Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘More waiting,’ Fox agreed.

‘Whatever else happens, this guy’s getting a slap from me.’ Breck paused. ‘Do you think he’s watching us?’

‘Maybe.’

Breck looked up and down the street. ‘Not too many candidates,’ he concluded. It was quieter here than on Market Street. There was a single-decker bus parked outside the Jurys Inn, but no sign of its passengers. ‘Could he be staying there?’

‘Maybe.’

Breck swore beneath his breath while Fox studied the wall of the church. There was a couple of signs, one indicating that Old St Paul’s belonged to the Scottish Episcopal Church, the other giving a taste of its history. The church had been founded in 1689, and was an eighteenth-century refuge for Jacobites. It proclaimed itself a place ‘for all who seek faith’.

‘Amen to that,’ Fox was muttering under his breath as his phone sounded again. He put it to his ear and had already uttered a terse ‘Yes?’ when he realised it was an incoming text. There was just the one capitalised word:

INSIDE.

He showed Breck the screen, and Breck reached out to turn the door handle. With the slightest of pushes, the door opened inwards. There was a flight of stone steps. Fox used the handrail as he climbed. When he turned the corner at the top, he was in a church much larger than its exterior had suggested. There were modern-looking paintings at one end, a pulpit and altar at the other, with a chapel off. A young man was sweeping between the pews. He didn’t pay them any attention, even though Breck was staring at him. But Fox’s attention had shifted to the lit chapel. A huge painting covered most of one wall. Some folding chairs had been placed in front of it. He sat down on one and saw that the painting comprised four square canvases, placed together to make up a vast swirl of white material. Was it meant to be a cloak or a shroud? He couldn’t tell, but he was mesmerised by it.

‘Is that him?’ Breck was whispering. He meant the floor-sweeper.

‘Too young,’ Fox stated.

‘This is just stupid.’ Breck ran his fingers through his hair.

‘Sit down,’ Fox suggested. ‘Take the weight off.’

Breck didn’t look convinced, but he sat down anyway.

‘One of the paintings Brogan sold,’ Fox said quietly, ‘looked a bit like this, only smaller.’ He was remembering the photo of the penthouse’s interior, the one published in the newspaper.

‘Is that why he’s brought us here?’

Fox just shrugged and let his gaze move across the painting. Someone was coming up the stairs. Their footsteps sounded like busy sandpaper. Breck had turned to watch. The footsteps were quieter as they entered the chapel. Breck had risen to his feet, nudging Fox, but Fox was continuing to study the painting. The new arrival crossed in front of him and sat down on the next chair along.

‘The artist’s name is Alison Watt,’ Charles Brogan said. ‘I know a bit about art, Inspector.’

‘Must’ve been a wrench to sell it all…’ Fox turned his head and found himself looking at the drowned man. Brogan had removed a lumberjack-style hat, revealing that his already thinning hair had been shaved off.

‘Did the missus do that?’ Fox asked.

Brogan ran a hand across his skull. He was wearing fingerless black woollen gloves. He looked to have lost some weight and his skin was sallow. He finished rubbing his head and dragged his fingers down around his jaw. He hadn’t shaved in a while. The black workman’s jacket could have been borrowed from one of his building sites. The denims had seen better days, as had the scuffed boots. As disguises went, it wasn’t bad.

Then again, it wasn’t great.

‘You weren’t followed,’ Brogan said. ‘And you didn’t bring the cavalry with you.’

‘How come we didn’t spot you at Waverley?’

‘I was on the overhead walkway. When I called on the phone and saw you answer, I knew you were my guys.’

‘Except we’re not your guys,’ Breck corrected him.

Brogan just shrugged. Fox turned his head a little and fixed him with a stare. ‘What happened to Vince Faulkner?’ he asked.

Brogan was quiet for a moment. He turned his attention to the painting. ‘I’m sorry that happened,’ he said at last.

‘You sent him to meet with Terry Vass, didn’t you?’

Brogan nodded slowly.

‘And Vass decided to send you a message,’ Fox stated.

‘If I’d gone to the sauna…’ Brogan’s voice drifted off.

‘That was the deal, was it? Vass was expecting to see you, but Vince turned up instead?’ For the first time, Fox felt a pang of sorrow for Faulkner’s fate. Brogan had found out about the man’s history of violence, and had thought him a useful ‘soldier’. Vince would have loved playing that role. Maybe he’d goaded Terry Vass, and maybe not. But he had died horribly.

‘You knew from Vince’s personnel file that he had previous,’ Fox went on. ‘You could have gone to Jack Broughton to borrow some muscle, but you had to be your own man, which is why you opted for Vince. He came to you on Saturday night. He’d just clobbered his girlfriend and was angry and ashamed, drinking away the memory of it. Barman at the casino says he should never have got past the door – makes me think you’d primed the bouncers for his arrival…’ Fox paused, but Brogan wasn’t taking his eyes off the painting. ‘You needed him to go meet Vass, so he could take a beating on your behalf. Suited you just fine that he was too drunk to refuse.’ There was a bitter taste at the back of Fox’s throat. He tried swallowing it down.

‘I was desperate,’ Brogan muttered.

‘The cabbie who dropped him near the sauna says he nearly changed his mind about going – he was sobering up fast and he was scared.’

‘Then he shouldn’t have played the tough guy.’ Brogan managed a quick glance in his tormentor’s direction.

Fox was thinking again of Vince Faulkner. With his hidden stash of money at home, payment for past services rendered…

‘Was he killed at the sauna?’ Breck interrupted. ‘Maybe Forensics could take a look.’

But Brogan shook his head. ‘They took him somewhere else… kept him there.’

‘How do you know?’ Fox was giving Brogan his full attention. He watched the man swallow before he answered.

‘They phoned me. They put Vince on…’ He squeezed shut his eyes, trying to block out the memory. ‘I never want to hear anything like that again.’

‘You might,’ Fox said. ‘When they come for Joanna.’

Brogan opened his eyes and glowered at Fox. ‘I’d kill them,’ he spat. ‘They know that.’

‘Maybe.’

‘And if I didn’t, Jack would.’

‘Jack’s what all this is about, isn’t it?’ Fox asked. ‘You were doing something you thought might impress your father-in-law – playing money-man for the big boys. I’m not saying Jack Broughton knew, but you were thinking maybe it would get back to him some day and he’d start to respect you just a little bit more.’

Brogan’s face tightened, and Fox knew he’d struck a nerve.

‘But here’s the thing, Charlie,’ Fox went on. ‘When they come for Joanna – and they will come for her – Jack’s not going to go after them.’ Fox paused. ‘He’s going to come gunning for you. You’re the one he’ll blame.’

Brogan seemed to consider this. ‘I’m in hell,’ he said weakly, eyes back on the painting.

‘That’s why you’re here,’ Fox said. ‘You know we’re your only chance.’

‘What can you do?’ Brogan was bowing his head as if in prayer.

‘I don’t know.’

With head still bowed, Brogan turned his neck so he could watch Fox’s face.

‘I really don’t,’ Fox stated with a shrug of the shoulders. Then, to Breck: ‘Have you got any ideas?’