by Ian Rankin
Simon was studying the writing on the card. ‘Yes, Mr Breck,’ he said.
It was strange to step out of the gloom - the casino boasted no natural light at all - and find that it was still daytime in Edinburgh, the sky overcast but boasting enough glare to have Jamie Breck slipping on a pair of Ray-Bans. He’d taken up the same position as after the meeting with Ronnie Hendry - elbows resting against the roof of his Mazda. Fox squeezed the bridge of his nose and squinted into the light. It had been quite a performance: Breck was a natural. Just the right mix of authority and empathy. Too bullish and the barman would have blustered or clammed up . . .
I like you, Fox thought. Even though you’ve been checking up on me behind my back. Even though you may not be what you seem . . .
‘You really got into character there,’ Fox complimented him. ‘I liked what you did with your voice.’
‘That’s the thing about RPGs and avatars - you get to pretend to be someone you’re not.’
‘Handy training for CID.’ And for other things, Fox thought to himself. ‘So what now?’
‘Nothing much. I’ll head back to base, write up what I’ve got - might leave out a few salient details.’ Breck glanced in Fox’s direction.
‘Sorry I butted in again,’ Fox apologised. ‘Broke my promise . . .’
‘I’d have got round to the cameras in my own time, Malcolm.’
‘I know you would.’
Both men turned at the sound of a car approaching. It was a ‘baby’ Bentley, the GT. Glossy black bodywork and tinted windows. The engine stopped and the driver’s-side door opened. Fox caught a glimpse of burgundy leather upholstery. The woman who stepped out was wearing high heels, black tights and a black knee-length skirt. The skirt clung to her. White silk blouse, open at the neck to show a pendant of some kind. Cream-coloured jacket with a little padding at the shoulders. Her hair was auburn, thick and flowing. She had to push some back from her face as a gust of wind caught her. Red lipstick and, when she removed her oversized sunglasses, dark eyeshadow and a hint of mascara. She gave them an inquisitive look as she headed towards the door of the casino.
‘Simon will tell you all about it,’ Breck called to her. She ignored this and headed inside. Fox turned to Breck.
‘Shouldn’t we talk to her?’
‘She’s going to call me, remember?’
‘But she’s management, right?’
‘Later.’
‘Don’t you want to know who she is?’
Breck smiled. ‘I know who she is, Malcolm.’ He pointed at a spot just above the casino’s main door. There was a plaque sited there, announcing that the premises were licensed for the sale of alcohol. The name of the licensee was J. Broughton.
‘Who’s J. Broughton?’ Fox asked.
Breck opened the door of the Mazda and started to get in. ‘Stick to watching the detectives, Malcolm. Let us other cops do the real work . . .’
10
‘Does it mean anything to you?’
Fox was back in the Complaints office, standing in front of Tony Kaye’s desk. Kaye mouthed the name a few times. As usual, he had pitched his chair back, and now swung slowly backwards and forwards.
‘Wasn’t there a villain called that?’ he said at last. ‘Well, by “villain”, obviously I mean an upstanding local businessman whose tangled web of dodgy dealings Lothian and Borders Police could never unravel.’ Kaye paused. ‘But he’d be in his seventies now . . . haven’t heard his name in years.’
‘Will he be in the system somewhere?’ Fox nodded in the direction of Kaye’s computer hard drive.
‘I can check, just as soon as you give me the reason.’
‘Vince was at the Oliver on Saturday night. Licence is in the name of J. Broughton.’
‘Jack Broughton - that was your man.’ Kaye stared at his colleague. ‘But Vince isn’t really your territory, Foxy. Shouldn’t you be busying yourself liaising with the Fiscal’s office about Glen Heaton? Or readying a report on Jamie Breck to send to the Chop Shop?’
‘Just do it, will you?’ Fox turned and walked over to the coffee machine. Breck’s words were still niggling at him - us other cops . . . the real work . . . He knew that a lot of CID felt that way. The Complaints was for the cold fish, the oddities, the cops who could never make it as bona fide detectives. It was for voyeurs with chips on their shoulders. Joe Naysmith was opening a fresh consignment of coffee and Fox watched him at work. Naysmith didn’t fit the description; nor did Tony Kaye, come to that . . .
‘I love that smell,’ Naysmith commented, holding the bag to his nose.
‘Tell me something, Joe - why the Complaints?’
Naysmith raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve had six months to ask me that.’
‘I’m asking now.’
Naysmith considered for a moment. ‘It suits me,’ he eventually offered. ‘Isn’t that why we’re all here?’
‘Christ knows,’ Fox muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Then he asked if Naysmith was planning another evening in the van.
‘DC Gilchrist thinks we should.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ Fox stated. ‘Far as I can see, you’d be wasting your time. So why don’t you trot along the hall and tell him so?’
‘I’m making the coffee . . .’
