Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘I had it cut last month.’

Fox was rising from his chair again. ‘I need to make a phone call,’ he explained. ‘Back in a tick.’

He went outside and the cold hit him. Thought about retreating indoors for his jacket, but resisted the urge. Another urge was taking precedence. He punched Jamie Breck’s number into his mobile.

‘Wondered how long it would take you,’ Breck answered.

‘I just saw it on the news.’

‘Me too.’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘Looks like the wife’s first call was to her PR guy.’

‘That’s who was giving the statement?’

‘His name’s Gordon Lovatt. As in Lovatt, Meikle, Meldrum.’

‘Never heard of them.’

‘Big PR firm. They do lobbying, too.’

‘You’ve done your research.’

‘They’ve strayed into my orbit on occasion…’ Breck’s voice drifted off. Fox could hear a siren. He lowered the phone from his ear to confirm that it was coming from the earpiece. ‘You’re out somewhere, ’ he stated.

‘I’m headed to Torphichen.’

‘Why?’

‘No real reason.’

‘Is it because of Joanna Broughton? Did she ever get back to you about the CCTV?’ Fox moved aside as two of the drinkers emerged from the bar to smoke a cigarette. They coughed a few times and continued the conversation they’d been having.

‘Which pub?’ Breck asked. ‘Minter’s?’

‘I was asking about Joanna Broughton. How come I just saw her on TV?’

‘She’s married to Charlie Brogan. Didn’t change her name, but they’ve been together three or four years.’

‘Has his body washed ashore yet?’

‘It’s dark out, if you hadn’t noticed. Coastguard have called off the search until daybreak.’

‘But you’re still going into the station.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

‘Yes,’ Jamie Breck answered.

‘Will you let me know if you find out anything?’

‘If it’s pertinent to the case. I don’t doubt I’ll be talking to you sometime tomorrow… whether I like it or not. Meantime, Inspector, take the rest of the evening off.’

‘Thanks, I’ll do that.’

‘Or at least try,’ Breck said, ending the call.

Fox headed back indoors, rubbing some heat back into himself.

‘Good news is,’ he told Naysmith, ‘you’d have been wasting your time anyway.’

‘Breck’s not at home?’ Kaye guessed.

‘The office,’ Fox confirmed.

‘Is that why Gilchrist cried off?’ Naysmith asked. ‘Could he have known?’

‘Doubtful,’ Fox answered after a moment’s thought.

Next morning, he was in the office early, but no one was at home in Room 2.24. Fox went downstairs to the canteen and found Annie Inglis there, slumped over a black coffee with a half-eaten scrambled-egg roll pushed to one side.

‘You look rough,’ he offered as he pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her.

‘Duncan,’ was all she said.

‘What’s he done?’

She rubbed her hands down her face. ‘Nothing really. He’s just at that age…’

‘Rebelling against Mum?’

She offered a tired smile. ‘He stays out late – later than I like. He always comes home eventually…’

‘But you wait up for him?’

She nodded. ‘And if it’s a school night, next morning’s like trying to raise the dead.’

‘Is he running with the wrong crowd?’

She managed another smile, this time at his wording. ‘When you’re a mother, everyone’s the wrong crowd.’

‘Right.’

‘I think they drink a little… take drugs a little.’

‘Not skunk?’

She shook her head. ‘Duncan just seems a bit…’ She sought the right description. ‘Tipsy,’ she eventually decided, ‘on occasion. Plus, the school say he’s falling behind, not handing in home-work. ’

‘He’s got O Grades next year?’

‘Standard Grades, they call them these days.’ She tried shaking some life back into herself and picked up the coffee. ‘Third one of these I’ve had.’

‘Want a fourth?’

But, having drained the cup, she shook her head.

‘Does he see his dad?’ Fox asked, but she wasn’t about to answer.

‘Was there something you wanted, Inspector?’ she asked instead.

‘Yes, but it can wait.’

‘Tell me. Might help get this brain of mine started.’

‘You know the surveillance got pulled last night?’

She looked at him. ‘No,’ she said.

‘It’s just that… you were so keen for it to go ahead. I was wondering what had changed.’

‘I’ve not seen Gilchrist this morning.’

‘They were getting the van ready. Gilchrist took a call, and told my guy it wasn’t happening.’

‘I’ll ask him when I see him. Maybe something else came up.’

‘Maybe,’ Fox conceded.

‘I’ll ask him,’ Annie Inglis repeated.

‘Okay.’ Fox got back to his feet. ‘Sure about that coffee? We actually make better stuff upstairs – four-star leaded.’

‘We can smell it every time we walk past.’

‘Feel free to drop in.’

She thanked him. ‘Malcolm… what I was saying about Duncan…’

‘My lips are sealed,’ Fox assured her, turning to leave.

In the Complaints office, McEwan was back.

‘Did you bring us a souvenir?’ Fox asked him.

McEwan snorted, then asked if things had been quiet in his absence.

‘As the grave,’ Fox stated, moving towards the coffee machine. But there was hardly any coffee left in the tin. He considered heading downstairs again to the canteen, but decided against it. There were tea bags, and he could boil some water. No milk, though. He checked his watch. Naysmith could have no excuses this morning – no surveillance to explain away a late start. He’d be here inside the quarter-hour.

‘RBS headquarters has its own Starbucks,’ McEwan commented, as though reading his mind.

‘We’re not the RBS,’ Fox replied.

‘Thank Christ for small mercies.’

‘How was the conference?’

‘Boring.’

‘Are riots likely this summer?’

‘Couple of the pundits seem to think so. Rising unemployment… unrest… people fearful of the future… tension needing to be broken somehow… And plenty of extremists ready to make it happen. ’

‘An Edinburgh riot would be something to see.’ Fox was back at his desk.

‘Plenty of them in times past, Malcolm – the mob was a thing to be feared.’

Fox was shaking his head. ‘Not these days. Even when they’re protesting outside the RBS boss’s house, they use placards for the graffiti so as not to damage anything – that’s your Edinburgh mob, Bob.’

‘I hope to God you’re right.’ McEwan sneezed three times, then picked up his phone. ‘On top of everything, I’ve caught that cold of yours.’

‘Happy to share, sir,’ Malcolm Fox told him. ‘Mine’s actually a little better.’ He watched as Joe Naysmith walked into the room. Naysmith held up the plastic bag he was carrying – coffee and milk. Fox offered him the thumbs-up and received a gesture in return – Naysmith’s palm held out as if for money. It was Friday – accounts day as far as the coffee was concerned. Fox ignored Naysmith and got down to the first of the day’s chores. Copies of testimony in the Heaton case were beginning to arrive from the lawyers in the Fiscal’s office, queries and comments attached to most of the pages. Fox would pass some off to Naysmith and some to Kaye, keeping the juiciest ones for himself. Half an hour later, Kaye sauntered in, rolling his eyes as he saw McEwan was back.

‘What time do you call this?’ McEwan complained.

‘Sorry, sir,’ Kaye replied, reaching for the coffee Naysmith had poured him. Then he drew a newspaper from his coat pocket and tossed it on to Fox’s desk. ‘Page three,’ he said. ‘No topless shots, though…’