The Complaints

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Okay.’

  Fox stood back as Breck introduced himself to Ronnie Hendry and shook the man’s hand. Hendry had been wearing leather workmen’s gloves, but stuffed them into his pocket.

  ‘Mr Bailey’s letting us use this office here,’ Breck told Hendry, opening the door nearest them. ‘My colleague’s going to sit in.’ Breck was leading them inside, giving Hendry no time to study Malcolm Fox. It was a utilitarian space, just a desk with a plan lying on it, weighted down at all four corners with chunks of masonry. There were three folding chairs, a free-standing electric heater, and not much else. Hendry held his hands to the heater and rubbed some warmth back into them.

  ‘Not much of a job in this weather,’ Breck sympathised. Hendry gave a nod of agreement and removed his hard hat. His first name had been felt-penned across the back of it, and from what Fox could see of the gloves, they’d been name-tagged too. It was a building site, after all. Things would tend to go for a walk. Hendry’s hair was short-cropped and beginning to silver at the temples. He would be in his late thirties, Fox guessed. He was short and wiry - a physique not unlike Vince Faulkner’s. The face was lined and pitted, Hendry’s eyebrows black and bushy. He had now seated himself opposite Breck at the table, Fox opting to stay standing at the far end of the room, arms folded, making himself as inconspicuous as possible.

  ‘I wanted to ask you about Vince Faulkner,’ Breck told Hendry.

  ‘Hellish thing.’ The voice was gruffly local.

  ‘The two of you were friends.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You didn’t see him last Saturday?’

  Hendry shook his head. ‘Got a text from him in the afternoon.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Just a comment about the football half-times.’

  ‘You didn’t speak to him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you hear from him after that?’

  Hendry shook his head again. ‘Next thing I knew, I was hearing he was dead.’

  ‘Must’ve come as a shock.’

  ‘Too true, pal.’ Hendry shifted in his chair.

  ‘The two of you worked together?’

  ‘Sometimes. Depends which gang you end up in. Vince was a solid worker, so I’d always pitch for him.’

  ‘Did he specialise in anything?’

  ‘He could lay bricks, mix the cement. He’d trained as a brickie, but he would turn his hand to pretty well anything you asked.’

  ‘He was English,’ Breck stated casually. ‘Was that ever a problem? ’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Did the guys ever give him stick?’

  ‘If they had, he’d’ve given them pelters.’

  ‘He was a bit hot-headed, then?’

  ‘I’m just saying he stood up for himself.’

  ‘Did you know he sometimes hit his partner?’

  ‘Jude?’ Hendry thought for a moment before answering. ‘Sandra tells me she’s got a broken arm.’

  ‘And that doesn’t exactly surprise you?’

  ‘The pair of them liked a good rammy. Oftentimes it was Jude who started it. She’d just keep having a go at him until he started to snap.’

  ‘I’ve known women like that.’ Breck was nodding his apparent agreement. ‘They seem to get a buzz out of it . . .’

  Fox shifted his weight a little and bit down on his bottom lip. He’s only doing his job, he told himself, getting the man to open up . . .

  ‘So you can imagine him getting into a fight on Saturday night?’ Breck was asking.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘When he didn’t turn up for work Monday morning, what did you think?’

  Another shrug. ‘I was up to my eyes. Didn’t really have time to think. Tried phoning him . . .’ He paused. ‘Or did I? I know I texted him for definite.’

  Breck nodded. ‘We checked his phone. The text was there, but no one had read it. We took a look at all the messages he had stored. There were a fair few to and from you.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘And mention of the Oliver . . .’

  ‘It’s a casino. Just around the corner from here, actually. We sometimes took the wives there.’

  ‘He liked gambling?’

  ‘He didn’t like losing,’ Hendry said with a thin smile.

  ‘We think maybe he went there Saturday night. Would that have been like him - going there without you?’

  ‘If he’d had an argy-bargy with Jude . . . gone out drinking . . . Yeah, maybe.’

  ‘What about you, Mr Hendry - what did you get up to on Saturday?’

  Hendry puffed out his cheeks and expelled a ball of air. ‘Long lie-in the morning, as per . . . shopping at the Gyle with Sandra, also as per . . . football results and an evening kick-off on Sky. I fetched an Indian . . .’ He paused again, remembering something. ‘Hang on, that’s right - Sandra was out with her sister and some mates. I ate enough curry for two and fell asleep in front of the telly.’

  ‘And Sunday?’

  ‘Not much different.’

  ‘So there’s no weekend overtime going on?’

  ‘Phase One there was, but nobody’s buying now we’re in Phase Two. I’d say we’re a fortnight away from lay-offs. Another fortnight after that, the whole site could be mothballed.’

  ‘Not so nice for the people who’re already living here.’

