Ian Rankin: The Impossible Dead

‘What?’

‘How am I supposed to know, otherwise?’

There was another long silence on the line. ‘The reason we hightailed it,’ the voice said eventually, ‘is that he started coming round. The first word out of his mouth was “Imogen”. We hadn’t been expecting that.’

‘You knew who Imogen was?’

‘She was his wife. He was obviously in a bit of pain, and she was the one he wanted to see. Not Alice – Imogen.’

‘But you just left him there – no thought of calling for help…’

‘We were called the Watcher Service, Fox. That’s what we did – and a phone call to a doctor wasn’t going to save him anyway, was it?’ Fox didn’t answer. ‘Are we done?’

‘Was someone called Hawkeye ever on your radar?’

‘He was a DHC member. Slippery little bastard.’

‘Slippery how?’

‘Few times the watchers tried a follow, he either did a Houdini act or else clocked them.’ The caller paused, then repeated his previous question: ‘We done?’

‘I don’t know how you can live with it,’ Fox commented.

‘We’re done,’ the voice stated. The line went dead. Fox found that he was leaning with his back against the corridor’s wall. He rested his head against its cool surface and stared at the framed print on the wall opposite. Then he looked up Alison Pears’s number and punched it in.

‘What?’ she snapped.

‘Wanted to thank you for getting Jackson to talk to me.’

‘It doesn’t seem to have stopped you pestering me.’

‘I’ve just had a call from one of the two agents who were tailing Vernal that night.’

‘Yes?’

‘I just wondered – I’m assuming you met them?’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t know them?’

‘We never had any direct contact. They were spooks, I was a junior police officer. Is that all you needed to know?’

‘Well, since I’ve got you…’

‘Yes?’

‘Bit of a coincidence – I come to your house, and not long afterwards, someone breaks into mine.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Was anything taken?’

‘Laptop, memory stick, Professor Martin’s book…’

‘I see.’

‘Am I being paranoid?’

‘Who do you think did it?’

‘I’ve no idea. Have you maybe mentioned me to your handlers at Special Branch?’

‘Handlers? This isn’t John le Carre, Fox.’

‘You’ve not spoken to anyone?’

‘Believe it or not, I’ve had more important things on my plate.’

There was silence on the line for a moment, then she asked him how his father was doing.

‘Thanks, but that’s none of your business.’

Fox heard a doorbell and guessed Alison Pears was at home. ‘That’ll be my brother,’ she said by way of confirmation. ‘He’s here for an update. Do we end this conversation before I open the door to him?’

‘That’s up to you.’

‘I don’t think there’s anything else to say, is there? Hang on, though…’ He heard her unlock her door and tell the Justice Minister: ‘Him again; that makes twice today…’

The telephone changed hands. Fox listened as Andrew Watson began his tirade. Eight or nine words in, Fox ended the call and went back to his father’s bedside.

Tony Kaye met Tosh Garioch at the door of the Dakota Hotel in South Queensferry. Neutral territory, just the Edinburgh side of the Forth Road Bridge. The hotel itself was a modern black box with its name picked out in neon, in a retail park boasting a late-night supermarket and not much else.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Kaye said, hand held out. Garioch hesitated for a moment before pressing his own hand against Kaye’s. It didn’t quite turn into a test of strength, but it was close. ‘Thought we could have a drink,’ Kaye added with a thin smile. Garioch nodded and they went in. The main restaurant to the rear of the bar was doing a good trade: businessmen eating alone; couples whispering over the seafood platters. There were some bar stools, but Kaye opted for a sofa. Garioch took the squishy chair opposite, the low wooden table separating them.

‘It’s good you kept my number,’ Kaye said.

‘I had to dig in the bin to find it.’ Garioch held up Kaye’s business card. It had been torn in half. The waiter arrived and they both ordered pints. The young man couldn’t help staring at Garioch’s thistle tattoo. A bowl of nuts was placed on the table and Garioch dug a paw into it, filling his mouth.

‘So what’s this deal?’ he said.

Kaye leaned forward. ‘Way I see it, we can go easy on you. You had every right to be angry with Paul Carter. Came to blows and he took off. You ran after him but gave up when he went into the water.’ Kaye shrugged. ‘We don’t ask how far you followed him; we don’t mention the wet trouser-legs. He drowned – not your fault he was stupid enough to go swimming.’

Kaye gave the man time to think this over. The drinks arrived and he paid for them, took a mouthful and began again.

‘If we want to go a bit harder on you, it comes out in a different light – beating up a cop and hounding him to his doom… wading into the water until you could be sure he wasn’t coming out again.’ He paused, swirling the contents of his glass. ‘But for the deal to work, we’ll need to know about Alan Carter and Paul.’

‘You’re not even CID,’ Garioch countered. ‘It’ll be Cash giving evidence in court, not you.’

‘Cash will listen to me. He’ll have to.’ Kaye paused. ‘I blame myself anyway. You were there when I took the call from my colleague, talked to him about Paul Carter. I jotted it down in my notebook, didn’t I? “Paul Carter… Wheatsheaf…”’ Kaye produced the notebook and showed Garioch the relevant page. ‘Problem with that is, if I tell Cash about it, then suddenly there’s an element of premeditation. See what I mean, Tosh? You didn’t just stumble across Paul Carter – you were lying in wait for him.’

Kaye left it at that, concentrating on his drink again. Garioch was right: he had no power. And as for Cash doing what he told him… No matter: he just needed to sound confident here and now.

Garioch slouched a little in his chair, and Kaye knew he had him.

‘Alan was good to me,’ Garioch said quietly. ‘Gave me a job and everything. Not so easy when you’ve done time.’

‘When he asked a wee favour, you weren’t going to say no?’

Garioch nodded his agreement with this. ‘Paul usually went to that club on a Friday night. Couple of times we’d had to drag him off some woman he was drooling over. Billie and Bekkah were supposed to follow him out when he left, get chatting to him, then make a complaint.’

‘Whether he’d done anything or not?’

Garioch nodded again. His head had fallen between his massive shoulders. ‘A woman had already complained about him, but she’d been scared off. Alan got me and Mel to have a quiet word with her.’

‘Mel Stuart?’ Kaye checked. ‘Mel’s done a bit of time too, hasn’t he? Didn’t it feel a bit strange, the pair of you taking a wage from an ex-cop?’

‘Alan was all right. You knew where you stood with him.’

‘So he’d had you put a bit of pressure on Teresa Collins…’ Kaye prompted.

‘Billie and Bekkah were by way of an insurance policy,’ Garioch acknowledged. ‘But when they left the club they couldn’t see him. After a bit, Bekkah needed to pee, and that’s when he drew up in his car. We didn’t know he would have them lifted, but it worked out okay for us.’

‘Your boss was happy?’

‘He hated his nephew. Never quite understood it myself, but that’s families for you – grievances get nursed.’

‘You never asked him why he was doing it?’

Garioch shook his head.