Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘I didn’t think you were married,’ Fox said.

‘I’m not.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But what made you…?’

He swallowed before answering. There was stuff about her he wasn’t supposed to know. ‘No wedding ring,’ he eventually said. Then, a little too quickly: ‘How old is Duncan?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘You must’ve been young.’

‘My last year at school. Mum and Dad were furious, but they looked after him.’

Fox nodded slowly. There’d been no mention of a son in Inglis’s personnel file. An oversight? He took a sip of his drink.

‘He’s headed to a friend’s,’ Annie Inglis explained.

‘Can’t be easy – single mum, teenage boy…’

‘It’s fine,’ she stated, her tone telling him things could be left at that.

Fox held the mug to his mouth and blew across it. ‘You were telling me,’ he said, ‘that you’d been talking with Gilchrist…’

‘That’s right. We’re thinking that this could work out for us.’

‘Me and Breck, you mean?’

She nodded. ‘You’re not involved in the inquiry, so it’s not really a conflict of interest.’

‘What you’re saying is, while Breck investigates the murder, I busy myself keeping an eye on him?’

‘The two of you have already met… and you’ve got the perfect excuse for keeping in touch with him.’

‘And it’s not a conflict of interest?’

‘We’re only asking you for background, Malcolm, gen we can pass on to London. Nothing you do is going to come to court.’

‘How can we be sure?’

She thought for a moment and shrugged. ‘Gilchrist’s checking with your boss and the Deputy Chief.’

‘Shouldn’t that be your job?’

She shrugged and made eye contact. ‘I wanted to see you instead. ’

‘I’m touched.’

‘Are you up to the task, Malcolm? That’s what I need to know.’

Fox thought back to the piece of waste ground. We’ll be doing all we can…

‘I’m up to it,’ Malcolm Fox said.

Back upstairs, the Complaints office was empty. He sat at his desk for a good five minutes, gnawing on a cheap ballpoint pen, thinking of Vince Faulkner and Jude and Jamie Breck. The door, already ajar, was pushed all the way open by Bob McEwan. He was wearing a trenchcoat and carrying a briefcase.

‘You all right, Foxy?’ he asked, standing in front of the desk, feet planted almost a yard apart.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Heard about your brother-in-law… compassionate leave if you want it.’

‘He wasn’t a relation,’ Fox corrected his boss. ‘Just a guy my sister fell in with.’

‘All the same…’

‘I’ll look in on her when I can.’ The words, as they emerged from his mouth, made him think of his father. Mitch needed to be told.

‘And about the Chop Shop,’ McEwan began. ‘Reckon you can still help them out?’

‘You don’t think there’s a problem?’

‘Traynor doesn’t see one.’ Adam Traynor – Deputy Chief Constable. ‘I’ve just been speaking with him.’

‘Then that’s that,’ Fox said, placing the pen back on the desk.

At work’s end, he headed over to Lauder Lodge. One of the staff told him he’d find his father in Mrs Sanderson’s room. Fox stood in front of her door and couldn’t hear anything. He knocked and waited until the woman’s voice invited him in. Mitch was seated facing Mrs Sanderson. The two chairs were positioned either side of the room’s fireplace. This fireplace was for show only. A vase of dried flowers sat in the unused grate. He’d been in Mrs Sanderson’s room once before, when his father had introduced him to his ‘new, dear friend’. The old boy was doing the same thing again.

‘This is my son, Audrey.’

Mrs Sanderson gave a tinkling laugh. ‘I know, Mitch. I’ve met Malcolm before.’

Mitch Fox’s brow furrowed as he tried to remember. Fox leaned down over Mrs Sanderson and placed a kiss against her cheek. She smelled faintly of talcum powder and her face was like parchment; her hands and arms, too. She’d probably always been thin, but now the skin on her face matched the exact contours of the skull beneath. Yet for all that, she was a handsome woman.

‘You’re feeling better?’ Fox asked.

‘Much better, dear.’ She gave his hand a pat before releasing it.

‘Twice in a few days,’ Fox’s father was saying. ‘Am I supposed to feel flattered? And when’s that sister of yours going to put in an appearance?’

There was nowhere for Fox to sit except the bed, so he stayed standing. It seemed to him that he towered over the two seated figures. Mrs Sanderson was arranging the tartan travel rug that lay spread across her lower body.

‘Jude’s had some bad news, Dad,’ Fox said.

‘Oh?’

‘It’s Vince. He’s been killed.’

Mrs Sanderson stared up at him, mouth opening in an O.

‘Killed?’ Mitch Fox echoed.

‘Do you want me to…?’ Mrs Sanderson was trying to rise to her feet.

‘You sit back down,’ Mitch ordered. ‘This is your room, Audrey.’

‘Looks like he got himself into a spot of bother,’ Fox was trying to explain, ‘and ended up taking a beating.’

‘No more than he deserved.’

‘Now really, Mitch!’ Mrs Sanderson protested. Then, to Fox: ‘How’s Jude taking it, Malcolm?’

‘She’s bearing up.’

‘She’ll need all the help you can give her.’ She turned to Mitch. ‘You should go see her.’

‘What good would that do?’

‘It would show her that you cared. Malcolm will take you…’ She looked at Fox for confirmation. He managed something between a nod and a shrug. Her voice softened a little. ‘Malcolm will take you,’ she repeated, leaning forward and stretching out an arm. After a moment, Mitch Fox copied her. Their hands met and clasped.

‘Maybe not just yet, though,’ Fox cautioned, remembering the plaster cast. ‘She’s not really up to visitors… She’s sleeping a fair bit.’

‘Tomorrow then,’ Mrs Sanderson decided.

‘Tomorrow,’ Fox eventually conceded.

On the drive home, he thought about visiting Jude, but decided he would phone her instead, just before bedtime. She’d given Alison Pettifer the details of a couple of her closest friends, and the neighbour had promised Fox she would call them and get them to take turns with Jude.

‘She won’t be alone,’ had been Pettifer’s closing words to him.

He wondered, too, what Annie Inglis would be doing. She’d told her son to be home by seven. It was seven now. Fox had memorised her address from the HR file. He could drive there in ten or fifteen minutes, but to what purpose? He was curious about the kid. Tried to imagine what it had been like for the schoolgirl to confront her farming father with the news. Mum and Dad were furious… but they looked after him. Yes, because that’s what families did – they rallied round; they dug in.

But Duncan ’s not on your file, Annie…

At the next set of traffic lights, he stared at an off-licence’s window display. Little halogen spotlights threw each bottle into sharp relief. He wondered if Jude’s friends were drinkers. Would they turn up with carrier bags and a collection of memories, tragic stories for the telling and retelling?

‘Cup of tea for you, Foxy,’ he told himself as the queue of traffic began its crawl across the junction.

The mail waiting for him on the hall carpet was the usual stuff: bills and junk and a bank statement. At least the Royal Bank of Scotland was still in business. There was nothing in the envelope with the statement, no letter of grovelling apology for getting above itself and letting down its customers. Lauder Lodge’s monthly payment had gone out. The rest seemed to be petrol and groceries. He looked in the fridge, seeking inspiration for a quick dinner. Denied, he tried the cupboards and emerged with a tin of chilli and a small jar of jalapenos. There was long-grain rice in a jar on the worktop. The radio was tuned to Classic FM, but he changed the channel to something he’d come across recently. The station was just called Birdsong and birdsong was precisely what it delivered. He went back to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Appletiser, sat with his drink at the table and rubbed a hand across his face and forehead, kneading his temples and the bridge of his nose. He wondered who would pay for his nursing home when the time came. He hoped there’d be someone like Mrs Sanderson waiting for him there.