Ian Rankin - The Complaints

Scraping the leftovers into the bin, Fox wondered what his father thought of him. Mitch could have been living here with him – there was plenty of space. The stairs might have been an issue – the very argument Fox had used to himself when deciding his father’s future. Besides, at Lauder Lodge the old boy had made friends. True, that might have happened in Oxgangs as well – there was a daily get-together of older people at the local church. But no… Lauder Lodge had been the best option and outcome. Lauder Lodge had been the right thing to do.

He started to make himself some tea, but stopped – the taste of the cup he’d drunk at Lauder Lodge was still at the back of his throat, dissuading him from repeating the experience. There was more Appletiser in the fridge, but he didn’t fancy it. He didn’t know what he wanted. Through in the living room, he tried all the TV channels, without finding anything he was willing to waste time on. He supposed he could have an early night, catch up on some reading, but it wasn’t even nine o’clock. Two hours until the Breck surveillance was due to start. Joe Naysmith had asked the obvious question – ‘Is everything in order?’

Meaning paperwork. Meaning the green light from on high. Naysmith: cautious and scrupulous. Fox had assured him it was ‘in the post’, shorthand for ‘to be dealt with at a later date’. Kaye had told the younger man not to worry, ruffling his hand through Naysmith’s hair. Their excuse: McEwan’s absence. Plus the Chop Shop’s stipulation that it was an emergency.

‘We’ll be fine,’ Fox had stated.

Everything would be fine.

A DVD… maybe he could watch a film. But nothing jumped out at him as an obvious candidate. He thought of the DVDs in Jude’s house, none of them Vince Faulkner’s choices – romantic comedies; dreams of another, less imperfect life. He tried to remember what Jude’s ambitions had been, back when they’d both been kids, but nothing came to mind. What about him – had he always wanted to be a detective? Yes, pretty much. The Hearts first team had never come calling, and vacancies for film stars seemed not to be advertised. Besides, he’d liked telling friends, I’m going to be a cop, relishing the words and the effect they had on some people.

Cop, copper.

Filth, pig.

He’d been called worse, too, down the years – and sometimes by his own kind, colleagues who’d crossed the line, gone bad, been found out. He imagined Jamie Breck, clean and shiny on the surface, heading home and locking the door after him. Shutting the curtains. All alone, no prying eyes, warming up his computer, allowing his secret self to breathe. And unaware of the van parked outside, picking up every key he tapped, every site he visited. Everything he viewed, the people in the van viewed too. Fox had seen it in action. He’d felt a shiver up his spine as love affairs were revealed, criminal connections confirmed, frauds and frailties exposed.

That how you get your kicks? Peeping fucking Tom…

Yes, he’d been called worse. Twisted bastard… shafting your own kind… Lower than slime…

Lowest of the low. But still better than you – the only response possible.

Still better than you.

He was about the try the words out aloud when his doorbell sounded. He checked his watch. It was half past nine. He stood in the hall for a moment, listening for clues. When the bell rang again, he opened the door an inch.

‘Hiya,’ Jamie Breck said.

Fox opened the door all the way. He glanced to right and left. ‘This is a surprise,’ was all he managed to say.

Breck gave a little laugh. ‘I’d be lying if I said I was just passing, but in a way it’s true. I sometimes take a walk at night, just clearing my head. When I saw the sign for your street, it dawned on me where I was. Maybe I’d planned to end up here all along.’ He offered a shrug. ‘The subconscious is a wonderful thing.’

‘Is it?’ Fox was weighing up his options. ‘Well, you better come in.’

‘Only if I’m not disturbing you…?’

Fox led Breck into the living room. ‘Do you want something to drink?’

‘Are you having anything?’

‘I don’t drink.’

‘I don’t think I knew that.’

‘Well, now you can add it to my profile, can’t you?’

Breck smiled at this. ‘No alcohol in the house, not even for visitors?’ He watched Fox shake his head. ‘Meaning you don’t trust yourself with the stuff – am I right?’

‘What can I do for you, DS Breck?’

‘This isn’t an official visit, Malcolm – call me Jamie.’

‘What can I do for you, Jamie?’ Breck was seated on the sofa, Fox in the armchair to his right. Breck had twisted himself round so he was facing the older man. He had changed his clothes since leaving work – a denim jacket, black cords, purple polo neck.

‘Nice place,’ he said, studying the room. ‘Bigger than mine, but then mine’s newer – they tend to build smaller these days…’

‘Yes,’ Fox agreed, waiting to hear what Breck really wanted to say.

‘We’ve done what we can with the footage from outside the pub,’ Breck duly obliged. ‘I don’t think we’re going to get anything useful by way of an ID. Might let the police in Wales take a look anyway, just on the off-chance… Thing is, only a few minutes after the spat, the rugby lads were back inside Marooned, laughing it off and ordering more drink.’

‘Says who?’

‘A couple of regulars – the Welsh stood them a round. Even apologised for having a go at Faulkner.’ He paused. ‘Plus there was CCTV inside the bar as well as outside – the story stacks up. So unless they bumped into him again later on in the evening…’

‘You’re ruling them out?’

‘We’re not ruling out anything, Malcolm.’

‘Why are you telling me?’

‘Thought you’d want to know – just between us, you understand. ’

‘And what do I give you in return?’

‘Well… seeing how this is a dry house, I’m not too sure.’

Fox managed a smile, and eased himself a little further back in his chair. ‘There’s one thing,’ he said at last. ‘Jude didn’t give it to Billy Giles because she didn’t like his attitude…’

‘Yes?’ Breck prompted, leaning forward.

‘Monday night, someone turned up at her door asking for Faulkner.’

‘If the pathologist is right, Faulkner was already growing cold by then.’

Fox nodded. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ he agreed. ‘And all I got from her by way of description was that the caller was a man.’

It was Breck’s turn to smile. ‘Well, thanks for that, Malcolm. A man? That certainly narrows things down…’ The two sat in silence for a moment until Breck started shaking his head slowly. ‘I don’t know why they bother with CCTV,’ he declared.

‘Deterrent value,’ Fox suggested.

‘Or comfort blanket,’ Breck countered. ‘People are fitting it in their houses now, did you know that? To make them feel safer. There was a housebreaking in Merchiston a few months back. Glen Heaton took me along for a look. The footage was so grainy the guys responsible looked barely human. They got half a million in antiques and jewellery – know what Heaton told the owners? Sell the cameras and buy a dog.’

Fox nodded his agreement.

‘Preferably a big one,’ Breck continued, ‘and keep it half starved.’

‘Did you work with him often?’

‘Hardly at all – I’m assuming that’s why you never bothered to interview me.’

‘We had everything we needed.’

‘But you still gave Billy Giles a grilling?’

‘Just for a spot of fun.’

‘I didn’t think “fun” was in the dictionary, so far as the Complaints are concerned.’ Breck considered for a moment. ‘I dare say by now you know more about Glen Heaton than I do – how long did you have him under surveillance?’