‘A few fellow travellers and sympathisers. I wrote to all of them.’
‘And?’
‘Almost none got back to me, so I tried again – same thing happened.’ He paused. ‘What has this got to do with Francis Vernal?’
‘Wasn’t he rumoured to be a banker of sorts for some of the groups?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m trying to build up a picture of him.’ It was Fox’s turn to pause. ‘Do you think he took his own life?’
‘Either that, or his wife had him killed.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘Maybe to protect all her lovers – or because her husband was involved with someone.’
‘She says the papers made up all those stories about her being unfaithful.’
Martin’s eyebrows lifted a little. ‘You’ve spoken to her?’ He sounded intrigued and impressed. Another toast was made, this time with an empty glass. He went into the kitchen for a refill. Fox waited for him to return.
‘Did you turn up anything at all linking Vernal to these terrorist groups?’ he asked.
‘He would doubtless have called them “freedom fighters” – either that or “the resistance”.’ Martin went back to swirling his wine. ‘Anecdotal stuff only,’ he eventually admitted. ‘People would mention his name. There were minutes of meetings – usually in code, but easy enough to read. I think they often referred to him as “Rumpole”.’
‘From the TV show?’
‘A fellow lawyer, you see.’
Fox nodded his understanding. ‘So he attended meetings?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe even led those meetings?’
‘He was never mentioned as a leader. You’ve heard of Donald MacIver?’
Fox nodded: another name gleaned from the internet. ‘He’s in Carstairs these days.’ Carstairs: the maximum-security psychiatric facility.
‘Which is why I failed to get an interview. MacIver led the Dark Harvest Commando. He almost certainly knew Francis Vernal …’ Martin paused. ‘Are you suggesting Vernal was killed by one of the groups he supported?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Or by some shadowy establishment conspiracy?’
Fox shrugged. ‘He reckoned his home and office had been broken into – and his widow confirms it. Maybe he was being watched. And now you’ve just told me you think people spied on your work, too.’
‘It went further, actually: my first publisher went bust; a second decided all of a sudden he didn’t want the book. Had to go to a small left-wing press in the end. Pretty slapdash job they made of it too.’
‘You’re really whetting my appetite,’ Fox joked.
‘I just hope you didn’t pay over the odds for your copy.’
‘Worth every penny, I’m sure.’
‘No guarantees, Inspector.’ Martin leaned back in his chair, arms resting over either wing.
‘Any other names?’ Fox asked.
‘One or two are probably still a bit cracked – living as hermits in the Western Isles and writing anarchist blogs. Most of them probably found that as they got older, they became the sort of person they’d previously despised.’
‘The establishment, in other words?’
‘These were bright people, in the main.’
‘Even the ones scooping up handfuls of anthrax from Gruinard?’
‘Even them,’ Professor Martin said, sounding sleepy from all the wine. ‘It’s all changed now, though, hasn’t it? Nationalism has entered the mainstream. If you ask me, they’ll sweep the next election. A few years from now, we could be living in an independent European democracy. No Queen, no Westminster, no nuclear deterrent. That would have been impossible to predict a scant few years back, never mind quarter of a century.’
‘Pretty much what the SNLA and all the others were fighting for,’ Fox concurred.
‘Pretty much.’
‘Is there anyone I could try talking to about all of this, other than psychiatric patients and hermits?’
‘Do you know John Elliot?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘He’s on TV all the time. News and current affairs.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He merits a mention in my book.’
‘What about Alice Watts?’
‘Who?’
Fox repeated the name, but it was clear Professor Martin had never heard of her. Fox showed him the two matriculation photos anyway. Martin blinked a couple of times, as if trying to focus. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, suddenly animated. ‘It’s good to have a name for her at last.’ He got to his feet quite slowly, but managed to make it to the bookshelves without too much of a detour. Fox went with him, and watched as he plucked out a copy of his own book – No Mere Parcel of Rogues: How Dissent Turned Violent in Post-War Scotland.
‘Catchy title, incidentally,’ Fox commented.
