The Complaints

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Want a fourth?’

  But, having drained the cup, she shook her head.

  ‘Does he see his dad?’ Fox asked, but she wasn’t about to answer.

  ‘Was there something you wanted, Inspector?’ she asked instead.

  ‘Yes, but it can wait.’

  ‘Tell me. Might help get this brain of mine started.’

  ‘You know the surveillance got pulled last night?’

  She looked at him. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘It’s just that . . . you were so keen for it to go ahead. I was wondering what had changed.’

  ‘I’ve not seen Gilchrist this morning.’

  ‘They were getting the van ready. Gilchrist took a call, and told my guy it wasn’t happening.’

  ‘I’ll ask him when I see him. Maybe something else came up.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Fox conceded.

  ‘I’ll ask him,’ Annie Inglis repeated.

  ‘Okay.’ Fox got back to his feet. ‘Sure about that coffee? We actually make better stuff upstairs - four-star leaded.’

  ‘We can smell it every time we walk past.’

  ‘Feel free to drop in.’

  She thanked him. ‘Malcolm ... what I was saying about Duncan . . .’

  ‘My lips are sealed,’ Fox assured her, turning to leave.

  In the Complaints office, McEwan was back.

  ‘Did you bring us a souvenir?’ Fox asked him.

  McEwan snorted, then asked if things had been quiet in his absence.

  ‘As the grave,’ Fox stated, moving towards the coffee machine. But there was hardly any coffee left in the tin. He considered heading downstairs again to the canteen, but decided against it. There were tea bags, and he could boil some water. No milk, though. He checked his watch. Naysmith could have no excuses this morning - no surveillance to explain away a late start. He’d be here inside the quarter-hour.

  ‘RBS headquarters has its own Starbucks,’ McEwan commented, as though reading his mind.

  ‘We’re not the RBS,’ Fox replied.

  ‘Thank Christ for small mercies.’

  ‘How was the conference?’

  ‘Boring.’

  ‘Are riots likely this summer?’

  ‘Couple of the pundits seem to think so. Rising unemployment . . . unrest . . . people fearful of the future . . . tension needing to be broken somehow . . . And plenty of extremists ready to make it happen. ’

  ‘An Edinburgh riot would be something to see.’ Fox was back at his desk.

  ‘Plenty of them in times past, Malcolm - the mob was a thing to be feared.’

  Fox was shaking his head. ‘Not these days. Even when they’re protesting outside the RBS boss’s house, they use placards for the graffiti so as not to damage anything - that’s your Edinburgh mob, Bob.’

  ‘I hope to God you’re right.’ McEwan sneezed three times, then picked up his phone. ‘On top of everything, I’ve caught that cold of yours.’

  ‘Happy to share, sir,’ Malcolm Fox told him. ‘Mine’s actually a little better.’ He watched as Joe Naysmith walked into the room. Naysmith held up the plastic bag he was carrying - coffee and milk. Fox offered him the thumbs-up and received a gesture in return - Naysmith’s palm held out as if for money. It was Friday - accounts day as far as the coffee was concerned. Fox ignored Naysmith and got down to the first of the day’s chores. Copies of testimony in the Heaton case were beginning to arrive from the lawyers in the Fiscal’s office, queries and comments attached to most of the pages. Fox would pass some off to Naysmith and some to Kaye, keeping the juiciest ones for himself. Half an hour later, Kaye sauntered in, rolling his eyes as he saw McEwan was back.

  ‘What time do you call this?’ McEwan complained.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Kaye replied, reaching for the coffee Naysmith had poured him. Then he drew a newspaper from his coat pocket and tossed it on to Fox’s desk. ‘Page three,’ he said. ‘No topless shots, though . . .’

