Ian Rankin - The Complaints

McEwan was frowning. ‘My officer has been under surveillance? ’

The Deputy Chief Constable silenced him with a glare. ‘Your man’s been misbehaving, Chief Inspector.’

‘And no one saw fit to inform me,’ McEwan stated.

‘A topic for later discussion.’ Traynor was glaring at McEwan, but McEwan’s attention was concentrated on Malcolm Fox, and there was an unspoken question there: what the hell is going on here?

‘Right,’ Traynor said, straightening up and running a thumb along the brim of his cap. ‘Is that all clear enough for you?’

‘I’ve got paperwork I could do with finishing,’ Breck said.

‘Not a chance,’ Traynor barked back at him. ‘Don’t want you trying to cook the books.’

The blood rose up Jamie Breck’s neck. ‘With all due respect, sir…’

But the Deputy Chief Constable was already in the process of leaving.

‘We’ll need your warrant cards and any pass keys,’ Billy Giles was stating, hand held out in preparation. ‘You walk out of here and you don’t go near either of your offices, even to pick up a jacket or bag. You go home and you stay home. Grampian Police will doubtless be in touch – you’ll know the protocol off by heart, Inspector Fox…’

McEwan had followed Traynor out of the room as if keen to collar the man, and without so much as a backward glance. But Fox trusted his boss. He’d be arguing Fox’s case, fighting his corner.

‘Warrant cards,’ Giles repeated, fingers twitching. ‘After which you’ll be escorted from the premises.’

‘The Federation has lawyers,’ the woman officer piped up. Giles gave her a hard stare.

‘Thanks, Annabel,’ Jamie Breck said, throwing his warrant card down well short of Billy Giles’s hand.

There was a pool hall on the corner, and that was their first stop, if only because they needed a place to sit and take it all in. Breck seemed to be known to the proprietor. A table by the window was wiped down for their use, and coffees arrived ‘on the house’.

‘No, we’ll pay for them,’ Breck insisted, producing a handful of coins from his pocket. ‘One man’s gift is another man’s bung.’ His eyes met Fox’s and the two men managed wary smiles.

‘Not exactly the most pressing of our worries,’ Fox offered. ‘Annabel was right, though – there are lawyers we could be consulting.’

Breck shrugged. ‘At least you were right when you said you were being tailed. Might explain that van outside my house…’

‘Yes,’ Fox commented, feeling suddenly awkward.

‘So what happens now? I’d say you’re the resident expert here.’

Fox didn’t answer immediately. He listened to the sounds around him – pool balls clacking against each other; mild cursing from the players; the low rumble of traffic outside. Now we’re in the same boat, he thought.

‘What was the last you heard about Brogan’s yacht?’ he asked.

Breck stared at him. ‘We’re not interested in any of that, Malcolm. We’re suspended from our jobs.’

‘Sure.’ Fox shrugged. ‘But you’ve got friends, right? Annabel – she’s one of them? That means you can keep tabs on what’s happening. ’

‘And if it gets back to Billy Giles?’

‘What’s the worst he can do? We’re Grampian’s problem from now on.’ Fox picked up the cup and blew across its surface. He knew it was going to be the cheapest brand of powdered instant; knew the cup wasn’t as clean as it could be. But he would remember the smell and the taste and the pattern on the saucer for the rest of his life.

‘We’re civilians now, Jamie,’ he went on. ‘That gives us more room to manoeuvre, not less.’

‘I’m not sure what you’re saying.’

Fox proffered a huge shrug. ‘I thought you were the risk-taker, Jamie, the one who reckons we all make our own luck, affect the way our lives are going to turn out?’

‘And you’re the one who thinks the opposite.’

Fox just shrugged again. A couple of players had come in. They carried their two-piece cues in little travel cases. One of the men had a rolled-up copy of the day’s Evening News in his pocket. When he slipped out of his jacket and made to hang it up, Fox sauntered over.

‘Mind if I take a look?’ he asked. The man shook his head, so Fox retreated to his table with the paper. Charlie Brogan had made it to the front page – not that there was much to report.

‘Remember what you said, Jamie? Joanna Broughton’s first phone call seems to have been to this PR agency. The media knew about the boat before we did. What does that say to you?’

‘That the lady has skewed priorities.’ Breck paused. ‘What do you make of it?’

‘I’m not sure… not yet.’

‘You’re not just going to go home and put your feet up, are you?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Who’s to say they’ll stop tailing you?’

‘That’s another thing – I want to know precisely how long it’s been going on.’

‘Why?’

‘Because timing is everything, Jamie.’ Fox stared at Breck. ‘You really didn’t know I was under surveillance?’

Breck shook his head determinedly.

‘Traynor said four days – that takes it back to Monday.’

‘Vince’s body wasn’t found till Tuesday.’

Fox nodded. ‘I still want to know what’s on the CCTV footage from the Oliver.’

‘I doubt it’ll be useful.’

Fox leaned back in his seat. ‘Maybe it’s time for you to tell me why you seem to know so much about the place.’

Breck considered for a moment, weighing up how much to say. ‘It was a few months back,’ he began. ‘Just someone we were trying to build a case against…’

‘Who?’

‘A councillor – suspected of being a naughty boy. There were rumours of a meeting at the Oliver, so we asked Joanna Broughton for any recordings.’

‘And?’

‘And there weren’t any – not by the time we went looking.’

‘They’d been wiped?’

‘Story we got was, there’d been a glitch of some kind.’

‘But I’ve seen the tapes from Saturday night – I know they’re there.’

‘Doesn’t mean there won’t be another glitch. The Oliver is Broughton’s pride and joy – her way of saying she can make it on her own.’

‘Without Father Jack, you mean?’

Breck nodded. ‘She doesn’t want the place getting a rep – dodgy meetings; last known sightings of murder victims…’

‘That’s why she uses the PR company?’

‘Lovatt, Meikle, Meldrum,’ Breck recited.

Fox thought for a moment. ‘The night we went to the Oliver, you told me you’d never been to the Oliver in your life.’

‘I lied.’

‘Why?’

‘Empathy?’ Breck suggested. He’d taken the paper from Fox, skimming the front page and then flipping to the leader column. ‘Seen this?’ he asked. Then he started to quote from the piece: ‘“The value of the various development sites along the Edinburgh Waterfront has dropped by £220 million over the past year… Land in the city has fallen from a high of £2 million an acre to less than a quarter of that…” Fountain Brewery project in trouble… Ditto Caltongate and the projected new town at Shawfair. Eighty per cent of the land holdings in Edinburgh now have no development value at all…’ He placed the newspaper on the table in front of them. ‘No development value at all,’ he repeated. ‘Seems to me Charlie Brogan had every reason to walk the plank.’

‘Hard to disagree.’ Fox was scanning the piece for himself. ‘Fountain Brewery,’ he mused. ‘That’s where Vince was found.’

Breck nodded.

‘Would Brogan have been one of the developers?’

‘It’s possible,’ Breck conceded.