Ian Rankin - The Complaints

When the food was ready, he took it through to the living room and switched on the TV. There was birdsong still audible from the kitchen; sometimes he left it on all night. He flicked through the Freeview channels until he found Dave. It was all repeats, but still watchable. Fifth Gear followed by Top Gear followed by another Top Gear.

‘Can I stand the pace?’

He’d left his mobile to recharge on the worktop in the kitchen. When it started ringing, he considered not answering. A scoop of dinner, a half-groan, and he placed the tray on the carpet. The phone had gone dead by the time he reached it, but the readout showed two capitalised letters: TK. Meaning Tony Kaye. Fox unplugged the phone from its charger, punched in his colleague’s number, and retreated to the sofa.

‘Where are you?’ Kaye asked.

‘I’m not pubbing tonight,’ Fox warned him. He could hear the background hubbub. Minter’s or some place like it.

‘Yes, you are,’ Kaye informed him. ‘We’ve got trouble. How soon can you get here?’

‘What sort of trouble?’

‘Your friend Breck’s been on the blower.’

‘Get him to call me at home.’

‘It wasn’t you he wanted – it was me.’

Fox had dug his fork back into the chilli, but now left it there. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re going to have to square this, Foxy. Breck’s going to be here at the top of the hour.’

Fox lifted the phone from his ear long enough to check its clock. Seventeen minutes. ‘I can be there in twenty,’ he said, rising from the sofa and switching off the TV. ‘What does he want with you?’

‘He’s keen to know why I had a mate look up Vince Faulkner on the PNC.’

Fox cursed under his breath. ‘Twenty,’ he repeated as he grabbed his coat and car keys. ‘Don’t say anything till I get there. Minter’s, right?’

‘Right.’

Fox cursed again and ended the call, slamming the front door on his way out.

The same two customers were at the bar, conferring with the landlord on a question from yet another TV quiz show. Jamie Breck recognised Fox and nodded a greeting. He was seated at Tony Kaye’s regular table, Kaye himself seated opposite, his face stern.

‘What can I get you?’ Breck asked. Fox shook his head and sat down. He noted that Kaye was drinking tomato juice, Breck a half-pint of orange and lemonade. ‘How’s your sister doing?’

Fox just nodded and rolled his shoulders. ‘Let’s get this sorted, eh?’

Breck looked at him. ‘I hope you appreciate,’ he began, ‘that I’m trying to do you a favour here.’

‘A favour?’ Tony Kaye didn’t sound convinced.

‘A heads-up. We’re not idiots, Sergeant Kaye. First thing we did was a background check. PNC keeps a record of recent searches, and that’s what led us to your pal in Hull CID.’

‘Some pal,’ Kaye muttered, folding his arms.

‘He was slow enough giving us your name, if that’s any consolation. Took his boss to do a bit of the strongarm.’

‘How did the autopsy go?’ Fox interrupted.

Breck turned his attention to him. ‘Blunt trauma, internal injuries… We’re pretty sure he was dead when they dumped him.’

‘Dead how long?’

‘Day, day and a half.’ Breck paused, rotating his glass on its coaster. ‘The PNC search was yesterday. Is that the same day you found out about Jude’s broken arm?’

‘Yes,’ Fox admitted.

‘You went looking for Faulkner?’

‘No.’

Breck raised an eyebrow, though his stare remained focused on the glass in front of him. ‘The man who’d just broken your sister’s arm – you didn’t want a word with him?’

‘I wanted a word, but I didn’t go looking.’

‘And how about you, Sergeant Kaye?’

Kaye opened his mouth to answer, but Fox held up a hand to stop him. ‘This has nothing to do with Sergeant Kaye,’ he stated. ‘I asked him for a background check on Faulkner.’

‘Why?’

‘Ammunition – if there was anything there, I was hoping maybe Jude would see sense.’

‘Leave him, you mean?’ Fox nodded. ‘You told her?’

‘Never got the chance – Faulkner was already dead, wasn’t he?’

Breck didn’t bother answering. Fox made eye contact with Tony Kaye, giving the slightest of nods to let him know this was how he wanted it. If there was going to be flak, it was Fox’s to take.

‘Remember when I asked you if there was anything you wanted to tell me about the victim?’ Breck was fixing Malcolm Fox with a stare. ‘How come you didn’t mention his previous?’

‘I don’t really know,’ Fox answered with a shrug.

‘What else did you find?’

‘Nothing.’

‘But you knew he was a naughty boy?’

‘Seems to have toed the line since coming north.’

‘Well, it takes time, doesn’t it? He’d want to be sure of the new terrain. How long had he been in town?’

‘A year, year and a half,’ Fox answered. The aroma was in his nostrils again: two fresh malts had just been poured at the bar.

‘How did your sister meet him?’

‘You’ll have to ask her.’

‘We’ll definitely do that.’ Breck glanced at his watch. ‘I said I was giving you a heads-up, but time’s nearly up.’

‘How do you mean?’

Breck locked eyes with Malcolm Fox. ‘I’m not your problem here, just remember that.’ All three turned as the door to the pub was pushed open with enough force to rattle it on its hinges. The man who lumbered in was almost as wide as he was tall. Despite the plummeting temperature outside, he wore only a checked sports jacket over his open-necked shirt. Fox recognised him, and with good reason. He was Detective Chief Inspector William Giles – ‘Bad Billy’ Giles. Judging from the well-lined face, the black wavy hair had to be a dye job, not that anyone was about to point this out to the owner. The eyes were a cold, crystalline blue.

‘Pint of eighty,’ Giles ordered, approaching the table. Breck rose to his feet, but hesitated long enough to start making introductions.

‘I know who they are,’ Giles growled back at him. ‘Three hours they spent grilling me – three hours of my life I’ll never get back.’

‘Glen Heaton didn’t deserve the effort you put in,’ Fox commented.

‘You can knock a man down as often as you like,’ Giles spat. ‘The measure is when he keeps getting up, and Glen Heaton’s a long way from being counted out by the likes of you.’ The chair – Breck’s chair – creaked as Giles lowered himself on to it. His eyes flitted between Tony Kaye and Malcolm Fox. ‘But now you’re mine,’ he stated with grim satisfaction.

Billy Giles wasn’t just the CID head honcho at Torphichen, not just Jamie Breck’s boss – and Glen Heaton’s, come to that. He was also Heaton’s oldest friend. Fox was thinking back to that three-hour interview. Thinking, too, of all the obstacles Giles had placed in the way of the PSU investigation.

‘Now you’re mine,’ Giles echoed with quiet satisfaction. From the bar, Breck made eye contact with Malcolm Fox. I’m not your problem here… Fox acknowledged as much with the same slight nod he’d earlier given to Tony Kaye. Then he turned his attention to Giles.

‘Not quite yet,’ he said, giving equal weight to each individual word. He rose to his feet, indicating that Kaye should do the same. ‘You want us, you know where to find us.’

‘Now’s as good a time as any.’

But Fox was shaking his head as he buttoned his coat. ‘You know where to find us,’ he repeated. ‘Just be sure to make an appointment – we’re always busy in the Complaints.’

‘You’re maggots, the pair of you.’

Even standing, Fox wasn’t much taller than the seated Giles. But he leaned down a little towards the man. ‘We’re not maggots,’ he stated. ‘You said so yourself – we’re the ones in the ring, the ones who floored your pal Heaton. And last time I looked, he was still on the canvas.’