by Ian Rankin
‘Are you quite sure about that, Inspector?’
Fox showed him the two matriculation photographs. ‘Look familiar?’
Watson studied them without emotion.
‘What of it?’ he eventually commented.
‘She started seeing Vernal – spending a lot of time with him. He’d been with her that weekend, had just left her when his car went off the road. That’s what I needed to talk to her about.’ Fox was staring at the politician, gauging his reactions.
‘I never knew,’ Watson said quietly.
‘Those groups tended to be separatists – not so far from your own politics.’
‘I remember. It was a bad time for the SNP. Some of us were a bit desperate, a bit frustrated. We were being marginalised – that won’t ever happen again, believe me.’
‘But back then…’
‘Tough times,’ Watson agreed.
‘Did you know any of these groups? Seed of the Gael? Dark Harvest Commando?’
‘Only by reputation.’
‘You never met Donald MacIver?’
‘No.’
‘Or Francis Vernal?’
‘No.’
‘And you’d no idea what your sister was up to?’
‘No idea,’ Watson echoed.
‘Now I’ve told you, what do you think?’
Watson turned this over in his mind for the best part of a minute, then shrugged and shook his head. ‘I’m really not sure,’ he said.
‘All those activists must have gone someplace,’ Fox commented. ‘Maybe into government, even.’
‘No place for hotheads and racists in the modern party, Inspector.’ Watson seemed to study Fox. ‘Can I take it you’re a unionist?’
‘It’s irrelevant what I am.’
‘Are you sure about that? Dusting off old enmities and conspiracies, hoping some mud might stick…’
‘Does the name Hawkeye mean anything to you?’
The question appeared to puzzle Watson. He thought for a moment. ‘Just the character from MASH,’ he concluded.
‘And Last of the Mohicans,’ Fox added.
‘That too,’ Watson agreed. He seemed tired, all his energy and anger used up. ‘It’s working, you know,’ he said at last, his eyes meeting Fox’s. ‘The administration, I mean. A quarter of a century back, few would have said they’d see the SNP in power in their lifetime – and that includes a lot of us in the party. But we got there.’ He nodded to himself. ‘We got there,’ he repeated. Then he stiffened. ‘But we can’t afford another Megrahi. These bomb-blasts… Alison needs all her concentration, meaning no sideshows.’
‘I’d hardly call murder a sideshow.’
‘Murder?’
‘Alan Carter – the man investigating Vernal’s death. Made to look like suicide but actually an execution.’
‘You can’t think Alison had anything to do with that!’
‘Why not? If Carter knew about her and was about to blow the whistle…’
‘Never.’ Watson shook his head. ‘You really can’t go bandying that sort of-’
‘It seems to be the only way of getting anyone’s attention,’ Fox countered. ‘After all, it got yours.’
‘She can’t have this hanging over her,’ Watson pressed. ‘Alison’s worked hard to get where she is.’
‘I dare say you think you’ve worked hard too.’
‘Of course.’
Fox narrowed his eyes. ‘Is it her you’re worried about or yourself? The job of Justice Minister seems to have a curse hanging over it, doesn’t it? Bit of a fillip to have a Chief Constable you can depend on, especially if she can also deliver a few extra column inches…’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How about if I hang fire – do nothing till after your terrorists are sentenced? You get your moment of glory… and afterwards I start asking my questions again?’
Watson stared at him. ‘What would you want in return?’ he asked, his tone softening.
‘Nothing.’ Fox paused. ‘Because it’s not going to happen – I just wanted to see if you’d bite.’
Watson flew to his feet. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he spluttered.
Fox ignored the outburst. ‘By the way, I meant to ask – how did you get my address?’
‘What?’
‘My address.’
‘Jackson,’ Watson snapped.
Fox nodded to himself: so the Special Branch man knew where he lived…
Watson had paced to the window and back again. ‘Is there any point trying to reason with you?’
Fox shrugged.
‘Then I’ll have to take this up with your Chief Constable.’
‘What will you do – have me suspended? Remember to fill him in on your sister’s history.’
‘What is it you think she’s done wrong exactly?’
