Authors: Ian Rankin

The Complaints (11 page)

BOOK: The Complaints

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‘No, sir,’ both men said in unison.

McEwan was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Billy Giles is all bile and bluster. Scratch the surface and there’s a lot less of him to be scared of.’ He held up a finger. ‘Doesn’t mean you should underestimate him.’

Malcolm Fox took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘Are they treating Jude’s house as a crime scene?’

‘
Possible
crime scene.’

‘They won’t find anything.’

‘I thought you just said they’d find your prints.’

‘I was there on Monday, and then again yesterday.’

‘Best make sure they know that.’

Fox nodded slowly, while McEwan’s attention shifted back to Kaye.

‘Tony, I swear to God, if you don’t stop swivelling on that damned chair ...’

Kaye leapt to his feet so suddenly, the chair rolled all the way back to the marker board. He strode over to the window and peered down at the car park. ‘This doesn’t feel right,’ he muttered with a shake of the head. ‘Foxy starts looking at Jamie Breck - next thing we know, C Division’s sniffing at our balls. What if Bad Billy got wind of it and decided he’d lost enough rotten apples for one season?’

‘And did what?’ McEwan reasoned. ‘Killed a man in cold blood? Is that seriously what you’re suggesting?’

‘I’m not saying he . . .’ But Kaye couldn’t finish what he’d started. It turned into an elongated snarl instead.

‘Do I put myself forward for questioning?’ Fox calmly asked of his boss.

‘They’ve already requested the pleasure of your company.’

‘When do they want me?’

‘Soon as this meeting’s done,’ McEwan said.

Fox stared at him. ‘So?’

‘So you’re idiots, the pair of you. Nobody accesses the PNC without good reason.’

‘We
had
good reason,’ Kaye insisted.

‘You had a good
personal
reason, Tony, and that’s far from being the same thing.’

‘He’d been involved in a domestic,’ Kaye ploughed on. ‘We were looking for evidence of priors.’

‘Keep telling yourself that,’ McEwan offered with a tired-looking smile.

‘Sir?’ Fox interrupted, needing to hear the word.

‘Go,’ Bob McEwan obliged.

‘Is my sister all right?’

‘You want to see her?’ Giles asked. He was dressed in the same clothes as the previous night, but with the addition of a tie. His neck had outgrown the collar of his shirt, and the top button was undone, visible behind the tie’s loose knot.

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s not far.’ They were in one of the interview rooms at Torphichen. The place had a
Precinct 13
feel to it - crumbling and circumferenced by dereliction and roadworks. There wasn’t much for the tourists, once you got west of Princes Street and Lothian Road. The one-way system dragged buses, cabs and lorries around it, but it was a thankless spot for pedestrians. Inside the building there were the usual smells of mildew and desperation. The interview room bore battle scars - scratched walls, chipped desk, graffiti on the back of the door. They’d kept Fox waiting a good long time in the reception area, giving uniforms and plain-clothes officers alike the chance to come and glare at him. When he’d eventually followed Giles down the corridor towards the interview room, there had been plenty of hissing and cursing from office doorways.

‘Is she all right, though?’ Fox persisted.

Giles made eye contact with him for the first time since coming in. ‘We’ve not started the waterboarding yet, if that’s what you’re asking. Tea and biccies and a female officer for company last time I looked in.’ Giles leaned forward so his elbows rested against the table. ‘It’s a bad business,’ he stated. Fox just nodded. ‘When did
you
last see Mr Faulkner?’

‘Before Christmas - November maybe.’

‘You didn’t have much time for him?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t blame you. You knew he was using your sister as a punch-bag, though?’ Fox stared at him but didn’t answer. ‘See, if that’d been my kith and kin, I’d’ve been on the bastard like a ton of shit.’

‘I’d spoken to her about it. She told me her arm was an accident. ’

‘No way you believed her.’ Giles leaned back again, bunching his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘So how come you didn’t face up to him?’

‘I never got the chance.’

‘Or you were yellow . . .’ Giles let the accusation float in the air between them. When Fox didn’t rise to it, he bared his teeth. ‘Her arm was broken Saturday, wasn’t it?’

‘So she says.’

‘When did you find out about it?’

There was a noise in the corridor outside. A young male by the sound of it, not exactly cooperating as he was led to or from his cell.

‘That’ll be Mollison,’ Giles explained. ‘Wee wanker’s a one-man crime wave. Soon as I’m done here, I’ll be having words with him.’

‘Is he anything to do with . . .?’

Giles shook his head. ‘Mollison’ll break into your home or car, but it’s unlikely he’d bludgeon you to death. Takes rage, that sort of attack. The sort of rage that comes from a grudge.’

‘I hadn’t seen Faulkner since before Christmas.’

‘Did you know back then?’

‘Know what?’

‘That he was a wife-beater.’

‘Jude wasn’t his wife.’

‘Did you, though?’ Giles’s small eyes, staring out from his fleshy face, were drilling into Fox. Though he fought against it, Fox wriggled in his chair.

‘I knew their relationship was tempestuous.’

Giles offered a snort. ‘You’re not here to write a Mills and fucking Boon!’

‘Jude always said she gave as good as she got.’

‘Didn’t make it right, Inspector. Seems to me you shied away from saying anything. You never pulled Faulkner aside for a quiet word?’

‘After the arm I would’ve done, if there’d been the chance.’

‘So we’re back to my original question - when did you find out?’

‘A neighbour called me on Monday afternoon.’

Giles nodded slowly. ‘Mrs Pettifer,’ he stated. Yes, stood to reason she’d have been questioned by the inquiry team . . . ‘I’m assuming you then went looking for him?’

‘No.’ Fox was peering down at his hands, clasped across his lap.

