The Impossible Dead

  ‘So,’ Fox asked, ‘was the revolver there all along, or did someone bring it with them?’

  ‘I know CID are looking at the victim’s nephew,’ McFadzean commented. ‘He would have known the cottage, and might have known where the revolver was kept.’

  ‘The two men weren’t exactly close,’ Fox argued. ‘If there was a gun on the premises, Carter kept it secret even from his oldest and closest friend. And what about the missing cloth?’

  ‘Killer took it with him,’ Paul suggested.

  ‘If there was a killer,’ McFadzean cautioned.

  ‘If there was a killer,’ her assistant agreed. Then he turned towards Fox. ‘One other thing … Fiona’s quite right when she says not many guns go astray – these days, I’d say none at all.’

  ‘But back then?’ Fox prompted.

  ‘A few of the guns that turned up in police custody began life with the army. Back in the seventies, a lot of stuff – explosives included – went AWOL from barracks up and down the land, most of it destined for the Troubles.’

  ‘Northern Ireland?’

  ‘The paramilitaries needed weapons. They were being stolen to order.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  Paul shrugged. ‘That revolver could have been destined for Belfast.’

  ‘Ulster wasn’t the only place with terrorists,’ Fox informed him. ‘We had our fair share on the mainland, too.’ He was thinking of the Scottish National Liberation Army and letter bombs in Downing Street, the Dark Harvest Commando with their anthrax spores …

  And their possible paymaster, Francis Vernal.

  ‘You’ve got a point,’ Paul said. He went to a filing cabinet, pulled open a drawer and started searching. McFadzean gave Fox an indulgent smile. He nodded his agreement: Paul was good at his job. A minute later, he’d found the relevant file and was handing a photograph to Fox. It showed a desk in a police station. Laid out for the media’s attention was an array of firearms. The dozen or so rifles were tagged; the pistols, revolvers and ammunition were in sealed evidence bags. Fox read the label on the back – ‘1980, Scottish Republican Socialist League trial’. He nodded at Paul.

  ‘Another splinter group to add to the list,’ he commented. ‘Some of these would have come from the army?’

  ‘From “break-ins” at barracks.’

  Fox looked at him. ‘Inside jobs?’

  ‘All it takes is a few sympathisers, a blind eye turned, a key handed over …’

  ‘I’m seeing shotgun cartridges but no shotguns,’ Fox said, handing the photograph to McFadzean.

  ‘Par for the course,’ she explained. ‘No one’s saying these groups had high IQs.’

  ‘Not even the leadership?’

  ‘We caught them, didn’t we?’ She brandished the photo as proof.

  While Paul placed the photograph back in its file, Fox rubbed at his jaw with the palm of his hand.

  ‘Can I ask you something else?’

  ‘Fire away, if you’ll pardon the expression.’

  He gave her a smile. ‘Do you have a theory about these explosions?’

  McFadzean gestured towards Paul’s computer. ‘Paul’s been doing a bit of work on that. Plastic containers filled with bits of metal – screws, washers, stuff you can find in any DIY store. Detonation sent the whole lot flying a distance of thirty metres.’

  ‘Probably not kids, then?’

  ‘Not unless they’ve been reading The Anarchist Cookbook,’ Paul said.

  ‘They’ve not perfected it yet, though,’ McFadzean added, folding her arms.

  ‘But they’re getting better,’ her colleague cautioned.

  McFadzean nodded her agreement, looking pensive.

  ‘They’re getting better,’ she said.

  ‘And once they’re satisfied?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Then it won’t be trees they’ll be targeting,’ McFadzean said.

  Fox thought long and hard about a detour to Kirkcaldy, maybe a snack at the Pancake Place with Kaye and Naysmith, but weighed up the risks and decided against it. Instead he drove back to Edinburgh, stopping for petrol and a burger. He had called ahead, but Charles Mangold was busy until two. At half past one, Fox was parked outside the New Town headquarters of Mangold Bain. The offices were on the ground floor of a steep-sloping Georgian terrace, looking directly on to Queen Street Gardens. The receptionist smiled and asked him to take a seat. There was a copy of the Financial Times on the coffee table, along with the latest property guides and a golfing magazine.

