The Complaints

by Ian Rankin

  He shrugged and lifted his own drink to his mouth. ‘What are you going to do about Breck?’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Can you at least talk about it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Why not?’ When she just stared at him, he lifted his hands in a show of surrender.

  ‘I’ll check on the meat,’ she said, getting back to her feet. She was wearing tight black cords and a cream-coloured woollen sweater. Fox couldn’t help enjoying his view of her as she left the room.

  Lunch itself was fine. Duncan said almost nothing, hiding behind his curtain of hair. The pork was tender, and accompanied by mountains of veg, Duncan partaking of two boiled potatoes and one roast to accompany his burger. There was trifle for dessert, which the teenager asked if he could take to his room. After a theatrical sigh, his mother relented. With dessert finished, Fox helped her clear the table. The kitchen was a mess, but she insisted she’d clean up later - ‘Duncan will help, trust me.’ So they settled back on the sofa with coffee and little cubes of home-made tablet. She’d put his flowers in a vase of water.

  ‘You’ve been married, right?’ she asked.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘No kids, though?’

  ‘We weren’t together long enough.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We hooked up for all the wrong reasons.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m not about to bore you with the details.’ He crossed one leg over the other. ‘How does Duncan feel about your job?’

  ‘He knows not to ask questions.’

  ‘Fair enough, but he knows what you do, and he has to tell his mates something . . .’

  ‘We’ve never talked about it much.’ She tucked her legs beneath her, having kicked off her shoes. Fox could hear some sort of brass instrument being practised nearby.

  ‘Is that Duncan?’

  She shook her head. ‘One of the kids downstairs. Tuba, his mum tells me. And there’s a drummer through that wall.’ She nodded in the direction of the shelving unit.

  ‘How about Duncan?’

  ‘An electric guitar for his birthday last year, but he won’t take lessons.’

  ‘I was like that when my parents bought me a set of golf clubs - reckoned I’d teach myself.’

  ‘Teenage boys can be stubborn. Are your parents still alive?’

  ‘My dad is.’

  ‘And how’s your sister doing? There’ll be the funeral to plan, I suppose.’

  ‘Might take a while for them to release the body.’

  ‘And there’s still no news?’ It was his turn to shake his head. ‘So you started making your own enquiries . . .’

  ‘As a result of which, I get a nice paid holiday.’

  ‘Are you thinking of going somewhere?’

  ‘I might just stay close to home.’ He paused. ‘Is there any point in me asking Gilchrist a few questions?’

  She looked at him. ‘I wouldn’t think so, Malcolm. You do understand what the word “suspension” means?’

  ‘Of course.’

  A smile spread across her face. ‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a rebel.’

  ‘That’s because I wear braces with my suit.’

  Now she laughed. ‘Maybe.’

  Duncan stuck his head around the door. ‘I’m just going out.’ ‘Where?’ his mother asked.

  ‘Princes Street.’

  ‘Meeting up with anyone?’ He shrugged. ‘Okay, then. Say goodbye to Malcolm.’

  ‘Bye,’ Duncan said. ‘Thanks again for the . . .’

  ‘Maybe see you again,’ Fox replied. He sat in silence with Inglis until the front door had closed.

  ‘I thought he was going to help you in the kitchen,’ Fox said.

  ‘He’ll do it when he comes back.’

  ‘Must be hard.’ Fox paused. ‘Not having his dad around, I mean. Do your parents still help out?’

  ‘We see them some weekends.’

  ‘Are they still in Fife?’

  She gave him a look. ‘I never told you I grew up in Fife.’

  ‘You must have.’

  But she was shaking her head slowly, never taking her eyes off him. ‘You saw it in my file, didn’t you?’

  ‘I like you, Annie . . .’

  ‘So you had a trawl through my personnel file. Find out anything interesting, Inspector?’

  ‘Only that you never bothered to mention Duncan.’

  Her voice was steely. ‘I didn’t want anyone seeing me as a single parent first, and a cop second.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘I can’t believe you checked up on me!’

  ‘It’s what I do.’ He paused. ‘What I used to do,’ he corrected himself.

  ‘It was still out of order, Malcolm.’

  He was trying to shape an explanation, but Annie Inglis had risen to her feet.

  ‘Time for you to leave, I think.’

  ‘Annie, I just wanted to know a little more about you . . .’

  ‘Thanks again for the wine and the flowers and . . .’ She looked about her, avoiding eye contact, then turned towards the door. ‘I need to get started in the kitchen.’

  He watched her go. He was standing by this time, still holding his coffee cup. He placed it on the table and put his jacket back on. She had closed the kitchen door. He could hear her moving stuff around. His fingers brushed the door handle, without enough force to open it. He stayed there a further minute, willing her to come out. But she had switched the radio on. Classic FM: same station he sometimes listened to.

  Out of order, Malcolm . . .

