The Complaints

  ‘At Fettes? I thought you were suspended?’

  ‘Grampian Complaints had me in for a chat.’

  ‘You’ve a lot you should be focusing on, Malcolm. Maybe we should give this week a miss.’

  ‘You’d be doing me a favour, Annie - honestly.’

  ‘Okay then, let me think about it. I’ve got to go now.’

  ‘Say hello to Duncan for me. Tell him I want to know what music he buys with that token.’

  ‘Trust me, you won’t want to hear any of it.’

  The phone went dead, and Fox managed a smile as he stared at its tiny glowing screen. Then the screen went dark, and he took a deep breath, adjusting his demeanour before walking into the pub.

  Tony Kaye saw him first. Kaye wasn’t at the usual table, but the one next to it, giving Naysmith and Gilchrist some space to themselves. He had been reading the evening paper, but with little apparent interest in it. His eyebrows lifted when he saw Fox, but then he bounded to his feet and reached the bar before him.

  ‘Let me get this one,’ he stated, delving into his trouser pocket for money.

  ‘Glad to see me?’ Fox asked.

  ‘You better believe it. I feel like the spare prick at an orgy.’ He twitched his head in the direction of the corner table. ‘Half the stuff they drone on about I can’t understand, and the other half bores the knackers off me.’ He paused and stared at Fox. ‘Just passing by, were you?’

  ‘Actually, I wanted a word with Gilchrist.’

  Kaye thought about this. ‘That’s why you spoke to Naysmith? He’s baited the trap for you?’

  Fox just shrugged and asked the landlord for a tomato juice. The man nodded and brought a bottle from the glass-fronted fridge, shaking it vigorously before pouring.

  ‘Did you see Deal or No Deal?’ he asked, not waiting for an answer. ‘Dealt at seventeen and a half; had the hundred grand.’ He shook his head at the idiocy of some people.

  ‘I love it when they lose,’ Kaye commented, handing over the money and asking for a half-pint for himself.

  ‘Remember you’re driving,’ Fox chided him.

  ‘Pint and a half, that’s all I’m having.’

  ‘All the office needs now is for you to fail a breathalyser - McEwan would have a seizure. Besides which, are you sure you can trust Gilchrist not to clype?’

  Kaye gave a snort, but changed his order to orange and lemonade. Naysmith and Gilchrist were watching them as they approached the table with their drinks. Kaye moved the newspaper and seated himself. Fox took the chair closest to Gilchrist.

  ‘All right, lads?’ he asked, noting that Gilchrist was near to finishing his first gin and tonic of the evening. ‘Settling in, are you?’

  ‘Look, I know it’s awkward . . .’

  Fox cut Gilchrist off with a wave of his hand. ‘I’m fine with it; none of it’s your fault, is it?’ It sounded like a rhetorical question, but Fox’s eyes told a different story. Gilchrist held the man’s gaze, then shook his head slowly.

  ‘No,’ he eventually said.

  ‘No,’ Fox echoed. ‘So that’s all right, then. Makes things hard on DS Inglis, though . . .’ He took a sip of tomato juice.

  ‘Yes,’ Gilchrist agreed.

  ‘Bit sudden, too, the way you were plucked from the Chop Shop . . .’

  ‘They knew I was keen to try something different.’ Gilchrist paused. ‘It’s only temporary, after all.’

  ‘Course it is,’ Kaye stressed, while Naysmith nodded along.

  Fox smiled at the show of support, but his eyes were still on Gilchrist. ‘What’s happening about Jamie Breck?’ he asked. Gilchrist gave a shrug. ‘Has the Aussie inquiry started crumbling?’

  ‘Far as I know, they think they’ve got enough.’

  ‘So they’ll be bringing the main suspect to trial.’ Fox nodded his understanding. ‘But what about his clients?’

  Gilchrist gave another shrug. ‘I can do a bit of digging, if you like.’

  Fox reached over and patted Gilchrist on his thigh. ‘Don’t worry about it. You’re in the Complaints now - you’ve got different fish to fry. Same again?’ Fox signalled to the glasses on the table.

  ‘Thanks, Malcolm,’ Naysmith said, but Gilchrist was shaking his head.

  ‘I was only staying for the one,’ he explained. This seemed to come as news to Naysmith, but Gilchrist was draining his glass. ‘Meeting someone in town . . .’ He was already rising to his feet. ‘See you all tomorrow, eh?’

  ‘Not me,’ Fox reminded him.

  ‘No . . . But good luck.’

  ‘You think I need it?’

  Gilchrist didn’t answer this. He was pulling on his thermal jacket. Fox reached out and grabbed him by the arm.

  ‘Who was it pulled the surveillance on Breck? You got the call - who was it on the other end of the line?’

  Gilchrist wrestled the arm free, his jaw clenched. With a wave in Naysmith’s direction, he was gone.

  ‘Did you get what you wanted?’ Kaye asked Fox.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Naysmith was holding his empty pint glass. ‘Kronenberg, please,’ he told Fox.

  ‘Buy your own, you little quisling,’ Malcolm Fox replied.