  It was the morning’s Scotsman. The story took up the whole page. There were photos of Brogan, his boat, Joanna Broughton and her father Jack. None of the pictures looked particularly recent, except for one of Gordon Lovatt at the press conference. The story itself was long on background and short on substance. Brogan’s company owned swathes of commercial land and property in the city. Debt had become an issue. Brogan was a ‘keen weekend sailor’ who kept his million-pound yacht moored at South Queensferry. His wife was owner of the successful Oliver casino and his father-in-law a wealthy and retired ‘local businessman, known for his cavalier approach’. Fox had a little smile to himself at that. When he looked up, Kaye was watching him.

  ‘Doesn’t add much,’ Fox commented.

  ‘Maybe because there’s not much to add. Did you check the TV this morning?’

  Fox nodded. ‘Body’s still out there somewhere.’

  ‘Empty bottle of posh wine left on the deck, plus a smattering of sleeping tablets as prescribed to the wife.’ Kaye paused, angling his head towards the newspaper. ‘She’s a looker, though - wonder what first attracted her to the pot-bellied, balding tycoon.’

  ‘Says here they live in the penthouse of one of his developments. ’

  ‘Top three storeys of a new-build by Inverleith Park,’ Kaye confirmed. ‘It was in the papers at the time - priciest flat in Scotland.’

  ‘But that was before the slump.’

  ‘I doubt she needs to sell - Daddy’s on hand to bail her out.’

  ‘Begs the question why he hasn’t done the same for his son-in-law. ’

  ‘You two,’ Naysmith broke in, ‘are like a couple of checkout girls with the latest copy of Heat.’

  The phone on Fox’s desk rang and he picked it up.

  ‘Hallway in two,’ Annie Inglis said, before the line went dead. Fox put the phone back down and patted the stacks of paperwork in front of him.

  ‘Which is mine?’ Kaye asked. Fox tapped the relevant pile.

  ‘And mine?’ Naysmith added. Another tap.

  ‘Meaning yours is the smallest, Malcolm,’ Kaye said with his usual frown.

  ‘As per,’ Naysmith agreed.

  ‘Tough,’ Malcolm Fox told them, getting to his feet.

  Outside in the corridor, Annie Inglis was already waiting. She was leaning with her back to the wall, one foot crossed over the other, hands behind her.

  ‘It’s been pulled,’ she said.

  ‘That much I knew.’

  ‘We won’t be pursuing a case against DS Breck.’ Her face was as stony as her voice.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Orders.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Malcolm . . .’ Her eyes fixed on his. ‘All you need to know is, we no longer require the assistance of Complaints and Conduct.’

  ‘Is that how you were told to phrase it?’

  ‘Malcolm . . .’

  He took a step towards her, but she was already on her way back to her office. As his eyes followed her, he saw her head go down. She knew he was watching, knew he’d take it as a sign.

  A woman who’d just done something she wasn’t happy about, and wanted him to know.

  At lunchtime, he told the office he was going out. He took a detour into the canteen, hoping Inglis might be there, but she wasn’t. As he drove out of the compound he offered up a prayer that his parking space would still be vacant on his return, while knowing from experience that there was maybe a cat-in-hell’s chance. As had become his custom, he kept a regular watch on any traffic behind him, but there were no black Astras or green Kas. Within ten minutes he was parking outside the Oliver. Simon was again behind the bar, chatting up one of the female croupiers while another eked out a shift at the blackjack table for the two hunched punters who were providing the casino’s only custom.

  ‘I already told you you’d need to talk to the boss,’ Simon said, recognising Fox.

  ‘Actually, it was my colleague you told that to, and we did consult with Ms Broughton.’ Fox paused. ‘Thought you might have been closed
today as a mark of respect.’

  ‘Nuclear war, that’s about all we close for.’

  ‘Lucky for me.’ Fox pressed his palms against the bar counter. Simon stared at him.

  ‘She said you could watch the tapes?’ he guessed.