‘I’m still trying to figure that out.’ Fox met Watson’s gaze. ‘Care to help me?’
‘Help you?’
‘By reopening the Vernal investigation – properly this time. Set up a public inquiry. He was being spied on by MI5 and an undercover police officer. Did that play any part in his death? Was there a cover-up afterwards? And does it connect to the murder of Alan Carter?’ Fox rose slowly to his feet, keeping his eyes fixed on Watson. ‘Could be a real feather in your cap if you started to get some answers to those questions.’
But the Justice Minister was shaking his head. ‘Dark Harvest Commando… the SNLA – nobody wants those corpses resurrected.’
‘Nobody in your party,’ Fox corrected him.
‘Nobody, period.’
‘You might be surprised.’
Watson kept on shaking his head.
‘Just me, then?’ The question was rhetorical, but Watson answered it anyway.
‘Just you.’
Three minutes later, Fox was watching from his window as the car pulled away. The interior light was on, the minister mulling over documents. Fox’s phone let him know he had a text. It was from Jude.
You awake?
He called her back. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. Didn’t want to bother you if you were asleep.’
‘Speaking of which…’
‘I can’t stop tossing and turning,’ she confessed with a sigh. ‘I keep thinking about Dad – what are we going to do with him, Malcolm?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘He can’t stay in hospital for ever.’
‘No.’
‘But unless he improves…’
‘Lauder Lodge isn’t much use to him either,’ he agreed, finishing the thought for her. ‘I’ll put my thinking cap on, Jude.’
‘Me too.’ He listened to her shift positions, guessed she was lying in bed.
‘Remember when we were kids?’ he said. ‘I’d sneak into your room and we’d sing songs together under the sheets?’
‘Our own Top of the Pops, until Mum or Dad heard us. I haven’t thought of that for years…’
‘I was in some woods a few days back,’ Fox began, settling himself on the sofa again. ‘It took me back to the Hermitage and the walks we used to take. That was in the days when you still preferred me to other boys.’
‘I never preferred you to other boys,’ Jude teased.
Fox smiled and they continued chatting. He had the TV remote in his hand and flicked through the available channels. Late-night shopping, astrology, phone-in quizzes. There was news, but he didn’t linger on it. He settled on a comedy channel instead. An old episode of MASH was just starting. Hawkeye and Trapper John and Hot Lips and Radar. The actor Alan Alda played Hawkeye, all floppy fringe, loping walk and wisecracks. Jude was talking about a den they’d made one time at a secret spot in the Hermitage. But Fox wasn’t sitting so comfortably now. His grip had tightened on the remote. He pretended to yawn, apologising to his sister.
‘I should let you sleep,’ she told him.
‘I’m really enjoying talking, but I can hardly keep my eyes open.’
‘
Tomorrow at the hospital?’
‘What time do you think you’ll be there?’ he asked.
‘After breakfast. You?’
‘Later, probably.’
‘Things to do?’ she guessed.
‘Night, sis.’
‘Night, bro.’
Fox ended the call and wandered into the kitchen, boiling the kettle and making himself some strong tea. On another night, he might have spent time reflecting on the thawing in his relationship with his sister – but that would have to wait. He took the mug back through to the living room and tried using his mobile phone to access the internet. It was hopeless, though – slow, and the screen too small. After peering at it for a while, he decided he needed to go to Fettes and use one of the computers in the Complaints office. As he was readying to leave, his phone trilled. According to the display, it was Evelyn Mills. He let it keep ringing. Two minutes later there was a text: Need someone to talk to. He stared at the message, undecided. He had his jacket on, car key in his free hand. The phone went again and he answered.
‘Evelyn?’
But it was a man’s voice. ‘Whoever you are, just bugger off. She doesn’t need you.’
The line went dead. Fox stared at the handset. Her partner Freddie, presumably.
‘Fine then,’ Fox said to himself, heading for the door.
40
‘It’s Stephen Pears,’ Fox repeated.
