The Impossible Dead

  ‘But is that because there’s nothing there to get?’

  Kaye narrowed his eyes and thought this over. ‘I wouldn’t go quite that far.’

  ‘Would you keep at it, though?’

  ‘Me personally?’ Kaye shook his head slowly. ‘Simple life’s what I’m after. You, on the other hand …’ He didn’t feel the need to finish the sentence.

  Fox stared at the car, then grabbed a corner of the tarpaulin. Joe Naysmith helped him cover it up again.

  Fox dropped them back at the car park behind the police station.

  ‘What’s next?’ he asked.

  Kaye looked at Naysmith. ‘I’d say we’re ready to prep a final report.’

  ‘I might have a couple of supplementary questions,’ Naysmith countered.

  ‘And would those be for the fragrant DC Forrester?’

  Naysmith tried his hardest not to let the colour rise to his face. Kaye chuckled and slapped him on the back.

  ‘How about you?’ he asked Fox.

  ‘Cash doesn’t want me anywhere near here.’

  ‘The perfect excuse to go back to your archaeological dig?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Kaye nodded, then slung an arm around Naysmith’s shoulders. He was offering dating advice as the two of them headed for the station’s rear door. Fox sat in his car with the engine idling, thinking of the smashed-up maroon 244. Willis had wanted it for a reason. He must have thought that it represented evidence of something – a little insurance policy of some kind. If he had removed the money, why hang on to the car? And how could he have known about the money in the first place? Unless he had ties to the Dark Harvest Commando. Close ties.

  A member?

  A sympathiser?

  Fox looked down at the floor in front of the passenger seat. The 244’s logbook was lying there. He reached down and picked it up. What was it Naysmith had said …?

  In full view …

  And Tony Kaye: That might actually work …

  A lot of the pages had stuck together. Fox tried separating them, but they tended to tear. He ran his fingers over them, feeling for anything hidden inside. At the back was the clear plastic pocket containing MOTs and service invoices. These weren’t in the best of health either. The car’s owner was listed as Mr F. Vernal, address in the Grange. The car had been serviced by a garage on Edinburgh’s south side.

  Replacement tyres … oil changes … brake fluid …10,000-mile service … new windscreen wipers …

  Fox stared at one of the sheets, trying to make sense of it. It was on the same headed paper – MJM Motors – but the handwriting was different. It looked like an invoice, but it wasn’t one.

  ‘You sneaky little bastard,’ Fox said quietly to himself. Gavin Willis’s work: had to be. A list of firearms supplied to someone called ‘Hawk’ – presumably short for Hawkeye. The sums added up to almost twelve hundred pounds. Looked to Fox as though there had been three or four different deliveries, totalling twelve weapons and numberless rounds of ammo. Two revolvers, two pistols, a shotgun and seven rifles. Fox ran a finger across the word ‘Hawk’.

  Whether member or sympathiser, here was evidence that Gavin Willis had definitely been a supplier, dealing with the man called Hawkeye, who would then use the guns in his armed robberies.

  Willis must have told Alan Carter – and Carter didn’t want his mentor’s reputation sullied. Nobody could ever know, even with Willis in his grave.

  ‘Couldn’t risk it, could you?’ Fox muttered aloud. ‘Couldn’t risk anyone buying the cottage and finding something.’

  Had the revolver been there all along? Alan Carter holding on to it? In which case, someone had wrested it from him and made him sit at the table … Fox shook his head slowly. He couldn’t imagine it. Alan Carter would have stood toe-to-toe with any assailant. If told to sit, he would have refused.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Fox went through the other invoices, but there were no other clues. He wondered if Alan Carter had known. No, because wouldn’t he have destroyed it? Come to that, wouldn’t he also have rid himself of any gun he found? Yes, ripping up the cottage and destroying whatever he deemed incriminating. Willis’s reputation had to be upheld. Tony Kaye’s words rang in his head: I don’t think you’ve got anything …

  ‘Not strictly true, compadre,’ Fox said determinedly.

