Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘Why would he want to waste his breath on a twat like you?’ the first man went on. ‘Away you go and take Gene fucking Hunt with you.’ He nodded towards Fox while his two friends grinned.

‘We’re not looking for trouble,’ Breck continued. ‘But we’re always happy to provide it when necessary. Three of you in the same holding cell – gets a bit crowded on a weekend.’

‘I’m shaking in my fucking boots.’

‘Is he inside or not? That’s all we’re asking.’

Fox had risen up on to his toes so he could peer in through the pub window. The bottom half was frosted glass, the top half clear. A couple of drinkers glared back at him, but he’d already seen enough.

‘He’s inside,’ he stated, answering Breck’s question. He made to move past the men, but they stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the door. ‘Bull won’t thank you for this,’ he explained to the leader. ‘Think about it for a second – right now it’s just the two of us he’s dealing with. But if we have to round up a posse, we’ll be sure to bring him out with his hands cuffed behind his back. It’ll be into the van and down to headquarters for the night. If you think that’s what he’d want, fair play to you. But I’m guessing you’re wrong, and he’ll know who’s to blame when the blues and twos come screeching to a halt…’ Fox took a step back, raising his hands in a show of surrender. ‘Just think it over, that’s all I’m saying. Maybe go talk to him, see what he says.’ He pointed across the road. ‘We’ll wait by the car.’ Then he started walking, Breck following him.

‘Nicely played,’ Breck commented in an undertone.

‘That remains to be seen.’ But by the time they reached the Volvo, the ringleader had disappeared inside, the door swinging behind him. Fox and Breck bided their time. A face neither of them knew appeared at the window of the pub.

‘You saw him?’ Breck asked.

‘Holding court at the bar,’ Fox confirmed. ‘Amount of jewellery he’s toting, I’m surprised he can lift a glass.’

It was another couple of minutes before the door opened. No one emerged, but something was either said or signalled. The two smokers flicked away their cigarettes and headed inside.

‘Now what?’ Breck asked. It was a fair question. ‘Do we just stand here while they have a good laugh at us?’ A few more faces had appeared at the window. One man flicked the V sign. ‘Maybe that posse of yours isn’t such a bad idea.’

‘It’s a terrible idea,’ Fox corrected him.

‘Don’t tell me you want us to walk in there without back-up?’

‘Is that what you’d do in Quidnunc, Jamie – wait for reinforcements before you make a move?’

‘By this stage of the game, I’d be mob-handed, same as the person I’m fighting.’

‘Then we’ll just have to be a mob of two.’ Fox paused. ‘But meantime, we’d be warmer in the car.’

‘We make a better impression standing our ground.’

‘Is that from Quidnunc again? Place probably won’t close for another three or four hours.’

‘It won’t take that long.’

Sure enough, after only a few minutes, they started to hear the sound of an engine. It was whining as it approached at speed, and when it turned the nearest corner its tyres squealed. There was no attempt to pull in kerbside. The driver just slammed the brakes on with the car still in the middle of the road. It was a Ford Sierra, but with a modified engine and an oversized exhaust pipe. The driver let it growl one last time before allowing it to idle. The tyres had left marks on the road and there was a smell of burning rubber.

‘Top Gear’s got a lot to answer for,’ Fox commented.

The man who eventually emerged from the back seat was big and scowling. He’d worn the same face in the photo on the printout. The Sierra rose the best part of an inch on its shocks once relieved of its passenger. He rolled from the waist as he walked. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt the size of a two-man tent, baggy jeans and white trainers. His hair was black, slicked back from the forehead and over the ears, falling to just past his neck. He sported a gold tooth at the front of his mouth but no baubles or obvious body-art. His eyes seemed tiny, but piercing at the same time.

‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘Second thoughts – don’t answer that. Just get in the car and vamoose.’

‘We can’t do that, Terry,’ Fox said, managing to sound apologetic. ‘We need to speak to Bull first.’

‘I don’t want to hear another word from you,’ Terry Vass said, jabbing a finger in Fox’s direction. ‘Just you and your bum-chum hit the fucking road.’

There was silence for a moment before Jamie Breck uttered a single word. The word was ‘Interesting.’ This caught Vass’s attention.

‘What’s that?’

Breck offered a shrug. ‘It’s just that when people use homophobic insults, it’s often a sign.’

Vass’s face darkened further. ‘What sort of sign?’

Breck shrugged again and seemed to be searching for the right phrase. ‘Subconscious… leanings,’ he offered.

Vass lunged at him, but Breck was nimble. He ducked beneath the huge man’s outstretched arm and stepped past him. He bounced on his toes, ready for the next move.

‘Terry,’ Fox said, his voice a little louder than before, demanding to be heard. ‘We don’t need any of this. Bull’s got you here so you can find out what we want. It was meant to be for his ears only, but here’s the gist – we’ve got Charlie Brogan.’

Vass had been glowering at Breck, readying for another assault, but Fox’s words hit home. His breathing steadied and his shoulders relaxed a fraction.

‘I don’t mean he’s in custody,’ Fox went on. ‘I mean we’ve got him. And we want a trade.’

Vass turned towards Fox. ‘A what?’

‘A trade,’ Fox repeated. ‘Go tell your boss that. We’ll be waiting in the car.’ He was already opening the driver’s-side door. Vass watched as he got in and closed it after him. Then he turned his attention back to Breck, who was still up on his toes, halfway between the Volvo and the Sierra. From the car interior, Fox had only a partial view. He was hoping Breck wouldn’t rile the giant any further. But Vass seemed to dismiss his tormentor with a wave of the hand, and trundled towards the door of Lowther’s. Breck waited a few seconds, then returned to the Volvo and got in.

‘Scary bloke,’ he commented.

‘Didn’t stop you poking him with a stick.’

‘Happens in online games all the time.’ Breck paused. ‘Besides, I’ve always had fast reflexes – nice to test them now and then.’

‘Want some gum?’

Breck nodded and reached out towards the packet Fox was holding. The hand hardly trembled at all. They sat in silence, chewing and watching the world pass by. Some women were on a hen night. They wore identical pink T-shirts emblazoned with the words ‘We Are The Four And Twenty Virgins’. A group of local men were tagging along behind, trying out their various chat-up lines. Half a dozen teenagers slouched past, dressed in black hooded tops and baseball caps. The Sierra got a few stares. It hadn’t moved, and traffic was having to negotiate it. One or two cars sounded their horns. The driver kept his hands glued to the steering wheel and the engine ticking over.

‘Reckon that’s a full-time job?’ Breck asked. Fox went on chewing and watching. When the pub door next swung open, it was only a couple of smokers. They seemed interested in Fox and Breck, but stuck to their own side of the road. The door opened again, and this time it was one of the three men from earlier. He almost jogged towards the Volvo, leaning down at the driver’s-side window. Fox ignored him, so the man tapped on the glass. Fox gave it a few more seconds, then lowered the window.