The Complaints

by Ian Rankin

  ‘You,’ he said to Wauchope, ‘can get in the back, but I don’t want your gorilla stinking up my car.’ Wauchope didn’t pause for a second.

  ‘Stay here,’ he ordered Vass. Then he hauled open the door and got in, slamming it shut after him.

  ‘Everyone seems to think you’re cops,’ he said. ‘And if you’re not, I’ll eat Terry’s cock.’

  ‘That makes it very tempting to lie,’ Fox said.

  ‘Got the car wired for sound?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Am I supposed to believe that?’

  ‘Here’s what I want you to know,’ Fox began. ‘We’ve got Charlie Brogan’s location. You’ll have worked out by now that his little disappearing act was just that - an act. The cops are thinking the same way, and that means they’ll have him in a day or two.’ He paused. ‘Which doesn’t give you much time, Bull.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘That’s good, because what I’m doing right now is incriminating myself - that’s why I can guarantee you we’re not taping this.’

  ‘Keep talking.’

  ‘We know where he is and we know you want him. We’re willing to trade.’

  ‘You want money?’

  Fox shook his head. ‘It’s not Glen Heaton you’re dealing with here.’ He paused. ‘We want our lives back.’ He stared at Wauchope in the rearview mirror. ‘Don’t you know who we are?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘My name’s Malcolm Fox. This is Jamie Breck.’ Fox watched Wauchope’s reaction. The man was looking at Breck. ‘We’ve been set up and we think you’re at the root of it. Tell us we’re wrong.’

  Wauchope turned his attention back to the mirror. ‘I’m still listening,’ he told Fox’s reflection.

  ‘We want everything cleared up, clean slate, that sort of thing. But we also want Glen Heaton. No way he gets to walk.’

  ‘You seem to credit me with a lot of clout.’

  ‘The clout might not be yours - might belong to your dad. But I get the feeling it’s there.’

  ‘Your pal doesn’t say much.’

  ‘Only when there’s something to add,’ Breck stated, breaking his silence.

  ‘This must be the most half-arsed entrapment any of you spunk-bags has ever tried to pull.’

  ‘You decide the time and place,’ Fox went on, ‘and we’ll be there. But we’ll have questions for you, and you don’t get to see Brogan until we’re happy.’

  ‘What sort of questions?’

  ‘The sort we need answers to.’ Fox reached a hand over the back of his seat. It was holding a scrap of paper with his mobile number on it. ‘Remember, you’ve got maybe one or two days at most. When they arrest Brogan, they’ll offer him a deal. It’ll be you they really want. And with him still alive, what are you going to offer your investors? ’ Fox paused, allowing this to sink in. Wauchope had taken the slip of paper from him, their fingers grazing momentarily.

  ‘Are we done?’ the man asked.

  ‘One last thing ...’ Fox watched Wauchope pause with his hand on the door handle. ‘You’ve got to give us Vass, too.’

  ‘Why?’ Wauchope sounded genuinely curious.

  ‘He killed Vince Faulkner. Vince was my sister’s bloke.’

  Fox kept watching Wauchope in the mirror as comprehension started to set in: this was family. That explained a lot. Where family was involved, the normal rules did not apply. The man didn’t say anything - he still didn’t trust the car not to be wired - but he locked eyes with Fox and nodded slowly. Then he started clambering out, before pausing to stick his head back inside. ‘You I’ve never heard of,’ he announced to Fox. He closed the door and headed back to Lowther’s. Vass walked alongside him, and Wauchope draped an arm over his shoulder.

  ‘You any good at reading signs?’ Fox asked Jamie Breck.

  ‘He’s telling us Vass might just be expendable,’ Breck answered quietly. Fox turned towards him.

  ‘Do I get another “well played”?’

  ‘What did he mean at the end?’

  Fox had been wondering that too. ‘I suppose he meant what he said - he’s never heard of me.’ He shifted in his seat.

  ‘Why the slip of paper rather than a business card?’

  ‘Less info he has on me, the better.’ Fox paused. You I’ve never heard of ... He spat his gum out of the window. ‘All of a sudden, I’m starving. How about you?’

  ‘I could go an Indian.’ Breck looked around. ‘I’m just not sure we’d be safe in Dundee.’

  ‘You’re right - when Wauchope calls, we want to be as far from here as possible.’

  ‘So we’ve got time to set everything up?’ Breck nodded his agreement. ‘You warned everybody to be ready?’

  ‘I warned them.’

  ‘How’s my crazy plan shaping up so far?’

  ‘We’re still breathing,’ Fox answered, starting the engine. ‘That’s saying something, I suppose.’ He peered in his rearview mirror as he drove off. The Sierra was still parked in the middle of the road, as if it owned the place.

  Which in a funny way, Malcolm Fox reasoned, it did.