  Ten

  31

  Nothing happened for a few days.

  The Complaints were back in their office in Edinburgh. Kaye and Naysmith were writing up their report for Fife Constabulary. The message had come through: with the death of Paul Carter, no further action was to be taken.

  ‘Just give the bosses in Fife whatever you’ve got,’ Bob McEwan had explained.

  Alan Carter’s body had been released, but not his nephew’s. Carter’s wish had been for cremation, ashes scattered on the rose beds outside the crematorium building. Fox attended the ceremony. Teddy Fraser led the tributes, and sure enough, when the minister failed to mention Alan’s football prowess, Teddy put him right with mention of the twenty-nine-goal season. Jimmy Nicholl was there too, Teddy carrying the compliant dog with him to the podium, refusing offers of help.

  The chapel was packed. Fox wondered if there’d be half as many at Paul Carter’s funeral – somehow he doubted it. The Fife Constabulary brass might feel they had to show willing, but a lot of the townsfolk would stay away. They knew the rumours: Alan Carter’s body had been released only because his killer was also deceased.

  As they waited for the coffin to arrive, retired cops shook hands with each other, patted backs, slapped shoulders and reminisced. Robinson was there in his sergeant’s uniform, its silver buttons gleaming. Half the town seemed to have known Alan Carter. There were scowls and mutterings concerning the presence of the Shafiq family, the ones Carter’s firm had butted heads with. Father and two sons, the sons with their hair slicked back, sharply suited, Ray-Bans a fixture throughout.

  Fox had asked Teddy Fraser about the history.

  ‘Storm in a whisky glass,’ he explained. ‘Except that the dad’s teetotal.’

  Scholes, Haldane and Michaelson were in attendance too, but kept clear of Fox – and the Shafiqs. Evelyn Mills went for a drink with Fox afterwards.

  ‘Case goes on,’ she told him. ‘Just because the major suspect’s also dead doesn’t mean we brush it under the carpet.’ She paused. ‘On the other hand …’

  ‘No one’s going to be busting a gut?’ Fox guessed.

  He had suspected as much from the look of DI Cash and DS Young as they sat in their pew, faces relaxed, job done.

  ‘Thing is, Evelyn, if Paul didn’t do it, the killer’s still out there.’

  ‘Give me another name, then – give me something concrete.’

  Charles Mangold had asked much the same of him, a night later.

  ‘Imogen is slipping away from us, Inspector. She may not be here much longer.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ Fox had said.

  ‘Time is pressing.’

  ‘I’m doing what I can.’

  Except that he had done almost nothing. Mostly he’d been preparing to give evidence in court – a case dating back almost a year and a half had finally come to trial. Reading back through the notes, he realised there were a couple of gaps – little holes in proper procedure – which a good counsel would spot and then jab away at, like a boxer spying a nick above their opponent’s eye. Fox had worked on his defence, honing two or three counter-arguments, only for the trial to be postponed at the last minute.

  So now he sat in the office at Fettes, offering occasional help to Kaye and Naysmith as they prepared the report, and providing a sympathetic ear to McEwan as he muttered darkly about the latest meetings and proposals for cost-cutting.

  ‘Are we police or accountants? If I’d wanted to spend all my time on a calculator, I’d have paid more attention during Mr Gentry’s maths lessons …’

  When the phone rang on Fox’s desk, it was re
ception, telling him he had a visitor.

  Detective Chief Inspector Jackson.

  Fox narrowed his eyes. ‘You sure it’s me he wants?’ Jackson: the tourist from Special Branch in London.

  ‘You’re the only Fox we’ve got,’ the officer on the front desk said. ‘Want me to fob him off?’

  ‘Point him in the direction of the canteen,’ Fox instructed, ending the call and shrugging his arms back into the sleeves of his suit jacket.

  Jackson was queuing at the counter, nothing on his tray as yet. Fox caught up with him as he stood in front of the till.

  ‘What can I get you?’ Jackson asked.

  ‘Tea,’ Fox said.

