The Complaints

‘Give it a minute,’ he said, leaning over so he could make a few adjustments.

‘Mind if I…?’ Fox nodded towards the bench. Wauchope’s head twitched, which Fox took for agreement. He sat down next to the man so he too could view the screen. Wauchope’s body odour was almost overpowering.

‘What we’ve got,’ Fox explained, trying to keep his breathing shallow, ‘is a webcam.’ On the screen, a three-inch-square box had opened. There was a face there, Charles Brogan’s face.

‘Who’s Tony?’ Wauchope asked.

‘Just someone doing me a favour.’

‘He’s operating the camera?’

‘Didn’t think Brogan could be trusted to do it for himself.’

Wauchope leaned forward. Brogan’s head was moving from side to side as he stretched the muscles in his neck. There was no sound. ‘Why’s the picture so small?’

‘Blame the laptop,’ Fox explained. ‘Wages Breck’s on, he can’t always afford quality.’

‘I could magnify it,’ Breck added, ‘but you’d lose definition.’

Wauchope just grunted. Then, a few seconds later: ‘You’re telling me this is live?’ Instead of answering, Fox gestured for the phone again.

‘One way to prove it,’ he offered.

Vass looked to his boss for permission, then handed the phone over. Fox waited until he was co

‘Tony,’ he said, ‘tell him we need a wave.’

The face on the computer turned to one side, as if listening to an instruction. Then Charlie Brogan gave a half-hearted wave of one hand. Fox snapped shut the phone again, holding on to it this time. Wauchope kept staring at the screen.

‘So now you know we’ve got him,’ Fox said.

‘I know he’s in police custody,’ Wauchope corrected him, but Fox shook his head.

‘You’ve got friends in Lothian and Borders, Bull – you know he’s not handed himself in.’

Wauchope turned to look at him. ‘What is it you want?’

‘I want to know why my colleague here was targeted.’

Wauchope considered for a second, then turned his attention back to the screen. ‘He can’t hear me?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Fox confirmed.

Wauchope leaned his face right in against the screen. ‘Going to get you, you fucker!’ he yelled. Flecks of saliva spattered Brogan’s head and shoulders.

‘Will that be enough to appease the gangs in Lanarkshire and Aberdeen?’ Fox asked. Wauchope turned to him again.

‘It’s a start,’ he confirmed. ‘I told them he’d die.’

‘When he disappeared from the boat… you could’ve tried taking the credit.’ Fox saw Wauchope’s face change. ‘You did, didn’t you? You told them you’d had him executed? That’s why he can’t turn up alive and kicking…’

Wauchope was staring at him again. Breck cleared his throat.

‘Malcolm… maybe we’re cheating ourselves here.’

‘How do you mean?’ Fox asked.

‘We’re trading him for a few scraps of information. Seems to me he’s worth a whole lot more now.’

‘Don’t go getting greedy,’ Wauchope snarled.

‘Then start talking,’ Fox said. He had risen and shifted to the seat next to Breck. Wauchope’s eyes were on the screen again. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He had an inch of lager left in his glass, and he drained it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He made a smacking sound with his lips, then stared across the table.

‘I don’t trust you,’ he said.

‘The feeling’s mutual,’ Fox answered. ‘If it comes to it, it’s us two against you and your gorilla – I’m not entirely sure I fancy those odds.’

Wauchope almost smiled, but didn’t. He glanced in Vass’s direction. The man-mountain was resting his weight against the top of the bar, arms folded, breathing noisily through his mouth. Fox knew what Wauchope was thinking: if he stuck to the deal, he really was going to lose his lieutenant. When Wauchope turned his attention back to Fox, Fox knew the decision had been made.

Terry Vass could be replaced.

But there was something else: Vass couldn’t be handed over to the police; he might start talking. Fox gave the briefest of nods, letting Wauchope know this was the gangster’s problem and no one else’s.

‘Where is he?’ Wauchope asked, jabbing a fat finger at the screen.

‘We need to hear the story first.’

‘What’s to tell?’ Wauchope said with a shrug. ‘You already know the way it happened. Your pal here was sniffing around a councillor called Wishaw, but Brogan needed Wishaw.’

‘Why?’

‘He was the last lifebelt on the Titanic. Brogan’s plan was to get the council to buy his unfinished flats and all that spare land he had on his books. They’d then have a place to put all the dregs on their waiting lists. Wishaw was supposed to be made head of housing, but it never happened. Still, he sat on the committee – there was a chance he could swing it. But then he got panicky, said the police were hassling him about some drug thing from way back.’ Wauchope was looking at Breck. ‘So it’s all your fault, really.’

‘I had to be discredited?’ Breck asked. Wauchope nodded and leaned back against the bench. It creaked under the strain.

‘You already knew Ernie Wishaw, didn’t you?’ Fox asked Wauchope. ‘Glen Heaton had done you a favour, made sure Wishaw didn’t get dragged into the case against his driver. That meant Wishaw owed you, but at the same time you owed Heaton, and Heaton wanted a favour – if he went to trial, stuff would start spilling out. That couldn’t happen. Your job was to set me up for Vince Faulkner’s murder.’

‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Wauchope gave a slow shake of the head. ‘Like I said before, I only know about him.’ He stabbed a finger in Jamie Breck’s direction, and it was Breck who responded.

‘You had to have someone inside the force. Someone who knew what was happening in Australia. Someone with access to my credit card…’

‘Think I’m going to tell you?’

‘If you want Brogan, you’re going to have to,’ Fox interrupted. ‘Only problem is, it’s not going to go down well with your dad, is it?’

Wauchope glared at him. ‘You already know,’ he said.

‘I’m the Complaints, Bull. Other cops are an open book to me. I just had to go back through the files far enough.’ Fox paused. ‘Long before he became Deputy Chief Constable, Adam Traynor worked right here on Tayside. He had a couple of run-ins with your dad, but nothing ever came to trial. Fu

Wauchope kept glaring. The silence lengthened. When he eventually moved his head, the signal was ambiguous.

‘Is that a yes?’ Fox asked.

‘It’s a yes,’ the gangster said.

‘Traynor arranged all the details?’

‘Yes.’

‘For old times’ sake?’

‘He owed Dad a few favours – plenty of cops owe my dad favours, Fox.’

‘Probably explains why it took Tayside so long to lock him up.’ Fox watched the scowl spread across the son’s face. ‘So Brogan needs DS Breck kicked into touch and you arrange the details. But then what happens? He sets Vince Faulkner on you?’

‘Faulkner was amateur hour. Terry saw him as a living, breathing insult.’

‘You didn’t give an order?’

Wauchope shook his head. ‘First I knew of it was when Terry phoned me.’

Fox turned in his chair so he was half facing the man at the bar. ‘The argument got out of hand? You whacked him a bit too hard? See, Brogan has a different take – he says Faulkner was tortured and his screams fed down the phone to send him a message.’ When Vass said nothing, Fox turned back to Wauchope. ‘Did Brogan lie to me?’

‘What do you say, Terry?’ the gangster called to his lieutenant. Then, to Fox: ‘Like I said, Terry felt insulted. Maybe the phone call was to let Brogan know.’ Wauchope gazed at the screen again. ‘He’s still sitting there. Can you get your pal to punch him or something? ’

‘Where was Vince Faulkner killed? That sauna of yours in the Cowgate?’

Wauchope turned his attention back to Vass. ‘Terry?’