  ‘Of Saturday night,’ Fox confirmed. Then: ‘Go call her; she’ll tell you.’ But they both knew Simon wasn’t about to pick up the phone to Joanna Broughton. For one thing, she had other things on her mind. For another, Simon didn’t have the clout - not that he would want the slim blonde croupier across the bar from him to suspect as much, which was why he told Fox it was fine, and that he could use the office. Fox nodded his thanks, inwardly congratulating himself on having read the young man correctly, and explained that he would be out of their way in no time at all.

  The office was cramped. Simon sat at the desk while he set up the playback. The recording could be viewed directly on the screen belonging to the desktop computer.

  ‘Hard-drive recorders,’ Simon explained.

  Fox nodded as he studied the room: a couple of chairs, three filing cabinets, and a bank of CCTV screens, alternating between a dozen different cameras.

  ‘Do you depend on this to catch the cheats?’ Fox asked.

  ‘We have staff watching the floor. Sometimes we’ll put someone on a table, pretending to be just another punter. Everyone’s trained to be on the lookout.’

  ‘Have any scams actually worked?’

  ‘One or two,’ Simon admitted, using the mouse to navigate the screen. Eventually he was happy, and swapped places with Fox. He started asking if there was any news about ‘Mr Brogan’.

  ‘Did you know him?’ Fox asked back.

  ‘He came by pretty regularly. Didn’t gamble much, but liked to see Joanna.’

  Simon looked as if he might hang about, so Fox told him he could get back to work. The young man hesitated, but then seemed to remember the blonde croupier. He nodded and left. Fox leaned in towards the screen and hit ‘play’. There was a time code at top right, showing him that it was nine o’clock Saturday evening. He fast-forwarded to ten. At times, the camera would zoom in to pick out one particular player, or even that player’s hand movements as they studied their cards. The place was busy, but, the tape being silent, there was a surreal quality to the footage, and the colour had a washed-out look. The cameras seemed to be focusing on the tables. Little attention was being paid to the doormen or the lobby or either of the bars. Fox couldn’t see Vince Faulkner anywhere. Simon had told Breck he’d been drunk, seated on a stool by the corner of the downstairs bar, but Fox was damned if he could find him. When a tapping came at the door, he let out a hiss of air.

  ‘Look,’ he called out, ‘I’m not halfway finished here!’

  The door opened slowly. ‘Oh, but you are,’ a voice crooned. DCI Billy Giles was standing there, filling the whole doorway.

  ‘Gotcha,’ he said.

  Torphichen police station.

  Not the same room as before - one of the proper interview rooms. And set up for a proper interview, too - video camera pointing down at the table from the ceiling. Once it was operational, a red light would blink to indicate that recording was in progress. A tape deck plugged into the wall socket - two tapes, one for each party. One microphone on its stand in the centre of the table. The walls whitewashed, decorated with nothing but a reminder that smoking was punishable by a fine - as if any of the room’s usual inmates would worry about that. A foetid smell; the place had only recently been vacated.

  They’d left Malcolm Fox there to stew in his own juices. No offer of tea or even water. Giles had asked him for his mobile; Fox had told him to get stuffed.

  ‘How do I know you won’t go calling chat lines on my tab?’ was his reasoning.

  There was a uniform in the room with him, standing to one side of the door. Doubtless this man would have been chosen for his gift of recall - every station had one. So Fox pretended to be texting instead of making calls. Thing was . . . who was he supposed to tell? Who could help him clamber out of the midden he’d nosedived into? So he just pushed buttons at random, hoping he was getting on the uniform’s nerves. It was a further ten minutes before the door opened. Giles was followed into the room by two other detectives. One of them was a woman in her thirties; Fox seemed to remember seeing her around the place when he’d been working on Heaton, but couldn’t recall if he was supposed to know her name.

  The male detective was Jamie Breck.

  It was the woman’s job to make sure the tapes were spooling, the recorder picking up their voices. She also checked that the camera’s little red light was flashing, then gave Giles the nod. He had seated himself opposite Fox. He placed a folder and a large envelope on the table between them. Fox resisted looking interested in either.

