Ian Rankin: The Impossible Dead

‘Because his wife’s risen through the ranks and he doesn’t want anyone pooping her party?’

‘There’s that,’ Fox agreed. ‘Plus he’s on course for the House of Lords – a terrorist past might not sit too well with a Tory peerage. He’s a donor to the party, too.’

Kaye was staring at him. ‘You can’t go saying any of this, Malcolm. Not without at least a few shreds of evidence.’

‘I went on the internet. Pears spoke at a conference a few years back in Barbados, same time an arms dealer called William Benchley drowned in his swimming pool. Benchley had been selling guns smuggled home by soldiers from the Falklands.’

Kaye’s stare intensified. ‘Malcolm…’

Fox held up a hand. ‘I know, I know – maybe I should check myself into Carstairs.’ He paused. ‘But what if at least some of it is true?’

Kaye pushed his empty plate aside and lifted his coffee mug. ‘I still don’t see you’re in a position to do anything about it,’ he said.

‘Maybe not,’ Fox conceded.

‘But since it’s a night for storytelling, I can offer you one of my own.’

Fox tried hard to concentrate on Tony Kaye’s account of his meeting with Tosh Garioch.

‘So Paul Carter was being set up by his uncle,’ he stated at the conclusion.

‘Not exactly,’ Kaye argued. ‘Garioch says Paul did try it on with Billie and Bekkah. And Alan Carter did put a bit of pressure on Teresa Collins, but only after she made her original complaint.’

Fox was thoughtful. ‘Uncle Alan wanted to make sure the mud stuck.’

‘He really did hate his nephew, didn’t he?’

‘So why phone him that night? Phone him but not speak to him?’ Fox’s eyes were on Kaye. ‘The address book with Paul’s number in it… it was left open for anyone to find.’

‘So?’

‘Any check of calls made, and Paul’s name would pop up. But say it wasn’t Alan who did the calling…’

‘The murderer?’

Fox was nodding slowly. ‘Paul’s been found guilty but suddenly he’s not on remand any more. The judge at his trial is no friend of the police, yet he lets him out, pending sentencing.’ Fox gave a little smile.

‘What is it?’ Kaye asked.

‘Sheriff Cardonald is a member of the New Club. I saw him there that time I met with Charles Mangold.’

‘So?’

‘So Stephen Pears is a member, too.’

‘Pears gets his friend the sheriff to release Paul Carter?’

‘Paul was the perfect fall guy,’ Fox argued. ‘The court case had made it clear uncle and nephew loathed one another.’

‘But it only worked if Paul was back on the street.’ Kaye was actually sounding half-convinced.

‘It’s all conjecture,’ Fox admitted. ‘You said so yourself – where’s the proof?’

‘Don’t always need proof to flush someone out,’ Kaye stated. ‘We know that from experience.’

‘Do you still think I’m mad?’

‘Maybe not so much.’ Tony Kaye drained his coffee. ‘The thing is, though – what do you do about it?’

‘I’ll have to think about that.’

Having showered, shaved and changed his clothes, Fox was parked outside Mangold Bain at nine thirty. He watched the receptionist arrive but failed to bring her name to mind. He knew he needed sleep.

Straight after this, he promised himself.

Mangold arrived on foot. He turned his head at the sound of the car door opening.

‘Good morning, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Did we have an appointment?’

‘Just curious about something,’ Fox explained. ‘Does Colin Cardonald know Stephen Pears?’

‘Sheriff Cardonald? What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘It’s a simple enough question,’ Fox reasoned.

‘I’ve seen them together,’ Mangold conceded.

‘At the New Club?’

‘Yes.’

‘Friends, then?’

‘Colin Cardonald likes to dabble.’

‘Dabble?’

‘Stocks and shares.’

‘Handy to have someone like Pears to offer advice,’ Fox surmised.

‘I’d say so.’ Mangold paused. ‘Does this have something to do with Francis?’

‘Not at all,’ Fox lied. ‘Like I say, I was just curious.’

‘Curious enough to ambush me outside my office.’

Fox couldn’t deny it.

‘You’re close, aren’t you?’ Mangold’s voice had dropped, though there was no one nearby to overhear. He took a step towards Fox. ‘There’s a sort of fever in your eyes.’

‘She won’t like it, you know,’ Fox responded.

‘Who?’

‘The widow. If I’m right, and it becomes public knowledge, she’ll blame you. She might very well end up hating your guts.’

The lawyer reached out and gripped Fox’s forearm. ‘What is it?’ he hissed. ‘Tell me what it is you’ve found!’

But Fox shook his head slowly and got back into the car. Mangold stood by the driver’s-side window, peering in. When Fox turned the key in the ignition, the lawyer thumped on the Volvo’s roof with both hands. He was still standing in the road as Fox drove away, decreasing in size and importance in the rear-view mirror.

It took a few days to arrange, but that was fine. In the meantime, the terror suspects had been charged, remanded and moved into Edinburgh’s Saughton Prison. The Justice Minister had enjoyed giving interviews and had praised ‘my big sister’, much to the delight of the tabloids. The alert level at Fettes remained CRITICAL, but would soon be downgraded. Fife Constabulary had written a letter to Lothian and Borders congratulating the Complaints team on its ‘exemplary’ report. Whether the media were informed or not, Fox and his team didn’t know – nothing seemed to appear in the press. Reprimands would be issued to Scholes, Haldane and Michaelson, and that would be that.

Mitchell Fox had left hospital, not for Lauder Lodge but for his son’s living room. Fox had bought a single bed from IKEA, Tony Kaye helping him put it together. The only toilet in the house was upstairs, so Fox tracked down a commode. Jude was promising to act as nurse for a short while – ‘not for ever and a day, mind’. Mitch was slow and occasionally confused, and his speech was slurred, but he was able to eat and drink with just a little bit of help. Lauder Lodge warned Fox that they couldn’t keep his father’s room unoccupied for long, but he had paid them until the end of the month, which gave a bit of breathing space. At night, he sat and watched TV – him on the sofa, his dad propped up in bed. The old boy could get up during the day, though it was proving a challenge getting him dressed. More often, they left him in his pyjamas and a towelling robe.

Mitch’s old drinking buddy Sandy Cameron had visited and approved of the effort brother and sister were making: Your old man’s proud of you – I can see it in his eyes. They cooked dinner on alternate nights and pretended everything was quite normal. Afterwards, whatever the weather, Jude would disappear into the back garden for a cigarette – she was already up to ten a day – and Fox would settle down on the sofa with the TV remote and the evening paper. The room had become cramped, bed and commode taking up space. Mitch’s clothes had been relegated to a suitcase and bin liner in the hall. The coffee table was covered with his paraphernalia, and the dining table had been folded closed, meaning all Fox’s paperwork was now spread across his bedroom floor.

A physio was due to pay a visit once a week to work with Mitch. A speech therapist had even been mooted. They’d given him a rubber ball he was supposed to squeeze twenty times per hand three or four times a day. The shoebox of photographs sat untouched on the coffee table. Jude made a shopping list: furniture polish, fabric conditioner, vacuum-cleaner bags and dusters. Plus an iron and ironing board. She asked her brother how he’d coped all these years.