Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘Was?’

‘Long story.’

Breck greeted Jude with a slight bow of the head as she unlocked the door. ‘Lucky I got some coffee,’ she told both men. ‘In you come, then.’

Fox told her he’d help put the shopping away, but she shooed him off. ‘I can manage.’ And she did – filling the kettle and switching it on; placing her purchases in the fridge or a cupboard. Then she spooned coffee into three mugs and poured on the boiling water, adding milk.

When all three were seated in the tidied living room, Fox asked her how she was doing.

‘I’m managing, Malcolm – as you can see.’

Fox nodded slowly. He knew that people had ways of dealing with grief and loss. But keeping busy could lead to problems later, if all it meant was that you were in denial. Still, the lack of mess and empty bottles perhaps boded well.

‘You don’t mind talking a little about Vince?’ he asked her.

‘Depends,’ she answered, starting to light a cigarette. ‘Has there been any progress?’

‘Precious little,’ Breck admitted. She turned her attention to him.

‘I remember you,’ she said, blowing smoke through her nostrils. ‘You were here the day they dug up the back garden.’

Breck gave another bow of his head, acknowledging the fact. Fox cleared his throat until she focused on him again.

‘Did you hear about Charles Brogan?’ he asked.

‘It was in the paper. Fell from his yacht.’

‘You know he was married to Joanna Broughton?’

‘So the paper said.’

‘Did you know she owns the Oliver?’

Jude nodded and removed a sliver of tobacco from her tongue. ‘They showed her picture – I recognised her.’

‘From your nights at the casino?’

‘She was sometimes there. Always looked very glam.’

‘How about her husband? Did you ever see him?’

Jude was nodding. ‘Once or twice. He sent us over a bottle of champagne.’

‘Charles Brogan bought you champagne?’ Breck asked, seeking verification.

‘Didn’t I just say that?’ Jude took a slurp of coffee. ‘Cast’s coming off next week,’ she informed her brother.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Typical NHS balls-up. Turns out it’s a fracture – less serious than a break.’

‘I meant, why did Charles Brogan send you over a bottle of champagne? ’

She looked at him. ‘Well, both Vince and Ronnie worked for him, didn’t they?’

‘Not exactly.’

She pondered this. ‘Okay,’ she agreed, ‘not exactly. But he’d met them on the site; he knew who they were.’

‘Was it good champagne?’

Breck had asked the question, and Jude turned her head towards him. ‘It was Moët… or something like that. Thirty quid or thereabouts in Asda, so Sandra said.’

‘More like a ton in a casino.’

‘Well, it’s his wife’s place, isn’t it? I doubt he was paying full whack.’

Fox decided to step in. ‘It was a nice gesture, all the same. Did he come over and say hello?’

Jude shook her head. ‘Not that time.’

‘Another time, though?’

Now she was nodding. And Vince’s friend Ronnie didn’t want us to know, Fox thought. ‘He handed Sandra and me twenty quid’s worth of chips – each, mind you.’ She paused. ‘I think he was showing off.’

‘Is that what Vince thought?’

‘Vince thought he had style. When the champagne arrived, Vince had to go shake him by the hand. Brogan just patted him on the shoulder, like it was no big deal.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe it wasn’t.’

There was a phone ringing. It was Breck’s. He apologised as he lifted it from his pocket and checked the screen. His glance towards Fox confirmed what Fox had already been thinking: Billy Giles.

‘Don’t answer,’ Fox was saying, but Breck had already placed the phone to his ear.

‘Afternoon, sir,’ he said. Then, after listening for a moment: ‘Yes, he’s with me.’ And a few seconds later: ‘Right… yes… understood… Yes, I was there when it happened, but it was really more of a misund-’ Breck broke off and listened some more. Fox couldn’t hear what Giles was saying, but his tone was splenetic. Breck actually eased the phone away from his ear as the diatribe continued.

‘Sounds narked,’ Jude whispered for her brother’s benefit. Fox nodded back. By the time the call ended, blood had risen up Breck’s neck and into his cheeks.

‘Well?’ Fox asked.

‘Our presence is requested,’ Breck explained, ‘at Torphichen, any time within the next half-hour. Any later, and there’ll be patrol cars out trawling for us.’

Jude stared at her brother. ‘What have you done? Is it to do with Vince?’

‘It’s nothing,’ Fox assured her, while locking eyes with Jamie Breck.

‘You were always a terrible liar, Malcolm,’ his sister remarked.

Torphichen: not an interview room this time, but Bad Billy Giles’s inner sanctum. The office lacked any whiff of personality. There were no framed family snaps on the desk; no citations or certificates on the walls. Some people liked to brighten up their drab surroundings, but Giles was not among them. You could tell nothing about the inhabitant of this space, other than that he was behind with his filing. There were boxes awaiting storage elsewhere, and a three-foot-high pile of paperwork balanced precariously atop the only cabinet.

‘Cosy,’ Fox said, manoeuvring his way in. The place was crowded. Giles was behind his desk, swivelling slightly in his chair and with a pen gripped in his hand like a dagger. Bob McEwan was seated next to the filing cabinet, hands clasped in his lap and with Caroline Stoddart alongside him. She stood with arms folded. Then there were Hall and Dickson. Dickson had given himself a wash and changed into a spare set of clothes, which looked like the result of a whip-round of the other officers in the station. The ill-fitting brown cords did not match the pink polo shirt, which in turn clashed with the green blouson. He was also wearing tennis shoes, and his furious eyes never left Fox for a second.

Breck had managed to squeeze into the room behind Fox, but gave up on trying to close the door. Giles tossed his pen down on to the desk and looked towards McEwan.

‘With your permission, Bob…’ Permission was granted with the curtest of nods, and Giles turned his attention back to Fox and Breck.

‘One of my officers wants to make a complaint,’ he told them. ‘Seems he was manhandled to the ground.’

‘That was a misunderstanding, sir,’ Breck explained. ‘And we’re sorry about it. We’ll pay the dry-cleaning costs or any other reasonable expense.’

‘Shut up, Breck,’ Giles snapped. ‘You’re not the one who needs to do the grovelling.’

Fox pulled his shoulders back. ‘Dickson went for me first,’ he stated. ‘I’m not sorry for what I did.’ He paused for a beat. ‘I just didn’t expect him to go down like a sack of spuds.’

‘You prick,’ Dickson snarled, taking half a step forward.

‘Dickson!’ Giles cautioned. ‘My office, my rules!’ Then, to Fox: ‘What I want to know is what you and the Boy Wonder were doing there in the first place.’

‘I told Dickson and Hall at the time,’ Fox replied calmly. ‘I’d already paid one visit to Salamander Point and I liked what I saw. There’s a sales office, and not having much else to do, I decided to see if I could snag a bargain in these straitened times.’

‘Taking DS Breck with you?’

‘Except,’ Hall interrupted, ‘that’s not what happened. You’d asked to speak to Mr Ronald Hendry. He wasn’t happy at being pulled away from his game of football, and even less happy when I asked for him again not ten minutes later.’ He offered Fox a cold smile. Giles allowed the silence to linger, then snatched up his pen and stabbed it in Stoddart’s direction.