The Complaints

  ‘Customer maybe - his wife’s dead and the old bastard’s probably still got some juice.’ Fox paused. ‘Or could he be the proprietor?’

  ‘A pimp, you mean?’

  Fox shook his head. ‘Might own the building, though ... maybe he’s the landlord or leaseholder.’ He looked at Breck. ‘Could Annabel do some digging?’

  ‘Under what pretext?’

  ‘The inquiry team’s not finished with the Cowgate - she could be looking for background...’

  Breck puffed his cheeks and expelled some air. ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘You want me to call her?’ He had his own phone in his hand.

  ‘Why not?’ Malcolm Fox said.

  Breck started to make the call. ‘I’m just wondering...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now that I think about it, why did Heaton do that? Why take me with him when he went to see his bit on the side?’

  ‘He was showing off,’ Fox decided. ‘Pure and simple.’

  Breck considered this, then nodded. His call had been picked up. ‘Hey, Annabel,’ he said, his face breaking into a smile. ‘You’ll never guess what I’m after...’

  By mid-afternoon, Fox knew several things.

  Courtesy of Tony Kaye, he now knew that the lap-dancer’s name was Sonya Michie and that she lived in a block of flats in Sighthill. She was a single mum with two kids at the local primary school. There was no mention in her file of any employment in a sauna, and she had no arrests to her name.

  The information from Annabel Cartwright was more intriguing still. The building in which the sauna was housed was owned by a Dundee-based company called Wauchope Leisure Holdings Limited. Wauchope Leisure owned all sorts of interesting properties in the city, mostly saunas and strip clubs. The list happened to include the lap-dancing bar where Sonya Michie worked. Cartwright had sourced the register of directors, including a certain J. Broughton. Just to be on the safe side, Jamie Breck had asked her to verify the first name. A further hour later had come confirmation: John Edward Alan Broughton.

  ‘Better known as Jack,’ Fox had commented.

  ‘So at least he had a reason to be there,’ Breck had added. ‘Business rather than pleasure, I mean.’

  ‘At that time of night?’

  But Cartwright hadn’t been finished. Wauchope got its name from Bruce Wauchope, who was currently serving fifteen years at Her Majesty’s Pleasure for his role in a drug-smuggling scheme in the north-east.

  ‘Fishing boats working out of the likes of Aberdeen,’ she explained. She’d arrived at Fox’s house with a sheaf of photocopied pages - mostly newspaper articles about Wauchope, but also the transcript of the interview with the cabbie who’d dropped Vince off at the Cowgate. It hadn’t added much.

  Took him the best part of a minute to decide he was getting out, the cab-driver stated. I thought he was going to change his mind ...

  Cartwright had been offered a drink and decided on water. Breck had given her a kiss. Her cheeks were flushed, and she appeared energised by completion of her tasks. She had noted Fox’s injuries but hadn’t asked anything, knowing she’d be told if necessary. Nor had she mentioned the piles of books, which had been lifted from the coffee table and now sat on the floor, threatening to fall over at any moment.

  ‘Nobody noticed what you were up to?’ Fox thought to check, receiving a shake of the head in answer.

  ‘The trawlers would meet with other boats out in the North Sea,’ she explained between sips of water. ‘The drugs would come ashore, finding a ready market with fishermen and oil workers...’

  Fox was studying a grainy photograph of a scowling Bruce Wauchope. The man would be in his early fifties.

  ‘He looks like a right thug,’ Jamie Breck offered.

  ‘Wait till you see his son.’ Cartwright sifted through the paperwork. The photo she found was small, and accompanied a news report from Bruce Wauchope’s trial. ‘His name’s Bruce, too - Bruce Junior, I suppose - but he goes by the nickname “Bull”.’

  Fox and Breck studied the article while Cartwright added a few details.

  ‘He’s got a fierce reputation in Dundee. Kicked out of half a dozen schools by the time he was fifteen. Ran a local gang. No doubt made his dad proud of him. With Wauchope Senior out of action, Bull’s the one in charge.’

  ‘In charge of what exactly?’

  ‘For that, I’d probably need to chat up Tayside CID - either of you got a contact there?’

  ‘I might know someone,’ Breck admitted.

  ‘Does Wauchope own anything else in Edinburgh?’ Fox asked, still intent on his reading.

  ‘Again, that would need a bit more work.’ Cartwright paused. ‘Why is it so important?’ The question had been asked of Breck, but he fixed his attention on Fox, who could only shrug. The room remained quiet as Fox continued to pore over the photocopies. Breck had walked over to the window.

  ‘I don’t see your car,’ he commented.

  ‘I left it round the corner,’ Cartwright explained. ‘Didn’t want anyone seeing it here.’

  ‘Probably wise.’ Fox glanced up from his reading.

  She was checking her watch. ‘I’ve got to get back. Doesn’t normally take me this long to buy a sandwich.’

  ‘Thanks for all this,’ Fox said.