  ‘Two teas,’ Jackson told the server.

  ‘Pot and two tea bags?’ she suggested.

  ‘Perfect,’ Jackson responded with a smile.

  They went to a table by the window, sitting down so that they faced one another.

  ‘What brings you here?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Just passing.’ Jackson saw the look on Fox’s face and gave another smile. ‘No, not really.’

  ‘How are things going with Lockerbie and Peebles?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Found your bombers yet?’

  Jackson stared at him. ‘They are out there, you know. I’d have thought you would understand that.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The case you’re working on.’

  It was Fox’s turn to stare. ‘What about it?’

  ‘I was curious. So I did a bit of digging. You have to admit, the internet is a real old viper’s nest, isn’t it? Half-truths and guesswork and theories from the outer limits …’

  ‘Plenty of conspiracies,’ Fox made show of agreeing.

  ‘From what I hear, though, your researcher was killed by his nephew – some sort of long-held grudge.’ Jackson sipped his tea, peering at Fox above the rim of the cup.

  ‘That’s all right, then, isn’t it?’ Fox responded.

  ‘Why was Alan Carter so interested in Francis Vernal?’

  ‘More to the point, why are you?’

  Jackson shrugged, as if to concede that the question was fair. ‘I spoke to a detective inspector. He tells me the lawyer’s car’s been found.’

  Thanks, Cash …

  ‘Supposedly went for scrap,’ Jackson continued, ‘but someone decided to keep it.’

  Fox made a non-committal noise.

  ‘Willis, is that the name?’

  ‘Was the name,’ Fox corrected him.

  ‘Willis and the researcher were friends … colleagues …’

  ‘I still don’t see why any of this would concern you.’

  ‘Or you, come to that,’ Jackson countered. ‘Who was Alan Carter working for?’

  ‘What makes you think he was working for anyone?’

  ‘The lawyer died a quarter of a century back – I’m guessing something, or more likely someone, piqued his interest.’

  ‘What if they did?’

  Jackson took another sip of tea and shifted his gaze to the world outside the windows. ‘Those outer limits I was talking about … plenty of conspiracy theorists seem to think the security services might have had a hand in Francis Vernal’s demise.’

  ‘You’re here to tell me they’re wrong?’

  ‘The game’s changed these days, Inspector. Lots of new ways to spread gossip and disinformation. A good number of people out there have a vested interest in seeing the security services tripped up and tarred.’ He glanced back towards Fox. ‘It would reassure me if I knew who had ordered the investigation into Vernal’s death.’

  ‘Nobody with a grudge against your sort,’ Fox stated.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘A friend of the widow. He wants her to have a sense of closure before she dies.’

  ‘No other motive?’

  Fox visualised the red-faced, rotund lawyer. ‘No other motive,’ he said.

  Jackson gave a thoughtful pout. ‘Thank you for that, Inspector.’ He seemed to be considering what to say next.

  ‘You went digging?’ Fox prompted him.

  Jackson nodded slowly.

  ‘And you found something?’

  ‘Something and nothing. Friend Vernal had been on our radar for some time.’

  ‘Special Branch?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘MI5?’

  Jackson offered a twitch of the mouth. ‘He’d been under surveillance.’

  ‘The night he died?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He had a tail on him? Could that be why he was speeding?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘But there were …’ Fox sought the right word. ‘There were agents? Tracking his car?’

  Jackson nodded, but said nothing.

  ‘But that means when he crashed …’ Fox’s eyes were boring into Jackson’s, ‘there were people there … within seconds …’

  ‘Nobody shot him, though. They checked he was breathing, then got the hell out of there.’

  ‘To phone for an ambulance?’

  Jackson shook his head. ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Couldn’t risk it. Any involvement, the operation would have been jeopardised.’

  ‘They just left him there?’

  ‘Breathing. Not looking too bad at all.’

  ‘This is all in the files?’

  ‘Reading between the lines.’

  Fox thought for a moment. ‘Reading between the lines, was he also assassinated?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘They were watchers – not an armed detail.’

