The Complaints

  ‘That cast looks different,’ he commented.

  She lifted her arm a fraction. ‘Brand new this lunchtime. Bit less cumbersome, and at least I got to have a good scratch when they took off the old one.’

  He smiled at this. ‘Didn’t you break your other arm once?’

  ‘Wrist,’ she corrected him. ‘I wondered if you’d remember.’

  ‘Mum took me along when you went to the hospital to have the cast removed.’

  Jude was nodding. She had returned to her favoured armchair and was preparing to light a fresh cigarette.

  ‘You’ve just put one out,’ Fox reminded her.

  ‘Meaning it must be time for another. Didn’t you used to smoke?’

  ‘Not since leaving school.’ He settled himself on the sofa across from her. The TV was playing with the sound turned down - looked like a nature documentary.

  ‘Seems a lifetime ago,’ Jude was saying.

  ‘It was a lifetime ago.’

  She nodded, growing solemn, and Fox knew she was thinking of Vince. ‘They still can’t tell me when they’ll release the body,’ she said in an undertone.

  ‘I was wondering something,’ Fox began, leaning forward a little. ‘I’m not sure you’ve ever told me how the two of you met.’

  She stared at him. ‘I didn’t think you were interested.’

  ‘I am now.’

  Jude drew on her cigarette, screwing shut her eyes against the smoke. She had slid around in the armchair so that her legs hung over one of its arms. Fox was reminded that his sister had a good figure. The jeans she was wearing were tight, showing the lines of her slender thighs and hips. Just the beginnings of a roll of fat around her waist. No bra discernible beneath the T-shirt, which was baggy at the sleeves, allowing glimpses of the flesh either side of her breasts. She’d been bright at school, a bit of a swot. The rebel in her had only come to light later, with her first tattoo - a red rose on her left shoulder, complete with a thorny stem. Fox recalled that Sandra Hendry, too, boasted a tattoo - a scorpion on her ankle. And Vince Faulkner’s arms had been scarred by the amateur needle-and-ink methods of his youth.

  ‘Vince,’ Jude was saying, drawing the name out beyond its natural length. ‘Vince was drinking with some of his friends in the West End. It was a Sunday night and I was out with this girl, Melissa, from the office. It was her birthday and, tell the truth, she was called the Frumpster behind her back. She’d asked half a dozen of us to go out that night, and I’d said yes before realising that everybody else had made some excuse.’ Jude sighed. ‘So there were just the two of us, and that had its compensations.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Being out with the Frumpster meant I got all the attention.’

  ‘Beauty and the Beast?’

  ‘She wasn’t that bad, Malcolm.’ But the putdown was half-hearted at best. ‘Anyway, we ended up in a pub on St Martin’s Lane or somewhere . . . You don’t know London, do you?’ She watched Fox shake his head. ‘You’d hate it - too big, too full of itself . . .’ She seemed to be drifting away, but managed to stop herself. ‘Vince was in a crowd of half a dozen. There’d been a football game that lunchtime and it looked like they’d been celebrating ever since. They insisted on buying us drinks . . .’ She paused again, lost in thought. ‘Vince was the same as them but different. He didn’t seem to have put as much away as his pals. He was quieter, almost shy. He wrote his mobile number on the back of my hand, said he’d leave the rest to me.’

  ‘It was up to you to take the initiative?’

  ‘I suppose . . .’

  ‘And it turns out you did.’

  But Jude was shaking her head. ‘I had a shower the next morning, and the number was gone. Far as I was concerned, he was just a fella in a Sunday-night boozer. But Melissa had hooked up with one of the guys. Week later, he turned up to fetch her from the office . . .’

  ‘Vince was with him?’

  She smiled. ‘Wanted to know why I hadn’t called.’

  ‘The four of you went out together?’

  ‘The four of us went out together,’ she confirmed. ‘Melissa broke up with Gareth after about a fortnight.’ Her eyes were glassy with tears, but she blinked them back. ‘I never expected us to last.’

  Fox watched his sister rub her eyes against either shoulder of her T-shirt. There was writing on the front of the shirt, along with an illustration. It was from a rock tour, and Fox remembered that Vince Faulkner had often taken Jude to concerts. They’d travelled as far afield as Paris and Amsterdam for certain bands.

  ‘You never really knew him,’ Jude was saying. ‘You never made the effort.’

  All Fox could do was nod his agreement.

  ‘He wasn’t all candyfloss and ice cream, Jude.’

  ‘Because he’d been in trouble with the law?’ Her eyes were fixing on his. ‘That’s the thing, though - people like you can’t see past that. It was ancient history, yet that man Giles kept harping on about it, and the papers keep saying it.’

  ‘And he kept it from you, Jude. He didn’t want you to know.’

  ‘Because it wasn’t him any more!’ Her voice was rising. ‘And don’t start saying he was beating me up - I don’t want to hear it! The papers have got hold of that, too, and who is it’s been feeding them all this crap if not your lot?’

  ‘They’re not my lot,’ Fox said under his breath. ‘Not any more.’

