Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘It was busy,’ the barman admitted with another shrug.

‘But he was in here.’ Breck waved the photo to and fro. ‘And it was out of character, because whenever you’d seen him in the past, he’d always been with people.’

‘So?’

Fox had been scanning the corners of the ceiling. ‘We’ll need to see the recordings,’ he commented. ‘From your security cameras…’

Breck stiffened a little. He’d had a flow going, and Fox had broken it.

‘My colleague’s right,’ he stated eventually.

‘Talk to the boss.’

‘We will,’ Breck confirmed. ‘But you do remember Vince Faulkner?’

‘I never knew his name.’

‘You saw in the papers that he was dead?’

‘Suppose so.’ The admission was grudging at best. Simon was running a finger down the clipboard, as though hoping they would take the hint and leave him to his task. Fat chance, Fox thought to himself.

‘You saw him in here Saturday night?’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘He got here around ten.’

‘Place was heaving by then.’

‘But Mr Faulkner was on his own, and I’m betting that meant he’d be sitting on one of these stools.’ Breck slapped the seat of the bar stool next to him.

‘There’s another bar upstairs.’

‘But all the same…’ Breck decided to let the silence linger.

‘He was half cut when he got here,’ Simon finally admitted. ‘Doormen should never have let him in.’

‘Did he cause trouble?’

The barman shook his head. ‘But he had the look of a loser.’

‘And that’s not good for the ambience?’ Breck nodded his understanding.

‘Just sat slumped at the corner of the bar.’

‘How many drinks did he have?’

‘No idea.’

‘What was he drinking?’

‘Shorts… that’s all I remember. We had three staff working the bar that night.’

‘Did he meet anyone? Talk to them?’

‘Dunno.’ The fingers were now drilling against the clipboard, tapping out the sound of horses’ hooves at full gallop.

‘Did you see him leave?’

Simon shook his head.

‘What about Sunday or Monday?’

Another shake of the head. ‘I was off both nights.’

Breck glanced at his watch. ‘Your boss is running late.’

‘Bosses get to do that.’

Breck smiled and turned his head towards Fox for the first time. ‘Simon likes to think he’s smart.’ But every trace of humour had left Breck’s face by the time he turned back to the barman. ‘So do the smart thing, Simon – get thinking of anything else you can tell us about Saturday night or about Vince Faulkner in general.’ Where the snapshot had been, there was now a business card. ‘Take it,’ Breck commanded. The barman did as he was told. ‘How old are you, Simon?’

‘Twenty-three.’

‘Been in the trade long?’

‘Started bar work when I was at uni.’

‘What did you study?’

‘I didn’t study much of anything – that was the problem.’

Breck nodded his understanding. ‘Ever see any trouble around here?’

‘No.’

‘Not even once the punters get outside? A good evening gone sour?’

‘By the time I’ve closed the bar, cleaned up and done a tally, people are long gone.’

‘Do the management stand you to a cab home?’ Breck watched as the barman nodded. ‘Well, that’s something at least.’ Then, turning to leave: ‘Jot a few thoughts down and give me a call. Plus, pass the number on to your boss. If I haven’t heard back by end of play today, I’ll be round tonight with some squad cars and uniforms. Got that?’

Simon was studying the writing on the card. ‘Yes, Mr Breck,’ he said.

It was strange to step out of the gloom – the casino boasted no natural light at all – and find that it was still daytime in Edinburgh, the sky overcast but boasting enough glare to have Jamie Breck slipping on a pair of Ray-Bans. He’d taken up the same position as after the meeting with Ronnie Hendry – elbows resting against the roof of his Mazda. Fox squeezed the bridge of his nose and squinted into the light. It had been quite a performance: Breck was a natural. Just the right mix of authority and empathy. Too bullish and the barman would have blustered or clammed up…

I like you, Fox thought. Even though you’ve been checking up on me behind my back. Even though you may not be what you seem…

‘You really got into character there,’ Fox complimented him. ‘I liked what you did with your voice.’

‘That’s the thing about RPGs and avatars – you get to pretend to be someone you’re not.’

‘Handy training for CID.’ And for other things, Fox thought to himself. ‘So what now?’

‘Nothing much. I’ll head back to base, write up what I’ve got – might leave out a few salient details.’ Breck glanced in Fox’s direction.

‘Sorry I butted in again,’ Fox apologised. ‘Broke my promise…’

‘I’d have got round to the cameras in my own time, Malcolm.’

‘I know you would.’

Both men turned at the sound of a car approaching. It was a ‘baby’ Bentley, the GT. Glossy black bodywork and tinted windows. The engine stopped and the driver’s-side door opened. Fox caught a glimpse of burgundy leather upholstery. The woman who stepped out was wearing high heels, black tights and a black knee-length skirt. The skirt clung to her. White silk blouse, open at the neck to show a pendant of some kind. Cream-coloured jacket with a little padding at the shoulders. Her hair was auburn, thick and flowing. She had to push some back from her face as a gust of wind caught her. Red lipstick and, when she removed her oversized sunglasses, dark eyeshadow and a hint of mascara. She gave them an inquisitive look as she headed towards the door of the casino.

‘Simon will tell you all about it,’ Breck called to her. She ignored this and headed inside. Fox turned to Breck.

‘Shouldn’t we talk to her?’

‘She’s going to call me, remember?’

‘But she’s management, right?’

‘Later.’

‘Don’t you want to know who she is?’

Breck smiled. ‘I know who she is, Malcolm.’ He pointed at a spot just above the casino’s main door. There was a plaque sited there, announcing that the premises were licensed for the sale of alcohol. The name of the licensee was J. Broughton.

‘Who’s J. Broughton?’ Fox asked.

Breck opened the door of the Mazda and started to get in. ‘Stick to watching the detectives, Malcolm. Let us other cops do the real work…’

‘Does it mean anything to you?’

Fox was back in the Complaints office, standing in front of Tony Kaye’s desk. Kaye mouthed the name a few times. As usual, he had pitched his chair back, and now swung slowly backwards and forwards.

‘Wasn’t there a villain called that?’ he said at last. ‘Well, by “villain”, obviously I mean an upstanding local businessman whose tangled web of dodgy dealings Lothian and Borders Police could never unravel.’ Kaye paused. ‘But he’d be in his seventies now… haven’t heard his name in years.’

‘Will he be in the system somewhere?’ Fox nodded in the direction of Kaye’s computer hard drive.

‘I can check, just as soon as you give me the reason.’

‘Vince was at the Oliver on Saturday night. Licence is in the name of J. Broughton.’

‘Jack Broughton – that was your man.’ Kaye stared at his colleague. ‘But Vince isn’t really your territory, Foxy. Shouldn’t you be busying yourself liaising with the Fiscal’s office about Glen Heaton? Or readying a report on Jamie Breck to send to the Chop Shop?’

‘Just do it, will you?’ Fox turned and walked over to the coffee machine. Breck’s words were still niggling at him – us other cops… the real work… He knew that a lot of CID felt that way. The Complaints was for the cold fish, the oddities, the cops who could never make it as bona fide detectives. It was for voyeurs with chips on their shoulders. Joe Naysmith was opening a fresh consignment of coffee and Fox watched him at work. Naysmith didn’t fit the description; nor did Tony Kaye, come to that…