by Ian Rankin
‘Yes.’
‘And you knew he was being tailed?’
She gave a slow nod.
‘Did you know about the money he kept in the car?’
‘He usually had some. Every meeting the DHC held, someone needed a bit of cash.’
‘For buying weapons?’
‘All sorts of reasons.’
‘According to Donald MacIver, there could have been as much as forty grand hidden in the boot – that was a chunk of money back then.’
‘Donald MacIver?’ She gave a wistful smile. ‘He lives in a fantasy world, Inspector; he always did.’
‘He remembers you fondly.’
‘It’s Alice he remembers,’ she corrected him.
‘How about John Elliot?’
‘I see him on TV sometimes.’
‘He’s never gleaned that you’re Alice Watts?’
‘We didn’t know one another back then – John was only interested in women who were on heat.’ She stared at him. ‘As far as I know, you’re the first to make the connection, so well done you.’ Her voice dripped sarcasm.
‘Alan Carter never got in touch?’
‘He’s the ex-detective?’ She watched Fox nod. ‘I didn’t know anything about that until Jackson mentioned it.’
‘Do you know the name Charles Mangold?’
She gave a heavy sigh. ‘This really can’t wait a week or two?’
‘It really can’t,’ Fox stated. ‘Charles Mangold?’ he repeated.
‘Francis’s partner in the law firm. He had a thing for Mrs Vernal, I seem to remember. Francis thought so, anyway.’
‘Mangold was paying Alan Carter to look into Vernal’s death. He wanted to prove something to the widow.’
‘What?’
Fox shrugged. ‘Either that her husband was a political assassination…’
‘Or?’
‘Or that he was a terrorist and sleazebag she’s been a fool to idolise all these years.’
‘You sound like you favour the latter theory.’
‘I think I do. You never met the wife?’
She shook her head. ‘I’d no interest in her. All I wanted was whatever information Francis could provide.’
‘Did you get any?’
‘Not much.’
‘But you went to quite a lot of trouble to seek it out.’
The glower was back. ‘Meaning?’
‘Sleeping with him.’
‘Who says I did?’
‘You’re telling me you didn’t?’
‘I’m telling you it’s none of your business.’
He let the silence sit between them for a moment, then mentioned that he had the letters.
‘What letters?’ She failed to stop a spot of colour appearing on either cheek.
‘The letters you sent him. Imogen Vernal found them and hung on to them.’ He waited for her to take this in. ‘You’re telling me you never loved him?’
She squeezed shut her eyes, then blinked them open again. ‘I’m telling you it’s ancient history – and also none of your business. You’re a Complaints officer. This is not a Complaints matter.’
‘You’re right. Maybe I should just hand everything over to CID…’
‘Don’t be crass.’
Fox waited a beat before continuing. ‘There was a cop called Gavin Willis. He led the inquiry – such as it was – when Vernal died. But you’d vanished by then.’
‘Special Branch didn’t want me sticking around – the questions could have been awkward. Besides, the DHC had scattered…’
‘So you said. For some reason, Willis held on to Vernal’s car.’
Her eyes widened a little. ‘Why did he do that?’
‘I’m not sure. One thing I do know: he was selling guns to groups like the DHC. Specifically to a man called “Hawkeye”.’ Fox handed her the photograph. She took her time studying it.
‘I haven’t seen this in years.’
‘The man you’ve linked arms with?’ Fox prompted.
‘Hawkeye, yes. He looks a bit awkward, doesn’t he? The arm thing would have been my idea. He wasn’t much of one for socialising… or for the ladies. Never went to the pub after meetings – most people, that was what they looked forward to: not the political theory but the booze-up.’
‘After Vernal’s death, you never spoke to any of them again?’
She shook her head and folded her arms across her chest, as if suddenly chilled. ‘I was another person,’ she stated quietly.
‘How do you think Francis Vernal died?’
‘I think he shot himself.’
‘Why?’
