by Ian Rankin
‘Bekkah looked like she’d spent some time in there,’ Naysmith added.
‘Good figure on her, too – if that’s not being sexist.’
Fox could see his two colleagues had enjoyed themselves.
‘She’d like to give modelling a try,’ Naysmith informed him.
‘Cut to the chase,’ Fox muttered.
‘Well …’ Naysmith began, but Kaye took over the story.
‘Night out. Started with the whole team from the salon. Few casualties along the way. Chinese meal, then pubs and a club. It’s past midnight and they reckon on walking home. Bekkah’s caught short and nips down a side street. Car pulls up. It’s Paul Carter. Identifies himself and says he’s taking them in. Public indecency or some such. Billie asks if he can’t just drop them home instead. He says maybe he can but it’d mean spending a bit of time on the car’s back seat. Makes a grab for her crotch. She pushes him away, so then he asks Bekkah if she wants to spend the night in the cells. Same bargain. They tell him where he can go and he heads back to his car and calls it in. Patrol car turns up and they’re put in a cell to sober up. Which is when Carter suddenly reappears and repeats the offer – any and all charges dropped if they’ll “scratch his back”. No dice.’
‘Billie told him her boyfriend was a bouncer,’ Naysmith got the chance to say.
‘As if that would cut any ice with Carter.’
Fox rubbed his chin. ‘Carter’s uncle ran a security company,’ he commented.
‘So?’
Fox shrugged. ‘Just wondering.’
‘We can always visit the girls again and ask.’ Kaye glanced at Naysmith, who didn’t look entirely opposed to the idea. ‘Anyway, that’s about it. In the morning they were released without charge – no sign of Carter.’
‘But they didn’t make a complaint?’
‘Not until they read about Teresa Collins.’ Kaye paused. ‘How is she, by the way? Any news?’
‘I’ve not checked. Been some developments here …’ He filled them in. Naysmith seemed the more interested of the two, asking questions and getting Fox to repeat bits, the better to understand them. Kaye looked glum throughout.
‘What?’ Fox eventually asked him.
‘I hate to side with Pitkethly, but she’s got a point – what has any of this to do with us?’
‘Paul Carter comes riding back into town and a day later his uncle has topped himself? You don’t think there’s anything to that?’
‘Whether there is or there isn’t, we’re here to investigate three officers, none of whom happens to be Paul Carter. We report our findings and then we get to go home.’
‘So the gun,’ Joe Naysmith was saying to himself, ‘was meant to be destroyed but obviously wasn’t. They must keep records of these things …’
Kaye stretched out his arms in mock-supplication. ‘This is not our case,’ he said, laying equal stress on each of the words. ‘It just isn’t.’
‘It might connect to our case,’ Fox told him. ‘Little bit of digging, you never know …’
‘Did Alan Carter work on the disposal team?’ Naysmith asked.
‘I’m sure CID are looking into that,’ Kaye said. ‘Because that’s the sort of thing CID do. We, on the other hand, are the Complaints.’
The door opened. Fox was about to remonstrate, but saw that it was Superintendent Pitkethly.
‘I need a word,’ she said, pointing in Fox’s direction. Then, to Kaye and Naysmith: ‘Either of you two see or speak to Alan Carter before he died?’
‘Nor after he died,’ Kaye said with a shake of his head. She gave him a hard look.
‘Then it’s just you,’ she told Fox. ‘My office … unless you’d rather do it here?’
Fox told her he preferred her office. She turned away, and he got up to follow.
She was already seated behind her desk when he arrived. She told him to close the door, and when he made to sit down, she ordered him to stay on his feet. She had a pen in her hand, which she studied as she spoke.
‘You may just have been the last person who saw Alan Carter alive, Inspector. That means CID would like to ask a few questions.’
‘Hardly feasible when I’m running an inquiry into three of them.’
‘Which is why I’m asking instead.’ She paused. ‘Always supposing you’ve given me a clean bill of health?’ He didn’t answer, causing her to look up at him. She narrowed her eyes and returned her attention to the pen.
‘Why did you visit him?’
‘He made the original complaint about Paul Carter.’
