The Complaints

That had given Norquay a taste, and by the time he was forty he’d built up a fair-sized portfolio of rental premises, moving on to full-scale development opportunities when his chance came. He’d made a name for himself by spearheading an attempt to buy the stadiums belonging to both the city’s football clubs. A new joint-share stadium would be built outside Dundee as part of the deal, but negotiations collapsed.

‘Charlie Brogan wanted to buy into Celtic at one time,’ Fox told Breck.

‘He had plans to pave Paradise?’

Still, Norquay was vocal in his support for the regeneration of the city, pitching in when the council put forward a proposal to regenerate the waterfront.

‘Just like Brogan,’ Breck commented.

‘They were going to get rid of that roundabout we walked past.’ Fox was tapping his finger against the computer screen.

‘And reroute the roadway – makes sense,’ Breck agreed. ‘Read further down, though.’

The next few paragraphs explained Norquay’s fall from grace. He had overstretched himself financially, buying up one of the ugliest pieces of real estate around, a hotchpotch of 1960s high-rise blocks on the city’s periphery. His plan was to knock the whole thing down and start again, but difficulties had presented themselves almost immediately. The buildings were stuffed with asbestos, which made them expensive to demolish. Then old mine-workings were discovered, meaning half the land was unsuitable for construction without spending a fortune on underpi

‘Remind you of anyone?’ Fox asked Breck.

‘Maybe,’ Breck conceded. ‘But Norquay’s dead for certain, not just AWOL.’

‘He didn’t leave a note… didn’t visit his lawyer to make sure his will was up to date…’

Breck scrolled a little further down the page, then clicked on a link to an associated story. It didn’t add anything to their knowledge. According to the search engine, there were more than 13,000 matches still to go, but Fox had risen to his feet. There wasn’t much to see from the window, but he looked anyway.

‘Reckon they’re watching us?’ Breck asked him.

‘No… not really.’ Fox sipped from his can. There was a slight tremor ru

‘You don’t think he killed himself?’ Breck asked.

‘Do you?’

Breck considered for a moment. ‘Guy was haemorrhaging money… probably about to lose everything… and here was this white elephant just sitting there mocking him. He climbs to the top and decides to end it.’

‘Except everyone says he wasn’t the type.’

‘Maybe they just didn’t know him.’ Breck leaned back with his hands behind his head. ‘Okay, then – what’s the alternative?’

‘He could have been pushed.’ Fox gnawed at his bottom lip. ‘He was at a di

‘Me too.’ Breck paused. ‘Could he have been meeting someone?’

‘Either that or they followed him – can you get your pal on the phone?’

‘Mark?’ Breck picked up his rented mobile. ‘What am I asking him?’

‘Mind if I do the talking?’

‘No.’ Breck punched in the number and handed over the phone. Fox pressed it to his ear.

‘That you, Jamie?’ Mark Kelly answered.

‘Mark, it’s Malcolm Fox. Jamie’s here next to me.’

‘What’s got you so excited, Malcolm?’

‘We were just looking at some of the stuff on the internet about Philip Norquay.’

‘I hope you’re on overtime.’

‘We do this as a hobby, Mark. Listen, one thing you could help us with…’

‘Fire away.’

‘Did anyone think to check Norquay’s phone records?’

Kelly considered for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose it ever came up. The guy killed himself; there wasn’t anything you’d describe as an “investigation”. What’s your thinking, Malcolm?’

‘Just wondering what took him to the block of flats… the straw that broke the camel’s back…’

‘I suppose I could ask the widow.’

‘Or give us her details and we’ll do it,’ Fox suggested. There was silence on the line. ‘Mark? You there?’

‘You don’t think he jumped,’ Kelly stated.

‘Chances are, that’s exactly what he did, but with this thing in Edinburgh…’

‘How are the two co

‘Again, I’m not sure they are…’

‘But they might be.’ It was statement rather than question. Kelly exhaled noisily, causing static on the line. ‘You think we might have missed something?’

‘I’m not trying to score points here…’

‘Okay, look – if I get the info to you, and you do find anything…’

‘We come to you first. That’s not a problem, Mark. How long till you get back to us?’

‘Depends how merry the widow is. Talk to you soon.’

The phone went dead and Fox handed it back to Breck. ‘He thinks we’ll try to throw some custard in Tayside’s face.’

‘It might come to that,’ Breck said.

Fox nodded. ‘But if so, he wants to be the one to break the news.’

‘Wouldn’t do his career any harm. Did he say how long we’d have to wait?’

Fox shook his head.

‘So what do we do now?’

‘I think I’m going to go home.’

‘I can run you.’

Fox shook his head again. ‘The walk will do me good. I’m sure you’ll want an hour or two on your game.’ He wafted his hand over the top of the computer.

‘Fu

Friday 20 February 2009

24

Next morning at eleven a.m., Fox had a meeting with Linda Dearborn. There was no resemblance to her brother – she was petite and fizzing with energy, and her outfit would have had church ministers walking into lamp posts. The miniskirt was pleated, the bare, ta

She had picked the rendezvous – a café called Tea-Tree Tea on Bread Street. There was a bearded guy behind the counter and he tutted audibly when Fox ordered coffee. Fox had arrived twenty minutes early, giving him time to scan the newspaper. He’d added a cheese scone to his order, and settled himself at a table by the window. The sun outside had some warmth to it, hinting that spring was maybe finally on its way. Linda Dearborn arrived for the meeting ten minutes early. She smiled as if in recognition.

‘Linda?’ he asked anyway.

‘I hate to say it,’ she laughed, ‘but you do look like a cop. I think it’s the posture, or the way your eyes flit around all the time – Max is just the same.’ She had placed her heavy-looking satchel on the chair next to Fox.

‘Well, I’m not sure you look like a news-hound,’ Fox responded.

‘It’s my day off.’

‘You’ve chosen a brave get-up.’ She didn’t seem to understand.

‘Bare legs in winter.’

She looked down at them. ‘With what this tan cost, I can’t afford to hide them. Some of us suffer for our art, and my legs are a work of art, don’t you think?’

‘What can I get you?’

But she was already bounding towards the counter. The proprietor had perked up, and knew her order before she got the chance to tell him. Lapsang souchong with a slice of lemon. Fox pretended to read his paper while the two of them chatted. Dearborn stood on tiptoes with her elbows on the counter. She twirled a hank of hair while she talked. Fox tried not to think how attractive she was. She was Max Dearborn’s sister. She was a journalist.