The Complaints

by Ian Rankin

  ‘No one’s answering.’

  ‘We should give the number to someone ... get them to put a trace on it ... Can we even be sure it’s from him? Did he give his name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So it might not be?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Annabel’s coming back,’ Breck said.

  ‘You should take her out tonight ...’

  ‘You don’t get rid of me that easily. I’ll see you there at seven.’

  The phone went dead. Fox slipped it back into his pocket and rubbed at his temples. He lifted a book from one of the piles and placed it on the half-filled shelf.

  ‘It’s a start,’ he told himself.

  He took a taxi to the station. The driver’s conversation revolved around tram works and traffic diversions. ‘See the council,’ he would say at one moment and ‘See the government’ the next. ‘And don’t get me started about the banks ...’

  Fox had no intention of getting him started; the real problem was getting him to stop. Fox was trying to imagine himself into a role. He was a commuter on his way home from a tiring day. Maybe he worked Saturdays; maybe he’d been shopping. He would step from his taxi, head into the booking office, and pay for a ticket. The driver had even asked him - ‘This you on your way home?’ - without seeming interested in any answer.

  ‘Wouldn’t blame you for emigrating, pal ... whole country’s a bloody shambles ...’

  The cab bumped its way down the slope into the station proper and pulled into a waiting bay. Fox paid the driver, adding a tip. The man was wishing him well for the rest of the weekend as Fox closed the door. It was six forty by the station clock. Plenty of time. The post-shopping rush had died back a bit, though the concourse was still busy. A train had obviously arrived from London. There was a lengthy queue at the taxi rank. He pitied whichever tourist or traveller ended up with the driver he’d just waved off. The booking office had another queue, but there were self-serve machines. Fox used his bank card and bought two off-peak returns.

  You’re leaving a trail, he warned himself. But if things turned sour, that might be a plus - it would give the cops who came looking for him something to work with. He wandered past the coffee stall and the bar and the Burger King, then headed towards the platforms. There were people resting their backs against the window of the WH Smith. The place was doing a good trade, and Fox wasted a couple of minutes looking at the range of books and magazines. Even so, it was still seven minutes shy of the hour.

  ‘Hello, copper,’ a voice barked from behind. Fox swirled towards it. Jamie Breck was grinning.

  ‘Need to sharpen those spider senses, Malcolm,’ he said. ‘I’ve been here a while.’ Breck held up a ticket. ‘Got you this.’

  In reply, Fox held up his own. ‘Snap,’ he said. Then: ‘How long since you arrived?’

  ‘Half an hour - decided to scope the place out, and saw you doing the same.’

  ‘I’m wondering if maybe he wants to meet us here.’

  ‘It’s a bit public,’ Breck replied, his voice full of doubt. ‘Just that wee bit exposed.’ He seemed to remember something. ‘You know what you were saying? About him maybe living downstairs from the penthouse ...?’

  Fox shook his head. ‘It would put Joanna in the firing line.’

  ‘Isn’t she there already? When he scarpered, why did she stick around?’

  ‘She’s got a casino to run, Jamie. Besides, if they’d both done a midnight flit, Wauchope would have been on to them all the quicker.’

  Breck nodded his agreement. ‘How come I’m the one being fast-tracked when you’re the better cop?’

  Fox shrugged. ‘Maybe you bribed someone ...?’

  Breck gave a snort and checked his watch against the large digital clock above the departure and arrival boards. ‘There’s a train to Dundee, leaves on the dot of seven. If we miss that, next one’s half past. What do you think?’

  ‘Maybe we get on the train we’re told to catch and he jumps on at a station down the line.’

  Breck nodded slowly. ‘Or?’

  ‘Or he meets us here. But you said it yourself - it’s risky.’

  ‘Or we’re being led a dance,’ Breck offered.

  Fox gave a twitch of the mouth. ‘Was Annabel okay in the end?’

  ‘Dinner midweek at Prestonfield House, and Amsterdam the next window we get.’

  ‘She’s a tough negotiator.’

  ‘I thought it best to cave in straight away. You were right, by the way ...’

  ‘Dickson and Hall?’

  Breck nodded again. ‘Handing out flyers the night you got jumped. Any plans for a revenge attack?’ Breck watched Fox shake his head, then checked the station clock again. ‘Seven’s been and gone.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And here we are, standing outside WH Smith.’

  ‘I can’t disagree.’

  ‘And nothing’s happening.’ Breck shuffled his feet. Fox was studying the passing parade of travellers. Some had obviously enjoyed a drink; maybe one or two of them had been to the football. They were voluble as they chatted with their friends. It was Saturday night and people from outside the city were arriving with only one aim in mind. Fox had even heard the Rondo mentioned as a probable destination for later.

  Breck was studying his watch. ‘Just relax,’ Fox told him.

  ‘Are you on medication?’ Breck asked. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not fretting.’

  ‘My insides are dancing,’ Fox admitted.