‘That hardly connects him to Scholes, Haldane and Michaelson. Oh, and by the way, Haldane’s feeling a lot worse since your little home visit, so thanks for that.’ Again, Fox chose not to comment. ‘So what did you talk about with Alan Carter? How did he seem?’
‘I liked him. He wasn’t evasive, was a welcoming host.’
‘Troubled in any way?’
‘I wouldn’t have said so.’ Fox paused. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’
‘Someone in Forensics seems to have been watching CSI. She was the one who traced the revolver …’
‘And?’
‘And she’s got a few concerns about the prints.’
‘The prints on the gun?’
‘Don’t get too excited – just a couple of anomalies.’
Fox thought back to the scene: Ray Scholes already there; stuff strewn on the floor; the revolver half-hidden below a magazine … He remembered Alan Carter moving around the room, making tea, handing him a mug …
‘Carter was right-handed,’ he stated.
‘What?’
‘Why was the gun lying to the left of him? His head was slumped against the table and the gun was to the left, not the right.’
She stared at him.
‘Not one of the anomalies?’ he guessed.
‘No,’ Pitkethly conceded, writing a note to herself.
‘What then?’
‘Alan Carter’s prints are on the gun – no one else’s. There’s a good thumbprint slap-bang in the middle of the grip.’
Fox made show of holding a revolver. His thumb was high up on the grip. He tried bringing it lower down, but it felt awkward.
‘And a partial fingerprint halfway along the barrel,’ Pitkethly added, tossing the pen on to the desk and folding her arms.
‘No prints anywhere else?’
‘You’re sure he didn’t seem worried about anything?’
Fox shook his head. ‘But then he probably didn’t know at that point that his nephew had been released from custody.’
‘Let’s not get carried away, Malcolm.’ The use of his first name came as a jolt to him. She needed him. She needed him on her side.
‘You have to bring Paul Carter in,’ he said quietly.
‘I can’t do that.’
No, not to his own police station, not to be interviewed by his own friends.
‘I can ask the questions,’ Fox offered.
She shook her head. ‘You’re the Complaints. This is … this is something else.’ When he looked at her, she met his eyes. ‘There’s no proof Alan Carter didn’t pull the trigger,’ she said quietly.
‘But all the same …’
‘Anomalies,’ she repeated. ‘Carter ran a security company. He might have made enemies.’
‘On top of which, he was doing some research into an old case.’
‘Oh?’
‘He was surrounded by the paperwork when he died – didn’t Scholes tell you?’
‘He said the place was a bit of a tip …’
‘Tidy enough when I visited. But afterwards, looked like someone had been through it. Scholes and Michaelson were first on the scene. Michaelson gave Teddy Fraser a lift home, leaving Scholes alone in the cottage …’
Pitkethly closed her eyes, rubbing at her eyebrows with thumb and forefinger. Fox sat down across the desk from her.
‘Honeymoon’s over,’ he told her. ‘You’ve got some big decisions to
make. First one should probably be to phone HQ. If you know anyone there, talk to them first.’
She nodded, opening her eyes again. Then she took a couple of deep breaths and picked up the receiver.
‘That’ll be all, Inspector,’ she said, her voice firm. But there was a momentary smile of thanks as he got up to leave.
14
In the car back to Edinburgh, Naysmith asked Fox if he still wanted information on Francis Vernal.
‘I can do it at home tonight,’ he offered.
‘Thanks,’ Fox replied.
‘And in case you were thinking that Kirkcaldy’s boring …’ He took a folded printout from his pocket and handed it over. ‘Here’s what I already discovered about the place.’
It was a newspaper report about a Yugoslav secret-service agent, sent to Kirkcaldy in 1988 to assassinate a Croatian dissident. The story was back in the news because the assassination had failed, the gunman had been jailed, and he now claimed he had information about the murder of Swedish prime minister Olaf Palme.
Fox read the piece aloud for Tony Kaye’s benefit. ‘Unbelievable,’ was Kaye’s only comment, before turning the hi-fi on.
‘Alex Harvey again,’ Naysmith complained.
‘The Sensational Alex Harvey,’ Kaye corrected him, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. ‘Part and parcel of your musical education, young Joseph.’
