The Complaints

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Jack Broughton,’ he announced.

  Fox just nodded and squeezed past both men, turning to face them once he was inside the lift. He pressed the button for the ground floor, and waited for the doors to close. Jack Broughton seemed already to have dismissed him, and was entering the penthouse, greeting his only surviving child with a kiss. Lovatt, on the other hand, had stayed in the lobby to stare at Fox, the same enquiring look on his face.

  ‘Going down,’ the lift’s automated female voice said. The doors slid shut and Fox let go of the breath he’d been holding.

  There was no sign of the PR man’s car outside, so he’d either left it in the car park or come by taxi. If the car park, then he had to have some way of accessing the compound. But then the same was true if he’d been dropped off from a cab - he still had to get past the gates. So then maybe Joanna had gifted her father one of the small black remote-control boxes . . .

  Fox got into his own car and placed Charlie Brogan’s diary on the passenger seat. Then he stared at it, wondering what the Grampian Complaints would make of his recent activities. He’d been very careful all morning - watching for cars tailing him, for people loitering or following him. It had been easy for them to keep tabs on him the previous week - he’d not been alerted to the probability. But now he knew he’d been under surveillance, that made things a great deal harder for any team trying to track him. Then again, if he was going to keep pulling stunts like this one . . . It took him a further three or four minutes to decide, but at last he picked up the diary and flipped it open.

  He started with the Monday of the previous week, but found nothing immediately of interest. It wasn’t that Brogan used a code, but like most people he used initials and abbreviations. The J in ‘8 p.m. - J - Kitchin’ Fox assumed was Joanna Broughton. The Kitchin was a fancy restaurant in Leith, run by a chef with the surname Kitchin. There were notes of meetings, but it hadn’t exactly been an action-packed week. Flipping back to January, Fox found that Brogan had been far busier. By February, he’d been reduced to noting TV shows he was planning to watch.

  After quarter of an hour, Fox closed the book and turned the ignition. On his way back to Leith Police Station he made two stops. One was at a stationer’s, where he bought a padded envelope big enough to take the diary. The other was at a phone shop, where he bought a pay-as-you-go mobile, using his credit card. If he was still under surveillance, this new phone wouldn’t keep him off the radar for long . . . but maybe long enough.

  And it was certain to annoy any Complaints team when they eventually worked out what he’d done.

  He parked his car outside the police station just long enough to drop the envelope off at reception. He’d written Max Dearborn’s name on the front. It would puzzle Max, perhaps, but Fox didn’t mind that in the least. Back in the car, his old mobile started ringing. Fox checked the caller ID but made no attempt to answer. When the ringing stopped, he used his new phone and called Tony Kaye back.

  ‘Who’s this?’ Kaye asked, not recognising the number.

  ‘It’s Malcolm. This is how to get me from now on.’

  ‘You’ve changed phones?’

  ‘In case they’re tracking me.’

  ‘You’re paranoid.’ Kaye paused. ‘Good thinking, though - reckon I should do the same?’

  ‘Have they spoken to you again?’ They: Grampian Complaints.

  ‘No - how about you?’

  ‘Later today. So why were you calling?’

  ‘I just wanted a moan. Hang on a sec . . .’ Fox listened as Kaye moved from the Complaints office to the hallway. ‘Those two are driving me nuts,’ he said. ‘It’s like they’ve known one another since the playground.’

  ‘Other than that, how’s Gilchrist settling in?’

  ‘I don’t like that he’s sitting at your desk.’

  ‘Then offer to swap.’

  ‘He’s not having my desk.’

  ‘Then we’re stuck with it. Has McEwan been in?’

  ‘He’s not speaking to me.’

  ‘We’ve piled his plate high with shit,’ Fox conceded.

  ‘And not even tied a bib around his neck,’ Kaye added. ‘Is your afternoon grilling to be courtesy of a woman called Stoddart?’

  ‘Any tips for handling her?’

  ‘Asbestos gloves, Malcolm.’

  ‘Great, thanks.’ Fox thought for a moment. ‘Can you get Naysmith for me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want a word with him - but out of Gilchrist’s earshot.’

  ‘I’ll fetch him.’ It was Kaye’s turn to pause. ‘Are you playing it cool, or has it actually slipped your mind?’

  Fox realised immediately what he meant. ‘Have you had a chance to talk to her?’

  ‘She hasn’t been in this morning. Gilchrist had to fetch something from his desk at the Chop Shop, so I went along with him and took a look. I asked him if she had any meetings, but he didn’t know.’

  ‘Well, thanks for trying.’

  ‘I’m not giving up yet. Joe!’ Fox realised that Kaye was calling from the doorway. ‘Here he comes,’ Kaye said. The phone was handed to Naysmith. ‘It’s Foxy,’ Fox heard Kaye explain.

