The Complaints (51 page)

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Authors: Ian Rankin

BOOK: The Complaints
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‘Go,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
‘You’ll talk to Charlie?’
‘Just go, will you?’ She pushed her shoulders back and filled her lungs with oxygen. ‘
Get out!
’ she screamed. ‘
I want you out of here!
’
‘My card’s there when you need it,’ Fox reminded her.
‘Out.’
‘We’re going.’
In the lift on the way down, Breck nodded in appreciation of his partner’s performance.
‘Couldn’t really fault it,’ he commented. Fox shrugged away the compliment.
‘Let’s see if it gets us anywhere,’ he cautioned.
Outside, a large black BMW with tinted windows was being parked next to the Volvo. When the driver emerged, Fox recognised him.
‘It’s Mr Broughton, isn’t it?’ he asked.
Jack Broughton stared at the proffered hand but decided against shaking it.
‘You probably don’t recognise me,’ Fox went on. ‘I was in a bit of a state last time we met.’
‘You’re that cop ... you were here once before.’
Fox nodded. ‘But I was also attacked one night in the Cowgate ...’
Broughton’s eyes narrowed as he studied Fox afresh. ‘I hope you’ve not been upsetting Joanna?’
‘Perish the thought. That sauna on the Cowgate ... you used to own it, didn’t you?’
‘I owned the building - whatever happens inside is nobody’s business, so long as it’s legal.’
‘With the Wauchopes in charge, there’s not much hope of that.’
It took Jack Broughton a few moments to decide not to respond. ‘I’m taking my daughter out for breakfast,’ he said, making to move past Fox. When the two men were side by side, he paused. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret, though ... I
did
see something that night. There were two of them. I only saw them from behind, but ... well, you get a feeling for these things after a while.’
‘What sort of feeling?’
‘They were cops - and bloody good luck to them.’
He used his own key to enter the building. Fox stared at the door.
Two of them
... Yes, one to kneel on his back, while one swung a foot at his jaw. Two cops.
‘He’s just trying to rattle you,’ Jamie Breck commented. Fox turned towards him.
‘You reckon?’ Fox wasn’t so sure. Breck was checking his watch.
‘I need to be at Fettes for my session with Stoddart ...’
‘I’ll take you.’ Fox unlocked the Volvo and started to get in, fastening his seat belt but then just sitting there, hands on the steering wheel.
‘In your own time,’ Breck prompted him.
‘Sure.’ Fox started the engine and angled the car towards the gate, which had already started opening inwards.
‘You’re not taking the old bastard seriously?’ Breck asked.
‘Of course not, but do me a favour, will you?’
‘What?’
‘Call Annabel and ask her a question.’
Breck dug into his pocket for his phone. ‘What is it you want to know?’
‘The team handing out the Vince Faulkner flyers on Tuesday night ...’
‘You
are
taking him seriously.’
‘Two cops, Jamie ... one of them dying for payback ...’
Breck eventually got it. ‘Dickson and Hall,’ he stated.
‘Dickson and Hall,’ Malcolm Fox concurred.
 
 
It was afternoon when the text arrived on Fox’s mobile. Breck had gone to meet Annabel for a coffee. There was some apologising to be done. They’d been planning to spend Saturday night in Amsterdam, flying back Sunday evening, and now Breck was cancelling. Fox had told him not to, but Breck had been adamant.
‘I need to be around for this,’ he’d explained.
‘What if there
is
no “this”?’ Fox had retorted.
But now here was a text - Waverley 7 p.m. buy ticket Dundee n wait WH Smith. There was no name, and when Fox called the number there was no reply. But he knew all the same. He paced his living room for a few minutes, then called Jamie Breck.
‘You still with Annabel?’ he asked.
‘She’s gone to the loo. I think she’s starting to hate me, Malcolm.’
‘You can make it up to her later. How did it go with Stoddart?’
‘As you suspected, I think it was for the benefit of her colleagues more than anything else.’
‘Did either of them think to ask you about the little jaunt we took with their boss?’
‘She didn’t give them the chance - escorted me on to and off the premises; never left the room for a minute.’
‘That’s good ...’
Breck could tell from his tone that something had happened. ‘Tell me,’ he prompted.
‘We’ve got a meet. Seven tonight at Waverley station. He wants us to buy tickets to Dundee.’
‘Dundee? Am I missing something or is that the last place he’d hide?’
‘Plenty of stops between here and there.’ Fox took Breck’s silence for agreement. ‘Once we’ve got the tickets, he wants us to wait by the newsagent’s.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You didn’t ask him?’
‘It was a text message.’
‘Did you try calling back?’
‘No one’s answering.’
‘We should give the number to someone ... get them to put a trace on it ... Can we even be sure it’s from him? Did he give his name?’
‘No.’
‘So it might not be?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Annabel’s coming back,’ Breck said.
‘You should take her out tonight ...’
‘You don’t get rid of me that easily. I’ll see you there at seven.’
The phone went dead. Fox slipped it back into his pocket and rubbed at his temples. He lifted a book from one of the piles and placed it on the half-filled shelf.
‘It’s a start,’ he told himself.
 
