Ian Rankin - The Complaints

A week night in February: the Tryst was quiet. He walked in and took a good look around. Three drinkers in the whole place: a middle-aged couple who looked as if they’d fallen out a decade before, each still waiting for the other to offer the first apology; and an elderly man whose face was known to Fox. The guy had owned a dog, used to walk it three times a day. When he’d stopped being visible, Fox had assumed he’d croaked, but now it looked as if the dog had been the victim rather than its master. There was a young woman behind the bar. She managed a smile for Fox and asked him what he was having.

‘Tomato juice,’ he said. His eyes lingered on the row of optics as she shook the bottle and prised off its top.

‘Ice?’

‘No thanks.’

‘It’s a bit warm,’ she warned him.

‘It’ll be fine.’ He was reaching into his pocket for some coins when the door opened again. The couple who entered had their arms around one another’s waist. The middle-aged couple gave a disapproving look.

‘Look who’s here,’ the male half of this new couple said. Breck held out his hand for Fox to shake.

‘This is a coincidence,’ Annabel Cartwright added. She wasn’t much of an actress, but then maybe she thought the charade unnecessary.

‘What are you having?’ Fox asked.

‘Red wine for me, white for Annabel,’ Breck said. The barmaid had perked up at the arrival of customers with a bit of life to them. She poured what seemed to Fox’s eye generous measures.

‘Let’s grab a table,’ Breck said, as though chairs were at a premium. They headed for the furthest corner, and got themselves settled, removing coats and jackets. ‘Cheers,’ Breck said, chinking glasses.

‘How was it?’ Fox asked him without preamble.

Breck knew what he was referring to and pretended to give it some thought. ‘DI Stoddart’s a piece of work,’ he told Fox, keeping his voice low, ‘but I didn’t think much of those two blokes she’s saddled with – and I don’t think she reckons them much cop either… if you’ll pardon the pun.’

Fox nodded and took a sip of his drink. The barmaid had been right: it was like soup that had been left to cool for a few minutes. ‘What’s with the text?’ he asked. ‘You changed your number?’

‘New phone,’ Breck explained, waving the handset in his face. ‘Rental, believe it or not. Visitors from the States and suchlike use them all the time. I’d no idea till I started looking…’

‘What he means is, he asked me and I told him.’ Annabel Cartwright gave Breck’s arm a playful punch.

‘So what’s with the pow-wow?’ Fox asked.

‘Again, that was Annabel’s idea,’ Breck said.

She looked at him. ‘I wouldn’t go that far…’

Breck turned to face her. ‘Maybe not, but you’re the one with the news.’

‘What news?’ Fox asked.

Cartwright looked from Fox to Breck and back again. ‘I could get in so much trouble for this.’

‘That’s true,’ Fox said. Then, to Breck: ‘So why don’t you tell me, Jamie? That way, we can say hand on heart that the only person Annabel told was her boyfriend.’

Breck thought for a moment and then nodded. He asked Cartwright if she wanted to leave them to it, but she shook her head and said she’d just sit there and finish her drink. Breck leaned a little further over the table, elbows resting either side of his glass.

‘To start with,’ he said, ‘there’s new information on Vince. Another cab-driver’s come forward. This one had been waiting for fares outside the Oliver. He reckons he picked Vince up around one in the morning.’

‘He’s sure it was Vince?’

Breck nodded. ‘The team showed him photos. Plus, he ID’d Vince’s clothes.’

‘So where did he take him?’

‘The Cowgate. Where else are you going to go if you want to keep drinking at that time of night?’

‘It’s a bit…’

‘Studenty?’ Breck guessed. ‘Trendy?’

But Fox had thought of something else. ‘Isn’t the Cowgate closed to traffic at night?’

‘Driver knew all the little short cuts and side streets. Dropped him outside a club called Rondo – do you know it?’

‘Do I look the type?’

Breck smiled. ‘Annabel dragged me there once.’ She jabbed him in the ribs by way of complaint and Breck squirmed a little. ‘Live music in the back room, sticky carpets and plastic glasses in the front.’

‘That’s where he was headed?’

‘Driver wasn’t sure. But it was where he got out.’

‘Meaning he was still alive in the small hours of Sunday morning? ’

Breck nodded. ‘So now the inquiry team’s going to be doing a sweep of the Cowgate – must be about a dozen pubs and clubs; more if they widen the search to the Grassmarket. They’re printing up flyers to hand out to the clubbing fraternity.’

‘Doormen might remember him,’ Fox mused. ‘He probably wasn’t typical of their clientele. Did the cabbie say what sort of state he was in?’

‘Slurring his words and a bit agitated. Plus he didn’t tip.’

‘Why was he agitated?’

‘Maybe he was wondering what was waiting for him back home,’ Breck offered. ‘Maybe he was just the type who gets that way after a skinful.’

‘I’d like to listen to the interview with the cabbie…’

‘I could probably get you a transcript,’ Cartwright offered.

Fox nodded his thanks. ‘The first cab would have dropped him at the Oliver around ten – means he was in there three hours.’

‘A fair amount of time,’ Breck agreed.

‘Well, it’s progress, I suppose. Cheers, Annabel.’

Cartwright gave a shrug. ‘Tell him the rest,’ she commanded Breck.

‘Well, this is just something Annabel picked up when she was talking to a colleague based at D Division…’

‘Meaning Leith and Charlie Brogan?’ Fox guessed.

‘The inquiry team’s beginning to wonder why no body’s been washed ashore. They’re digging a bit deeper into the whys and wherefores.’

‘And?’

‘Brogan had recently sold a large chunk of his art collection.’

Fox nodded again. ‘Worth about half a million.’

Annabel Cartwright took up the story. ‘Nobody seems to know where that money is. And Joanna Broughton’s not exactly being cooperative. She’s got her lawyers setting up their wagons in a circle. She’s also got Gordon Lovatt reminding everyone involved that it won’t look good if we start harassing a “photogenic widow” – his very words.’

‘Leith think the suicide was staged?’

‘As Jamie says, they’re definitely beginning to wonder.’

‘Has any other cash gone AWOL?’

‘Hard to know until the lawyers stop denying access. We’d need a judge to issue a warrant, and that means convincing him it’s right and proper.’

‘There’s no way of knowing if any of Brogan’s accounts or credit cards are still being used?’ Fox didn’t expect an answer. He lifted his glass, but paused with it halfway to his mouth. ‘When I was in her flat, I saw the spaces on the wall where those paintings had been.’

‘You’ve been to her house?’ Cartwright asked.

‘There wasn’t any paperwork lying around, but then she had to fetch Brogan’s diary from elsewhere. Must be a room he uses as an office.’

‘He could always have siphoned some cash off from CBBJ,’ Breck added. ‘We’ve got specialist accountants for that kind of digging.’

‘But there still needs to be a judge’s signature,’ Cartwright cautioned.

Fox shrugged. ‘If Joanna Broughton’s being obstructive,’ he argued, ‘I’d have thought that might be reason enough.’

‘I’m sure they’ll fight their corner,’ Breck said, running his finger down the wine glass.