The Complaints

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Story is, you were trampling all over your brother-in-law’s murder.’

  ‘He wasn’t my brother-in-law.’ Fox paused. ‘And it’s not a story.’

  ‘Oh, but it might be, if you let it.’ The tip of her tongue protruded from between her lips.

  ‘Grieving Cop Errs on the Side of Zeal - that’s about as much as you could do with it.’

  ‘But now all that zeal seems aimed at Charles Brogan...’

  ‘Do you reckon your own zeal will get you anywhere?’

  ‘My editor describes me as “tenacious”.’

  ‘But so far you can’t prove a link between Brogan and Ernie Wishaw?’

  ‘I know they met several times.’

  ‘But nobody saw any money change hands?’ Fox guessed. Dearborn angled her head to one side.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘The way he went missing just after your friend Vince died? Took me about fifteen minutes to make the connection - Vince worked at Salamander Point.’ She looked like a schoolgirl with a gold star on her latest essay. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ And, when he didn’t say anything: ‘See, Malcolm? I’m not just a pretty face.’

  ‘I never thought you were.’

  ‘Hot water?’ a voice from behind them called. It was the proprietor, standing with a fresh pot in his hand.

  Fox had parked his car on a yellow line outside. A warden was hovering as he emerged from the café. The man was wondering whether to honour the POLICE sign Fox had left on the inside of the windscreen. When Fox scowled at him, the warden decided there might be easier pickings elsewhere. Fox had offered Linda Dearborn a lift, but she’d said she was happy walking. Her destination was George Street, ‘for a little window shopping’. Fox could bet that she liked walking, knowing male heads were turning as she passed them; knowing eyes were fixed on her from cars and vans and office windows. He was turning the key in the ignition when his phone - his new phone - sounded. The number belonged to Jamie Breck.

  ‘Morning,’ Fox said, answering.

  ‘I’ve just had a call from Mark Kelly.’

  ‘What’s he got for us?’

  ‘He visited Norquay’s widow. She didn’t seem fazed by his request.’

  ‘She showed him hubby’s phone bills?’

  ‘Mark says the whole house is a shrine. She’s bought a job lot of photo frames. There are hundreds of family pics strewn across the living-room floor as she sorts them all out. She took him into her husband’s den - the paperwork was immaculate. She’s got it all boxed in chronological order - bank statements, bills and receipts, credit card stuff...’

  ‘And phone bills?’ Fox prompted.

  ‘Right.’ Fox listened as Breck picked up a sheet of paper. ‘Luckily he opted to have everything itemised - calls in as well as calls out. Towards the end of that dinner he was at, he got a call from a local number. It’s a payphone in a bar called Lowther’s. Mark tells me it’s pretty grim, but slap-bang in the centre of town.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Call lasted two minutes and forty seconds.’

  ‘And do we know his state of mind immediately afterwards?’

  ‘Mark hadn’t thought to go that particular extra mile...’

  ‘But you’ve asked him now?’

  ‘He’s going to talk to the friends who were with Norquay at the dinner.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it’ll get us much further.’

  ‘No...’ Breck drew the word out, and Fox knew there was something else.

  ‘In your own time, Jamie,’ he prompted.

  ‘Well, Mark knows Lowther’s by repute - there’s often a bit of trouble there on a Saturday night, except actually the trouble always seems to happen a hundred yards or so from the pub itself.’

  ‘Out on the street, you mean?’

  ‘If an argument starts, it’s always taken outside.’

  ‘And why would that be?’ Fox asked, already with an inkling of the answer.

  ‘Nobody wants to get on the wrong side of the owners.’

  ‘Wauchope Leisure Holdings?’

  ‘Who else?’ Jamie Breck said.

  ‘In a way, that’s a bit of a shame - means none of the punters are going to tell us who made the call.’

  ‘Probably not,’ Breck agreed. ‘But it’s certainly got Mark interested. ’

  ‘He needs to ca’ canny.’

  ‘Don’t worry about him. How did your meeting with Linda Dearborn go? Was she asking after me?’

  ‘Your name didn’t quite come up.’

  ‘She’s a little stunner, isn’t she?’

  ‘She’s also pretty good at her job. There’s a link between Wauchope and Brogan’s company. Do you think we could tie Wauchope to Norquay’s outfit too?’

  ‘We can try... or rather, Mark can - it’s a Tayside shout.’

  ‘Wauchope’s company also employs a PR firm...’

  ‘Let me guess - LMM?’

  ‘They ran an advertising campaign for lap-bars.’

  ‘On the sides of buses - I remember that. Do we need to talk to them about it? Their HQ’s slap-bang next to the Parliament ...’

  ‘Maybe for later,’ Fox advised. ‘Get back on the phone to your friend in Tayside and see if he can find anything else to tie Wauchope to our Dundee developer.’

