The Complaints

  Breck looked at him. ‘I hope you appreciate,’ he began, ‘that I’m trying to do you a favour here.’

  ‘A favour?’ Tony Kaye didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘A heads-up. We’re not idiots, Sergeant Kaye. First thing we did was a background check. PNC keeps a record of recent searches, and that’s what led us to your pal in Hull CID.’

  ‘Some pal,’ Kaye muttered, folding his arms.

  ‘He was slow enough giving us your name, if that’s any consolation. Took his boss to do a bit of the strongarm.’

  ‘How did the autopsy go?’ Fox interrupted.

  Breck turned his attention to him. ‘Blunt trauma, internal injuries ... We’re pretty sure he was dead when they dumped him.’

  ‘Dead how long?’

  ‘Day, day and a half.’ Breck paused, rotating his glass on its coaster. ‘The PNC search was yesterday. Is that the same day you found out about Jude’s broken arm?’

  ‘Yes,’ Fox admitted.

  ‘You went looking for Faulkner?’

  ‘No.’

  Breck raised an eyebrow, though his stare remained focused on the glass in front of him. ‘The man who’d just broken your sister’s arm - you didn’t want a word with him?’

  ‘I wanted a word, but I didn’t go looking.’

  ‘And how about you, Sergeant Kaye?’

  Kaye opened his mouth to answer, but Fox held up a hand to stop him. ‘This has nothing to do with Sergeant Kaye,’ he stated. ‘I asked him for a background check on Faulkner.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ammunition - if there was anything there, I was hoping maybe Jude would see sense.’

  ‘Leave him, you mean?’ Fox nodded. ‘You told her?’

  ‘Never got the chance - Faulkner was already dead, wasn’t he?’

  Breck didn’t bother answering. Fox made eye contact with Tony Kaye, giving the slightest of nods to let him know this was how he wanted it. If there was going to be flak, it was Fox’s to take.

  ‘Remember when I asked you if there was anything you wanted to tell me about the victim?’ Breck was fixing Malcolm Fox with a stare. ‘How come you didn’t mention his previous?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ Fox answered with a shrug.

  ‘What else did you find?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But you knew he was a naughty boy?’

  ‘Seems to have toed the line since coming north.’

  ‘Well, it takes time, doesn’t it? He’d want to be sure of the new terrain. How long had he been in town?’

  ‘A year, year and a half,’ Fox answered. The aroma was in his nostrils again: two fresh malts had just been poured at the bar.

  ‘How did your sister meet him?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask her.’

  ‘We’ll definitely do that.’ Breck glanced at his watch. ‘I said I was giving you a heads-up, but time’s nearly up.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Breck locked eyes with Malcolm Fox. ‘I’m not your problem here, just remember that.’ All three turned as the door to the pub was pushed open with enough force to rattle it on its hinges. The man who lumbered in was almost as wide as he was tall. Despite the plummeting temperature outside, he wore only a checked sports jacket over his open-necked shirt. Fox recognised him, and with good reason. He was Detective Chief Inspector William Giles - ‘Bad Billy’ Giles. Judging from the well-lined face, the black wavy hair had to be a dye job, not that anyone was about to point this out to the owner. The eyes were a cold, crystalline blue.

  ‘Pint of eighty,’ Giles ordered, approaching the table. Breck rose to his feet, but hesitated long enough to start making introductions.

  ‘I know who they are,’ Giles growled back at him. ‘Three hours they spent grilling me - three hours of my life I’ll never get back.’

  ‘Glen Heaton didn’t deserve the effort you put in,’ Fox commented.

  ‘You can knock a man down as often as you like,’ Giles spat. ‘The measure is when he keeps getting up, and Glen Heaton’s a long way from being counted out by the likes of you.’ The chair - Breck’s chair - creaked as Giles lowered himself on to it. His eyes flitted between Tony Kaye and Malcolm Fox. ‘But now you’re mine,’ he stated with grim satisfaction.

  Billy Giles wasn’t just the CID head honcho at Torphichen, not just Jamie Breck’s boss - and Glen Heaton’s, come to that. He was also Heaton’s oldest friend. Fox was thinking back to that three-hour interview. Thinking, too, of all the obstacles Giles had placed in the way of the PSU investigation.

  ‘Now you’re mine,’ Giles echoed with quiet satisfaction. From the bar, Breck made eye contact with Malcolm Fox. I’m not your problem here ... Fox acknowledged as much with the same slight nod he’d earlier given to Tony Kaye. Then he turned his attention to Giles.

  ‘Not quite yet,’ he said, giving equal weight to each individual word. He rose to his feet, indicating that Kaye should do the same. ‘You want us, you know where to find us.’

  ‘Now’s as good a time as any.’

  But Fox was shaking his head as he buttoned his coat. ‘You know where to find us,’ he repeated. ‘Just be sure to make an appointment - we’re always busy in the Complaints.’

  ‘You’re maggots, the pair of you.’

  Even standing, Fox wasn’t much taller than the seated Giles. But he leaned down a little towards the man. ‘We’re not maggots,’ he stated. ‘You said so yourself - we’re the ones in the ring, the ones who floored your pal Heaton. And last time I looked, he was still on the canvas.’