‘The drink, his marriage, the fear of discovery. He knew we were monitoring him.’
‘The two of you didn’t argue that night?’
‘Not really. I think it annoyed him that all I ever wanted to talk about was the group. He said it was a madness in me.’ She unfolded her arms, and studied the photograph again.
‘He never twigged you were undercover?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘If he had…?’
‘It might have led him to do something, I suppose.’
‘Did you ever see a gun in his car?’
‘Doesn’t mean one wasn’t there.’
‘That’s a no, then?’ Fox paused for a moment. ‘DCI Jackson doesn’t know?’
‘About Francis and me?’ She considered this. ‘I don’t think so. Why should he?’
‘He’s been digging in the files.’
‘Why?’
‘Wondering why I was interested. He told me something…’
‘What?’
‘The agents tailing Francis Vernal took a look at him after the crash.’ Fox was studying her reaction. ‘He was still alive. No head shot at that point.’
‘What did they do?’ The blood had drained from her face. Her voice was pitched just above a whisper.
‘If Jackson’s to be believed, they didn’t kill him. They just walked away and left him there. No call to the emergency services. Nothing.’
She seemed to wrap her arms more closely around herself. ‘That’s awful,’ she said.
‘I’m glad we agree.’
There was silence in the room for almost a full minute.
‘They could have shot him,’ Alison Pears eventually conceded. ‘Shot him and taken the money.’
‘They could,’ Fox agreed. ‘Tell me, was Vernal really just a job to you?’
Her look hardened a little. ‘How often do I need to say it? That’s something I’m not willing to discuss.’
‘It might be the one thing I can take back to Charles Mangold for him to give to the widow.’
‘I think this has gone far enough.’
‘Alan Carter really never contacted you? Never connected you to Alice Watts?’
‘I’ve already told you, Inspector – you’re the first.’ She stood up, indicating that the meeting was over. Reluctantly, Fox got to his feet. ‘I need to know how far you’re going to take this,’ she asked.
‘I can’t answer that.’
‘It would put my mind at rest,’ she persevered. ‘There’s a job I should be focusing on.’
He nodded his understanding. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’ He was holding out his hand for the photograph.
‘I’d like to keep it,’ she said.
Fox kept his hand held out. Her phone rang and she answered it, relinquishing the photo at the same time. ‘Speak to me,’ she said. As she listened, Fox watched her turn into a Chief Constable again. It was as if her talk with him had been slotted into a filing cabinet somewhere.
‘No,’ she was stating, ‘Govan can’t bloody well have them. They’re my suspects.’
Govan: the high-security police station in Glasgow. It was where terrorist suspects usually ended up, but Pears was fighting her corner. As the argument continued, Fox realised she craved the media attention because it gave her the chance to shine. What was it her husband had said? Something about her ‘needing’ this cas
e. By the time she ended the call, she had made her determination clear to the other participant. She looked at Fox, and he knew what she was telling him: I’m a fighter. I’m used to winning. Just remember that… He nodded and opened the door for her. She marched out ahead of him, making for the stairs again. Stephen Pears was watching TV, but rose to greet Fox.
‘Everything cleared up?’ he asked, watching his wife disappear from view.
‘I’m fairly satisfied,’ Fox decided to answer. He noted that Andrew Watson seemed to have left. The lights by the tennis court had been switched off.
‘A case of mistaken identity, then,’ the financier was stating.
‘It happens,’ Fox concurred.
Pears patted him on the back and said he would show him out. ‘In fact, it’s such a lovely evening, I might take Max for a walk.’
‘Thank you again, Mr Pears,’ Fox said, shaking the man’s hand. Pears applied his free hand to Fox’s wrist.
‘Sorry again about your father. I hope he’s all right.’ He paused, still grasping Fox’s wrist. ‘And if you ever need anything, Inspector …’
Fox could see he meant nothing by it – it was just something the self-made millionaire had grown used to saying. But he thanked him again anyway.
