The Complaints

‘Did you see him get out of the cab?’

‘Might’ve done – taxis drop people off all the time.’

‘You saw somebody like him?’

Scott just shrugged. The scrawny nineteen-year-old Fox had interviewed had bulked up, but the eyes had definitely softened.

‘There was a guy wandered off in that direction.’ Scott was nodding towards the east. ‘Wasn’t too steady on his pins, so I was glad he hadn’t tried coming in.’

‘You’d have stopped him?’

Scott nodded. ‘But there was just something about him… don’t ask me what. It made me think he’d have relished it.’

‘Relished being turned away?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it would have given him every excuse.’

‘For a fight, you mean?’

‘The guy was wound tight, Mr Fox. I think that’s what I’m trying to get at.’

‘Did you tell this to the other cops, Pete?’ Fox watched Scott shake his head. ‘Why not?’

‘They never thought to ask.’ Scott was distracted by the arrival of two teenage girls. They wore teetering high heels, miniskirts and plenty of perfume. One was tall and ski

‘Hiya, Pete,’ the shorter one said. ‘Any talent in tonight?’

‘Plenty.’

‘That’s what you always say.’ She patted his cheek as he held open the door.

‘The job has its compensations, Mr Fox,’ Pete Scott told the detective.

As he walked eastwards along the Cowgate, Fox wondered just how invisible he’d become. Neither girl had paid him the slightest attention. On the other hand, it was good that Scott didn’t hold a grudge. Good, too, that he was holding down a job – any kind of a job. Before Fox had left, the young man had confessed that he was now the father of an eighteen-month-old daughter called Chloe. He was still seeing Chloe’s mum but living together hadn’t worked out. Fox had nodded and the two had shaken hands again. The meeting had made Fox feel better, though he couldn’t say exactly why.

He knew that if he kept walking, he’d come to the St Mary’s Street junction. Past that and he’d soon be at Dynamic Earth and the Scottish Parliament. He was coming to the end of the short strip of bars and clubs. There were shops, but with their windows empty or boarded up. The city mortuary was along here, but he’d no desire to pay a visit. He assumed Vince’s body would still be in the fridge there. Across the road, a church had decided that the best way to raise funds was to build a hotel in its grounds. The hotel seemed to be doing reasonable business; Fox wasn’t sure if the church could say the same thing. He decided to turn and retrace his route. There were too many paths Vince could have taken: narrow lanes and flights of steps. He could have headed towards Chambers Street or the Royal Mile. For all Fox knew, he could have checked into the hotel and slept things off. He was trying to see the area’s attraction for Vince. Yes, it was full of bars, but then so was Lothian Road. Vince would have paid good money to have a cab bring him here from Leith. On the way, he would have passed dozens of places still open at that hour. He had to have had a destination in mind. Maybe Fox could talk to the cabbie; maybe A

‘Maybe,’ he muttered to himself.

The temperature was dipping still further. He had pulled up the collar of his coat, trying to protect his ears. There was a chip shop at the Grassmarket, but that suddenly seemed like a long haul. Besides, would it still be open? The curfew was in place, meaning all traffic had ceased. His own car was parked near the top of Blair Street. Five more minutes and he would be snug – there was nothing for him here.

But then he saw another neon light. This one was down a narrow alley – a dead end, in fact. He hadn’t spotted it before, but now that he looked there was a sign on the brick wall, pointing towards the lit doorway. Just one word above the sign’s arrow – SAUNA. He wondered if any of the team had got round to leafleting this particular business. He took a couple of steps deeper into the alley so he could better see the door. It was solid wood, painted gloss black, with a tarnished brass handle and an assortment of graffiti tags. There was a video intercom off to one side. Edinburgh’s sex industry liked to keep itself to itself, which was fine by the police.

Fox was readying to turn and head back to the car when a massive force detonated between his shoulders, sending him flying. His face hit the ground. He’d had just enough time to half turn his head, so that his nose escaped the worst of the impact. The weight bore down on him – someone was kneeling on his back, punching the air out of his lungs. Dazed, Fox tried to wrestle free, but a foot had co

When his eyes blinked open, the shoe was back. It was jabbing at his side. He lashed out a hand to grab it.

‘Wake up,’ a voice was saying. ‘You can’t sleep here.’

Fox clambered to his knees and then his feet. His spine ached. So did his neck and his jaw. The man standing in front of him was old, and Fox thought for a second that he knew him.

‘Too much to drink,’ the man was saying. He’d taken a step away from Fox. Fox was checking himself for damage. There was no blood, and no teeth seemed to have been dislodged.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘You’d be better going home to your bed.’

‘I’m not drunk – I don’t drink.’

‘Are you ill, then?’

Fox was trying to blink away the pain. The world sounded offkilter, and he realised it was the blood surging in his ears. His vision was blurred.

‘Did you see him?’ he asked.

‘Who?’

‘Pushed me to the ground and swung a kick at me…’ He rubbed his jaw again.

‘Did they take anything?’

Fox checked his pockets. When he shook his head, he felt like he might throw up.

‘It’s a bad part of town.’

Fox tried to focus on the man. He had to be in his seventies – cropped silver hair, liver-spotted skin… ‘You’re Jack Broughton.’

The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do I know you?’

‘No.’

Broughton stuffed his hands into his pockets and moved in until his face was a few inches from Fox’s. ‘Best keep it that way,’ he said. Then he turned to leave. ‘You might want to get yourself checked out,’ was his parting nugget of advice.

Fox rested for a moment, then shuffled back towards the main road. He angled his watch towards a street lamp. Twelve forty. Could only have been out cold for a matter of minutes. He held on to some of the buildings for support as he made his way back along to Rondo. His back felt like fire whenever he inhaled. Pete Scott saw him coming and stiffened his stance, mistaking him for trouble. Fox held up a hand in greeting and Scott moved towards him.

‘Did you trip or something?’ he asked.

‘Have you seen anybody, Pete? Had to be a big guy…’

‘There’ve been a few,’ Scott conceded.

‘In the time since I saw you?’

Scott nodded. ‘Some of them are inside.’

Fox gestured towards the door. ‘I’m going to take a look,’ he said.

‘Be my guest…’

The bar was rammed, with a sound system that could loosen fillings. The queue was three deep for drinks. Young men in short-sleeved shirts; women sipping cocktails through dayglo straws. Fox’s head took a fresh pummelling from the bass speakers as he squeezed his way through. In the back room, the stage was lit but no band was playing. More drinkers, more noise and strobing. Fox didn’t recognise anyone. He found the gents’ toilets and headed inside, gaining some respite from the din. There were paper towels strewn across the floor and none at all in the dispenser. He ran water over his hands and dabbed at his face, staring at his reflection in the smeared mirror. His chin was grazed and his cheek had swollen. The bruising would come soon enough. His palms stung where they’d co