Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘And if he’s alive, he either faked his suicide or someone else did it for him, meaning he’s been snatched.’

‘Wouldn’t the wife have had a ransom note by now?’

‘Maybe she’s just not telling you, Max. From what I know of Joanna Broughton, she’d want to deal with something like that in her own way.’

‘That’s a point,’ Dearborn conceded. ‘Speaking of which, her PR man’s on the warpath again.’

‘I’ve not been near her…’

‘It’s a reporter he’s got in his sights.’ Dearborn sounded tired. Fox reckoned he knew why he’d called – no hidden agenda, but rather the need to talk, to blow off a little steam, to gossip with someone outside the circle of wagons. Fox imagined Dearborn in a half-empty CID office, everyone flagging after the first few days of toil. Waiting for a break in the case, and made lethargic by too many sandwiches and chocolate bars. Maybe Dearborn had his chair pushed back, necktie undone, feet up on the desk…

‘What’s the reporter done?’

‘Not much. She’s got hold of a rumour that Brogan was tied up in something.’

‘Yes?’

‘Trying to bribe a councillor. It’s something to do with all these flats Brogan’s been putting up. Suddenly nobody’s buying. He was hoping the council might.’

‘What would the council want with them?’

‘Social housing – city’s short a few thousand homes, or hadn’t you noticed?’

‘Sounds as if Brogan might have had the solution.’

‘If the price was right…’

‘And how was a solitary councillor going to sugar the deal?’

‘Helps if the councillor sits on the Housing Board.’

‘Ah,’ Fox said. Then, after a pause: ‘I still don’t see much that’s wrong with it.’

‘To be frank, me neither.’

‘So who told you all this? Not Gordon Lovatt?’

‘The reporter.’

‘And why are you telling me?’

‘Because you’ve got form when it comes to getting up people’s noses. Next time you see Joanna Broughton or Gordon Lovatt, you might drop it into the conversation.’

‘In the hope that they’ll do what, exactly?’

‘Maybe nothing… maybe something.’

‘Seems to me you owe this reporter a favour, but can’t stick your own head above the parapet. Mine, on the other hand…’

‘It was just a thought. The reporter’s name is Linda Dearborn, by the way.’

‘That’s quite a coincidence, Max.’

‘It would be, if she wasn’t my baby sister. Let me give you her number…’ He did so, and Fox jotted it down. He could hear another phone ringing somewhere in Max Dearborn’s vicinity. ‘Got to go.’

‘Any news about Brogan, you’ll let me know?’ Fox reminded him. But Dearborn had already ended the call. Fox scratched his head and tried to order his thoughts. There was something he should have asked, so he sent Dearborn a text.

Name of councillor?

It was five minutes before he received a reply:

Ernie Wishaw.

Fox was still staring at the name when Breck returned with the food. Breck didn’t appear to have noticed any change in him. He unloaded packets of sandwiches and crisps on to the coffee table, along with a couple of bottles of lemonade. He was halfway through asking Fox if he preferred prawn salad or ham and mustard when he broke off.

‘Did someone die?’ he asked.

Fox shook his head slowly. ‘Your councillor…’

‘Which one?’

‘With the lorry business.’

‘What about him?’ Breck’s face showed puzzlement.

‘He might connect to Charlie Brogan.’

Breck thought for a moment. ‘Because of the casino?’

‘There’s a journalist looking to prove that Brogan was giving a backhander to Ernie Wishaw.’

Breck slowly unwrapped his sandwich, sliding it on to the same plate that had earlier held his croissant.

‘Brogan,’ Fox continued to explain, ‘wanted to offload some of his white elephants on to the council. Wishaw was going to make sure the council didn’t get too much of a bargain.’

Breck shrugged. ‘Sounds feasible. Who’s the journalist?’

‘Max Dearborn’s sister.’

‘And who’s Max Dearborn?’

‘A DS at Leith. He’s on the team investigating Brogan’s little disappearing act.’

