The Complaints

by Ian Rankin

  Fox told her he’d help put the shopping away, but she shooed him off. ‘I can manage.’ And she did - filling the kettle and switching it on; placing her purchases in the fridge or a cupboard. Then she spooned coffee into three mugs and poured on the boiling water, adding milk.

  When all three were seated in the tidied living room, Fox asked her how she was doing.

  ‘I’m managing, Malcolm - as you can see.’

  Fox nodded slowly. He knew that people had ways of dealing with grief and loss. But keeping busy could lead to problems later, if all it meant was that you were in denial. Still, the lack of mess and empty bottles perhaps boded well.

  ‘You don’t mind talking a little about Vince?’ he asked her.

  ‘Depends,’ she answered, starting to light a cigarette. ‘Has there been any progress?’

  ‘Precious little,’ Breck admitted. She turned her attention to him.

  ‘I remember you,’ she said, blowing smoke through her nostrils. ‘You were here the day they dug up the back garden.’

  Breck gave another bow of his head, acknowledging the fact. Fox cleared his throat until she focused on him again.

  ‘Did you hear about Charles Brogan?’ he asked.

  ‘It was in the paper. Fell from his yacht.’

  ‘You know he was married to Joanna Broughton?’

  ‘So the paper said.’

  ‘Did you know she owns the Oliver?’

  Jude nodded and removed a sliver of tobacco from her tongue. ‘They showed her picture - I recognised her.’

  ‘From your nights at the casino?’

  ‘She was sometimes there. Always looked very glam.’

  ‘How about her husband? Did you ever see him?’

  Jude was nodding. ‘Once or twice. He sent us over a bottle of champagne.’

  ‘Charles Brogan bought you champagne?’ Breck asked, seeking verification.

  ‘Didn’t I just say that?’ Jude took a slurp of coffee. ‘Cast’s coming off next week,’ she informed her brother.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Typical NHS balls-up. Turns out it’s a fracture - less serious than a break.’

  ‘I meant, why did Charles Brogan send you over a bottle of champagne? ’

  She looked at him. ‘Well, both Vince and Ronnie worked for him, didn’t they?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  She pondered this. ‘Okay,’ she agreed, ‘not exactly. But he’d met them on the site; he knew who they were.’

  ‘Was it good champagne?’

  Breck had asked the question, and Jude turned her head towards him. ‘It was Moët ... or something like that. Thirty quid or thereabouts in Asda, so Sandra said.’

  ‘More like a ton in a casino.’

  ‘Well, it’s his wife’s place, isn’t it? I doubt he was paying full whack.’

  Fox decided to step in. ‘It was a nice gesture, all the same. Did he come over and say hello?’

  Jude shook her head. ‘Not that time.’

  ‘Another time, though?’

  Now she was nodding. And Vince’s friend Ronnie didn’t want us to know, Fox thought. ‘He handed Sandra and me twenty quid’s worth of chips - each, mind you.’ She paused. ‘I think he was showing off.’

  ‘Is that what Vince thought?’

  ‘Vince thought he had style. When the champagne arrived, Vince had to go shake him by the hand. Brogan just patted him on the shoulder, like it was no big deal.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe it wasn’t.’

  There was a phone ringing. It was Breck’s. He apologised as he lifted it from his pocket and checked the screen. His glance towards Fox confirmed what Fox had already been thinking: Billy Giles.

  ‘Don’t answer,’ Fox was saying, but Breck had already placed the phone to his ear.

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ he said. Then, after listening for a moment: ‘Yes, he’s with me.’ And a few seconds later: ‘Right ... yes ... understood ... Yes, I was there when it happened, but it was really more of a misund—’ Breck broke off and listened some more. Fox couldn’t hear what Giles was saying, but his tone was splenetic. Breck actually eased the phone away from his ear as the diatribe continued.

  ‘Sounds narked,’ Jude whispered for her brother’s benefit. Fox nodded back. By the time the call ended, blood had risen up Breck’s neck and into his cheeks.

  ‘Well?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Our presence is requested,’ Breck explained, ‘at Torphichen, any time within the next half-hour. Any later, and there’ll be patrol cars out trawling for us.’

  Jude stared at her brother. ‘What have you done? Is it to do with Vince?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Fox assured her, while locking eyes with Jamie Breck.

  ‘You were always a terrible liar, Malcolm,’ his sister remarked.

  Torphichen: not an interview room this time, but Bad Billy Giles’s inner sanctum. The office lacked any whiff of personality. There were no framed family snaps on the desk; no citations or certificates on the walls. Some people liked to brighten up their drab surroundings, but Giles was not among them. You could tell nothing about the inhabitant of this space, other than that he was behind with his filing. There were boxes awaiting storage elsewhere, and a three-foot-high pile of paperwork balanced precariously atop the only cabinet.