  More people passed them, some at a gallop in a bid to make this or that seven o’clock departure - there were delays on a few of the trains. The announcer explained as much through the Tannoy. Fox could make out the gist of what she was saying.

  ‘He’s late,’ he stated. Breck just nodded. The phone in Fox’s hand started to ring. He peered at the screen: same number the text had come from, but this time it was an actual call. He pressed the phone to his ear and answered. ‘Yes?’ he said.

  The voice was unnaturally deep. Had to be fake - someone putting it on. ‘Leave by the back exit. Wait by the lights on Market Street.’ The phone went dead.

  ‘Message received and understood,’ Fox muttered. Then, to Breck: ‘Come on.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘He wants us on Market Street.’ Fox crossed the concourse, heading for the stairs.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s watched too many Bourne films.’

  ‘Did you recognise the voice?’

  ‘I’ve never spoken to him.’

  ‘So maybe it’s not him.’

  ‘If this was Quidnunc and not real life, how would you play it?’

  ‘I’d forge alliances.’

  Fox looked at him. ‘Not much time for that.’

  ‘Besides which, who’d want to side with us?’ Breck added.

  ‘Good question ...’ When they reached the top of the footbridge, Fox had to pause to catch his breath. ‘Imagine what I’d be like if I smoked,’ he managed to say.

  ‘Half a stone lighter?’ Breck replied. Then: ‘What are we supposed to do when we get there?’

  ‘Await further instructions.’

  Breck stared at him. ‘Tell me he didn’t use those words.’

  Fox shook his head and started moving again. A further flight of steps and they emerged out on to the pavement. There were traffic lights to their right. Fox looked around, seeking their tormentor. The City Art Centre was in darkness. People scurried past, heads down. North Bridge was overhead to their left, buses nose to tail as they waited for the lights to change at Princes Street.

  Breck was staring at the train tickets. ‘I hope he’s going to refund us,’ he said.

  ‘I think we’re at the very rear of that particular queue, Jamie.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  Fox’s phone rang again. He put it to his ear. The voice had changed, unable to sustain its previous tone.

  ‘Cross the road and head for Jeffrey Street. Once yo
u’re past the bridge, look for a church.’ The caller hung up. Fox turned to Breck.

  ‘I think we’re about to repent our sins,’ he said, readying to cross at the lights. Fox wasn’t really expecting any church to be open to visitors on a Saturday night, so when they arrived at the doors to Old St Paul’s he stood there, looking to left and right. He checked that he was still getting a signal on his phone - Edinburgh was full of dead zones.

  ‘What now?’ Breck asked. ‘More waiting?’

  ‘More waiting,’ Fox agreed.

  ‘Whatever else happens, this guy’s getting a slap from me.’ Breck paused. ‘Do you think he’s watching us?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Breck looked up and down the street. ‘Not too many candidates,’ he concluded. It was quieter here than on Market Street. There was a single-decker bus parked outside the Jurys Inn, but no sign of its passengers. ‘Could he be staying there?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Breck swore beneath his breath while Fox studied the wall of the church. There was a couple of signs, one indicating that Old St Paul’s belonged to the Scottish Episcopal Church, the other giving a taste of its history. The church had been founded in 1689, and was an eighteenth-century refuge for Jacobites. It proclaimed itself a place ‘for all who seek faith’.

  ‘Amen to that,’ Fox was muttering under his breath as his phone sounded again. He put it to his ear and had already uttered a terse ‘Yes?’ when he realised it was an incoming text. There was just the one capitalised word:

  INSIDE.

  He showed Breck the screen, and Breck reached out to turn the door handle. With the slightest of pushes, the door opened inwards. There was a flight of stone steps. Fox used the handrail as he climbed. When he turned the corner at the top, he was in a church much larger than its exterior had suggested. There were modern-looking paintings at one end, a pulpit and altar at the other, with a chapel off. A young man was sweeping between the pews. He didn’t pay them any attention, even though Breck was staring at him. But Fox’s attention had shifted to the lit chapel. A huge painting covered most of one wall. Some folding chairs had been placed in front of it. He sat down on one and saw that the painting comprised four square canvases, placed together to make up a vast swirl of white material. Was it meant to be a cloak or a shroud? He couldn’t tell, but he was mesmerised by it.

  ‘Is that him?’ Breck was whispering. He meant the floor-sweeper.

  ‘Too young,’ Fox stated.

  ‘This is just stupid.’ Breck ran his fingers through his hair.

  ‘Sit down,’ Fox suggested. ‘Take the weight off.’

  Breck didn’t look convinced, but he sat down anyway.

  ‘One of the paintings Brogan sold,’ Fox said quietly, ‘looked a bit like this, only smaller.’ He was remembering the photo of the penthouse’s interior, the one published in the newspaper.

  ‘Is that why he’s brought us here?’

  Fox just shrugged and let his gaze move across the painting. Someone was coming up the stairs. Their footsteps sounded like busy sandpaper. Breck had turned to watch. The footsteps were quieter as they entered the chapel. Breck had risen to his feet, nudging Fox, but Fox was continuing to study the painting. The new arrival crossed in front of him and sat down on the next chair along.

