The Complaints

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Money from nothing?’ Fox guessed.

  ‘As good as,’ Wishaw agreed. ‘Buy a parcel of land, sit on it for a year and then sell at a profit. Or a house or a bunch of flats or whatever it might be. If you’ve got cash in a bank, you want a double-digit rate of interest - doesn’t matter to you how the bank finances it. Money from thin air, that’s what it seems like. And nobody asks any questions because that might break the spell.’

  ‘Your own company’s surviving, though?’

  ‘It’s hard going, I won’t deny it.’

  ‘But you’ll work your way through it?’

  Wishaw nodded vigorously. ‘Which is why I resent it when ... when ...’ He was wagging a finger towards Jamie Breck.

  ‘He didn’t mean anything, sir. We’re just trying to build up a picture of why Charles Brogan did what he did.’

  ‘Charlie ...’ Wishaw calmed again, his eyes losing focus as he remembered the man he’d known. ‘Charlie was incredibly likeable - genial company, all of that. But he was a product of his time. In a nutshell, he got greedy. That’s what it boils down to. He thought that money should come easy, and for the first few years it really did. But that can make you soft and complacent and gullible ...’ Wishaw paused. ‘And stupid. Above all, it can make you incredibly stupid... yet for a while you’re still making money.’ He raised a hand. ‘I’m not saying Charlie was the worst, not even in the bottom fifty or hundred! At least he created things - he caused buildings to rise.’

  Fox seemed to recall that Brogan had said much the same thing in one of his newspaper interviews. ‘But that becomes a problem when nobody wants those buildings,’ he suggested.

  Wishaw’s mouth twitched. ‘It’s when your investors want to be paid back. Empty buildings might be an investment if you wait long enough - same goes for land. What’s worthless one year can turn to gold the next. But none of that’s relevant if you’ve promised a quick return to your investors.’

  Fox was giving Wishaw his full attention. ‘Who were Mr Brogan’s investors?’

  It took Wishaw fully fifteen seconds to answer that he didn’t know. ‘I’m just thankful I’m not one of the ones waiting for Salamander Point to turn a profit.’ He was trying for levity, and that told Malcolm Fox something.

  Told him he’d just been lied to.

  ‘That last time you spoke with him - did he call you or did you call him?’

  Wishaw blinked a couple of times and fixed the detective with a look. ‘You must know that from the logs.’

  ‘I just want confirmation.’

  But there was a change taking place behind Wishaw’s eyes. ‘Should my lawyer be here?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder. The man had money troubles and he took his own life - end of story.’

  ‘Not for the police, Mr Wishaw. As far as we’re concerned, when someone disappears or dies... that’s the story just beginning.’

  ‘I suppose that’s true,’ Wishaw offered. ‘But I’ve told you all I can.’

  ‘Except for the details of that final phone call.’

  Wishaw considered his response for a further ten or fifteen seconds. ‘It was nothing,’ he decided. ‘Nothing at all ...’ He looked down at his overalls. ‘I need to get changed. There’s council business this afternoon - another dispute with the tram contractor.’ He offered a curt nod and made to move past Fox.

  ‘You’re sure you never had any business dealings with Mr Brogan?’ Fox asked. ‘Not even a tender for some work?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And he wasn’t trying to persuade you to help him lay some of his tower blocks off on the council?’ Wishaw just glared, bringing a smile to Fox’s lips. ‘You know a man called Paul Meldrum, Mr Wishaw?’

  The change of tack took Wishaw by surprise. ‘Yes,’ he admitted.

  ‘He works for a firm called Lovatt, Meikle, Meldrum,’ Fox went on. ‘They’re in PR, but Meldrum’s area of expertise is lobbying.’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure where this is going ...’

  ‘I was just wondering if it was maybe Charles Brogan who put you on to the firm in the first place.’

  ‘Might have been,’ Wishaw conceded. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘Not really, sir. Thanks again for your time.’ Fox paused for a few beats, then leaned in towards Wishaw. ‘And maybe next time we’ll have that lawyer present,’ he added in an undertone.

  ‘Libel comes with a hefty price tag ...’ Wishaw was about to add Fox’s name, but realised he didn’t know it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I don’t think you introduced yourself ...’

  ‘I gave my card to your daughter,’ Fox answered.

  ‘My ...?’ Realisation dawned on Wishaw. ‘That was my wife.’

  ‘Then you should be ashamed,’ Fox said, deciding this was as good a parting shot as any.

  23

  ‘Something I should maybe have told you,’ Jamie Breck said. They had dropped Fox’s car back at the house and were now heading north out of the city. Fox was a nervous passenger at the best of times, and he wasn’t liking the RX8. He felt too low to the ground and the sports seat restricted his movement. Breck - a vital couple of inches shorter and probably half the girth - fitted in well, but not Fox. Cars like this were not built for people his size, and certainly not ones with injured backs.