‘No?’ Giles sounded unconvinced.

‘What difference would it have made - he was already dead, wasn’t he?’

‘Come on, Fox - you know time of death’s always open to debate ... a few hours this way or that.’

‘Did he turn up for work Monday morning?’

Giles paused a moment before answering, weighing up what he did and didn’t want Fox to know. Eventually, he shook his head.

‘So what was he doing? Where was he hiding himself from Saturday night onwards? Someone must have seen him.’

‘Whoever killed him saw him.’

‘You can’t think it was Jude.’

Giles pursed his lips and removed his hands from their pockets, cupping them behind his head. As his shirt stretched, gaps appeared between the buttons, revealing a white string vest beneath. The room felt warm to Fox. He knew they probably kept it stuffy: didn’t want suspects getting too comfortable. His scalp felt itchy, perspiration cloying there. But if he scratched or wiped, Giles would think the interview was getting to him.

‘I’ve seen Faulkner on the slab,’ the detective was saying. ‘Plenty of muscle on him. Not sure a one-armed alcoholic girlie weighing all of eight stone could have outpointed him.’ Giles was watching for a reaction. ‘Someone could’ve helped her, though.’

‘You’re not going to find anything in the house.’ In the distance, a door slammed. A truck or bus was idling outside, causing the frosted window pane to shiver noisily in its frame.

‘Plenty of evidence of a chaotic lifestyle,’ Giles went on. ‘Even when someone’s had a go at tidying up.’

‘That was the neighbour; she did it out of kindness.’

‘I’m not suggesting anyone was trying to cover their tracks.’ Giles gave a cold smile. ‘And by the way - how’s your case against Glen Heaton shaping up?’

‘Wondered how long it would take you . . .’

‘He’s loving it, you know - full pay, feet up at home while we shiver and scrape ice off the windscreen of a morning.’ Giles’s meaty hands came to rest on the table. He leaned over them. ‘And exonerated at the end of it.’

‘I go easy on Heaton and you lay off my sister?’

Giles tried for a look of mock outrage. ‘Did I say that? I don’t think I said that.’ He paused. ‘But I can’t help feeling a sense of ... what? Irony? Poetic justice?’

‘A man’s dead, in case you’d forgotten.’

‘I’ve not forgotten, Inspector. You can be absolutely sure of that. Every detail of Faulkner’s life is going to be pored over by my men. Your sister’s going to have to get used to questions and more questions. The media are showing an interest, too, so she might want to stop answering her door and her phone.’

‘Don’t take this out on her,’ Fox said quietly.

‘Or you’ll make a complaint?’ Giles smiled. ‘Now wouldn’t
that
be the cherry on the top?’

‘Are we finished?’ Fox was starting to get to his feet.

‘For now - unless there’s anything you want to tell me.’

Fox could think of a few things, but all he did was shake his head.

Out in the hallway, he tried a few of the doors, but Jude wasn’t in any of the other interview rooms. At the far end was the door leading to the station’s cramped reception area, and beyond that the outside world. A familiar face was loitering on the steps when Fox emerged.

‘Can we take a walk?’ Jamie Breck asked, cutting short the phone call he’d been making on his mobile.

‘My car’s right here.’ Fox nodded towards it.

‘All the same . . .’ Breck gestured and started moving up the slope towards the traffic lights. ‘How did it go with DCI Giles?’

‘How do you think it went?’

Breck gave a slow nod. ‘I reckoned you’d want to know how things are shaping up.’

‘Is that how it works - Giles gives me a doing and then you start in with the “good cop” routine?’

‘He’d kill me if he knew I was talking to you.’ Breck looked over his shoulder as they rounded the corner into Morrison Street.

‘Then why are you?’

‘I don’t like the politics - us on our side, you on yours.’ Breck was walking briskly. It was a young man’s gait, purposeful and strong, as if the future held a clear destination. Fox, struggling to keep up, could feel the sweat growing chill at his hairline.

‘Where’s my sister?’ he asked.

‘On her way home, I think.’

‘Off the record, what’s
your
view of Glen Heaton?’

Breck’s nose wrinkled. ‘I could see that he cut a few corners.’

‘He drove on every pavement he saw.’

‘That’s his style - pretty effective, too.’

‘I think your boss just tried to do a deal with me.’

‘What sort of deal?’

‘Heaton for my sister ...’ Breck gave a little whistle. ‘But since my sister hasn’t done anything ...’

‘You turned him down?’ Breck guessed.

‘You don’t seem surprised he made the offer.’

Breck shrugged. ‘All I’m wondering is why you’re telling
me
.’

‘When we nail Heaton, there’ll be a vacancy at DI.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You’re not ambitious?’

‘Of course I’m ambitious - isn’t everyone? Aren’t you?’

‘Not especially.’ The two men walked in silence for a few paces.

‘So how
did
it go with Bad Billy?’ Breck eventually asked.

‘He sees the investigation as a way of getting at me, and that may colour his judgement . . . take him down any number of wrong roads.’

Breck was nodding. ‘Did he tell you about the CCTV?’

Fox looked at the younger man. ‘What about it?’

‘I’ll assume he didn’t.’ Breck took a deep breath. ‘There’s a pub in Gorgie ... Faulkner wasn’t exactly a regular, but he went in occasionally. They’ve got CCTV inside and out.’

‘And?’

Breck stopped suddenly and turned to face Malcolm Fox, studying him. ‘I’m not sure how much of this I should be telling you.’

‘What’s the pub called?’

‘Marooned. Do you know it?’ Breck watched the older man shake his head. ‘It’s only been open a year or so.’

‘Vince Faulkner was caught on camera?’ Fox prompted.

BOOK: The Complaints

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