The Complaints

It took Wishaw fully fifteen seconds to answer that he didn’t know. ‘I’m just thankful I’m not one of the ones waiting for Salamander Point to turn a profit.’ He was trying for levity, and that told Malcolm Fox something.

Told him he’d just been lied to.

‘That last time you spoke with him – did he call you or did you call him?’

Wishaw blinked a couple of times and fixed the detective with a look. ‘You must know that from the logs.’

‘I just want confirmation.’

But there was a change taking place behind Wishaw’s eyes. ‘Should my lawyer be here?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’

‘I’m begi

‘Not for the police, Mr Wishaw. As far as we’re concerned, when someone disappears or dies… that’s the story just begi

‘I suppose that’s true,’ Wishaw offered. ‘But I’ve told you all I can.’

‘Except for the details of that final phone call.’

Wishaw considered his response for a further ten or fifteen seconds. ‘It was nothing,’ he decided. ‘Nothing at all…’ He looked down at his overalls. ‘I need to get changed. There’s council business this afternoon – another dispute with the tram contractor.’ He offered a curt nod and made to move past Fox.

‘You’re sure you never had any business dealings with Mr Brogan?’ Fox asked. ‘Not even a tender for some work?’

‘No.’

‘And he wasn’t trying to persuade you to help him lay some of his tower blocks off on the council?’ Wishaw just glared, bringing a smile to Fox’s lips. ‘You know a man called Paul Meldrum, Mr Wishaw?’

The change of tack took Wishaw by surprise. ‘Yes,’ he admitted.

‘He works for a firm called Lovatt, Meikle, Meldrum,’ Fox went on. ‘They’re in PR, but Meldrum’s area of expertise is lobbying.’

‘I’m not entirely sure where this is going…’

‘I was just wondering if it was maybe Charles Brogan who put you on to the firm in the first place.’

‘Might have been,’ Wishaw conceded. ‘Is it important?’

‘Not really, sir. Thanks again for your time.’ Fox paused for a few beats, then leaned in towards Wishaw. ‘And maybe next time we’ll have that lawyer present,’ he added in an undertone.

‘Libel comes with a hefty price tag…’ Wishaw was about to add Fox’s name, but realised he didn’t know it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I don’t think you introduced yourself…’

‘I gave my card to your daughter,’ Fox answered.

‘My…?’ Realisation dawned on Wishaw. ‘That was my wife.’

‘Then you should be ashamed,’ Fox said, deciding this was as good a parting shot as any.

23

‘Something I should maybe have told you,’ Jamie Breck said. They had dropped Fox’s car back at the house and were now heading north out of the city. Fox was a nervous passenger at the best of times, and he wasn’t liking the RX8. He felt too low to the ground and the sports seat restricted his movement. Breck – a vital couple of inches shorter and probably half the girth – fitted in well, but not Fox. Cars like this were not built for people his size, and certainly not ones with injured backs.

‘What?’ Fox asked. Another thing: sometimes it felt as if the Mazda was about to mount the kerb; other times as if it were straying out into the opposite lane. Breck always seemed to wait until the final moment before making the correction.

‘It’s about Ernie Wishaw – I didn’t let his case drop exactly.’

Fox was in two minds about whether to let the conversation continue or suggest that Breck should shut up and concentrate on driving. Curiosity got the better of him.

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean I’ve been doing some digging – strictly in my own time. I’m one hundred per cent sure he was taking a cut from the trafficking. His lorries head over to Europe on a weekly basis. Always tempting to jack up the profit by bringing back some contraband.’

‘That usually means booze and cigarettes.’

Breck nodded. There was a sudden vibration in the car as the driver’s-side tyres once more co

Fox considered this. ‘Bruce Wauchope’s in jail for drug-dealing.’ ‘Indeed he is.’

‘You think his son’s…?’

‘I can’t prove anything as yet.’

‘But if he was, he might turn to Ernie Wishaw for advice?’

‘Wishaw’s had the equivalent of a near-death experience – one of his guys is doing time, and he was the thickness of a Rizla paper away from joining him.’

‘So Wishaw wouldn’t smuggle dope on Bull Wauchope’s behalf?’

‘Actually I think he would,’ Breck said quietly. ‘All it needs is for someone to scare him enough.’

Fox thought about it. Yes – the threat of violence against his precious wife or his even more precious fleet of lorries… ‘Think we might find an answer in Dundee?’

‘Isn’t it lucky we’re already headed there?’

And so they were – they’d already passed through Barnton and were sweeping out into the countryside, the road broadening into a proper dual carriageway, passing Dalmeny and South Queensferry on their right. In a moment, the Forth Bridges would be visible.

‘Why are you just telling me this now?’ Fox asked.

‘Maybe I have a problem with trust, Malcolm. Have you forgotten how long it took you to tell me I was a suspected paedophile?’

‘That’s different – you were under investigation.’

‘And you, my friend, were a suspect in the killing of Vince Faulkner. Didn’t take me long to see that Billy Giles was wrong in his assumption…’

Fox took a moment to digest this. ‘So how did you go about your own little inquiry into Ernie Wishaw?’

‘I spoke to the driver’s wife and her brother. I did some digging to see if there was any sudden cash swilling around – new TV or car, that sort of thing.’

‘And?’

Breck just shrugged. ‘I even went to Saughton as a visitor.’

‘You spoke with the lorry-driver?’

‘He wasn’t giving anything away.’

‘But he knew who you were?’ Fox watched Breck nod. ‘So it could have got back to Wishaw – or anyone else for that matter.’

‘I suppose.’

Fox was thoughtful. ‘Could Wishaw’s driver have been working for Bull Wauchope? Wauchope Senior’s doing time for bringing dope in by sea. Maybe intercontinental lorries started to look a better bet to his son.’

‘Maybe,’ Breck conceded. ‘You’ll have heard the stories as often as me – port officials sometimes “oiling the wheels”.’

‘They take a bung and don’t check the cargo too thoroughly?’

Breck was nodding. Fox reached into his pocket for his phone and a slip of paper – the one with the number of Max Dearborn’s sister.

‘Who are you calling?’ Breck asked.

‘A friend, maybe.’ He had the ringing tone, and a moment later the call was answered by a female voice.

‘Is that Linda Dearborn?’ Fox asked.

‘Speaking.’

‘My name’s Malcolm Fox. I’m a colleague of Max’s.’

‘Yes, he’s mentioned you. Word is, you’re on suspension.’

‘Fu

‘Plenty time yet, Malcolm.’ Her voice had a teasing quality to it. This was probably her method, Fox reasoned: be chatty, gossipy, maybe your new best friend… and then repeat any confidences for the paying public.

‘Max tells me you’re looking into Charles Brogan’s disappearance. ’

‘Not exactly,’ she corrected him. ‘It’s Brogan’s method of doing business I’m interested in.’

‘In particular, whether he was trying to bribe a city councillor?’

‘Yes.’

‘And as a result, Joa