Jude was asleep on her chair. The nurse said she hadn’t moved from the spot.
‘We told her to go stretch her legs, but she wouldn’t. I brought her tea and biscuits but she left them.’
They were standing at the nurses’ station, keeping their voices low. Almost all the patients were asleep. ‘My dad’s not woken up?’ Fox asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘What about the scan?’
‘CT’s a bit backed up. It’ll be tomorrow now.’
‘What’s the drip for?’ Fox nodded towards the tube inserted into his father’s arm.
‘Need to keep his fluids up,’ the nurse explained. ‘Do you want to rouse your sister, or will I do it?’
Fox had been informed on his arrival that there was a bed ready for his father on a proper ward. Orderlies would be coming to wheel the bed along to its new berth.
‘I’ll do it,’ he said. He walked up behind Jude and rested a hand against her neck. Her skin was cool. She inhaled, twitched and jolted awake, giving a moan of complaint.
‘They’re putting him on a ward,’ Fox explained. ‘Nothing we can do till tomorrow. Let me give you a lift home.’
‘I can manage.’ Sleepily, she pushed the hair out of her eyes. ‘There’s buses and a taxi rank outside.’
‘Be a lot quicker if I did it.’ He paused. ‘Please, Jude.’
She focused on him, and saw something in his eyes. For whatever reason, he needed to do this for her. She was giving a little nod of acquiescence as the orderlies arrived for their patient.
The nurse made sure brother and sister had the ward details and a contact number. Fox thanked her and walked with Jude back along the corridor past the A and E desk. He didn’t recognise any of the people waiting. The doors swung open, Jude sucking in lungfuls of the cold night air.
‘Better?’ he asked her. She made a non-committal sound and followed him to his car.
They didn’t say much during the drive. Fox was thinking back to the house in Stirling, the Chief Constable and her politician brother. And the money man making sure everyone got what they needed.
Fox was wondering if he had got what he needed. It took him a moment to realise that Jude was crying. He assured her that everything would be fine.
‘What if it isn’t, though?’
Then it isn’t.
But he found himself saying ‘It will be’ instead.
He dropped her at her terraced house. She had a neighbour called Pettifer and Fox said she should knock on her door.
‘I’ll do it for you, if you like,’ he offered.
But Jude shook her head. ‘I’ll just go to bed,’ she countered. ‘Bit of a lie-down.’
Fox could only nod. ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow – we’ll go see him together.’
‘Don’t put yourself out on my account.’
‘Let’s not do this, Jude.’
She rubbed at her eyes. ‘What time, then?’
‘I’ll phone you.’
‘Something might come up,’ she warned him.
‘I won’t let it.’
‘Didn’t stop you tonight, did it?’ She studied his face, then gave a sigh. ‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ She closed the passenger-side door and began walking up the path towards her house with its curtainless front window and unkempt garden. Fox remembered a promise he’d made three or four months back – I’ll help you tidy it; only take us a couple of hours. A couple of hours he had never quite found. Jude didn’t glance back over her shoulder towards the car, didn’t turn and wave. Once indoors, her lights went on but she didn’t come to the window. Fox put the car into gear and drove off.
Twenty minutes later, he was sitting outside another house – nicer, more modern. No front garden for Tony Kaye, just lots of lovely monoblock so he could park his Mondeo off-road. Fox had just ended the call. He watched shadows moving behind the living-room curtains. Then the curtains parted and Kaye gestured towards him. But Fox shook his head. The door opened and Kaye padded out in what looked like a pair of leather carpet-slippers. His shirt was untucked, open at the neck.
‘My place not good enough for you?’ he said, yanking open the passenger-side door and getting in.
‘Didn’t want to disturb you. How’s Hannah?’
‘She was fine till five minutes ago. Now she’s wondering what she’s done to offend you.’ Kaye peered towards the house, as if expecting to see his wife scowling at a window.
‘I’ve had a hell of a day and I need to dump it on someone,’ Fox confided.
