Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘Possible crime scene.’

‘They won’t find anything.’

‘I thought you just said they’d find your prints.’

‘I was there on Monday, and then again yesterday.’

‘Best make sure they know that.’

Fox nodded slowly, while McEwan’s attention shifted back to Kaye.

‘Tony, I swear to God, if you don’t stop swivelling on that damned chair…’

Kaye leapt to his feet so suddenly, the chair rolled all the way back to the marker board. He strode over to the window and peered down at the car park. ‘This doesn’t feel right,’ he muttered with a shake of the head. ‘Foxy starts looking at Jamie Breck – next thing we know, C Division’s sniffing at our balls. What if Bad Billy got wind of it and decided he’d lost enough rotten apples for one season?’

‘And did what?’ McEwan reasoned. ‘Killed a man in cold blood? Is that seriously what you’re suggesting?’

‘I’m not saying he…’ But Kaye couldn’t finish what he’d started. It turned into an elongated snarl instead.

‘Do I put myself forward for questioning?’ Fox calmly asked of his boss.

‘They’ve already requested the pleasure of your company.’

‘When do they want me?’

‘Soon as this meeting’s done,’ McEwan said.

Fox stared at him. ‘So?’

‘So you’re idiots, the pair of you. Nobody accesses the PNC without good reason.’

‘We had good reason,’ Kaye insisted.

‘You had a good personal reason, Tony, and that’s far from being the same thing.’

‘He’d been involved in a domestic,’ Kaye ploughed on. ‘We were looking for evidence of priors.’

‘Keep telling yourself that,’ McEwan offered with a tired-looking smile.

‘Sir?’ Fox interrupted, needing to hear the word.

‘Go,’ Bob McEwan obliged.

‘Is my sister all right?’

‘You want to see her?’ Giles asked. He was dressed in the same clothes as the previous night, but with the addition of a tie. His neck had outgrown the collar of his shirt, and the top button was undone, visible behind the tie’s loose knot.

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s not far.’ They were in one of the interview rooms at Torphichen. The place had a Precinct 13 feel to it – crumbling and circumferenced by dereliction and roadworks. There wasn’t much for the tourists, once you got west of Princes Street and Lothian Road. The one-way system dragged buses, cabs and lorries around it, but it was a thankless spot for pedestrians. Inside the building there were the usual smells of mildew and desperation. The interview room bore battle scars – scratched walls, chipped desk, graffiti on the back of the door. They’d kept Fox waiting a good long time in the reception area, giving uniforms and plain-clothes officers alike the chance to come and glare at him. When he’d eventually followed Giles down the corridor towards the interview room, there had been plenty of hissing and cursing from office doorways.

‘Is she all right, though?’ Fox persisted.

Giles made eye contact with him for the first time since coming in. ‘We’ve not started the waterboarding yet, if that’s what you’re asking. Tea and biccies and a female officer for company last time I looked in.’ Giles leaned forward so his elbows rested against the table. ‘It’s a bad business,’ he stated. Fox just nodded. ‘When did you last see Mr Faulkner?’

‘Before Christmas – November maybe.’

‘You didn’t have much time for him?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t blame you. You knew he was using your sister as a punch-bag, though?’ Fox stared at him but didn’t answer. ‘See, if that’d been my kith and kin, I’d’ve been on the bastard like a ton of shit.’

‘I’d spoken to her about it. She told me her arm was an accident. ’

‘No way you believed her.’ Giles leaned back again, bunching his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘So how come you didn’t face up to him?’

‘I never got the chance.’

‘Or you were yellow…’ Giles let the accusation float in the air between them. When Fox didn’t rise to it, he bared his teeth. ‘Her arm was broken Saturday, wasn’t it?’

‘So she says.’

‘When did you find out about it?’

There was a noise in the corridor outside. A young male by the sound of it, not exactly cooperating as he was led to or from his cell.

‘That’ll be Mollison,’ Giles explained. ‘Wee wanker’s a one-man crime wave. Soon as I’m done here, I’ll be having words with him.’

‘Is he anything to do with…?’

Giles shook his head. ‘Mollison’ll break into your home or car, but it’s unlikely he’d bludgeon you to death. Takes rage, that sort of attack. The sort of rage that comes from a grudge.’

‘I hadn’t seen Faulkner since before Christmas.’

‘Did you know back then?’

‘Know what?’

‘That he was a wife-beater.’

‘Jude wasn’t his wife.’

‘Did you, though?’ Giles’s small eyes, staring out from his fleshy face, were drilling into Fox. Though he fought against it, Fox wriggled in his chair.

‘I knew their relationship was tempestuous.’

Giles offered a snort. ‘You’re not here to write a Mills and fucking Boon!’

‘Jude always said she gave as good as she got.’

‘Didn’t make it right, Inspector. Seems to me you shied away from saying anything. You never pulled Faulkner aside for a quiet word?’

‘After the arm I would’ve done, if there’d been the chance.’

‘So we’re back to my original question – when did you find out?’

‘A neighbour called me on Monday afternoon.’

Giles nodded slowly. ‘Mrs Pettifer,’ he stated. Yes, stood to reason she’d have been questioned by the inquiry team… ‘I’m assuming you then went looking for him?’

‘No.’ Fox was peering down at his hands, clasped across his lap.

‘No?’ Giles sounded unconvinced.

‘What difference would it have made – he was already dead, wasn’t he?’

‘Come on, Fox – you know time of death’s always open to debate… a few hours this way or that.’

‘Did he turn up for work Monday morning?’

Giles paused a moment before answering, weighing up what he did and didn’t want Fox to know. Eventually, he shook his head.

‘So what was he doing? Where was he hiding himself from Saturday night onwards? Someone must have seen him.’

‘Whoever killed him saw him.’

‘You can’t think it was Jude.’

Giles pursed his lips and removed his hands from their pockets, cupping them behind his head. As his shirt stretched, gaps appeared between the buttons, revealing a white string vest beneath. The room felt warm to Fox. He knew they probably kept it stuffy: didn’t want suspects getting too comfortable. His scalp felt itchy, perspiration cloying there. But if he scratched or wiped, Giles would think the interview was getting to him.

‘I’ve seen Faulkner on the slab,’ the detective was saying. ‘Plenty of muscle on him. Not sure a one-armed alcoholic girlie weighing all of eight stone could have outpointed him.’ Giles was watching for a reaction. ‘Someone could’ve helped her, though.’

‘You’re not going to find anything in the house.’ In the distance, a door slammed. A truck or bus was idling outside, causing the frosted window pane to shiver noisily in its frame.

‘Plenty of evidence of a chaotic lifestyle,’ Giles went on. ‘Even when someone’s had a go at tidying up.’

‘That was the neighbour; she did it out of kindness.’

‘I’m not suggesting anyone was trying to cover their tracks.’ Giles gave a cold smile. ‘And by the way – how’s your case against Glen Heaton shaping up?’

‘Wondered how long it would take you…’