  He could open the door and apologise. But instead, he padded down the hall and let himself out. On the pavement outside, he craned his neck. There was no one watching from the bay window, or from the next window along. The car next to Fox’s was being washed by its owner.

  ‘Nice day, for a change,’ the man said. Fox drove away without responding. He was halfway home when his phone rang. He answered it, hoping to hear Annie’s voice. But it was Tony Kaye.

  ‘What do you want?’ Fox asked.

  ‘You were the one who told me to ring,’ Kaye complained. ‘And it went okay, thanks for asking.’

  Fox remembered then: Torphichen. ‘Sorry, Tony. I was lost for a minute there.’

  ‘Bad Billy wants me in the frame for Faulkner’s demise - he wants it a lot, but he knows it’s not going to happen, and that’s driving him nuts.’

  ‘Good,’ Fox said.

  ‘Other scenario he’s got is you thumping Faulkner and me acting the messenger. He said maybe it wasn’t my idea, or even yours - maybe Jude got you to do it.’ Kaye paused. ‘She didn’t, did she?’

  ‘Look, Tony, I’ve just had lunch round at Annie Inglis’s flat.’

  ‘Nice one.’

  ‘It ended badly. She worked out that I’d taken a look at her personnel file.’

  ‘Christ, when did that happen?’

  ‘I was down at HR for background on Jamie Breck . . .’

  ‘And thought you’d take a peek at Annie while you were at it? Seems fair enough to me.’

  ‘She didn’t see it that way.’

  ‘Sounds like an overreaction.’

  Fox thought so too, but he still had a favour to ask. ‘I need you to have a word with her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let her know I’m not some sort of stalker.’

  ‘Well, I’ve only got your word for that . . .’

  ‘It’ll give you something to do tomorrow while Naysmith and the new boy are getting cosy.’

  Kaye let out a hiss of air. ‘I’d forgotten we were getting lumbered with Gilchrist.’

  ‘While the Techie Twins are chatting, you can be at the Chop Shop.’

  ‘Interceding on your behalf? I’d’ve thought Annie Inglis was the least of your worries.’

  ‘Can’t afford any more enemies right now, Tony.’

  ‘Good point. Consider it done. But if she starts falling for my charms in p
lace of yours . . .’

  ‘I’ll be sure to let your wife of twelve years know.’

  ‘You miserable sod.’ Kaye gave a laugh. ‘I bet you would, too.’

  ‘Are you all done with Torphichen?’

  ‘I dare say Giles will drag me in again. Plus, Grampian will want a word, apparently.’

  ‘The Complaints?’

  ‘Giles was quick to tell them about me turning up at your sister’s. No chance of them investigating your misdemeanours without dragging me into it too.’

  ‘Things just get better and better, don’t they?’

  ‘Look on the bright side - the restaurant last night forgot to charge me for our second bottle of wine.’

  Fox managed the beginnings of a smile, then reminded Kaye to talk to Annie Inglis.

  ‘Relax,’ Kaye told him. ‘So what are you doing the rest of the day? Want to meet up at Minter’s?’

  ‘I’ve got stuff to do.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Alphabetising my bookshelves.’ Fox ended the call and drove home in silence.

  The rest of the day, he couldn’t really concentrate on anything. The piles of books sat untouched. There were sections of the various papers still unbrowsed. The TV proved little comfort and he had no view from his window other than the house identical to his across the street. Then, at eight o’clock, someone rang his doorbell. He ticked off possible visitors - Jamie, Tony Kaye, Annie Inglis . . .

  It was Jude. The taxi that had just dropped her was leaving. Her arm was still in a sling, so she’d only managed to drape her three-quarter-length coat around her shoulders.

  ‘Good to see you,’ he said, pecking her cheek and ushering her inside.

  ‘Are you moving out?’ she asked when she saw the state of the living room.

  Fox shook his head. ‘Been a while since you were last here,’ he commented.

  ‘We never seemed to get invited.’ She had shrugged off her coat. Fox walked into the kitchen and started filling the kettle.

  ‘DCI Giles phoned me,’ she explained from the doorway. ‘He says the man who came to my door on Monday night was a friend of yours.’

  ‘He works with me.’

  ‘Giles thinks you sent him.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Sent him to do your dirty work,’ she continued. ‘His name’s Kaye . . . I think you’ve mentioned him to me before. How did he know where I live, Malcolm?’

  Fox turned towards her. ‘Jude . . . this man Giles is trying every trick he knows in an effort to fuck things up for me.’

  ‘You told Kaye where I live?’

  ‘At some point I must have. But I didn’t know he was going to come to your house.’

  ‘He was looking for Vince. Only reason he’d be doing that is if you told him what happened . . . told him about my arm.’

  ‘So?’

  She was blinking back tears. ‘DCI Giles thinks maybe you had Vince killed.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Then why send your friend round?’

