The Complaints

  ‘This is a coincidence,’ Annabel Cartwright added. She wasn’t much of an actress, but then maybe she thought the charade unnecessary.

  ‘What are you having?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Red wine for me, white for Annabel,’ Breck said. The barmaid had perked up at the arrival of customers with a bit of life to them. She poured what seemed to Fox’s eye generous measures.

  ‘Let’s grab a table,’ Breck said, as though chairs were at a premium. They headed for the furthest corner, and got themselves settled, removing coats and jackets. ‘Cheers,’ Breck said, chinking glasses.

  ‘How was it?’ Fox asked him without preamble.

  Breck knew what he was referring to and pretended to give it some thought. ‘DI Stoddart’s a piece of work,’ he told Fox, keeping his voice low, ‘but I didn’t think much of those two blokes she’s saddled with - and I don’t think she reckons them much cop either ... if you’ll pardon the pun.’

  Fox nodded and took a sip of his drink. The barmaid had been right: it was like soup that had been left to cool for a few minutes. ‘What’s with the text?’ he asked. ‘You changed your number?’

  ‘New phone,’ Breck explained, waving the handset in his face. ‘Rental, believe it or not. Visitors from the States and suchlike use them all the time. I’d no idea till I started looking...’

  ‘What he means is, he asked me and I told him.’ Annabel Cartwright gave Breck’s arm a playful punch.

  ‘So what’s with the pow-wow?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Again, that was Annabel’s idea,’ Breck said.

  She looked at him. ‘I wouldn’t go that far...’

  Breck turned to face her. ‘Maybe not, but you’re the one with the news.’

  ‘What news?’ Fox asked.

  Cartwright looked from Fox to Breck and back again. ‘I could get in so much trouble for this.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Fox said. Then, to Breck: ‘So why don’t you tell me, Jamie? That way, we can say hand on heart that the only person Annabel told was her boyfriend.’

  Breck thought for a moment and then nodded. He asked Cartwright if she wanted to leave them to it, but she shook her head and said she’d just sit there and finish her drink. Breck leaned a little further over the table, elbows resting either side of his glass.

  ‘To start with,’ he said, ‘there’s new information on Vince. Another cab-driver’s come forward. This one had been waiting for fares outside the Oliver. He reckons he picked Vince up around one in the morning.’

  ‘He’s sure it was Vince?’

  Breck nodded. ‘The team showed him photos. Plus, he ID’d Vince’s clothes.’

  ‘So where did he take him?’

  ‘The Cowgate. Where else are you going to go if you want to keep drinking at that time of night?’

  ‘It’s a bit...’

  ‘Studenty?’ Breck guessed. ‘Trendy?’

  But Fox had thought of something else. ‘Isn’t the Cowgate closed to traffic at night?’

  ‘Driver knew all the little short cuts and side streets. Dropped him outside a club called Rondo - do you know it?’

  ‘Do I look the type?’

  Breck smiled. ‘Annabel dragged me there once.’ She jabbed him in the ribs by way of complaint and Breck squirmed a little. ‘Live music in the back room, sticky carpets and plastic glasses in the front.’

  ‘That’s where he was headed?’

  ‘Driver wasn’t sure. But it was where he got out.’

  ‘Meaning he was still alive in the small hours of Sunday morning? ’

  Breck nodded. ‘So now the inquiry team’s going to be doing a sweep of the Cowgate - must be about a dozen pubs and clubs; more if they widen the search to the Grassmarket. They’re printing up flyers to hand out to the clubbing fraternity.’

  ‘Doormen might remember him,’ Fox mused. ‘He probably wasn’t typical of their clientele. Did the cabbie say what sort of state he was in?’

  ‘Slurring his words and a bit agitated. Plus he didn’t tip.’

  ‘Why was he agitated?’

  ‘Maybe he was wondering what was waiting for him back home,’ Breck offered. ‘Maybe he was just the type who gets that way after a skinful.’

  ‘I’d like to listen to the interview with the cabbie...’

  ‘I could probably get you a transcript,’ Cartwright offered.

  Fox nodded his thanks. ‘The first cab would have dropped him at the Oliver around ten - means he was in there three hours.’

  ‘A fair amount of time,’ Breck agreed.

  ‘Well, it’s progress, I suppose. Cheers, Annabel.’

  Cartwright gave a shrug. ‘Tell him the rest,’ she commanded Breck.

  ‘Well, this is just something Annabel picked up when she was talking to a colleague based at D Division...’

  ‘Meaning Leith and Charlie Brogan?’ Fox guessed.

  ‘The inquiry team’s beginning to wonder why no body’s been washed ashore. They’re digging a bit deeper into the whys and wherefores.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Brogan had recently sold a large chunk of his art collection.’

  Fox nodded again. ‘Worth about half a million.’

  Annabel Cartwright took up the story. ‘Nobody seems to know where that money is. And Joanna Broughton’s not exactly being cooperative. She’s got her lawyers setting up their wagons in a circle. She’s also got Gordon Lovatt reminding everyone involved that it won’t look good if we start harassing a “photogenic widow” - his very words.’

