Ian Rankin: The Impossible Dead

Naysmith considered this for a moment, then went back to eating his Scotch broth. Fox’s phone started ringing and he answered. It was Superintendent Isabel Pitkethly.

‘Paul Carter’s no longer in custody,’ she told him.

‘I know.’

‘Seems the sheriff has a little bit of faith in him.’

‘Yes.’

‘If he decides to appeal, the allegations against my officers may well be challenged in court.’

‘Not my concern, Superintendent.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not working for the courts or the prosecution. Your bosses in Glenrothes tell me what to do, and so far they’ve not said anything about dropping the inquiry.’ Fox paused. ‘Have you spoken with Carter?’

‘Of course not.’

‘He was outside the station an hour ago.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Scholes knew. Maybe you should ask why he kept it to himself.’

‘I’m not long back from HQ.’

‘You seem to spend a lot of time there. Updating them in person?’

She ignored this. ‘So you’ve not finished here yet?’

‘Not nearly.’

‘I’ll see you later then. And Inspector…?’

‘Yes, Superintendent?’

‘Don’t ever park that car in my space again.’

The afternoon comprised a wasted session in the interview room with DCI Peter Laird – there was nothing unusual about Superintendent Hendryson’s retirement; it had been his time, that was all – and a visit to the home of the sickly DS Haldane. They found Haldane sprawled on the sofa in his living room, a duvet swamping him and a visiting mother doling out tea, cold remedies and seasoned advice.

‘Can’t this wait till he’s better?’ she had chided the three intruders. It had eventually been agreed that Haldane would make himself available at the station in a day or two, so that a proper interview could take place.

‘What now?’ Kaye asked afterwards as they climbed into the car.

‘Dunnikier Estate,’ Fox said.

Kaye gave a little smile, as if he’d known this answer might be coming. Their destination was on the other side of town, and traffic was slow.

‘Schools coming out,’ Naysmith commented, watching uniformed pupils tramping along the pavement.

‘You’re a regular Hercule Poirot,’ Kaye muttered.

Eventually they turned in to Carter’s street. ‘That house there,’ Fox stated.

‘The one with the silver Astra in the drive?’ Kaye commented. ‘Hercule Poirot and Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Whose is the other car?’ Naysmith asked.

Fox supplied the answer. ‘Belongs to Ray Scholes.’

‘You sure?’

‘If that’s him coming out of the house…’

And so it was. A brief hug between the two men, Scholes and Carter, and then Carter disappearing inside, closing the door. Scholes clocked the Mondeo but didn’t seem surprised or bothered by it. He unlocked his black VW Golf and got in, Fox watching from the rear window of the Mondeo.

‘Do we pay our respects?’ Kaye asked, as they slowed for a junction.

‘No.’

‘What then?’

‘Back to Edinburgh.’

‘Now you’re talking.’

‘And to while away the time, we’ll have a little quiz.’ Fox leaned forward so his face was between the two front seats. ‘What can either of you remember about 1985? Specifically, late April…’

Kaye’s way of insisting that they have a drink at Minter’s before going their separate ways was to drive directly to the pub and park outside it.

‘My treat,’ he said, ordering a pint for himself, a half for Naysmith and a Big Tom for Fox. From experience, the barman knew Naysmith’s ‘half’ was a joke, and began pouring two pints of Caledonian 80. They took their drinks to a table, and Kaye asked Fox how long it had been since he’d allowed himself a proper drink.

‘I’ve stopped counting.’

‘Aye, right.’ Kaye wiped a line of foam from his top lip.

‘You know,’ Joe Naysmith commented, ‘surveillance isn’t a bad idea.’

‘Hey,’ Kaye warned him with a wagging finger, ‘we’re off duty here.’

‘I’m just saying, it’s how we’d normally build a case.’

‘I thought I’d already explained…’ Fox began.

Naysmith nodded. ‘But – correct me if I’m wrong – we’re going to get nowhere otherwise. Say we asked Bob McEwan for permission, set everything up without letting anyone in Fife know. Then, when we get something-’

‘If we get something,’ Fox corrected him.

‘Okay, if we get something-’

‘And it’s a big “if”,’ Kaye added.

‘Yes, but what we’d then do is present it to Fife HQ as a fait accompli.’

‘The boy’s losing me with all these big words,’ Kaye complained to Fox.

‘What makes you think McEwan would agree to it in the first place?’ Fox asked Naysmith.

‘We’d ask him nicely.’

Kaye snorted. ‘Oh aye, he’s a sucker for a kind word.’

‘Like I said,’ Fox told Naysmith, ‘it’d have to be a Fife call.’

‘So where’s the harm in asking them? You must know somebody on the Complaints over there…’

Fox hesitated for a moment before nodding. ‘I doubt we’re in their good books, though. We’re working what should be their patch.’

‘But you do know somebody?’ Naysmith persisted.

‘Yes,’ Fox conceded, turning to look at Kaye.

Kaye shrugged. ‘Can’t see it working.’

‘Why not?’

‘Surveillance operation needs the okay from upstairs. Haven’t we been saying all along that Glenrothes doesn’t necessarily want us finding anything?’

‘But if they deny their own Complaints department,’ Naysmith argued, ‘that looks bad, too.’

Kaye’s eyes were still on Malcolm Fox. ‘What do you say, Foxy?’

‘It’s a protocol minefield.’

‘First step might not blow us up, though.’

‘Home phones and mobiles,’ Naysmith added, ‘just to hear what Carter’s saying to his pals in CID.’

‘I’ll have a think about it,’ Fox eventually said.

Kaye slapped a hand down on Naysmith’s knee. ‘That means he’s going to do it. Well played, Joseph. And it’s your round, by the way …’

Once home, Fox microwaved another ready-meal and ate it at the table. The TV stayed off. He was lost in thought. After he’d cleaned up, he called his sister and apologised for not getting back to her sooner.

‘Don’t tell me: you’ve been busy?’

‘It happens to be true.’ Fox squeezed the skin at the bridge of his nose.

‘But you did go see Dad?’

‘Last night, as promised. He was back to himself by the time I got there.’

‘Oh?’

‘We took a look through some of those photographs.’

‘They didn’t upset him?’

‘Not so much, no.’

‘Maybe it’s me, then – is that what you’re getting at? You think I’m overreacting?’

‘No, Jude, I’m sure you’re not. And I saw the pack of pads in the bathroom.’

‘If he starts wetting himself, they’re going to kick him out.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘They’ll want him home with one of us.’

‘Listen, Jude-’

‘It can’t be me, Malcolm! How am I supposed to cope?’

‘They’re not going to get rid of him.’

‘Why? Because you keep coughing up for his bed and board? That’s fine as long as he’s not a bother to them.’

‘Would it put your mind at rest if we went to see them?’

‘You do it – they hate me.’

‘No they don’t.’

‘They treat me like dirt. You don’t see it because you’re the one waving the chequebook. That’s all right, though, isn’t it? You’ll be the one getting the lion’s share of his will. It’s you he likes, the one he’s always talking about when I’m there. Never me – I just fetch and carry, like one of the fucking staff!’