by Ian Rankin
‘Hard to disagree, sir,’ Fox conceded.
‘Well then…’
Fox removed the report from his pocket. ‘I’ve got our conclusions right here. Just need to check a few details before it goes to Fife Constabulary.’
‘And that’ll be the end of it?’
‘That’ll be the end of it,’ Fox stated.
‘I can put Andrew Watson’s mind at rest?’
‘Absolutely.’ Fox paused. ‘You can also remind him that his job title includes the word “Justice”.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ the Chief Constable was asking, as Fox began to walk away.
He drove to Jude’s house. She wasn’t answering her phone. He wondered if she’d maybe knocked herself out with some tablets or a few slugs of vodka. When he rang her doorbell, there was no response. He put his face to the living-room window but the place seemed deserted. He bent down at the letter box and yelled her name. Nothing. No sign of life at her neighbour’s house either, so he got back in his car and headed for the hospital. He was hitting the rush hour, and the traffic crawled. Then it took him a few minutes to find a bay in the car park. He entered the main concourse. The cafe and shop were doing good business – not just staff and visitors, but patients, too, identifiable by name tags on their wrists. Fox was gasping for a coffee, but took one look at the queue and kept walking.
As he’d suspected, Jude was seated by Mitch’s bedside.
‘Thought I was collecting you,’ he complained.
‘Woke up early.’ She was holding her father’s hand again.
‘He’s still not come round?’
She shook her head. There were three other beds in the ward, one of them vacant, elderly patients in the other two. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ she asked.
‘I’ve already been.’ He pulled the report from his pocket. ‘I was going to sit here and read this.’
‘Fine.’
Chairs were stacked against a nearby wall. He lifted one down and carried it to his father’s bedside. He didn’t know if it was a conscious decision on her part or not, but Jude’s chair was angled so that if he were to sit next to her, his own chair would be sticking out into the room, posing a possible obstacle to the staff. Instead of asking her to slide over a bit, he seated himself on the other side of the bed from her.
‘Have they given you a time for the scan?’
She shook her head again. She was stroking their father’s hair. There was grey stubble on his cheeks and chin, and a line of dried saliva at the side of his mouth. A nurse stopped to check the readout on the machine and enter the findings on a chart at the bottom of the bed. Fox asked her about the scan.
‘Hopefully before lunchtime,’ she told him. ‘He had a peaceful night.’ She smiled, as if to reassure him.
He’s not peaceful, Fox wanted to correct her, he’s comatose. But he just returned her smile and thanked her. As the nurse moved away, Fox saw that his sister was scowling at him.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Can’t you throw some weight around?’ she hissed.
‘What sort of weight?’
‘You’re a cop, aren’t you? Have a word with them – see if there’s any way of jumping the queue.’
‘They’re not the enemy, Jude.’
‘Not exactly putting themselves out either, though, are they?’
She had barely finished when two attendants arrived. The nurse brought them over to the bed.
‘CT scan,’ she announced.
‘Thank you,’ Fox said again.
‘Can we go with him?’ Jude asked, getting to her feet.
‘Best stay here,’ one attendant stated. ‘We’ll have him back in no time.’ The man had tattoos on his arms. He was broad-shouldered and sported a couple of scars on his face. He seemed to have placed Fox as a policeman, just as Fox would have bet money on the man having served time. Jude was reluctant to let go of her father’s hand. She leaned over him to plant a kiss on his forehead, then burst into tears.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ the nurse stressed. Then, to Fox: ‘Maybe take her for a cup of tea…?’
Jude didn’t want a cup of tea, but Fox managed to navigate her down the corridor towards the cafe. She pulled herself away and told him she was going outside for a cigarette.
‘Thought you’d stopped,’ he said.
‘Someone’ll give me one,’ she replied, walking towards the automatic doors. Fox bought a paper at the shop, then queued for coffee and a bacon roll. He ordered the same for Jude and sat at a table. His phone buzzed. Caller ID: Tony Kaye.
‘Morning, Tony.’
‘How’s your old man doing?’