‘Terrorists and bampots, eh?’ Naysmith offered, eyes fixed on Malcolm Fox. ‘We never seem to be rid of them.’
‘We never do,’ Fox agreed, reading the article a second time.
They decided to have one drink at Minter’s. It was mid-afternoon and the place was dead. Fox went outside and called the offices of Mangold Bain.
‘I’m afraid Mr Mangold’s appointments diary is full,’ he was told.
‘My name’s Fox. I’m an inspector with Lothian and Borders Police. If that doesn’t clear me some space today, tell him it concerns Alan Carter.’
He was asked to hold the line. The woman’s lilting voice was replaced for a full minute by Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.
‘Six o’clock?’ she offered. ‘Mr Mangold wonders if the New Club might be acceptable – he has another meeting there at six thirty.’
‘It’ll have to do, then, won’t it?’ Fox said, secretly pleased – the New Club was one of those Edinburgh institutions he’d heard about but never been able to visit. He knew it was somewhere on Princes Street and filled with lawyers and bankers escaping their womenfolk.
Back in the bar, Kaye and Naysmith were waiting to hear if they needed to go back to the office or could call it a day. Fox checked his watch – not quite four. He nodded, to let them know they were off the hook.
‘That calls for another drink,’ Kaye said, draining his glass. ‘And it’s your shout, Joseph.’
Naysmith rose from the table and asked Fox if he wanted another Big Tom. Fox shook his head.
‘Somewhere else to go,’ he said, glancing at the TV above the bar. The local newsreader was telling viewers that there was no further information on the explosion in the woods outside Lockerbie.
‘Some sick sod’s idea of a practical joke,’ Kaye muttered. ‘Unless you think the Yugoslavs are back, Joe …’
Half an hour later, Fox was at Lauder Lodge. When he opened the door to his father’s room, he saw that Mitch had a visitor. There was a half-bottle of Bell’s open on the mantelpiece.
‘Hiya, Dad,’ Fox said. His father looked sprightly. He was dressed and his eyes sparkled.
‘Malcolm,’ Mitch said, with a nod towards the visitor, ‘you remember Sandy?’
Malcolm shook Sandy Cameron’s hand. The three of them had attended Hearts games together when Malcolm had been a boy, his father always keen to remind him that Sandy had almost become a professional, back in the day. Years later, the two men had played indoor bowls for a team in the local league.
‘Decent measure,’ Fox noted, watching Cameron switch his tumbler to his left hand so he could shake with the right.
‘Whisky shandy,’ Cameron explained, angling his head towards a bottle of Barr’s lemonade on the floor next to the chair.
‘Don’t know how you can bear to dilute it,’ Mitch Fox said, draining his own glass.
‘Maybe you should learn, Dad,’ Malcolm chided him. He dragged another chair over and joined them. ‘How are you, Mr Cameron?’
‘Can’t complain, son.’
‘Sandy was just reminiscing about the ice rink,’ Mitch confided. Fox reckoned they’d be stories he had heard half a dozen times or more. ‘A hell of a skater you were, Sandy. Could have turned pro.’
‘I did love it.’ Cameron smiled to himself. ‘And the football …’
But Fox knew he had ended up a draughtsman. Married to Myra. Two kids. A contented life.
‘What brings you here?’ Mitch was asking his son. ‘Thought you were doing something in Fife?’
Fox dug in his pocket and produced the photograph. ‘Came across this,’ he said, handing it over. His father made show of focusing, holding the cutting as far from him as his arm would allow. Then he fished in his cardigan pocket for his reading glasses.
‘That’s Francis Vernal,’ he stated.
‘But who’s next to him?’
‘Is it Chris?’ His father’s voice rose a little in surprise. ‘It’s Chris, isn’t it?’
‘Looks like,’ Fox agreed.
Mitch had handed the photo across to his old friend.
‘Francis Vernal,’ Cameron confirmed. ‘And who did you say the other fellow was?’
‘Cousin of mine,’ Mitch explained. ‘Chris, his name was. Died young in a bike crash.’
‘How come he knew Vernal?’ Fox asked.
‘Chris was a shop steward at the dockyard.’
‘And an SNP man?’
‘That too.’
