The Complaints

‘What’s any of this got to do with you, Fox?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘Well, let’s see if I can guess.’ Heaton unfolded his arms and removed the cigarette from his mouth, flicking ash on to the ground. ‘Your sister’s man gets himself killed. He worked on a building project. That project was about to doom Charlie Brogan to bankruptcy.’ Heaton paused. ‘And you’re trying to co

‘The co

‘Bull’s not a stupid man… some people think he is, and that suits him – means they underestimate him, right up to the moment when he pulverises them.’

‘Did Charlie Brogan underestimate him?’

Heaton smiled to himself. ‘Why should I tell you anything?’

‘They say confession’s good for the soul.’ Fox paused. ‘And maybe I could see to it that the stuff in your file about Sonya Michie gets lost in the system.’

‘You think it bothers me that much?’ Heaton watched as Fox shrugged. ‘You’d have crossed a line, Fox – hard to go back to the Complaints after that.’

‘I doubt I’m going back anyway.’

Heaton stared at him for a full quarter-minute. ‘When it comes time for the Fiscal to talk to you…’

‘I could say mistakes were made. I could suddenly remember that some procedure or other wasn’t followed…’

‘Then they’d have to chuck the case out,’ Heaton said quietly. ‘Ten minutes ago, you said it was going to trial.’

Fox nodded slowly.

‘What’s changed?’

‘Me,’ Fox stated. ‘I’ve changed. See, I’ve decided right of this minute that you’re not important. You’ll fuck up in future and someone will nab you then. For now, you’re a low priority. I want answers to other questions.’

Heaton managed a wry smile. ‘How do I know you’ll do it?’

‘You don’t.’

‘Case like this, Fiscal might take months or years getting it ready for trial. And all that time, I’m at home with my feet up and the salary going into my bank account.’

‘But that’s not you, Glen. It’s not what you were made for. You’d go stir-crazy.’

Heaton was thoughtful. ‘So the state of play is: I’ve no guarantees I can trust you, there’s stuff you want from me, and we still hate one another’s guts?’

‘In a nutshell,’ Fox agreed.

‘Do I get to come inside?’ Heaton nodded towards Fox’s house.

‘No.’

‘In that case, get in the car – I’m freezing my balls off out here.’ Heaton didn’t wait for Fox to agree. He got back in behind the steering wheel, closed the door and slid the window shut. Fox stood his ground for a few seconds more, watching Heaton avoid eye contact. Then he walked around to the car’s passenger side and got in. The interior of the Alfa smelt new: leather and polish and carpets.

‘You don’t smoke in the car,’ he commented. ‘Is that because your wife doesn’t like it?’

Heaton gave a snort.

‘So say your piece,’ Fox prompted.

‘You’re right about Bull not having long to make his mark. His plan was to act as a broker for all the other bosses. He told them he could launder their dirty money by putting it into property and property development.’

‘Did Jack Broughton tell you this?’ Fox asked. Heaton turned his head towards him.

‘Charlie Brogan told me.’

‘You said you’d never met him.’

‘I lied. But here’s the thing… now you know this, there’s every chance you’ll end up the same way as him.’

‘There was a developer in Dundee…’ Fox was thinking aloud. ‘When he lost Wauchope some money, he turned up dead. Did Terry Vass kill him?’

Heaton’s eyebrows lifted a millimetre. ‘You seem to know a hell of a lot.’

‘I’m getting there. So Brogan and the Dundee developer suddenly had a bunch of negative equity, and Wauchope wanted his money out – because it wasn’t actually his. What’s Vince Faulkner got to do with any of this?’

‘You ever see Charlie Brogan? He never had much heft.’

‘Vince was like his… bodyguard?’

‘That’s maybe too strong. But when you go to a meeting, you want someone at your back.’

Fox took a moment to mull this over. ‘Remember a few months back? One of Ernie Wishaw’s drivers was caught with a consignment of dope…’

‘I remember.’

‘Rumour is, you were feeding information back to Wishaw.’

‘Breck again,’ Glen Heaton spat.

‘You’re a regular gun for hire, aren’t you? And that means you know a lot… Is that why they need to protect you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ever since I handed your case over to the Fiscal’s office, there’ve been people following me, trying to set me up and scare me off.’

‘I don’t know anything about that.’

‘Your good friend Billy Giles hasn’t dropped any hints?’

‘I’m finished talking, Fox. Just remember what I said – way things are going, you might not be around to see me stand trial.’

‘Not that that’s going to happen.’

‘Exactly.’ Heaton paused. ‘Now get out of my fucking car.’

Fox stayed put. ‘When people speak up for you, they say you always got results. You’d do a favour for one villain, and that villain would repay the debt with a titbit about a competitor. Is that what’s happening here, Heaton? Someone’s told you to give me Wauchope?’

Heaton stared at him. ‘Get out of the car,’ he repeated.

Fox got out. The music blared back into life as Heaton revved the engine hard before setting off. A neighbour peered from behind the curtains of her living-room window. Fox didn’t bother trying to apologise. What was the point? He stuffed his hands into his pockets and headed back indoors.

Saturday 21 February 2009

27

‘What makes you think you can trust him?’ Jamie Breck asked.

‘You reckon he was lying?’

Fox and Breck were discussing Glen Heaton. They were seated in Fox’s Volvo. It was eight o’clock in the morning. Daylight was definitely coming earlier as spring stopped cowering. Breck didn’t respond to Fox’s question; probably because he didn’t have the answer. He held a cardboard beaker of coffee in both hands. It was from a baker’s and was now lukewarm as well as weak. Fox had already emptied his out of the driver’s-side window. They were parked by a set of wrought-iron gates, waiting for those gates to open.

‘Twenty minutes,’ Breck muttered, checking his watch.

‘Kids don’t wear watches any more, have you noticed that?’

‘What?’ Breck turned his head towards him.

‘They use their phones – that’s how they tell the time.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Just making conversation. How was the carpaccio last night?’

‘Fine – Tom’s a great chef.’

‘Did you apologise to A

‘She forgives you, and I still don’t think you can trust Glen Heaton.’

‘Who said I was going to trust him? Someone’s using him to send us a message. What we do with it is up to us.’

‘You’ve thought it through?’ Breck stared at Fox, but then something caught his attention. ‘Hang on… what’s that noise?’

It was the low humming of a motor, accompanied by the rattle of a metal grille as it slowly opened. Fox turned the key in the ignition and waited. SeeBee House boasted an underground car park, and one of the residents was about to head out. From his vantage point, Fox could only see the top few inches of the grille that protected the slope down into the car park, but it was sliding upwards all right. And now he could make out the purring of a car engine.

‘Porsche,’ Breck drawled. ‘Bet you any money you like.’

Yes, a silver Porsche, driven by a man who didn’t really need the sunglasses he was wearing. It was light out, but there was no sun as yet. The gates seemed to shiver, then opened inwards slowly. The Porsche had to bide its time, though it sounded impatient. As soon as the gap allowed, it sped out of the compound and past Fox’s car. Fox drove inside and parked at the front door, just as on his previous visit. He was out of the car before the gates had started to close again.