  ‘The artist’s name is Alison Watt,’ Charles Brogan said. ‘I know a bit about art, Inspector.’

  ‘Must’ve been a wrench to sell it all ...’ Fox turned his head and found himself looking at the drowned man. Brogan had removed a lumberjack-style hat, revealing that his already thinning hair had been shaved off.

  ‘Did the missus do that?’ Fox asked.

  Brogan ran a hand across his skull. He was wearing fingerless black woollen gloves. He looked to have lost some weight and his skin was sallow. He finished rubbing his head and dragged his fingers down around his jaw. He hadn’t shaved in a while. The black workman’s jacket could have been borrowed from one of his building sites. The denims had seen better days, as had the scuffed boots. As disguises went, it wasn’t bad.

  Then again, it wasn’t great.

  ‘You weren’t followed,’ Brogan said. ‘And you didn’t bring the cavalry with you.’

  ‘How come we didn’t spot you at Waverley?’

  ‘I was on the overhead walkway. When I called on the phone and saw you answer, I knew you were my guys.’

  ‘Except we’re not your guys,’ Breck corrected him.

  Brogan just shrugged. Fox turned his head a little and fixed him with a stare. ‘What happened to Vince Faulkner?’ he asked.

  Brogan was quiet for a moment. He turned his attention to the painting. ‘I’m sorry that happened,’ he said at last.

  ‘You sent him to meet with Terry Vass, didn’t you?’

  Brogan nodded slowly.

  ‘And Vass decided to send you a message,’ Fox stated.

  ‘If I’d gone to the sauna ...’ Brogan’s voice drifted off.

  ‘That was the deal, was it? Vass was expecting to see you, but Vince turned up instead?’ For the first time, Fox felt a pang of sorrow for Faulkner’s fate. Brogan had found out about the man’s history of violence, and had thought him a useful ‘soldier’. Vince would have loved playing that role. Maybe he’d goaded Terry Vass, and maybe not. But he had died horribly.

  ‘You knew from Vince’s personnel file that he had previous,’ Fox went on. ‘You could have gone to Jack Broughton to borrow some muscle, but you had to be your own man, which is why you opted for Vince. He came to you on Saturday night. He’d just clobbered his girlfriend and was angry and ashamed, drinking away the memory of it. Barman at the casino says he should never have got past the door - makes me think you’d primed the bouncers for his arrival ...’ Fox paused, but Brogan wasn’t taking his eyes off the painting. ‘You needed him to go meet Vass, so he could take a beating on your behalf. Suited you just fine that he was too drunk to refuse.’ There was a bitter taste at the back of Fox’s throat. He tried swallowing it down.

  ‘I was desperate,’ Brogan muttered.

  ‘The cabbie who dropped him near the sauna says he nearly changed his mind about going - he was sobering up fast and he was scared.’

  ‘Then he shouldn’t have played the tough guy.’ Brogan managed a quick glance in his tormentor’s direction.

  Fox was thinking again of Vince Faulkner. With his hidden stash of money at home, payment for past services rendered ...

  ‘Was he killed at the sauna?’ Breck interrupted. ‘Maybe Forensics could take a look.’

  But Brogan shook his head. ‘They took him somewhere else ... kept him there.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Fox was giving Brogan his full attention. He watched the man swallow before he answered.

  ‘They phoned me. They put Vince on ...’ He squeezed shut his eyes, trying to block out the memory. ‘I never want to hear anything like that again.’

  ‘You might,’ Fox said. ‘When they come for Joanna.’

  Brogan opened his eyes and glowered at Fox. ‘I’d kill them,’ he spat. ‘They know that.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And if I didn’t, Jack would.’

  ‘Jack’s what all this is about, isn’t it?’ Fox asked. ‘You were doing something you thought might impress your father-in-law - playing money-man for the big boys. I’m not saying Jack Broughton knew, but you were thinking maybe it would get back to him some day and he’d start to respect you just a little bit more.’

  Brogan’s face tightened, and Fox knew he’d struck a nerve.

  ‘But here’s the thing, Charlie,’ Fox went on. ‘When they come for Joanna - and they will come for her - Jack’s not going to go after them.’ Fox paused. ‘He’s going to come gunning for you. You’re the one he’ll blame.’

  Brogan seemed to consider this. ‘I’m in hell,’ he said weakly, eyes back on the painting.

  ‘That’s why you’re here,’ Fox said. ‘You know we’re your only chance.’

  ‘What can you do?’ Broga
n was bowing his head as if in prayer.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  With head still bowed, Brogan turned his neck so he could watch Fox’s face.

  ‘I really don’t,’ Fox stated with a shrug of the shoulders. Then, to Breck: ‘Have you got any ideas?’

  ‘One or two,’ Breck replied after a moment’s consideration.

  ‘That’s all right, then,’ Fox said. ‘But Charlie ... you’re going to have to tell us everything. And it’s got to be done properly.’