Ian Rankin - The Complaints

Fox pushed open the door and found himself in a tiled stairwell with two bicycles parked just inside the entrance. He climbed the stairs slowly, peering up towards the glass cupola, through which the lunchtime sun was streaming. His morning had comprised coffee, shopping, and more newspapers. He carried a bag within which lay a bottle of wine and a bunch of early daffodils for his hostess, along with an iTunes token for her son. Duncan was waiting for him at the top, loitering just outside the door to the flat. Fox tried to make light of the climb.

‘Must keep you fit,’ he offered. Duncan just grunted. He had lank brown hair falling into his eyes, and was tall and gangly. His chosen outfit of denims and T-shirt would have fitted someone twice his girth. He headed indoors and crooked a finger to let Fox know he should follow. The flat’s main hallway was long and narrow with half a dozen doors off. The original flooring had been sanded and varnished. There was a cycle helmet next to the phone on the only table, above which was fixed a row of hooks with keys dangling from them.

‘Mum’s…’ Duncan pointed vaguely, before disappearing into his bedroom. There was a ‘Legalise Cannabis’ sticker on the door, and Fox could hear the low hum of a computer’s cooling fan. At the far end of the hall was an open door leading to the drawing room. It looked spacious, with a bay window allowing views across the chimneypots north to the city centre and beyond. But just before Fox reached it, he heard sounds from the room to his immediate right. The door was open an inch, allowing him a glimpse into the kitchen. Annie Inglis was stirring a pot. Her face was red and she seemed flustered. He decided to leave her be, and walked into the drawing room. A table had been set next to the window, laid for three. Fox placed his carrier bag on it and took a look around. Sofa and chairs, TV and hi-fi, shelves filled with books, DVDs and CDs. There were framed photos, too – Annie and Duncan, an elderly couple (presumably her parents), but no indication that Duncan’s father played any role in the family’s life.

‘You’re here.’ She was standing in the doorway, carrying three wine glasses.

‘Duncan let me in.’

‘I didn’t hear you.’ She placed the glasses on the table, then noticed the bag.

‘For you,’ he said. ‘And something for Duncan, too.’

She peered inside and smiled. ‘That’s kind of you.’

‘If you’re busy in the kitchen, don’t worry – I can entertain myself. Or I can come and help…’

She shook her head. ‘Nearly done,’ she said, grabbing the bag. ‘Just give me two minutes.’

‘Sure.’

‘I can fetch you a drink.’

‘I’m not really a drinker.’

‘Cranberry juice? It’s just about the only source of vitamins Duncan gets.’

‘Cranberry juice is fine.’

‘Two minutes,’ she repeated, making her exit. Fox recommenced his tour of the room. Her preferred Sunday paper was the Observer. She liked the novels of Ian McEwan and films with subtitles. Her taste in music stretched from Alan Stivell to Eric Bibb. All of which left Fox not much the wiser. He returned to the view, envying her this sweep of the city and of the firth to its north.

‘Mum says to say thanks.’ It was Duncan in the doorway this time. He was waving the credit-card-sized token.

‘I wasn’t even sure if you used downloads,’ Fox said.

Duncan nodded to let him know he did. Then he waved the token a final time and was gone again. Fifteen years old – Fox tried to think back to himself at that age. There’d been rows with Jude, and plenty of them. He could always wind her up until she was at screaming point. Throwing things at him, even. Fifteen… he’d started drinking by that stage. Bottles of cider in the park with his pals. Screw-top wine and quarter-bottles of whisky.

‘Here you go…’ It was Annie Inglis again, bringing him his tall glass of cranberry juice. She looked around. ‘I told Duncan to…’

‘He did. Seems a nice kid.’

She handed him the glass. ‘Why don’t you sit down? I’ll just fetch my drink.’

It was white wine in a tumbler. She decanted it into one of the proper wine glasses on the table, then brought it over and sat next to him on the sofa.

‘Cheers,’ she said, chinking glasses.

‘Cheers. And thanks for the invite.’

‘We don’t normally do Sunday lunch.’ Her eyes widened a little. ‘You’re not vegetarian, are you?’

‘Perish the thought.’

‘I’ve got pork and apple sauce. Plus a burger for Duncan.’

‘He won’t eat pork?’

‘He’d pick at it.’ She took a mouthful of wine and exhaled. ‘That’s better.’ She smiled at him. ‘Not that I need it, you understand.’

‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

‘Did you hear about Gilchrist?’

Fox nodded. ‘I was going to ask if you knew.’

‘I don’t know what it is the Complaints have got that CEOP hasn’t.’

‘It’s only temporary, though.’

‘He was quick enough to accept.’

‘You think they should have offered it to you?’

‘I’d have turned it down,’ she said quickly. ‘And not just because it’s your job we’re talking about.’ She trained her eyes on him. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m fine. You know that sign on the CEOP door, the one that says two people have to be present when you look at anything…?’

‘Working solo is going to present problems,’ she agreed.

‘I don’t know how you can do the job you do,’ he stated with a slow shake of the head.

‘The secret is, you never focus on what’s happening in the photo – you look for the clues in the background, anything that can identify where the abuse took place…’

‘But it must get to you – you’ve got a kid of your own.’

‘We limit our time on the computer to a couple of hours a day, plus three times a year we get counselling – mandatory counselling. When I come home, the office doesn’t come with me.’

‘It still sounds tough.’

‘It’s a job,’ she said, taking another gulp of wine. Then: ‘What about you, Malcolm? What’s going to happen?’

He shrugged and lifted his own drink to his mouth. ‘What are you going to do about Breck?’

‘What can I do?’

‘Can you at least talk about it?’

She shook her head.

‘Why not?’ When she just stared at him, he lifted his hands in a show of surrender.

‘I’ll check on the meat,’ she said, getting back to her feet. She was wearing tight black cords and a cream-coloured woollen sweater. Fox couldn’t help enjoying his view of her as she left the room.

Lunch itself was fine. Duncan said almost nothing, hiding behind his curtain of hair. The pork was tender, and accompanied by mountains of veg, Duncan partaking of two boiled potatoes and one roast to accompany his burger. There was trifle for dessert, which the teenager asked if he could take to his room. After a theatrical sigh, his mother relented. With dessert finished, Fox helped her clear the table. The kitchen was a mess, but she insisted she’d clean up later – ‘Duncan will help, trust me.’ So they settled back on the sofa with coffee and little cubes of home-made tablet. She’d put his flowers in a vase of water.

‘You’ve been married, right?’ she asked.

‘Right.’

‘No kids, though?’

‘We weren’t together long enough.’

‘What happened?’

‘We hooked up for all the wrong reasons.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m not about to bore you with the details.’ He crossed one leg over the other. ‘How does Duncan feel about your job?’

‘He knows not to ask questions.’

‘Fair enough, but he knows what you do, and he has to tell his mates something…’