  ‘What?’ Fox asked. Another thing: sometimes it felt as if the Mazda was about to mount the kerb; other times as if it were straying out into the opposite lane. Breck always seemed to wait until the final moment before making the correction.

  ‘It’s about Ernie Wishaw - I didn’t let his case drop exactly.’

  Fox was in two minds about whether to let the conversation continue or suggest that Breck should shut up and concentrate on driving. Curiosity got the better of him.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I’ve been doing some digging - strictly in my own time. I’m one hundred per cent sure he was taking a cut from the trafficking. His lorries head over to Europe on a weekly basis. Always tempting to jack up the profit by bringing back some contraband.’

  ‘That usually means booze and cigarettes.’

  Breck nodded. There was a sudden vibration in the car as the driver’s-side tyres once more connected with the cat’s eyes down the middle of the carriageway. Breck made the adjustment and started talking. ‘Booze and cigarettes for sure, plus porn and anything else that might turn a profit. Once you know you’re not getting caught, you might decide to up the stakes a little.’ He paused. ‘Or it could be that someone just comes along and makes you the right offer.’

  Fox considered this. ‘Bruce Wauchope’s in jail for drug-dealing.’ ‘Indeed he is.’

  ‘You think his son’s ...?’

  ‘I can’t prove anything as yet.’

  ‘But if he was, he might turn to Ernie Wishaw for advice?’

  ‘Wishaw’s had the equivalent of a near-death experience - one of his guys is doing time, and he was the thickness of a Rizla paper away from joining him.’

  ‘So Wishaw wouldn’t smuggle dope on Bull Wauchope’s behalf?’

  ‘Actually I think he would,’ Breck said quietly. ‘All it needs is for someone to scare him enough.’

  Fox thought about it. Yes - the threat of violence against his precious wife or his even more precious fleet of lorries... ‘Think we might find an answer in Dundee?’

  ‘Isn’t it lucky we’re already headed there?’

  And so they were - they’d already passed through Barnton and were sweeping out into the countryside, the road broadening into a proper dual carriageway, passing Dalmeny and South Queensferry on their right. In a moment, the Forth Bridges would be visible.

  ‘Why are you just telling me this now?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Maybe I have a problem with trust, Malcolm. Have you forgotten how long it took you to tell me I was a suspected paedophile?’

  ‘That’s different - you were under investigation.’ />
  ‘And you, my friend, were a suspect in the killing of Vince Faulkner. Didn’t take me long to see that Billy Giles was wrong in his assumption...’

  Fox took a moment to digest this. ‘So how did you go about your own little inquiry into Ernie Wishaw?’

  ‘I spoke to the driver’s wife and her brother. I did some digging to see if there was any sudden cash swilling around - new TV or car, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And?’

  Breck just shrugged. ‘I even went to Saughton as a visitor.’

  ‘You spoke with the lorry-driver?’

  ‘He wasn’t giving anything away.’

  ‘But he knew who you were?’ Fox watched Breck nod. ‘So it could have got back to Wishaw - or anyone else for that matter.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  Fox was thoughtful. ‘Could Wishaw’s driver have been working for Bull Wauchope? Wauchope Senior’s doing time for bringing dope in by sea. Maybe intercontinental lorries started to look a better bet to his son.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Breck conceded. ‘You’ll have heard the stories as often as me - port officials sometimes “oiling the wheels”.’

  ‘They take a bung and don’t check the cargo too thoroughly?’

  Breck was nodding. Fox reached into his pocket for his phone and a slip of paper - the one with the number of Max Dearborn’s sister.

  ‘Who are you calling?’ Breck asked.

  ‘A friend, maybe.’ He had the ringing tone, and a moment later the call was answered by a female voice.

  ‘Is that Linda Dearborn?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘My name’s Malcolm Fox. I’m a colleague of Max’s.’

  ‘Yes, he’s mentioned you. Word is, you’re on suspension.’

  ‘Funny, I’ve not read about it in the paper...’

  ‘Plenty time yet, Malcolm.’ Her voice had a teasing quality to it. This was probably her method, Fox reasoned: be chatty, gossipy, maybe your new best friend... and then repeat any confidences for the paying public.

  ‘Max tells me you’re looking into Charles Brogan’s disappearance. ’

  ‘Not exactly,’ she corrected him. ‘It’s Brogan’s method of doing business I’m interested in.’

  ‘In particular, whether he was trying to bribe a city councillor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And as a result, Joanna Broughton’s set Gordon Lovatt on you.’

  ‘Mmm. They’re an intriguing couple, Brogan and Broughton.’

  ‘Joanna, you mean?’

  There was a momentary silence on the line. ‘You’re right to add Father Jack to the mix,’ she eventually said.

