Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘And what’s that?’

‘Endgame.’ Breck paused once more. ‘They’re going to have to destroy us again, and that’s when we’ll know the who and the why.’

‘How can you sound so bloody calm?’

‘Because that’s how I feel.’ Breck gave a laugh – a tired laugh, but a laugh all the same. ‘Remember when we talked in the car on the way back from the casino?’

‘I remember.’

‘You’re not a spectator any more.’

‘Is that necessarily a good thing?’

‘I don’t know – what do you think?’

‘I just want this done and dusted, one way or the other.’

‘That doesn’t sound like the old, cautious Malcolm Fox.’

‘Sorry I interrupted your dinner, Jamie.’

‘I’m sure we’ll talk tomorrow, Malcolm. Maybe I’ll call after my meeting with Stoddart. Meantime, I’ve got razorfish and carpaccio of scallop waiting for me…’

‘Rather you than me.’ Fox ended the call and went into the kitchen. Appletiser… various fruit teas… Rooiboos… decaf coffee… none of it appealed. He wanted something altogether edgier and more life-affirming. He thought back to the spiced tomato juice in Minter’s and imagined it with the added injection of a thirty-five-centilitre shot of Smirnoff.

‘In your dreams, Foxy,’ he told himself. But he could taste it all the same, smooth at the back of his throat, and then the burn as it trickled its way downwards into his belly. Vodka had been his childhood drink, swigs stolen from the cupboard where the bottles were kept. Through his teenage years he’d shifted to rum, Southern Comfort, Glayva and whisky, coming back to vodka again for a short second honeymoon before a dangerous liaison with gin. Then whisky again – the good stuff this time round. And always with beer and wine, wine and beer. Lunches and dinners and inbetweeners. Kidding himself that a champagne breakfast with Elaine didn’t count…

Kahlua – he’d never drunk Kahlua. Nor had he got far with the huge variety of alcopops. If he wanted lemonade in his vodka, he would add it himself – along with a few splashes of Angostura. As a five-year-old, for an experiment, he’d mixed a couple of spoonfuls of Creamola Foam into a glass of vodka. His father had torn a strip off him for that, and had moved the alcohol to a higher shelf in the pantry. Not high enough, though…

Fox went back through to the living room and decided to close the curtains. There was a car parked across the street. Its lights were off but its engine was still running. There was a figure in the driver’s seat. Fox finished the job at hand, then headed upstairs in darkness. In the main bedroom, he stuck close to the walls as he approached the window. The car was a dark-coloured, sleek-looking saloon. The angle didn’t allow him any view of the number plate. Fox thought he could hear music. Yes – coming from the car. Nothing he recognised, but growing in volume. A neighbour across the street opened their own curtains to peer out, but then closed them again and didn’t come to the door. A black cab stopped to let a couple out. They’d obviously been to the late-night shopping in town. The wife was toting a couple of expensive-looking carrier bags. The husband’s name was Joe Sillars – Fox had met him a few times to talk to. They’d only been in the street a couple of months. Husband and wife stared at the loudly parked car as their cab rumbled away. They had a quick word with one another and decided not to get involved. The driver acknowledged this by sliding his front windows down. And now Fox recognised the song. It was called ‘The Saints Are Coming’. It was by an old punk outfit called The Skids. Fox had heard it at many a party in his youth. But he’d listened to it more recently, too…

After Glen Heaton had mentioned it at one of their interviews.

Bloody fantastic song… a real rallying call…

Fox had asked him if he thought of himself as one of the saints, but Heaton had just punched the air, belting out the first couple of lines.

The music outside had stopped, but then started again. The bloody thing was on repeat. A fist was emerging into the night from the driver’s-side window.

Glen Heaton was singing his heart out.

Fox walked downstairs on unsteady legs. He stopped in the doorway outside the living room. There were things he could do, calls he could make. He could hear bass and drums join the guitar as Heaton cranked the volume up another notch. Fox grabbed his jacket and headed outside, pausing for a moment on the doorstep…

Then down the garden path, breathing the night air…

Opening the gate…

Crossing the road…

Heaton watching him all the time, fist no longer visible but still singing along. When Fox was a couple of feet away, the music died. The silence was punctuated only by the Alfa’s engine ticking over.

‘Knew you’d twig eventually,’ Heaton said.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘You’re not the only one who can sit around outside people’s houses.’

‘Is that what this is?’

‘Did you think I hadn’t clocked you? Skulking in the dark, scuttling away as soon as you saw me coming… But I’m bigger than you, Fox. I saw you coming and I’m still here.’

‘What do you want, Heaton?’

‘It’ll never come to trial – you know that, right?’

‘You’ll be tried fairly in a court of law and then you’ll go to jail.’

Heaton puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. ‘There’s no telling some people.’

‘Did your pal Giles give you my address? Maybe you just wanted to check the bruises.’

‘Now that you mention it…’ Heaton angled his head. ‘Not that you were much of a looker to start with. Still, I must stand whoever did it a couple of drinks.’

‘You’re saying it wasn’t you?’

Heaton gave a smirk. ‘Trust me, I wouldn’t be slow to take the credit.’

‘So you weren’t visiting your girlfriend’s sauna on Tuesday night?’ Fox’s spirits lifted when he saw the effect his words had. ‘Sonya Michie, Heaton – we know all about her, even if your wife doesn’t. Then there’s your son…’

The driver’s-side door flew open. Fox stood back, putting some distance between himself and Heaton. It struck him that they were the same height and probably much the same weight. There was more muscle on Heaton – the Complaints had followed him to his gym a few times – and almost certainly more aggression in him. But they weren’t so dissimilar. Heaton seemed to think better about making a move. Instead, he started to light a cigarette, flicking the spent match on to the roadway so it fell just short of Fox’s shoes.

‘What sort of cop,’ he drawled, ‘gets his kicks playing Peeping Tom? Raking through rubbish bins… sneaking around behind people’s backs.’

Fox thought about folding his arms, but didn’t – he needed to be ready in case Heaton tried something. ‘How is it,’ he asked back, ‘we never connected you to Jack Broughton?’

Heaton glared at him. ‘Maybe because there is no connection.’

‘Sonya Michie’s a connection.’ Fox watched Heaton’s face muscles stiffen.

‘Careful what you say,’ Heaton cautioned. ‘Besides, she’s ancient history.’

‘Not so ancient. A few months back you were still seeing her. You stopped to have a chat with her outside the Cowgate sauna.’

Heaton took a couple of seconds to work it out. ‘Breck told you,’ he said with a sneer.

‘Jack Broughton’s a sleeping partner in the sauna,’ Fox went on. ‘Bit more meat to add to your file. Something you might end up being asked about at the trial.’

Slowly, Heaton folded his arms, meaning he wasn’t about to attack. Fox allowed his shoulders to unknot a little. ‘I’ve already told you – it won’t come to that.’