  Monday 23 February 2009

  29

  Monday afternoon, Breck and Fox were playing cards at Breck’s house when the call came. They’d been drinking tea and coffee all day. Three newspapers had been read from cover to cover. TV news had been watched, music listened to, and there’d been phone calls to Annabel and Jude. Lunch had comprised supermarket sandwiches and chocolate eclairs. The sun had been shining earlier, bringing a little warmth with it, but now the sky was a sheet of unbroken cloud the colour of old dishwater.

  ‘It’s him,’ Fox said, glancing at the phone’s tiny screen.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I don’t recognise the number.’ Fox waggled the phone at Breck but didn’t answer it.

  ‘Don’t tease the man,’ Breck chided him. He was attempting levity, but Fox could see he was anxious. Fox pressed the answer button and placed the phone to his ear.

  ‘Malcolm Fox speaking.’ He realised his own voice sounded higher than usual - Breck wasn’t the only one suffering nerves.

  ‘It’s me.’ Bull Wauchope’s voice. He probably thought he was being clever, not identifying himself by name. As if the latest technology couldn’t match a voice to its owner as surely as fingerprints.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m still not sure I get it.’

  ‘There’s nothing to get - we meet, we ask you a few questions. If we’re happy with what we hear, you get your little reward.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘So why don’t we do it over the phone?’

  ‘Because a phone could be bugged, couldn’t it? Same as my car yesterday. I’m just trying to put your mind at rest ...’

  ‘I choose where we meet?’

  ‘Somewhere you know you’ll be safe.’

  ‘I like Lowther’s.’

  ‘Fine, but I don’t want too many people around - could it be after closing time?’ Fox was looking at Breck and Breck winked back - he had bet twenty quid Wauchope would choose the pub.

  ‘I’ll make sure everybody’s gone by eleven.’

  ‘Then we’ll be there at quarter past.’

  ‘But not with Brogan?’

  ‘Not till we’ve had our little chat.’

  ‘I’ll need proof you know where he is.’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  ‘And I swear to God, if you try anything I’ll have you nailed to the wall before your buddies can kick the door down.’

  ‘Understood. But I want us to be clear on something - Heaton and Vass are not negotiable.’

  ‘Give me Brogan and they’re yours.’ The line went dead. Fox held the phone in his hands for a moment.

  ‘Well?’ Breck asked.

  ‘We’ve got more calls to make.’ Fox held the phone in front of him and found the number he was looking for.

  ‘Five hours till we have to leave,’
Breck calculated. ‘Is that enough time?’

  ‘It better be,’ Malcolm Fox said as the first of his calls was answered.

  They parked the car outside Lowther’s at precisely one minute to eleven. People were leaving, not all of them happy at having their evening curtailed. But the grumbling was muted, and even then it only started once they were safely on the street. At five past, Terry Vass emerged. He recognised the Volvo but ignored it. His job seemed to be reconnaissance. He walked up and down the street, looking for signs that Fox and Breck had brought company. Seemingly satisfied, he headed inside again. At ten past, Fox asked Breck if he was ready.

  ‘Few more minutes,’ Breck replied with a glance at his watch. They sat in silence, and saw the bar staff making to leave, shrugging themselves into their jackets, lighting cigarettes as they headed home. Vass came out of the pub again, this time signalling for them that it was time. Fox looked at Breck and nodded. Breck fetched the laptop from the back seat and they crossed the road. There hadn’t been time for anyone to do more than the most cursory amount of tidying up. A few chairs had been placed upside down on tables, and the top of the bar was lined with dirty glasses. The fruit machine’s lights were flashing, tempting players who no longer existed.

  At a corner table sat Bull Wauchope. His arms were draped along the edge of the bench behind him.

  ‘Search them,’ he ordered.

  Vass stood in front of the two detectives. ‘Take off your jackets and undo your shirts.’

  ‘As long as you’re not after The Full Monty,’ Breck said, placing the laptop on the nearest table. They slid their jackets off and unbuttoned their shirts, untucking them so Vass could check for wires. He patted down each jacket, squeezing the pockets and reaching in to check they only had wallets and phones.

  ‘Trousers, Terry,’ Wauchope barked, so Vass ran his hands down their legs, too, checking their ankles and socks.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, struggling to get back to his feet.

  ‘Take their phones off them - don’t want anyone eavesdropping, do we?’

  Vass ended up with three phones. ‘This one’s got two,’ he told his boss, nodding towards Fox.

  Wauchope stared at Fox and Breck, then pointed to the chairs on the other side of the table. Breck placed the laptop between them. ‘Okay if I plug this in?’ he asked, looking down at the floor for the nearest socket.

  ‘What’s it for?’ Wauchope demanded.

  ‘Proof,’ Fox told him. ‘And since I don’t have a phone, I’ll need to borrow yours.’ He had his hand held out.

  ‘Give him his phone back,’ Wauchope ordered Terry Vass. Then: ‘But I’m warning you ...’

  ‘Crucifixion’s not high on my wish list,’ Fox assured him.

  Breck had found a socket on the skirting board below the bench. Fox punched buttons on his phone and held it to his ear. Wauchope’s eyes had narrowed. They were flitting between the two men.