‘A misquote from Burns.’ Martin had opened the book two thirds of the way through, at a section comprising black-and-white photographs. He pointed to one of these. It filled half a page, and looked to Fox like a CND demo.
‘Coulport,’ Martin confirmed. ‘It was the handling and maintenance depot for Polaris warheads. Every week, a nuclear convoy would set out from there on its way by road to the Royal Ordnance factory near Reading.’
‘That’s a fair few hundred miles.’
‘I know – and by road! An accident … a hijacking … It boggles the mind, the risks they took.’
Ten demonstrators had been arrested that particular day: Sunday, 7 April 1985, three weeks before Vernal’s death. Martin’s finger slid to the photo covering the bottom half of the page.
‘Do you see your man?’ he asked.
‘I see him,’ Fox said quietly. This second photo was of a protest outside a police station, inside which, presumably, were the ten ‘martyrs’. One man, older than his neighbours, was at the centre of the shot – Francis Vernal. Next to him, in dungarees and a knitted hat, stood Alice Watts. ‘Who’s that she’s linking arms with?’ Fox asked. He meant not Vernal, but the man to Alice’s left. Tall, with long black hair, a bushy black beard and sunglasses.
‘I wish I knew. What did you say the young lady’s name was?’
‘Alice Watts,’ Fox repeated.
‘Watts …’ Martin broke into a huge smile. ‘Bravo, Inspector – twenty years too late, but bravo anyway.’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘Another of the code names,’ Martin explained. ‘“Steam”.’ He was still smiling.
‘Steam as in James Watt,’ Fox guessed.
‘And from James Watt to Alice Watts.’
Fox nodded his agreement that it was entirely feasible. ‘Do you still have the notes from the meetings?’ he asked.
‘I only have my notes of their notes – I was shown them; I wasn’t allowed to take them away.’
‘Shown them by a sympathiser?’
‘Quite the opposite, actually. One of the problems with all these splinter groups was that they couldn’t stop splintering. And when factions fell out, it got as messy as any divorce. I was shown records of the meetings so I could see how amateurish the group had become.’
Fox held up a finger to interrupt the professor’s flow. ‘Which particular group are we talking about?’ he asked.
‘The DHC.’
‘Dark Harvest Commando?’
Martin nodded. ‘They were extreme even by extremist standards – the paramilitary wing of the Scottish Citizen Army. You’ve already mentioned the anthrax …’
‘And Alice Watts was a member?’ Fox studied the photograph again.
‘I’d say so, yes.’ Martin paused. ‘Is that important, Inspector?’
‘What if I told you she was also Francis Vernal’s lover? And that she disappeared almost immediately after his death?’
The professor was silent for a moment. He closed the book and pressed it to his chest. ‘I’d say,’ he said softly, ‘that a new edition of my book might be in prospect.’
r />
‘It gets better,’ Fox added. ‘Because as far as I can work out, Alice Watts was never alive in the first place …’
That night, Fox watched TV with the sound muted, and ignored one call from his sister and two from Evelyn Mills. He was wondering what it would be like to live next to a zoo, hearing and smelling the animals without ever seeing them.
And what it would be like to be a student, choosing to live in a small place like Anstruther.
Or work in television news and current affairs.
Or be incarcerated in Carstairs.
Or be suspected of murder.
When the credits rolled, he realised a film had been playing. He couldn’t remember the first thing about it.
Jude had sent him a text: Go see Dad. It’s YOUR turn!
She was right, of course. And it isn’t as if you’ve got anything better to do, Foxy, he told himself.
No Mere Parcel of Rogues … A misquote from Burns, according to Professor Martin. Fox hadn’t studied Burns since his school-days. He reached for his laptop, fount of all knowledge – some of it even dependable. He would look up the line in question. And then maybe he’d also check a couple of names – Donald MacIver; John Elliot.
Bed straight after, he promised himself.
