Authors: Ian Rankin
The Complaints (9 page)
‘Jude has a history with alcohol.’ He stared down at his coffee. It was meant to be a cappuccino, but the foam was non-existent. Inglis gave a twitch of the mouth and allowed the silence to linger.
‘So,’ she asked at last, ‘you got to meet DS Breck?’
‘Wondered how long it would take you,’ he muttered.
She ignored this. ‘How did he strike you?’
‘I’d say he’s good at his job. The conversation never really got round to his predilection for kiddie-fiddling.’
She bristled, but only for a moment. ‘Malcolm,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m only asking.’
‘Sorry.’
‘And the reason I’m asking is because Gilchrist and me have been talking ...’
‘Is he your boss, by the way?’
‘Gilchrist?’ She widened her eyes a little. ‘He’s my DC.’
‘He’s older than you.’
‘So your immediate thought was that he had to outrank me?’
Fox was saved from answering by the sound of her phone. She lifted it from the table and checked the screen.
‘I’ve got to take this,’ she said. ‘It’s my son.’ She held the phone to her ear. ‘Hey, Duncan.’ She listened for the best part of a minute, eyes fixed on the world outside the window. ‘Okay, but I want you home by seven. Understood? Bye then.’ She placed the phone back on the table, her fingers resting against it.
‘I didn’t think you were married,’ Fox said.
‘I’m not.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But what made you . . .?’
He swallowed before answering. There was stuff about her he wasn’t supposed to know. ‘No wedding ring,’ he eventually said. Then, a little too quickly: ‘How old is Duncan?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘You must’ve been young.’
‘My last year at school. Mum and Dad were furious, but they looked after him.’
Fox nodded slowly. There’d been no mention of a son in Inglis’s personnel file. An oversight? He took a sip of his drink.
‘He’s headed to a friend’s,’ Annie Inglis explained.
‘Can’t be easy - single mum, teenage boy ...’
‘It’s fine,’ she stated, her tone telling him things could be left at that.
Fox held the mug to his mouth and blew across it. ‘You were telling me,’ he said, ‘that you’d been talking with Gilchrist . . .’
‘That’s right. We’re thinking that this could work out for us.’
‘Me and Breck, you mean?’
She nodded. ‘You’re not involved in the inquiry, so it’s not really a conflict of interest.’
‘What you’re saying is, while Breck investigates the murder,
I
busy myself keeping an eye on
him
?’
I
busy myself keeping an eye on
him
?’
‘The two of you have already met ... and you’ve got the perfect excuse for keeping in touch with him.’
‘And it’s not a conflict of interest?’
‘We’re only asking you for background, Malcolm, gen we can pass on to London. Nothing you do is going to come to court.’
‘How can we be sure?’
She thought for a moment and shrugged. ‘Gilchrist’s checking with your boss and the Deputy Chief.’
‘Shouldn’t that be
your
job?’
your
job?’
She shrugged and made eye contact. ‘I wanted to see you instead. ’
‘I’m touched.’
‘Are you up to the task, Malcolm? That’s what I need to know.’
Fox thought back to the piece of waste ground.
We’ll be doing all we can ...
We’ll be doing all we can ...
‘I’m up to it,’ Malcolm Fox said.
Back upstairs, the Complaints office was empty. He sat at his desk for a good five minutes, gnawing on a cheap ballpoint pen, thinking of Vince Faulkner and Jude and Jamie Breck. The door, already ajar, was pushed all the way open by Bob McEwan. He was wearing a trenchcoat and carrying a briefcase.
‘You all right, Foxy?’ he asked, standing in front of the desk, feet planted almost a yard apart.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Heard about your brother-in-law ... compassionate leave if you want it.’
‘He wasn’t a relation,’ Fox corrected his boss. ‘Just a guy my sister fell in with.’
‘All the same ...’
‘I’ll look in on her when I can.’ The words, as they emerged from his mouth, made him think of his father. Mitch needed to be told.
‘And about the Chop Shop,’ McEwan began. ‘Reckon you can still help them out?’