  When a taxi drew up outside, Fox got to his feet and watched Mangold get out. His face was reddened by alcohol. As he came inside, he spotted Fox immediately and offered his hand.

  ‘Good weekend, Inspector?’

  ‘I did a lot of reading.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Actually, a bit of a page-turner.’

  Mangold seemed satisfied by this answer. ‘Coffee, please, Marianne – good and strong,’ he barked to the receptionist. Fox shook his head to let her know he wouldn’t be needing any. Mangold was already leading the way through the door to the right of reception. They entered what would have been the hallway of a private house at one time. There was an unused fireplace, and a grand staircase leading up. Another door at the foot of the stairs took them into what Fox guessed would have been a sitting room. Fireplace with antique mirror above it; intricate cornicing and ceiling rose. Mangold switched on some lights.

  ‘Marianne said it was urgent,’ he began, resting his hand against an electric radiator, then stooping to turn it on. ‘Should warm the place up,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘Good lunch?’ Fox inquired. ‘New Club, was it?’

  ‘Ondine,’ Mangold corrected him.

  ‘The other night … you were waiting for guests …?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did Colin Cardonald happen to be one of them?’

  Mangold shook his head. ‘Though I did spot him in the club that evening – dozing in his chair with the crossword half-finished.’ He checked his watch. ‘Did Marianne say?’

  ‘She told me I could only have fifteen minutes.’ Fox followed Mangold’s lead and seated himself at the polished oval table. ‘But that only holds if I’m working for you – which I’m not. I’m a police officer and this is a police matter, which means I take as long as I need.’

  There was a knock and the coffee arrived, along with a bottle of water and two glasses. The receptionist asked Mangold if he wanted her to pour.

  ‘Yes please, Marianne.’

  They waited until she’d gone, closing the door behind her. Mangold was gulping at the coffee, eyes closed.

  ‘Can’t drink like I used to,’ he explained. ‘And I do have a very full afternoon.’

  ‘Then I’ll get to the point – two points actually.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘I want to talk to Imogen Vernal.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Mangold said with a flutter of one hand. ‘Next point, please.’

  ‘If I don’t see her, I’ll drop off those two box files at the front desk and that’s the last you’ll hear from me.’

  Mangold stared hard at Fox, pushing out his bottom lip. ‘What is it you need from her?’ he asked.

  ‘What is it you think you’re protecting her from?’

  ‘I’ve already told you – she’s very sick. I don’t want her to be made to feel even less comfortable.’ Mangold paused. ‘Second point,’ he commanded, reaching into his pocket for a voluminous handkerchief.

  ‘Not until we’ve dealt with the first.’

  ‘It has been dealt with,’ Mangold stated, wiping around the sides of his mouth.

  ‘I want her take on things,’ Fox decided to explain. ‘I want to hear her talk about her husband.’

  ‘I can tell you about Francis!’

  ‘You weren’t married to him, though.’

  ‘I knew him as well as Imogen did.’

  Fox didn’t bother responding to this. Instead, he
moved to item two.

  ‘All these groups of the time … the SRSL, SNLA, Dark Harvest Commando … I forget the Gaelic one …’

  ‘Siol Nan Gaidtheal.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Seed of the Gael.’

  ‘How close was Vernal to them? I only know what I’ve read.’

  ‘Imogen can’t help you there. None of those rumours ever reached her.’

  ‘But you heard them?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And believed them?’

  ‘I asked Francis a few times. He would just dismiss the suggestion with one of his looks.’

  ‘What’s your feeling, though?’

  Mangold took a sip of coffee while he considered the question. ‘Was he an active paramilitary? No, I doubt that. But there are ways in which he could have helped.’

  ‘Legal advice?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Money had to be raised, and then kept safe. Frank would have known what to do with it.’

  Fox nodded. ‘He was their banker?’

  ‘I have absolutely no proof.’

  ‘Would he have kept the money on him?’

  Mangold offered a shrug.

  ‘How much are we talking about?’

  ‘Thousands,’ Mangold speculated. ‘There were a few bank robberies early in the decade; a couple of security-van hold-ups.’

  ‘Claimed by the SNLA?’