  ‘I just hope it helps.’ She slung her bag over her shoulder. Jamie had already left the room and opened the front door for her. Fox couldn’t make out what was said, but he heard a final wet-sounding kiss before the door closed. Breck came back into the room and watched her from the window.

  ‘She’s too good for you,’ Fox told him.

  ‘Don’t I know it.’ Breck turned and came back to his chair.

  ‘She’d stand by you, I’m sure of it,’ Fox went on. ‘If you told her, I mean. She wouldn’t believe any of it.’

  ‘I’ll do it in my own time, if that’s all right with you, Inspector.’ Fox took the hint and held up his hands in surrender. Breck rubbed his own hands together.

  ‘So,’ he said, perching himself on the arm of the chair, ‘what have we got exactly?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Fox paused. ‘Have you contacted your credit card company about that debit?’

  Breck stared at him. ‘What makes you ask all of a sudden?’

  ‘Just popped into my head.’

  ‘I’ve been on to them. The payment to SEIL was an online transaction, so there’s not much they can say.’

  ‘Anyone with your card details could have done it?’

  ‘As long as they knew the security number, plus maybe my address and postcode.’

  ‘So we’re not really any further forward?’

  ‘I can’t prove it wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’ Breck got to his feet again. ‘Still got a nagging doubt, Malcolm?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Try to sound a bit more convincing.’

  Before he could answer, Fox’s phone rang. It was Annie Inglis. ‘Hey, Annie,’ Fox said, ‘what can I do for you?’

  ‘Nothing really.’

  Breck had gestured that he would leave the room. Without waiting, he was already on his way. Fox leaned back in his chair with the phone to his ear, then recoiled in pain. His back throbbed a fresh complaint.

  ‘How are things at the Chop Shop?’ he asked through gritted teeth. ‘Have they given you a replacement for Gilchrist yet?’

  ‘Still working solo.’

  ‘That can’t be good.’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘How’s Duncan?’

  ‘He’s fine. How about you, Malcolm?’

  ‘I’ve got my feet up.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, sort of.’ He listened to her laugh.

  ‘How soon will you be back at work?’

  ‘That’s up to Grampian.’

  ‘I’ve met DI Stoddart. She seems very... efficient.’

  ‘Was she asking you about me?’

  ‘Just in passing.’

  ‘I was suppos
ed to come in today for another session on the rack.’

  ‘So she said.’

  ‘I told her I was ill.’

  ‘But you’re all right really?’

  ‘Actually, I’ve got a few aches and pains.’

  ‘This time of year, who hasn’t?’

  ‘A bit more sympathy wouldn’t go amiss.’

  She laughed again. ‘Do you want me to drop by after work? Bring you some grapes and Lucozade?’

  Fox was touching his fingers to his bruised and battered face. ‘It’s a tempting offer, but no thanks.’

  ‘Don’t say I didn’t ask.’

  ‘I’ll be fine in a few days, Annie. Listen, there’s something I wanted to ask you. A while back, you warned me that the Australian police were getting ready to pounce on Simeon Latham. When I talked to Gilchrist about it, he said much the same.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, the cop you put me on to in Melbourne seems to have other ideas.’

  ‘You know I can’t talk about this, Malcolm.’ Inglis’s voice had hardened.

  ‘I’m just wondering who it is that’s lying to me, Annie.’ Breck had stuck his head round the door and was indicating that he was about to leave. Fox shook his head and listened as a beep in his ear told him Inglis had hung up. He snapped shut the device and waved Breck back into the room.

  ‘DI Stoddart,’ he said, ‘has been pumping Annie Inglis for information. ’

  ‘She’s thorough, if nothing else,’ Breck commented.

  Fox was thoughtful as he let his fingers drift across his swollen cheek. ‘You shouldn’t be part of this, Jamie. What you should be doing is clearing your name.’

  ‘And how do I do that without them realising you must have tipped me off?’ Breck shook his head slowly. ‘Got to clear your name before I can clear mine - so what’s next on the day’s agenda?’

  Fox looked at the front of his phone - three o’clock had come and gone. ‘Lunch?’ he suggested.

  ‘Another supermarket run?’ Breck guessed. Fox nodded, reaching into his pocket for money.

  ‘My shout,’ he said. ‘You paid for breakfast...’

  Breck took the ten-pound note but stood his ground. ‘And after?’

  ‘Dundee’s an option - but again, it’s something I can do for myself. ’

  Breck pointed at Fox’s face. ‘I’ve seen the results of your solo efforts. So you won’t mind if I tag along?’

  After Breck had gone, Fox rose to his feet and walked to the window. He stared out at the street, his mind dazed. Then he went to the kitchen and helped himself to more painkillers. Annabel’s glass was waiting to be washed. There was a pale smear of pink lipstick on the rim. Was her boyfriend too good to be true? Then again, was she? Could she be feeding titbits back to the inquiry? Handing Malcolm Fox to Billy Giles on the understanding that Giles would then go easy on her lover? The list of people Fox felt he could trust was short, its margins filled with ifs and buts and question marks.

