The Complaints

‘DI Stoddart,’ he said, ‘has been pumping A

‘She’s thorough, if nothing else,’ Breck commented.

Fox was thoughtful as he let his fingers drift across his swollen cheek. ‘You shouldn’t be part of this, Jamie. What you should be doing is clearing your name.’

‘And how do I do that without them realising you must have tipped me off?’ Breck shook his head slowly. ‘Got to clear your name before I can clear mine – so what’s next on the day’s agenda?’

Fox looked at the front of his phone – three o’clock had come and gone. ‘Lunch?’ he suggested.

‘Another supermarket run?’ Breck guessed. Fox nodded, reaching into his pocket for money.

‘My shout,’ he said. ‘You paid for breakfast…’

Breck took the ten-pound note but stood his ground. ‘And after?’

‘Dundee’s an option – but again, it’s something I can do for myself. ’

Breck pointed at Fox’s face. ‘I’ve seen the results of your solo efforts. So you won’t mind if I tag along?’

After Breck had gone, Fox rose to his feet and walked to the window. He stared out at the street, his mind dazed. Then he went to the kitchen and helped himself to more painkillers. A

Back at the coffee table, he picked up a sheaf of photocopied sheets – the transcript of the cabbie’s interview. It struck him that Vince might have had good reason for hesitating before leaving the taxi. He’d been agitated. He had a location in mind but showed some reluctance. At Marooned he’d tried picking a fight, then at the bus stop there had been a second confrontation. The doormen at the Oliver shouldn’t have let him in, but did. Why was that? Jamie Breck had said that Joa

Sifting through all the material, it struck Fox that here was another huge favour A

‘I trust you, A

He was back in the kitchen, pouring more tap water into his glass, when he realised his old mobile was ringing and headed through to the living room to find it. But whoever was calling gave up before he got there. Fox checked the number – another mobile – and called back.

‘I just missed you,’ he said when the phone was picked up at the other end.

‘It’s Max Dearborn.’

‘How are things with you, Max?’

‘Nose to the grindstone.’

‘Any sign of the errant developer?’

‘No.’

‘But that’s what he’s become, right? Errant rather than deceased?’

‘It’s one possibility among many.’

‘I can only think of five, Max. He’s dead and it was an accident; or he topped himself; or someone took care of him.’

‘That’s three…’

‘And if he’s alive, he either faked his suicide or someone else did it for him, meaning he’s been snatched.’

‘Wouldn’t the wife have had a ransom note by now?’

‘Maybe she’s just not telling you, Max. From what I know of Joa

‘That’s a point,’ Dearborn conceded. ‘Speaking of which, her PR man’s on the warpath again.’

‘I’ve not been near her…’

‘It’s a reporter he’s got in his sights.’ Dearborn sounded tired. Fox reckoned he knew why he’d called – no hidden agenda, but rather the need to talk, to blow off a little steam, to gossip with someone outside the circle of wagons. Fox imagined Dearborn in a half-empty CID office, everyone flagging after the first few days of toil. Waiting for a break in the case, and made lethargic by too many sandwiches and chocolate bars. Maybe Dearborn had his chair pushed back, necktie undone, feet up on the desk…

‘What’s the reporter done?’

‘Not much. She’s got hold of a rumour that Brogan was tied up in something.’

‘Yes?’

‘Trying to bribe a councillor. It’s something to do with all these flats Brogan’s been putting up. Suddenly nobody’s buying. He was hoping the council might.’

‘What would the council want with them?’

‘Social housing – city’s short a few thousand homes, or hadn’t you noticed?’

‘Sounds as if Brogan might have had the solution.’

‘If the price was right…’

‘And how was a solitary councillor going to sugar the deal?’

‘Helps if the councillor sits on the Housing Board.’

‘Ah,’ Fox said. Then, after a pause: ‘I still don’t see much that’s wrong with it.’

‘To be frank, me neither.’

‘So who told you all this? Not Gordon Lovatt?’

‘The reporter.’

‘And why are you telling me?’

‘Because you’ve got form when it comes to getting up people’s noses. Next time you see Joa

‘In the hope that they’ll do what, exactly?’

‘Maybe nothing… maybe something.’

‘Seems to me you owe this reporter a favour, but can’t stick your own head above the parapet. Mine, on the other hand…’

‘It was just a thought. The reporter’s name is Linda Dearborn, by the way.’

‘That’s quite a coincidence, Max.’

‘It would be, if she wasn’t my baby sister. Let me give you her number…’ He did so, and Fox jotted it down. He could hear another phone ringing somewhere in Max Dearborn’s vicinity. ‘Got to go.’

‘Any news about Brogan, you’ll let me know?’ Fox reminded him. But Dearborn had already ended the call. Fox scratched his head and tried to order his thoughts. There was something he should have asked, so he sent Dearborn a text.

Name of councillor?

It was five minutes before he received a reply:

Ernie Wishaw.

Fox was still staring at the name when Breck returned with the food. Breck didn’t appear to have noticed any change in him. He unloaded packets of sandwiches and crisps on to the coffee table, along with a couple of bottles of lemonade. He was halfway through asking Fox if he preferred prawn salad or ham and mustard when he broke off.

‘Did someone die?’ he asked.

Fox shook his head slowly. ‘Your councillor…’

‘Which one?’

‘With the lorry business.’

‘What about him?’ Breck’s face showed puzzlement.

‘He might co

Breck thought for a moment. ‘Because of the casino?’

‘There’s a journalist looking to prove that Brogan was giving a backhander to Ernie Wishaw.’

Breck slowly unwrapped his sandwich, sliding it on to the same plate that had earlier held his croissant.

‘Brogan,’ Fox continued to explain, ‘wanted to offload some of his white elephants on to the council. Wishaw was going to make sure the council didn’t get too much of a bargain.’

Breck shrugged. ‘Sounds feasible. Who’s the journalist?’

‘Max Dearborn’s sister.’

‘And who’s Max Dearborn?’

‘A DS at Leith. He’s on the team investigating Brogan’s little disappearing act.’

Breck looked at Fox. ‘Not suicide?’

Fox just shrugged. ‘If the reporter’s right, you could get your hands on Ernie Wishaw after all.’ Fox paused. ‘If you were Brogan and you wanted to twist his arm, maybe you’d show him a good time first.’

‘At the wife’s casino?’

‘Give him a pile of chips to play with…’

‘I’m not sure Wishaw’s that gullible.’