When Naysmith called Fox’s mobile an hour or so later, Fox was alone in the office, McEwan having left for yet another meeting elsewhere in the building. Before Naysmith could say anything, Fox thanked him for telling McEwan all about Alan Carter and Francis Vernal.
‘He just asked me what I was up to,’ Naysmith responded.
‘Well, thanks anyway. Now we’ve got Special Branch interested.’ Fox went on to explain the circumstances.
‘Could be a bonus,’ Naysmith argued. ‘Can’t you ask him if there’s anything in the files on Vernal? Whether he really was being spied on?’
‘You think he’d tell me, even if he knew? This was twenty-odd years ago – reckon the spooks have instant access?’
‘Maybe not,’ Naysmith conceded. ‘But how else are we going to find out if they were keeping tabs on him?’
‘We aren’t,’ Fox said eventually. There was silence on the line for a moment.
‘Want to hear what I’ve got?’ Naysmith asked.
‘What have you got?’
‘Barron’s Wrecking.’
‘You spoke to him?’
‘He’s a good age now, but what a memory. When I said as much, he joked that it was because so much of his business was kept off the books. Told me I could grass him up to the taxman if I liked …’
‘But you got round to asking about the car eventually?’
‘He remembered it well. Tow-truck brought it in, but it was there hardly any time at all before someone came asking for it to be taken elsewhere.’
‘Gavin Willis?’ Fox guessed.
‘The very same,’ Naysmith confirmed. ‘They got it as far as the cottage, but it took four of them to push it up the slope into the garage.’
‘Did he tell them why he wanted it?’
‘I don’t think anybody asked. He paid Barron in cash and that was that.’
‘And no one came to the scrapyard asking for it?’
‘Willis slipped Mr Barron an extra twenty and told him to say it had gone into the crusher.’
‘And Barron never bothered asking why?’
‘The way he put it was, when a cop tells you to do something, you do it.’
‘I’m not sure that’s so true these days.’ Fox thought for a moment. ‘Willis worked the firearms detail,’ he informed Naysmith. ‘Could have pocketed the revolver that was used on Alan Carter.’
‘Why, though?’
‘I’m still not sure. Did Barron remember anything else about the car? He didn’t swipe anything from it?’
‘Nothing he’s admitting to.’
‘Then that’s that,’ Fox said, pacing the empty office.
‘What do you want me to do next, Malcolm?’
‘Gavin Willis – I wouldn’t mind knowing how and when he died. Maybe he’s got some family left …’
‘I can check.’ Naysmith sounded as if he was writing himself a note to that effect.
‘Have you seen Tony?’ Fox asked.
‘Told me he was taking Billie and Bekkah out for coffee.’
‘The hairdressers?’ Fox stopped by the window. He had a view towards the car park, with Fettes College behind it. The pupils seemed to be heading home, a line of parental cars waiting to collect most of them. ‘What’s his thinking?’
‘Hormonal?’ Naysmith guessed.
Fox saw DCI Jackson being escorted to his car by the Chief Constable. Jackson had his own driver; nice executive saloon, too. He got into the back, Byars closing the door for him. As the car pulled away, a window slid down. Jackson was staring up towards the Complaints office. There was no way he could see Fox standing there, but Fox backed away all the same, though he wasn’t exactly sure why.
22
Francis Vernal’s widow lived in a detached Victorian mansion house in the Grange district of the city. The narrow streets were devoid of traffic and pedestrians. Almost no homes were visible. They remained hidden, like their owners and those owners’ wealth, behind high stone walls and solid wooden gates. Charles Mangold had been adamant that Fox could only visit if Mangold accompanied him. Fox had been just as adamant that this was a non-starter. Nevertheless, Mangold was waiting in an idling black taxi as Fox approached the driveway. As Fox got out of the car to announce his arrival at the intercom, Mangold emerged from the back of the cab.
‘I have to insist,’ the lawyer was saying.
‘Insist all you like.’
‘What if Imogen wants me there?’
‘She can tell me that to my face. But you stay this side of the gates until she does.’
Mangold looked furious but said nothing. He spluttered his way back to the taxi, slamming the door after him. Fox told the intercom he had an appointment. The gates swung back on themselves with a motorised hum, and he returned to his car. It was a long, winding driveway, with thick shrubbery to either side. Fox emerged into a gravelled parking area in front of the two-storey gabled house. It was dusk, birds roosting in the well-established trees. He locked his car from habit only. The front door to the house was open, a woman in her thirties standing there. She introduced herself as Eileen Carpenter.
‘I look after Mrs Vernal.’
‘Her nurse, you mean?’
‘And other things besides.’
The hall smelled musty, but had been dusted. Carpenter asked him if he wanted some tea.
‘Please,’ he answered, following her into the drawing room. It boasted a huge bay window. Imogen Vernal’s chair had been placed so that it faced the garden to the side of the property.
‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up,’ she said. Fox introduced himself and shook her hand. Her ash-blonde hair was thin and wispy, and there were lesions on her cheeks and forehead. Her skin was almost transparent, the veins showing. Fox reckoned she couldn’t weigh more than seven and a half stone. But her eyes, though tired, were lively enough, the pupils dilated by recent medication.