  ‘Is it all right if I come in?’ Fox asked.

  It was nine in the evening and he was standing on Jamie Breck’s doorstep. Breck had just opened the door to him and was wearing an open-necked polo shirt and green chinos, with socks but no shoes on his feet.

  ‘If it’s inconvenient . . .’ Fox continued, his voice trailing off.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Breck eventually conceded. ‘Annabel’s at her place tonight. ’ He turned and padded back down the short hallway into the living room. By the time Fox got there, Breck had switched on some of the lamps. The TV was off, and so was the stereo.

  ‘I was on the internet,’ Breck seemed to feel it necessary to explain. ‘Bit bored, to be honest with you.’

  ‘Playing Quidnunc?’

  ‘How did you guess? Four or five hours today . . .’ Breck paused. ‘Maybe longer, actually . . .’

  Fox nodded and settled himself on the sofa. He’d been home and tried to eat a ready meal, giving up halfway through. ‘I had a talk with the Grampian Complaints,’ he said.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘It went.’

  ‘They want to see me in the morning ... a woman called Stoddart.’

  ‘You’ll be fine.’

  Breck fell into one of the armchairs. ‘Sure about that?’

  ‘Has Annabel come up with anything?’

  ‘You mean about Vince Faulkner?’ Breck gave a twitch of the mouth. ‘Seems to be getting nowhere. Instead of ploughing on, Giles is going over old ground, seeing if the team’s missed something. ’

  ‘It’s a lazy strategy,’ Fox commented.

  ‘They got access to the footage from the casino . . .’

  ‘And?’

  Breck shrugged. ‘No sign of Faulkner on any of it. But guess what - there were gaps in the recording.’

  ‘Someone had tampered with it?’

  ‘A “glitch”, according to the management.’

  ‘Just as you predicted. Was Joanna Broughton there to explain matters?’

  Breck shook his head. ‘She was nowhere to be seen. It was the guy behind the bar - he’s obviously had a promotion. Plus someone from Lovatt, Meikle, Meldrum.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with them?’

  ‘Their client had asked them to be present. I told you, Malcolm, she doesn’t want anything tarnishing the Oliver’s rep.’ Breck broke off. ‘Sorry, I should have asked if you wanted a drink.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Fox assured him. The two men sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘Might as well spit it out,’ Breck said with the thinnest of smiles.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something’s eating you.’

  Fox looked at him. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

  Breck gave a shrug. ‘I get the feeling you need to trust some
one .’

  Fox rubbed a finger across his forehead. He’d spent the past hour and a half thinking much the same thing. ‘Maybe I’ll have that drink,’ he said, playing for time. ‘Water will do.’

  Breck was already on his feet and heading out of the room. Fox looked around, barely taking his surroundings in. It had been a long day. Dearborn and Broughton, Stoddart and Gilchrist ... Breck was coming back with the tumbler. Fox accepted it with a nod. His stomach felt full of acid. His eyes stung when he blinked and there was a persistent throbbing at his temples.

  ‘Do you need an aspirin or something?’ Breck was asking. Fox shook his head. ‘You look shattered. I’m guessing not all of it courtesy of Inspector Stoddart.’

  ‘There’s something I’m going to tell you,’ Fox blurted out. ‘But I’m not sure how you’re going to take it.’

  Breck hadn’t quite sat down. Instead, he rested his weight against the arm of his chair. ‘In your own time,’ he coaxed.

  Fox took another sip. The water had a slightly sweet aftertaste, reminding him of the way tap water had tasted in his childhood, on a hot day after running around outside.

  ‘You’ve been under investigation,’ he stated, avoiding eye contact. ‘Up to and including surveillance.’

  Breck thought for a few seconds, then nodded slowly. ‘That van?’ he said. ‘Yes, I sort of knew about that. And about you, too, of course.’ The two men fixed eyes. ‘You seemed to know a bit too much about me, Malcolm. Remember when I told you my brother was gay? You said you didn’t know, but that meant you knew I had a brother in the first place. Then when you came round here, you couldn’t really explain how you knew my street.’ He paused. ‘I was hoping you might eventually get round to saying something. ’

  ‘And here I am . . .’

  ‘I thought maybe you were trying to tie me to Glen Heaton.’

  ‘We weren’t.’

  ‘What then?’ Breck sounded genuinely curious.

  ‘Your name appeared on a list, Jamie. Subscribers to a website . . .’

  ‘What sort of website?’

  Fox angled his head so he was staring at the ceiling. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this,’ he muttered.

  ‘Bit late for that,’ Breck told him. Then: ‘What sort of website . . . ?’

  ‘Not the sort you’d want Annabel knowing about.’

  ‘Porn?’ Breck’s voice had risen a little. ‘S and M? Snuff . . . ?’

  ‘Underage.’

  Breck was silent for a moment, until a laugh of incredulity exploded from his mouth.

  ‘You paid by credit card,’ Fox went on. ‘So CEOP had us run a check.’

  ‘When did all this start?’

  ‘Beginning of last week. I started backing off once we’d met face to face . . .’