Fox snatched the bag from him. ‘Not any more. Now hop it.’ He gave a jerk of the head as added incentive and watched Naysmith leave the room. He poured the coffee into the filter, slid it home, and filled the water reservoir before placing the emptied glass jug on its hotplate.
‘I like it better when Joe makes it,’ Kaye chided him. He’d risen from his chair and walked over to the room’s shared printer. It was in the process of churning out a final sheet of paper. ‘You’ll see a note at the bottom,’ he explained. ‘Says there’s a bit more in the DFW.’
DFW: the Dead Files Warehouse. Every now and again, the police stations in and around the city had a clear-out. Files were dusted off, their existence recorded for posterity, and they were then sentenced to life imprisonment on a shelf in a vast warehouse on Dumbryden Industrial Estate. Fox had had reason to visit the facility at times in the past. By rights everything in the archives should have been transferred to digital format - the process had been green-lighted by a previous Chief Constable - but funding had become an issue. When Kaye handed Fox the three A4 sheets, the first thing Fox did was study the foot of the final page. There were several references to the DFW. The references were dated - 1968, 1973, 1978. The computer printout listed further brushes with the law in 1984 and 1988. One was for aiding and abetting a fugitive. It never made it to trial. The other was for receiving stolen goods - again, charges dropped. Jack Broughton’s year of birth was given as 1937, making him seventy-one, going on seventy-two.
‘Over twenty years since he was in any trouble,’ Fox commented. ‘And now he’s the same age as my dad.’
Kaye was reading the report over Fox’s shoulder. ‘I remember one of the older cops telling me about him when I was a probationary. Guy definitely had a reputation in those days.’
‘At the casino, there was a woman in her thirties - I think she’s front-of-house.’
‘You’ve been there?’
Fox glowered at him. ‘Don’t ask.’ He started reading the next page. Jack Broughton had two sons and a daughter, but both sons had predeceased their father, one dying in a car crash, the other in a bar brawl gone wrong. ‘I wonder if it’s the daughter . . .’
‘The licensing board will know,’ Kaye informed him. ‘Want me to get on to them?’
‘You know someone there?’
‘Might do.’ Kaye started to retreat to his desk. ‘Bring me over a mug when it’s brewed, will you?’
‘Three sugars?’ Fox asked, with just a hint of sarcasm.
‘Heaped,’ Tony Kaye confirmed.
But Joe Naysmith was back before the machine had finished its business. He seemed concerned that something terrible might have happened to the percolator i
n his absence.
‘How did it go with Gilchrist?’ Fox asked him.
‘DS Inglis wants a word with you.’ Naysmith was avoiding eye contact.
‘Why? What have I done?’
‘She just said she wants a word.’
‘Better run along and see her, Foxy,’ Kaye said, his hand pressed over the telephone receiver. ‘Maybe a quick skoosh of Lynx beforehand . . .’
But when Fox looked, Annie Inglis was standing in the doorway, arms folded. She gave a twitch of the head, signalling for him to meet her in the hall. Fox handed Naysmith the empty mug he’d been holding. Then he made his exit, closing the door after him.
‘Why?’ she asked without preamble.
‘Why what?’
‘Why pull the surveillance on Breck?’
‘It didn’t get us anywhere last night.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve had meetings with him, haven’t you?’
‘You having me followed, DS Inglis?’
‘Just answer the question.’
‘Answer mine first.’
‘No, I’m not having you followed.’
‘He’s investigating a murder pretty close to home, unless you’d forgotten - I’m keeping tabs on it, so yes, I’ve talked to him.’
‘From what I hear, he puts up a good front: conscientious, likeable, generous . . .’
‘So?’
‘They all do, Malcolm. It’s how they win the trust of children and sometimes even the kids’ parents. It’s why we don’t catch them nearly often enough - they’re good at this. They’re good at acting as if they’re just like you and me . . .’
‘He’s not like me,’ Fox stated.
‘Is that what’s getting to you?’
‘Nothing’s getting to me.’ There was irritation in his voice. Inglis looked down towards the floor and gave a sigh. ‘He spent an hour last night on an online role-playing game called Quidnunc. He has an avatar. You know what that is?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s someone he creates so he can hide his true self - it lets him become someone else.’
‘Him and a few million other players.’
She looked up at Fox. ‘He told you about it?’
‘Yes.’
Inglis was thoughtful for a moment. She pushed the hair back from her forehead, taking her time. ‘Is there any possibility he knows we’re on to him?’
Fox thought back to what Breck had told him - the van outside his home, driving away soon after he’d gone to bed. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Because if he does, he’ll start getting rid of the evidence.’
‘I don’t think he does,’ Fox repeated.
She considered this for a few moments more. ‘It fits with offender profiling,’ she said at last, her voice softening. ‘These men, they’ll join online communities, pretend to be fourteen or fifteen, ask others in the group to send them photos . . .’
‘I get it,’ Fox told her.
‘They’re good at role-playing. They hone their skills by playing online games. Sometimes they even get to meet other players along the way . . .’