‘I saw Vernal speak once,’ Cameron added. ‘At a miners’ institute somewhere – Lasswade, maybe. “Firebrand” is the word that springs to mind.’
‘I don’t really remember him,’ Fox admitted. ‘I was in my teens when he died.’
‘There were rumours at the time,’ Cameron went on. ‘His wife …’
‘Bloody tittle-tattle,’ Mitch said dismissively. ‘Selling papers is all it’s good for.’ He looked at his son. ‘Where did you find this?’
‘There’s an ex-cop in Fife, he was interested in Vernal.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Fox thought for a moment. ‘What year did Chris die?’
It was his father’s turn to think. ‘Seventy-five, seventy-six … Late on in seventy-five, I think. Crematorium in Kirkcaldy, then a meal at a hotel near the station.’ Mitch had retrieved the photo and was staring at it. ‘Smashing lad, our Chris.’
‘He never married?’
Fox’s father shook his head. ‘Always told me he liked life free and easy. That way he could just jump on his bike and go exploring.’
‘Whereabouts did the crash happen?’
‘Why are you so interested all of a sudden?’
Fox gave a shrug.
‘Is this you trying some real detective work for a change?’ Mitch turned towards Cameron. ‘Malcolm here’s only got another year or two till he’s back in CID.’
‘Oh aye? The Complaints isn’t for life, then?’
‘I think Malcolm would like it better if it was.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Fox couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice.
‘You were never happy there,’ his father told him.
‘Says who?’
‘You’ll be a bit rusty, then,’ Cameron chipped in, ‘when you have to go back to the detective work.’
‘What I do now is detective work.’
‘It’s not the same, though, is it?’ his father continued.
‘It’s exactly the same.’
His father just shook his head slowly. Silence descended on the room for a moment.
‘Firebrand,’ Cameron ev
entually repeated. He seemed to be thinking back to Francis Vernal’s speech. ‘The hairs went up on your arms. If he’d been asking you to advance on the enemy lines, you’d have done it, armed or not.’
‘I saw him on the James Connolly march one year,’ Mitch added. ‘Not something I usually paid attention to, but a pal wanted to go to the rally. Leith Links, I think it was. Francis Vernal got up to speak, and you’re right, Sandy – he had the gift. Not saying I agreed with him, but I listened.’
‘People used to compare him to Jimmy Reid,’ Cameron mused. ‘I thought he was better. There was none of the “comrades” stuff.’
‘It seemed a lost cause back then, though, didn’t it?’ Fox added, relieved that he was no longer the focus of attention. ‘Nationalism, I mean.’
‘They were strange times,’ Mitch said. ‘A lot of anger. Things getting blown up …’ He had poured himself another whisky, the bottle pretty well empty now. ‘I was always Labour, but I remember your mum getting on her high horse about the SNP. They used to recruit outside folk concerts.’
‘Same thing at the picture house when Braveheart was playing,’ Cameron added.
‘Malcolm was never political, though,’ Mitch Fox said. ‘Maybe worried about sticking his head above the parapet – or at least above his homework books …’
Fox was staring at his father’s whisky. ‘Dash of water with that?’ he asked.
‘Dash of water be damned.’
The New Club was hard to find. The edifice Fox had always assumed it to be turned out to belong to the Royal Overseas League instead. A woman in reception pointed him back along Princes Street. The evening was turning blustery. A set of tramlines had been laid, but there was now yet another delay as the contractors bickered with the council about payment. Workers were queuing at bus stops, keen to get home. It didn’t help Fox’s cause that few of the shops on Princes Street had numbers. It was 86 that he was after, but he missed it again and had to retrace his steps. Eventually, next to a cash machine, he saw an anonymous varnished wooden door. There was a small window above it, and he could just about make out the name etched there. He rang the bell and was eventually admitted.
He had been expecting small, stuffy Georgian-style rooms, but the interior was vast and modern. A uniformed porter told him he was expected and led him up a further flight of stairs. A few elderly gentlemen wandered around, or could be glimpsed poring over newspapers in armchairs. Fox had thought his destination would be some lounge or bar, but in fact it was a well-appointed meeting room. Charles Mangold was seated at a large circular table, a carafe of water in front of him.
