Ian Rankin - The Impossible Dead

‘What will you do – have me suspended? Remember to fill him in on your sister’s history.’

‘What is it you think she’s done wrong exactly?’

‘I’m still trying to figure that out.’ Fox met Watson’s gaze. ‘Care to help me?’

‘Help you?’

‘By reopening the Vernal investigation – properly this time. Set up a public inquiry. He was being spied on by MI5 and an undercover police officer. Did that play any part in his death? Was there a cover-up afterwards? And does it connect to the murder of Alan Carter?’ Fox rose slowly to his feet, keeping his eyes fixed on Watson. ‘Could be a real feather in your cap if you started to get some answers to those questions.’

But the Justice Minister was shaking his head. ‘Dark Harvest Commando… the SNLA – nobody wants those corpses resurrected.’

‘Nobody in your party,’ Fox corrected him.

‘Nobody, period.’

‘You might be surprised.’

Watson kept on shaking his head.

‘Just me, then?’ The question was rhetorical, but Watson answered it anyway.

‘Just you.’

Three minutes later, Fox was watching from his window as the car pulled away. The interior light was on, the minister mulling over documents. Fox’s phone let him know he had a text. It was from Jude.

You awake?

He called her back. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. Didn’t want to bother you if you were asleep.’

‘Speaking of which…’

‘I can’t stop tossing and turning,’ she confessed with a sigh. ‘I keep thinking about Dad – what are we going to do with him, Malcolm?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘He can’t stay in hospital for ever.’

‘No.’

‘But unless he improves…’

‘Lauder Lodge isn’t much use to him either,’ he agreed, finishing the thought for her. ‘I’ll put my thinking cap on, Jude.’

‘Me too.’ He listened to her shift positions, guessed she was lying in bed.

‘Remember when we were kids?’ he said. ‘I’d sneak into your room and we’d sing songs together under the sheets?’

‘Our own Top of the Pops, until Mum or Dad heard us. I haven’t thought of that for years…’

‘I was in some woods a few days back,’ Fox began, settling himself on the sofa again. ‘It took me back to the Hermitage and the walks we used to take. That was in the days when you still preferred me to other boys.’

‘I never preferred you to other boys,’ Jude teased.

Fox smiled and they continued chatting. He had the TV remote in his hand and flicked through the available channels. Late-night shopping, astrology, phone-in quizzes. There was news, but he didn’t linger on it. He settled on a comedy channel instead. An old episode of MASH was just starting. Hawkeye and Trapper John and Hot Lips and Radar. The actor Alan Alda played Hawkeye, all floppy fringe, loping walk and wisecracks. Jude was talking about a den they’d made one time at a secret spot in the Hermitage. But Fox wasn’t sitting so comfortably now. His grip had tightened on the remote. He pretended to yawn, apologising to his sister.

‘I should let you sleep,’ she told him.

‘I’m really enjoying talking, but I can hardly keep my eyes open.’

‘Tomorrow at the hospital?’

‘What time do you think you’ll be there?’ he asked.

‘After breakfast. You?’

‘Later, probably.’

‘Things to do?’ she guessed.

‘Night, sis.’

‘Night, bro.’

Fox ended the call and wandered into the kitchen, boiling the kettle and making himself some strong tea. On another night, he might have spent time reflecting on the thawing in his relationship with his sister – but that would have to wait. He took the mug back through to the living room and tried using his mobile phone to access the internet. It was hopeless, though – slow, and the screen too small. After peering at it for a while, he decided he needed to go to Fettes and use one of the computers in the Complaints office. As he was readying to leave, his phone trilled. According to the display, it was Evelyn Mills. He let it keep ringing. Two minutes later there was a text: Need someone to talk to. He stared at the message, undecided. He had his jacket on, car key in his free hand. The phone went again and he answered.

‘Evelyn?’

But it was a man’s voice. ‘Whoever you are, just bugger off. She doesn’t need you.’

The line went dead. Fox stared at the handset. Her partner Freddie, presumably.

‘Fine then,’ Fox said to himself, heading for the door.

‘It’s Stephen Pears,’ Fox repeated.

It was just shy of five a.m. and he was seated at the breakfast bar in Tony Kaye’s kitchen. He had spent the best part of an hour trying to persuade his friend of the truth of it, the two men keeping their voices low so as not to wake Kaye’s wife. Eventually Kaye had sighed, scratched his nose and suggested food.

As the toast was placed in front of Fox, he knew he wouldn’t eat it.

‘And this is all because of a late-night repeat on the Comedy Channel?’ Kaye said, pouring more coffee.

‘Yes.’

‘See when you took that trip to Carstairs – madness isn’t catching, is it?’

‘I’ve told you – Hawkeye Pierce… Hawkeye Pears. He was on the archery team in high school. It was the obvious nickname for him. After university he’s supposed to have spent a couple of years “drifting” – he’s always been vague about it. Says he did a variety of jobs all over the world and came back to Scotland with a chunk of money. First anyone heard of him in the finance sector was mid-1986, and he had almost thirty K to invest. Split it between two start-ups, and a year later he’s quadrupled his stake.’

‘And you got all this from a journalist?’

Fox nodded. ‘I drove to the Scotsman offices. Night shift comprised one staffer. He phoned the business editor for me.’

‘Did either of them wonder why you were interested?’

‘I told him I was the Media Unit.’

‘What Media Unit?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Putting together a press pack about Chief Constable Alison Pears…’

‘And to do that, you needed to ask the media for help?’ Kaye shook his head slowly and brushed toast crumbs from the corners of his mouth. ‘In the middle of the night?’

‘It was all I had,’ Fox reasoned. ‘And I got what I needed, didn’t I?’

‘It’s not enough. The guy in that photo looks nothing like Stephen Pears.’

‘I can ask him.’ Fox had taken the photo from his pocket, the one showing Vernal, Alice and Hawkeye. It was scuffed from so much handling.

‘What if he denies it? That’s all he’s got to do, Malcolm.’

Fox picked up his replenished mug, but put it down again without drinking. He knew his friend was right. The photo wasn’t enough. The theories weren’t enough.

Kaye swallowed some coffee and stifled a belch. ‘If it is him,’ he speculated, ‘the wife’s got to know.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Fox countered. ‘They met twelve years ago and have been married for ten. That makes it thirteen years since she’d laid eyes on Hawkeye. Beard gone, hair short and dyed a lighter colour, a bit heavier around the waist and the face…’

‘She’s got to have known,’ Kaye persisted, wiping at his mouth again.

Fox didn’t say anything. He stared at the toast on his plate, with its layer of pale yellow butter. The very thought of it was making him queasy. He slid the photograph back into his pocket as Kaye spoke.

‘Even supposing – just for argument’s sake – that you’re right, it doesn’t mean you can tie Pears to anything. Are you saying he killed Francis Vernal and Alan Carter?’

‘He’d have had motive enough.’