Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘It’s nice here, isn’t it?’ He asked the question out loud, but not so his father could hear. He’d been asking the selfsame thing ever since they’d moved Dad out of the semi-detached house in Morningside. At first, it had been rhetorical; he wasn’t so sure now. The family home had needed to be cleared. Some of the furniture was in Fox’s garage. His attic was full of boxes of photographs and other mementoes, the majority of which meant little or nothing to him. For a time, he would bring some with him when he visited, but they upset his father if he couldn’t place them. Names he felt he should have known had been wiped from his memory. Items had lost their significance. Tears would well in the old boy’s eyes.

‘Want to do anything?’ Fox asked, seating himself on the edge of the bed again.

‘Not really.’

‘Watch TV? Cup of tea maybe?’

‘I’m all right.’ Mitch Fox suddenly fixed his son with a look. ‘You’re all right, too, aren’t you?’

‘Never better.’

‘Doing well at work?’

‘Revered and respected by all who know me.’

‘Got a girlfriend?’

‘Not at the moment.’

‘How long is it since you divorced…?’ The eyebrows knitted again. ‘Her name’s on the tip of my…’

‘Elaine – and she’s ancient history, Dad.’

Mitch Fox nodded and was thoughtful for a moment. ‘You’ve got to be careful, you know.’

‘I know.’

‘Machinery… it’s not to be trusted.’

‘I don’t work with machinery, Dad.’

‘But all the same…’

Malcolm Fox pretended to be checking his phone again. ‘I can look after myself,’ he assured his father. ‘Don’t you worry about me.’

‘Tell Jude to come and see me,’ Mitch Fox said. ‘She needs to be more careful on those stairs of hers…’

Malcolm Fox looked up from his phone. ‘I’ll tell her,’ he said.

‘What’s this Dad tells me about stairs?’

Fox was outside, standing beside his car. It was a silver Volvo S60 with three thousand miles on the clock. His sister had picked up after half a dozen rings, just as he’d been about to end the call.

‘You’ve been to see Mitch?’ she surmised.

‘He was asking for you.’

‘I was there last week.’

‘After you fell down the stairs?’

‘I’m fine. A few bumps and bruises.’

‘Would those bruises be facial, Jude?’

‘You sound just like a cop, Malcolm. I was bringing some stuff downstairs and I fell.’

Fox was silent for a moment, watching the traffic. ‘So how are things otherwise?’

‘I was sorry we didn’t get the chance to catch up over Christmas. Did I thank you for the flowers?’

‘You sent a text at Hogmanay, wished me a Gappy New Zear.’

‘I’m hopeless with that phone – the buttons are too small.’

‘Maybe drink had been taken.’

‘Maybe that, too. You still on the wagon?’

‘Five years dry.’

‘No need to sound so smug. How was Mitch?’

Fox decided he’d had enough fresh air; opened the car door and got in. ‘I’m not sure he’s eating enough.’

‘We can’t all have your appetite.’

‘Do you think I should get a doctor to look at him?’

‘Would he thank you for it?’

Fox had taken a packet of mints from the passenger seat; popped one into his mouth. ‘We should get together some night.’

‘Sure.’

‘Just you and me, I mean.’ He listened to his sister’s silence, waiting for her to mention her partner. If she did that, maybe they could have the real conversation, the one they’d been dancing around:

What about Vince?

No, just the two of us.

Why?

Because I know he hits you, Jude, and that makes me want to hit him back.

You’re wrong, Malcolm.

Am I? Want to show me those bruises and the staircase where it’s supposed to have happened?

But all she said was: ‘Okay, then, we’ll do that, yes.’ Soon they were saying their goodbyes and Fox was flipping shut the phone and tossing it across to the other seat. Another wasted opportunity. He started the engine and headed home.

Home being a bungalow in Oxgangs. When he and Elaine had bought the place, the sellers had called it Fairmilehead and the solicitor Colinton – both neighbourhoods seen even then as being more desirable than Oxgangs – but Fox liked Oxgangs fine. There were shops and pubs and a library. The city bypass was minutes away. Buses were regular and there were two big supermarkets within a short drive. Fox couldn’t blame his father for misplacing Elaine’s name. The courtship had lasted six months and the marriage a further ten, all of it six years back. They’d known one another at school, but had lost touch. Met again at an old friend’s funeral. Arranged to go for a drink after the meal and fell into bed drunk and filled with lust. ‘Lust for life,’ she’d called it. Elaine had just come out of a long-term relationship – the word ‘rebound’ had only occurred to Fox after the wedding. She’d invited her old flame to the ceremony, and he’d come, well dressed and smiling.

A month after the honeymoon (Corfu; they both got sunburn) they’d realised their mistake. She was the one who walked. He’d asked if she wanted the bungalow, but she’d told him it was his, so he’d stayed, redecorating it more to his taste and completing the attic conversion. ‘Bachelor beige’ had been one friend’s description, followed by a warning: ‘Watch your life doesn’t go the same way.’ As Fox turned into the driveway, he wondered what was so wrong with beige. It was just a colour, like any other. Besides which, he’d repainted the front door yellow. He’d put up a couple of mirrors, one in the downstairs hall, one upstairs on the landing. Framed paintings brightened both living and dining room. The toaster in the kitchen was shiny and silver. His duvet cover was a vibrant green and the three-piece suite oxblood.

‘Far from beige,’ he muttered to himself.

Once inside, he remembered that his briefcase was locked in the car’s boot. As soon as you joined the Complaints you were warned: leave nothing in open view. He headed out again to fetch it, placing it on the kitchen worktop while he filled the kettle. Plan for the rest of the afternoon: tea and toast and putting his feet up. There was lasagne in the fridge for later. He’d bought half a dozen DVDs in the Zavvi closing-down sale; he could watch one or two this evening, if there was nothing on the box. At one time, Zavvi had been Virgin. Their shops had gone bust. So had the Woolworth’s on Lothian Road – Fox had gone there regularly, almost religiously, as a kid, buying toys and sweets when he was younger, then singles and LPs as a teenager. As an adult he’d driven past it a hundred times or more, but never with a reason to stop and go in. There was a daily paper in his briefcase: more doom and gloom for the economy. Maybe that helped explain why one in ten of the population was taking antidepressants. ADHD was on the increase and one in five primary school kids was overweight and heading for diabetes. The Scottish Parliament had passed its budget at the second attempt, but commentators were saying too many jobs depended on the public sector. Only places like Cuba were worse, apparently. By coincidence, one of the DVDs he’d bought was Buena Vista Social Club. Maybe he’d try it tonight: a little bit of Cuba in Oxgangs. A little bit of light relief.

Another of the stories in the paper was about a Lithuanian woman. She’d been killed in Brechin, her body dismembered and tossed into the sea, washing up again, piece by piece, along Arbroath beach. Some kids had discovered the head, and now a couple of migrant workers were on trial for her murder. It was the sort of case a lot of cops would relish. Fox hadn’t worked more than a handful of murders during his previous life in CID, but he remembered each scene of crime and autopsy. He’d been present when family members had been given the news, or had been escorted into the mortuary to identify their loved ones. The Complaints was a world away from all that, which was why other cops would say that Fox and his colleagues had it easy.