  Then he straightened up, turned and walked out. It was a few seconds before Tony Kaye joined him. Kaye was knotting his tartan scarf as he emerged from the pub.

  ‘What the hell do we do?’ he asked.

  ‘We don’t need to do anything - it’ll happen the way it happens. ’

  ‘We should at least tell McEwan.’

  Fox nodded his agreement. ‘Giles will want us interviewed at Torphichen. We stick to my story. I might get a reprimand, but I doubt it’ll amount to much.’

  Kaye considered this, then shook his head slowly. ‘Giles won’t let it go at that. Far as he’s concerned, this is payback time.’

  ‘All he’ll get is small change, Tony.’

  Kaye thought for a further moment. ‘That bastard in Hull!’

  ‘We ought to have realised - everyone leaves traces, even on a computer.’

  Kaye breathed out noisily through his nose. ‘So what now?’

  Fox shrugged. ‘Do you need a lift? I don’t see your Nissan . . .’

  ‘I parked it legally for a change. It’s a couple of streets away.’

  ‘You didn’t want Torphichen nabbing you for that, too?’

  Kaye shook his head. ‘How come you’re always so calm, Foxy?’

  ‘No point being anything else - like I say, what happens happens. ’

  Kaye was staring at the door of Minter’s. ‘We should leg it before he comes out.’

  ‘He’s got that pint to drink, and maybe another one after it. By the way - what did you think of Jamie Breck?’

  Kaye needed only a second to deliver his verdict. ‘Good guy, seems like.’

  Malcolm Fox nodded his agreement. Seems like ...

  Wednesday 11 February 2009

  6

  Wednesday morning, Fox was brushing his teeth when the home phone started ringing. The upstairs handset needed recharging, and he knew the caller would have hung up before he could reach the living room, so he stayed where he was. He’d woken early, Tony Kaye’s words in his head - good guy, seems like. Kaye had meant that Breck was the sort to help out a colleague. Didn’t mean he couldn’t be other things, too . . . Just as Fox was wiping his mouth, his mobile let out its little chirrup. It was on the dresser in the bedroom, and he walked through, tossing the towel on to the just-made bed.

  ‘Fox,’ he said, pressing the phone to his ear.

  ‘Mr Fox, it’s Alison Pettifer.’

  Fox’s stomach tightened
. ‘Is Jude all right?’

  ‘They’ve taken her.’

  ‘Who?’ But already knowing the answer.

  ‘Some policemen. C Division, they said.’

  Meaning Torphichen. Fox looked at his watch - half seven. ‘It’s just routine,’ he started to explain.

  ‘That’s what they said - “routine questions”. All the same, I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘That’s kind of you.’

  ‘Should I stay here, do you think?’ Fox wasn’t sure what she meant: was she suggesting she head to Torphichen herself? ‘To keep an eye on them, I mean.’

  Fox lifted the phone from his ear and read the display. She was calling from Jude’s home phone. ‘They’re still there?’ he asked.

  ‘Some of them, yes.’

  ‘With a search warrant?’

  ‘They did get Jude to sign something,’ the neighbour confirmed.

  ‘Where are you now, Mrs Pettifer?’

  ‘The foot of the stairs.’ He heard her apologise as someone pushed past her. Heavy footsteps making for the upstairs landing. ‘They don’t seem to like me sticking around.’

  ‘What happened to Jude’s other friends, the ones who were going to look after her?’

  ‘Joyce stayed the night, but she had to leave for work at six thirty. The police started arriving just after, so I got dressed and ...’

  ‘Thanks for everything, Mrs Pettifer. You can go home now.’

  ‘A couple of reporters came to the door yesterday evening, but I gave them short shrift.’

  ‘Thanks again.’

  ‘Well . . . I might just nip home then, if you think that’s for the best.’

  Fox ended the call, fetched a fresh shirt from its hanger and decided yesterday’s tie would suffice. He was halfway down the stairs when the landline started ringing again. He lifted the receiver from the sofa and pressed it to his ear.

  ‘Fox,’ he said.

  ‘It’s McEwan.’

  ‘Morning, sir.’

  ‘You sound harassed.’

  ‘No, sir, just getting ready to leave.’

  ‘So I’ll see you here in half an hour?’

  ‘Actually, I need to stop off somewhere first.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s advisable, Malcolm.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Torphichen have told me what’s happening. I got the call half an hour ago. That stunt you pulled with the PNC is going to take a bit of work to defuse.’

  ‘I was going to tell you, sir . . .’ Fox paused. ‘Truth is, they’ve taken my sister in for questioning. She needs someone with her.’

  ‘Not you, Malcolm. You need to be here.’

  ‘They know she’s my sister, Bob. They don’t like what I’ve done to their pal Heaton.’

  ‘I know people at Torphichen, Malcolm. I’ll see to it everything’s squared.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Half an hour, then. You, me and Tony Kaye are going to have a fine wee natter ...’ The phone went dead in Fox’s hand.

