The Complaints

‘It’s a bit public,’ Breck replied, his voice full of doubt. ‘Just that wee bit exposed.’ He seemed to remember something. ‘You know what you were saying? About him maybe living downstairs from the penthouse…?’

Fox shook his head. ‘It would put Joa

‘Isn’t she there already? When he scarpered, why did she stick around?’

‘She’s got a casino to run, Jamie. Besides, if they’d both done a midnight flit, Wauchope would have been on to them all the quicker.’

Breck nodded his agreement. ‘How come I’m the one being fast-tracked when you’re the better cop?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Maybe you bribed someone…?’

Breck gave a snort and checked his watch against the large digital clock above the departure and arrival boards. ‘There’s a train to Dundee, leaves on the dot of seven. If we miss that, next one’s half past. What do you think?’

‘Maybe we get on the train we’re told to catch and he jumps on at a station down the line.’

Breck nodded slowly. ‘Or?’

‘Or he meets us here. But you said it yourself – it’s risky.’

‘Or we’re being led a dance,’ Breck offered.

Fox gave a twitch of the mouth. ‘Was A

‘Di

‘She’s a tough negotiator.’

‘I thought it best to cave in straight away. You were right, by the way…’

‘Dickson and Hall?’

Breck nodded again. ‘Handing out flyers the night you got jumped. Any plans for a revenge attack?’ Breck watched Fox shake his head, then checked the station clock again. ‘Seven’s been and gone.’

‘Yes.’

‘And here we are, standing outside WH Smith.’

‘I can’t disagree.’

‘And nothing’s happening.’ Breck shuffled his feet. Fox was studying the passing parade of travellers. Some had obviously enjoyed a drink; maybe one or two of them had been to the football. They were voluble as they chatted with their friends. It was Saturday night and people from outside the city were arriving with only one aim in mind. Fox had even heard the Rondo mentioned as a probable destination for later.

Breck was studying his watch. ‘Just relax,’ Fox told him.

‘Are you on medication?’ Breck asked. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not fretting.’

‘My insides are dancing,’ Fox admitted.

More people passed them, some at a gallop in a bid to make this or that seven o’clock departure – there were delays on a few of the trains. The a

‘He’s late,’ he stated. Breck just nodded. The phone in Fox’s hand started to ring. He peered at the screen: same number the text had come from, but this time it was an actual call. He pressed the phone to his ear and answered. ‘Yes?’ he said.

The voice was u

‘Message received and understood,’ Fox muttered. Then, to Breck: ‘Come on.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘He wants us on Market Street.’ Fox crossed the concourse, heading for the stairs.

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s watched too many Bourne films.’

‘Did you recognise the voice?’

‘I’ve never spoken to him.’

‘So maybe it’s not him.’

‘If this was Quidnunc and not real life, how would you play it?’

‘I’d forge alliances.’

Fox looked at him. ‘Not much time for that.’

‘Besides which, who’d want to side with us?’ Breck added.

‘Good question…’ When they reached the top of the footbridge, Fox had to pause to catch his breath. ‘Imagine what I’d be like if I smoked,’ he managed to say.

‘Half a stone lighter?’ Breck replied. Then: ‘What are we supposed to do when we get there?’

‘Await further instructions.’

Breck stared at him. ‘Tell me he didn’t use those words.’

Fox shook his head and started moving again. A further flight of steps and they emerged out on to the pavement. There were traffic lights to their right. Fox looked around, seeking their tormentor. The City Art Centre was in darkness. People scurried past, heads down. North Bridge was overhead to their left, buses nose to tail as they waited for the lights to change at Princes Street.

Breck was staring at the train tickets. ‘I hope he’s going to refund us,’ he said.

‘I think we’re at the very rear of that particular queue, Jamie.’

‘You’re probably right.’

Fox’s phone rang again. He put it to his ear. The voice had changed, unable to sustain its previous tone.

‘Cross the road and head for Jeffrey Street. Once you’re past the bridge, look for a church.’ The caller hung up. Fox turned to Breck.

‘I think we’re about to repent our sins,’ he said, readying to cross at the lights. Fox wasn’t really expecting any church to be open to visitors on a Saturday night, so when they arrived at the doors to Old St Paul’s he stood there, looking to left and right. He checked that he was still getting a signal on his phone – Edinburgh was full of dead zones.

‘What now?’ Breck asked. ‘More waiting?’

‘More waiting,’ Fox agreed.

‘Whatever else happens, this guy’s getting a slap from me.’ Breck paused. ‘Do you think he’s watching us?’

‘Maybe.’

Breck looked up and down the street. ‘Not too many candidates,’ he concluded. It was quieter here than on Market Street. There was a single-decker bus parked outside the Jurys I

‘Maybe.’

Breck swore beneath his breath while Fox studied the wall of the church. There was a couple of signs, one indicating that Old St Paul’s belonged to the Scottish Episcopal Church, the other giving a taste of its history. The church had been founded in 1689, and was an eighteenth-century refuge for Jacobites. It proclaimed itself a place ‘for all who seek faith’.

‘Amen to that,’ Fox was muttering under his breath as his phone sounded again. He put it to his ear and had already uttered a terse ‘Yes?’ when he realised it was an incoming text. There was just the one capitalised word:

INSIDE.

He showed Breck the screen, and Breck reached out to turn the door handle. With the slightest of pushes, the door opened inwards. There was a flight of stone steps. Fox used the handrail as he climbed. When he turned the corner at the top, he was in a church much larger than its exterior had suggested. There were modern-looking paintings at one end, a pulpit and altar at the other, with a chapel off. A young man was sweeping between the pews. He didn’t pay them any attention, even though Breck was staring at him. But Fox’s attention had shifted to the lit chapel. A huge painting covered most of one wall. Some folding chairs had been placed in front of it. He sat down on one and saw that the painting comprised four square canvases, placed together to make up a vast swirl of white material. Was it meant to be a cloak or a shroud? He couldn’t tell, but he was mesmerised by it.

‘Is that him?’ Breck was whispering. He meant the floor-sweeper.

‘Too young,’ Fox stated.

‘This is just stupid.’ Breck ran his fingers through his hair.

‘Sit down,’ Fox suggested. ‘Take the weight off.’

Breck didn’t look convinced, but he sat down anyway.

‘One of the paintings Brogan sold,’ Fox said quietly, ‘looked a bit like this, only smaller.’ He was remembering the photo of the penthouse’s interior, the one published in the newspaper.

‘Is that why he’s brought us here?’

Fox just shrugged and let his gaze move across the painting. Someone was coming up the stairs. Their footsteps sounded like busy sandpaper. Breck had turned to watch. The footsteps were quieter as they entered the chapel. Breck had risen to his feet, nudging Fox, but Fox was continuing to study the painting. The new arrival crossed in front of him and sat down on the next chair along.