There was a dining-room chair to one side of her, and Fox seated himself. A book was open on the floor – a hardback copy of a Charles Dickens novel. Fox presumed one of Eileen Carpenter’s tasks was to read to her employer.
‘Quite a house,’ Fox said.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you live here with your husband?’
‘My parents bought it for us – a wedding gift.’
‘Great parents.’
‘Rich parents,’ she corrected him with a smile.
There were framed photographs of her husband on the mantelpiece. One looked familiar: the orator in full flow, fist clenched as he addressed his audience.
‘I wish I’d heard him speak,’ Fox said truthfully.
‘I think I have some recordings.’ She paused and raised a finger. ‘No,’ she corrected herself, ‘I donated them to the National Library – along with his books and papers. People have done their PhDs on him, you know. When he died, an American senator wrote an obituary for the Washington Post.’ She nodded at the memory.
‘He was quite a character,’ Fox agreed. ‘In public.’
Her eyes narrowed a little. ‘Charles told me about you, Inspector. Such a pity about the other man, the one who passed away …’ She paused. ‘Is Charles outside the gates?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s very protective.’
‘Was he one of your lovers?’
She took her time answering, as if wondering how to respond. ‘You make me sound like a Jezebel.’ Her voice was becoming more noticeably Scottish.
‘It’s just that he seems to have a great deal of affection for you.’
‘He does,’ she agreed.
‘And there were always the rumours that your marriage had been stormy.’
‘Stormy?’ She considered the word. ‘Not a bad description.’
‘How did the two of you meet?’
‘Manning the barricades.’
‘Not literally?’
‘Almost – a sit-in at the university. I think we were protesting against Vietnam.’ She seemed to be thinking back. ‘Alt
hough it could have been apartheid, or Rhodesia. He was already a lawyer; I was a student. We hit it off …’
‘Despite the age gap?’
‘My parents didn’t approve at first,’ she conceded.
‘Was Mr Vernal a nationalist back then?’
‘He was a communist in his youth. Then it was the Labour Party. Nationalism came later.’
‘You shared his politics?’
She studied him. ‘I’m not sure what it is you want from me, Inspector.’
‘I just felt we should meet.’
She was still mulling this over when Eileen Carpenter arrived with a tray. The teapot was small, and there was just the one bone-china cup and saucer. It was loose-leaf tea, accompanied by a silver strainer. Fox thanked her. She asked her employer if anything else was needed.
‘We’re fine, I think,’ Imogen Vernal replied. ‘You might want to let Charles know.’ Then, for Fox’s benefit: ‘He’ll be waiting for her to send him a message.’
A little colour was rising to Carpenter’s cheeks as she left the room.
‘She’s not a spy, exactly,’ Imogen Vernal told Fox. ‘But Charles will keep fussing …’
Fox poured tea for himself. ‘You know why he hired Alan Carter?’ he asked.
‘To clear up my husband’s murder.’
‘You’re sure in your own mind that it was murder?’
‘Pretty sure.’
‘Did you say as much at the time? I don’t recall the newspapers mentioning it.’
‘To be quite honest with you, I was a little bit afraid.’
Fox accepted this. ‘But all you have are suspicions – no actual evidence?’
‘No more than you’ll have gleaned,’ she conceded, placing her hands on her lap.
‘And suicide …?’
‘Not an option: Francis was too much of a coward. It’s something I’ve been thinking about recently. I told them I was coming off the chemo and everything else – it was too, too much. There’s morphine for the pain, but you can still feel it, just beyond the cotton wool. Suicide had to be considered, but that particular course of action takes a certain bravery. I’m not brave, and neither was Francis.’
‘He wasn’t ill, was he?’
‘Strong as an ox.’
‘Despite the cigarettes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Had there been a falling-out?’
‘No more so than usual.’
‘That stormy relationship again?’
‘Stormy rather than rocky. Has anyone used the word “firebrand” in connection with him?’ She watched as Fox nodded his reply. ‘I’d be disappointed had they not – that was Francis, you see: in his life, his work, his politics. He didn’t care if you were for him or against him, so long as you had fire in your belly.’
‘There’s a cairn near where he died …’
‘Charles had it placed there.’
‘And the yearly bouquet?’
‘From me.’
Fox leaned forward a little. ‘Who do you think killed him, Mrs Vernal?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘The period leading up to his death … had he been worried about anything?’
‘No.’
‘He thought he was being watched.’
‘That pleased him: it meant he was “getting to them”.’
‘Who?’
‘The establishment, I suppose.’
‘And how was he getting to them?’
‘His speeches. His power to change people’s minds.’
‘The polls suggest he wasn’t changing too many minds.’
She dismissed this with a toss of her head. ‘Everyone he met … he had an effect on them.’
She paused and watched Fox bring out the photograph of her husband with Chris Fox.
‘Do you know this man?’ he asked her.
‘No.’
‘His name’s Chris Fox. He died in a motorbike crash, a few years before your husband. It happened near Burntisland.’
She considered this. ‘Not so far from where they killed Francis. You think there’s a connection?’
