Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘Not a great time, Annie, if I’m being honest.’

‘Anything I can do to help?’

‘No, but thanks for the offer.’

‘I got your message…’

The horn in the car behind Fox started blaring as he headed down a street meant only for taxis and buses.

‘There’s been a complication. My sister’s partner’s turned up dead.’

‘I’m sorry…’

‘Don’t be – he was an evil little sod. But I’ve just met the investigating officer. He’s a DS called Jamie Breck.’

‘Oh.’

‘So the job you wanted me to do should probably go to someone else. In fact, a couple of my colleagues are already briefed.’

‘Right.’ She paused. ‘So where are you now?’

‘On my way to my sister’s place.’

‘How is she?’

‘That’s what I’m going to find out.’

‘Let me know, will you?’

Fox glanced in his rearview mirror. A patrol car was behind him, blue roof-lights flashing. ‘Got to go,’ he said, ending the call.

It took him a whole five minutes to discuss his situation with the officers. He’d tried showing them his warrant card without letting them see he was Complaints and Conduct, but they seemed to know anyway. Was he aware he’d made an illegal manoeuvre? And did he recall the law about driving while holding a conversation on a mobile phone? He managed to sound apologetic; managed not to explain where he was headed and why – didn’t see any reason the sods needed to know. In the end, they wrote him out a penalty ticket.

‘Nobody’s above the law,’ the elder of the two cautioned him. Fox thanked the man and got back into his car. They did what they always did – tailed him a few hundred more yards before signalling right and heading elsewhere. It was what happened when you were the Complaints – no favours from your colleagues. In fact, just the opposite. Which got Fox thinking about Jamie Breck again…

He found a parking space along the street from Jude’s house. Alison Pettifer opened the door. She’d closed the curtains in the living room and kitchen – out of respect, Fox surmised.

‘Where’s Jude?’ he asked.

‘Upstairs. I made her some tea with plenty of sugar.’

Fox nodded, looking around the living room. It seemed to him that Pettifer had started the process of tidying up. He thanked her and signalled that he was going to go see his sister. She pressed a hand to his arm. Didn’t say anything, but her eyes told a story. Go easy on her. He patted the hand and went out into the hall. The stairs were steep and narrow – difficult to fall down them without becoming wedged halfway. Three doors led off the cramped landing – bathroom and two bedrooms. One bedroom had been turned into Vince Faulkner’s lair. Boxes of junk, an old hi-fi and racks of rock CDs, plus a desk with a cheap computer. The door was ajar, so Fox peered in. The slatted blinds had been drawn closed. A couple of men’s magazines lay on the floor – Nuts and Zoo. Their covers showed near-identical blondes with their arms covering their breasts. Fox tapped on the next door along, and turned the handle. Jude was lying on the bed with the duvet cocooned around her. She wasn’t asleep, though. The tea sat untouched on the bedside table, beside an empty tumbler. The room smelled faintly of vodka.

‘How you doing, sis?’ He sat down on the bed. All he could see were her head and her bare feet. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead. She sniffled and started to sit up. Beneath the duvet she was fully dressed.

‘Somebody killed him,’ she said.

Best thing that could have happened. But what he said out loud was: ‘It’s hellish.’

‘Do they think…?’

‘What?’

‘Maybe I had something to do with it.’

Fox shook his head. ‘But they’ll want to talk to you. Standard procedure, so don’t worry about it.’ She nodded slowly and he stroked her hair again. ‘When did you last see him, Jude?’

‘Saturday.’

‘The same day he…’ Fox gestured towards the plaster cast.

‘I came back from the hospital and he wasn’t here.’

‘Did you hear from him?’

She took a deep breath and exhaled, then shook her head. ‘Wasn’t so unusual, to tell the truth. Some nights, I was lucky if I saw him for five minutes. He’d be out with his mates, and come home next day with the story that he’d bunked on a couch or a spare bed.’

‘Did you try phoning him over the weekend?’

‘Texted him a couple of times.’

‘No answer?’

She shook her head. ‘I expected him home on Sunday, but then…’ She gazed at her broken arm. ‘Maybe he was feeling more ashamed than usual.’

‘And by last night?’ Fox coaxed.

Another deep breath. ‘By last night… maybe I was getting worried.’

‘Or anaesthetised.’ Fox gestured towards the empty glass. She shrugged as best she could. ‘When I dropped in yesterday,’ he went on, ‘why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I didn’t want you to know.’

‘I tried calling you last night… there was no answer.’

‘You said it yourself – anaesthetised.’

‘And again this morning?’

She stared at him. ‘Have they sent you here to interrogate me?’

‘I’m just asking the questions they’ll ask.’

‘You never liked him,’ she commented.

‘I can’t deny it.’

‘Maybe you’re even glad he’s dead.’ Her voice was turning accusatory. Fox lifted her chin with one finger, so she was facing him.

‘That’s not true,’ he lied. ‘But he was never the man you deserved.’

‘He was what I got, Malcolm. And that was plenty enough for me.’

He met Annie Inglis for coffee at the Fettes canteen. Apart from the staff, the place was deserted. Inglis insisted on fetching the drinks while he sat at a table near the window.

‘I’m not an invalid,’ he told her with a smile, as she pushed the mug towards him.

‘Sugar?’ She tipped half a dozen sachets on to the table. He shook his head and watched her draw her chair in. She’d chosen hot chocolate for herself. She fidgeted a little, dabbed a finger against the surface of the liquid and sucked on it. Then she made eye contact.

‘So,’ she said.

‘So,’ he agreed.

‘Any idea what happened?’

‘Building site by the canal. Someone did a job on him.’

‘How’s your sister doing?’

‘Her name’s Jude, short for Judith. I’m not sure how she’s doing.’

‘You went to see her?’

‘She was tucked up in bed with a bottle of vodka.’

‘Can’t begrudge her that.’

‘Jude has a history with alcohol.’ He stared down at his coffee. It was meant to be a cappuccino, but the foam was non-existent. Inglis gave a twitch of the mouth and allowed the silence to linger.

‘So,’ she asked at last, ‘you got to meet DS Breck?’

‘Wondered how long it would take you,’ he muttered.

She ignored this. ‘How did he strike you?’

‘I’d say he’s good at his job. The conversation never really got round to his predilection for kiddie-fiddling.’

She bristled, but only for a moment. ‘Malcolm,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m only asking.’

‘Sorry.’

‘And the reason I’m asking is because Gilchrist and me have been talking…’

‘Is he your boss, by the way?’

‘Gilchrist?’ She widened her eyes a little. ‘He’s my DC.’

‘He’s older than you.’

‘So your immediate thought was that he had to outrank me?’

Fox was saved from answering by the sound of her phone. She lifted it from the table and checked the screen.

‘I’ve got to take this,’ she said. ‘It’s my son.’ She held the phone to her ear. ‘Hey, Duncan.’ She listened for the best part of a minute, eyes fixed on the world outside the window. ‘Okay, but I want you home by seven. Understood? Bye then.’ She placed the phone back on the table, her fingers resting against it.