  ‘Leith think the suicide was staged?’

  ‘As Jamie says, they’re definitely beginning to wonder.’

  ‘Has any other cash gone AWOL?’

  ‘Hard to know until the lawyers stop denying access. We’d need a judge to issue a warrant, and that means convincing him it’s right and proper.’

  ‘There’s no way of knowing if any of Brogan’s accounts or credit cards are still being used?’ Fox didn’t expect an answer. He lifted his glass, but paused with it halfway to his mouth. ‘When I was in her flat, I saw the spaces on the wall where those paintings had been.’

  ‘You’ve been to her house?’ Cartwright asked.

  ‘There wasn’t any paperwork lying around, but then she had to fetch Brogan’s diary from elsewhere. Must be a room he uses as an office.’

  ‘He could always have siphoned some cash off from CBBJ,’ Breck added. ‘We’ve got specialist accountants for that kind of digging.’

  ‘But there still needs to be a judge’s signature,’ Cartwright cautioned.

  Fox shrugged. ‘If Joanna Broughton’s being obstructive,’ he argued, ‘I’d have thought that might be reason enough.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll fight their corner,’ Breck said, running his finger down the wine glass.

  ‘Any more revelations?’ Fox’s eyes were on Annabel.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘I really do appreciate this.’ Fox got to his feet. ‘So much so that I’m going to buy you another drink.’

  ‘This one’s on us,’ Breck said, but Fox was having none of it. When he placed the order, the barmaid smiled and nodded towards the table.

  ‘Nice when you bump into friends, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Malcolm Fox replied. ‘Yes, it really is.’

  20

  At midnight, he was standing at the foot of Blair Street, staring towards the illuminated doorway of Rondo. There was just the one doorman. They usually operated in pairs, so the partner was either inside or on a break of some kind. The street was almost deserted, but wouldn’t have been at the same sort of time on a Saturday. Plus the Welsh rugby fans had been in town the night Vince died, gearing up for Sunday’s encounter - some of them would have known that the Cowgate was the late-licence district.

  Fox stood at the corner, hands in pockets. This was where Vince had been dropped. Access to the main thoroughfare was curtailed between ten at night and five in the morning. Fox knew that this was because the Cowgate boasted narrow pavements.
Drunks kept stumbling from them into the path of oncoming traffic. Cars had been banned because people were stupid. But then no one surely would pass this way sober at dead of night. It was a dark, dank conduit. There were homeless hostels and rubbish-strewn alleys. The place reeked of rat piss and puke. But there were plenty of little oases like Rondo. Lit by neon and radiating warmth (thanks to the heaters above their doors), they coaxed the unwary inside. As Fox crossed to the other side of the road, the doorman sized him up, loosening his shoulders under his three-quarter-length black woollen coat.

  ‘Evening, Mr Fox,’ the man said. Fox stared at him. There was a smile playing at the edges of the mouth. Stubble on the scarred chin. Shaven head and piercing blue eyes.

  ‘Pete Scott,’ the man eventually said, having decided that Fox needed help.

  ‘You’ve shaved your hair off,’ Fox replied.

  Scott ran a hand over his head. ‘I was beginning to lose it anyway. Long time no see.’ He held out a hand for Fox to shake.

  ‘How long have you been out, Pete?’ Fox remembered Scott now. Six years ago, in his pre-Complaints life, he’d helped put him away. Housebreaking, a string of convictions stretching back to adolescence.

  ‘Almost two years.’

  ‘You served four?’

  ‘Took me a while to see the error of my ways.’

  ‘You battered someone?’

  ‘Another con.’

  ‘But you’re doing okay now?’

  Scott shuffled his feet and made show of looking up and down the street. There was a Bluetooth connected to his left ear. ‘Keeping out of trouble,’ he eventually offered.

  ‘You’ve a good memory for names and faces.’

  Scott just nodded at this. ‘You having a night out?’ he asked.

  ‘Working,’ Fox corrected him. ‘There was a murder the weekend before last.’

  ‘They’ve been round already.’ Scott reached into his coat and pulled out a sheet of paper. Fox unfolded it and saw that it was a head-and-shoulders photo of Vince Faulkner, with a few salient details and a phone number. ‘They’ve left them on the tables inside, with another stack on the bar. Won’t do any good.’

  Fox handed back the sheet. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Guy didn’t come in here. I was on the door that Saturday. I’d have known about it.’

  ‘Did you see him get out of the cab?’

  ‘Might’ve done - taxis drop people off all the time.’

  ‘You saw somebody like him?’

  Scott just shrugged. The scrawny nineteen-year-old Fox had interviewed had bulked up, but the eyes had definitely softened.

  ‘There was a guy wandered off in that direction.’ Scott was nodding towards the east. ‘Wasn’t too steady on his pins, so I was glad he hadn’t tried coming in.’