  ‘We reckon if they tried selling up, they’d get half to two thirds what they paid originally.’

  ‘So there are bargains to be had?’

  ‘If you’re interested, make Helena in sales an offer. She’ll probably throw in a lap-dance.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ Breck managed a smile.

  ‘Tell you what’s really worrying the bosses, though,’ Hendry went on. ‘They can’t see an end in sight. This whole development - council sold the land for almost six million. Lucky if it would fetch a third of that.’

  ‘Ouch,’ Breck sympathised.

  ‘Well, that’s one way of putting it. The guys reckon the only reason we’ll finish the next high-rise is so the developer can top himself by jumping from it.’

  ‘What’s the developer’s name?’ Breck asked.

  ‘Charlie Brogan - you going to put him on suicide watch?’

  ‘Reckon we should?’

  This got a bark of laughter from Ronnie Hendry. ‘Not before his bills are paid,’ he said.

  Breck offered another smile and decided on a change of direction. ‘Did you know that Vince Faulkner has a criminal record?’

  ‘Plenty of guys in the building trade could say the same.’

  ‘So you knew?’

  ‘He never made it a secret - it was there on his job application.’

  ‘His partner doesn’t seem to have known.’

  ‘Jude?’ Hendry gave a shrug and folded his arms. ‘That’s between the two of them.’

  ‘Did he ask you not to mention it in front of her?’

  ‘What does it matter if he did? Ancient history’s what it was.’

  It was Breck’s turn to shrug. ‘Okay, so let’s say he’s had a fight with his partner. Her arm gets broken and she heads to A and E. Vince opts not to go with her and heads out on the lash instead. Ends up at the Oliver and loses some money . . . What do you think he would do next, Mr Hendry?’

  ‘No idea.’ Hendry’s arms were still folded. He was definitely on the defensive. Fox decided an interruption was in order.

  ‘His partner says he sometimes stayed out all night, slept at friends’ houses . . .’

  ‘Yeah, that happened once or twice.’

  ‘So it could have happened that night?’ Breck asked.

  ‘Not at mine,’ Hendry stated with a shake of the head.

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘You tell me - you lot are supposed to be the ones with the brains.’

  Jamie Breck’s car was parked on the site, just next to the Portakabins. It was a red Mazda RX8, low-slung and sporty. Breck leaned his elbows against its roof as he watch
ed Ronnie Hendry go back to work.

  ‘Anything I forgot to ask?’

  Fox shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What did you make of him?’

  ‘I can see why Faulkner liked him. He’s the sort who’d back you up in a fight, but at the same time he’s probably canny enough to calm things down so the fight never quite happens.’

  ‘He didn’t seem exactly numb with shock, did he?’

  ‘Isn’t that the Scottish way?’

  ‘Bottling it up for later?’ Breck guessed. Then he nodded slowly in agreement.

  ‘Sorry for butting in like that.’

  ‘It was a fair point, though. I didn’t know he was prone to sleeping around.’

  ‘Jude never mentioned other women,’ Fox stipulated. ‘By the way, have you done anything about Jude’s mystery visitor?’

  ‘It’s now a matter of record,’ Breck confirmed.

  ‘So where next?’ Fox asked. ‘The Oliver?’

  Breck looked at him. ‘And you’ll be wanting to tag along, I presume? ’

  ‘Might as well,’ Fox said. ‘Last one there’s a scabby dog . . .’

  But in fact, by the time he’d unlocked his Volvo and executed a three-point turn, the Mazda was a hundred yards ahead. As he pulled into the casino car park, Breck was standing by the door of the building, trying to look as if he’d been there for hours.

  ‘Hiya, Scabby,’ Breck said in greeting. ‘Any suspicious-looking Astras to report?’

  ‘No,’ Fox admitted. Then he pulled open the door. ‘After you,’ he said.

  Although the casino was open for business, no actual business was taking place. There was nobody on duty at the cloakroom, and only one croupier stationed at a blackjack table, practising her skills in front of three empty stools. A couple of tiny, foreign-looking women in tabards were polishing the brass fittings and rails. The downstairs barman looked to be doing a stock check, ticking off items on a clipboard. Upstairs, Fox could hear a vacuum cleaner at work.

  ‘Boss around?’ Breck asked the young croupier. She had blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and was dressed in regulation black waistcoat with a white blouse and sky-blue bowtie.

  ‘You’ll need to talk to Simon.’ She gestured towards the barman.

  ‘Thanks,’ Breck said. He started walking in that direction, pulling his warrant card from his pocket. ‘Need a word with you, Simon.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’ The barman hadn’t bothered looking up from the task in hand, but Fox knew he’d noticed the warrant card . . . and recognised it for what it was.

  ‘You in charge here?’ Breck was asking.

