The Complaints

‘Yes.’

‘Does Joa

Brogan gave him a look, and Fox rolled his eyes. ‘If she knows, then it’s not safe.’

‘She’d never tell.’

‘Maybe so…’ Fox didn’t bother with the rest of the sentence. ‘We keep in touch by phone, right?’ He waited until Brogan had nodded his agreement. ‘Okay then. Keep your head down for another day or two while I discuss options with DS Breck.’

Brogan nodded again. A taxi had swept around the corner, its ‘hire’ light illuminated. Brogan stuck out a hand and the driver signalled to stop. Brogan got in and closed the door after him. Whatever destination he gave the driver, neither Fox nor Breck heard it. They watched the cab as it headed for the Morrison Street junction.

‘What now?’ Breck asked.

‘I thought you were the one with the ideas.’

‘You might not like them.’

‘If they’re better than nothing, they’re worth hearing.’ They started walking uphill towards the traffic lights. There was a pub just across the road.

‘What did you think of Brogan?’ Breck asked.

‘I wanted to punch him in the face.’

‘That would have looked good on the video,’ Breck said with the hint of a smile.

‘Wouldn’t it, though,’ Fox agreed. ‘I should have done it when we were in that chapel.’

‘In the sight of God?’ Breck’s voice feigned outrage at the notion. Fox reached out and touched his shoulder.

‘These ideas of yours, Jamie…’

‘To be honest, there’s only the one.’ Breck paused. ‘And you’re really not going to like it.’

‘Because it’s risky?’ Fox guessed.

‘Because it’s stupid,’ Breck corrected him.

Sunday 22 February 2009

28

Dundee the following night, and people were out to have one last good time before the working week began again.

Fox and Breck sat in Fox’s car. Back in Edinburgh, Breck had suggested taking his Mazda, ‘for a change’, but Fox had declined, explaining that he just couldn’t get comfortable.

‘I’m not built for a sports car, Jamie.’

So they had travelled to Dundee in the Volvo and were parked on the street outside Lowther’s bar. Breck had interrupted Mark Kelly’s weekend that afternoon with a request for recent photos of Bull Wauchope and Terry Vass. The resulting printouts from Dundee CID were in the glove compartment, having been committed to memory. So far, no one entering or leaving Lowther’s had offered a precise match – though some came close.

‘Not exactly a cocktail clientele, is it?’ Breck commented, as they studied three men who had come outside to smoke cigarettes, check texts on their phones and hawk gobbets of phlegm on to the pavement. One man kept rearranging his crotch; another offered gravel-toned enticements to any young women who dared to pass within his orbit. All three men wore T-shirts stretched over distended stomachs. All three sported tattooed forearms and gold chains around their necks and wrists. What hair they had was gelled and spiky, faces shiny and fat and pockmarked. One was missing most of his front teeth.

‘So do we just walk in there or what?’ Breck was asking.

‘It’s your plan, Jamie – you tell me.’

‘We could sit here all night otherwise.’

They had already been to the address they had for Wauchope Leisure Holdings. It was one of a row of shops on an estate to the north of the city centre. The door had looked solid, and the blinds in the unwashed window had been shut tight. No answer to their knock. Lowther’s was all they had left – it was the pub owned by Wauchope, the pub with the payphone. Someone in there had lured one property developer to his death and harried another into faking his own suicide.

Lowther’s was all they had…

Breck seemed to realise as much and pushed open the passenger-side door. Fox pulled the key from the ignition and followed suit. The three men still hadn’t noticed them. They were laughing about something, a message or a photo on one of their phones. Breck found himself standing just behind them.

‘Can anyone join in?’ he asked.

The men turned as one. Fox had caught up with his partner by now, but didn’t fancy their chances. The good humour had disappeared from all three faces.

‘That’s some smell of bacon coming off you two,’ one of the men stated, while another spat on the pavement, just missing Breck’s shoes.

‘Need a word with Bull,’ Breck went on, folding his arms. ‘Inside, is he?’

‘Why would he want to waste his breath on a twat like you?’ the first man went on. ‘Away you go and take Gene fucking Hunt with you.’ He nodded towards Fox while his two friends gri

‘We’re not looking for trouble,’ Breck continued. ‘But we’re always happy to provide it when necessary. Three of you in the same holding cell – gets a bit crowded on a weekend.’

‘I’m shaking in my fucking boots.’

‘Is he inside or not? That’s all we’re asking.’

Fox had risen up on to his toes so he could peer in through the pub window. The bottom half was frosted glass, the top half clear. A couple of drinkers glared back at him, but he’d already seen enough.

‘He’s inside,’ he stated, answering Breck’s question. He made to move past the men, but they stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the door. ‘Bull won’t thank you for this,’ he explained to the leader. ‘Think about it for a second – right now it’s just the two of us he’s dealing with. But if we have to round up a posse, we’ll be sure to bring him out with his hands cuffed behind his back. It’ll be into the van and down to headquarters for the night. If you think that’s what he’d want, fair play to you. But I’m guessing you’re wrong, and he’ll know who’s to blame when the blues and twos come screeching to a halt…’ Fox took a step back, raising his hands in a show of surrender. ‘Just think it over, that’s all I’m saying. Maybe go talk to him, see what he says.’ He pointed across the road. ‘We’ll wait by the car.’ Then he started walking, Breck following him.

‘Nicely played,’ Breck commented in an undertone.

‘That remains to be seen.’ But by the time they reached the Volvo, the ringleader had disappeared inside, the door swinging behind him. Fox and Breck bided their time. A face neither of them knew appeared at the window of the pub.

‘You saw him?’ Breck asked.

‘Holding court at the bar,’ Fox confirmed. ‘Amount of jewellery he’s toting, I’m surprised he can lift a glass.’

It was another couple of minutes before the door opened. No one emerged, but something was either said or signalled. The two smokers flicked away their cigarettes and headed inside.

‘Now what?’ Breck asked. It was a fair question. ‘Do we just stand here while they have a good laugh at us?’ A few more faces had appeared at the window. One man flicked the V sign. ‘Maybe that posse of yours isn’t such a bad idea.’

‘It’s a terrible idea,’ Fox corrected him.

‘Don’t tell me you want us to walk in there without back-up?’

‘Is that what you’d do in Quidnunc, Jamie – wait for reinforcements before you make a move?’

‘By this stage of the game, I’d be mob-handed, same as the person I’m fighting.’

‘Then we’ll just have to be a mob of two.’ Fox paused. ‘But meantime, we’d be warmer in the car.’

‘We make a better impression standing our ground.’

‘Is that from Quidnunc again? Place probably won’t close for another three or four hours.’

‘It won’t take that long.’

Sure enough, after only a few minutes, they started to hear the sound of an engine. It was whining as it approached at speed, and when it turned the nearest corner its tyres squealed. There was no attempt to pull in kerbside. The driver just slammed the brakes on with the car still in the middle of the road. It was a Ford Sierra, but with a modified engine and an oversized exhaust pipe. The driver let it growl one last time before allowing it to idle. The tyres had left marks on the road and there was a smell of burning rubber.