‘Think you’ve had it hard? I spent about three hours on the phone to Cash, trying to persuade him to bring Tosh Garioch in for an interview.’
‘And?’
‘Tomorrow morning first thing.’ Kaye sounded proud of the achievement.
‘What about the report?’
‘On your desk. McEwan likes it well enough.’
‘Has it gone to Fife Constabulary?’
‘Not without your say-so, Foxy.’
‘Then I’ll look at it in the morning.’
Kaye nodded, then fixed his eyes on Fox. ‘Is it Evelyn Mills?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘Throwing herself at you, and you need my advice?’
‘I haven’t heard a cheep from her.’
‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’
‘Give it a rest, Tony.’
Kaye gave a low chuckle and patted Fox’s leg, then shifted a little in the passenger seat, the better to face his friend. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘small talk done and dusted – time for you to spit it out. And I want every single gory detail.’
So Fox gave him the lot.
Twelve
36
Fox’s alarm woke him at seven. His thinking: go to HQ, grab the report and take it to the hospital with him. He poured All-Bran into a bowl, then found that the inch of milk left in the carton had turned to yoghurt. He used cold water from the kitchen tap instead, and wrote out a shopping list while he ate. Driving to Fettes Avenue, he felt that his breakfast had formed a solid mass in his stomach. The canteen was just opening, so he took a coffee to the Complaints office and unlocked the door. As Kaye had promised, Fox’s copy of the report was waiting on his desk. Kaye had added a yellow Post-it note: ‘Affix gold star here’. Fox peeled it off and binned it. He couldn’t help flicking to the last page. The summary was four lines long and suggested that ‘concrete evidence’ against the three officers would be hard to find, leaving only ‘legitimate concerns about the level of competence and compliance’.
He smiled to himself, knowing that given a freer hand, Tony Kaye’s language would have been altogether more colourful. What the investigators were saying to the brass in Glenrothes
was: there’s a problem, but it’s up to you if you want to pursue it.
And the best of British luck.
There were another twenty-three pages of text, but they could wait. Fox rolled the report into a tube he could fit in his jacket pocket. He looked around the office. Naysmith had left a note on Tony Kaye’s desk reminding him that he now owed the best part of a tenner in ‘Tea n Coffee Kitty’ arrears. Naysmith had broken the figure down like any accountant of repute, though Fox doubted it would do him much good. He checked his office phone for messages, but there weren’t any. No mail, either. Bob McEwan’s desk was strewn with reports and other paperwork. Fox knew that when it got too messy, it would be stuffed into one of the drawers.
When he left the office, he locked the door again after him. No one except the Complaints had access to the room – not even the cleaner. Once a week, Naysmith shredded the contents of the various waste-paper baskets and sent it off for recycling. Fox stared at the sign on the door: Professional Standards Unit. How professional was he being? By rights, he should be writing his own report – laying down everything he knew and suspected about the deaths of Alan Carter and Francis Vernal. The report could then go to CID: there’s a problem… up to you if you want to pursue it.
‘The very man,’ a voice barked from behind him. He turned to see the Chief Constable, Jim Byars, striding towards him in almost military fashion, arms swinging. The Chief stopped a couple of inches from Fox’s face. ‘What in the name of the Holy Father is going on?’ he demanded.
‘Sir?’
‘How have you managed to get up Andrew Watson’s nose?’
‘I needed to discuss something with his sister.’
Byars glared at him. ‘I take it you mean Alison Pears, Chief Constable of Central Scotland Constabulary?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Who happens to be a personal friend of mine, and who is also currently leading the highest-profile inquiry of her career.’
‘So she probably doesn’t need me sticking my oar in?’ Fox nodded slowly. ‘Well, she answered my questions, so that’s that.’
‘What was it you were asking in the first place?’
‘Just a tenuous link to the death of Alan Carter.’
Byars rolled his eyes. ‘As tenuous as your connection to the whole bloody thing.’