  Back at the coffee table, he picked up a sheaf of photocopied sheets - the transcript of the cabbie’s interview. It struck him that Vince might have had good reason for hesitating before leaving the taxi. He’d been agitated. He had a location in mind but showed some reluctance. At Marooned he’d tried picking a fight, then at the bus stop there had been a second confrontation. The doormen at the Oliver shouldn’t have let him in, but did. Why was that? Jamie Breck had said that Joanna Broughton didn’t want the place getting a reputation, yet Vince Faulkner was allowed to drink himself into a near-stupor. Two to three hours he’d been there ... When Vince’s body had been found, he’d had only a few notes and coins in his pockets. Had he gone to the Cowgate to borrow money, or because he’d suddenly come into some?

  Sifting through all the material, it struck Fox that here was another huge favour Annabel Cartwright had done him, without even really knowing him. She was helping because he was Jamie’s friend ...

  ‘I trust you, Annabel,’ he said to himself. Then, after a moment: ‘Okay, maybe eighty per cent.’

  He was back in the kitchen, pouring more tap water into his glass, when he realised his old mobile was ringing and headed through to the living room to find it. But whoever was calling gave up before he got there. Fox checked the number - another mobile - and called back.

  ‘I just missed you,’ he said when the phone was picked up at the other end.

  ‘It’s Max Dearborn.’

  ‘How are things with you, Max?’

  ‘Nose to the grindstone.’

  ‘Any sign of the errant developer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But that’s what he’s become, right? Errant rather than deceased?’

  ‘It’s one possibility among many.’

  ‘I can only think of five, Max. He’s dead and it was an accident; or he topped himself; or someone took care of him.’

  ‘That’s three...’

  ‘And if he’s alive, he either faked his suicide or someone else did it for him, meaning he’s been snatched.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the wife have had a ransom note by now?’

  ‘Maybe she’s just not telling you, Max. From what I know of Joanna Broughton, she’d want to deal with something like that in her own way.’

  ‘That’s a point,’ Dearborn conceded. ‘Speaking of which, her PR man’s on the warpath again.’

  ‘I’ve not been near her...’

  ‘It’s a reporter he’s got in his sights.’ Dearborn sounded tired. Fox reckoned he knew why he’d called - no hidden agenda, but rather the need to talk, to blow off a little steam, to gossip with someone outside the circle of wagons. Fox imagined Dearborn in a half-empty CID office, everyone flagging after the first few days of toil. Waiting for a break in the case, and made lethargic by too many sandwiches and chocolate bars. Maybe Dearborn had his chair pushed back, necktie undone, feet up on the desk...

  ‘What’s the reporter done?’

  ‘Not much. She’s got hold of a rumour that Brogan was tied up in something.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Trying to bribe a councillor. It’s something to do with all these flats Brogan’s been putting up. Suddenly nobody’s buying. He was hoping the council might.’

  ‘What would the council want with them?’

  ‘Social housing - city’s short a few thousand homes, or hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘Sounds as if Brogan might have had the solution.’

  ‘If the price was right ...’

  ‘And how was a solitary councillor going to sugar the deal?’

  ‘Helps if the councillor sits on the Housing Board.’

  ‘Ah,’ Fox said. Then, after a pause: ‘I still don’t see much that’s wrong with it.’

  ‘To be frank, me neither.’

  ‘So who told you all this? Not Gordon Lovatt?’

  ‘The reporter.’

  ‘And why are you telling me?’

  ‘Because you’ve got form when it comes to getting up people’s noses. Next time you see Joanna Broughton or Gordon Lovatt, you might drop it into the conversation.’

  ‘In the hope that they’ll do what, exactly?’

  ‘Maybe nothing ... maybe something.’

  ‘Seems to me you owe this reporter a favour, but can’t stick your own head above the parapet. Mine, on the other hand ...’

  ‘It was just a thought. The reporter’s name is Linda Dearborn, by the way.’

  ‘That’s quite a coincidence, Max.’

  ‘It would be, if she wasn’t my baby sister. Let me give you her number ...’ He did so, and Fox jotted it down. He could hear another phone ringing somewhere in Max Dearborn’s vicinity. ‘Got to go.’

  ‘Any news about Brogan, you’ll let me know?’ Fox reminded him. But Dearborn had already ended the call. Fox scratched his head and tried to order his thoughts. There was something he should have asked, so he sent Dearborn a text.

  Name of councillor?

  It was five minutes before he received a reply:

 
Ernie Wishaw.

  Fox was still staring at the name when Breck returned with the food. Breck didn’t appear to have noticed any change in him. He unloaded packets of sandwiches and crisps on to the coffee table, along with a couple of bottles of lemonade. He was halfway through asking Fox if he preferred prawn salad or ham and mustard when he broke off.