  ‘Cosy,’ Fox said, manoeuvring his way in. The place was crowded. Giles was behind his desk, swivelling slightly in his chair and with a pen gripped in his hand like a dagger. Bob McEwan was seated next to the filing cabinet, hands clasped in his lap and with Caroline Stoddart alongside him. She stood with arms folded. Then there were Hall and Dickson. Dickson had given himself a wash and changed into a spare set of clothes, which looked like the result of a whip-round of the other officers in the station. The ill-fitting brown cords did not match the pink polo shirt, which in turn clashed with the green blouson. He was also wearing tennis shoes, and his furious eyes never left Fox for a second.

  Breck had managed to squeeze into the room behind Fox, but gave up on trying to close the door. Giles tossed his pen down on to the desk and looked towards McEwan.

  ‘With your permission, Bob...’ Permission was granted with the curtest of nods, and Giles turned his attention back to Fox and Breck.

  ‘One of my officers wants to make a complaint,’ he told them. ‘Seems he was manhandled to the ground.’

  ‘That was a misunderstanding, sir,’ Breck explained. ‘And we’re sorry about it. We’ll pay the dry-cleaning costs or any other reasonable expense.’

  ‘Shut up, Breck,’ Giles snapped. ‘You’re not the one who needs to do the grovelling.’

  Fox pulled his shoulders back. ‘Dickson went for me first,’ he stated. ‘I’m not sorry for what I did.’ He paused for a beat. ‘I just didn’t expect him to go down like a sack of spuds.’

  ‘You prick,’ Dickson snarled, taking half a step forward.

  ‘Dickson!’ Giles cautioned. ‘My office, my rules!’ Then, to Fox: ‘What I want to know is what you and the Boy Wonder were doing there in the first place.’

  ‘I told Dickson and Hall at the time,’ Fox replied calmly. ‘I’d already paid one visit to Salamander Point and I liked what I saw. There’s a sales office, and not having much else to do, I decided to see if I could snag a bargain in these straitened times.’

  ‘Taking DS Breck with you?’

  ‘Except,’ Hall interrupted, ‘that’s not what happened. You’d asked to speak to Mr Ronald Hendry. He wasn’t happy at being pulled away from his game of football, and even less happy when I asked for him again not ten minutes later.’ He offered Fox a cold smile. Giles allowed the silence to linger, then snatched up his pen and stabbed it in Stoddart’s direction.

  ‘I think maybe it would be wise,’ she said on cue, ‘if I brought forward my interview with DS Breck.’

  ‘To when?’ Breck asked.

  ‘Directly after this meeting.’

  He offered a shrug. ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘Wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t,’ Gi
les snapped back. ‘And afterwards, I’m ordering the pair of you to cease communication.’

  ‘And how are you going to enforce that?’ Fox asked. ‘Have us tagged, maybe? Or kept under surveillance?’ As he said this, he glanced in McEwan’s direction.

  ‘I’ll use whatever methods I think necessary,’ Giles growled. Then, for Breck’s benefit: ‘You’re not doing your prospects much good, son - it’s high time you saw sense!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Jamie Breck replied. ‘Thank you, sir.’ Fox gave him a look, but Breck wasn’t about to make eye contact. He was standing with his hands behind his back, feet slightly apart, head bowed in a show of contrition. ‘And just to reiterate, sir,’ Breck went on, ‘I’d be more than happy to pay whatever compensation’s warranted for DS Dickson’s distress.’ He then leaned past Fox, hand stretched out towards Dickson. Dickson stared at the hand as if it might be booby-trapped.

  ‘Good man,’ Giles said by way of encouragement, leading Dickson to accept the handshake, but with a baleful stare directed at Fox.

  ‘Well then...’ Giles was half rising to his feet. ‘Unless Chief Inspector McEwan has anything to add?’

  But McEwan didn’t, and neither did Stoddart. She was telling Breck she had a car waiting outside. Their little chat would take place at Fettes. Giles had already ordered Hall and Dickson back to work. ‘We’ve a case to clear up,’ he reminded them.

  Fox waited to see if there’d be any further admonishment, but Giles was removing some paperwork from his desk drawer. You’re not important enough, he seemed to be telling Fox. Jamie Breck offered him the briefest of nods as he left.

  Fox moved swiftly through the station, not knowing if Dickson and Hall might be ready to spring out at him. When he reached the pavement, Bob McEwan was standing there, knotting his coffee-coloured scarf around his neck.

  ‘You’re a bloody idiot,’ McEwan told him.

  ‘It’s hard to deny it,’ Fox offered, sliding his hands into his coat pockets. ‘But something’s behind all this - don’t tell me you don’t feel it too.’

  McEwan looked at him, then gave a single, slow nod of the head.

  ‘That time in the interview room,’ Fox pressed on, gesturing towards the police station, ‘there was a moment where we caught sight of it. The Deputy Chief said I’d been under surveillance most of the week. But that means it was in place before any of this other stuff. So I’m asking you, sir...’ Fox planted himself firmly in front of his boss. ‘How much do you know?’

  McEwan stared back at him. ‘Not much,’ he eventually conceded, adjusting the knot in his scarf.

  ‘Not too tight, Bob,’ Fox advised him. ‘If you end up strangling yourself, they’re bound to find a way to pin it on me.’

  ‘You’ve not done yourself any favours, Malcolm. Look at it from their point of view. You’ve interfered in an inquiry, and when ordered to stop you seemed to push your foot to the pedal that bit harder.’