  ‘DS Breck,’ Giles said with a nod of the head. The nod was directed towards the empty chair next to Fox. Breck seated himself slowly, avoiding eye contact, and Fox realised that the pair of them were in the selfsame mess. They sat side by side, with Giles across the desk from them like a headmaster with a pair of truants, and the woman officer replacing the uniform by the door.

  ‘Where do I start?’ Giles muttered, almost to himself. He was running his fingers over the folder and the envelope. Then he looked up, as though he’d just had an idea. ‘How about the pictures? Camera never lies and all that...’ He tipped the contents of the envelope on to the table. There were dozens of photos. They’d come from a desktop printer, and weren’t of the best quality.

  But good enough, all the same.

  ‘You’ll see the time and date on each one,’ Giles was saying, turning them around so Fox and Breck could view them more clearly. ‘That one’s you, DS Breck. You’re visiting Inspector Fox at his home. The two of you then took a little trip to a casino.’ Giles paused for effect. ‘Happens to be the same one Vince Faulkner visited the night he disappeared.’ He held up the appropriate photo. It was grainy, shot with a telephoto lens from some distance. Fox and Breck were depicted having their little word with the two doormen, prior to entering the Oliver. ‘What else have we got here?’ Giles made show of sifting through the photos again. ‘The pair of you at Salamander Point. DS Breck was there to gather information on our murder victim.’ Another pause. ‘Not sure why you were there, Inspector Fox. Hardly part of your remit as a member of Complaints and Conduct.’ Giles gave a little sniff. The man was loving every second, playing up to the camera and the microphone both. Fox thought back to the car - the two cars. He had his answer now. Even if you’re paranoid, he said to himself, it doesn’t mean they’re not after you.

  ‘Trying to influence the investigation, Inspector Fox?’ Giles was asking. ‘Barging in on the locus at your sister’s house?’

  ‘Her house isn’t a crime scene,’ Fox snapped back.

  ‘Until I say otherwise, that’s exactly what it is.’ The huge man’s voice was so calm, he could have been inhaling Prozac rather than oxygen.

  ‘That’s because you’re an arrogant prick.’ Fox decided a pause of his own was in order. ‘For the record,’ he concluded.

  Giles took a few moments to shepherd his emotions back into the pen. ‘What were you doing when you were apprehended, Inspector?’

  ‘I was being a cop.’

  ‘You were in the office of the Oliver casino, viewing that venue’s CCTV footage for the night Vince Faulkner went missing.’

  Fox could sense Jamie Breck’s disquiet at this news.

  ‘On whose authority did you go there?

  ‘Nobody’s.’

  ‘Did DS Breck tell you it would be all right? The pair of you had already been to that establishment not once, but twice.’ Giles sifted out another photo - Breck and Fox in daylight, standing beside Breck’s car just seconds before Joanna Broughton turned up.

  ‘This has nothing to do with DS Breck,’ Fox argued. ‘I went to Salamander Point on my own. It was coincidence he was there at the same time.’

  Giles had turned his attention
to Breck. ‘But you let the Inspector sit in on your interview with Mr Ronald Hendry?’

  ‘Yes,’ Breck admitted.

  ‘I outrank him,’ Fox began to explain. ‘I ordered him . . .’

  ‘Whether you did or you didn’t, here’s the thing . . .’ Giles opened the folder and produced a typed sheet. ‘DS Breck left that particular detail out of his account of the interview.’ Giles let the piece of paper fall on to the table. ‘And the night he came to your home - had you ordered him to put in an appearance?’ Giles allowed the silence to run its course. ‘Seems to me the two of you have become a bit too pally.’ He glared at Breck, while his finger stabbed in Fox’s direction. ‘He’s a suspect! You knew that! Since when do we get cosy with suspects?’