Ian Rankin: The Impossible Dead

‘This one only goes back thirty years,’ Fox said, holding the photo up for his father to see. Mitch peered at it.

‘Blackpool maybe,’ he said. ‘You and Jude…’

‘And Mum.’

Mitch Fox nodded slowly. ‘Any water there?’ he asked. Fox looked, but there was no jug on the bedside cabinet. ‘Get me some, will you?’

Fox went into the adjoining bathroom. The jug was there, along with a plastic tumbler. He reckoned the staff didn’t want Mitchell Fox guzzling water at night, not if it meant trouble in the morning. The pack of incontinence pads sat in full view next to the sink. Fox filled jug and tumbler both and took them through.

‘Good lad,’ his father said. A few drops dribbled from his chin as he drank, but he needed no help placing the drained tumbler next to him by the bed. ‘You’ll tell Jude not to worry?’

‘Sure.’ Fox sat down again.

‘And you’ll manage to do it without falling out?’

‘I’ll try my best.’

‘Takes two to make an argument.’

‘You sure about that? I think Jude could have a pretty good go in an empty room.’

‘Maybe so, but you don’t always help.’

‘Is this you and me arguing now?’ Fox watched his father give a tired smile. ‘Want me to go so you can get back to sleep?’

‘I don’t sleep. I just lie here, waiting.’

Fox knew what the answer to his next question would be, so he didn’t ask it. Instead, he told his father that he’d just spent a fruitless day over in Fife.

‘You used to love it there,’ Mitch told him.

‘Where?’

‘Fife.’

‘When was I ever in Fife?’

‘My cousin Chris – we used to visit him.’

‘Where did he live?’

‘Burntisland. The beach, the outdoor pool, the links…’

‘How old was I?’

‘Chris died young. Take a look, he should be in there somewhere.’

Fox realised that his father meant the shoebox. So they lifted out the contents on to the bed. Some of the photos were loose, others in packets along with their negatives. A mixture of colour and black-and-white, including some wedding photos. (Fox ignored the ones of him and Elaine – their marriage hadn’t lasted long.) There were blurry snaps of holidays, Christmases, birthdays, works outings. Until eventually Mitch was handing a particular shot to him.

‘That’s Chris there. He’s got Jude on his shoulders. Big, tall, strapping chap.’

‘Would this be Burntisland then?’ Fox studied the photograph. Jude’s gap-toothed mouth was wide open. Hard to tell if it was laughter or terror at being so high off the ground. Chris was grinning for the camera. Fox tried to remember him, but failed.

‘Might be his back garden,’ Mitch Fox was saying.

‘How did he die?’

‘Motorbike, daft laddie. Look at them all.’ Mitch waved a hand across the strewn photographs. ‘Dead and buried and mostly forgotten.’

‘Some of us are still here, though,’ Fox said. ‘And that’s the way I like it.’

Mitch patted the back of his son’s hand.

‘Did I really love it in Fife?’

‘There was a park up near St Andrews. We went there one day. It had a train we all sat on. There might be a photo if we look hard enough. Lots of beaches, too – and a market in Kirkcaldy once a year

…’

‘Kirkcaldy? That’s where I’ve just been. How come I don’t remember it?’

‘You won a goldfish there once. Poor thing was dead inside a day.’ Mitch fixed his son with a look. ‘You’ll put Jude’s mind at rest?’

Fox nodded, and his father patted his hand again before lying back against the pillows. Fox sat with him for another hour and a half, looking at photographs. He switched the lamp off just before he left.

‘This is a joke, right?’

‘It’s what’s on offer,’ the desk sergeant said. He looked every bit as pleased with this morning’s outcome as he had done the day before when informing them that none of their interviewees were available. ‘The door locks, and the key’s yours if you want it.’

‘It’s a storeroom,’ Joe Naysmith stated, switching on the light.

‘Forty-watt bulb,’ Tony Kaye said. ‘We might as well bring torches.’

Someone had placed three rickety-looking chairs in the centre of the small room, leaving no space for a desk of any kind. The shelves were filled with boxes – old cases identified by a code number and year – plus broken and superannuated office equipment.

‘Any chance of a word with Superintendent Pitkethly?’ Fox asked the sergeant.

‘She’s in Glenrothes.’

‘Now there’s a surprise.’

The sergeant was dangling the key from his finger.

‘It’s somewhere to park the gear, if nothing else,’ Naysmith reasoned.

Fox gave a loud exhalation through his nostrils and snatched the key from the sergeant.

While Naysmith brought the equipment bag in from the car, Fox and Kaye stayed in the corridor, eyeing the interior of the storeroom. The corridor was suddenly busy with uniforms and civilian staff, all passing through and stifling smirks.

‘No way I’m parking myself in there,’ Kaye said with a slow shake of the head. ‘I’d look like the bloody janitor.’

‘Joe’s right, though – it’s somewhere to store the gear between interviews.’

‘Any way we can speed the process, Malcolm?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You and me – we could take an interview each, be done in half the time. The only people we need on tape are Scholes, Haldane and Michaelson. The others are just chats, aren’t they?’

Fox nodded. ‘But there’s only one interview room.’

‘Not everyone we’re talking to is based at the station…’

Fox stared at Kaye. ‘You really do want this over and done with.’

‘Basic time management,’ Kaye said with a glint in his eye. ‘Better value for the hard-pressed taxpayer.’

‘So how do we split it?’ Fox folded his arms.

‘Got any favourites?’

‘I fancy a word with the uncle.’

Kaye considered this, then nodded slowly. ‘Take my car. I’ll try Cheryl Forrester.’

‘Fair enough. What do we do with Joe?’

They turned to watch as Joe Naysmith pushed open the door at the end of the corridor, the heavy black bag slung over one shoulder.

‘We toss a coin,’ Kaye said, holding out a fifty-pence piece. ‘Loser keeps him.’

A few minutes later, Malcolm Fox was heading out to Kaye’s Ford Mondeo, minus Naysmith. He adjusted the driver’s seat and reached into the glove box for the satnav, plugging it in and fixing it to the dashboard. Alan Carter’s postcode was in the file, and he found it after a bit of hunting. The satnav did a quick search before pointing him in the right direction. He soon found himself on the coast road, heading south towards a place called Kinghorn. Signposts told him the next town after this was Burntisland. He thought again of his father’s cousin Chris. Maybe the motorbike had crashed on this very stretch. It was the kind of drive he reckoned bikers would relish, winding gently and with the sea to one side, steep hillside to the other. Was that a seal’s head bobbing in the water? He slowed the car a little. The driver behind flashed his lights, then overtook with a blast of his horn.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Fox muttered, glancing at the satnav. His destination was close by. He passed a caravan site and signalled to take the next road on the right. It was a steep track, rutted and throwing up clouds of dust behind him. He knew he daren’t ding Kaye’s pride and joy, so ended up in first gear, doing five miles an hour. The climb continued. According to the satnav, he was nowhere, had passed his destination. Fox stopped the car and got out. He had a fine view down towards the shoreline, rows of caravans to his left and a hotel to his right. He looked at the address he had for Alan Carter: Gallowhill Cottage. The road was about to disappear into woodland. Something caught Fox’s eye: a wisp of smoke from above the treeline. He got back behind the steering wheel and eased the gear lever forward.