‘Just gone for a scan.’
‘You at the Infirmary?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re just heading across the bridge. Back to sunny Fife.’
‘I’ve not had a chance to look at the report yet.’
‘No rush.’
‘Conclusion looks sound, though.’ Fox had made the mistake of opening the bacon roll. The meat was as grey as the faces around him. He pushed it away.
‘I had a text from Cash first thing,’ Kaye was saying. ‘Joe and me both get to sit in on the interview. We’re supposed to keep our traps shut, but if there’s something we think he’s missed, we give him a sign and discuss it outside the door.’
‘You okay with that?’
‘You know me, Malcolm.’
Fox smiled to himself. ‘That’s why I’m asking.’
‘Nothing I like better than obeying an order, especially when there’s a complete prick on the other end of it.’
Naysmith made a comment from the car’s passenger seat.
‘What’s Joe saying?’ Fox asked.
‘He’s accusing me of getting too close to the Beamer in front.’
‘Outside lane?’ Fox guessed. ‘Seventy-five, eighty…?’
‘And?’
‘And making a phone call.’
‘Just jump-starting young Joe’s heart, so he’s on his mettle in Kirkcaldy.’
‘Let me know how it goes.’
‘Just you focus on your old man.’ Kaye paused. ‘How’s Jude coping?’
‘Not brilliantly.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’m all right.’
‘Nothing’s more important than family, Malcolm.’
‘So you told me last night.’
‘Because it’s true. Paul Carter and his uncle… Francis Vernal… none of them are coming back. Flesh and blood sometimes has to take priority.’
Fox watched Jude re-enter the building. She saw him, and he gestured towards the roll and coffee waiting for her. She shook her head and pointed in the direction of the ward, then moved off that way, quickly disappearing from view.
‘Let me know how it goes,’ Fox repeated into the phone. Then: ‘Are you playing Alex Harvey again?’
‘Got to keep reminding Joe that there’s more to life than Lady Gaga,’ Kaye explained, ending the call.
Tosh Garioch’s lawyer wasn’t sure about the presence of Kaye and Naysmith.
‘They are here to observe,’ DI Cash told him.
The interview was being recorded, and Naysmith cast a jaundiced eye over DS Young’s efforts to set up the apparatus, even sighing once or twice, to Young’s obvious annoyance.
Tosh Garioch had pushed his chair back from the desk, the better to splay his legs. He was stocky and muscular, bald dome shining and the thistle tattoo wending its way up the side of his neck.
‘You know why you’re here, Mr Garioch?’ Cash asked, poising a pen above his notebook. Across the table, the lawyer also had a pen. He kept clicking it, until Cash asked him to stop – ‘Anyone listening might think I was firing staples at you,’ Cash explained. Then he repeated the question.
‘Yeah,’ Garioch agreed, hand cupping his crotch as he repositioned everything down there. ‘I suppose I do.’
‘So what were you doing last Wednesday night?’
; ‘I was at home. Normally I’d have been working.’
‘As a doorman? For Alan Carter’s company?’
‘Not so easy now he’s dead.’
‘You could always ask the Shafiqs for a job.’ Cash paused, eyes fixed on Garioch. ‘Or maybe not, after you wrangled with them on your employer’s behalf.’
Kaye was standing against the far wall, hands behind his back. Garioch gave a glance in his direction. He was wondering where Cash had got that info.
‘The Shafiqs were business,’ the doorman stated. ‘It all got cleared up.’
‘Is any of this relevant?’ the lawyer interrupted, doodling on a sheet of paper.
‘Just warming up,’ Cash informed him with a cold smile. Then, to Garioch: ‘Mind me asking who was at home with you?’
‘Yes.’
Classic mistake – Cash admitted as much with a twitch of his mouth: never ask a question where the answer gets you no further forward.
‘Were you on your own?’
‘I was with my girlfriend.’
‘Ah.’ Cash dug a scrap of paper out of his pocket and studied it. ‘Billie Donnelly, yes?’
Garioch couldn’t help looking in Tony Kaye’s direction again. Kaye responded with a wink.
