Authors: Ian Rankin

The Complaints (8 page)

BOOK: The Complaints

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‘Why not?’

‘No particular reason.’

‘Or too many to mention?’ Breck nodded to himself. ‘My brother’s partner . . . I don’t get on too well with him, either.’

‘Him?’

‘My brother’s gay.’

‘I didn’t know.’

Breck looked at Fox. ‘No reason why you should.’

That’s right, and no reason to know that that same brother’s an engineer in America . . .

Fox cleared his throat. ‘So what’s your feeling about this?’ he asked.

Breck took his time answering. ‘There’s a hole in the fence, next to where the body was found. Little side road there, too, where a car or van could park.’

‘The body was dumped?’

Breck shrugged and began working his neck muscles. ‘I asked Ms Fox when she last saw Mr Faulkner.’

‘And?’

‘She says Saturday afternoon.’ Fox could hear the grinding of gristle in the younger man’s neck and shoulders. ‘That cast looks pretty new ...’

‘Happened Saturday,’ Fox confirmed, keeping his voice level, concentrating on the road ahead: two more sets of traffic lights and one roundabout and they’d be there.

‘So she heads to A and E and Mr Faulkner goes out on the town.’ Breck stopped exercising and leaned forward a little, turning his head so he could make eye contact with Fox. ‘Fell over in the kitchen?’

‘That’s what she told me.’

‘And you repeated it for my benefit . . . but your face tightened just a little when you spoke.’

‘Are you supposed to be Columbo or something?’

‘Just observant, Inspector Fox. You need to take the next left.’

‘I know.’

‘And there’s that facial tightening again,’ Jamie Breck said, just loud enough for Fox to hear.

The police cordon was still in place, but the uniform on duty eased up the tape so they could pass beneath. There was a couple of journalists from the local paper, but both were old enough to know they would ask in vain for a quote. A few people watched from the towpath, not that there was much to see. The Scene of Crime Unit had already picked over the area. Photos showed the body
in situ
- Breck grabbed some from a SOCO and handed them to Fox. Vince Faulkner had been found face down, arms thrown in front of him. His skull had been crushed by something heavy. The hair was matted with blood. There were grazes to the palms and fingers - consistent with someone trying to defend himself.

‘We won’t know about internal injuries until after the autopsy,’ Breck commented. Fox nodded and looked around. It was a bleak spot. Mounds of earth and rubble from where some of the old brewery had been demolished. Warehouses remained, emptied of their contents and with windows pulverised. On the other side of the road, groundworks were under way for what would become a ‘mixed social development’, according to the billboard - shops, office space and apartments (no one seemed to call them flats these days). Cops in overalls were working in a line, trying to locate the murder weapon. There were tens of thousands of possibilities, from half-bricks to rocks and concrete rubble.

‘Could have been tossed into the canal,’ Fox mused.

‘We’ve got divers coming,’ Breck assured him.

‘Not much blood on the ground.’ Fox was studying the photos again.

‘No.’

‘Which is why you think he was dumped here?’

‘Maybe.’

‘In which case it’s not just a mugging gone wrong.’

‘No comment.’ Breck looked to the skies and took a deep breath.

‘I know,’ Fox said, intercepting the speech. ‘I can’t get involved. I shouldn’t make it personal. I mustn’t get in the way.’

‘Pretty much.’ Breck had taken the photos from him so he could flick through them. ‘Anything you want to tell me about your sister’s partner?’

‘No.’

‘He broke her arm, didn’t he?’

‘You’ll have to ask her that.’

Breck stared at him, then nodded slowly and kicked at a small stone, sending it rolling along the ground. ‘How long do you reckon this’ll stay a building site?’

‘Who knows?’

‘Someone told me HBOS were moving their corporate headquarters here.’

‘That might not happen for a while.’

‘I hope you didn’t have shares.’

Fox gave a snort, then stuck out a hand for the younger man to take. ‘Thanks for letting me come here. I appreciate it.’

‘Rest assured, Inspector, we’ll be doing all we can - and not just because you’re a fellow traveller.’ Breck gave a wink as he released Fox’s hand.

Twenty-five-pic minimum . . . You like looking at young kids, DS Breck, and it’s my job to hang you out to dry ...

‘Thanks again,’ Malcolm Fox said. ‘Can I drop you back at the mortuary?’

‘I’m going to stay here a while.’ Breck paused, as if deep in thought. ‘PSU,’ he eventually said, ‘just got through mangling one of my colleagues.’

‘It’d take more than the Complaints to mangle Glen Heaton.’

‘Were you part of that team?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘No real reason.’

‘You’re not particularly a friend of his, are you?’

Breck stared at him. ‘What makes
you
ask?’

‘I’m the Complaints, DS Breck - I see everything and hear everything. ’

‘I’ll bear that in mind, Inspector,’ Jamie Breck said.

Fox called the office from his car and told Tony Kaye they’d have to hold fire on Jamie Breck. Kaye, naturally, asked why.

‘He’s in charge of Faulkner.’

Kaye was making a whistling sound as Fox ended the call. When his phone rang, he answered without thinking.

‘Look, Tony, I’ll talk to you later.’

There was silence for a moment, then a female voice: ‘It’s Annie Inglis. Is this a bad time?’

‘Not a great time, Annie, if I’m being honest.’

‘Anything I can do to help?’

‘No, but thanks for the offer.’

‘I got your message ...’

The horn in the car behind Fox started blaring as he headed down a street meant only for taxis and buses.

‘There’s been a complication. My sister’s partner’s turned up dead.’

‘I’m sorry ...’