‘You don’t think there’s a problem?’
‘Traynor doesn’t see one.’ Adam Traynor - Deputy Chief Constable. ‘I’ve just been speaking with him.’
‘Then that’s that,’ Fox said, placing the pen back on the desk.
At work’s end, he headed over to Lauder Lodge. One of the staff told him he’d find his father in Mrs Sanderson’s room. Fox stood in front of her door and couldn’t hear anything. He knocked and waited until the woman’s voice invited him in. Mitch was seated facing Mrs Sanderson. The two chairs were positioned either side of the room’s fireplace. This fireplace was for show only. A vase of dried flowers sat in the unused grate. He’d been in Mrs Sanderson’s room once before, when his father had introduced him to his ‘new, dear friend’. The old boy was doing the same thing again.
‘This is my son, Audrey.’
Mrs Sanderson gave a tinkling laugh. ‘I know, Mitch. I’ve met Malcolm before.’
Mitch Fox’s brow furrowed as he tried to remember. Fox leaned down over Mrs Sanderson and placed a kiss against her cheek. She smelled faintly of talcum powder and her face was like parchment; her hands and arms, too. She’d probably always been thin, but now the skin on her face matched the exact contours of the skull beneath. Yet for all that, she was a handsome woman.
‘You’re feeling better?’ Fox asked.
‘Much better, dear.’ She gave his hand a pat before releasing it.
‘Twice in a few days,’ Fox’s father was saying. ‘Am I supposed to feel flattered? And when’s that sister of yours going to put in an appearance?’
There was nowhere for Fox to sit except the bed, so he stayed standing. It seemed to him that he towered over the two seated figures. Mrs Sanderson was arranging the tartan travel rug that lay spread across her lower body.
‘Jude’s had some bad news, Dad,’ Fox said.
‘Oh?’
‘It’s Vince. He’s been killed.’
Mrs Sanderson stared up at him, mouth opening in an O.
‘Killed?’ Mitch Fox echoed.
‘Do you want me to ...?’ Mrs Sanderson was trying to rise to her feet.
‘You sit back down,’ Mitch ordered. ‘This is your room, Audrey.’
‘Looks like he got himself into a spot of bother,’ Fox was trying to explain, ‘and ended up taking a beating.’
‘No more than he deserved.’
‘Now really, Mitch!’ Mrs Sanderson protested. Then, to Fox: ‘How’s Jude taking it, Malcolm?’
‘She’s bearing up.’
‘She’ll need all the help you can give her.’ She turned to Mitch. ‘You should go see her.’
‘What good would that do?’
‘It would show her that you cared. Malcolm will take you ...’ She looked at Fox for confirmation. He managed something between a nod and a shrug. Her voice softened a little. ‘Malcolm will take you,’ she repeated, leaning forward and stretching out an arm. After a moment, Mitch Fox copied her. Their hands met and clasped.
‘Maybe not just yet, though,’ Fox cautioned, remembering the plaster cast. ‘She’s not really up to visitors . . . She’s sleeping a fair bit.’
‘Tomorrow then,’ Mrs Sanderson decided.
‘Tomorrow,’ Fox eventually conceded.
On the drive home, he thought about visiting Jude, but decided he would phone her instead, just before bedtime. She’d given Alison Pettifer the details of a couple of her closest friends, and the neighbour had promised Fox she would call them and get them to take turns with Jude.
‘She won’t be alone,’ had been Pettifer’s closing words to him.
He wondered, too, what Annie Inglis would be doing. She’d told her son to be home by seven. It was seven now. Fox had memorised her address from the HR file. He could drive there in ten or fifteen minutes, but to what purpose? He was curious about the kid. Tried to imagine what it had been like for the schoolgirl to confront her farming father with the news.
Mum and Dad were furious ... but they looked after him
. Yes, because that’s what families did - they rallied round; they dug in.
Mum and Dad were furious ... but they looked after him
. Yes, because that’s what families did - they rallied round; they dug in.
But Duncan’s not on your file, Annie . . .
