The Complaints

by Ian Rankin

  She nodded. ‘Foreman - Vince’s boss, I suppose.’

  ‘So was it your partner who took Vince on?’

  She shrugged. ‘Husband, not partner. Sixteen years - you’d get less for murdering someone, that’s what Ronnie says.’

  ‘He’s probably right. You and Ronnie knew Vince pretty well, then?’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘Ever end up at a place called Marooned?’

  ‘That shit-hole? Not if we could help it. In the better weather, the boys liked the Golf Tavern - meant they could play pitch ’n’ putt on Bruntsfield Links.’

  ‘You and Jude didn’t play?’

  ‘Dinner and a few games of roulette or blackjack - that’s more my thing.’

  ‘Which casino?’

  ‘The Oliver.’

  ‘At Ocean Terminal?’ He’d finished looking around and was standing in the middle of the room, facing her as she stared at the TV.

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Not far from Salamander Point, then.’

  ‘Within staggering distance.’

  Fox nodded to himself. ‘What did you make of him, Sandra?’

  At mention of her name, she peered up at him. ‘Vince, you mean?’ She considered his question. ‘He was all right - bit of a laugh when you got him in the right mood.’

  ‘Meaning he sometimes wasn’t?’

  ‘I knew he had a temper - but Jude’s not exactly lacking in that department either.’

  ‘What do you think about him breaking her arm?’

  ‘She says she fell.’

  ‘But we both know she didn’t.’

  ‘My motto is: don’t get involved. Just leads to more grief.’ Her interest in him had waned. Onscreen, the dog-handler was making obvious progress.

  ‘But you’re her friend . . . you must’ve . . .’ Fox broke off, thinking to himself: you’re her brother, and you didn’t. ‘I’m going to go upstairs, ’ he said instead.

  Sandra nodded distractedly. ‘I’d offer to make you a cuppa, but we’re all out.’

  The door to Vince’s den was wide open and Fox saw that his computer had been removed by the investigators. Jude’s bedroom door was ajar. He knocked and pushed it all the way open. His sister was sitting on the bed, surrounded by piles of clothes. The fitted wardrobe had been half emptied, along with the chest of drawers. It was all Faulkner’s stuff - his jeans and T-shirts, socks and pants. Jude was holding a short-sleeved shirt in her good hand, working at the cloth with her fingers. She was sniffing back tears.

  ‘I can still smell him - on the sheets, the pillows . . . Part of him’s still here.’ She paused for a moment and gave her brother a look. ‘Know what they told me, Malcolm? They said we can’t have the funeral. They need to hold on to his body. Might take weeks, they said. Nobody knows how long.’

  There was a corner of the bed going spare, so Fox rested his weight there, but stayed silent.

  ‘Sandra says we need to start cancelling stuff and telling the proper authorities. But what’s left of him after that?’ She sniffed again, and rubbed her forearm across her eyes. ‘They kept asking me all these questions. They think I did it . . .’

  ‘They don’t.’ Fox assured her, reaching out to give her shoulder a squeeze.

  ‘That man . . . Giles, his name was . . . he kept on at me about Vince being an abuser - that’s the word he used, “abuser”. He said Vince had past convictions. He said they were for violence. Told me no one would blame me for getting my own back. But that’s not what happened, Malcolm.’

  ‘Giles knows that, Jude - they all do.’

  ‘Then why did he keep saying it?’

  ‘He’s a prick, sis.’

  She managed a fleeting smile at this. Fox wasn’t letting go of her shoulder just yet, but she turned to look at his hand. ‘That hurts,’ she explained, and he realised the shoulder belonged to her broken arm.

  ‘Christ, sorry.’

  Another half-smile. ‘There was a nicer detective ... Breck, I think. Yes, because we read that book one holiday when we were kids.’

  ‘Kidnapped,’ Fox reminded her. ‘The hero’s called Alan Breck. You wanted me to read it to you.’

  ‘At bedtime.’ She nodded, remembering. ‘Every night for two weeks. And now look at us . . .’ She turned to him, tears running down her cheeks. ‘I loved him, Malcolm.’

  ‘I know.’

  She started wiping her tears on the shirt she was holding. ‘I’m not going to cope without him.’

  ‘Yes, you are . . . trust me. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘How about a time machine?’

  ‘Might take a while to build. Sandra says you’re out of tea and coffee - I could go to the shop and fetch some.’

  She shook her head. ‘She’s going to bring some back from Asda - says there’s a discount for staff.’

  ‘She was telling me the four of you used to go to the casino. I never knew you liked a flutter.’

  Jude took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘It wasn’t me so much as the other three. I liked the meal and a few drinks . . . They were always good nights.’ She paused. ‘They had people here, you know, rifling through all our stuff. I had to sign for some things they took. It’s why . . .’ She gestured towards the clothes surrounding her. ‘Drawers were already open, so I thought I might as well . . .’

  Fox nodded. ‘I’ll leave you to it, if you’re sure there’s nothing I . . .’