‘You want Gilchrist and Naysmith to go out again tonight?’
‘They’re keen.’
Fox nodded slowly. ‘Can they park further away? Same spot two nights running and there’s more likelihood of them standing out.’
Inglis nodded back at him, and reached out to touch his arm. ‘Thank you,’ she said, turning to go. But then she paused.
‘Your sister’s boyfriend - is there any news?’
Fox shook his head and watched her retreat. Then he took out his phone and called Jude, guilty that he hadn’t done so earlier. But there was no answer, so he left a message and went back into the office.
‘You’re out in the wagon again tonight,’ he told Naysmith.
‘Tell me I’m not needed,’ Kaye pleaded. He had just put down his receiver, and was holding a slip of paper.
‘That for me?’ Fox asked.
‘The very name you wanted.’ Kaye waved the slip.
‘All right,’ Fox told him, ‘you’re exempt from holding Joe’s hand tonight.’
‘You’ve got Gilchrist for that, haven’t you, Joe?’ Kaye teased, folding the piece of paper into a glider and sending it flying towards Fox’s desk. It landed on the floor, and Fox stooped to retrieve it. A name was printed there. The J in J. Broughton didn’t stand for Jack.
It was Joanna, the daughter.
Fox thought back to the woman who’d pulled up outside the Oliver. Pulled up in her Bentley and sauntered inside. She hadn’t stopped to ask them what they were doing in her car park, because she’d had a bit of training at her father’s knee - she could smell a cop a mile off.
Joanna Broughton. Fox called Jamie Breck on his mobile.
‘The J is for Joanna, right?’ he asked without introduction. There was a smile in Breck’s voice as he answered.
‘Fast work.’
‘And I’m assuming you know who she is?’
‘Jack Broughton’s daughter?’ Breck pretended to guess.
‘So is she fronting the place for him or what?’
‘You’re assuming the woman we saw earlier today is Ms Broughton.’
‘I’m not assuming anything,’ Fox corrected him. ‘But I think you know it was. What is it about the Oliver and her? Something you’re holding back on me, Jamie?’
‘I’m working on a murder inquiry, Malcolm. There may be times when I can’t open my heart to you.’
‘Is this one of them?’
‘Maybe I’ll tell you later. For now, I need to get back to work.’ Breck ended the call and Fox placed his mobile phone on his desk and settled himself in his chair. His braces were cutting into his shoulders, and he adjusted both straps. Inglis’s words were bouncing around his head: conscientious . . . likeable . . . generous . . . Is that what’s getting to you? When his mobile rang, he picked it up and studied the number on the screen - Jude.
‘Hey, sis, thanks for getting back to me . . .’ There was silence on the line, but for a muffled sound, very like someone sobbing. ‘Jude?’ he prompted.
‘Malcolm . . .’ Her voice cracked halfway through his name.
‘What’s going on?’
‘They’re digging in the garden.’
‘What?’
‘The police - your lot - they’re . . .’ She gulped down another sob.
‘I’m on my way,’ Fox told her. Ending the call, he shrugged his arms back into his jacket. Kaye asked him what was happening.
‘Got to go,’ was all Fox said. Out in the car park, the interior of his car still retained a trace of warmth.
Some of Jude’s neighbours were at their windows again. Three patrol cars, two white vans. Jude’s front door was open. There was no sign of any disruption in the front garden. The back could be accessed only from a door in the kitchen. It wasn’t much of a garden either, maybe sixty feet by twenty, most of it paving slabs and weeds. There was a uniformed officer on duty at the front door, but Fox was waved inside when he showed his warrant card. The interior of the house was ice cold - both front and rear doors open, defeating anything the radiators could do.
‘Who let you in?’ DCI Billy Giles roared. He was standing in the kitchen, holding a mug of tea in one hand and a half-eaten Mars Bar in the other.
‘Where’s my sister?’
‘Next-door neighbour’s,’ Giles stated, chewing on the snack. Fox had advanced far enough into the room to be able to see out of the rear window. There was a team hard at work with shovels and pickaxes. They were digging in some spots, lifting the paving slabs in others. Muck had been trailed into the house, so recently cleaned by Alison Pettifer. Someone from Forensics was running a hand-held scanner down the walls in the living room, seeking any microscopic bloodstains.
‘You still here?’ Giles growled, tossing the empty chocolate wrapper on to the floor.
‘What are you playing at, Giles?’
‘I’m not playin
g at anything - I’m being a cop.’ He glowered at Fox. ‘Something your lot don’t seem to like. I’m beginning to think it’s jealousy.’
‘I can’t decide what this smacks of more - intimidation or desperation. ’
‘We got a call from a concerned neighbour,’ Giles said. His voice was coarse, his breathing ragged as he bore down on Fox. ‘Heard digging in the garden Sunday night. Horticulture at midnight - is that something your family makes a habit of?’
