Ian Rankin - The Complaints

Fox got into his own car and placed Charlie Brogan’s diary on the passenger seat. Then he stared at it, wondering what the Grampian Complaints would make of his recent activities. He’d been very careful all morning – watching for cars tailing him, for people loitering or following him. It had been easy for them to keep tabs on him the previous week – he’d not been alerted to the probability. But now he knew he’d been under surveillance, that made things a great deal harder for any team trying to track him. Then again, if he was going to keep pulling stunts like this one… It took him a further three or four minutes to decide, but at last he picked up the diary and flipped it open.

He started with the Monday of the previous week, but found nothing immediately of interest. It wasn’t that Brogan used a code, but like most people he used initials and abbreviations. The J in ‘8 p.m. – J – Kitchin’ Fox assumed was Joanna Broughton. The Kitchin was a fancy restaurant in Leith, run by a chef with the surname Kitchin. There were notes of meetings, but it hadn’t exactly been an action-packed week. Flipping back to January, Fox found that Brogan had been far busier. By February, he’d been reduced to noting TV shows he was planning to watch.

After quarter of an hour, Fox closed the book and turned the ignition. On his way back to Leith Police Station he made two stops. One was at a stationer’s, where he bought a padded envelope big enough to take the diary. The other was at a phone shop, where he bought a pay-as-you-go mobile, using his credit card. If he was still under surveillance, this new phone wouldn’t keep him off the radar for long… but maybe long enough.

And it was certain to annoy any Complaints team when they eventually worked out what he’d done.

He parked his car outside the police station just long enough to drop the envelope off at reception. He’d written Max Dearborn’s name on the front. It would puzzle Max, perhaps, but Fox didn’t mind that in the least. Back in the car, his old mobile started ringing. Fox checked the caller ID but made no attempt to answer. When the ringing stopped, he used his new phone and called Tony Kaye back.

‘Who’s this?’ Kaye asked, not recognising the number.

‘It’s Malcolm. This is how to get me from now on.’

‘You’ve changed phones?’

‘In case they’re tracking me.’

‘You’re paranoid.’ Kaye paused. ‘Good thinking, though – reckon I should do the same?’

‘Have they spoken to you again?’ They: Grampian Complaints.

‘No – how about you?’

‘Later today. So why were you calling?’

‘I just wanted a moan. Hang on a sec…’ Fox listened as Kaye moved from the Complaints office to the hallway. ‘Those two are driving me nuts,’ he said. ‘It’s like they’ve known one another since the playground.’

‘Other than that, how’s Gilchrist settling in?’

‘I don’t like that he’s sitting at your desk.’

‘Then offer to swap.’

‘He’s not having my desk.’

‘Then we’re stuck with it. Has McEwan been in?’

‘He’s not speaking to me.’

‘We’ve piled his plate high with shit,’ Fox conceded.

‘And not even tied a bib around his neck,’ Kaye added. ‘Is your afternoon grilling to be courtesy of a woman called Stoddart?’

‘Any tips for handling her?’

‘Asbestos gloves, Malcolm.’

‘Great, thanks.’ Fox thought for a moment. ‘Can you get Naysmith for me?’

‘What?’

‘I want a word with him – but out of Gilchrist’s earshot.’

‘I’ll fetch him.’ It was Kaye’s turn to pause. ‘Are you playing it cool, or has it actually slipped your mind?’

Fox realised immediately what he meant. ‘Have you had a chance to talk to her?’

‘She hasn’t been in this morning. Gilchrist had to fetch something from his desk at the Chop Shop, so I went along with him and took a look. I asked him if she had any meetings, but he didn’t know.’

‘Well, thanks for trying.’

‘I’m not giving up yet. Joe!’ Fox realised that Kaye was calling from the doorway. ‘Here he comes,’ Kaye said. The phone was handed to Naysmith. ‘It’s Foxy,’ Fox heard Kaye explain.

‘Malcolm,’ Naysmith said.

‘Morning, Joe. I hear you and Gilchrist are getting on famously.’

‘I suppose.’

‘So there’s no reason why you shouldn’t invite him out for a drink after work.’

‘No…’ Naysmith drew the word out way past its natural length.

‘You’d probably suggest Minter’s, and you’d be there by five thirty.’

‘Right.’ Again the word took on elasticated form in Naysmith’s mouth.

‘No need to tell him it was my idea.’

‘What’s going on, Malcolm?’

‘Nothing’s going on, Joe. Just take him for that drink.’ Fox ended the call. He had plenty of time to kill before his meeting at Fettes. At a newsagent’s, he bought the Evening News, a salad roll and a bottle of water, then headed in the general direction of Inverleith, parking by the north entrance to the Botanics. He located Classic FM on the radio and ate his roll while flicking through the paper. Charlie Brogan was no longer news, and neither was Vince Faulkner. People were foaming at the mouth about the former RBS boss’s pension and perks. The tram dispute had entered its ‘eleventh hour’, with the council telling the contractors there was no more cash to put on the table. And now the Dunfermline Building Society was in trouble. Fox seemed to remember the Prime Minister was from Dunfermline… No, Kirkcaldy, but Dunfermline was in his constituency. Fox’s parents had held an account with the Dunfermline – he wondered if Mitch still had money there. Fox’s own money was in the Co-op. It was the one bank he hadn’t heard anything about. He wasn’t sure if that was reassuring or not.

The piece of music finished and the announcer declared that it had been by Bach. Fox had recognised it – he recognised a lot of the tunes on Classic FM without being able to name them or their composer. He looked at his watch again, checking that it hadn’t stopped.

‘Hell with it,’ he said, closing the newspaper and turning the ignition key.

He’d just have to turn up early to his crucifixion.

The officer on duty at the reception desk – a man Fox had known for a couple of years – had the good grace to apologise that he would have to take a seat. Fox nodded his understanding.

‘You’re just following orders, Frank,’ he said. So Fox sat down on one of the chairs and pretended an interest in his newspaper, while other officers came and went. Most of them gave him a glance or an outright stare – word had gotten around – and one or two paused to offer a word of sympathy.

When Stoddart made her entrance, she was flanked by two heavyset men. Stoddart herself was tall and elegant with long fair hair. If someone had told Fox she sat on the board of a bank or corporation, he wouldn’t have been surprised. She had a visitor’s pass around her neck, and ordered Frank to get one for Fox. Fox took his time getting to his feet. He closed his paper, folded it, slipped it into his pocket. Stoddart didn’t offer to shake hands; didn’t even bother to introduce herself or her henchmen. She handed the pass to Fox and turned on her heels.

‘This way,’ she said.

It wasn’t a long walk. Fox didn’t know whose office they had commandeered. The bulletin board and desk gave few clues. There was space for a circular coffee table and several chairs, which looked to have been borrowed from the canteen. On the desk sat a laptop and some cardboard folders. There was another laptop on the coffee table. A video camera had been fixed to a tripod and aimed at the desk.