  ‘We’re ready, Tony,’ Fox said when the call was answered. Then he snapped the phone shut and tossed it towards Vass. Breck had powered up the laptop and turned it so it was facing Wauchope.

  ‘Give it a minute,’ he said, leaning over so he could make a few adjustments.

  ‘Mind if I ...?’ Fox nodded towards the bench. Wauchope’s head twitched, which Fox took for agreement. He sat down next to the man so he too could view the screen. Wauchope’s body odour was almost overpowering.

  ‘What we’ve got,’ Fox explained, trying to keep his breathing shallow, ‘is a webcam.’ On the screen, a three-inch-square box had opened. There was a face there, Charles Brogan’s face.

  ‘Who’s Tony?’ Wauchope asked.

  ‘Just someone doing me a favour.’

  ‘He’s operating the camera?’

  ‘Didn’t think Brogan could be trusted to do it for himself.’

  Wauchope leaned forward. Brogan’s head was moving from side to side as he stretched the muscles in his neck. There was no sound. ‘Why’s the picture so small?’

  ‘Blame the laptop,’ Fox explained. ‘Wages Breck’s on, he can’t always afford quality.’

  ‘I could magnify it,’ Breck added, ‘but you’d lose definition.’

  Wauchope just grunted. Then, a few seconds later: ‘You’re telling me this is live?’ Instead of answering, Fox gestured for the phone again.

  ‘One way to prove it,’ he offered.

  Vass looked to his boss for permission, then handed the phone over. Fox waited until he was connected.

  ‘Tony,’ he said, ‘tell him we need a wave.’

  The face on the computer turned to one side, as if listening to an instruction. Then Charlie Brogan gave a half-hearted wave of one hand. Fox snapped shut the phone again, holding on to it this time. Wauchope kept staring at the screen.

  ‘So now you know we’ve got him,’ Fox said.

  ‘I know he’s in police custody,’ Wauchope corrected him, but Fox shook his head.

  ‘You’ve got friends in Lothian and Borders, Bull - you know he’s not handed himself in.’

  Wauchope turned to look at him. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘I want to know why my colleague here was targeted.’

  Wauchope considered for a second, then turned his attention back to the screen. ‘He can’t hear me?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Fox confirmed.

  Wauchope leaned his face right in against the screen. ‘Going to get you, you fucker!’ he yelled. Flecks of saliva spattered Brogan’s head and shoulders.

  ‘Will that be enough to appease the gangs in Lanarkshire and Aberdeen?’ Fox asked. Wauchope turned to him again.

  ‘It’s a start,’ he confirmed. ‘I told them he’d die.’

  ‘When he disappeared from the boat ... you could’ve tried taking the credit.’ Fox saw Wauchope’s face change. ‘You did, didn’t you? You told them you’d had him executed? That’s why he can’t turn up alive and kicking ...’

  Wauchope was staring at him again. Breck cleared his throat.

  ‘Malcolm ... maybe we’re cheating ourselves here.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Fox asked.

  ‘We’re trading him for a few scraps of information. Seems to me he’s worth a whole lot more now.’

  ‘Don’t go getting greedy,’ Wauchope snarled.

  ‘Then start talking,’ Fox said. He had risen and shifted to the seat next to Breck. Wauchope’s eyes were on the screen again. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He had an inch of lager left in his glass, and he drained it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He made a smacking sound with his lips, then stared across the table.

  ‘I don’t trust you,’ he said.

  ‘The feeling’s mutual,’ Fox answered. ‘If it comes to it, it’s us two against you and your gorilla - I’m not entirely sure I fancy those odds.’

  Wauchope almost smiled, but didn’t. He glanced in Vass’s direction. The man-mountain was resting his weight against the top of the bar, arms folded, breathing noisily through his mouth. Fox knew what Wauchope was thinking: if he stuck to the deal, he really was going to lose his lieutenant. When Wauchope turned his attention back to Fox, Fox knew the decision had been made.

  Terry Vass could be replaced.

  But there was something else: Vass couldn’t be handed over to the police; he might start talking. Fox gave the briefest of nods, letting Wauchope know this was the gangster’s problem and no one else’s.

  ‘Where is he?’ Wauchope asked, jabbing a fat finger at the screen.

  ‘We need to hear the story first.’

  ‘What’s to tell?’ Wauchope said with a shrug. ‘You already know the way it happened. Your pal here was sniffing around a councillor called Wishaw, but Brogan needed Wishaw.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was the last lifebelt on the Titanic. Brogan’s plan was to get the council to buy his unfinished flats and all that spare land he had on his books. They’d then have a place to put all the dregs on their waiting lists. Wishaw was supposed to
be made head of housing, but it never happened. Still, he sat on the committee - there was a chance he could swing it. But then he got panicky, said the police were hassling him about some drug thing from way back.’ Wauchope was looking at Breck. ‘So it’s all your fault, really.’