The Complaints

Just jealous…

Heaton’s accusation had rankled because it was accurate. Tony Kaye in particular had seethed and spat as he listed the outgoings and purchases.

‘How’s he doing it on his salary?’ he kept asking anyone who would listen. The answer was: he wasn’t. Many of the transactions were paid in cash, and Heaton couldn’t explain why. Fox stared at the house and imagined Glen Heaton in bed with his wife. Then he considered the son she didn’t yet know about – not unless Heaton had confessed. The son was eighteen and lived in Glasgow with his mother. Added to which there was Sonya Michie, again kept secret from the wife. But then in Fox’s experience, often the wives didn’t want to know. They suspected… they sort of knew anyway… but they were happy to feign ignorance and get on with their lives.

‘What are you doing here, Malcolm?’ Fox muttered to himself. He was half hoping Heaton might appear on the doorstep in his dressing gown. He would walk to the car and get in. Then they could talk. Fox had told Breck that Charlie Brogan was at the centre of everything, but something had been niggling him even as he’d said it. Glen Heaton was more than unfinished business. There was a poison in the man that to Fox’s mind had infected more carriers than had come to light as yet. They were still walking around, some of them only dimly aware of the contagion. Sonya Michie was one of them, for sure. But now Fox was wondering about Jack Broughton and Bull Wauchope, too. He had wound his window down. He could smell and hear the sea. There wasn’t another soul about. He wondered: did it bother him that the world wasn’t entirely fair? That justice was seldom sufficient? There would always be people ready to pocket a wad of banknotes in exchange for a favour. There would always be people who played the system and wrung out every pe

‘But you’re not one of them,’ he told himself.

And then he saw something – movement at the door of Heaton’s bungalow. The door itself was opening, a man standing silhouetted against the lit hallway. He was wearing pyjamas and – yes – tying the belt of his white towelling robe. Glen Heaton was peering into the darkness, his focus directed at Fox’s Volvo. Fox cursed beneath his breath and turned the ignition. The parking space wasn’t huge and it took a bit of manoeuvring not to hit the vehicles in front and behind as he eased his own car out. Not that it mattered – Heaton seemed content to stand there, hands in pockets. Fox stared straight ahead as he drove off, headlights on full beam in an attempt to dazzle the man in the robe. Right, then right again, and he was on his way back towards Edinburgh, the image staying with him throughout.

Glen Heaton standing there, as if delivered to him.

And he, Malcolm Fox, had bottled it.

Thursday 19 February 2009

22

Thursday morning, Fox woke up to a text from Caroline Stoddart.

Feeling better?

As a matter of fact, he was. The swelling was starting to go down, and his palms only stung a little when he rubbed them together. His chin was okay, so long as he didn’t touch it. He reckoned he might postpone shaving that particular spot for another day or two. As for his back, it hurt when he twisted or leaned too far in one direction, but it was manageable, so he texted her back:

Yes.

Her next and final text told him to be at Fettes at ten. Fox sent a message of his own to Jamie Breck, letting him know he’d be tied up until lunchtime. Breck called back immediately.

‘Is it Stoddart?’

‘The one and only.’

‘Do you know what you’re going to say?’

‘I’m going to reiterate that I had nothing to do with Vince’s death and that none of this is your fault.’

‘It’s a plan, I suppose. What about afterwards?’

‘Thought I might go speak to Ernie Wishaw.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s a councillor, isn’t he? Maybe I’ve got a problem I want him to help me with.’ Fox paused. ‘No point you being there, Jamie.’

Breck gave a snort. ‘Try and stop me.’

‘Haven’t you got a game of Quidnunc to be playing?’

‘I’m the one who knows about Wishaw – or had you forgotten?’

‘But you’ve never met him?’

‘No.’

‘It’s risky, Jamie – if word gets back to Stoddart or Giles…’

‘If you’re going, I’m going,’ Breck stated. ‘End of story.’

But first there was the little matter of Fettes and the Grampian Complaints. The three officers – Stoddart, Wilson and Mason – assumed positions as before. When Stoddart saw the state of Fox’s face, she stopped what she was doing.

‘What happened to you?’

‘I fell down the stairs.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Isn’t that usually your sister’s excuse?’

‘At least it means I wasn’t shitting you yesterday.’ Fox accepted the clip-on microphone from Mason and fixed it to his shirt before sitting down.

‘I suppose not,’ Stoddart was saying in reply to Fox’s remark. ‘But I was just about to congratulate you…’

‘On what?’

‘Not getting into any more trouble in the interim.’ She paused. ‘Now I’m not so sure.’

Fox leaned forward a little in his chair, though the effort cost him a twang of pain. ‘You calling me a liar, Inspector Stoddart?’ he asked accusingly.

‘No,’ she answered, sifting through her paperwork. Fox ran his fingers down the laminated visitor’s pass that hung around his neck.

‘Any news from the Faulkner inquiry?’ he asked i

‘I wouldn’t know.’ She glanced up from her work. ‘Why did you attack DS Dickson?’

‘I was emotionally fragile.’

‘Would you mind repeating that?’

‘My sister had just lost her partner,’ he was happy to explain. ‘That had an effect on me, which I hadn’t reckoned with. It was only afterwards that I realised the force had made a mistake.’

‘The force?’

‘In not cancelling my duties and making me take a few days’ compassionate leave.’

Stoddart sat back in her chair. ‘You’re shifting the blame?’

Fox shrugged. ‘I’m just saying. But how come you were watching me, Inspector? Who was it ordered the surveillance, and what story did they use?’

Stoddart gave a cold smile. ‘That’s confidential information.’

‘I’m glad to hear it – too many leaks around here for my liking…’ He sat back, mimicking her posture.

‘Shall we get started?’ she asked.

‘Ready when you are,’ Fox told her.

An hour and a half later, he was handing his pass back to Frank on the front desk, grateful not to have bumped into anyone he knew – it would only have meant lying about his bumps and bruises. On the other hand, Tony Kaye, A

‘How you doing, sis?’ he asked her.

‘I’m okay.’

‘Are your pals still rallying round?’

‘Everybody’s been great.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘How about Dad – have you seen him?’

‘I’m probably in his bad books as well…’

‘I didn’t say you were in my bad books,’ she chided him.

‘I’ll try to visit at the weekend. Maybe we could take Dad out somewhere.’ Fox was behind the steering wheel by now. ‘Any news of them releasing the body?’

‘Nobody’s told me anything – could you maybe put in a word?’

‘I don’t see why not – everybody on the team loves me to bits.’

‘Are you being sarcastic, Malcolm?’

‘Maybe just a little.’ He started the ignition. ‘You sure you’re okay?’

‘I think I sound better than you do, actually.’

‘You’re probably right. I’ll ring you tomorrow if I can.’

He ended the call and put the car into first. He was just easing his foot off the clutch when his new phone rang. He exhaled loudly and answered.