Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘It’s a start,’ he told himself.

He took a taxi to the station. The driver’s conversation revolved around tram works and traffic diversions. ‘See the council,’ he would say at one moment and ‘See the government’ the next. ‘And don’t get me started about the banks…’

Fox had no intention of getting him started; the real problem was getting him to stop. Fox was trying to imagine himself into a role. He was a commuter on his way home from a tiring day. Maybe he worked Saturdays; maybe he’d been shopping. He would step from his taxi, head into the booking office, and pay for a ticket. The driver had even asked him – ‘This you on your way home?’ – without seeming interested in any answer.

‘Wouldn’t blame you for emigrating, pal… whole country’s a bloody shambles…’

The cab bumped its way down the slope into the station proper and pulled into a waiting bay. Fox paid the driver, adding a tip. The man was wishing him well for the rest of the weekend as Fox closed the door. It was six forty by the station clock. Plenty of time. The post-shopping rush had died back a bit, though the concourse was still busy. A train had obviously arrived from London. There was a lengthy queue at the taxi rank. He pitied whichever tourist or traveller ended up with the driver he’d just waved off. The booking office had another queue, but there were self-serve machines. Fox used his bank card and bought two off-peak returns.

You’re leaving a trail, he warned himself. But if things turned sour, that might be a plus – it would give the cops who came looking for him something to work with. He wandered past the coffee stall and the bar and the Burger King, then headed towards the platforms. There were people resting their backs against the window of the WH Smith. The place was doing a good trade, and Fox wasted a couple of minutes looking at the range of books and magazines. Even so, it was still seven minutes shy of the hour.

‘Hello, copper,’ a voice barked from behind. Fox swirled towards it. Jamie Breck was grinning.

‘Need to sharpen those spider senses, Malcolm,’ he said. ‘I’ve been here a while.’ Breck held up a ticket. ‘Got you this.’

In reply, Fox held up his own. ‘Snap,’ he said. Then: ‘How long since you arrived?’

‘Half an hour – decided to scope the place out, and saw you doing the same.’

‘I’m wondering if maybe he wants to meet us here.’

‘It’s a bit public,’ Breck replied, his voice full of doubt. ‘Just that wee bit exposed.’ He seemed to remember something. ‘You know what you were saying? About him maybe living downstairs from the penthouse…?’

Fox shook his head. ‘It would put Joanna in the firing line.’

‘Isn’t she there already? When he scarpered, why did she stick around?’

‘She’s got a casino to run, Jamie. Besides, if they’d both done a midnight flit, Wauchope would have been on to them all the quicker.’

Breck nodded his agreement. ‘How come I’m the one being fast-tracked when you’re the better cop?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Maybe you bribed someone…?’

Breck gave a snort and checked his watch against the large digital clock above the departure and arrival boards. ‘There’s a train to Dundee, leaves on the dot of seven. If we miss that, next one’s half past. What do you think?’

‘Maybe we get on the train we’re told to catch and he jumps on at a station down the line.’

Breck nodded slowly. ‘Or?’

‘Or he meets us here. But you said it yourself – it’s risky.’

‘Or we’re being led a dance,’ Breck offered.

Fox gave a twitch of the mouth. ‘Was Annabel okay in the end?’

‘Dinner midweek at Prestonfield House, and Amsterdam the next window we get.’

‘She’s a tough negotiator.’

‘I thought it best to cave in straight away. You were right, by the way…’

‘Dickson and Hall?’

Breck nodded again. ‘Handing out flyers the night you got jumped. Any plans for a revenge attack?’ Breck watched Fox shake his head, then checked the station clock again. ‘Seven’s been and gone.’

‘Yes.’

‘And here we are, standing outside WH Smith.’

‘I can’t disagree.’

‘And nothing’s happening.’ Breck shuffled his feet. Fox was studying the passing parade of travellers. Some had obviously enjoyed a drink; maybe one or two of them had been to the football. They were voluble as they chatted with their friends. It was Saturday night and people from outside the city were arriving with only one aim in mind. Fox had even heard the Rondo mentioned as a probable destination for later.

Breck was studying his watch. ‘Just relax,’ Fox told him.

‘Are you on medication?’ Breck asked. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not fretting.’

‘My insides are dancing,’ Fox admitted.

More people passed them, some at a gallop in a bid to make this or that seven o’clock departure – there were delays on a few of the trains. The announcer explained as much through the Tannoy. Fox could make out the gist of what she was saying.

‘He’s late,’ he stated. Breck just nodded. The phone in Fox’s hand started to ring. He peered at the screen: same number the text had come from, but this time it was an actual call. He pressed the phone to his ear and answered. ‘Yes?’ he said.

The voice was unnaturally deep. Had to be fake – someone putting it on. ‘Leave by the back exit. Wait by the lights on Market Street.’ The phone went dead.

‘Message received and understood,’ Fox muttered. Then, to Breck: ‘Come on.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘He wants us on Market Street.’ Fox crossed the concourse, heading for the stairs.

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s watched too many Bourne films.’

‘Did you recognise the voice?’

‘I’ve never spoken to him.’

‘So maybe it’s not him.’

‘If this was Quidnunc and not real life, how would you play it?’

‘I’d forge alliances.’

Fox looked at him. ‘Not much time for that.’

‘Besides which, who’d want to side with us?’ Breck added.

‘Good question…’ When they reached the top of the footbridge, Fox had to pause to catch his breath. ‘Imagine what I’d be like if I smoked,’ he managed to say.

‘Half a stone lighter?’ Breck replied. Then: ‘What are we supposed to do when we get there?’

‘Await further instructions.’

Breck stared at him. ‘Tell me he didn’t use those words.’

Fox shook his head and started moving again. A further flight of steps and they emerged out on to the pavement. There were traffic lights to their right. Fox looked around, seeking their tormentor. The City Art Centre was in darkness. People scurried past, heads down. North Bridge was overhead to their left, buses nose to tail as they waited for the lights to change at Princes Street.

Breck was staring at the train tickets. ‘I hope he’s going to refund us,’ he said.

‘I think we’re at the very rear of that particular queue, Jamie.’

‘You’re probably right.’

Fox’s phone rang again. He put it to his ear. The voice had changed, unable to sustain its previous tone.

‘Cross the road and head for Jeffrey Street. Once you’re past the bridge, look for a church.’ The caller hung up. Fox turned to Breck.

‘I think we’re about to repent our sins,’ he said, readying to cross at the lights. Fox wasn’t really expecting any church to be open to visitors on a Saturday night, so when they arrived at the doors to Old St Paul’s he stood there, looking to left and right. He checked that he was still getting a signal on his phone – Edinburgh was full of dead zones.

‘What now?’ Breck asked. ‘More waiting?’