  He spent much of the evening lifting books from the bookshelves in his living room and placing them on the coffee table. His intention was to put them in alphabetical order, maybe with a split into two categories - ones he’d read; ones he hadn’t. But then he wondered if maybe some of them couldn’t go to a charity shop. And of the ones left for reshelving, should he initiate a further subdivision into fiction and non-fiction? He’d eaten chicken curry for his supper, using up the ingredients bought from Asda when he’d gone there to talk to Sandra Hendry. The chicken had come from a Co-op on the way back from Jude’s. He was now suffering from discomfort, having eaten too much.

  ‘Maybe they could all go,’ he told himself, staring at the piles of books. That would mean he could dispense with the shelving, creating more space. But space for what, exactly? A bigger TV, one of those home cinema systems? He would just end up watching more rubbish than ever. When his mobile trilled, he was happy to answer it. It was a text message from Annie Inglis, inviting him to lunch on Sunday. She provided her address and ended her message with the simplest of questions:

  OK?

  Fox ran his fingers through his hair and found that he was sweating from his work with the books. Never the world’s most expert texter, it took him three trial runs before he decided he was happy with his reply. Only then did he press the ‘send’ button. His message had been a succinct OK, no question mark required.

  Saturday 14 February 2009

  13

  Saturday, Fox slept late, but then he hadn’t fallen asleep until two. By eleven, he was seated at the kitchen table with three newspapers - Scotsman, Herald and the very earliest printing of the Evening News. He was looking for background on Charlie Brogan, and Scottish journalism was happy to oblige. Working-class roots, raised and schooled in Falkirk. His father had been a joiner, Charlie picking up some skills even before school had kicked him out. His CV was copious and wide-ranging, taking in everything from carpet-fitting to door-to-door selling. The two had combined eventually, Brogan setting up a company that sold floor coverings to factories and businesses. By twenty-three, he had enough money going spare that he could afford a punt - buying flats and either letting them out or refurbishing them for resale. The economy was buoyant and Brogan prospered further, moving into full-scale land development and rubbing shoulders with the rich and influential. He enjoyed the hospitality of bankers and other businessmen, dated some of Scotland’s most eligible young women and eventually met and married Joanna Broughton.

  The papers carried several snapshots of Joanna. She’d always been a looker, but there was a hardness t
o her features and her stare. Even smiling, she let the photographer know she was the boss. The interior of the Inverleith penthouse featured in one picture, its walls festooned with art. A sidebar had been contributed by a professional psychologist who warned that more tragedies involving one-time high-flyers might be the inevitable outcome of the credit crunch.

  The sole public failure in Brogan’s long career had come when his attempt to join the board of Celtic FC was rebuffed. One of his friends reminisced for the Herald about the incident: ‘Charlie never got used to people saying no to him. It festered to the extent that he discussed switching his allegiance to Ibrox - that’s the kind of guy he was.’

  The hot-headed kind, Fox thought to himself. Not the kind to rationalise a snub if he could stew about it instead. A man who would see the economy’s doldrums as a personal affront. But that phrase about Ibrox . . . about not giving in but getting even . . . it didn’t hint that Brogan was the sort to just give up. He would want to fight back. The psychologist had focused on the economy without bothering to debate the most important question: could Charlie Brogan have been classed as a suicide risk? There was no mention that any note had been left; no evidence that he had tidied up his affairs before taking the plunge. But then maybe that was fair enough - he’d taken his boat out, drifting further and further from his troubles, tranquillising himself with pills and alcohol. He could have gone on deck, stumbled and fallen overboard. Or that impetuous streak might have suggested to him suddenly that he should finish things properly. Not a planned suicide, but absolutely of the moment.

  There had been no comment from the family, apart from the original statement issued through Gordon Lovatt. Fox stared at Joanna Broughton’s photograph.

  ‘You made sure you had a media angle,’ he told her, ‘before you let anyone else in on it.’

  Was that cold? Was it calculating? Or just a smart woman being smart? Fox stared and stared and couldn’t decide. He took a break, stretching his spine and loosening his shoulders. Through in the living room, he saw that the coffee table was covered in books. There were more on the floor in front of the shelves, the shelves themselves denuded. Dust hung in the air. So far, he’d found only half a dozen titles that he felt no further use for, heavily outnumbered by those he wanted to read again. When his phone rang, he had to hunt for the handset. It was hidden between two of the piles.

  ‘Malcolm Fox,’ he said by way of greeting.

  It was Lauder Lodge. Mitch wanted to know if he’d be visiting today or tomorrow. He wanted to see him. Fox was about to suggest Sunday until he remembered lunch with Annie Inglis. He glanced at his watch, then asked the caller to tell his father he was on his way.

  He took the city bypass to the Sheriffhall roundabout, and headed for The Wisp, cutting through Niddrie and reaching the care home in under twenty minutes. Mitch was seated in reception, dressed in coat, scarf and hat.

  ‘I want to go out,’ he told his son.

  ‘Sure,’ Fox agreed. ‘I can bring the car round.’

  ‘My legs haven’t seized up entirely.’ So they walked around the corner to where Fox had found a parking space. He had to help his father with his seat belt, and they took the short drive to Portobello, parking on a side road by the promenade.