  ‘You reckon Brogan has done a Reggie Perrin on us?’

  ‘Or he’s crossed the pa-in-law in some way.’

  ‘And what way would that be?’

  ‘Malcolm...’ She almost sang his name. ‘You’re the detective, not me. My job’s to vacuum up the crumbs. Think of me as a house-maid... ’

  ‘That won’t be easy when I know your true identity, Linda.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘A hard-nosed investigative reporter - which is what I need you to be for me right now.’

  ‘You’ve got me intrigued, big boy.’

  ‘It would be useful to know how Brogan’s company is organised - maybe it’s a case of companies plural... we don’t know the extent of his empire. He’ll have shareholders, people he owed money to. Who exactly are they?’

  ‘Companies House is the place to start... I’ve already got quite a lot of info, including the details of his accountants. I suppose I could talk to them, but I’m not sure how helpful they’d be ... to a journalist, I mean. On the other hand, they’d have to talk to the police.’

  ‘Sadly, as you’ve already noted, I’m suspended from duty.’

  ‘Which begs the question - what’s all this in aid of?’

  ‘It’s in aid of whatever the opposite of suspension is,’ Fox told her. They were just arriving at the road bridge. It was, as ever, magnificent. To the right sat the complex, intertwined geometry of the Forth Rail Bridge. There was talk of a new bridge being built to relieve the strain on the present road bridge. Some of the cables were showing their age. But where was the money to come from? Linda Dearborn was saying that she’d see what she could do.

  ‘One other thing that might be fun for both of us ...’ Fox added.

  ‘Do tell.’

  ‘You could look up Lovatt’s firm at the same time, get an idea of just how far their tentacles stretch.’ Fox ended the call and Breck turned the radio back up a little.

  ‘Think we can trust her?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not that stupid, Jamie.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  Forty minutes later they were on the outskirts of Dundee. The trip had been Breck’s idea. He hadn’t been to the city on business before, but a cop he’d gone through training with had ended up in Tayside CID. One phone call later, the friend had agreed to meet with them ‘on the quiet’.

  ‘How many roundabouts can one city have?’ Breck complained as he followed the signs towards the waterfront. He’d been told to park next to the train station and cross the road to where the Discovery was docked. Fox asked why the boat was moored there.

  ‘I think it was built in Dundee.’

  Fox nodded. ‘Shackleton took it to the Arctic, right?’

  ‘Arctic... Antarctic... who knows?’

  Whoever had the answer, it wasn’t Mark Kelly. He was a DS, same rank as Breck, and he was waiting for them by the metal fence in front of the ship. Fox pretended an interest in the mast and rigging while the two friends shared a brief hug and exchanged comments about hair loss and body mass. When Breck asked about the boat, Kelly said he’d no idea.

  ‘We going on board or what?’ Breck asked.

  ‘It’s just a landmark, Jamie - I seem to remember navigation’s not your strong point and Dundee’s a tough gig for the first-timer. Come on ...’ He led them back across the road and past another roundabout. Their destination was a café, whose clientele seemed to be biding their time until they could be elsewhere. Once seated with their coffees, the real conversation began.

  ‘I took a look at Bull’s file,’ Kelly said, keeping his voice low.

  ‘The file didn’t come with you,’ Breck commented.

  ‘Couldn’t do it, Jamie. Alarm bells would have sounded.’

  ‘Then let’s hope your memory’s better than it used to be.’

  Kelly accepted this with a smile. ‘Bull keeps being lucky - bullets bounce off him... metaphorically speaking.’

  ‘Has anyone tried the other kind?’ Fox interrupted.

  ‘There are stories... But it seems Bull’s been taking a few tips from his old man. He used to be quite a physical sort, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now he’s building bridges rather than knocking them down.’

  ‘This all sounds like code to me,’ Jamie Breck complained. ‘Can we go somewhere a bit more private so you can just spit it out?’

  Kelly leaned across the table towards him. ‘Bull’s been driving up and down Scotland with his trusted lieutenant, meeting some of the other players - the ones that count. Aberdeen one day, Lanarkshire the next.’

  ‘Has this been going on a while?’ Fox asked.

  ‘A few months... maybe a bit longer. It took time for us to notice what was happening.’

  ‘You thought maybe he was writing a guidebook?’ Breck asked.

  Kelly just glowered at him. ‘We’ve no idea what he was doing.’

  ‘But you can hazard a guess,’ Fox said.

  Kelly took a deep breath. ‘Maybe he’s playing peacemaker on his dad’s behalf. Or could be he’s scared that with the old man inside, a competitor will try muscling in.’

  ‘Then he could be trying to extend his own reach,’ Fox added. ‘Tentacles again...’

  Kelly nodded at this. ‘On the surface, of course, he’s a legitimate businessma
n.’