The Complaints

Fox was shaking his head. The waitress had arrived, and he ordered a bacon roll.

‘Usual for you, Max?’ she asked Dearborn, who nodded a reply, keeping his eyes on Fox. When she moved away, Fox spoke in an undertone.

‘I hear you’re a DS these days – congratulations.’

Dearborn responded with a twitch of the mouth. Fox remembered him the way he’d been – a detective constable with ideals and principles still intact, yet fearful of alienating his colleagues. ‘Serpico’, Tony Kaye had called him.

‘What do you want?’ Dearborn was asking. He’d taken a good look around the café, seeking out enemies and sharp ears.

‘Are you working the Charlie Brogan drowning?’ Fox could feel sweat forming on his back. His heart was beating far too fast. The tea had enough ta

‘It’s not a drowning yet,’ Dearborn corrected him. ‘And what’s it to you anyway?’

‘I’m just interested. Reckon maybe you owe me a favour.’

‘A favour?’

‘For keeping your name under wraps.’

‘Is that some sort of threat?’

Fox shook his head. Dearborn’s coffee had arrived and he shovelled two spoonfuls of sugar into it, stirring noisily.

‘Like I say, I’m just interested. I’m hoping someone can keep me up to date.’

‘And that’s me, is it?’ Dearborn stared at him. ‘Why the interest? ’

Fox shrugged. ‘Brogan might tie in to another case.’

‘To do with the Complaints?’ Dearborn was suddenly less hostile, and more interested.

‘Maybe. It’s all hush-hush, but if anything did come to light, I’d be willing to share the credit.’ Fox paused. ‘You know my boss had a say in your promotion?’

‘Thought he might have.’

‘It can happen again, Max…’ Fox let his voice drift away. Dearborn took a slurp of coffee and then another, and started to do some thinking. Fox just sat there, hands in his lap, not wanting to rest any part of his suit against the surface of the table. The waitress was returning with their food – Fox’s filled roll; Dearborn’s fry-up. The young man’s plate was heaped, and he turned towards the cook and gave her a nod and a smile. She smiled back. Fox had peeled open his roll. The bacon looked pale and stringy. He closed it again and left it on the plate. Dearborn was squeezing brown sauce across the array of bacon, fried egg, sausage, beans and mushrooms.

‘Looks good,’ Fox commented. Dearborn just nodded and took his first mouthful, eyes on Fox as he chewed.

‘Body’s still not surfaced,’ Dearborn said.

‘Is that unusual?’

‘Not according to those in the know. Currents are irregular in the cha

‘I heard Fife Constabulary was claiming jurisdiction.’

Dearborn shook his head. There were already traces of egg yolk either side of his mouth. ‘That’ll never wash. We’ve asked for their cooperation, but this is D Division territory, fair and square.’

‘So where’s the boat?’

‘Dalgety Bay.’

‘Last time I looked, that was in Fife.’

‘It’s going to be towed to Leith later today.’

‘I’m assuming you’ve already given it a once-over?’

‘Forensics have,’ Dearborn confirmed.

‘Evidence of alcohol and pills,’ Fox stated.

‘You’re well informed. No suicide note, but I’m told that’s not so unusual. He’d contacted his solicitor a few days back to check some of the details of his will.’

Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘When exactly?’

‘Tuesday afternoon.’

‘Did he want to change anything?’

Dearborn shook his head.

‘I’m assuming everything will go to the widow?’

‘That depends on us finding a body. If we don’t, then she’s got a wait on her hands – it’s a legal thing.’ Dearborn concentrated on his food, then decided to share something with Fox. ‘His shoes have been found. Deck shoes, they’re called. Bobbing in the water off Inchcolm Island.’ He paused. ‘Supposing this does tie in to whatever you’re working on… how do I get my share of the spoils without anyone on my side knowing I’ve been talking to you?’

‘There are ways,’ Malcolm Fox said. ‘Trust me.’

When the meal was finished, their waitress asked if something was wrong with the bacon roll.

‘Just not hungry,’ Fox reassured her. Then, to Dearborn: ‘Let me get this.’

‘Your money’s no good in here.’

‘How come?’

Dearborn offered a shrug. ‘There was a break-in a few months back. I made sure we put in an extra bit of effort…’

‘You sure you should be telling this to someone from the Complaints?’

Max Dearborn winked and, with a certain amount of effort, got back to his feet. He insisted on leaving first. Fox watched him go and speculated as to a future of high blood pressure and diabetes, maybe even the odd coronary. About a year back, his own doctor had foretold much the same for him. Since when he’d dropped a stone, while feeling little better for it. He stood outside the café, listening to the screaming of gulls on the nearby roofs. Then he started walking. D Division HQ was on Queen Charlotte Street. As with Torphichen, it boasted a solid if drab Victorian exterior, but unlike Torphichen its interior still held traces of a certain faded grandeur – marble floors, carved wooden balustrades, ornate pillars. Dearborn would be inside by now. His last words to Fox had consisted of a promise to keep him posted. Fox had given him a card with his mobile number – ‘Your best bet for catching me,’ he’d said. Last thing he wanted was Dearborn calling his Fettes office and being told that Inspector Malcolm Fox was out of the game. Word would spread fast enough – Billy Giles would see to that – but meantime Dearborn might prove useful. He’d already given Fox something to think about.

Tuesday morning – Vince Faulkner’s body is found.

Tuesday afternoon – Charlie Brogan contacts his solicitor.

Thursday – his boat is found drifting, its owner missing.

Missing presumed dead.

Without really meaning to, Fox found that he’d strolled the quarter-mile to Leith Police Station. He walked as far as the corner of Constitution Street, then turned. He was just passing the building’s public entrance when a woman came out, sliding her oversized sunglasses back on to her face. She was dressed not in black but coordinated brown. She reached into her leopard-print handbag for cigarettes and lighter, but the breeze kept foiling her attempts.

‘Let me,’ Fox said, opening his suit jacket so it provided a windbreak. She got the cigarette lit and gave him a nod of thanks. Fox nodded a response and then moved off. Once back at his car, he made a U-turn and headed in the direction of the police station. She was still standing there, looking up and down the street. Fox pulled to a halt next to her and slid down the passenger-side window.

‘It’s Ms Broughton, isn’t it?’

She took a moment to recognise him as her nicotine saviour, then leaned down a little towards the open window.

‘I take it you’ve just been talking to my colleagues?’ he asked her.

‘Yes,’ she said, her voice less husky than he’d imagined it would be.

‘Looking for a taxi?’ She was peering up and down the street again. ‘I’m headed in your direction, if you’re interested.’

‘How do you know?’

Fox offered a shrug. ‘Casino or Inverleith – they’re both on my route.’

She studied him for a moment. ‘Can I smoke in the car?’ she asked.

‘Sure,’ he said with a smile. ‘Hop in.’

They drove in silence for the first couple of sets of traffic lights. As they stopped at the third, she noticed that he had wound his window halfway down.

‘You didn’t mean it about the smoking,’ she said, flicking the remains of her cigarette out of her own window.

‘Where do you want dropped?’ he asked.