Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘That’s terrible!’ Fox heard one of them say, but in a tone that suggested the opposite. He kept walking. It wasn’t even ten o’clock, and he didn’t know why he was bothering. If he’d wanted to do this right – a re-enactment scenario – he would have come here after midnight. The lane was deserted. The neon sign still said SAUNA. Fox studied the territory around him and decided he was safe from attack. Nevertheless, he kept his head half turned as he walked down the alley, stopping at the door. He pressed the buzzer and stared into the camera lens. When nothing happened, he pressed again. He couldn’t hear anything from inside. There was no glass; nothing but the glinting eye of the camera. He waved his fingers in front of it, leaned down close to it, even gave it an exploratory tap. Then he tried the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. He bunched up a fist and rapped three times, then three more. Still nothing.

Eventually he turned to go, pausing next to where he’d lain unconscious not twenty-four hours before. He crouched down and lifted a circular object from the ground. It was the missing button from his trouser waistband. He pocketed it, got back to his feet and headed for home.

There was a detour to take first, however, and it was a long one. In daylight, the A198 out of the city was a meandering coastal road with eye-catching views. Fox remembered that it had been a weekend favourite with his ex-wife. They would stop at Aberlady for lunch, or Gullane for a stroll along the edges of the golf course. There were car parks leading to the seashore, and for the adventurous there was the mass of Berwick Law to climb. Tantallon Castle, just the other side of North Berwick, was as far as they ever got before heading across country. There might be a bacon roll at the Museum of Flight or fish and chips in Haddington. But North Berwick was Elaine’s favourite. She would peer through one of the Sea Life Centre’s telescopes or wander along the beach, coaxing him to catch up with her (he was always the ambler, she the strider). North Berwick was Fox’s destination tonight. He knew the route, but took it slowly: the road was twisty and unpredictable. Cars sped past him, their modified exhausts roaring, the drivers overtaking on blind bends and flashing their lights. These drivers were young, the other seats crammed with whooping friends. Maybe they were from the city, but Fox thought them more likely to be locals. This time of night, what else was there to do in East Lothian?

When he reached North Berwick, he headed for a particular narrow street not far from the shore. There was a house there he’d parked outside before, though never in his own car. The house was single-storey, but had been extended into the roof space, a balcony allowing views towards several islands and outcrops – Fidra, Craigleith, Bass Rock – not that any were visible tonight. The wind had risen, but the temperature remained a few degrees the right side of zero. Elaine had always wanted to live on the coast. Fox’s objection had been purely selfish: he hadn’t fancied the commute. But that same commute did not seem to worry Glen Heaton. Heaton had lived in this town for eight years. The Complaints had looked into his purchase of the house. These days it was probably worth half a million plus. No way should he have been able to afford it, a point put to him more than once during their several interviews. Heaton had told them to look at the paperwork.

‘Nothing dodgy,’ he’d stated.

And: ‘You lot are just jealous.’

And: ‘It eats you up that someone’s done better than you.’

This was the house where Fox parked now, turning off his engine in the realisation that an idling motor might cause curtains to twitch. The next house along was a bed and breakfast, its front garden converted into a driveway where three cars sat. This time of year, Fox doubted any of them belonged to tourists. Heaton’s own car – an Alfa – would be stowed in its garage to the rear of the property. The car was two years old and had cost its owner just under twenty grand. Heaton had spent almost the same amount on holidays in the twelve months leading up to the conclusion of the inquiry – jaunts to Barbados, Miami and the Seychelles. One of those trips, he and his wife had opted for business class, while the others had been economy plus. Four- and five-star resort hotels waiting for them. Sadly, the Complaints’ budget had not stretched to surveillance of these breaks. On the drive here tonight, Fox had caught some news headlines on his radio. Questions were being asked about MPs’ allowances. It wasn’t that anyone was being corrupt, apparently, but they were playing the system for all it was worth. Fox reckoned this tied in to the furore about bankers’ bonuses and pensions. People wanted to scream that it was unfair, but, there being little they could do about it, attention had turned to politicians with their snouts in the trough instead.

Just jealous…

Heaton’s accusation had rankled because it was accurate. Tony Kaye in particular had seethed and spat as he listed the outgoings and purchases.

‘How’s he doing it on his salary?’ he kept asking anyone who would listen. The answer was: he wasn’t. Many of the transactions were paid in cash, and Heaton couldn’t explain why. Fox stared at the house and imagined Glen Heaton in bed with his wife. Then he considered the son she didn’t yet know about – not unless Heaton had confessed. The son was eighteen and lived in Glasgow with his mother. Added to which there was Sonya Michie, again kept secret from the wife. But then in Fox’s experience, often the wives didn’t want to know. They suspected… they sort of knew anyway… but they were happy to feign ignorance and get on with their lives.

‘What are you doing here, Malcolm?’ Fox muttered to himself. He was half hoping Heaton might appear on the doorstep in his dressing gown. He would walk to the car and get in. Then they could talk. Fox had told Breck that Charlie Brogan was at the centre of everything, but something had been niggling him even as he’d said it. Glen Heaton was more than unfinished business. There was a poison in the man that to Fox’s mind had infected more carriers than had come to light as yet. They were still walking around, some of them only dimly aware of the contagion. Sonya Michie was one of them, for sure. But now Fox was wondering about Jack Broughton and Bull Wauchope, too. He had wound his window down. He could smell and hear the sea. There wasn’t another soul about. He wondered: did it bother him that the world wasn’t entirely fair? That justice was seldom sufficient? There would always be people ready to pocket a wad of banknotes in exchange for a favour. There would always be people who played the system and wrung out every penny. Some people – lots of people – would keep getting away with it.

‘But you’re not one of them,’ he told himself.

And then he saw something – movement at the door of Heaton’s bungalow. The door itself was opening, a man standing silhouetted against the lit hallway. He was wearing pyjamas and – yes – tying the belt of his white towelling robe. Glen Heaton was peering into the darkness, his focus directed at Fox’s Volvo. Fox cursed beneath his breath and turned the ignition. The parking space wasn’t huge and it took a bit of manoeuvring not to hit the vehicles in front and behind as he eased his own car out. Not that it mattered – Heaton seemed content to stand there, hands in pockets. Fox stared straight ahead as he drove off, headlights on full beam in an attempt to dazzle the man in the robe. Right, then right again, and he was on his way back towards Edinburgh, the image staying with him throughout.

Glen Heaton standing there, as if delivered to him.

And he, Malcolm Fox, had bottled it.