  ‘We should have invited Mrs Sanderson.’

  ‘Audrey’s spending the day in her bed,’ Mitch explained. ‘She’s got a cold coming.’ Then, as Malcolm unclipped his seat belt for him: ‘I asked them to phone Jude for me, but she wasn’t answering. ’

  ‘She’s been getting a lot of calls from journalists. Or it could be she’s next door with a neighbour.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Bearing up.’

  ‘Are you any nearer catching whoever did it?’

  ‘It’s not my case, Dad.’

  ‘I’d hope you’d be keeping a bloody eye on it, though.’

  Fox nodded slowly. ‘I don’t think there’s been much progress . . .’

  The sun was shining, and the seafront was busy. There were dog-walkers and children down on the beach itself. Kids with in-line skates were being guided along the concrete walkway by their parents. A sharp wind was whipping across the Firth of Forth. Fox wondered if Charlie Brogan’s boat would have been visible from here. According to the papers, it had been towed to North Queensferry, which meant that Fife Constabulary were vying with Lothian and Borders for jurisdiction. The respective Chief Constables would sort it out, with Edinburgh the likely winner, much as the Fife cops might fancy a few days or weeks stationed in the capital.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Fox’s father asked him. They were standing by the sea wall, staring out at the view.

  ‘Weekends aren’t for thinking,’ Malcolm stated.

  ‘Meaning you had your mind on work.’

  Fox couldn’t deny it. ‘Things have been a bit rough,’ he admitted.

  ‘You need a holiday.’

  ‘I had a decent break at Christmas.’

  ‘And did what exactly? I mean a proper holiday with sunshine and a hotel swimming pool and meals served on the terrace.’ Mitch Fox paused. ‘You could well afford it, if you didn’t have my bills hanging over you.’

  Fox looked at his father. ‘Lauder Lodge was a godsend, Dad. I don’t begrudge a penny of it.’

  ‘I’m betting your sister doesn’t chip in.’

  ‘She doesn’t need to - I can afford it.’

  ‘But it leaves things tight, doesn’t it? I know damned well how much my room costs, and I can guess how much you make . . .’

  Fox gave a short laugh, but said nothing.

  ‘What if you meet a nice girl and want to take her away somewhere? ’ his father continued.

  ‘What’s brought this on?’ Fox asked with a smile.

  ‘I’m not going to be here much longer, Malcolm - we both know that. I just want to be sure in my mind that my son and daughter are all right.’

  ‘We’re fine.’ Fox touched the sleeve of his father’s coat. ‘And you shouldn’t be talking like that.’

  ‘I think I’ve earned the privilege.’

  ‘Maybe so, but all the same . . .’ Fox blew his nose and looked up and down the promenade. ‘Let’s get something to eat,’ he said.

  They ate fish and chips from the paper, seated by the sea wall. ‘Sure you’re not too cold?’ Fox asked his father. The old man shook his head. ‘The smell of vinegar,’ Fox confided, ‘always takes me back to holidays and high days.’

  ‘A treat on Saturday night,’ Mitch Fox agreed. ‘Except your mother was never so keen on the fish - had to be chicken or steak pie for her.’

  ‘What was the name of the chippie near us?’ Fox was frowning in concentration, but his father thought for a moment and shook his head.

  ‘Can’t help.’

  ‘Maybe I should ask Lauder Lodge if there’s a room there for me . . .’

  ‘You’ll get it eventually.’

  ‘The room, or the name of the chippie?’

  Mitch Fox smiled at this. He’d had enough to eat, so offered the remainder to Malcolm, who shook his head. They rose to their feet and started walking. Mitch was stiff at first, but tried not to show it. People they passed either nodded a greeting or said hello. There were plenty of gulls around, but Fox dumped the remains of the food in a bin instead.

  ‘Are Hearts home or away?’ Mitch asked.

  ‘Couldn’t even tell you who they’re playing.’

  ‘You loved going to a game when you were a kid.’

  ‘I think it was the swearing I liked. And I’ve not been to a match all season.’ Fox’s father had paused again, leaning against the sea wall.

  ‘Are things really okay, son?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Do you want to tell your old man about it?’

  But all Malcolm Fox could do was shake his head.

  They found a pub and went inside, Mitch selecting their table while Malcolm fetched the drinks - a sparkling water and a half of IPA. His fat
her asked him how long it was since he’d had a ‘real’ drink, and confessed that Audrey Sanderson kept a supply of brandy in her bedside cabinet. Fox sat in silence for a minute, then took a deep breath.

  ‘Do you really want to know why I stopped drinking?’

  ‘Because you realised it was going to end up killing you?’ his father guessed. But Fox shook his head.

  ‘After Elaine left, I took to it hard. Kept pestering her, to the point where I could probably have been done as a stalker. I went round to see her one night. I’d had a skinful, and I ended up punching her.’ He went quiet, but his father wasn’t about to interrupt. ‘She could have had me prosecuted. My career would have been in tatters. When I phoned her to apologise . . . well, it took some persuading before she’d even talk to me, and then all she said was “stop drinking”. And I knew she was right.’