phoned me,’ she explained from the doorway. ‘He says the man who came to my door on Monday night was a friend of yours.’

‘He works with me.’

‘Giles thinks you sent him.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Sent him to do your dirty work,’ she continued. ‘His name’s Kaye… I think you’ve mentioned him to me before. How did he know where I live, Malcolm?’

Fox turned towards her. ‘Jude… this man Giles is trying every trick he knows in an effort to fuck things up for me.’

‘You told Kaye where I live?’

‘At some point I must have. But I didn’t know he was going to come to your house.’

‘He was looking for Vince. Only reason he’d be doing that is if you told him what happened… told him about my arm.’

‘So?’

She was blinking back tears. ‘DCI Giles thinks maybe you had Vince killed.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Then why send your friend round?’

‘I didn’t send him. He was looking for Vince, remember? But Vince was already dead, Jude – and that means Tony Kaye didn’t know.’ Pain was thrumming in Fox’s temples. He opened a drawer and took out a packet of paracetamol tablets, popping two of them from the blister pack and washing them down with water from the tap. Jude waited until she had his full attention again before she spoke.

‘Giles says Vince could have been killed Monday night. He says the tests always have a margin of error.’

‘He’s lying. Pathology has Vince dying on the Saturday or the Sunday.’

A single tear was ru

‘I know,’ he said, as she buried her face in his chest.

They spent the next hour and a half talking quietly in the living room. She drank the tea he prepared for her, but didn’t feel like eating. She promised him she had eaten something at lunchtime. She promised him she would have breakfast. He brought out a packet of Weetabix from the kitchen and said she’d be taking it home with her. When he offered milk, she gave a little laugh and told him to stop making such a fuss. But he got the feeling she liked it really.

He called a taxi for her and pressed a ten-pound note into her hand. Then he pecked her on the cheek again and closed the door of the cab for her, waving as she was driven away. She’d asked him if he’d seen their father and he had lied – because he hadn’t wanted her to feel left out. Next time he was visiting Mitch, he would take her along. She belonged there just as much as he did. She was family.

Malcolm Fox made himself a last mug of tea and headed for bed. It wasn’t yet ten, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

Monday 16 February 2009

15

Malcolm Fox’s alarm woke him at seven as usual. He was in the shower before he realised there was no necessity to be up this early. Nor did he have to wear a clean shirt and a fresh tie, or his suit and braces, but that didn’t stop him putting all of them on. As he was eating breakfast, there was a phone call. It was a woman called Stoddart from Grampian Police PSU. She was ‘inviting’ him to a meeting at Fettes HQ.

‘Shall we say three p.m.?’

‘Three’s fine,’ Fox informed her.

The day was cold and overcast. Snowdrops were starting to appear in his front garden, and he reckoned there’d be some brave crocuses already sticking their heads above the parapet in the Meadows and the city’s other parks. He tried to work out a route that would take him through the Meadows on his way to Leith. It would be circuitous, but with the added bonus of a drive through Holyrood Park. Besides, he wasn’t exactly in a hurry.

A few years back, Fox and his team had investigated an officer based at Leith Police Station. He’d been taking backhanders and turning a blind eye. One of his own men had come to them, but only with a promise of anonymity. Meetings had taken place at a greasy spoon near the docks, and this was Fox’s destination today. The café was called The Marina, its paintwork peeling, interior walls shiny with grease. There were half a dozen Formica-topped tables and a ledge by the window where you could stand and eat if you preferred. The owner was a large, red-faced woman who did much of the cooking while an Eastern European girl worked the till and the tables. Fox had been seated for fifteen minutes, nursing a mug of industrial-strength tea, when Max Dearborn walked in. Dearborn saw him and his whole body seemed to sag. He’d put on half a stone or more since they’d last met, and had developed jowls. There was still acne around his mouth, and his dark hair was slick-looking, combed straight down. More than ever, he resembled Oliver Hardy’s Scottish nephew.

‘Hiya, Max,’ Fox said.

Dearborn’s breathing was hoarse as he wedged himself into the seat opposite Fox.

‘Is this just some horrific coincidence?’ the young man pretended to guess.