  In fact, the journey took him longer than expected. His excuse: tram works. Really, he’d detoured to Jude’s street in Saughtonhall. Her front door was open. A Scene of Crime van stood kerbside. Someone had been dispatched to the corner shop - the crew were drinking from polystyrene cups and munching on pastries and crisps. He saw just a couple of plain-clothes cops - faces he recognised dimly from visits to Torphichen. No sign of either Billy Giles or Jamie Breck. A neighbour on the opposite side of the road stood watching from her window, arms folded. Fox let his engine idle, knowing there was nothing to be gained from going in. Eventually he signalled back out into the traffic. The drivers were all being polite; didn’t mind braking on his behalf.

  It gave them more time to gawp.

  ‘My dabs will be all over the place,’ Fox told McEwan. They weren’t in the office: McEwan had found an empty meeting-room. An elliptical table and eight or nine chairs. There was a marker board on a tripod. Three words written there:VISIBILITY

  VIABILITY

  VERSATILITY

  Tony Kaye had found the only chair in the room with castors. He was rolling himself backwards from the table, then forward again.

  ‘That’s annoying me,’ McEwan warned him.

  ‘What are we going to do about Bad Billy?’ Kaye asked, still moving.

  ‘He’s DCI Giles to you, Sergeant Kaye - and we’re going to let him do his job.’ He turned his head in Fox’s direction. ‘Isn’t that right, Malcolm?’

  Fox nodded. ‘Only thing we can do. They’ll feel better once they’ve given us a kicking.’

  McEwan gave a sigh. ‘How many times have I told you? PSU has to be above reproach.’

  ‘Like I say, sir, searching the database for Vince Faulkner was my idea.’

  McEwan glared at Fox. ‘That’s a load of balls and you know it. Tony here is the kind who’d decide a protocol could be bent - isn’t that right, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Kaye admitted.

  ‘Last night we told Giles something different,’ Fox cautioned.

  ‘Then you better stick to that,’ McEwan snapped back. ‘If he catches you in one lie, he’ll go looking for others ...’ He paused. ‘Are there any others?’

  ‘No, sir,’ both men said in unison.

  McEwan was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Billy Giles is all bile and bluster. Scratch the surface and there’s a lot less of him to be scared of.’ He held up a finger. ‘Doesn’t mean you should underestimate him.’

  Malcolm Fox took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘Are they treating Jude’s house as a crime scene?’

  ‘Possible crime scene.’

  ‘They won’t find anything.’

  ‘I thought you just said they’d find your prints.’

  ‘I was there on Monday, and then again yesterday.’

  ‘Best make sure they know that.’

  Fox nodded slowly, while McEwan’s attention shifted back to Kaye.

  ‘Tony, I swear to God, if you don’t stop swivelling on that damned chair ...’

  Kaye leapt to his feet so suddenly, the chair rolled all the way back to the marker board. He strode over to the window and peered down at the car park. ‘This doesn’t feel right,’ he muttered with a shake of the head. ‘Foxy starts looking at Jamie Breck - next thing we know, C Division’s sniffing at our balls. What if Bad Billy got wind of it and decided he’d lost enough rotten apples for one season?’

  ‘And did what?’ McEwan reasoned. ‘Killed a man in cold blood? Is that seriously what you’re suggesting?’

  ‘I’m not saying he . . .’ But Kaye couldn’t finish what he’d started. It turned into an elongated snarl instead.

  ‘Do I put myself forward for questioning?’ Fox calmly asked of his boss.

  ‘They’ve already requested the pleasure of your company.’

  ‘When do they want me?’

  ‘Soon as this meeting’s done,’ McEwan said.

  Fox stared at him. ‘So?’

  ‘So you’re idiots, the pair of you. Nobody accesses the PNC without good reason.’

  ‘We had good reason,’ Kaye insisted.

  ‘You had a good personal reason, Tony, and that’s far from being the same thing.’

  ‘He’d been involved in a domestic,’ Kaye ploughed on. ‘We were looking for evidence of priors.’

  ‘Keep telling yourself that,’ McEwan offered with a tired-looking smile.

  ‘Sir?’ Fox interrupted, needing to hear the word.

  ‘Go,’ Bob McEwan obliged.

  ‘Is my sister all right?’

  ‘You want to see her?’ Giles asked. He was dressed in the same clothes as the previous night, but with the addition of a tie. His neck had outgrown the collar of his shirt, and the top button was undone, visible behind the tie’s loose knot.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She’s not far.’ They were in one of the interview rooms at Torphichen. The place had a Precinct 13 feel to it - crumbling and circumferenced by
dereliction and roadworks. There wasn’t much for the tourists, once you got west of Princes Street and Lothian Road. The one-way system dragged buses, cabs and lorries around it, but it was a thankless spot for pedestrians. Inside the building there were the usual smells of mildew and desperation. The interview room bore battle scars - scratched walls, chipped desk, graffiti on the back of the door. They’d kept Fox waiting a good long time in the reception area, giving uniforms and plain-clothes officers alike the chance to come and glare at him. When he’d eventually followed Giles down the corridor towards the interview room, there had been plenty of hissing and cursing from office doorways.