Ian Rankin: The Impossible Dead

‘And that’s the truth, not just something you’ve been told to say?’

‘It’s the truth. Bring me a bible and I’ll swear on it.’

‘If we can’t find a bible,’ Naysmith interrupted, ‘would a cocktail list suffice?’

Cheryl Forrester laughed, showing perfect pearly teeth.

At the end of the interview, Naysmith said he’d walk her back to CID.

‘It’s not like she’s going to get mugged,’ Kaye chided his colleague, but Naysmith ignored him. Kaye decided to wander outside for some air. In the car park, a hovering gull just missed him, splattering an MG’s windscreen instead. There was no sign of the Mondeo, and no sign of Fox. Kaye took out his mobile and checked for messages. He had three, one of them from Malcolm. Back inside the station, he kept his finger on the bell until the desk sergeant arrived with the same welcoming black look as ever.

‘I’ll take DCI Laird, if he’s around,’ Kaye said.

‘I’m not sure he is.’

‘Okay, never mind.’ Kaye headed for the corridor and climbed the stairs to the next floor. CID comprised several offices here. Cheryl Forrester was in one of them, while Naysmith stood in the doorway, arms folded, one foot crossed over the other, talking to her. Kaye gave him a dig in the back as he passed, then pushed open the door to the large open-plan office further on. Scholes and Michaelson looked up from their desks. Scholes was on the phone, Michaelson navigating his computer screen with a mouse. Another man, slightly older than the other two, stood in the centre of the room. He had dispensed with his suit jacket, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. He had waxy olive skin, hair that was grey at the temples, and bags under his eyes. He was reading from a sheaf of papers.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Laird?’ Kaye held out his hand. Laird had yet to make eye contact. He added a couple of words to the margin of one sheet, then pocketed his pen.

‘You’re Fox?’ he drawled.

‘Sergeant Kaye,’ Kaye corrected him, withdrawing his hand.

‘Where’s Fox?’

‘Probably off getting a second opinion on Haldane’s flu.’

‘Well now…’ Laird deigned to meet Kaye’s eyes at last. ‘You’re a cheeky little bastard, aren’t you?’

‘Depends on the situation, sir.’ Kaye sensed that he was standing in front of a man who believed in the troops under his command and would defend them to the bitter end. Forrester hadn’t been helpful because there was nothing for her to be helpful with, but Laird was another matter entirely. He would give them nothing because that was all they deserved. It was there in his tone, his manner, his way of standing, feet planted widely apart. Kaye had encountered the type plenty of times. They could be dismantled, but it took time and effort. Weeks of time, unceasing effort.

Fox’s message had been ‘Ask Laird why Pitkethly was brought in.’ It was a reasonable question, and Kaye knew why it was best not to ask Pitkethly herself. Quite simply, she probably wouldn’t know. She hadn’t known the station at all until she was shipped there. Laird had served under the previous regime. He was an old hand. If there was a story worth telling, Laird might be the one to tell it.

But a few seconds spent in the man’s company told Kaye this wasn’t going to happen.

‘My boss,’ he said, ‘had something he wanted me to ask you.’

‘Spit it out, then.’

But Kaye just shook his head. ‘I don’t think I will.’

Then he turned and walked away. Halfway down the corridor, he grabbed Naysmith by the back of his collar and took him with him.

The Mondeo’s parking space had been taken by an idling Astra. In fact, the only bay left was the one marked Superintendent, so that was where Fox ended up. As he made for the station entrance, he gave the Astra’s driver a look. The face was familiar.

‘About bloody time,’ Tony Kaye said, emerging from the station with Naysmith in tow. ‘Got your text but I didn’t reckon I was going to get any joy from Laird.’

‘DC Forrester was nice and helpful, though,’ Naysmith added, Kaye shooting him a look.

‘Helpful?’ he mimicked. ‘She gave us the square root of heehaw.’ Then, turning to Fox: ‘Tell me you’ve been having it worse than us. Got lost a few times maybe. Found the uncle but he’s doolally… Foxy? You listening?’

Fox’s attention was still focused on the Astra.

‘That’s Paul Carter,’ he said.

‘What?’

Fox started walking towards the car. It reversed out of its bay and began to exit the car park. Fox jogged after it for a few paces, then stopped. Kaye caught him up, the two men watching as the car shot away, modified exhaust roaring.

‘You sure?’

Fox gave him a cold stare.

‘Okay,’ Kaye conceded. ‘You’re sure.’

Fox took out his phone and called the Procurator Fiscal’s office. He was passed between extensions and offices until he found someone with the answers he needed. Paul Carter had been released on bail at 8.15 a.m., pending the sheriff’s decision on sentencing.

‘Cells are jam-packed,’ Fox was told. ‘Sheriff Cardonald reckoned he was one of the safer bets. Restricted movements – he’s not allowed within range of the three women.’

‘Who posted the bail?’

‘It wasn’t a huge amount.’

‘And this was the sheriff’s idea? Colin Cardonald?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘The judge who doesn’t like cops?’

‘Steady on…’

But Fox had ended the call. ‘He’s out,’ he confirmed, for Kaye and Naysmith’s benefit.

‘Want to bring him in for a chat?’ Naysmith asked.

Fox shook his head.

‘Hell was he doing here?’ Kaye added.

‘Catching up with his pals,’ Fox guessed, turning to look at the station’s first-floor windows. Ray Scholes stood in one of them, a mug in his hand. He toasted Fox with it before turning away.

‘Doesn’t change anything,’ Tony Kaye stated.

‘No,’ Fox agreed.

‘And you still haven’t told us how you got on with the uncle.’

‘Good guy.’ Fox paused. ‘I liked him.’

‘Not half as much as Joe here likes DC Forrester.’ Kaye looked around the car park. ‘Where’s my Mondeo?’

‘I had to take Pitkethly’s spot.’

‘Best move it then, eh?’ Kaye held out his hand for the key.

‘Better still,’ Fox said, ‘let’s jump in and grab a spot of lunch. My shout.’

Kaye stared at him. ‘What’s the catch?’

Fox’s mouth twitched. ‘A wee cruise around town first.’

‘With an eye to spotting a silver Astra?’ Kaye guessed.

Fox handed him the key.

After a fruitless half-hour, they ended up back at the Pancake Place. Since Fox was paying, Kaye ordered soup and the fish mornay pancake. The same table as before was available, so they’d taken it.

‘Where does Carter live?’ Joe Naysmith asked.

‘Dunnikier Estate,’ Fox told him. ‘We drove through it yesterday.’

‘We drove through a lot of estates yesterday.’

‘Semis, pebble-dash, and satellite dishes.’

‘You’re not narrowing it down.’

‘We could go there,’ Kaye suggested. ‘See how he likes having us parked outside for an hour or two.’

‘To what end?’ Fox asked.

‘Getting his back up. Could we maybe set up the surveillance van – bug his phone and computer?’

Naysmith looked interested.

‘We’d need permission from HQ,’ Fox stated. ‘And they won’t give it.’

‘Why not?’ Naysmith asked with a frown.

‘Because we’re here for Scholes, Haldane and Michaelson – Carter’s outwith our remit.’

‘Well, what about bugging their phones?’ Naysmith suggested.

Fox looked at him. ‘Surveillance is a whole new game, Joe. I doubt anyone at HQ thinks them big enough fish to merit it. Plus, we’re not from here. It would have to be a Fife operation – local Complaints.’