Maybe with the window open an inch or two, allowing in the noises and scents of the night …
Eight
26
Fox woke up early and went to see his father. There was a bench in the garden of Lauder Lodge, and Mitch fancied sitting there, so Fox got him wrapped up, and one of the staff provided a travel rug for his legs. But Mitch drew the line at a hat and scarf.
‘Any more swaddling and I’ll be fit for a pharaoh’s tomb.’
The garden’s high walls gave protection from the North Sea’s gusts. The gardener looked like he’d be checking in as a guest some time soon. He nodded a greeting, then carried on with his work.
‘I was never one for gardening,’ Mitch told his son.
‘Mum had the green fingers,’ Fox agreed.
‘If I’d had my way, I’d have turned the whole lot into a patio.’
‘Remember that time I was hanging from the clothes-rope? It snapped and I bounced off the nearest flagstone.’
‘Your mum phoned me from the hospital. Three stitches, was it?’
Fox rubbed at the crown of his head. ‘Five,’ he corrected his father.
Mitch smiled. ‘Know what your mum said when she called? She told me she’d have a job getting the blood out.’
Fox remembered: a striped bath towel wrapped around his head to staunch the wound. He hadn’t seen it again afterwards.
Mitch watched as his son tried stifling a yawn. ‘Late night?’
‘A bit.’
‘Business or pleasure?’
‘Take a guess.’
‘Work’s all well and good, Malcolm, but there’s got to be more to life. Still, it explains why I haven’t seen you in a few days.’
‘Jude’s been visiting, though?’
‘Saturday and Sunday – your absence was noted.’
‘I was busy.’
‘Not just avoiding us, then?’
‘No.’ Fox shifted on the bench. ‘We always seem to end up fighting, though.’
‘You and your sister?’ Mitch nodded slowly. ‘I think she’s annoyed that the money for this place is coming out of your pocket.’
‘I don’t begrudge it.’
‘They’ve hiked the fees again, though, haven’t they?’
‘It’s not an issue.’
‘Maybe Jude thinks it is.’
Fox offered nothing more than a shrug.
‘How’s Fife?’ Mitch asked after a lull.
‘I was in St Andrews.’
‘Went to a caravan there once – when your mum and me were winching. Had to make sure her dad never found out.’ Mitch looked at his son. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘I just don’t hear people say “winching” these days.’
‘What do they say?’
‘Dating, I suppose.’ Fox paused. ‘Did we ever go to St Andrews? As a family, I mean.’
‘Maybe for a day … Do you think you remember it?’
Fox shook his head. ‘I just seem to have forgotten quite a lot.’
‘Join the bloody club – I remember that the caravan was pale green, but I couldn’t tell you what I had for dinner last night.’ Mitch watched his son try to swallow back another yawn.
‘I’ve got pills in the bathroom – you should sneak a few out with you.’
‘I might do that,’ Fox said, only half-joking.
‘Jude was looking through the shoebox again. I don’t know if it’s for my benefit or hers.’
‘Both, maybe.’
‘Plenty memories in there. No photos of the caravan, though.’ He paused. ‘We had some good holidays. Could be that’s what Jude’s looking for – times when you and her were a team.’
‘We’re still a team: she visits; I pay the bills.’
‘There are other places I could go, you know – places cheaper than this must be. It’s no wonder you can’t afford a new shirt or tie.’
Fox peered down towards his chest. ‘What’s wrong with my shirt and tie?’
‘You were wearing them last time you were here.’
‘Was I? I don’t remember.’
His father gave a sudden smile and slapped him on the knee. ‘No, me neither – I’m just winding you up.’
‘Thanks for that.’
‘You’re more than welcome.’
They were still smiling when the tea tray arrived.
‘By the way,’ Mitch said, ‘I’m sorry about the other day – teasing you in front of Sandy.’
‘Is that what it was: teasing?’
‘I could see you were hurt. But we both know you’re good at your job.’
‘That’s not what you were saying, though. You were wondering whether I’m cut out for life outside the Complaints. I’ve been asking myself the same thing.’
‘Well, I’m sorry I said it anyway.’