It was just shy of five a.m. and he was seated at the breakfast bar in Tony Kaye’s kitchen. He had spent the best part of an hour trying to persuade his friend of the truth of it, the two men keeping their voices low so as not to wake Kaye’s wife. Eventually Kaye had sighed, scratched his nose and suggested food.
As the toast was placed in front of Fox, he knew he wouldn’t eat it.
‘And this is all because of a late-night repeat on the Comedy Channel?’ Kaye said, pouring more coffee.
‘Yes.’
‘See when you took that trip to Carstairs – madness isn’t catching, is it?’
‘I’ve told you – Hawkeye Pierce… Hawkeye Pears. He was on the archery team in high school. It was the obvious nickname for him. After university he’s supposed to have spent a couple of years “drifting” – he’s always been vague about it. Says he did a variety of jobs all over the world and came back to Scotland with a chunk of money. First anyone heard of him in the finance sector was mid-1986, and he had almost thirty K to invest. Split it between two start-ups, and a year later he’s quadrupled his stake.’
‘And you got all this from a journalist?’
Fox nodded. ‘I drove to the Scotsman offices. Night shift comprised one staffer. He phoned the business editor for me.’
‘Did either of them wonder why you were interested?’
‘I told him I was the Media Unit.’
‘What Media Unit?’
Fox shrugged. ‘Putting together a press pack about Chief Constable Alison Pears…’
‘And to do that, you needed to ask the media for help?’ Kaye shook his head slowly and brushed toast crumbs from the corners of his mouth. ‘In the middle of the night?’
‘It was all I had,’ Fox reasoned. ‘And I got what I needed, didn’t I?’
‘It’s not enough. The guy in that photo looks nothing like Stephen Pears.’
‘I can ask him.’ Fox had taken the photo from his pocket, the one showing Vernal, Alice and Hawkeye. It was scuffed from so much handling.
‘What if he denies it? That’s all he’s got to do, Malcolm.’
Fox picked up his replenished mug, but put it down again without drinking. He knew his friend was right. The photo wasn’t enough. The theories weren’t enough.
Kaye swallowed some coffee and stifled a belch. ‘If it is him,’ he speculated, ‘the wife’s got to know.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Fox countered. ‘They met twelve years ago and have been married for ten. That makes it thirteen years since she’d laid eyes on Hawkeye. Beard gone, hair short and dyed a lighter colour, a bit heavier around the waist and the face…’
‘She’s got to have known,’ Kaye persisted, wiping at his mouth again.
Fox didn’t say anything. He stared at the toast on his plate, with its layer of pale yellow butter. The very thought of it was making him queasy. He slid the photograph back into his pocket as Kaye spoke.
‘Even supposing – just for argument’s sake – that you’re right, it doesn’t mean you can tie Pears to anything. Are you saying he killed Francis Vernal and Alan Carter?’
‘He’d have had motive enough.’
‘Because his wife’s risen through the ranks and he doesn’t want anyone pooping her party?’
‘There’s that,’ Fox agreed. ‘Plus he’s on course for the House of Lords – a terrorist past might not sit too well with a Tory peerage. He’s a donor to the party, too.’
Kaye was staring at him. ‘You can’t go saying any of this, Malcolm. Not without at least a few shreds of evidence.’
‘I went on the internet. Pears spoke at a conference a few years back in Barbados, same time an arms dealer called William Benchley drowned in his swimming pool. Benchley had been selling guns smuggled home by soldiers from the Falklands.’
Kaye’s stare intensified. ‘Malcolm…’
Fox held up a hand. ‘I know, I know – maybe I should check myself into Carstairs.’ He paused. ‘But what if at least some of it is true?’
Kaye pushed his empty plate aside and lifted his coffee mug. ‘I still don’t see you’re in a position to do anything about it,’ he said.
‘Maybe not,’ Fox conceded.
‘But since it’s a night for storytelling, I can offer you one of my own.’
Fox tried hard to concentrate on Tony Kaye’s account of his meeting with Tosh Garioch.
‘So Paul Carter was being set up by his uncle,’ he stated at the conclusion.
‘Not exactly,’ Kaye argued. ‘Garioch says Paul did try it on with Billie and Bekkah. And Alan Carter did put a bit of pressure on Teresa Collins, but only after she made her original complaint.’