  ‘And no orders to kill him?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘But they did break into his house, his office …?’

  Jackson looked ready to concede as much. ‘There were rogue elements on both sides back then, Inspector. Let’s remember that Vernal’s friends were nothing short of terrorists. Bombs, guns and bank raids – those were his creed.’ He paused. ‘I’m telling you this because we’re on the same side, you and me …’

  Fox stared at him. ‘A car crash, an injured victim – and they just walked away?’ Jackson didn’t respond to this. ‘What?’ Fox persisted.

  ‘They took a quick look first.’

  ‘Rifled the car, you mean?’ Fox saw he was right. ‘Bloody hell … There was stuff missing: his cigarettes, a lucky fifty-pound note …’

  ‘They were questioned about that. They didn’t take anything.’

  ‘Did they turn up a revolver?’ Fox asked eventually.

  ‘No. That was only found later.’

  ‘Yes, at some distance from the car.’ Fox thought for a moment ‘And you got all this from the files?’

  Jackson nodded.

  Fox was wondering about the DHC funds, secreted somewhere in Vernal’s car … The agents hadn’t found the cash, had they?

  There was silence at the table for a few moments. ‘Vernal and his friends wanted to bring us to our knees,’ Jackson stated quietly.

  ‘Who killed him?’ Fox asked.

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘Can I talk to the men who tailed him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So much for being on the same side.’

  ‘What do you think they could add?’

  ‘Hard to say without speaking to them.’

  Jackson leaned back in his chair. ‘Do I get the name of the man who employed Alan Carter?’

  ‘Not from me you don’t.’

  ‘Many of these men went unpunished, Inspector. I dare say they’re still out there, warmed by their past antics.’ He paused. ‘They had plenty of help at the time, too …’

  Fox wondered if Gavin Willis, supplier of guns, had been on the security service’s ‘radar’. There was no way to ask Jackson without giving quite a lot away, so Fox concentrated on the beverage in front of him.

  Jackson’s phone was switched to silent mode. It was vibrating as h
e lifted it from his pocket and studied the screen.

  ‘I have to take this,’ he said, rising from the table. He walked towards the entrance to the cafeteria, his back to Fox. Fox watched the man’s head dip as he listened to whatever the caller was telling him. His face looked grim as he ended the call and turned back towards Fox.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said.

  ‘Peebles?’ Fox guessed.

  Jackson shook his head. ‘How long will it take me to drive to Stirling?’

  ‘This time of day … maybe an hour, a bit less if you’re lucky.’

  ‘Another explosion,’ Jackson explained. His phone was vibrating again. ‘I really have to go.’

  He started walking away, answering the call.

  ‘Mad buggers with bombs,’ Fox muttered to himself. Why did there seem no end to them? His own phone started to ring. When he answered and the caller identified herself, he knew he had a journey of his own to make.

  32

  Organising this visit had taken several days and more than a few phone calls, but now Fox was driving through the gates of Carstairs State Hospital. Carstairs to many was a stop on the night train between London and Edinburgh. There wasn’t much of anything there – the railway station; a village with a shop; and not far away, the home to many of Scotland’s most violent and least predictable prisoners. He parked in a ring-fenced area, was buzzed through a gate, and entered the main building. A few other visitors had arrived at the same time as him. They looked inured to the security procedures. Palms were checked by a machine. It would show if the visitor had been in contact with drugs in the recent past. A positive reading meant no visit that day. Bags were checked, and there seemed to be a random sampling of mobile phones, a swab identifying traces of illicit substances. The queue shuffled forward. The faces were docile, if strained. One woman had brought her young daughter. The kid clung to her mother and sucked on a dummy she was probably a year or two too old for.

  ‘Inspector?’ A woman was pushing past the queue. She shook Fox’s hand and introduced herself as Gretchen Hughes. ‘It’s Dutch,’ she explained, as if to intercept a question she was always being asked.

  ‘Thanks for getting back to me,’ Fox said.