Ian Rankin: The Impossible Dead

‘And that’s all you’ve got to play with?’

‘It’s all you’re going to get from me.’

Fox watched as Pears slowly turned his head away from him. There was just the tiniest gasp of pain as he did so. Fox bided his time, knowing another visitor would be arriving soon. On cue, the door behind him flew open. Alison Pears ignored Fox and strode towards the bed.

‘Stephen!’ She leaned over her husband, planting a hard kiss on his cheek. ‘What in God’s name happened?’

‘Can you believe they left me here alone with that madman?’ Pears replied. She straightened up and turned towards Fox.

‘Your husband had plans to kill me,’ Fox informed her. ‘Same as Francis Vernal and Alan Carter. When a noose wouldn’t do the job, he tried using a gun instead.’

‘Get out,’ she commanded.

Fox shook his head slowly. Alison Pears’s eyes narrowed. ‘That’s an order, Inspector.’

Fox held her stare. ‘I’m wondering how long you’ve known. You do know, don’t you?’

‘Know what?’

‘That you married Hawkeye. Did you work it out before the wedding or after? I’m not entirely sure the pair of you have ever talked about it. Ancient history, after all – you were both other people. No need to dredge up the past. Happy, healthy, wealthy and going places…’

‘I’m telling you to leave.’ Her voice was almost a snarl, both rows of teeth bared.

‘So you can start to get your stories straight?’ Fox surmised. ‘Can’t have this huge, talented edifice crumble – is that your thinking?’

‘I told you he’s insane,’ Stephen Pears complained. ‘The man’s completely obsessed.’

‘Yes, I’d say so,’ his wife agreed, her voice dropping a little. ‘Obsessed and paranoid – seeing conspiracies everywhere.’

‘Everywhere,’ her husband echoed.

Silence descended on the room. Fox stood his ground, then nodded slowly.

‘You’re going to fight this?’ he asked.

‘Whatever it takes,’ Alison Pears replied.

Fox nodded again and reached into his pocket, removing the little digital recorder and pressing the ‘play’ button. The speaker was tiny, but with the volume all the way up, the conversation was clear enough.

So you’re going to tell me why you killed Francis Vernal?

You have to go back further. You have to understand how things were…

Fox fast-forwarded a little and hit ‘play’ again.

Okay, so I took the money…

It was Alice Watts you were interested in.

His eyes fixed on those of Alison Pears, he moved the recording forward a little further.

Alan Carter had nothing on you?

It was Alison’s name he had.

And forward again.

Nasty little man – not the sort that can be reasoned with.

Fox switched the machine off and held it between thumb and forefinger. Alison Pears seemed frozen for a moment, then inhaled and exhaled before turning towards the bed.

‘You’re a fool, Stephen, and it’s beginning to look like you always were.’

Pears had squeezed shut his eyes, as if every word was a fresh affliction. She loomed over him, hands gripping the metal side-rail as she started to get her breathing back under control. Blood had risen to her cheeks, and she rubbed her fingers down them, as if to erase the colouring. She ran her tongue across her lips and faced Fox again.

‘I knew nothing about any of this,’ she declared. ‘It’s all come as a complete and utter shock.’ She straightened her jacket and brushed a few stray strands of hair back into place. Fox was reminded of the transformation that had taken place in her study, when she’d answered her telephone.

‘The pair of you are well matched,’ he commented. ‘Hard to know which one is the colder, actually.’ He gave a twitch of the mouth, maintaining eye contact with Alison Pears. ‘Fine, then – you’ll tell your story and I’ll tell mine. Whichever way it works out, you’ve ended up married to a killer, and I doubt that’ll sit too well with the position of Chief Constable. I’m guessing it might even be a matter for the Complaints…’ The recorder was back in his pocket. He used his good hand to open the door. The officer on duty was trying not to look too interested in the commotion he’d just heard. As Fox stepped into the corridor, he turned his head towards Stephen Pears. But Pears’s eyes were still closed, so Fox let the door swing shut, leaving him to his fate.

It wasn’t much of a homecoming.

Fox’s father was asleep on the bed in the living room. Jude hadn’t got round to tidying the place. Plates and mugs needed taking to the kitchen; magazines put into a bag for recycling. She gave him a peck on the cheek and said it was good to see him.

‘How long will you be off work?’ she asked.

‘I’ll be able to look after Dad, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘It wasn’t,’ she said, not meeting his eyes. His legs were stiff from all that running, and there was still a residual burning sensation in his lungs. Every few minutes he seemed to relive part of it, but to everyone who asked him how he was, he gave the same answer: ‘I’m fine.’

He had so far avoided seeing any TV coverage. There had been phone messages from Evelyn Mills, Fiona McFadzean, and Charles Mangold. He had listened to them but not replied. The same went for texts – what was he supposed to say to any of them? He felt bad about ignoring Evelyn Mills in particular, but didn’t know what else to do. Too many relationships had gone sour around him; he didn’t want to add any more fuel to the general misery.

Jude made him tea while he sat on the sofa, watching his father. The chest rose and fell. The mouth was slightly open. Mitch’s hair needed washing, and the room smelled faintly of talcum powder.

‘Anything been happening?’ he asked Jude as she handed him his mug.

‘A lot of phone calls, but that’s about it. And one of the neighbours came to the door to ask after you. Some old boy from across the street.’

‘Mr Anderson,’ Fox informed her.

She nodded, without really taking the information in. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I’m glad you’re here, because I need to nip out for some ciggies.’

‘Ten a day still?’

‘Am I about to get a lecture?’

Fox shook his head. ‘On you go,’ he told her.

She wasted no time fetching her coat, then asked him if he wanted anything. He shook his head again. When she hesitated, he knew she needed money, so dug a twenty out of his pocket.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Sure you don’t want tomato juice or something?’

‘No.’

The door closed after her, leaving Fox alone with his father. He cleared some odds and ends from the chair next to the bed and sat down, taking Mitch’s hand in his. The eyelids fluttered and the breathing changed, but he didn’t wake up. Fox removed the photo from his pocket, the one showing Chris as he cheered on Francis Vernal. He wrote both their names on the back and added it to the shoebox. He spotted a half-bottle of whisky on the mantelpiece, and another half-bottle of vodka next to it. The vodka – Jude’s drink of choice – was almost empty, the whisky almost full. Fox stared at both bottles, then got up and walked towards them. He unscrewed the cap from the whisky and put his nose to the open neck, inhaling and exhaling. He knew it would be so easy to tip a measure into his mouth, savouring before swallowing. But instead he walked back to the bed and dipped a finger into the liquid, dabbing his father’s lips with it. The eyelids fluttered again.

‘That’s some bedside manner you’ve got,’ Mitch Fox said, opening his eyes and smiling at his son. ‘Now pour me a proper one, will you?’