  ‘Those were the stories at the time.’

  ‘All the years you worked with him – dodgy visitors … locked-door meetings … odd phone calls …?’

  ‘No more than any other lawyer,’ Mangold replied with a lopsided smile. He stared into the bottom of his cup. ‘I really do need to stop drinking at lunchtime. I’ll feel bloody awful later on.’ He glanced up at Fox. ‘Are we finished here, Inspector?’

  ‘Not quite. Did you ever hear names?’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Members of these various groups.’

  ‘MI5 would know more about that than me.’

  ‘But they’re not here right now …’

  Mangold conceded the point and furrowed his brow in thought. ‘No, no names,’ he said at last.

  ‘Any of Vernal’s friends seem a bit out of place?’

  ‘We met all sorts, Inspector. You’d visit a couple of pubs and end up in the company of vagabonds and cut-throats. Never knew if you were going to wake up with a tattoo or an infection – or not wake up at all.’

  Fox managed the smile he felt was expected of him. ‘How about your own politics, Mr Mangold?’

  ‘Unionist now …’

  ‘But back then?’

  ‘Broadly the same.’

  ‘Funny you were such good friends with a dyed-in-the-tweed nationalist.’ Fox paused. ‘Or is that where Mrs Vernal comes in?’

  ‘I’d rather she didn’t come into it at all,’ Mangold said quietly.

  ‘But she must,’ Fox insisted, dropping his own voice a little. Mangold looked suddenly tired and defeated. He held up his hands in surrender, then slapped them down against the table.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He paused, staring down at his cup again. ‘More coffee, I think.’

  ‘Thank you for your time.’ Fox started to get up. ‘But just remember – you came to me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mangold said, with almost a trace of regret.

  ‘Oh, one other thing …’

  Mangold had risen and was facing Fox.

  ‘Did Alan Carter ever mention the car to you?’

  Mangold seemed confused. ‘What car?’

  ‘Francis Vernal’s Volvo.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so – why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason really,’ Fox said with a shrug. But inside he was thinking: What else did he keep from you … and why?

  Mangold stayed in the room, Fox insisting that he could see himself out. He stopped at the receptionist’s desk. She looked up from her work and smiled.

  ‘Marianne, isn’t it?’ Fox enquired. She added a nod to her smile. ‘Something I’ve always meant to ask Charles and somehow keep forgetting …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The firm’s name – Mangold Bain: is there still a Bain?’

  ‘It was Vernal Mangold,’ she explained.

  ‘Ah yes, until poor Francis died …’ He tried his best to sound like one of Mangold’s oldest clients. ‘You’re too young to have known him, of course?’

  ‘Of course,’ she agreed, looking slightly put out that he could mistake her for someone of that vintage.

  ‘So Mr Bain …?’ he prompted.

  ‘There’s never been a Mr Bain. It’s a maiden name.’

  ‘Mr Vernal’s widow Imogen?’ Fox guessed. ‘She’s a partner of some sort?’

  ‘Not that, no. Mr Mangold meant it as a … well, a kind of memorial, I suppose.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it have been more of a memorial if he’d just kept the name Vernal on the stationery?’ Fox asked. Marianne seemed never to have considered this. ‘Thanks for your help,’ Fox told her, bowing his head slightly and taking his leave.

  21

  Fox sat at his desk in the Complaints office, staring at the blank screen of his computer. Bob McEwan was taking a phone call. As ever, it seemed to concern the upcoming reorganisation. The Complaints would be swallowed up by ‘Standards and Values’. They would go, in the words of McEwan, from ‘micro’ to ‘macro’.

  ‘Just don’t ask me what that means.’

  Fox had sent texts to both Tony Kaye and Joe Naysmith and was waiting to hear back from them. He had thought about visiting the Central Library, digging into its newspaper archive. He had cuttings from the Scotsman, but not from the Herald or any other Scottish paper of the time. He doubted he would find anything. The media had soon lost whatever interest it had had in the story.