  ‘Does Mitch know?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve put him off visiting.’

  ‘I’ll go see him. That would be easier, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I can take you. How about later - three o’clock, four?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’

  Fox just shrugged.

  ‘Okay then,’ Jude said. Her brother started to get to his feet. He was at the door when she thought of something. ‘Monday night, someone came to the house.’

  Fox paused with his hand on the handle.

  ‘Said he was looking for Vince,’ Jude went on. ‘I told him I didn’t know where he was. Closed the door on him and that was that.’

  ‘You didn’t know him?’

  Jude shook her head. ‘Tall guy, dark hair. I went to the window and watched him leave, but all I saw was his back.’

  ‘Did he get into a car?’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘You told Giles this?’

  She shook her head again. ‘Mad as it seems, I wasn’t in the mood. Maybe you could tell him instead?’

  ‘Sure. One thing, though, Jude . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Was Vince in any sort of trouble? Maybe he’d been on a shorter fuse than usual?’

  She considered this, holding the shirt up to her nose. ‘He was just Vince,’ she told Fox. ‘Always will be. But Malcolm . . .?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did you know about the convictions?’ She watched him as he gave a slow nod of the head. ‘You never told me.’

  ‘By the time I found out, he was already dead.’

  ‘You could still have told me. Better to hear it from you than that vile man.’

  ‘Yes,’ Fox agreed. ‘Sorry, sis. But how about you? Did you really not know?’

  It was Jude’s turn to shake her head. ‘Doesn’t matter now,’ she said, her attention drifting back to her dead lover’s shirt. ‘Nothing matters now . . .’

  At Fettes, there was a message that DS Inglis wanted to see him.

  ‘She delivered it herself,’ Tony Kaye teased as Fox read the note. ‘Tidy body on her . . .’

  ‘Where’s the boss?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Knocked off early; says he’s got a speech to write.’ When Fox looked at him, Kaye just shrugged. ‘Some conference in Glasgow.’

  ‘Methods of Policing an Expected Surge in Civil Unrest,’ Joe Naysmith recited. ‘All down to the credit crunch, apparently.’

  Kaye tutted. ‘They’ll be lynching bankers next.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with the Complaints?’ Fox
asked.

  ‘If our lads go in a bit too hard at the protesters,’ Kaye explained, ‘might end up coming to us.’ He had risen from his desk and was moving towards Fox’s. ‘Good to see you escaped unscathed - kept you there long enough.’

  ‘Bad Billy Giles was doing his Torquemada impression.’

  ‘Only to be expected. How’s your sister bearing up?’

  ‘Fine, so far. I went to see her after Torphichen.’

  ‘Did you learn anything?’

  ‘Faulker had a run-in with some rugby fans Saturday night.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Seemed to peter out.’

  ‘All the same . . . Is that the last sighting?’ Kaye watched his colleague nod. ‘And Jude’s been interviewed?’

  ‘By both Giles and Jamie Breck.’

  ‘Did she have anything to tell them?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Fox was pinching the bridge of his nose. He wished the head cold would either explode into life or else burn itself out. At the moment, all it was doing was shadowing him like a stalker.

  ‘Are you going to go see the talent?’

  ‘What?’ Fox looked up at Kaye.

  ‘The Chop Shop glamour puss.’ Kaye gestured towards the note. ‘I can always nip along on your behalf, pass on a message.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Fox said, getting back to his feet. Kaye shrugged and turned away.

  ‘Hey, Starbuck,’ he called to Joe Naysmith, ‘get the coffee on . . .’

  Fox walked the short distance to the CEOP office and pressed the buzzer. Annie Inglis herself opened the door. Just an inch at first, checking it was him. She beamed a smile and ushered him inside. DC Gilchrist nodded a greeting. The blinds were drawn against the low mid-afternoon sun.

  ‘I haven’t got long,’ Fox warned Inglis.

  ‘Just wondered how things were.’ She held her hand out towards the same chair he’d taken on his first visit. He sat down opposite her, their knees brushing for a moment. She was dressed in a skirt and black tights, and an open-necked white blouse with a string of pearls around her neck. The pearls looked old; maybe some sort of heirloom.

  ‘Things are fine,’ he said. Gilchrist, his back to them, was lifting the casing from a hard drive, peering inside for anything of interest.

  ‘Our opposite numbers in Melbourne are readying to jump the gun,’ Inglis said.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The cop down there, the one I showed you . . .’ She indicated her desk monitor. ‘They’re worried he has friends on the force, meaning he’ll find out we’re on to him.’

  ‘They’re getting ready to question him?’

  Inglis nodded. ‘We might lose any number of his UK clients.’

  ‘The ones who’ve coughed up the cash,’ Gilchrist added without looking up, ‘but not the rest of the joining fee. They’ll have to be let off with a caution.’

  ‘Breck still hasn’t sent any pictures?’