‘Don’t be - he was an evil little sod. But I’ve just met the investigating officer. He’s a DS called Jamie Breck.’

‘Oh.’

‘So the job you wanted me to do should probably go to someone else. In fact, a couple of my colleagues are already briefed.’

‘Right.’ She paused. ‘So where are you now?’

‘On my way to my sister’s place.’

‘How is she?’

‘That’s what I’m going to find out.’

‘Let me know, will you?’

Fox glanced in his rearview mirror. A patrol car was behind him, blue roof-lights flashing. ‘Got to go,’ he said, ending the call.

It took him a whole five minutes to discuss his situation with the officers. He’d tried showing them his warrant card without letting them see he was Complaints and Conduct, but they seemed to know anyway. Was he aware he’d made an illegal manoeuvre? And did he recall the law about driving while holding a conversation on a mobile phone? He managed to sound apologetic; managed not to explain where he was headed and why - didn’t see any reason the sods needed to know. In the end, they wrote him out a penalty ticket.

‘Nobody’s above the law,’ the elder of the two cautioned him. Fox thanked the man and got back into his car. They did what they always did - tailed him a few hundred more yards before signalling right and heading elsewhere. It was what happened when you were the Complaints - no favours from your colleagues. In fact, just the opposite. Which got Fox thinking about Jamie Breck again . . .

He found a parking space along the street from Jude’s house. Alison Pettifer opened the door. She’d closed the curtains in the living room and kitchen - out of respect, Fox surmised.

‘Where’s Jude?’ he asked.

‘Upstairs. I made her some tea with plenty of sugar.’

Fox nodded, looking around the living room. It seemed to him that Pettifer had started the process of tidying up. He thanked her and signalled that he was going to go see his sister. She pressed a hand to his arm. Didn’t say anything, but her eyes told a story.
Go easy on her.
He patted the hand and went out into the hall. The stairs were steep and narrow - difficult to fall down them without becoming wedged halfway. Three doors led off the cramped landing - bathroom and two bedrooms. One bedroom had been turned into Vince Faulkner’s lair. Boxes of junk, an old hi-fi and racks of rock CDs, plus a desk with a cheap computer. The door was ajar, so Fox peered in. The slatted blinds had been drawn closed. A couple of men’s magazines lay on the floor -
Nuts
and
Zoo
. Their covers showed near-identical blondes with their arms covering their breasts. Fox tapped on the next door along, and turned the handle. Jude was lying on the bed with the duvet cocooned around her. She wasn’t asleep, though. The tea sat untouched on the bedside table, beside an empty tumbler. The room smelled faintly of vodka.

‘How you doing, sis?’ He sat down on the bed. All he could see were her head and her bare feet. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead. She sniffled and started to sit up. Beneath the duvet she was fully dressed.

‘Somebody killed him,’ she said.

Best thing that could have happened
. But what he said out loud was: ‘It’s hellish.’

‘Do they think . . . ?’

‘What?’

‘Maybe I had something to do with it.’

Fox shook his head. ‘But they’ll want to talk to you. Standard procedure, so don’t worry about it.’ She nodded slowly and he stroked her hair again. ‘When did you last see him, Jude?’

‘Saturday.’

‘The same day he . . .’ Fox gestured towards the plaster cast.

‘I came back from the hospital and he wasn’t here.’

‘Did you hear from him?’

She took a deep breath and exhaled, then shook her head. ‘Wasn’t so unusual, to tell the truth. Some nights, I was lucky if I saw him for five minutes. He’d be out with his mates, and come home next day with the story that he’d bunked on a couch or a spare bed.’

‘Did you try phoning him over the weekend?’

‘Texted him a couple of times.’

‘No answer?’

She shook her head. ‘I expected him home on Sunday, but then ...’ She gazed at her broken arm. ‘Maybe he was feeling more ashamed than usual.’

‘And by last night?’ Fox coaxed.

Another deep breath. ‘By last night ... maybe I was getting worried.’

‘Or anaesthetised.’ Fox gestured towards the empty glass. She shrugged as best she could. ‘When I dropped in yesterday,’ he went on, ‘why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I didn’t want you to know.’

‘I tried calling you last night . . . there was no answer.’

‘You said it yourself - anaesthetised.’

‘And again this morning?’

She stared at him. ‘Have they sent you here to interrogate me?’

‘I’m just asking the questions
they’ll
ask.’

‘You never liked him,’ she commented.

‘I can’t deny it.’

‘Maybe you’re even glad he’s dead.’ Her voice was turning accusatory. Fox lifted her chin with one finger, so she was facing him.

‘That’s not true,’ he lied. ‘But he was never the man you deserved.’

‘He was what I got, Malcolm. And that was plenty enough for me.’

He met Annie Inglis for coffee at the Fettes canteen. Apart from the staff, the place was deserted. Inglis insisted on fetching the drinks while he sat at a table near the window.

‘I’m not an invalid,’ he told her with a smile, as she pushed the mug towards him.

‘Sugar?’ She tipped half a dozen sachets on to the table. He shook his head and watched her draw her chair in. She’d chosen hot chocolate for herself. She fidgeted a little, dabbed a finger against the surface of the liquid and sucked on it. Then she made eye contact.

‘So,’ she said.

‘So,’ he agreed.

‘Any idea what happened?’

‘Building site by the canal. Someone did a job on him.’

‘How’s your sister doing?’

‘Her name’s Jude, short for Judith. I’m not sure how she’s doing.’

‘You went to see her?’

‘She was tucked up in bed with a bottle of vodka.’

‘Can’t begrudge her that.’

BOOK: The Complaints

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