 
He took a taxi to the station. The driver’s conversation revolved around tram works and traffic diversions. ‘See the council,’ he would say at one moment and ‘See the government’ the next. ‘And don’t get me started about the banks ...’
Fox had no intention of getting him started; the real problem was getting him to stop. Fox was trying to imagine himself into a role. He was a commuter on his way home from a tiring day. Maybe he worked Saturdays; maybe he’d been shopping. He would step from his taxi, head into the booking office, and pay for a ticket. The driver had even asked him - ‘This you on your way home?’ - without seeming interested in any answer.
‘Wouldn’t blame you for emigrating, pal ... whole country’s a bloody shambles ...’
The cab bumped its way down the slope into the station proper and pulled into a waiting bay. Fox paid the driver, adding a tip. The man was wishing him well for the rest of the weekend as Fox closed the door. It was six forty by the station clock. Plenty of time. The post-shopping rush had died back a bit, though the concourse was still busy. A train had obviously arrived from London. There was a lengthy queue at the taxi rank. He pitied whichever tourist or traveller ended up with the driver he’d just waved off. The booking office had another queue, but there were self-serve machines. Fox used his bank card and bought two off-peak returns.
You’re leaving a trail
, he warned himself. But if things turned sour, that might be a plus - it would give the cops who came looking for him something to work with. He wandered past the coffee stall and the bar and the Burger King, then headed towards the platforms. There were people resting their backs against the window of the WH Smith. The place was doing a good trade, and Fox wasted a couple of minutes looking at the range of books and magazines. Even so, it was still seven minutes shy of the hour.
‘Hello, copper,’ a voice barked from behind. Fox swirled towards it. Jamie Breck was grinning.
‘Need to sharpen those spider senses, Malcolm,’ he said. ‘I’ve been here a while.’ Breck held up a ticket. ‘Got you this.’
In reply, Fox held up his own. ‘Snap,’ he said. Then: ‘How long since you arrived?’
‘Half an hour - decided to scope the place out, and saw you doing the same.’
‘I’m wondering if maybe he wants to meet us here.’
‘It’s a bit public,’ Breck replied, his voice full of doubt. ‘Just that wee bit
exposed
.’ He seemed to remember something. ‘You know what you were saying? About him maybe living downstairs from the penthouse ...?’
Fox shook his head. ‘It would put Joanna in the firing line.’
‘Isn’t she there already? When he scarpered, why did
she
stick around?’
‘She’s got a casino to run, Jamie. Besides, if they’d both done a midnight flit, Wauchope would have been on to them all the quicker.’
Breck nodded his agreement. ‘How come I’m the one being fast-tracked when you’re the better cop?’
Fox shrugged. ‘Maybe you bribed someone ...?’
Breck gave a snort and checked his watch against the large digital clock above the departure and arrival boards. ‘There’s a train to Dundee, leaves on the dot of seven. If we miss that, next one’s half past. What do you think?’
‘Maybe we get on the train we’re told to catch and he jumps on at a station down the line.’
Breck nodded slowly. ‘Or?’
‘Or he meets us here. But you said it yourself - it’s risky.’
‘Or we’re being led a dance,’ Breck offered.
Fox gave a twitch of the mouth. ‘Was Annabel okay in the end?’
‘Dinner midweek at Prestonfield House, and Amsterdam the next window we get.’
‘She’s a tough negotiator.’
‘I thought it best to cave in straight away. You were right, by the way ...’
‘Dickson and Hall?’
Breck nodded again. ‘Handing out flyers the night you got jumped. Any plans for a revenge attack?’ Breck watched Fox shake his head, then checked the station clock again. ‘Seven’s been and gone.’
‘Yes.’
‘And here we are, standing outside WH Smith.’
‘I can’t disagree.’
‘And nothing’s happening.’ Breck shuffled his feet. Fox was studying the passing parade of travellers. Some had obviously enjoyed a drink; maybe one or two of them had been to the football. They were voluble as they chatted with their friends. It was Saturday night and people from outside the city were arriving with only one aim in mind. Fox had even heard the Rondo mentioned as a probable destination for later.
Breck was studying his watch. ‘Just relax,’ Fox told him.
‘Are you on medication?’ Breck asked. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not fretting.’
‘My insides are dancing,’ Fox admitted.
More people passed them, some at a gallop in a bid to make this or that seven o’clock departure - there were delays on a few of the trains. The announcer explained as much through the Tannoy. Fox could make out the gist of what she was saying.
‘He’s late,’ he stated. Breck just nodded. The phone in Fox’s hand started to ring. He peered at the screen: same number the text had come from, but this time it was an actual call. He pressed the phone to his ear and answered. ‘Yes?’ he said.
The voice was unnaturally deep. Had to be fake - someone putting it on. ‘Leave by the back exit. Wait by the lights on Market Street.’ The phone went dead.
‘Message received and understood,’ Fox muttered. Then, to Breck: ‘Come on.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘He wants us on Market Street.’ Fox crossed the concourse, heading for the stairs.
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s watched too many
Bourne
films.’
‘Did you recognise the voice?’
‘I’ve never spoken to him.’
‘So maybe it’s
not
him.’
‘If this was Quidnunc and not real life, how would you play it?’
‘I’d forge alliances.’
Fox looked at him. ‘Not much time for that.’
‘Besides which, who’d want to side with us?’ Breck added.
‘Good question ...’ When they reached the top of the footbridge, Fox had to pause to catch his breath. ‘Imagine what I’d be like if I smoked,’ he managed to say.
‘Half a stone lighter?’ Breck replied. Then: ‘What are we supposed to do when we get there?’
‘Await further instructions.’
Breck stared at him. ‘Tell me he didn’t use those words.’
Fox shook his head and started moving again. A further flight of steps and they emerged out on to the pavement. There were traffic lights to their right. Fox looked around, seeking their tormentor. The City Art Centre was in darkness. People scurried past, heads down. North Bridge was overhead to their left, buses nose to tail as they waited for the lights to change at Princes Street.

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