The Complaints

‘Hell with it,’ he said, closing the newspaper and turning the ignition key.

He’d just have to turn up early to his crucifixion.

16

The officer on duty at the reception desk – a man Fox had known for a couple of years – had the good grace to apologise that he would have to take a seat. Fox nodded his understanding.

‘You’re just following orders, Frank,’ he said. So Fox sat down on one of the chairs and pretended an interest in his newspaper, while other officers came and went. Most of them gave him a glance or an outright stare – word had gotten around – and one or two paused to offer a word of sympathy.

When Stoddart made her entrance, she was flanked by two heavyset men. Stoddart herself was tall and elegant with long fair hair. If someone had told Fox she sat on the board of a bank or corporation, he wouldn’t have been surprised. She had a visitor’s pass around her neck, and ordered Frank to get one for Fox. Fox took his time getting to his feet. He closed his paper, folded it, slipped it into his pocket. Stoddart didn’t offer to shake hands; didn’t even bother to introduce herself or her henchmen. She handed the pass to Fox and turned on her heels.

‘This way,’ she said.

It wasn’t a long walk. Fox didn’t know whose office they had commandeered. The bulletin board and desk gave few clues. There was space for a circular coffee table and several chairs, which looked to have been borrowed from the canteen. On the desk sat a laptop and some cardboard folders. There was another laptop on the coffee table. A video camera had been fixed to a tripod and aimed at the desk.

‘Sit,’ Stoddart commanded, walking around to the far side of the desk. One of her goons had seated himself at the coffee table. The other was peering into the camera, making sure it didn’t need adjusting. He came forward and handed Fox a tiny microphone.

‘Can you clip that to your lapel?’ he asked. Fox did so. A wire ran from the mic to the camera. The officer had slipped a pair of headphones on, and was checking the apparatus again.

‘Testing, testing,’ Fox said into the mic. The man gave him the thumbs-up.

‘Before we get started,’ Stoddart began. ‘You’ll appreciate how awkward this is. We don’t like finding out a complaint has been made against one of our own-’

‘Who made the complaint?’ Fox interrupted. She ignored him, her eyes on the laptop’s screen as she spoke.

‘But these things have to be done properly. So don’t expect any favours, Inspector Fox.’ She nodded towards the cameraman, who pressed a button and a

‘Preliminary interview,’ she went on. ‘I am Inspector Caroline Stoddart and I am accompanied by Sergeant Mark Wilson and Constable Andrew Mason.’

‘Which is which?’ Fox interrupted again. Stoddart gave him a stare.

‘Constable Mason is operating the camera,’ she informed him. ‘Now, if you’ll identify yourself…’

‘I’m Inspector Malcolm Fox.’

‘And you work for the Complaints and Conduct department of Lothian and Borders Police?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Specifically the Professional Standards Unit?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long have you been based there?’

‘Four and a half years.’

‘And before that?’

‘I was at St Leonard’s for three years, and Livingston before that.’

‘This was in your drinking days?’

‘I’ve been sober for five years. Didn’t realise my tippling was a matter of record.’

‘You’ve never looked at your perso

‘No,’ he told her, crossing one leg over the other. In doing so, he dislodged the newspaper, which fell from his pocket on to the floor. He stooped to pick it up, stretching the microphone cord so that it came unplugged from the camera.

‘Hang on,’ Mason said, removing his headphones. Fox apologised and straightened himself, his eyes on Caroline Stoddart.

‘Having fun?’ she asked.

‘Are we speaking on the record or off?’

Her mouth twitched, and she went back to checking whatever was on her computer screen. ‘Your sister likes a drink too, doesn’t she?’

‘This isn’t about my sister.’

‘Ready,’ Mason a

Stoddart took a moment to collect her thoughts again. ‘Let’s talk about Vincent Faulkner,’ she said.

‘Yes, let’s. He was found dead on Tuesday morning of last week – when did you get the word to put me under surveillance?’

‘He was living with your sister?’ Stoddart asked, ignoring his question.

‘That’s right.’

‘And you’d recently discovered that there had been an argument between the two of them, during which her arm was broken?’

‘A week ago, yes.’

‘What were you working on at that time?’

‘Not much. My team had just finished expending considerable effort putting together a case against DI Glen Heaton of C Division.’

Stoddart was scrolling down a page. ‘Anything else in your in-tray? ’

‘I’d been asked to take a look at someone…’

‘This would be Detective Sergeant Jamie Breck?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Also stationed at C Division?’

‘Yes.’

‘What were the circumstances of the request?

‘My boss, Chief Inspector McEwan, had been contacted by CEOP. DS Breck had come on to their radar and they wanted him checked out.’

Stoddart reached over to the top folder and opened it. There were surveillance photos inside, the same ones Giles had had at Torphichen.

‘Bit of a conflict of interest,’ Stoddart mused. ‘You’re looking at Breck, while he’s looking into your sister’s partner’s murder…’

‘I was aware of that.’

‘You didn’t attempt to distance yourself from the case?’

‘Which case?’

‘Either, I suppose.’

Fox gave a shrug. ‘How are things in Aberdeen?’ he asked.

The change of direction didn’t appear to have any effect on Stoddart.

‘We’re not here to talk about me,’ she drawled, pushing her hair back behind her ears. ‘You seem to have become friendly with DS Breck in a very short space of time.’

‘The relationship was always professional.’

‘That’s why he came to your house on Wednesday night? You went to a casino together.’

‘It was work-related. Besides, CEOP had asked for my assessment of DS Breck.’

‘Yes, there was a Complaints van parked outside his home. Did you advise them they were wasting their time?’

‘He headed back there eventually.’

‘But you told them about the trip to the casino?’

‘No,’ Fox admitted.

‘So two of your colleagues were sitting in a surveillance van on a cold February night…’

‘It’s what we do.’

She looked at him, then back to the screen again. Fox enjoyed a momentary fantasy of punching his fist through it. When he peered over his shoulder, Wilson was busy studying his own laptop.

‘Is it patience you’re playing there, or Minesweeper?’ Fox asked him. Wilson didn’t respond.

‘DS Breck,’ Stoddart was saying, ‘was at the casino because Vincent Faulkner might have visited it the night he died?’

‘He did visit it,’ Fox corrected her.

‘And that visit was on the Saturday, after he’d broken your sister’s arm?’

Fox nodded. ‘And I didn’t find out about her arm until Monday.’

‘Mr Faulkner’s body was found on Tuesday morning?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Your sister was visited on Monday evening by one of your colleagues? ’

‘Sergeant Kaye.’

‘Did you know that was happening?’

‘No.’

‘You’d told him about her arm?’

‘Yes.’

A phone started to ring. Stoddart realised it was hers. She signalled for Mason to pause the recording, then reached into her jacket pocket.

‘One moment,’ she advised the room, getting to her feet and making for the door. After she’d gone, Fox stretched his spine, feeling the vertebrae click.