Ian Rankin: The Impossible Dead

‘I’m feeling reckless today,’ Fox countered. ‘I’ll take a chance

…’

With a sigh from Kaye, the three men started reading.

Paul Carter was the reason they’d come to Fife. Carter held the rank of detective constable and had been a cop for fifteen years. He was thirty-eight years old and came from a family of cops – both his father and an uncle had served in Fife Constabulary. The uncle, Alan Carter, had actually made the original complaint against his nephew. It involved a drug addict, sexual favours, and turning a blind eye. Two other women then came forward to say that Paul Carter had arrested them for drunken behaviour, but offered to drop any charges if they would be ‘accommodating’.

‘Does anybody actually ever say “accommodating”?’ Kaye muttered, halfway down a page.

‘Courtroom and newspapers,’ Naysmith replied, brushing crumbs from his own copy of the case notes.

Malcolm Fox had some of those newspaper reports in front of him. There were photos of Paul Carter leaving court at the end of a day’s testimony. Pudding-bowl haircut; face pitted by acne. Giving the photographer a hard stare.

It was four days since the guilty verdict had been delivered, along with the sheriff’s comment that Detective Constable Carter’s own colleagues seemed ‘either wilfully stupid or wilfully complicit’. Meaning: they’d known for years Carter was a bad cop, but they’d protected him, lied for him, maybe even attempted to falsify witness statements and put pressure on witnesses not to come forward.

All of which had brought the Complaints to town. Fife Constabulary needed to know, and in order to reassure the public (and more importantly, the media) that the investigation would be rigorous, they had asked a neighbouring force to run the inquiry. Fox had been given a copy of Fife Constabulary’s Suspension Policy and Suspension Process Considerations, along with the Chief Constable’s written report outlining why the three officers under investigation were still at work, this being ‘in the best interests of the force’.

Fox took a sip of tea and skimmed another page of notes. Almost every sentence had been underlined or highlighted. The margins were filled with his own scribbled queries, concerns and exclamation marks. He knew most of it by heart, could stand up and recite it to the cafe’s customers. Maybe they were gossiping about it anyway. In a town this size, sides would have been taken, opinions rigidly formed. Carter was a slimeball, a sleazebag, a predator. Or he’d been stitched up by a low-life junkie and a couple of cheap dates. Where was the harm in anything he’d done? And what had he done anyway?

Not much, except bring his police force into disrepute.

‘Reminds me a bit of Colin Balfour,’ Tony Kaye said. ‘Remember him?’

Fox nodded. Edinburgh cop who liked to visit the cells if women were being held overnight. The prosecution against him had faltered, but an internal inquiry had seen him kicked off the force anyway.

‘Interesting that the uncle’s the one who spoke up,’ Naysmith commented, drawing them back to the current case.

‘But only after he retired from the force,’ Fox added.

‘Even so… Must have stirred up the family a bit.’

‘Could be some history there,’ Kaye offered. ‘Bad blood.’

‘Could be,’ Naysmith agreed.

Kaye slapped a hand down on the pile of papers in front of him. ‘So where does any of this get us? How many days are we going to be shuttling backwards and forwards?’

‘As many as it takes. Might only be a week or two.’

Kaye rolled his eyes. ‘Just so Fife Constabulary can say they’ve got one bad apple and not a whole cider factory?’

‘Do they make cider in factories?’ Naysmith asked.

‘Where do you think they make it?’

Fox didn’t bother joining in. He was wondering again about the main player, Paul Carter. There was no use trying to interview the man, even though he was available. He’d been found guilty, held in custody, but had yet to receive a sentence. The sheriff was ‘deliberating’. Fox reckoned Carter would go to jail. Couple of years and maybe a listing on the Sex Offenders Register. He was almost certainly talking to his lawyers about an appeal.

Yes, he’d talk to his legal team, but not to the Complaints. The man had nothing to gain by grassing up his mates at the station, the ones who’d stood by him. Fox couldn’t offer him any kind of deal. The most they could hope for was that he would let something slip. If he talked at all.

Which he wouldn’t.

Fox doubted anyone would talk. Or rather, they’d talk but say nothing worth hearing. They’d had plenty of warning this day was coming. Scholes. Haldane. Michaelson. The sheriff had singled them out for their conflicting or confused testimony, their muddying of the water, their memory lapses. Their immediate boss in CID, Detective Chief Inspector Laird, had escaped criticism, as had a detective constable called Forrester.

‘Forrester’s the one we should be talking to,’ Kaye said suddenly, breaking off from his argument with Naysmith.

‘Why?’

‘Because her first name’s Cheryl. My years of experience tell me that makes her a woman.’

‘And?’

‘And if one of her colleagues was a sex pest, surely she’d have had an inkling. Surrounded by blokes circling the wagons when the rumours start flying… She’s got to know something.’ Kaye rose to his feet. ‘Who’s for a refill?’

‘Let me check first.’ Fox took out his phone and found the number for the station. ‘Maybe Scholes is back from his wee jaunt.’ He punched in the number and waited, while Kaye flicked the back of Naysmith’s head with a finger and offered his services as a barber.

‘Hello?’ It was a woman’s voice.

‘DI Scholes, please.’

‘Who’s calling?’

Fox looked around the cafe. ‘I’m from the Pancake Place. He was in earlier and we think he left something.’

‘Hold on, I’ll put you through.’

‘Thank you.’ Fox ended the call and started gathering up all the paperwork.

‘Nicely played,’ Tony Kaye said. Then, to Naysmith: ‘Back into your donkey jacket, Joe. Let’s get that jackhammer started…’

Detective Inspector Ray Scholes ran a hand through his short black hair. He was seated in the station’s only interview room. Fox had offered him any location he liked, as long as it had a table and four chairs.

‘And a socket,’ Joe Naysmith had added. The socket was for the electrical adaptor. Naysmith had set up the video camera and was now just about finished with the audio recorder. There were two microphones, one pointed at Scholes and one centred between Fox and Tony Kaye. Kaye had his arms folded, a scowl on his face. He’d already told Scholes how much they’d enjoyed his little ruse.

‘I don’t call official police business a “ruse”,’ Scholes had shot back at him. ‘On the other hand, this almost certainly qualifies as a waste of time.’

‘Only “almost”?’ Malcolm Fox had responded, busying himself with the paperwork.

‘All set,’ Naysmith was now telling them.

‘Happy to start?’ Fox asked Scholes.

Scholes was nodding when his phone sounded. He answered it by identifying himself as ‘Ray Scholes, public enemy number one.’ Sounded like his girlfriend on the other end, asking him to pick up something for dinner. But she knew about the Complaints.

‘Yeah, they’re here,’ Scholes drawled, eyes on Fox. Fox drew a finger across his throat, but Scholes was in no hurry. When he eventually ended the call, Fox asked if the phone could be switched off. Scholes shook his head.

‘Never know when something important’s going to crop up.’