  ‘I didn’t send him. He was looking for Vince, remember? But Vince was already dead, Jude - and that means Tony Kaye didn’t know.’ Pain was thrumming in Fox’s temples. He opened a drawer and took out a packet of paracetamol tablets, popping two of them from the blister pack and washing them down with water from the tap. Jude waited until she had his full attention again before she spoke.

  ‘Giles says Vince could have been killed Monday night. He says the tests always have a margin of error.’

  ‘He’s lying. Pathology has Vince dying on the Saturday or the Sunday.’

  A single tear was running down Jude’s left cheek. ‘I just want this to be over,’ she said, her voice cracking. Fox stepped forward and placed his hands gently on her shoulders.

  ‘I know,’ he said, as she buried her face in his chest.

  They spent the next hour and a half talking quietly in the living room. She drank the tea he prepared for her, but didn’t feel like eating. She promised him she had eaten something at lunchtime. She promised him she would have breakfast. He brought out a packet of Weetabix from the kitchen and said she’d be taking it home with her. When he offered milk, she gave a little laugh and told him to stop making such a fuss. But he got the feeling she liked it really.

  He called a taxi for her and pressed a ten-pound note into her hand. Then he pecked her on the cheek again and closed the door of the cab for her, waving as she was driven away. She’d asked him if he’d seen their father and he had lied - because he hadn’t wanted her to feel left out. Next time he was visiting Mitch, he would take her along. She belonged there just as much as he did. She was family.

  Malcolm Fox made himself a last mug of tea and headed for bed. It wasn’t yet ten, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

  Monday 16 February 2009

  15

  Malcolm Fox’s alarm woke him at seven as usual. He was in the shower before he realised there was no necessity to be up this early. Nor did he have to wear a clean shirt and a fresh tie, or his suit and braces, but that didn’t stop him putting all of them on. As he was eating breakfast, there was a phone call. It was a woman called Stoddart from Grampian Police PSU. She was ‘inviting’ him to a meeting at Fettes HQ.

  ‘Shall we say three p.m.?’

  ‘Three’s fine,’ Fox informed her.

  The day was cold and overcast. Snowdrops were starting to appear in his front garden, and he reckoned there’d be some brave crocuses already sticking their heads above the parapet in the Meadows and the city’s other parks. He tried to work out a route that would take him through the Meadows on his way to Leith. It would be circuitous, but with the added bonus of a drive through Holyrood Park. Besides, he wasn’t exactly in a hurry.

  A few years back, Fox and his team had investigated an officer based at Leith Police Station. He’d been taking backhanders and turning a blind eye. One of his own men had come to them, but only with a promise of anonymity. Meetings had taken place at a greasy spoon near the docks, and this was Fox’s destination today. The café was called The Marina, its paintwork peeling, interior walls shiny with grease. There were half a dozen Formica-topped tables and a ledge by the window where you could stand and eat if you preferred. The owner was a large, red-faced woman who did much of the cooking while an Eastern European girl worked the till and the tables. Fox had been seated for fifteen minutes, nursing a mug of industrial-strength tea, when Max Dearborn walked in. Dearborn saw him and his whole body seemed to sag. He’d put on half a stone or more since they’d last met, and had developed jowls. There was still acne around his mouth, and his dark hair was slick-looking, combed straight down. More than ever, he resembled Oliver Hardy’s Scottish nephew.

  ‘Hiya, Max,’ Fox said.

  Dearborn’s breathing was hoarse as he wedged himself into the seat opposite Fox.

  ‘Is this just some horrific coincidence?’ the young man pretended to guess.

  Fox was shaking his head. The waitress had arrived, and he ordered a bacon roll.

  ‘Usual for you, Max?’ she asked Dearborn, who nodded a reply, keeping his eyes on Fox. When she moved away, Fox spoke in an undertone.

  ‘I hear you’re a DS these days - congratulations.’

  Dearborn responded with a twitch of the mouth. Fox remembered him the way he’d been - a detective constable with ideals and principles still intact, yet fearful of alienating his colleagues. ‘Serpico’, Tony Kaye had called him.

  ‘What do you want?’ Dearborn was asking. He’d taken a good look around the café, seeking out enemies and sharp ears.

  ‘Are you working the Charlie Brogan drowning?’ Fox could feel sweat forming on his back. His heart was beating far too fast. The tea had enough tannin in it to fell an ox, so he pushed the mug to one side.

  ‘It’s not a drowning yet,’ Dearborn corrected him. ‘And what’s it to you anyway?’

  ‘I’m just interested. Reckon maybe you owe me a favour.’

  ‘A favour?�
��

  ‘For keeping your name under wraps.’

  ‘Is that some sort of threat?’

  Fox shook his head. Dearborn’s coffee had arrived and he shovelled two spoonfuls of sugar into it, stirring noisily.