‘Not really.’
‘He shares your surname.’
‘He was my father’s cousin.’
She looked at him. ‘Did he know Francis well?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Fox studied the picture again before returning it to his pocket. He took another sip of tea. ‘I’ve heard break-ins mentioned …’
‘Yes – here and at the office. Two in as many weeks.’
‘Reported to the police?’
She nodded. ‘No one was ever caught.’
‘Was much taken?’
‘Money and jewellery.’
‘None of your husband’s papers?’
‘No.’
‘Did Francis ever discuss breaking the law himself?’
‘How do you mean?’ She seemed to be focusing on the view from the window, even though it was now dark and the garden was invisible.
‘He was said to be close to certain groups …’
‘He never spoke about it.’
‘But it’s not exactly news to you?’
‘He knew a lot of people, Inspector – I dare say one or two wanted to take the struggle that bit further than the law of the time would allow.’
‘And he would have supported that view?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Do any names come to mind?’
She shook her head. ‘You’re thinking,’ she said, ‘that political friends sometimes turn into foes. But if Francis had enemies – real enemies, I mean – he kept them to himself.’
‘But you know he supported paramilitary groups? Mr Mangold seems to think you’d no inkling.’
‘Charles doesn’t know everything.’
Fox took another sip of tea and placed the cup and saucer back on the tray. The room was silent for the best part of a minute. He got the feeling that when she was left alone, this was how she sat – calm and still and waiting for death, staring at her reflection in the window, the rest of the world lost somewhere beyond. He was reminded of his father: I don’t sleep … I just lie here …
Eventually, he cleared his throat. ‘What do you think he was doing on that particular road?’ he asked.
‘Politically, you mean?’
He smiled at the error. ‘No, the road between Anstruther and St Andrews.’
‘It was the weekend,’ she said, her voice fading a little. ‘He often spent weekends in Fife.’
‘On his own?’
‘Not with me.’
He knew from her tone what she meant. ‘Other women?’ he suggested. She gave the slightest of nods. ‘Many?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘He used the weekend house?’
‘I suppose so.’ She looked down at her lap and brushed something from it, something Fox couldn’t see.
‘And Anstruther …?’ he prompted, waiting her out. Eventually she gave a sigh and took a deep breath.
‘That’s where she lived.’ She fixed him with a stare. ‘I was quite a catch when Francis met me, but maybe you know what it’s like.’
‘A little,’ he offered, since she had waited for his response.
‘She was a student too. Alice Watts – that was the name.’
‘He told you?’
She shook her head. ‘Letters from her. Hidden in his office desk. It was months before I came across them – there was so much to be gone through.’
‘She lived in Anstruther?’
Imogen Vernal was staring at the window again. ‘She was studying politics and philosophy at St Andrews. He gave a talk to the students and she met him afterwards. I suppose you’d call her a groupie.’ Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘I’ve not told anyone about her.’
‘Charles Mangold?’
She shook her head.
‘So Alan Carter wouldn’t have known either?’
‘I suppose Charles might have known,’ she said. ‘He was Francis’s friend, aft
er all. Men sometimes talk to one another, don’t they? When they’re out drinking.’
Fox conceded that they did. The temperature in the room had dropped a few degrees – the thick floor-length curtains should be closed and the gas fire turned on.
‘I want to thank you for seeing me and for being so open,’ Fox said. ‘Maybe we can talk again?’
But Vernal’s widow wasn’t finished with him. ‘I went looking for her, you know. I felt I needed to see her – not talk to her, just see her. I had her address from the letters. But when I went there, she’d packed up and left. The university told me she’d quit her course.’ She paused. ‘So I suppose it’s just possible she may have loved him.’
‘Do you still have those letters, Mrs Vernal?’
She nodded. ‘I wondered whether you would ask.’ She reached down the side of her chair and produced them, still in their envelopes. They bore neither addresses nor stamps. Hand-delivered, then.
Fox turned them over in his hands without opening them. ‘You were prepared,’ he stated. ‘Why am I the first person you’ve told?’
She smiled at him. ‘You insisted on coming here alone,’ she explained. ‘You stood up to Charles. That speaks to me of a certain something … a quality.’
‘You know some of the rumours of the time?’ he felt able to ask. ‘The papers hinted that you’d had a string of lovers, and maybe one of them had …’
‘You don’t believe that,’ she stated. ‘Francis was the only man I loved – and I still do. Goodbye, Inspector. Thank you for coming.’ She broke off, and thought of something else. ‘You asked me earlier who killed him. In a sense, I think we all did. But if I were to place a wager, I’d say the odds favoured your own kind.’
‘Meaning the police?’
‘Police, Secret Service – you’ll know better than I do. But take heed, Inspector: the man Charles employed ended up dead. You’d best be careful.’
‘Why do you think Mangold hired him in the first place?’
‘I thought I’d already answered that. Why do you think he did?’
‘To solve the mystery while you’re both still alive to hear it.’
She considered this, then shook her head slowly. ‘Perhaps.’
‘What other reason?’
‘Charles wants me to think less of Francis, so I’ll think more of him.’