  ‘Boss is due back in quarter of an hour.’

  ‘Would you mind looking me in the eye when you speak?’ Breck was managing to sound polite, yet there was steel just below the surface. Simon took a few moments before complying. ‘Thank you,’ Breck said. ‘Okay if I put my ID away now? You’re satisfied you’re talking to a detective and not some neighbourhood divvy?’

  The barman gave a half-smirk, but Breck had his attention. Fox noticed that his colleague had roughened his natural voice and was bringing in more glottal stops.

  ‘If it’s anything to do with licences or that,’ Simon was saying, ‘it’s the boss you need to speak to.’

  ‘But the boss isn’t here, so it’s your job to answer a few questions.’ Breck had put his warrant card away, but was now producing a photograph from the same pocket. It was a snap of Vince Faulkner. Fox reckoned it had been lifted from Jude’s house.

  ‘This guy’s a regular,’ Breck was saying, ‘so I’m assuming you know him.’

  The barman looked at the photo and shrugged.

  ‘Actually,’ Breck went on, ‘I should’ve stipulated that he was a regular. Poor sod got himself killed at the weekend, after visiting this place.’

  ‘Which night?’

  ‘Saturday.’ The barman didn’t say anything for a moment. Breck decided to speak for him. ‘You’re trying to work out the odds, aren’t you? Do you lie or tell the truth - which is going to work out best? And that means just one thing, Simon - you were here Saturday night.’

  ‘It was busy,’ the barman admitted with another shrug.

  ‘But he was in here.’ Breck waved the photo to and fro. ‘And it was out of character, because whenever you’d seen him in the past, he’d always been with people.’

  ‘So?’

  Fox had been scanning the corners of the ceiling. ‘We’ll need to see the recordings,’ he commented. ‘From your security cameras . . .’

  Breck stiffened a little. He’d had a flow going, and Fox had broken it.

  ‘My colleague’s right,’ he stated eventually.

  ‘Talk to the boss.’

  ‘We will,’ Breck confirmed. ‘But you do remember Vince Faulkner?’

  ‘I never knew his name.’

  ‘You saw in the papers that he was dead?’

  ‘Suppose so.’ The admission was grudging at best. Simon was running a finger down the clipboard, as though hoping they would take the hint and leave him to his task. Fat chance, Fox thought to himself.

  ‘You saw him in here Saturday night?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘He got here around ten.’

  ‘Place was heaving by then.’

  ‘But Mr Faulkner was on his own, and I’m betting that meant he’d be sitting on one of these stools.’ Breck slapped the seat of the bar stool next to him.

  ‘There’s another bar upstairs.’

  ‘But all the same . . .’ Breck decided to let the silence linger.

  ‘He was half cut when he got here,’ Simon finally admitted. ‘Doormen should never have let him in.’

  ‘Did he cause trouble?’

  The barman shook his head. ‘But he had the look of a loser.’

  ‘And that’s not good for the ambience?’ Breck nodded his understanding.

  ‘Just sat slumped at the corner of the bar.’

  ‘How many drinks did he have?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘What was he drinking?’

  ‘Shorts . . . that’s all I remember. We had three staff working the bar that night.’

  ‘Did he meet anyone? Talk to them?’

  ‘Dunno.’ The fingers were now drilling against the clipboard, tapping out the sound of horses’ hooves at full gallop.

  ‘Did you see him leave?’

  Simon shook his head.

  ‘What about Sunday or Monday?’

  Another shake of the head. ‘I was off both nights.’

  Breck glanced at his watch. ‘Your boss is running late.’

  ‘Bosses get to do that.’

  Breck smiled and turned his head towards Fox for the first time. ‘Simon likes to think he’s smart.’ But every trace of humour had left Breck’s face by the time he turned back to the barman. ‘So do the smart thing, Simon - get thinking of anything else you can tell us about Saturday night or about Vince Faulkner in general.’ Where the snapshot had been, there was now a business card. ‘Take it,’ Breck commanded. The barman did as he was told. ‘How old are you, Simon?’

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘Been in the trade long?’

  ‘Started bar work when I was at uni.’

  ‘What did you study?’

  ‘I didn’t study much of anything - that was the problem.’

  Breck nodded his understanding. ‘Ever see any trouble around here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even once the punters get outside? A good evening gone sour?’

  ‘By the time I’ve closed the bar, cleaned up and done a tally, people are long gone.’

  ‘Do the management stand you to a cab home?’ Breck watched as the barman nodded. ‘Well, that’s something at least.’ Then, turning to leave: ‘Jot a few thoughts down and give me a call. Plus, pass the number on to your boss. If I haven’t heard back by end of play today, I’ll be round tonight with some squad cars and uniforms. Got that?’

&n
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