  ‘Will do. What’s next on your own list, Malcolm?’

  ‘Family,’ Fox said, signalling out into traffic.

  Jude opened the door. When she saw it was him, she turned and headed back to the living room, knowing he would follow. Her hair and clothes looked like they could do with a wash, and she was sunken-cheeked. There was a cigarette waiting for her in the ashtray on the arm of her chair.

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming round till the weekend,’ she said. ‘This isn’t a good day for me to go see Dad.’

  Fox noted the two empty wine bottles on the breakfast bar and the remains of the bottle of cheap vodka on the coffee table. Jude was seated and pretending an interest in the television, but her eyes were heavy-lidded.

  ‘You okay, sis?’ he asked.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ She looked up at him and her eyes widened. ‘What happened to you?’

  Fox rubbed his face with his fingers. ‘I fell down some stairs.’

  Her look hardened, but then she turned away, lifting the cigarette and sucking on it. Fox wandered into the kitchen and filled the kettle. He couldn’t see any tea or coffee, and there was no milk in the fridge. Plenty of food, though - it didn’t look as though she’d eaten anything since her shopping trip.

  ‘Has your pal Sandra not been in?’ Fox called to his sister.

  ‘Not for a few days. She’s phoned me a couple of times, just to check.’

  ‘How about Mrs Pettifer next door?’

  ‘Visiting her brother in Hull. He’s had a stroke or something.’

  ‘So you’re having to manage on your own?’

  ‘I’m not an invalid.’

  ‘You’re not exactly taking care of yourself either.’

  ‘Fuck off, Malcolm.’ She slung her legs over the arm of the chair, almost knocking the ashtray to the floor.

  Fox allowed her a few moments to calm down. ‘When I was round here the other day, you seemed to be coping ...’ Opening cupboards, he found a fresh jar of instant coffee. He rinsed two mugs, and decided to add two spoonfuls to Jude’s.

  ‘You okay with black?’ he asked. She didn’t answer. ‘What are you doing for money?’

  ‘There’s some in the account.’

  ‘But probably not much ...’

  ‘When I’m reduced to begging on the street, I’ll let you know.’

  He picked up some of the mail from the breakfast bar. There was a letter explaining that the mortgage repayments were being reduced in line with the recent cut in interest rates. ‘Did Vince have life insurance?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you done anything about it?’

  ‘Sandra did ... phoned them and then got me to sign a lette
r.’

  ‘Well, that’s something.’ Fox was sifting through the rest of the mail, some of which had yet to be opened. There was an O2 bill addressed to Mr V. Faulkner. Fox peeled it open, eyes on his sister’s back. He gave a little twitch of the mouth when he saw that it wasn’t itemised. A hundred and twelve pounds was owing. The kettle came to the boil and Fox took Jude’s mug through to her.

  ‘You could do with some milk,’ he said, handing it over. She stubbed out her cigarette and took the drink from him. ‘And maybe not so much wine and spirits.’

  ‘You’re not my dad.’

  ‘I’m the next best thing.’ He reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet. When she saw what he was doing, she flew from her chair and headed into the kitchen, pulling open one of the drawers and coming back into the living room brandishing a wad of banknotes, which she flung up into the air in front of him.

  ‘See?’ she said. ‘I don’t need any of your bloody charity!’

  Fox stared down at the notes strewn across the carpet. Jude was back in her chair, staring at the TV, knowing he was awaiting an explanation.

  ‘I found it,’ she obliged. ‘About two grand in total.’

  ‘Found it where?’

  ‘Hidden in Vince’s room upstairs. Lucky I got to it before your lot turned the place over - they might’ve pocketed it.’

  ‘Where did it come from?’

  Jude managed a shrug. ‘Winnings from the casino?’ she guessed. ‘Maybe that’s where he was on all those nights he didn’t bother coming home.’

  ‘He was there on the Saturday,’ Fox said quietly, crouching down and beginning to gather up the cash. ‘When he left, he took a taxi to the Cowgate ...’

  She wasn’t really listening to him. ‘The sod kept it from me, Malcolm. Hid it away in that bloody room of his with his porn mags and DVDs. I didn’t want anyone to know he was like that ... that’s why I didn’t say anything.’ She looked at him again. ‘What happened to your face?’

  ‘I got into a fight.’ He placed the money on the coffee table.

  ‘Did you win?’

  ‘Not yet.’ This produced a thin but palpable smile. She picked up her drink and blew across its surface. ‘Shouldn’t be too hot,’ he told her. ‘I added some cold from the tap.’ She took a slurp and squirmed. ‘A bit strong?’ he guessed.

  She nodded, but took another mouthful.

  ‘There’s tinned soup in the cupboard ...’

  ‘I’m fine with this,’ she told him, but he went into the kitchen anyway and got out a pot. The hob was spotless, evidence that nothing had been cooked for a few days. No dishes in the sink, just mugs and glasses. Fox emptied the soup into the pot. It was cream of chicken - the same stuff their mum used to give them when they were sick.