Fox was thoughtful. ‘Uncle Alan wanted to make sure the mud stuck.’
‘He really did hate his nephew, didn’t he?’
‘So why phone him that night? Phone him but not speak to him?’ Fox’s eyes were on Kaye. ‘The address book with Paul’s number in it… it was left open for anyone to find.’
‘So?’
‘Any check of calls made, and Paul’s name would pop up. But say it wasn’t Alan who did the calling…’
‘The murderer?’
Fox was nodding slowly. ‘Paul’s been found guilty but suddenly he’s not on remand any more. The judge at his trial is no friend of the police, yet he lets him out, pending sentencing.’ Fox gave a little smile.
‘What is it?’ Kaye asked.
‘Sheriff Cardonald is a member of the New Club. I saw him there that time I met with Charles Mangold.’
‘So?’
‘So Stephen Pears is a member, too.’
‘Pears gets his friend the sheriff to release Paul Carter?’
‘Paul was the perfect fall guy,’ Fox argued. ‘The court case had made it clear uncle and nephew loathed one another.’
‘But it only worked if Paul was back on the street.’ Kaye was actually sounding half-convinced.
‘It’s all conjecture,’ Fox admitted. ‘You said so yourself – where’s the proof?’
‘Don’t always need proof to flush someone out,’ Kaye stated. ‘We know that from experience.’
‘Do you still think I’m mad?’
‘Maybe not so much.’ Tony Kaye drained his coffee. ‘The thing is, though – what do you do about it?’
‘I’ll have to think about that.’
Having showered, shaved and changed his clothes, Fox was parked outside Mangold Bain at nine thirty. He watched the receptionist arrive but failed to bring her name to mind. He knew he needed sleep.
Straight after this, he promised himself.
Mangold arrived on foot. He turned his head at the sound of the car door opening.
‘Good morning, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Did we have an appointment?’
‘Just curious about something,’ Fox explained. ‘Does Colin Cardonald know Stephen Pears?’
‘Sheriff Cardonald? What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘It’s a simple enough question,’ Fox reasoned.
‘I’ve seen them together,’ Mangold conceded.
‘At the New Club?’
‘Yes.’
‘Friends, then?’
‘Colin Cardonald likes to dabble.’
‘Dabble?’
‘Stocks and shares.’
‘Handy to have someone like Pears to offer advice,’ Fox surmised.
‘I’d say so.’ Mangold paused. ‘Does this have something to do with Francis?’
‘Not at all,’ Fox lied. ‘Like I say, I was just curious.’
‘Curious enough to ambush me outside my office.’
Fox couldn’t deny it.
‘You’re close, aren’t you?’ Mangold’s voice had dropped, though there was no one nearby to overhear. He took a step towards Fox. ‘There’s a sort of fever in your eyes.’
‘She won’t like it, you know,’ Fox responded.
‘Who?’
‘The widow. If I’m right, and it becomes public knowledge, she’ll blame you. She might very well end up hating your guts.’
The lawyer reached out and gripped Fox’s forearm. ‘What is it?’ he hissed. ‘Tell me what it is you’ve found!’
But Fox shook his head slowly and got back into the car. Mangold stood by the driver’s-side window, peering in. When Fox turned the key in the ignition, the lawyer thumped on the Volvo’s roof with both hands. He was still standing in the road as Fox drove away, decreasing in size and importance in the rear-view mirror.
Thirteen
41
It took a few days to arrange, but that was fine. In the meantime, the terror suspects had been charged, remanded and moved into Edinburgh’s Saughton Prison. The Justice Minister had enjoyed giving interviews and had praised ‘my big sister’, much to the delight of the tabloids. The alert level at Fettes remained CRITICAL, but would soon be downgraded. Fife Constabulary had written a letter to Lothian and Borders congratulating the Complaints team on its ‘exemplary’ report. Whether the media were informed or not, Fox and his team didn’t know – nothing seemed to appear in the press. Reprimands would be issued to Scholes, Haldane and Michaelson, and that would be that.