  Inglis shook her head. ‘Hasn’t posted anything on the group’s message board either.’ She paused. ‘This has happened before - information gets leaked, leaving plenty of time for evidence to disappear or be tampered with.’

  ‘But you’ve got the evidence.’ It was Fox’s turn to gesture towards the monitor.

  ‘We’ve just scratched the surface, Malcolm.’

  ‘Tip of the iceberg,’ Gilchrist agreed as he started to dismantle the drive unit. ‘What we could really do with . . .’ he seemed to be talking to himself, ‘...is access to the suspect’s home computer.’

  Fox looked at Inglis. She was staring back at him. ‘Thing is,’ she said, ‘we’d have to apply for a search-and-seize. Breck’s bound to have a friend somewhere in the system who might be tempted to alert him.’

  ‘You on the other hand,’ Gilchrist added, still seemingly intent on his task, ‘can do a bit of breaking and entering - and all of it above board. The Complaints have got powers beyond us mere mortals.’

  ‘I thought it was general background you wanted?’

  ‘A bit of evidence would be nice,’ Inglis mused.

  ‘We’d get a gold star from London,’ her colleague continued.

  ‘Is that what this is about?’ Fox asked. ‘Impressing the big kids?’

  ‘You want them to think we’re all amateurs north of the border?’ Inglis waited for a response, which didn’t come. ‘He’ll have a store of images at home - either on his hard drive or a memory stick,’ she continued quietly but determinedly. ‘Even if he’s transferred them, they’ll have left traces.’

  ‘Traces?’ Fox echoed.

  She nodded slowly. ‘It’s like forensics, Malcolm - everyone leaves a bit of a trail.’

  ‘Or a trail of bits,’ Gilchrist added, in what Fox assumed was a private joke. Inglis certainly offered her colleague a smile. Fox leaned back in his chair, thinking of the trail Tony Kaye had left on the PNC.

  ‘Nice line of patter the two of you have got. All for my benefit, or is it a tried and tested routine?’

  ‘Whatever it takes,’ Inglis said.

  ‘Thing is, though,’ he told her, ‘we don’t just go breaking into people’s homes without okaying it first.’

  ‘But permission can be granted retrospectively,’ Inglis stated.

  ‘It has to be justified to the Surveillance Commissioner,’ Fox cautioned.

  ‘Eventually,’ Inglis agreed. ‘As far as I understand it, in emergencies you’re allowed to act first and consult later.’

  ‘But this isn’t my case,’ Fox said quietly. ‘I’m not the one investigating Jamie Breck. In point of fact, he could argue that he’s investigating me. And how’s that going to look?’

  There was silence in the room for a moment. ‘Not great,’ Inglis eventually conceded. The glimmer of hope had vanished from her eyes. She looked to Gilchrist, and received a shrug in reply.

  ‘We had to try,’ she told Fox.

  ‘We hate to lose one,’ Gilchrist added, tossing a small screwdriver on to the desk.

  ‘Maybe there’s some other way,’ Fox offered. ‘For B and E, we need the Surveillance Commissioner’s okay . . . but if Breck’s using his home computer, we could set up the van outside, zero in on his keystrokes and find out what he’s doing.’

  ‘You don’t need judicial approval for the van?’ Inglis asked, her spirits lifting.

  ‘Fox shook his head. ‘DCC can give the go-ahead, and even then it can be retrospective.’

  ‘Well, the DCC’s on our side,’ Inglis commented. She had nudged the mouse on the desk next to her. The computer screen sprang back into life, showing the same photograph as before - the Melbourne cop with the Asian kid. ‘You know what their defence is?’ she asked. ‘They call it a victimless crime. They share photos. In most cases that’s all they say they do. They’re not the ones doing the actual abusing.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean it’s not abuse,’ Gilchrist stated.

  ‘Look,’ Fox said with a sigh, ‘I appreciate the job you’re trying to do—’

  ‘With one arm tied behind our backs,’ Inglis interrupted.

  ‘Let me see if I can help,’ Fox went on. ‘The surveillance van’s a real option, if he is what you say he is . . .’

  ‘If ?’

  Gilchrist’s voice had risen. He was staring hard at Fox. But Inglis calmed him with a wave of her hand. ‘Thanks, Malcolm,’ she said to Fox. ‘Anything at all would be appreciated.’

  ‘Okay then,’ Fox said, rising to his feet. ‘Leave it with me.’

  Her hand touched his forearm. They locked eyes and he nodded. She mouthed three words as he readied to leave.

  Anything at all.

  Back in the Complaints, he crooked a forefinger at Tony Kaye. Kaye approached Fox’s desk, arms folded.

  ‘How would you feel,’ Fox asked him, ‘about a night-time stint in the van?’

  Kaye gave a snort and a grin. ‘What’s she giving you in return?’

  Fox shook his head. ‘But how would you feel?’ he persisted.

  ‘I�
��d feel grumpy and tired. Is this in the hope that we catch Breck drooling over internet porn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s not our customer, Foxy.’