At the next set of traffic lights, he stared at an off-licence’s window display. Little halogen spotlights threw each bottle into sharp relief. He wondered if Jude’s friends were drinkers. Would they turn up with carrier bags and a collection of memories, tragic stories for the telling and retelling?
‘Cup of tea for you, Foxy,’ he told himself as the queue of traffic began its crawl across the junction.
The mail waiting for him on the hall carpet was the usual stuff: bills and junk and a bank statement. At least the Royal Bank of Scotland was still in business. There was nothing in the envelope with the statement, no letter of grovelling apology for getting above itself and letting down its customers. Lauder Lodge’s monthly payment had gone out. The rest seemed to be petrol and groceries. He looked in the fridge, seeking inspiration for a quick dinner. Denied, he tried the cupboards and emerged with a tin of chilli and a small jar of jalapenos. There was long-grain rice in a jar on the worktop. The radio was tuned to Classic FM, but he changed the channel to something he’d come across recently. The station was just called Birdsong and birdsong was precisely what it delivered. He went back to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Appletiser, sat with his drink at the table and rubbed a hand across his face and forehead, kneading his temples and the bridge of his nose. He wondered who would pay for
his
nursing home when the time came. He hoped there’d be someone like Mrs Sanderson waiting for him there.
his
nursing home when the time came. He hoped there’d be someone like Mrs Sanderson waiting for him there.
When the food was ready, he took it through to the living room and switched on the TV. There was birdsong still audible from the kitchen; sometimes he left it on all night. He flicked through the Freeview channels until he found Dave. It was all repeats, but still watchable.
Fifth Gear
followed by
Top Gear
followed by another
Top Gear
.
Fifth Gear
followed by
Top Gear
followed by another
Top Gear
.
‘Can I stand the pace?’
He’d left his mobile to recharge on the worktop in the kitchen. When it started ringing, he considered not answering. A scoop of dinner, a half-groan, and he placed the tray on the carpet. The phone had gone dead by the time he reached it, but the readout showed two capitalised letters: TK. Meaning Tony Kaye. Fox unplugged the phone from its charger, punched in his colleague’s number, and retreated to the sofa.
‘Where are you?’ Kaye asked.
‘I’m not pubbing tonight,’ Fox warned him. He could hear the background hubbub. Minter’s or some place like it.
‘Yes, you are,’ Kaye informed him. ‘We’ve got trouble. How soon can you get here?’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘Your friend Breck’s been on the blower.’
‘Get him to call me at home.’
‘It wasn’t you he wanted - it was me.’
Fox had dug his fork back into the chilli, but now left it there. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re going to have to square this, Foxy. Breck’s going to be here at the top of the hour.’
Fox lifted the phone from his ear long enough to check its clock. Seventeen minutes. ‘I can be there in twenty,’ he said, rising from the sofa and switching off the TV. ‘What does he want with you?’
‘He’s keen to know why I had a mate look up Vince Faulkner on the PNC.’
Fox cursed under his breath. ‘Twenty,’ he repeated as he grabbed his coat and car keys. ‘Don’t say anything till I get there. Minter’s, right?’
‘Right.’
Fox cursed again and ended the call, slamming the front door on his way out.
The same two customers were at the bar, conferring with the landlord on a question from yet another TV quiz show. Jamie Breck recognised Fox and nodded a greeting. He was seated at Tony Kaye’s regular table, Kaye himself seated opposite, his face stern.
‘What can I get you?’ Breck asked. Fox shook his head and sat down. He noted that Kaye was drinking tomato juice, Breck a half-pint of orange and lemonade. ‘How’s your sister doing?’
Fox just nodded and rolled his shoulders. ‘Let’s get this sorted, eh?’
Breck looked at him. ‘I hope you appreciate,’ he began, ‘that I’m trying to do you a favour here.’
‘A favour?’ Tony Kaye didn’t sound convinced.
‘A heads-up. We’re not idiots, Sergeant Kaye. First thing we did was a background check. PNC keeps a record of recent searches, and that’s what led us to your pal in Hull CID.’
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