Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘Hundreds of millions of pounds that have just vanished into thin air,’ Fox commented.

‘The land’s still there,’ Breck argued. ‘Only thing that’s gone is the confidence. Banks stop lending, everyone gets the jitters.’ He thought for a moment. ‘So what are you going to do, Malcolm?’

‘Maybe go see Jude, check how she’s doing. What about you?’

‘Been a while since I could dedicate a whole day to Quidnunc.’ Breck broke off, staring down at the table. ‘I’m not sorry I did what I did.’

‘Don’t worry about it – this is all my fault, not yours. Tell it just the way it happened – I railroaded you, pulled rank, maybe even lied…’ He was on the verge of saying it: by the way, I’m not the only one who’s been under surveillance. But he swallowed the words back and gave a sigh instead. ‘You could have told me about the casino and the councillor.’

Breck just shrugged. ‘Giles was right, though – I never should have allowed you within a million miles of the case. He’s probably more furious with me than he is you – you’re the enemy he knew about, but me… turns out I’m Judas.’

‘I’m sure Judas had his good points.’

They shared a half-hearted laugh as they got to their feet, coffees unfinished. Stood facing one another and shook hands. Fox replaced the newspaper in the pool-player’s jacket and offered a wave of thanks. When he turned towards the door, Jamie Breck had already left.

Tony Kaye exited Police HQ with a scuffed briefcase swinging from one hand. He was whistling through his teeth, scanning the car park. When a horn sounded, he headed in that direction. The Volvo’s passenger-side door was already open, so he got in and closed it after him, handing the briefcase to its owner.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘They wouldn’t let me past the front desk,’ Malcolm Fox explained. ‘Word must already have gone out that I’m radioactive.’

‘McEwan has a face like fury.’

‘What’s he been saying?’

‘Not a cheep. He had some meeting in the DCC’s office, and there’s another scheduled for later.’ Kaye paused. ‘I’m hearing a lot of strange accents about the place…’

‘Grampian Police,’ Fox explained. ‘From the Complaints, I suppose. They’ve got me under investigation.’

Kaye puckered his lips to give a proper whistle. ‘Grampian Complaints? What’s going on, Foxy?’

‘I’ve walked right into it, Tony. Nobody to blame but myself.’

‘Did Breck grass you up?’

Fox thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘They were looking at me before I’d even met him.’

‘Looking’s one thing, but did they have any ammo until he came along? And why were they looking at you in the first place? Anything I should know about?’

Fox didn’t have even the beginnings of an answer. He unlocked his briefcase and peered in. ‘Where are the queries from the Fiscal’s office?’

It was Kaye’s turn to shake his head. ‘McEwan has already divvied them up.’

‘He’s bringing someone else in?’

‘Only temporary, till you’re back on your feet.’

‘Who said I wasn’t on my feet?’ Fox snapped. Then: ‘Who is it?’

‘Gilchrist.’

Fox stared at him. ‘Chop Shop Gilchrist?’

Kaye nodded slowly. ‘So now I’ll have him in one ear, Naysmith in the other, the pair of them vying to out-geek each other. And you know what that means…’

‘What?’

‘Means you’ve got to get his thing quashed pronto, before I go postal.’

Fox managed a tired smile. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘It’s me I’m thinking of, Foxy.’ They sat in silence for a moment, staring through the windscreen. Then Kaye gave an elongated sigh. ‘You going to be all right?’ he asked.

‘Don’t know.’

‘Anything I can do to help?’

‘Keep your ear to the ground. Call me once a day so I know what’s happening.’ He paused. ‘Whose idea was it to bring in Gilchrist?’

‘No doubt Naysmith put in a good word…’

‘But from what I’ve seen, the Chop Shop’s short-handed as it is. With Gilchrist elsewhere, that only leaves Inglis.’

Kaye offered a shrug. ‘Not your problem, Foxy.’ He was opening the car door. ‘Minter’s later? Friday night, remember…’

‘I doubt I’ll be in the mood.’

Kaye was halfway out of the car when he paused and stuck his head back in. ‘By the way, Joe wanted me to remind you – you’re three weeks behind with the coffee kitty.’

‘Tell him the debt’s transferred to the new boy.’

‘I like your style, Inspector Fox,’ Kaye said with a grin. ‘Always have…’

Instead of going straight home, Fox stopped outside Jude’s house. There was no sign of any activity – no vans or officers. He rang her bell and she answered with a shout from the other side of the door.

‘Who is it?’

‘Your brother.’

She opened the door and let him in. ‘Had reporters round?’ he guessed.

‘They wanted to know why your lot had been excavating my garden.’ She accepted his peck on the cheek and led him into the living room. She’d been smoking: a stub was still smouldering in the ashtray. But there was no evidence that she’d had a drink, other than coffee. A fresh jar of instant sat on the breakfast bar, alongside the kettle and a mug and spoon.

‘Want one?’ she asked, but he shook his head.

‘That cast looks different,’ he commented.

She lifted her arm a fraction. ‘Brand new this lunchtime. Bit less cumbersome, and at least I got to have a good scratch when they took off the old one.’

He smiled at this. ‘Didn’t you break your other arm once?’

‘Wrist,’ she corrected him. ‘I wondered if you’d remember.’

‘Mum took me along when you went to the hospital to have the cast removed.’

Jude was nodding. She had returned to her favoured armchair and was preparing to light a fresh cigarette.

‘You’ve just put one out,’ Fox reminded her.

‘Meaning it must be time for another. Didn’t you used to smoke?’

‘Not since leaving school.’ He settled himself on the sofa across from her. The TV was playing with the sound turned down – looked like a nature documentary.

‘Seems a lifetime ago,’ Jude was saying.

‘It was a lifetime ago.’

She nodded, growing solemn, and Fox knew she was thinking of Vince. ‘They still can’t tell me when they’ll release the body,’ she said in an undertone.

‘I was wondering something,’ Fox began, leaning forward a little. ‘I’m not sure you’ve ever told me how the two of you met.’

She stared at him. ‘I didn’t think you were interested.’

‘I am now.’

Jude drew on her cigarette, screwing shut her eyes against the smoke. She had slid around in the armchair so that her legs hung over one of its arms. Fox was reminded that his sister had a good figure. The jeans she was wearing were tight, showing the lines of her slender thighs and hips. Just the beginnings of a roll of fat around her waist. No bra discernible beneath the T-shirt, which was baggy at the sleeves, allowing glimpses of the flesh either side of her breasts. She’d been bright at school, a bit of a swot. The rebel in her had only come to light later, with her first tattoo – a red rose on her left shoulder, complete with a thorny stem. Fox recalled that Sandra Hendry, too, boasted a tattoo – a scorpion on her ankle. And Vince Faulkner’s arms had been scarred by the amateur needle-and-ink methods of his youth.

‘Vince,’ Jude was saying, drawing the name out beyond its natural length. ‘Vince was drinking with some of his friends in the West End. It was a Sunday night and I was out with this girl, Melissa, from the office. It was her birthday and, tell the truth, she was called the Frumpster behind her back. She’d asked half a dozen of us to go out that night, and I’d said yes before realising that everybody else had made some excuse.’ Jude sighed. ‘So there were just the two of us, and that had its compensations.’