  ‘You’d have stopped him?’

  Scott nodded. ‘But there was just something about him ... don’t ask me what. It made me think he’d have relished it.’

  ‘Relished being turned away?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it would have given him every excuse.’

  ‘For a fight, you mean?’

  ‘The guy was wound tight, Mr Fox. I think that’s what I’m trying to get at.’

  ‘Did you tell this to the other cops, Pete?’ Fox watched Scott shake his head. ‘Why not?’

  ‘They never thought to ask.’ Scott was distracted by the arrival of two teenage girls. They wore teetering high heels, miniskirts and plenty of perfume. One was tall and skinny, the other short and plump. Fox could sense that they were cold but trying not to show it.

  ‘Hiya, Pete,’ the shorter one said. ‘Any talent in tonight?’

  ‘Plenty.’

  ‘That’s what you always say.’ She patted his cheek as he held open the door.

  ‘The job has its compensations, Mr Fox,’ Pete Scott told the detective.

  As he walked eastwards along the Cowgate, Fox wondered just how invisible he’d become. Neither girl had paid him the slightest attention. On the other hand, it was good that Scott didn’t hold a grudge. Good, too, that he was holding down a job - any kind of a job. Before Fox had left, the young man had confessed that he was now the father of an eighteen-month-old daughter called Chloe. He was still seeing Chloe’s mum but living together hadn’t worked out. Fox had nodded and the two had shaken hands again. The meeting had made Fox feel better, though he couldn’t say exactly why.

  He knew that if he kept walking, he’d come to the St Mary’s Street junction. Past that and he’d soon be at Dynamic Earth and the Scottish Parliament. He was coming to the end of the short strip of bars and clubs. There were shops, but with their windows empty or boarded up. The city mortuary was along here, but he’d no desire to pay a visit. He assumed Vince’s body would still be in the fridge there. Across the road, a church had decided that the best way to raise funds was to build a hotel in its grounds. The hotel seemed to be doing reasonable business; Fox wasn’t sure if the church could say the same thing. He decided to turn and retrace his route. There were too many paths Vince could have taken: narrow lanes and flights of steps. He could have headed towards Chambers Street or the Royal Mile. For all Fox knew, he could have checked into the hotel and slept things off. He was trying to see the area’s attraction for Vince. Yes, it was full of bars, but then so was Lothian Road. Vince would have paid good money to have a cab bring him here from Leith. On the way, he would have passed dozens of places still open at that hour. He had to have had a destination in mind. Maybe Fox could talk to the cabbie; maybe Annabel would find out the man’s details for him.

  ‘Maybe,’ he muttered to himself.

  The temperature was dipping still further. He had pulled up the collar of his coat, trying to protect his ears. There was a chip shop at the Grassmarket, but that suddenly seemed like a long haul. Besides, would it still be open? The curfew was in place, meaning all traffic had ceased. His own car was parked near the top of Blair Street. Five more minutes and he would be snug - there was nothing for him here.

  But then he saw another neon light. This one was down a narrow alley - a dead end, in fact. He hadn’t spotted it before, but now that he looked there was a sign on the brick wall, pointing towards the lit doorway. Just one word above the sign’s arrow - SAUNA. He wondered if any of the team had got round to leafleting this particular business. He took a couple of steps deeper into the alley so he could better see the door. It was solid wood, painted gloss black, with a tarnished brass handle and an assortment of graffiti tags. There was a video intercom off to one side. Edinburgh’s sex industry liked to keep itself to itself, which was fine by the police.

  Fox was readying to turn and head back to the car when a massive force detonated between his shoulders, sending him flying. His face hit the ground. He’d had just enough time to half turn his head, so that his nose escaped the worst of the impact. The weight bore down on him - someone was kneeling on his back, punching the air out of his lungs. Dazed, Fox tried to wrestle free, but a foot had connected with his chin. A black shoe, nothing fancy or memorable about it. It snapped his head back and he felt himself spiralling into the dark ...

  When his eyes blinked open, the shoe was back. It was jabbing at his side. He lashed out a hand to grab it.

  ‘Wake up,’ a voice was saying. ‘You can’t sleep here.’

  Fox clambered to his knees and then his feet. His spine ached. So did his neck and his jaw. The man standing in front of him was old, and Fox thought for a second that he knew him.

  ‘Too much to drink,’ the man was saying. He’d taken a step away from Fox. Fox was checking himself for damage. There was no blood, and no teeth seemed to have been dislodged.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘You’d be better going home to your bed.’

  ‘I’m not drunk - I don’t drink.’

  ‘Are you ill, then?’

  Fox was trying to blink away the pain. The world sounded offkilter, and
he realised it was the blood surging in his ears. His vision was blurred.

  ‘Did you see him?’ he asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Pushed me to the ground and swung a kick at me...’ He rubbed his jaw again.

  ‘Did they take anything?’

  Fox checked his pockets. When he shook his head, he felt like he might throw up.