  When the office door opened, Fox saw that the Chief Constable was leading a visitor inside. The Chief’s name was Jim Byars. He was in full uniform, peaked cap included, which meant he was on his way to a meeting or else was out to impress someone. The visitor was a man in his late forties with a tanned face, square jaw and greying hair. He wore a three-piece suit and what looked like a silk tie. A handkerchief was visible in his breast pocket.

  ‘Ah, Malcolm,’ the Chief Constable said. Then, for the guest’s benefit: ‘This is Professional Standards – PSU.’

  ‘The “rubber heels”?’ the visitor said with a slight smile. His accent was English. The hand he held out for Fox to shake bore no rings. Fox had glanced in McEwan’s direction. He could see that his boss was torn. It would be polite to end the call and greet the visitor, but he wanted Byars to know that he was earning his keep. He gave the Chief a wave, then motioned that he would wrap up the call. Byars’ gesture let him know this wasn’t necessary.

  ‘Just giving DCI Jackson the tour,’ the Chief explained to Fox. Then, to Jackson: ‘Malcolm Fox is an inspector – detective rank, but we don’t use the term.’

  ‘How’s your workload?’ Jackson asked Fox.

  ‘Manageable,’ Fox replied, wishing he had turned on his computer. His desk looked bare; half an inch of paperwork in the in-tray. Was Jackson something to do with the coming reorganisation? Was he seeking posts that could be cut? He had that look to him – a brisk, hard-nosed bean-counter.

  ‘Working in Fife, aren’t you?’ the Chief asked, frowning as he realised how stupid the question sounded.

  ‘Not today, sir. Rest of my team are.’ Fox swallowed. There was no reason to suppose the Chief Constable would know he’d been kicked into touch. Even if he did know, it wasn’t the sort of thing you wanted to advertise to a visitor. ‘What brings you here?’ Fox asked Jackson instead. Byars got in first with the answer.

  ‘DCI Jackson is based at Special Branch – anti-terrorism.’

  ‘Didn’t know we had much of that in Edinburgh,’ Fox felt obliged to state.

  Jackson gave the same brief smile. ‘The blast in the forest o
utside Peebles?’ he offered. ‘And Lockerbie before that?’

  Fox nodded to let him know he’d heard.

  ‘We’re thinking they may have been a trial run, Inspector.’

  ‘Why Peebles?’

  ‘Anywhere would have done.’ Jackson paused. ‘Remember Glasgow Airport? The perpetrators lived quietly in the suburbs.’

  ‘And as Peebles is part of Lothian and Borders,’ Byars explained, ‘we’re assisting DCI Jackson and his team.’

  Not quite a bean-counter, then.

  Jackson was looking around the office, as if filing every detail of it away. Bob McEwan was trying desperately to wind up his conversation. ‘What’s happening in Fife?’ the Englishman asked.

  ‘Not much,’ Fox said.

  ‘CID officer,’ Byars told Jackson. ‘In court for overstepping the line. We’ve been asked to check whether his colleagues covered up for him.’

  Jackson looked at Fox, and Fox knew what he was thinking: I’m with you, chum – never give away more than you have to.

  McEwan had ended the call and was coming towards them. Byars made the fresh round of introductions and explanations.

  ‘Interesting,’ McEwan said, folding his arms. ‘Never goes away, does it?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Jackson asked him.

  ‘Domestic terrorism. Malcolm’s latest case has an angle …’

  ‘Really?’ Jackson sounded suddenly interested.

  It had to be Naysmith. Had to be Joe Naysmith who’d let it slip to McEwan.

  Fox made show of shrugging it off. ‘A very slight connection,’ he mooted.

  But Jackson was not to be deflected. ‘As in?’ he prompted.

  ‘Someone Malcolm interviewed,’ McEwan obliged. ‘He was doing some research into a lawyer who got himself involved with Scottish separatists.’

  ‘Quarter of a century back,’ Fox stressed.

  The Chief Constable looked at Jackson. ‘Not quite the same as your Peebleshire bombers.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Jackson admitted. His next question was aimed at Fox: ‘What happened to the lawyer?’

  ‘Died in a car crash,’ Fox stated.

  ‘Unlike the researcher,’ McEwan added. ‘He put a revolver to his head.’

  ‘Dearie me,’ Jackson said. Then he gave Fox that same unnerving smile again.