Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘We never seemed to get invited.’ She had shrugged off her coat. Fox walked into the kitchen and started filling the kettle.

‘DCI Giles phoned me,’ she explained from the doorway. ‘He says the man who came to my door on Monday night was a friend of yours.’

‘He works with me.’

‘Giles thinks you sent him.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Sent him to do your dirty work,’ she continued. ‘His name’s Kaye… I think you’ve mentioned him to me before. How did he know where I live, Malcolm?’

Fox turned towards her. ‘Jude… this man Giles is trying every trick he knows in an effort to fuck things up for me.’

‘You told Kaye where I live?’

‘At some point I must have. But I didn’t know he was going to come to your house.’

‘He was looking for Vince. Only reason he’d be doing that is if you told him what happened… told him about my arm.’

‘So?’

She was blinking back tears. ‘DCI Giles thinks maybe you had Vince killed.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Then why send your friend round?’

‘I didn’t send him. He was looking for Vince, remember? But Vince was already dead, Jude – and that means Tony Kaye didn’t know.’ Pain was thrumming in Fox’s temples. He opened a drawer and took out a packet of paracetamol tablets, popping two of them from the blister pack and washing them down with water from the tap. Jude waited until she had his full attention again before she spoke.

‘Giles says Vince could have been killed Monday night. He says the tests always have a margin of error.’

‘He’s lying. Pathology has Vince dying on the Saturday or the Sunday.’

A single tear was running down Jude’s left cheek. ‘I just want this to be over,’ she said, her voice cracking. Fox stepped forward and placed his hands gently on her shoulders.

‘I know,’ he said, as she buried her face in his chest.

They spent the next hour and a half talking quietly in the living room. She drank the tea he prepared for her, but didn’t feel like eating. She promised him she had eaten something at lunchtime. She promised him she would have breakfast. He brought out a packet of Weetabix from the kitchen and said she’d be taking it home with her. When he offered milk, she gave a little laugh and told him to stop making such a fuss. But he got the feeling she liked it really.

He called a taxi for her and pressed a ten-pound note into her hand. Then he pecked her on the cheek again and closed the door of the cab for her, waving as she was driven away. She’d asked him if he’d seen their father and he had lied – because he hadn’t wanted her to feel left out. Next time he was visiting Mitch, he would take her along. She belonged there just as much as he did. She was family.

Malcolm Fox made himself a last mug of tea and headed for bed. It wasn’t yet ten, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

Malcolm Fox’s alarm woke him at seven as usual. He was in the shower before he realised there was no necessity to be up this early. Nor did he have to wear a clean shirt and a fresh tie, or his suit and braces, but that didn’t stop him putting all of them on. As he was eating breakfast, there was a phone call. It was a woman called Stoddart from Grampian Police PSU. She was ‘inviting’ him to a meeting at Fettes HQ.

‘Shall we say three p.m.?’

‘Three’s fine,’ Fox informed her.

The day was cold and overcast. Snowdrops were starting to appear in his front garden, and he reckoned there’d be some brave crocuses already sticking their heads above the parapet in the Meadows and the city’s other parks. He tried to work out a route that would take him through the Meadows on his way to Leith. It would be circuitous, but with the added bonus of a drive through Holyrood Park. Besides, he wasn’t exactly in a hurry.

A few years back, Fox and his team had investigated an officer based at Leith Police Station. He’d been taking backhanders and turning a blind eye. One of his own men had come to them, but only with a promise of anonymity. Meetings had taken place at a greasy spoon near the docks, and this was Fox’s destination today. The café was called The Marina, its paintwork peeling, interior walls shiny with grease. There were half a dozen Formica-topped tables and a ledge by the window where you could stand and eat if you preferred. The owner was a large, red-faced woman who did much of the cooking while an Eastern European girl worked the till and the tables. Fox had been seated for fifteen minutes, nursing a mug of industrial-strength tea, when Max Dearborn walked in. Dearborn saw him and his whole body seemed to sag. He’d put on half a stone or more since they’d last met, and had developed jowls. There was still acne around his mouth, and his dark hair was slick-looking, combed straight down. More than ever, he resembled Oliver Hardy’s Scottish nephew.

‘Hiya, Max,’ Fox said.

Dearborn’s breathing was hoarse as he wedged himself into the seat opposite Fox.

‘Is this just some horrific coincidence?’ the young man pretended to guess.

Fox was shaking his head. The waitress had arrived, and he ordered a bacon roll.

‘Usual for you, Max?’ she asked Dearborn, who nodded a reply, keeping his eyes on Fox. When she moved away, Fox spoke in an undertone.

‘I hear you’re a DS these days – congratulations.’

Dearborn responded with a twitch of the mouth. Fox remembered him the way he’d been – a detective constable with ideals and principles still intact, yet fearful of alienating his colleagues. ‘Serpico’, Tony Kaye had called him.

‘What do you want?’ Dearborn was asking. He’d taken a good look around the café, seeking out enemies and sharp ears.

‘Are you working the Charlie Brogan drowning?’ Fox could feel sweat forming on his back. His heart was beating far too fast. The tea had enough tannin in it to fell an ox, so he pushed the mug to one side.

‘It’s not a drowning yet,’ Dearborn corrected him. ‘And what’s it to you anyway?’

‘I’m just interested. Reckon maybe you owe me a favour.’

‘A favour?’

‘For keeping your name under wraps.’

‘Is that some sort of threat?’

Fox shook his head. Dearborn’s coffee had arrived and he shovelled two spoonfuls of sugar into it, stirring noisily.

‘Like I say, I’m just interested. I’m hoping someone can keep me up to date.’

‘And that’s me, is it?’ Dearborn stared at him. ‘Why the interest? ’

Fox shrugged. ‘Brogan might tie in to another case.’

‘To do with the Complaints?’ Dearborn was suddenly less hostile, and more interested.

‘Maybe. It’s all hush-hush, but if anything did come to light, I’d be willing to share the credit.’ Fox paused. ‘You know my boss had a say in your promotion?’

‘Thought he might have.’

‘It can happen again, Max…’ Fox let his voice drift away. Dearborn took a slurp of coffee and then another, and started to do some thinking. Fox just sat there, hands in his lap, not wanting to rest any part of his suit against the surface of the table. The waitress was returning with their food – Fox’s filled roll; Dearborn’s fry-up. The young man’s plate was heaped, and he turned towards the cook and gave her a nod and a smile. She smiled back. Fox had peeled open his roll. The bacon looked pale and stringy. He closed it again and left it on the plate. Dearborn was squeezing brown sauce across the array of bacon, fried egg, sausage, beans and mushrooms.

‘Looks good,’ Fox commented. Dearborn just nodded and took his first mouthful, eyes on Fox as he chewed.

‘Body’s still not surfaced,’ Dearborn said.