Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘I thought the brother was gay.’

Kaye looked at him again. ‘What makes you say that?’

He told me, Fox thought to himself. But he didn’t want Kaye to know how intimate some of his chats with Breck had become, so he shifted in his chair and explained that the info had been in Breck’s personnel file.

‘Now that’s what I call full disclosure… The guy from the Chop Shop says maybe he’s grooming them, but that’s just paranoia talking.’ Kaye paused. ‘And that’s something else you and me will be having words about, old friend.’ Kaye nodded in Fox’s direction, to reinforce the point. ‘No sign of DS Inglis. She’s got a son to tuck in, so she swaps with the world’s most boring man. And surprise surprise – he gets on like a house on fire with Naysmith. Take a guess why.’

‘They like computer games?’

‘They love computer games. And gadgets, new technology, blah blah blah… Ten minutes in and they’re showing one another their mobiles. Another ten after that, it’s modems and streaming and God knows what. I had four hours of it.’ Kaye gave a sigh and stared in the direction of the lifeless coffee machine. ‘Don’t tell me Naysmith’s still in bed.’

Fox blew his nose. ‘Haven’t seen him,’ he admitted.

‘And McEwan’s still at his conference,’ Kaye added. ‘Maybe I’ll just tuck a duvet around myself at my desk.’

‘Be my guest.’

‘Breck went to bed around two. We waited to see if he’d maybe taken his laptop with him, but there was nothing, so we left it at that.’

‘Does the Chop Shop want another try?’

Kaye shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me, if only so Gilchrist and Naysmith can compare Freeview boxes.’ Kaye sighed again. He wasn’t yet seated; in fact had taken a couple of steps in the direction of Fox’s desk and was looking at him.

‘What?’ Fox prompted.

‘One other thing, compadre… He Googled your name.’

Fox’s eyebrows dipped. ‘He did what?’

Kaye shrugged by way of reply. ‘And that took him to some media websites. He wasn’t long, so we reckon he was printing stuff off rather than reading it online.’

‘He won’t have found much.’

‘Except that he Googled “Complaints and Conduct”, too. Pretty much everything we’ve done in the media eye this past couple of years.’ Kaye paused. ‘Including Heaton, of course.’

‘Why would he be doing that?’

Kaye shrugged again. ‘Maybe he just likes you.’

Fox was considering telling his colleague about Breck’s unannounced visit to his home, and their little jaunt to the Oliver. But Kaye was speaking again.

‘On the other hand… the guy who beat up your sister has just found himself deceased. Billy Giles is on the hunt for suspects.’

‘Using Breck as his bloodhound?’ Fox was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I got the feeling there wasn’t much love between those two.’

‘Could be a front. Breck wanting you to think that…’

Fox nodded slowly.

‘Have you seen him recently?’ Kaye asked.

‘Who? Breck?’ Fox reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and started blowing his nose again, playing for time. The door swung open and Joe Naysmith walked in. He was carrying his notebook in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

‘Says here,’ he began, laying the paper on Fox’s desk, ‘that detectives are making progress.’

The story was prominent on page three of The Scotsman. Not so surprising: Edinburgh wasn’t exactly a murder capital – maybe one a month on average, usually cleared up quickly. When they did occur, the local media were keen to react, usually at length. There was a large photo of the scene of crime with a grainy inset of a smiling Vince Faulkner, and a smaller shot of Billy Giles, looking no less fierce than in the flesh.

‘Eyes like lasers,’ Naysmith commented.

‘Where did the paper come from?’ Kaye was asking. ‘Thought you were a Guardian reader.’

‘Helen said she was finished with it.’

‘Helen?’

‘In HR… the desk nearest the door…’

Kaye rolled his eyes. ‘We just about merit the time of day, and he’s on first-name terms with them.’ He wagged a finger at Naysmith. ‘Next you’ll be telling me Mrs Stephens shines your shoes while you’ve got your feet under her desk.’

‘She’s all right,’ Naysmith mumbled, making for the coffee machine. ‘They all are…’

‘Three sugars!’ Kaye called out.

‘He knows that by now,’ Fox stated.

‘Never makes it sweet enough.’ Kaye turned his attention to Fox. ‘What does it say?’

‘Not much. Marooned gets a mention. They’re asking for people to come forward if they saw the victim elsewhere that weekend.’

‘Memories are short,’ Kaye commented. ‘What’s Marooned?’

‘A pub in Gorgie – Vince got into an argument with some Taffs.’ Fox scanned the story again. ‘They don’t say anything about the bus stop…’ He was talking to himself, but loud enough for Kaye to overhear.

‘What bus stop?’

‘After the rugby fans, Vince headed for Dalry Road. Looks like he was going to catch a bus but he ended up in a shouting match with some kids.’

Kaye’s eyes narrowed.

‘He took a taxi instead,’ Fox finished.

‘And how have you come by this information, Inspector Fox?’

Fox licked his lips. ‘I have my sources, Sergeant Kaye.’

‘Breck?’ Fox couldn’t deny it, so kept quiet instead. Kaye rolled his eyes once more. ‘What have we just been talking about? He’s dangling worms in front of you so you can’t see Giles hiding behind him with the hook!’

‘Nicely put,’ Naysmith called out.

‘Shut up, Joe,’ Kaye spat back. He was pressing the palms of his hands against Fox’s desk, leaning down over it. ‘Tell me you get that. Tell me you can see right through him.’

‘Sure,’ Fox stated, not really sure of very much any more. He bit down on the pen he was holding, felt the plastic casing crack.

There was a health club just in front of the Asda on Chesser Avenue. Fox knew this because he’d had a trial membership when it first opened. He’d never been inside the supermarket, though, and was surprised by its size. He selected a hand basket and added a couple of items, then headed for the checkout. The woman in front of him in the queue pointed out that there was another checkout nearby where he wouldn’t have to wait to be served. She was emptying the extensive load from her trolley while her young son sucked a lollipop. He was seated inside the trolley, swinging his legs in repeated attempts to connect with Fox’s basket.

‘I’m not in a hurry,’ Fox told the woman. She looked at him strangely, then got on with the task of filling the conveyor belt. Transaction complete, she paid not with a credit card but with handfuls of notes from her purse. The checkout assistant counted these into the till and handed the woman a receipt like a length of ticker tape. She then smiled towards Fox and asked him how he was.

‘Not too bad, Sandra,’ he replied.

Sandra Hendry had already finished running his items through the scanner. At mention of her name, she looked him in the face for the first time. ‘It’s you,’ she stated. Then: ‘Cooking Indian tonight?’

Fox considered the items he’d bought: basmati rice, Madras sauce. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘How’s Jude?’ There was no one behind Fox, so Sandra reached under her till and, for want of any other job, started wiping down the conveyor belt with the cloth stored there.

‘She’s okay,’ Fox said.

‘I’m looking in on her later.’

‘She’ll appreciate that.’ Fox paused. ‘You know you said you sometimes went to the Oliver? I was just wondering if you and your husband were there on Saturday.’