The Complaints

‘I’m going home.’

‘By Inverleith Park?’

She nodded. ‘SeeBee House.’

Fox worked it out. ‘Your husband’s initials?’

She nodded again. ‘I suddenly realise something,’ she began, twisting in her seat so she was facing him. ‘I’ve only got your word for it that you’re a police officer. I should ask to see some ID.’

‘I’m an inspector. What did my colleagues want with you?’

‘More questions,’ she answered with a sigh. ‘Why it can’t be done over the phone…’

‘It’s because the face says a lot about us – we give things away when we talk. I’m assuming it wasn’t DS Dearborn you saw?’

‘No.’

‘That’s because I had a meeting with him at the same time.’

She nodded, as though accepting that he had proved his credentials. Her phone trilled and she plucked it from her handbag. It was a text message, which she responded to with quick, sure movements of her thumbs.

‘Long nails help,’ Fox commented. ‘My fingers are too pudgy for texting.’

She said nothing until she’d sent the message. Then, just as she was opening her mouth, her phone trilled again. Fox realised that it was mimicking the sound of an old-fashioned bell on a hotel reception desk. Broughton busied herself punching buttons again.

‘Messages from friends?’

‘And creditors,’ she muttered. ‘Charlie seems to have had more of the latter.’

‘You know his shoes have surfaced?’ He saw her give him a hard look. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised, ‘not the best turn of phrase…’

‘They told me at the station.’ She was back to her texting again. But then another phone sounded from inside her handbag. She rummaged until she found it. Fox recognised the ringtone – it was the theme from an old western.

‘Sorry about this,’ Broughton said to him as she answered. Then, into the phone: ‘I can’t talk now, Simon. Just tell me everything’s all right.’ She listened for a moment. ‘I should be there by six or seven. If you can’t cope till then, start writing out your resignation.’ She ended the call and dropped the phone back into her bag.

‘Staff problems?’ Fox asked.

‘My own fault for not having a proper deputy.’

‘You don’t like to delegate?’

She looked at him again. ‘Have we met somewhere before?’

‘No.’

‘You look familiar.’ She had slid her sunglasses down her nose and was peering at him. When she’d applied the make-up around her eyes this morning, her hand hadn’t been too steady. Close up, her hair was clearly a dye job, the tan probably fake. There was some crêping of the skin around her neck.

‘I get that a lot,’ Fox decided to reply. Then: ‘I was sorry to hear about your husband – and I’m not just saying that. Guy I know used to work for him… only had good things to say.’

‘What’s your friend’s name?’

‘Vince Faulkner. I say he worked for your husband, but really he worked on the site at Salamander Point.’

Joa

‘It’s when you get into trouble, though, that you find out who your real friends are.’

‘So they say…’ She had twisted towards him again. ‘I never caught your name.’

It took Fox a second to decide not to lie. ‘Inspector Malcolm Fox.’

‘Well then, Inspector Malcolm Fox, are you trying to get me to say something?’

‘How do you mean?’ Fox tried for a hurt tone.

‘I didn’t know Charlie was going to do it. I certainly didn’t aid and abet. And despite appearances, I’m torn to shreds inside – all of which I’ve repeated time and again to you and your kind…’ She looked out of the window. ‘Maybe you should drop me off here.’

‘It’s only another five minutes.’

‘I can walk that far.’

‘In those heels?’ Fox exhaled noisily. ‘I’m sorry, and I suppose you’re right. Once you’re a cop, it’s hard to switch off the mechanism. No more questions, okay? But at least let me drive you the rest of the way.’

She pondered this. ‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘Actually, that’s ideal. Your colleagues want to see Charlie’s business diary – you can take it back and save me the trouble.’

‘Sure,’ Fox agreed. ‘Happy to.’

SeeBee House was a five-storey apartment building comprising mainly steel and glass. It sat within a compound of brick walls and metal security gates. Broughton had her own little remote-control box, which she pressed, initiating the mechanism on the gates. There was an underground car park, but she told Fox to stop at the main door. He turned off the ignition and followed her towards the building. The foyer was almost as big as the ground floor of his house. There were two lifts against one wall, but Broughton was marching over to the opposite wall, where a single, narrower lift stood.

‘Penthouse has its own,’ she explained as they got in. Sure enough, when the lift doors opened again, they stepped directly into a small carpeted lobby with just the one door off. Broughton unlocked it and Fox followed her inside. ‘They call it a triplex,’ she informed him, shrugging off her coat and pushing her sunglasses up on to the crown of her head, ‘but that’s a cheat – one floor has nothing but a couple of terraces.’

‘It’s still incredible,’ Fox said. There was glass on three sides, floor to double-height ceiling, and views across the Botanic Gardens towards the Castle. Turning to his left, he could make out Leith and the coastline. To his right he could see as far as Corstorphine Hill.

‘Great for entertaining,’ Joa

‘Place looks brand new.’

‘One of the benefits of having no children.’

‘True enough – and a sort of blessing, too, I suppose.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Not having to explain things to them…’ Fox watched her begin to nod her understanding. ‘The worker who died didn’t have any children either.’

‘What worker?’

‘My friend, the one I was telling you about – did your husband not mention him?’

She ignored the question and instead told him to wait while she fetched the diary. Fox watched her as she started climbing the glass staircase to the next floor, then turned his attention to the room he was standing in. It was much as he remembered it from the newspaper photo. An L-shaped open-plan with pale stone flooring and modern furniture. The kitchen area was just around the corner. When he looked up, he could see a landing, probably with bedrooms and office off. The living area’s back wall – the only wall made of something more substantial than glass – seemed to have been stripped of its art. There were still a few hooks, plus holes where hooks had been removed. Fox remembered the newspaper article. It had described Brogan as ‘a collector’. He took a step back and watched as Joa

‘Here you go,’ she said, handing over the large, leather-bound diary.

‘Any idea why they want it?’ Fox asked.

‘You’re the detective,’ she said, ‘you tell me.’

He could only shrug. ‘Just being thorough,’ he guessed. ‘See if there was any unusual activity prior to your husband’s…’ He swallowed back the end of the sentence.

‘You’re wondering at his state of mind? I don’t mind saying it again – he was absolutely fine when he left here. I hadn’t the slightest inkling.’

‘Look, I said I wasn’t going to ask anything…’

‘But?’

‘But I’m wondering if it hurt you, him not leaving a note.’

She considered this for a moment. ‘I’d like to know why, of course I would. Money worries, yes, but all the same… we could have worked it out. If he’d asked, I’m sure we could have put our heads together.’

‘Maybe he was too proud to ask for help?’

She nodded slowly, arms hanging loosely by her sides.

‘Did he sell all his paintings?’ Fox asked into the silence. She nodded again, then started as the intercom sounded. She walked over to it.