Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘One or two,’ Breck replied after a moment’s consideration.

‘That’s all right, then,’ Fox said. ‘But Charlie… you’re going to have to tell us everything. And it’s got to be done properly.’

Brogan considered this. ‘I really thought it would work,’ he muttered to himself at last.

Fox gave a snort. ‘Vince’s body was found Tuesday afternoon; a few hours later you’re suddenly checking your will at your solicitor’s office, and by Thursday you’re supposed to be dead?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘No, Charlie, it was never going to work.’

‘The deck shoes were a nice touch, though,’ Breck conceded. ‘Left bobbing about on the water like that…’

‘They were Joanna’s idea.’

‘And she helped you come ashore, too?’ Fox guessed. ‘Dinghy, was it?’

‘I swam.’ Brogan puffed out his chest a little. ‘Time was, I could have swum the whole estuary…’

‘Good for you,’ Breck said.

Fox had thought of something else. ‘The money from the paintings… it was to tide you over, right? Did Wauchope find out you were holding on to it? Is that what finally blew his fuse?’

‘Men like Bull Wauchope, their fuses are long blown.’

‘You know Glen Heaton, don’t you? When I started sticking my oar in, did you have Joanna go see him? Did she tell him to fill me in on Bull Wauchope?’

Brogan gave a resigned smile. ‘You said it yourself, Inspector – you’re the one card left in this lousy hand I’ve been dealt…’

There was the sound of someone clearing their throat nearby. All three turned, expecting trouble, but it was only the cleaner.

‘Sorry,’ the man said, ‘but I’ve got to lock up now. Don’t blame you for loitering, though.’ He nodded in the direction of the painting. ‘It’s a great thing, isn’t it? So true to life…’

‘True to life,’ Fox agreed. But it was a shroud, and it reminded him of Vince Faulkner’s ice-cold corpse, lying in the darkness of a mortuary drawer. All because of the shaven-headed fat man who was staring at the painting one final time.

All because Charlie Brogan had something to prove to the world.

It was Annabel Cartwright who met them at Torphichen. She’d already checked that Billy Giles and his team had left for the night. There was a desk sergeant on duty, but he was on the telephone when they arrived. Cartwright ushered them through the door and along the corridor to the interview room. She’d brought a videotape for the camera and audiotape for the recorder. Once everything was set up, Fox mentioned that it would be best for all concerned if she left them to it. She gave the curtest of nods and left the room. She hadn’t so much as acknowledged Jamie Breck’s existence.

‘The debts are piling up,’ Breck commented to Fox.

‘Let’s get on with this,’ Fox replied.

An hour later, they had as much as they needed. Fox pocketed both sets of tapes and they left the station without seeing anyone. There was a locked patrol car outside. Fox looked to left and right, thinking back to the day he’d taken that first walk with Jamie Breck.

‘What now?’ Brogan asked, fixing his hat to his head.

‘Is it safe, wherever you’re staying?’ Fox asked him.

‘Yes.’

‘Does Joanna know the address?’

Brogan gave him a look, and Fox rolled his eyes. ‘If she knows, then it’s not safe.’

‘She’d never tell.’

‘Maybe so…’ Fox didn’t bother with the rest of the sentence. ‘We keep in touch by phone, right?’ He waited until Brogan had nodded his agreement. ‘Okay then. Keep your head down for another day or two while I discuss options with DS Breck.’

Brogan nodded again. A taxi had swept around the corner, its ‘hire’ light illuminated. Brogan stuck out a hand and the driver signalled to stop. Brogan got in and closed the door after him. Whatever destination he gave the driver, neither Fox nor Breck heard it. They watched the cab as it headed for the Morrison Street junction.

‘What now?’ Breck asked.

‘I thought you were the one with the ideas.’

‘You might not like them.’

‘If they’re better than nothing, they’re worth hearing.’ They started walking uphill towards the traffic lights. There was a pub just across the road.

‘What did you think of Brogan?’ Breck asked.

‘I wanted to punch him in the face.’

‘That would have looked good on the video,’ Breck said with the hint of a smile.

‘Wouldn’t it, though,’ Fox agreed. ‘I should have done it when we were in that chapel.’

‘In the sight of God?’ Breck’s voice feigned outrage at the notion. Fox reached out and touched his shoulder.

‘These ideas of yours, Jamie…’

‘To be honest, there’s only the one.’ Breck paused. ‘And you’re really not going to like it.’

‘Because it’s risky?’ Fox guessed.

‘Because it’s stupid,’ Breck corrected him.

Dundee the following night, and people were out to have one last good time before the working week began again.

Fox and Breck sat in Fox’s car. Back in Edinburgh, Breck had suggested taking his Mazda, ‘for a change’, but Fox had declined, explaining that he just couldn’t get comfortable.

‘I’m not built for a sports car, Jamie.’

So they had travelled to Dundee in the Volvo and were parked on the street outside Lowther’s bar. Breck had interrupted Mark Kelly’s weekend that afternoon with a request for recent photos of Bull Wauchope and Terry Vass. The resulting printouts from Dundee CID were in the glove compartment, having been committed to memory. So far, no one entering or leaving Lowther’s had offered a precise match – though some came close.

‘Not exactly a cocktail clientele, is it?’ Breck commented, as they studied three men who had come outside to smoke cigarettes, check texts on their phones and hawk gobbets of phlegm on to the pavement. One man kept rearranging his crotch; another offered gravel-toned enticements to any young women who dared to pass within his orbit. All three men wore T-shirts stretched over distended stomachs. All three sported tattooed forearms and gold chains around their necks and wrists. What hair they had was gelled and spiky, faces shiny and fat and pockmarked. One was missing most of his front teeth.

‘So do we just walk in there or what?’ Breck was asking.

‘It’s your plan, Jamie – you tell me.’

‘We could sit here all night otherwise.’

They had already been to the address they had for Wauchope Leisure Holdings. It was one of a row of shops on an estate to the north of the city centre. The door had looked solid, and the blinds in the unwashed window had been shut tight. No answer to their knock. Lowther’s was all they had left – it was the pub owned by Wauchope, the pub with the payphone. Someone in there had lured one property developer to his death and harried another into faking his own suicide.

Lowther’s was all they had…

Breck seemed to realise as much and pushed open the passenger-side door. Fox pulled the key from the ignition and followed suit. The three men still hadn’t noticed them. They were laughing about something, a message or a photo on one of their phones. Breck found himself standing just behind them.

‘Can anyone join in?’ he asked.

The men turned as one. Fox had caught up with his partner by now, but didn’t fancy their chances. The good humour had disappeared from all three faces.

‘That’s some smell of bacon coming off you two,’ one of the men stated, while another spat on the pavement, just missing Breck’s shoes.

‘Need a word with Bull,’ Breck went on, folding his arms. ‘Inside, is he?’