Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘Why does someone else have to do it?’ he whispered into her ear.

‘Do what?’

‘Phone me,’ he answered.

Outside, it was snowing again. He sat in his car, wondering if Vince Faulkner’s working day would be curtailed. Faulkner was from Enfield, just north of London. Supported Arsenal, and hadn’t a good word to say for football north of the border. This had been his opening gambit when the two men had been introduced. He hadn’t been keen on the move to Scotland – ‘but she keeps bending me bleedin’ ear’. He was hoping she’d get bored and want to head south again. She. Malcolm had seldom heard him use her name. She. Her indoors. The other half. The bird. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, wondering what to do for the best. Faulkner could be working on any one of three or four dozen projects around the city. The recession had probably put the brakes on the new flats in Granton, and he reckoned Quartermile was dormant, too. Caltongate wasn’t up and running yet, and the developer was in trouble, according to the local paper.

‘Wild goose chase,’ he said to himself. His phone vibrated, letting him know he had a text. It was from Tony Kaye.

We r at Minters.

It was gone four. McEwan had obviously clocked off for the day, giving the others no reason to loiter. Fox closed his phone and turned the key in the ignition. Minter’s was a New Town bar with Old Town prices, tucked away where only the cognoscenti could find it. Never easy to find a parking space, but he knew what Kaye would have done – stuck a great big POLICE placard on the inside of the windscreen. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t: depended on the mood of the warden. Fox tried to work out a way back into the city centre that would avoid the tram works at Haymarket, then gave up. Anyone who could solve that, they should give them the Nobel Prize. Before driving off, he looked to his right, but there was no sign of Jude at her living-room window, and still nobody visible in the homes on either side. If Vince Faulkner were to turn into the street right now, what would he do? He couldn’t remember the name of the character in The Godfather, the one who’d chased the brother-in-law and thumped him with a bin lid.

Sonny? Sonny, wasn’t it? That’s what he’d like to think he would do. Bin lid connecting with face, and don’t you touch my sister!

What he’d like to think he would do.

Minter’s was quiet. But then it had been quiet for several years, the landlord first blaming the smoking ban and now muttering about the downturn. Maybe he had a point: plenty of banking types lived in the New Town, and they’d be wise to keep their heads down.

‘Other than bankers,’ Tony Kaye said, placing Fox’s glass of iced cola on the corner table, ‘who else can afford a house here?’

Naysmith was drinking lager, Kaye Guinness. The landlord, sleeves rolled up, was intent on a TV quiz show. Two further customers had gone outside with their cigarettes. There was a woman seated in another corner with a friend. Kaye had taken her over a brandy and soda, then explained to Fox and Naysmith that she was a pal of his.

‘Does the missus know?’ Joe Naysmith had asked.

Kaye had wagged a finger at him, then pointed it towards the woman. ‘Her name’s Margaret Sime, and if you’re ever in here and I’m not, I’d better hear that you’ve sent a drink over…’

‘Did you get parked?’ Naysmith was now asking Malcolm Fox.

‘Halfway up the bloody hill,’ Fox complained. Then, to Kaye: ‘I see you didn’t have any trouble.’ Kaye’s Nissan X-Trail was outside the pub’s front door, on a double yellow line and with the POLICE notice wedged in between dashboard and windscreen. Kaye just shrugged and gave a smirk, making himself comfortable and attacking what remained of his pint. Wiping a line of foam from his top lip, he fixed his gaze on Fox.

‘Vince has been a naughty boy again,’ he said. Fox just stared at him, but it was Naysmith who provided the explanation.

‘Soon as you’d left, Tony phoned the caller’s number.’

‘She told me about Jude’s “accident”,’ Kaye confirmed.

‘Leave it, will you?’ Fox cautioned, but Kaye was shaking his head. Again, it was Naysmith who spoke.

‘Tony looked up Vince Faulkner.’

‘“Looked up”?’ Fox’s eyes narrowed.

‘On the PNC,’ Naysmith said, slurping at his drink.

‘Police National Computer’s only for south of the border,’ Fox stated.

Tony Kaye gave another shrug. ‘I know a cop in England. All I did was give him Faulkner’s name and place of birth – Enfield, right? I remember you telling me.’

‘You know a cop in England? I thought you hated the English.’

‘Not individually,’ Kaye corrected him. ‘Look, do you want to know or don’t you?’

‘I doubt I could stop you telling me, Tony,’ Fox said.

But Kaye pursed his lips and folded his arms. Naysmith looked keen to bursting, but Kaye was warning him off with his eyes. The two smokers were coming back into the bar. The landlord slammed the palms of both hands against the bar top and yelled at the TV, ‘A schoolkid would’ve known that!’

‘Don’t be so sure, Charlie,’ one of the smokers said. ‘Not these days.’

‘He’s got previous,’ Naysmith blurted out, trying to keep his voice down. Kaye rolled his eyes and unfolded his arms, reaching for his glass and draining it.

‘Your shout, kiddo,’ he said.

Naysmith gawped, but then sprinted towards the bar with the empty glass.

‘Previous?’ Fox echoed. Tony Kaye leaned in towards him, keeping his voice low.

‘A few petty thefts from nine or ten years back. Couple of street brawls. Nothing too serious, but Jude might not know about them. How’s she doing?’

‘Her arm’s in plaster.’

‘Did you have words with Faulkner?’

Fox shook his head. ‘I didn’t see him.’

‘Something’s got to be done, Malcolm. Will she file a complaint?’

‘No.’

‘We could do it for her.’

‘She’s not leaving him, Tony.’

‘Then it’s up to us to have a word with him.’

Naysmith was back at the table, the landlord having taken his order. ‘Exactly what we should do,’ he confirmed.

‘You’re forgetting something,’ Fox said. ‘We’re the Complaints. Word gets out that we’re running around putting the fear on members of the great unwashed…’ He shook his head again, more firmly this time. ‘We don’t get to do that.’

‘Then there’s no fun left in life,’ Tony Kaye decided, throwing open his arms. Naysmith had marched off again and returned with Kaye’s drink. Fox studied his two colleagues.

His two friends.

‘Thanks all the same,’ he said. And then, lowering his voice still further: ‘In the meantime, maybe there’s some fun we could have.’ He checked that no one else in the bar was showing an interest. ‘McEwan’s put me on to a cop called Breck…’

‘Jamie Breck?’ Kaye guessed.

‘You know him?’

‘I know people who know him.’

‘Who is he?’ Naysmith asked, settling himself at the table. Only the top inch was missing from his lager.

‘CID, based at Torphichen,’ Kaye enlightened him. Then, to Fox: ‘He’s dirty?’

‘Maybe.’

‘That’s why you were at the Chop Shop this morning?’

‘Nothing gets past you, Tony.’

‘And HR this afternoon?’

‘Ditto.’ Fox leaned back in his seat. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, not exactly. No harm in Kaye and Naysmith being on board, but did he have anything for them to do? All he knew was, he needed to show his appreciation, and this was as good a way of doing it as any. Plus, now they could talk about work rather than Jude. And that was another thing: what did he do with the info about Vince Faulkner? Store it away? He couldn’t see himself confronting Jude with it. She’d accuse him of snooping, of interfering.