‘Don’t worry about it – gives me a bit of ammo next time Jude tells me I’m your favourite.’
‘You are, though – you know that.’
Fox looked at his father. ‘Do you say the same to Jude when I’m not around?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Thought as much.’
When Mitch Fox started to laugh, his son couldn’t help but join in.
The three men – Fox, Kaye and Naysmith – convened at their office at HQ. While Naysmith made coffee for all of them, stifling yawns of his own and needing a shave, Kaye told Fox about his meeting with Teresa Collins.
‘Thing is,’ he concluded, ‘if Alan Carter did get her to testify against his nephew, we’re stuck with the nephew as prime suspect in the murder.’
‘And it is murder now,’ Naysmith confirmed. ‘Fiscal’s office gave the Murder Squad the nod.’
‘When did you hear that?’ Kaye asked.
Naysmith hesitated. ‘Last night,’ he eventually admitted.
‘Who’s your source, Joe?’ Kaye gave a wolfish smile. ‘Certain young lady in CID? Keep you out late, did she?’
Naysmith kept his back to his colleagues as he finished making the drinks.
‘Billie and Bekkah only knew Alan Carter through Billie’s boyfriend, right?’ Fox asked Kaye.
‘Tosh Garioch,’ Kaye confirmed. ‘Do I talk to him next?’
‘Can’t do any harm.’
‘Any reason to suppose he’d grass up his boss?’
Fox offered a shrug and took the proffered mug from Naysmith. Accepting his own drink, Kaye made a little kissing sound. Naysmith scowled, but refused to meet his eyes.
‘Joe,’ Fox said, ‘got anything on Gavin Willis for me?’
‘Not exactly.’ Naysmith eased himself on to his desk, letting his legs hang over the side and placing his coffee next to him. ‘Best I could do is a number for Superintendent Hendryson. He li
ves in Portugal. There’s an address, too …’ He brandished a page torn from a notebook.
‘And all it cost him was his virtue,’ Tony Kaye offered.
‘By the way,’ Naysmith added, ignoring Kaye, ‘Mark Haldane’s back from sick leave – effective as from this morning.’
‘That means the two of you can have a proper word with him,’ Fox said. He had risen from his chair and taken the phone number from Naysmith. ‘Portugal, eh?’ he commented as he looked at it.
‘Portugal,’ Joe Naysmith confirmed.
‘And you got this from Cheryl Forrester?’
‘Yes.’
‘Careful there, Joe.’
‘No fraternising with the enemy,’ Kaye added teasingly.
‘She’s not the enemy.’ Naysmith couldn’t help sounding defensive.
‘Maybe not now,’ Fox cautioned. ‘But all the same …’
Bob McEwan arrived just as Kaye and Naysmith were leaving. ‘Off to Fife?’ he guessed.
Kaye gestured in Fox’s direction. ‘How soon till we get our pal back?’
‘Not my decision. How near are you to being able to make a comprehensive report?’
‘Nobody’s admitting anything,’ Kaye told him.
McEwan’s focus moved to Naysmith. ‘Is that true, Joe?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You don’t sound too sure.’
‘Nobody’s admitting anything,’ Naysmith echoed. ‘And the tap hasn’t—’ He stopped abruptly, winded by Kaye’s elbow finding his kidneys.
‘What tap?’ McEwan asked quietly.
‘We’re about to lift it, Bob,’ Fox explained, walking towards his boss.
‘I didn’t authorise any surveillance.’
‘It was a Fife call,’ Fox stated.
‘I should still have been told.’
‘Sorry about that.’
McEwan stabbed a finger towards Fox. ‘I don’t like this, Malcolm.’
‘Yes, sir.’
McEwan stared at him hard, then turned his attention back to Kaye and Naysmith. ‘Off you go, then.’
Kaye didn’t need telling twice, steering Naysmith out of the door ahead of him.
‘What’s going on, Malcolm?’ McEwan asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Who’s under surveillance?’
‘Scholes,’ Fox admitted. ‘But with Paul Carter a murder suspect, we’re pulling it.’