‘Is this going anywhere, DI Cash?’ the lawyer asked, feigning boredom.
‘We’ve got a witness description fitting your client to a T,’ Cash explained. ‘Walking down the high street in wet clothes not too long after Paul Carter was beaten up and chased into the sea. Another witness saw the actual chase. Looks to me like a line-up has to be the next order of business.’
‘No way,’ Garioch said, turning to his lawyer for confirmation. The lawyer slid his thick-rimmed spectacles back up his nose. Cash leaned across the desk towards the pair of them.
‘Two witnesses, Tosh. And talk about a motive! You’re on the dole because your boss has been topped, and the whole town knows who did it – now you see him staggering out of the Wheatsheaf. None of his CID mates are there to help him. A few angry words, and it begins to turn nasty. We all know Paul Carter’s rep – fair old temper on him. I’m not saying he didn’t throw the first punch.’ Cash made show of studying Garioch’s face for injuries. ‘On the other hand, he definitely came off worse. He knew it wasn’t going to get any better, so he ran. And you went after him. Along the promenade, then down on to the shore itself. You’re a big man, but not in the best of shape. Maybe you were never going to catch him, but he was so scared he ran into the surf anyway. Or you did catch him…’ Cash’s voice drifted off. ‘Maybe you did at that.’
‘Do I have to listen to this?’ Garioch asked his lawyer.
‘I think DI Cash would be foolish to think of charging you at this altogether shoddy juncture,’ the lawyer speculated.
‘There’ll be other witnesses,’ Cash warned them. ‘We haven’t even put the description out yet. Huge bald brute of a man with a tattoo on his neck, stumbling through the streets in drenched trousers? Think back, Tosh – you know yourself you were spotted. Nice line-up we’ll put together… but only after we’ve brought Billie in. Give her a good hard session.’ Kaye found himself moving forward half a pace, ready to step in: looked to him as though Garioch was gearing up to go for his tormentor’s throat. Cash seemed to realise it too, but it only made him lean a little further across the table towards the man. ‘She might perjure herself for you – but that’ll count against her in court. She’ll end up going down, same as you. You know that old thing they say on TV movies – motive, means, opportunity?’ Cash held up three fingers. ‘My scratchcard’s showing three gold bars, Tosh.’
He eased back in his chair, clasping his hands together. Garioch leaned his knuckles against the edge of the desk, then rose slowly to his feet.
‘Did I say you could leave?’ Cash asked, not unpleasantly.
‘I can go when I want?’ Garioch checked with his lawyer. The lawyer nodded.
‘Then I’m out of here.’
‘Harder you make it for me, the more I’m going to enjoy it,’ Cash warned both men.
Garioch glared at him but said nothing. Then he noticed that Tony Kaye was standing between him and the door.
‘There’s a deal to be done,’ Kaye stated. ‘If Paul Carter was being set up by his uncle and you had anything to do with it… They’re both dead, what’s it going to matter?’
‘Did I give you permission to speak?’ Cash said, his voice almost too calm. Kaye ignored him and kept his eyes locked on Garioch’s.
‘There’s a deal to be done,’ he repeated quietly, holding out a business card.
Garioch looked from Kaye to Cash, and from Cash to everyone else in the room.
‘Fuck the lot of you,’ he growled, pushing past Tony Kaye and hauling open the door.
But only after snatching the business card from Kaye’s hand.
37
At lunchtime, Fox drove home. The tests on his father had so far proved inconclusive. It still looked like a stroke, but they wouldn’t know more until Mitch regained consciousness.
‘Can’t you make him?’ Jude had asked. ‘A shot of adrenaline or something?’
There had been some more tears, and the consultant had suggested that a break from the hospital might be an idea. Fox had offered to drive her, but she’d insisted she would take the bus.
‘This is just stupid,’ he had made the mistake of telling her. ‘Are you going to be like this the rest of your days?’ She’d aimed a swipe at his face and stormed off. He had passed her in his car, standing in the bus shelter, arms folded, angry at the whole world.