Breck looked at Fox. ‘Not suicide?’

Fox just shrugged. ‘If the reporter’s right, you could get your hands on Ernie Wishaw after all.’ Fox paused. ‘If you were Brogan and you wanted to twist his arm, maybe you’d show him a good time first.’

‘At the wife’s casino?’

‘Give him a pile of chips to play with…’

‘I’m not sure Wishaw’s that gullible.’

‘Depends on the deal Brogan was offering.’

Breck was still looking at him. There was a sandwich in his hand, but he’d forgotten about it. Prawns were falling loose and landing back on the plate. ‘This is a rumour, right? So far, that’s all it is?’

Fox shrugged again. He’d peeled open the ham sandwich, staring at the filling, but his appetite was gone. He reached for the lemonade instead. When he unscrewed it, it fizzed out of the neck and made a puddle around itself on the table. He got up and fetched a cloth from the kitchen. Breck still had to make a start on his own sandwich.

‘Can’t be many prawns left in there,’ Fox warned him. Breck noticed what had happened and started replacing the prawns between the two triangles of brown bread.

‘Linda Dearborn,’ he said at last. ‘That’s her name?’

‘You know her?’ Fox asked, busy wiping up the spillage.

‘I remember her now. When Wishaw’s drug-running driver was arrested, she came sniffing around. I think her general argument was, Wishaw had to have known.’

‘I seem to recall that was your general argument, too.’

Breck smiled at this. ‘I only spoke to her that one time…’ His voice drifted off.

‘Seems she’s kept the councillor on her radar.’

‘It does, doesn’t it? Reckon she’s worth talking to?’

‘If we can keep our names out of the story. Problem is, if she gets a quote from us, we’d be her “unnamed police sources”.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Her brother’s part of the Brogan inquiry.’

Breck nodded his understanding. ‘Everyone would assume it was him.’

‘So I doubt she’d let us stay “unnamed”.’

‘Then why did Dearborn tell you in the first place?’

‘I think he wants me to take it to Joanna Broughton.’

‘Why?’

‘In the hope that she blows a fuse and maybe lets something slip.’

‘That won’t happen.’

‘What about Ernie Wishaw?’

‘He’s hardly going to incriminate himself, is he?’

‘You watched him for a while… where’s he most vulnerable?’

‘I’d have to think about that.’

‘In the meantime, how about this – we tell him we’ll forget about the bung he sent to the driver’s wife, so long as he fills us in on the deal Charlie Brogan was offering.’

‘Are you serious? We don’t even have warrant cards.’

‘You’re right.’ Silence filled the room for a few moments, until Jamie Breck broke it.

‘You’re going to do it anyway,’ he stated.

‘Probably,’ Fox conceded.

‘Why?’

‘Because Brogan’s the key to everything.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

Fox thought for a second. ‘No,’ he decided. ‘I’m not really sure of that at all.’

That evening, Fox found himself back at the Cowgate. He stayed in his car, watching passers-by, on the lookout for faces he knew. There were just the two: Annabel Cartwright and Billy Giles. Fox slid far down into his seat, even though it sent spasms of pain down his spine. Cartwright was first – talking to another member of the inquiry team. The man seemed to be following her orders. He had a fresh bunch of flyers with him. They moved along the street and he lost sight of them. Then, ten minutes later, it was the turn of Billy Giles, sauntering along as if he owned the place. He was chewing on a stubby cigar and had his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. The night was overcast and mild, with hardly any breeze. When Giles headed off in the same direction as Cartwright and her colleague, Fox pushed himself back up out of his hiding place. Three quarters of an hour later, a car drove past – the driver had picked up all three detectives. Giles was talking animatedly, gesturing with his arms, the others listening tiredly. Fox waited a further thirty minutes, then got out of his own car and locked it. Pete Scott was not on duty outside Rondo. There were two doormen tonight, one black and one white. They paid Fox not the slightest attention. One of them was showing the other something amusing on the screen of his phone.