  ‘Malcolm,’ Naysmith said.

  ‘Morning, Joe. I hear you and Gilchrist are getting on famously.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘So there’s no reason why you shouldn’t invite him out for a drink after work.’

  ‘No ...’ Naysmith drew the word out way past its natural length.

  ‘You’d probably suggest Minter’s, and you’d be there by five thirty.’

  ‘Right.’ Again the word took on elasticated form in Naysmith’s mouth.

  ‘No need to tell him it was my idea.’

  ‘What’s going on, Malcolm?’

  ‘Nothing’s going on, Joe. Just take him for that drink.’ Fox ended the call. He had plenty of time to kill before his meeting at Fettes. At a newsagent’s, he bought the Evening News, a salad roll and a bottle of water, then headed in the general direction of Inverleith, parking by the north entrance to the Botanics. He located Classic FM on the radio and ate his roll while flicking through the paper. Charlie Brogan was no longer news, and neither was Vince Faulkner. People were foaming at the mouth about the former RBS boss’s pension and perks. The tram dispute had entered its ‘eleventh hour’, with the council telling the contractors there was no more cash to put on the table. And now the Dunfermline Building Society was in trouble. Fox seemed to remember the Prime Minister was from Dunfermline . . . No, Kirkcaldy, but Dunfermline was in his constituency. Fox’s parents had held an account with the Dunfermline - he wondered if Mitch still had money there. Fox’s own money was in the Co-op. It was the one bank he hadn’t heard anything about. He wasn’t sure if that was reassuring or not.

  The piece of music finished and the announcer declared that it had been by Bach. Fox had recognised it - he recognised a lot of the tunes on Classic FM without being able to name them or their composer. He looked at his watch again, checking that it hadn’t stopped.

  ‘Hell with it,’ he said, closing the newspaper and turning the ignition key.

  He’d just have to turn up early to his crucifixion.

  16

  The officer on duty at the reception desk - a man Fox had known for a couple of years - had the good grace to apologise that he would have to take a seat. Fox nodded his understanding.

  ‘You’re just following orders, Frank,’ he said. So Fox sat down on one of the chairs and pretended an interest in his newspaper, while other officers came and went. Most of them gave him a glance or an outright stare - word had gotten around - and one or two paused to offer a word of sympathy.

  When Stoddart made her entrance, she was flanked by two heavyset men. Stoddart herself was tall and elegant with long fair hair. If someone had told Fox she sat on the board of a bank or corporation, he wouldn’t have been surprised. She had a visitor’s pass around her neck, and ordered Frank to get one for Fox. Fox took his time getti
ng to his feet. He closed his paper, folded it, slipped it into his pocket. Stoddart didn’t offer to shake hands; didn’t even bother to introduce herself or her henchmen. She handed the pass to Fox and turned on her heels.

  ‘This way,’ she said.

  It wasn’t a long walk. Fox didn’t know whose office they had commandeered. The bulletin board and desk gave few clues. There was space for a circular coffee table and several chairs, which looked to have been borrowed from the canteen. On the desk sat a laptop and some cardboard folders. There was another laptop on the coffee table. A video camera had been fixed to a tripod and aimed at the desk.

  ‘Sit,’ Stoddart commanded, walking around to the far side of the desk. One of her goons had seated himself at the coffee table. The other was peering into the camera, making sure it didn’t need adjusting. He came forward and handed Fox a tiny microphone.

  ‘Can you clip that to your lapel?’ he asked. Fox did so. A wire ran from the mic to the camera. The officer had slipped a pair of headphones on, and was checking the apparatus again.

  ‘Testing, testing,’ Fox said into the mic. The man gave him the thumbs-up.

  ‘Before we get started,’ Stoddart began. ‘You’ll appreciate how awkward this is. We don’t like finding out a complaint has been made against one of our own—’

  ‘Who made the complaint?’ Fox interrupted. She ignored him, her eyes on the laptop’s screen as she spoke.

  ‘But these things have to be done properly. So don’t expect any favours, Inspector Fox.’ She nodded towards the cameraman, who pressed a button and announced that they were rolling. Stoddart sat in silence for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts, then she announced the date and time.

  ‘Preliminary interview,’ she went on. ‘I am Inspector Caroline Stoddart and I am accompanied by Sergeant Mark Wilson and Constable Andrew Mason.’

  ‘Which is which?’ Fox interrupted again. Stoddart gave him a stare.

  ‘Constable Mason is operating the camera,’ she informed him. ‘Now, if you’ll identify yourself . . .’

  ‘I’m Inspector Malcolm Fox.’

  ‘And you work for the Complaints and Conduct department of Lothian and Borders Police?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Specifically the Professional Standards Unit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long have you been based there?’

  ‘Four and a half years.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘I was at St Leonard’s for three years, and Livingston before that.’