He made good time and parked outside his house just before one. As he was getting out of the car, his phone rang: Tony Kaye.
‘How did it go?’ Fox asked him.
‘I think DI Cash may be in the huff with me.’
‘Excellent work.’ Fox pushed his thumb down on the key fob, locking the Volvo. ‘I take it you couldn’t keep your gob shut?’
‘I might have accidentally offered Tosh Garioch a deal.’
‘What sort of deal?’
‘Go easy on him over the drowning if he talks to us about his boss.’
‘Cash wasn’t keen on that?’
‘Not overly. I’d say he’s close to running us out of town.’
‘The club has room for two more,’ Fox conceded. He was standing at his front door, staring at it.
‘Any word on your dad?’
‘I’m going to have to ring you back.’ Fox ended the call and walked to the living-room window, peering into the house. No sign of movement. Back at the front door, he noted the damage to the jamb. There wasn’t much of it. A crowbar or some sort of chisel had been enough. He couldn’t help thinking of the damage to the door of Gallowhill Cottage. He studied the neighbouring properties. It was a quiet street -people kept themselves to themselves. It had probably taken the thief half a minute to effect entry. Could have made it look like he was ringing the doorbell or pushing a delivery through the letter box. Fox edged the door open with his foot and stepped into the hall.
It didn’t look as though any of the papers on his dining table were missing. Maybe they’d been looked at; it was hard to say. His laptop was gone, along with its cable and charger, though the TV and DVD player hadn’t been touched. In the kitchen, the radio had vanished from its spot next to the kettle. Upstairs: bedroom drawers spilling out their contents. His good watch was missing, but his passport remained. Contents of the wardrobe tipped out on to the floor. He sat on the bed and rested his chin on his hands.
Worth calling it in? Yes, but only so he could get a reference number to pass on to the insurers. He doubted there’d be prints. A joiner would put the door right. Whoever had been there had left without taking the spare set of keys. They weren’t coming back. It had been made to look like a regular break-in, but Fox wasn’t convinced. He went downstairs again and stared at the paperwork on the table. Charles Mangold’s name stared back at him from the topmost sheet, written there in cap
itals. He’d jotted down other names, too, along with dates and queries…
If I’d been here, he wondered, would I have been made to look like a suicide…?
‘Get a grip, Malcolm,’ he muttered to himself.
He tried to think how much information was to be found on the laptop. More of his thoughts, in more detailed sequence than the written notes. He hadn’t got round to adding Alison and Stephen Pears and Andrew Watson to the mix. Had he made mention of Francis Vernal’s logbook? The connection between Gavin Willis and the Dark Harvest Commando, specifically the man called Hawkeye? He thought so. Nothing had been printed off, but he’d copied the contents of the folder on to a memory stick.
A memory stick now missing.
And Professor Martin’s book with it.
A four-quid memory stick and a tatty old book – no self-respecting housebreaker would have bothered with either. Spooks? Special Branch? Was this the same warning intended for Alan Carter, only that time things had gone wrong? Fox took out his phone and reported the break-in, then went outdoors again and checked that Vernal’s logbook was still in the glove box of the car. It was. He tried the bungalows either side of his, but no one was home. Across the street, Mr Anderson, elderly and hard of hearing, had seen nothing unusual.
‘A car or van?’ Fox persisted, but Anderson just shook his head and offered to make a pot of tea for them both.
‘Another time,’ Fox told him.
He tried two more neighbours, but no one had seen or heard a vehicle. No strangers noticed.
Quiet, as usual.
When the patrol car arrived, Fox showed them his warrant card, then pointed to the damage. One of the officers had a handheld electronic device into which he tapped the details.
‘Serial number for the laptop?’ he asked.
Fox went to fetch the guarantee. He could have said it won’t turn up, but then they would have wanted to know why he was so sure.
‘Not Lothian and Borders issue, is it?’ the other officer enquired. Fox shook his head. ‘Nothing work-related on it, then?’
‘No,’ he lied.
‘At least you won’t face a disciplinary,’ the officer commented.
