Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘Is that unusual?’

‘Not according to those in the know. Currents are irregular in the channel. He could have been swept out into the North Sea. A container ship’s propeller could have snagged him and turned him to mush. Coastguard were out again at first light. We’ve got patrols working both seashores, north and south.’

‘I heard Fife Constabulary was claiming jurisdiction.’

Dearborn shook his head. There were already traces of egg yolk either side of his mouth. ‘That’ll never wash. We’ve asked for their cooperation, but this is D Division territory, fair and square.’

‘So where’s the boat?’

‘Dalgety Bay.’

‘Last time I looked, that was in Fife.’

‘It’s going to be towed to Leith later today.’

‘I’m assuming you’ve already given it a once-over?’

‘Forensics have,’ Dearborn confirmed.

‘Evidence of alcohol and pills,’ Fox stated.

‘You’re well informed. No suicide note, but I’m told that’s not so unusual. He’d contacted his solicitor a few days back to check some of the details of his will.’

Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘When exactly?’

‘Tuesday afternoon.’

‘Did he want to change anything?’

Dearborn shook his head.

‘I’m assuming everything will go to the widow?’

‘That depends on us finding a body. If we don’t, then she’s got a wait on her hands – it’s a legal thing.’ Dearborn concentrated on his food, then decided to share something with Fox. ‘His shoes have been found. Deck shoes, they’re called. Bobbing in the water off Inchcolm Island.’ He paused. ‘Supposing this does tie in to whatever you’re working on… how do I get my share of the spoils without anyone on my side knowing I’ve been talking to you?’

‘There are ways,’ Malcolm Fox said. ‘Trust me.’

When the meal was finished, their waitress asked if something was wrong with the bacon roll.

‘Just not hungry,’ Fox reassured her. Then, to Dearborn: ‘Let me get this.’

‘Your money’s no good in here.’

‘How come?’

Dearborn offered a shrug. ‘There was a break-in a few months back. I made sure we put in an extra bit of effort…’

‘You sure you should be telling this to someone from the Complaints?’

Max Dearborn winked and, with a certain amount of effort, got back to his feet. He insisted on leaving first. Fox watched him go and speculated as to a future of high blood pressure and diabetes, maybe even the odd coronary. About a year back, his own doctor had foretold much the same for him. Since when he’d dropped a stone, while feeling little better for it. He stood outside the café, listening to the screaming of gulls on the nearby roofs. Then he started walking. D Division HQ was on Queen Charlotte Street. As with Torphichen, it boasted a solid if drab Victorian exterior, but unlike Torphichen its interior still held traces of a certain faded grandeur – marble floors, carved wooden balustrades, ornate pillars. Dearborn would be inside by now. His last words to Fox had consisted of a promise to keep him posted. Fox had given him a card with his mobile number – ‘Your best bet for catching me,’ he’d said. Last thing he wanted was Dearborn calling his Fettes office and being told that Inspector Malcolm Fox was out of the game. Word would spread fast enough – Billy Giles would see to that – but meantime Dearborn might prove useful. He’d already given Fox something to think about.

Tuesday morning – Vince Faulkner’s body is found.

Tuesday afternoon – Charlie Brogan contacts his solicitor.

Thursday – his boat is found drifting, its owner missing.

Missing presumed dead.

Without really meaning to, Fox found that he’d strolled the quarter-mile to Leith Police Station. He walked as far as the corner of Constitution Street, then turned. He was just passing the building’s public entrance when a woman came out, sliding her oversized sunglasses back on to her face. She was dressed not in black but coordinated brown. She reached into her leopard-print handbag for cigarettes and lighter, but the breeze kept foiling her attempts.

‘Let me,’ Fox said, opening his suit jacket so it provided a windbreak. She got the cigarette lit and gave him a nod of thanks. Fox nodded a response and then moved off. Once back at his car, he made a U-turn and headed in the direction of the police station. She was still standing there, looking up and down the street. Fox pulled to a halt next to her and slid down the passenger-side window.

‘It’s Ms Broughton, isn’t it?’

She took a moment to recognise him as her nicotine saviour, then leaned down a little towards the open window.

‘I take it you’ve just been talking to my colleagues?’ he asked her.

‘Yes,’ she said, her voice less husky than he’d imagined it would be.

‘Looking for a taxi?’ She was peering up and down the street again. ‘I’m headed in your direction, if you’re interested.’

‘How do you know?’

Fox offered a shrug. ‘Casino or Inverleith – they’re both on my route.’

She studied him for a moment. ‘Can I smoke in the car?’ she asked.

‘Sure,’ he said with a smile. ‘Hop in.’

They drove in silence for the first couple of sets of traffic lights. As they stopped at the third, she noticed that he had wound his window halfway down.

‘You didn’t mean it about the smoking,’ she said, flicking the remains of her cigarette out of her own window.

‘Where do you want dropped?’ he asked.

‘I’m going home.’

‘By Inverleith Park?’

She nodded. ‘SeeBee House.’

Fox worked it out. ‘Your husband’s initials?’

She nodded again. ‘I suddenly realise something,’ she began, twisting in her seat so she was facing him. ‘I’ve only got your word for it that you’re a police officer. I should ask to see some ID.’

‘I’m an inspector. What did my colleagues want with you?’

‘More questions,’ she answered with a sigh. ‘Why it can’t be done over the phone…’

‘It’s because the face says a lot about us – we give things away when we talk. I’m assuming it wasn’t DS Dearborn you saw?’

‘No.’

‘That’s because I had a meeting with him at the same time.’

She nodded, as though accepting that he had proved his credentials. Her phone trilled and she plucked it from her handbag. It was a text message, which she responded to with quick, sure movements of her thumbs.

‘Long nails help,’ Fox commented. ‘My fingers are too pudgy for texting.’

She said nothing until she’d sent the message. Then, just as she was opening her mouth, her phone trilled again. Fox realised that it was mimicking the sound of an old-fashioned bell on a hotel reception desk. Broughton busied herself punching buttons again.

‘Messages from friends?’

‘And creditors,’ she muttered. ‘Charlie seems to have had more of the latter.’

‘You know his shoes have surfaced?’ He saw her give him a hard look. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised, ‘not the best turn of phrase…’

‘They told me at the station.’ She was back to her texting again. But then another phone sounded from inside her handbag. She rummaged until she found it. Fox recognised the ringtone – it was the theme from an old western.

‘Sorry about this,’ Broughton said to him as she answered. Then, into the phone: ‘I can’t talk now, Simon. Just tell me everything’s all right.’ She listened for a moment. ‘I should be there by six or seven. If you can’t cope till then, start writing out your resignation.’ She ended the call and dropped the phone back into her bag.

‘Staff problems?’ Fox asked.

‘My own fault for not having a proper deputy.’