  ‘This was in your drinking days?’

  ‘I’ve been sober for five years. Didn’t realise my tippling was a matter of record.’

  ‘You’ve never looked at your personnel file?’ She sounded unconvinced.

  ‘No,’ he told her, crossing one leg over the other. In doing so, he dislodged the newspaper, which fell from his pocket on to the floor. He stooped to pick it up, stretching the microphone cord so that it came unplugged from the camera.

  ‘Hang on,’ Mason said, removing his headphones. Fox apologised and straightened himself, his eyes on Caroline Stoddart.

  ‘Having fun?’ she asked.

  ‘Are we speaking on the record or off?’

  Her mouth twitched, and she went back to checking whatever was on her computer screen. ‘Your sister likes a drink too, doesn’t she?’

  ‘This isn’t about my sister.’

  ‘Ready,’ Mason announced.

  Stoddart took a moment to collect her thoughts again. ‘Let’s talk about Vincent Faulkner,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, let’s. He was found dead on Tuesday morning of last week - when did you get the word to put me under surveillance?’

  ‘He was living with your sister?’ Stoddart asked, ignoring his question.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you’d recently discovered that there had been an argument between the two of them, during which her arm was broken?’

  ‘A week ago, yes.’

  ‘What were you working on at that time?’

  ‘Not much. My team had just finished expending considerable effort putting together a case against DI Glen Heaton of C Division.’

  Stoddart was scrolling down a page. ‘Anything else in your in-tray? ’

  ‘I’d been asked to take a look at someone . . .’

  ‘This would be Detective Sergeant Jamie Breck?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Also stationed at C Division?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What were the circumstances of the request?

  ‘My boss, Chief Inspector McEwan, had been contacted by CEOP. DS Breck had come on to their radar and they wanted him checked out.’

  Stoddart reached over to the top folder and opened it. There were surveillance photos inside, the same ones Giles had had at Torphichen.

  ‘Bit of a conflict of interest,’ Stoddart mused. ‘You’re looking at Breck, while he’s looking into your sister’s partner’s murder . . .’

  ‘I was aware of that.’

  ‘You didn’t attempt to distance yourself from the case?’

  ‘Which case?’

  ‘Either, I suppose.’

  Fox gave a shrug. ‘How are things in Aberdeen?’ he asked.

  The change of direction didn’t appear to have any effect on Stoddart.

  ‘We’re not here to talk about me,’ she drawled, pushing her hair back behind her ears. ‘You seem to have become friendly with DS Breck in a very short space of time.’

  ‘The relationship was always professional.’

  ‘That’s why he came to your house on Wednesday night? You went to a casino together.’

  ‘It was work-related. Besides, CEOP had asked for my assessment of DS Breck.’

  ‘Yes, there was a Complaints van parked outside his home. Did you advise them they were wasting their time?’

  ‘He headed back there eventually.’

  ‘But you told them about the trip to the casino?’

  ‘No,’ Fox admitted.

  ‘So two of your colleagues were sitting in a surveillance van on a cold February night . . .’

  ‘It’s what we do.’

  She looked at him, then back to the screen again. Fox enjoyed a momentary fantasy of punching his fist through it. When he peered over his shoulder, Wilson was busy studying his own laptop.

  ‘Is it patience you’re playing there, or Minesweeper?’ Fox asked him. Wilson didn’t respond.

  ‘DS Breck,’ Stoddart was saying, ‘was at the casino because Vincent Faulkner might have visited it the night he died?’

  ‘He did visit it,’ Fox corrected her.

  ‘And that visit was on the Saturday, after he’d broken your sister’s arm?’

  Fox nodded. ‘And I didn’t find out about her arm until Monday.’

  ‘Mr Faulkner’s body was found on Tuesday morning?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Your sister was visited on Monday evening by one of your colleagues? ’

  ‘Sergeant Kaye.’

  ‘Did you know that was happening?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’d told him about her arm?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A phone started to ring. Stoddart realised it was hers. She signalled for Mason to pause the recording, then reached into her jacket pocket.

  ‘One moment,’ she advised the room, getting to her feet and making for the door. After she’d gone, Fox stretched his spine, feeling the vertebrae click.

  ‘This is interesting,’ he commented. ‘Being on the receiving end for a change. So how are things in Aberdeen? Got anything on the go?’

  The two Grampian officers shared a look. It was Wilson who spoke. ‘Grampian’s pretty clean these days,’ he offered.

  ‘Must be a nice change then, visiting Gomorrah. Have they given you a decent hotel?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Well then, you’ll want to string this out as long as possible.’

 
Mason managed a smile, but only for a second. Stoddart was coming back into the room. She returned her phone to her pocket and settled back down behind the desk.

  ‘Ready,’ Mason advised. Stoddart stared at Fox as she began forming her next question.