  ‘Jude,’ he called, ‘the police gave you back Vince’s personal items, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Could I take a look at them?’

  ‘Envelope in the drawer.’ She pointed towards a unit in the living room. It had shelves above, drawers and cupboards below. He found the large padded envelope in the first drawer. Below it were several folded sheets of unused Christmas paper. Fox reached into the envelope, interested in only one thing - Faulkner’s mobile phone. It had been dusted for prints, and was also edged with dirt. At some point, it had been lying on the ground. When Fox tried switching it on, nothing happened.

  ‘Got the charger?’ he asked his sister.

  ‘Upstairs landing.’

  He gave the soup a stir, then headed for the stairs and brought the charger down, plugging it into the spare socket next to the kettle. When he attached it to the phone, a tiny pulsing green light came on. Fox left it while he poured the soup into a bowl and found a clean spoon. There was bread in a bag, but it had begun to go mouldy. He cut away the green bits and laid what was left on the edge of the bowl.

  ‘You’ll have to sit at the table for this,’ he said, sliding the coffee table closer to Jude’s chair. She swung her legs on to the floor and put her mug on the table.

  ‘I’m not really hungry,’ she warned him.

  ‘But you’re going to eat anyway.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or I’m grounding you, young lady.’ It was a passable imitation of their father, and Jude smiled again before picking up her spoon.

  ‘What’s so important about Vince’s phone?’

  ‘Just wondering if there’s anyone we’ve not talked to yet.’

  ‘The other ones ... Giles and his lot ... they went through all that.’

  ‘Maybe I just don’t think they’re as good as I am.’

  She took her first mouthful of soup, savouring its aftertaste. ‘Know what this reminds me of?’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘I was just thinking the same thing myself.’ He went back to the kitchen and switched on the phone.

  ‘His pass number’s four zeros,’ Jude called to him.

  Figured: Vince was too lazy to change the default setting. On the other hand, maybe it also proved that he had little - if anything - to hide from Jude. Fox punched in the numbers. Vince’s screen-saver was a photograph from 1966. It showed Bobby Moore hoisting the World Cup. It took Fox a few moments to figure out how to navigate the phone, but eventually he got the call log. There were almost two hundred entries. He reckoned that Giles’s team would have been interested only in the most recent additions, but Fox went back further. He got a notepad from his pocket and started jotting down the numbers that recurred, adding date, time and duration. Some were listed by name - Jude, Ronnie, garage, Marooned, Oliver - but many weren’t.

  ‘How’s the soup?’ he asked Jude.

  ‘I ate it all up like a good girl.’ She had risen from her chair, bringing the empty bowl into the kitchen and depositing it in the sink. Then she leaned across and pecked him on the cheek.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘I just felt like it.’ She studied the numbers on his pad.

  ‘Any of them look familiar?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really. You think maybe the person who ...?’ She broke off, unable to finish the sentence. She cleared her throat and found a different form of words. ‘You think it was someone he knew?’

  Fox shrugged. Some of the numbers appeared only once. He decided to try one at random and took out his own phone. The call was answered by a woman.

  ‘Wedgwood,’ she said in a sing-song voice.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Wedgwood Restaurant.’

  Fox ended the call and turned to Jude. ‘Wedgwood?’ he prompted.

  She nodded. ‘We had dinner there in December.’ She smiled at the memory.

  ‘Just the two of you, or were the Hendrys in tow?’

  ‘Just the two of us - we did manage a social life without Sandra and Ronnie.’

  Fox acknowledged this with a grunt. There was one number that appeared eleven times between October and January. He asked Jude again if she recognised it and she shook her head, so he made the call.

  ‘Hello?’ The voice was quiet, hesitant. It was a woman again, but not a stranger.

  ‘Ms Broughton?’ Fox asked. There was no answer. ‘This is Inspector Fox. I gave you a lift from Leith Police Station ...’ It was a few more moments before she spoke.

  ‘Gordon Lovatt wasn’t very happy about that, Inspector. Did Charlie’s diary reach its destination?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you take a peek?’

  Fox took a deep breath. ‘Ms Broughton, I’m calling you from Vince Faulkner’s phone.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You remember the name?’

  ‘You mentioned him. Then you went to my casino to watch the CCTV footage.’

  ‘From the Saturday night, yes. But what I’m wondering now is, why does he have your number, and why did the two of you speak on eleven separate occasions between October and January?’ The silence at the other end stretched past twenty seconds. Fox gave Jude a look to gauge her reaction. She placed her hand on his
arm, as if to reassure him.

  ‘Ms Broughton?’ Fox prompted.

  ‘It’s not my phone,’ he heard her state. ‘It’s Charlie’s. The two of them must have been discussing work.’