Ian Rankin - The Impossible Dead

‘And getting the girls involved – that was Alan Carter’s idea?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did Paul try anything with Billie and Bekkah?’

‘Just like they told it.’

‘Another reason for you to be furious with him.’

Garioch stared at Tony Kaye. ‘It was for what he did to Alan,’ he stated.

‘Actually, Tosh, we’re not so sure he killed your boss,’ Kaye commented. ‘Meaning he might have died for nothing. If you had a conscience, I dare say that fact could end up troubling it.’

Kaye rose slowly to his feet. ‘We’ll get a statement from you,’ he said. ‘Best if you talk to DI Cash direct – tell him everything you’ve told me.’

‘I thought you were going to talk to him?’

‘And I will. But best if it looks like you’ve made up your own mind. Take your lawyer with you.’ Kaye was buttoning his coat. He nodded towards Garioch’s empty glass. ‘And no more of those tonight – don’t want to add drink-driving to the list, do we?’

Fox was asleep fully dressed on his sofa when the doorbell went. He had an ache in his neck, and rubbed at his eyes before checking the time: five minutes shy of midnight. The TV news was playing, but just barely audible. He got up and stretched his spine. The bell went again. He opened the living-room curtains and peered out, then went into the hall and opened the door.

‘Bit late to be canvassing,’ he told Andrew Watson.

‘I need a word with you,’ the politician replied. A car was parked outside Fox’s gate, engine idling and a driver at the wheel.

‘Better come in, then,’ he said.

‘Bit of trouble?’ Watson had noticed the damage to the door.

‘Break-in.’

Watson didn’t seem interested. He followed Fox into the house. ‘I’m not used to people hanging up on me,’ he said, as if reading from a script. But Fox wasn’t about to apologise. Instead, he was pouring the dregs from a bottle of fruit juice into a glass and gulping it down. There was no offer of anything for the Justice Minister. Fox sat down on the sofa and switched the TV sound to mute. Watson stayed on his feet.

‘I need to know what’s going on,’ he said.

‘Ask your sister.’

‘She won’t tell me.’

‘Then I can’t help.’

‘Why are the Complaints so interested?’

‘That’s between her and me.’

‘I could make it my business.’

‘I dare say you could.’

Watson glared at him. ‘She’s running the highest-profile case we’ve seen in this country for several years.’

‘Maybe even since Megrahi,’ Fox agreed.

The SNP man’s eyes did everything short of glowing red. ‘I intend to see to it that you don’t come within ten miles of her.’

Fox was rubbing at his eyes again. He blinked them back into focus, sighed, and motioned for Watson to sit down.

‘I prefer to stand.’

‘Sit down and listen to what I have to tell you.’

Watson sat down, pressing his palms together as if to aid his concentration.

‘Remember at the house?’ Fox began. ‘I mentioned Francis Vernal…’

‘Yes.’

‘Your sister was fresh out of Tulliallan – first job she got was deep cover, posing as a student at St Andrews. Matriculation, tutorials, the lot. Student politics got her closer and closer to some of the groups on the fringes. She was feeding back any information she could get.’

‘Are you quite sure about that, Inspector?’

Fox showed him the two matriculation photographs. ‘Look familiar?’

Watson studied them without emotion.

‘What of it?’ he eventually commented.

‘She started seeing Vernal – spending a lot of time with him. He’d been with her that weekend, had just left her when his car went off the road. That’s what I needed to talk to her about.’ Fox was staring at the politician, gauging his reactions.

‘I never knew,’ Watson said quietly.

‘Those groups tended to be separatists – not so far from your own politics.’

‘I remember. It was a bad time for the SNP. Some of us were a bit desperate, a bit frustrated. We were being marginalised – that won’t ever happen again, believe me.’

‘But back then…’

‘Tough times,’ Watson agreed.

‘Did you know any of these groups? Seed of the Gael? Dark Harvest Commando?’

‘Only by reputation.’

‘You never met Donald MacIver?’

‘No.’

‘Or Francis Vernal?’

‘No.’

‘And you’d no idea what your sister was up to?’

‘No idea,’ Watson echoed.

‘Now I’ve told you, what do you think?’

Watson turned this over in his mind for the best part of a minute, then shrugged and shook his head. ‘I’m really not sure,’ he said.

‘All those activists must have gone someplace,’ Fox commented. ‘Maybe into government, even.’

‘No place for hotheads and racists in the modern party, Inspector.’ Watson seemed to study Fox. ‘Can I take it you’re a unionist?’

‘It’s irrelevant what I am.’

‘Are you sure about that? Dusting off old enmities and conspiracies, hoping some mud might stick…’

‘Does the name Hawkeye mean anything to you?’

The question appeared to puzzle Watson. He thought for a moment. ‘Just the character from MASH,’ he concluded.

‘And Last of the Mohicans,’ Fox added.

‘That too,’ Watson agreed. He seemed tired, all his energy and anger used up. ‘It’s working, you know,’ he said at last, his eyes meeting Fox’s. ‘The administration, I mean. A quarter of a century back, few would have said they’d see the SNP in power in their lifetime – and that includes a lot of us in the party. But we got there.’ He nodded to himself. ‘We got there,’ he repeated. Then he stiffened. ‘But we can’t afford another Megrahi. These bomb-blasts… Alison needs all her concentration, meaning no sideshows.’

‘I’d hardly call murder a sideshow.’

‘Murder?’

‘Alan Carter – the man investigating Vernal’s death. Made to look like suicide but actually an execution.’

‘You can’t think Alison had anything to do with that!’

‘Why not? If Carter knew about her and was about to blow the whistle…’

‘Never.’ Watson shook his head. ‘You really can’t go bandying that sort of-’

‘It seems to be the only way of getting anyone’s attention,’ Fox countered. ‘After all, it got yours.’

‘She can’t have this hanging over her,’ Watson pressed. ‘Alison’s worked hard to get where she is.’

‘I dare say you think you’ve worked hard too.’

‘Of course.’

Fox narrowed his eyes. ‘Is it her you’re worried about or yourself? The job of Justice Minister seems to have a curse hanging over it, doesn’t it? Bit of a fillip to have a Chief Constable you can depend on, especially if she can also deliver a few extra column inches…’

‘What do you mean?’

‘How about if I hang fire – do nothing till after your terrorists are sentenced? You get your moment of glory… and afterwards I start asking my questions again?’

Watson stared at him. ‘What would you want in return?’ he asked, his tone softening.

‘Nothing.’ Fox paused. ‘Because it’s not going to happen – I just wanted to see if you’d bite.’

Watson flew to his feet. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he spluttered.

Fox ignored the outburst. ‘By the way, I meant to ask – how did you get my address?’

‘What?’

‘My address.’

‘Jackson,’ Watson snapped.

Fox nodded to himself: so the Special Branch man knew where he lived…

Watson had paced to the window and back again. ‘Is there any point trying to reason with you?’

Fox shrugged.

‘Then I’ll have to take this up with your Chief Constable.’