  ‘Grampian Complaints already had me in their sights,’ Fox stressed. ‘Is there any way you can look into that?’ He paused. ‘I know I’m asking a lot under the circumstances...’

  ‘I’ve already set the ball rolling.’

  Fox looked at him. ‘I forgot,’ he said, ‘you have friends in Grampian CID.’

  ‘I seem to remember telling you that I’ve friends nowhere.’

  Fox thought for a moment. ‘Say that there is something rotten in Aberdeen. Could they be trying for a pre-emptive strike?’

  ‘It’s doubtful. The job I mentioned up there has gone to Strathclyde instead of us. And besides - why pick on you? If I were them, I’d have zeroed in on Tony Kaye. He’s the one with the history.’ McEwan paused. ‘Are you going to heed the warning and keep away from Breck?’

  ‘I’d rather not answer that, sir.’ Fox watched his boss’s face cloud over. ‘I think he’s being set up, Bob. There’s not a shred of evidence that he’s got inclinations that way.’

  ‘Then how did his name end up on the list?’

  ‘Someone got hold of his credit card,’ Fox said with a shrug. ‘Maybe you could ask DS Inglis if that’s possible. Could someone have signed up in Breck’s name without his knowledge?’ Fox broke off and held up a cautionary hand. ‘Best if Gilchrist doesn’t know, though.’

  McEwan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

  ‘The fewer the better,’ Fox offered.

  McEwan shuffled his feet. ‘Give me a single good reason why I should go out on a limb for you.’

  Fox considered this, then gave another shrug. ‘To be honest, sir, I can’t actually think of one.’

  McEwan nodded slowly. ‘That’s the word I was looking for.’

  ‘What word, sir?’

  ‘Honest,’ Bob McEwan said as he marched towards his car.

  Home felt like a cage. Fox did everything but dismantle the landline to look for bugs. Thing was, that was straight out of The Ipcress File. These days, you eavesdropped in other ways. A couple of months back, the Complaints had attended a series of seminars at Tulliallan Police College. They’d been shown various bits of new technology. A suspect might be making a phone call, but it was software doing the listening, and it would only start to record if certain pre-programmed keywords came up. Same went for computers - the gadgets in the van could isolate an individual laptop or hard drive and withdraw information from it. Fox kept walking over to the windows and peering out. If he heard a car engine, he’d be at the window again. He held his new phone in his hand, wondering who he could call. He’d made toast, but the slices sat untouched on their plate. When had he last eaten something? Breakfast? He still couldn’t summon up any appetite. He’d made a start at replacing the books on the living-room shelves, but had given up after the first few minutes. Even the Birdsong channel had begun to annoy him, and he’d switched the radio off. As night fell, his lights remained off, too. There was a car parked across the street, but it was just a parent picking up her son from a friend’s house. The same thing had happened before, so he decided he could dismiss it. Then again ... He tried to recall if any of the houses nearby had come on the market recently. Had any ‘To Let’ signs come and gone? Could a surveillance team be sitting in its own darkened living room, surrounded by the same equipment he’d been shown at Tulliallan?

  ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid,’ he admonished himself.

  Making a mug of tea in the unlit kitchen, he poured in too much milk, and ended up tipping the drink down the sink. Drink ... now there was a thing. The supermarket was open late. He could almost recite from memory the bottles in its malt whisky display: Bowmore, Talisker, Highland Park ... Macallan, Glenmorangie, Glenlivet ... Laphroaig, Lagavulin, Glenfiddich ...

  At half past eight, his phone gave a momentary chirrup. He stared at it. Not a call, but a text. He tried to focus on the screen.

  Hunters Tryst 10 mins.

  Hunters Tryst was a pub nearby. Fox checked the texter’s identity: Anonymous Caller. Only a handful of people had his new number. The pub was a ten-minute walk, but there was parking. Then again, it might be good to arrive early: reconnaissance and all that. And why was he going anyway?

  Well, what else was he going to do?

  But when he eventually headed out to the Volvo, he looked up and down the street, then, once in the car, made a circuit of his estate, slowing at every corner and junction, until he was confident no one was following.

  A week night in February: the Tryst was quiet. He walked in and took a good look around. Three drinkers in the whole place: a middle-aged couple who looked as if they’d fallen out a decade before, each still waiting for the other to offer the first apology; and an elderly man whose face was known to Fox. The guy had owned a dog, used to walk it three times a day. When he’d stopped being visible, Fox had assumed he’d croaked, but now it looked as if the dog had been the victim rather than its master. There was a young woman behind the bar. She managed a smile for Fox and asked him what he was having.

  ‘Tomato juice,’ he said. His eyes lingered on
the row of optics as she shook the bottle and prised off its top.

  ‘Ice?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘It’s a bit warm,’ she warned him.

  ‘It’ll be fine.’ He was reaching into his pocket for some coins when the door opened again. The couple who entered had their arms around one another’s waist. The middle-aged couple gave a disapproving look.

  ‘Look who’s here,’ the male half of this new couple said. Breck held out his hand for Fox to shake.