  Breck had slid from the arm of the chair into the seat itself. ‘My credit card?’ he asked. Then he sprang up and left the room, returning a minute later with a folder. He held it over the coffee table and tipped out its contents, crouching down to sift through everything. There were bank statements, receipts, mortgage letters and credit card statements. Fox couldn’t help noting that Breck’s savings account was well into five figures. Breck himself was plucking out the credit card statements.

  ‘Australian dollars, most likely,’ Fox explained.

  ‘There’s nothing here . ..’ Breck was running a finger down the columns. He used his card a lot - supermarkets, petrol stations, restaurants, clothing companies. Plus his internet and TV packages.

  ‘Wait a second,’ he said. The tip of his finger was running along one entry. ‘US dollars, not Australian. Ten dollars translates as eight pounds.’

  Fox looked at the description. ‘SEIL Ents,’ he read.

  ‘I never paid any attention . . .’ Breck was almost talking to himself. ‘Sometimes I buy downloads from the States . . . Is this it, do you think?’

  ‘Have you bought anything else in dollars recently? This goes back five weeks.’

  ‘I swear to God, Malcolm . . .’ Breck was wide-eyed. He broke off from staring at the sheet of paper and got back to his feet. ‘Come on, there’s something I want to show you.’ He left the room, Fox following him. They entered what would have been the home’s second bedroom. This was Breck’s office. The computer was switched on, the screen-saver active. Breck nudged the mouse. His chosen wallpaper was a head-and-shoulders photo of Annabel.

  ‘Sit down,’ he was commanding Fox, indicating the swivel chair. ‘Take a look for yourself. I doubt I’ve browsed online porn more than half a dozen times in my life - and never anything . . . I mean, just the normal stuff.’

  ‘Look, Jamie . . .’

  Breck spun around to face him. ‘I don’t know anything about this!’ he shouted.

  ‘I believe you,’ Fox said quietly.

  Breck stared at him. ‘Right, because you had that van parked outside . . .’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘You were tapped into my system somehow . . . No, not you, not you personally . . . you were with me at the Oliver that night. Some of your guys, right? And someone from CEOP, too.’

  ‘His name’s Gilchrist. He’s got his feet under my desk at the Complaints.’

  Breck’s eyes narrowed as he digested this. ‘We’ve got to talk to him, find out how this could have happened.’

  Fox nodded slowly. ‘I had a word with him earlier on, but he wasn’t exactly cooperating.’

  ‘I need to talk to someone about this,’ Breck was saying. Then, eyes boring into Fox: ‘All the time we’ve been . . . and I let you . . . and you thought I was a paedophile?’

  Fox couldn’t think of anything to say to this. Breck had taken a couple of steps towards the window and was peering around the edge of the blind.

  ‘It was just the one night,’ Fox explained. ‘We were planning another, but it got pulled - CEOP’s decision.’

  Breck turned to look at him. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘They realised it was a mistake?’

  Fox offered a shrug. Breck ran his hand through his hair again. ‘This is a fucking nightmare,’ he said. ‘You’ve met Annabel - I’ve got a girlfriend.’

  ‘Sometimes they do.’

  ‘Paedophiles, you mean?’ Fox could see that Breck’s mind was racing. ‘You had a van watching me! It’s like the Gestapo or something. ’

  ‘One thing the equipment in the van picked up . . .’

  Breck looked at him. ‘What?’

  ‘You did some online digging into me.’

  Breck thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘That’s true,’ he said. Then he fell silent, staring at the computer screen. ‘What’s the site called?’ he eventually asked. ‘We’ve got to contact them, find out how it happened.’

  ‘That’s the last thing you want to do,’ Fox cautioned.

  ‘They got my credit card number - how is that possible?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Fox argued. ‘You’ve said it yourself - you buy stuff online. Do you pay a subscription to Quidnunc? Because if you do, your card details are out there . . .’

  ‘This is a nightmare,’ Breck repeated, staring blindly at the walls around him. ‘I need a drink . . .’ He fled the room, leaving Fox standing there. Fox waited a moment, then scrutinised the icons on the computer screen. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Quidnunc had been minimised, and he put it back on to full screen. Breck’s avatar seemed to be a muscular blond warrior toting a complicated-looking handgun. He was standing in a valley surrounded by mountains, beyond which explosions were going off, fighter jets or spaceships occasionally flying over. His hair fluttered in the breeze, but otherwise he would stand there until Breck came back to the game. Fox hit the ‘minimise’ icon again and left the room.

  Jamie Breck was in his kitchen. It was spotless, but Fox had the feeling the place got used. There was a fruit bowl filled with oranges and plums, and a breadboard with half a wholemeal loaf sitting on it. Breck had brought ice cubes from the freezer and was pouring whisky over them.


  ‘There are occasions,’ he said, voice trembling slightly, ‘when only local remedies will do.’ He waved the bottle in Fox’s direction, but Fox shook his head. It was Highland Park: he’d tried it plenty of times in the past. Soft peat and sea spray . . . Breck downed half the drink without pausing. He squeezed shut his eyes and opened his mouth in a loud exhalation. Fox’s nostrils flared. Yes, that was the tang he remembered . . .