The Complaints

26

That evening, Breck was going for a meal with A

‘Tom Kitchin’s place – booked it before all this blew up.’ Breck had paused. ‘I’m sure we could squeeze in an extra chair…’ But Fox had shaken his head.

‘Brogan used to take Joa

‘How do you know?’

‘It was in his diary.’

Afterwards, thinking back on this exchange, he’d felt gratified that Breck had asked him to come to the meal. It was the act of a friend, or at the very least the act of a man with little to hide. Fox had asked Breck if he was any nearer to telling A

‘Later,’ was all Breck had said.

Fox had gone out to his car and driven to Minter’s, texting Tony Kaye to let him know he was on his way. When he was five minutes from his destination, a reply had arrived from Kaye: Cant make it sorry TK. Another minute later, there was a PS: Joe n gilchrist might be there.

Fox wasn’t sure that he wanted to see Joe Naysmith and his new best friend. On the other hand, he couldn’t be bothered turning back, and the deal was sealed when a car drew out of a parking bay just as Fox was arriving. He backed the Volvo in and checked that he didn’t need to pay for a ticket at this hour. Turned out he’d beaten the system by a good five minutes. He locked the car and crossed the road to Minter’s. There wasn’t anyone standing at the bar, and no quiz show on the TV. The barmaid was young, with tattooed arms and pink streaks in her hair. Fox looked around. The woman Kaye knew was chatting with a friend at a corner table. Recognising Fox, she gave him a wave. Fox dredged up her name: Margaret Sime. The drink in front of her looked like a brandy and soda. Her cigarettes and lighter sat at the ready. Fox nodded back a greeting and ordered a tomato juice.

‘Do you want it spicy?’ the barmaid asked. Her accent was Eastern European.

‘Thanks,’ Fox said. ‘And a round of drinks for the table over there.’ Then, as she went about her business: ‘Are you Polish?’

‘Latvian,’ she corrected him.

‘Sorry.’

She shrugged. ‘I get that a lot. You Scots are used to the Poles invading your country.’

‘I hear a lot of them are heading home.’

She nodded at this. ‘The pound is not so strong, and people are getting angry.’

‘About the exchange rate?’

She shook the bottle of tomato juice before opening it. ‘What I mean is, jobs are becoming difficult to find. You don’t mind immigrants when they’re not stealing work from you.’

‘Is that what you’re doing?’

She was adding Tabasco to the drink. ‘Nobody’s complained as yet – not to my face.’

‘What would you do if they did?’

She made a claw of her free hand. The nails were long and looked sharp. ‘I bite, too,’ she added. Then she rang up the drinks. Fox was trying to decide where to sit when the door opened and Naysmith came in, followed by Gilchrist. Fox noticed that Joe’s whole demeanour had changed. He rolled his shoulders when he walked, as if filled with new confidence. His smile to Fox was that of an equal rather than an understudy. A couple of paces behind him, Gilchrist had his hands in his pockets, seemingly pleased with the transformation and ready to take credit for it.

‘Hiya, Foxy,’ Naysmith said, voice louder than usual.

‘Joe,’ Fox said. ‘What are you having?’

‘Pint of lager, thanks.’

Gilchrist added that he’d take a half of cider. The barmaid had just returned from delivering the drinks to Mrs Sime and her friend. She started pouring as Fox dug into his pocket for more cash.

‘How’s it going?’ Naysmith was asking. He went so far as to place a hand on Fox’s shoulder, as if to console him. Fox glared at the hand until it was removed. Gilchrist pursed his lips, trying to suppress a grin.

‘Still suspended,’ Fox answered Naysmith. ‘What’s keeping Kaye from his usual skinful?’

‘Crisis at home,’ Naysmith explained. ‘Mrs Kaye says if he doesn’t start spending some time there, she’s going to walk.’

‘So now we know who wears the trousers,’ Gilchrist added from over Naysmith’s shoulder. Naysmith laughed and nodded.

Fox didn’t know whether to be impressed or outraged. It had taken the interloper only a few days to turn Joe Naysmith around. The notion of Joe making jokes about Tony Kaye… laughing at domestic troubles… gossiping within hearing distance of a barmaid… With Fox out of the picture, Kaye was team leader, and now his authority was being eroded from within. Malcolm Fox didn’t like it. He didn’t like the way Joe had changed, or had let himself be remoulded.

‘What happened to your face?’ Gilchrist was asking.

‘None of your business,’ Fox answered.

‘Let’s grab a seat,’ Naysmith was saying, oblivious to Fox’s scowl of disapproval. Gilchrist had seen it, though, and understood perfectly. The smile he gave was lopsided and humourless. Divide and conquer – Fox had seen it before in his career. A team was seldom a team. There would always be the naysayer, the dissenting voice, the stirrer. You either gelded them or you moved them elsewhere. One cop he’d known had been offered a promotion to pastures new but had asked for it to be offered to a rival. Why? To move the bastard on and leave the rest of the crew intact. Fox wasn’t sure he’d have done the same. Maybe now he would, but not until recently. Until recently, he’d have taken the promotion and moved on, leaving his old team to its troubles.

‘Bloody quiet in the office,’ Naysmith was saying. ‘Bob’s talking about us taking on some of the meat-and-potatoes stuff.’

‘I’m not missed, then?’ Fox asked.

‘Of course you are.’

‘But if I was still there, you wouldn’t be.’ Fox gestured towards Gilchrist.

‘It’s not as cloak-and-dagger as I was expecting,’ Gilchrist complained. ‘Joe’s told me about some of your previous work. I wouldn’t have minded a piece of that.’

‘Don’t go getting too comfy,’ Fox warned him. ‘I could be back at my desk any day.’

‘It’ll happen, Malcolm,’ Naysmith assured him. But Fox was staring at Gilchrist, and Gilchrist didn’t seem so sure. Fox got to his feet, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor. ‘Joe,’ he said, ‘I need a word with your compadre.’ Then, this time to Gilchrist: ‘Outside.’

It sounded like an order because that was what it was. Gilchrist, however, was in no rush. He took another sip of cider and slowly placed the glass on its beer mat. ‘That okay with you?’ he asked Naysmith. Joe Naysmith nodded uncertainly. Fox had waited as long as he could and was now striding towards the door.

‘See you later,’ the barmaid called to him.

‘For definite,’ he answered her.

Outside, he took several deep breaths. His heart was pumping and there was a hissing in his ears. Gilchrist didn’t just a

‘Do what you’ve got to do,’ was all he said, turning his head so Fox couldn’t make eye contact.

‘You’re a turd,’ Fox said, his voice rasping. ‘What’s worse, you’re the turd who got me into this. So I’m going to ask you again – who was it brought Jamie Breck to you?’

‘Why does it matter?’

‘It just does.’

‘You going to slap me about a bit? We could compare bruises after.’

Fox pulled Gilchrist forward, then hurled him into the wall again.

‘McEwan’s going to love this when I…’

‘Tell him whatever you like,’ Fox said. ‘All I want to know is – whose idea was it?’

‘You already know.’

‘I don’t.’

‘I think you do… you just don’t want to believe it. She wanted me gone, Fox. Never, ever liked me. Sure, I was keen on a move, but I didn’t have anything to negotiate with. She did.’