Ian Rankin - The Complaints

It was the morning’s Scotsman. The story took up the whole page. There were photos of Brogan, his boat, Joanna Broughton and her father Jack. None of the pictures looked particularly recent, except for one of Gordon Lovatt at the press conference. The story itself was long on background and short on substance. Brogan’s company owned swathes of commercial land and property in the city. Debt had become an issue. Brogan was a ‘keen weekend sailor’ who kept his million-pound yacht moored at South Queensferry. His wife was owner of the successful Oliver casino and his father-in-law a wealthy and retired ‘local businessman, known for his cavalier approach’. Fox had a little smile to himself at that. When he looked up, Kaye was watching him.

‘Doesn’t add much,’ Fox commented.

‘Maybe because there’s not much to add. Did you check the TV this morning?’

Fox nodded. ‘Body’s still out there somewhere.’

‘Empty bottle of posh wine left on the deck, plus a smattering of sleeping tablets as prescribed to the wife.’ Kaye paused, angling his head towards the newspaper. ‘She’s a looker, though – wonder what first attracted her to the pot-bellied, balding tycoon.’

‘Says here they live in the penthouse of one of his developments. ’

‘Top three storeys of a new-build by Inverleith Park,’ Kaye confirmed. ‘It was in the papers at the time – priciest flat in Scotland.’

‘But that was before the slump.’

‘I doubt she needs to sell – Daddy’s on hand to bail her out.’

‘Begs the question why he hasn’t done the same for his son-in-law. ’

‘You two,’ Naysmith broke in, ‘are like a couple of checkout girls with the latest copy of Heat.’

The phone on Fox’s desk rang and he picked it up.

‘Hallway in two,’ Annie Inglis said, before the line went dead. Fox put the phone back down and patted the stacks of paperwork in front of him.

‘Which is mine?’ Kaye asked. Fox tapped the relevant pile.

‘And mine?’ Naysmith added. Another tap.

‘Meaning yours is the smallest, Malcolm,’ Kaye said with his usual frown.

‘As per,’ Naysmith agreed.

‘Tough,’ Malcolm Fox told them, getting to his feet.

Outside in the corridor, Annie Inglis was already waiting. She was leaning with her back to the wall, one foot crossed over the other, hands behind her.

‘It’s been pulled,’ she said.

‘That much I knew.’

‘We won’t be pursuing a case against DS Breck.’ Her face was as stony as her voice.

‘Why?’

‘Orders.’

‘Says who?’

‘Malcolm…’ Her eyes fixed on his. ‘All you need to know is, we no longer require the assistance of Complaints and Conduct.’

‘Is that how you were told to phrase it?’

‘Malcolm…’

He took a step towards her, but she was already on her way back to her office. As his eyes followed her, he saw her head go down. She knew he was watching, knew he’d take it as a sign.

A woman who’d just done something she wasn’t happy about, and wanted him to know.

At lunchtime, he told the office he was going out. He took a detour into the canteen, hoping Inglis might be there, but she wasn’t. As he drove out of the compound he offered up a prayer that his parking space would still be vacant on his return, while knowing from experience that there was maybe a cat-in-hell’s chance. As had become his custom, he kept a regular watch on any traffic behind him, but there were no black Astras or green Kas. Within ten minutes he was parking outside the Oliver. Simon was again behind the bar, chatting up one of the female croupiers while another eked out a shift at the blackjack table for the two hunched punters who were providing the casino’s only custom.

‘I already told you you’d need to talk to the boss,’ Simon said, recognising Fox.

‘Actually, it was my colleague you told that to, and we did consult with Ms Broughton.’ Fox paused. ‘Thought you might have been closed today as a mark of respect.’

‘Nuclear war, that’s about all we close for.’

‘Lucky for me.’ Fox pressed his palms against the bar counter. Simon stared at him.

‘She said you could watch the tapes?’ he guessed.

‘Of Saturday night,’ Fox confirmed. Then: ‘Go call her; she’ll tell you.’ But they both knew Simon wasn’t about to pick up the phone to Joanna Broughton. For one thing, she had other things on her mind. For another, Simon didn’t have the clout – not that he would want the slim blonde croupier across the bar from him to suspect as much, which was why he told Fox it was fine, and that he could use the office. Fox nodded his thanks, inwardly congratulating himself on having read the young man correctly, and explained that he would be out of their way in no time at all.

The office was cramped. Simon sat at the desk while he set up the playback. The recording could be viewed directly on the screen belonging to the desktop computer.

‘Hard-drive recorders,’ Simon explained.

Fox nodded as he studied the room: a couple of chairs, three filing cabinets, and a bank of CCTV screens, alternating between a dozen different cameras.

‘Do you depend on this to catch the cheats?’ Fox asked.

‘We have staff watching the floor. Sometimes we’ll put someone on a table, pretending to be just another punter. Everyone’s trained to be on the lookout.’

‘Have any scams actually worked?’

‘One or two,’ Simon admitted, using the mouse to navigate the screen. Eventually he was happy, and swapped places with Fox. He started asking if there was any news about ‘Mr Brogan’.

‘Did you know him?’ Fox asked back.

‘He came by pretty regularly. Didn’t gamble much, but liked to see Joanna.’

Simon looked as if he might hang about, so Fox told him he could get back to work. The young man hesitated, but then seemed to remember the blonde croupier. He nodded and left. Fox leaned in towards the screen and hit ‘play’. There was a time code at top right, showing him that it was nine o’clock Saturday evening. He fast-forwarded to ten. At times, the camera would zoom in to pick out one particular player, or even that player’s hand movements as they studied their cards. The place was busy, but, the tape being silent, there was a surreal quality to the footage, and the colour had a washed-out look. The cameras seemed to be focusing on the tables. Little attention was being paid to the doormen or the lobby or either of the bars. Fox couldn’t see Vince Faulkner anywhere. Simon had told Breck he’d been drunk, seated on a stool by the corner of the downstairs bar, but Fox was damned if he could find him. When a tapping came at the door, he let out a hiss of air.

‘Look,’ he called out, ‘I’m not halfway finished here!’

The door opened slowly. ‘Oh, but you are,’ a voice crooned. DCI Billy Giles was standing there, filling the whole doorway.

‘Gotcha,’ he said.

Torphichen police station.

Not the same room as before – one of the proper interview rooms. And set up for a proper interview, too – video camera pointing down at the table from the ceiling. Once it was operational, a red light would blink to indicate that recording was in progress. A tape deck plugged into the wall socket – two tapes, one for each party. One microphone on its stand in the centre of the table. The walls whitewashed, decorated with nothing but a reminder that smoking was punishable by a fine – as if any of the room’s usual inmates would worry about that. A foetid smell; the place had only recently been vacated.

They’d left Malcolm Fox there to stew in his own juices. No offer of tea or even water. Giles had asked him for his mobile; Fox had told him to get stuffed.