Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘Bull says to come in,’ the man said.

‘Tell him he can go fuck himself.’ Fox slid the window back up. The man stared through the glass as though he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. He tapped again, but Fox just shook his head. The messenger stood up and slunk back the way he’d come.

‘Reckon he’ll find another way of phrasing it?’ Breck asked.

‘Probably.’

‘You didn’t fancy going in, then?’

‘I like it better here.’

‘Me too.’ Breck leaned back a little in his seat. More minutes passed, and then Vass appeared, holding the door open for Bull Wauchope. He was everything Fox had expected. There was a feral look to him. He was never going to be half the man his father was, and he knew it. He carried weight, but very little of it was muscle. His arms were flabby, and the belt around his jeans was straining at its last notch. The short hair was greasy, as was the complexion. Acne around the throat, almost certainly exacerbated by the cheap-looking gold chains. The ink tattoos on the backs of both hands looked self-inflicted, probably dating to adolescence. Rings on most of his fingers – dart-player chic. The young man looked brash and smug, the result of having grown up untouchable, thanks to a father feared by all. Vass was a couple of steps behind his boss. Fox slid his window down again.

‘You,’ he said to Wauchope, ‘can get in the back, but I don’t want your gorilla stinking up my car.’ Wauchope didn’t pause for a second.

‘Stay here,’ he ordered Vass. Then he hauled open the door and got in, slamming it shut after him.

‘Everyone seems to think you’re cops,’ he said. ‘And if you’re not, I’ll eat Terry’s cock.’

‘That makes it very tempting to lie,’ Fox said.

‘Got the car wired for sound?’

‘No.’

‘Am I supposed to believe that?’

‘Here’s what I want you to know,’ Fox began. ‘We’ve got Charlie Brogan’s location. You’ll have worked out by now that his little disappearing act was just that – an act. The cops are thinking the same way, and that means they’ll have him in a day or two.’ He paused. ‘Which doesn’t give you much time, Bull.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘That’s good, because what I’m doing right now is incriminating myself – that’s why I can guarantee you we’re not taping this.’

‘Keep talking.’

‘We know where he is and we know you want him. We’re willing to trade.’

‘You want money?’

Fox shook his head. ‘It’s not Glen Heaton you’re dealing with here.’ He paused. ‘We want our lives back.’ He stared at Wauchope in the rearview mirror. ‘Don’t you know who we are?’

‘Not a clue.’

‘My name’s Malcolm Fox. This is Jamie Breck.’ Fox watched Wauchope’s reaction. The man was looking at Breck. ‘We’ve been set up and we think you’re at the root of it. Tell us we’re wrong.’

Wauchope turned his attention back to the mirror. ‘I’m still listening,’ he told Fox’s reflection.

‘We want everything cleared up, clean slate, that sort of thing. But we also want Glen Heaton. No way he gets to walk.’

‘You seem to credit me with a lot of clout.’

‘The clout might not be yours – might belong to your dad. But I get the feeling it’s there.’

‘Your pal doesn’t say much.’

‘Only when there’s something to add,’ Breck stated, breaking his silence.

‘This must be the most half-arsed entrapment any of you spunk-bags has ever tried to pull.’

‘You decide the time and place,’ Fox went on, ‘and we’ll be there. But we’ll have questions for you, and you don’t get to see Brogan until we’re happy.’

‘What sort of questions?’

‘The sort we need answers to.’ Fox reached a hand over the back of his seat. It was holding a scrap of paper with his mobile number on it. ‘Remember, you’ve got maybe one or two days at most. When they arrest Brogan, they’ll offer him a deal. It’ll be you they really want. And with him still alive, what are you going to offer your investors? ’ Fox paused, allowing this to sink in. Wauchope had taken the slip of paper from him, their fingers grazing momentarily.

‘Are we done?’ the man asked.

‘One last thing…’ Fox watched Wauchope pause with his hand on the door handle. ‘You’ve got to give us Vass, too.’

‘Why?’ Wauchope sounded genuinely curious.

‘He killed Vince Faulkner. Vince was my sister’s bloke.’

Fox kept watching Wauchope in the mirror as comprehension started to set in: this was family. That explained a lot. Where family was involved, the normal rules did not apply. The man didn’t say anything – he still didn’t trust the car not to be wired – but he locked eyes with Fox and nodded slowly. Then he started clambering out, before pausing to stick his head back inside. ‘You I’ve never heard of,’ he announced to Fox. He closed the door and headed back to Lowther’s. Vass walked alongside him, and Wauchope draped an arm over his shoulder.

‘You any good at reading signs?’ Fox asked Jamie Breck.

‘He’s telling us Vass might just be expendable,’ Breck answered quietly. Fox turned towards him.

‘Do I get another “well played”?’

‘What did he mean at the end?’

Fox had been wondering that too. ‘I suppose he meant what he said – he’s never heard of me.’ He shifted in his seat.

‘Why the slip of paper rather than a business card?’

‘Less info he has on me, the better.’ Fox paused. You I’ve never heard of… He spat his gum out of the window. ‘All of a sudden, I’m starving. How about you?’

‘I could go an Indian.’ Breck looked around. ‘I’m just not sure we’d be safe in Dundee.’

‘You’re right – when Wauchope calls, we want to be as far from here as possible.’

‘So we’ve got time to set everything up?’ Breck nodded his agreement. ‘You warned everybody to be ready?’

‘I warned them.’

‘How’s my crazy plan shaping up so far?’

‘We’re still breathing,’ Fox answered, starting the engine. ‘That’s saying something, I suppose.’ He peered in his rearview mirror as he drove off. The Sierra was still parked in the middle of the road, as if it owned the place.

Which in a funny way, Malcolm Fox reasoned, it did.

Monday afternoon, Breck and Fox were playing cards at Breck’s house when the call came. They’d been drinking tea and coffee all day. Three newspapers had been read from cover to cover. TV news had been watched, music listened to, and there’d been phone calls to Annabel and Jude. Lunch had comprised supermarket sandwiches and chocolate eclairs. The sun had been shining earlier, bringing a little warmth with it, but now the sky was a sheet of unbroken cloud the colour of old dishwater.

‘It’s him,’ Fox said, glancing at the phone’s tiny screen.

‘How do you know?’

‘I don’t recognise the number.’ Fox waggled the phone at Breck but didn’t answer it.

‘Don’t tease the man,’ Breck chided him. He was attempting levity, but Fox could see he was anxious. Fox pressed the answer button and placed the phone to his ear.

‘Malcolm Fox speaking.’ He realised his own voice sounded higher than usual – Breck wasn’t the only one suffering nerves.

‘It’s me.’ Bull Wauchope’s voice. He probably thought he was being clever, not identifying himself by name. As if the latest technology couldn’t match a voice to its owner as surely as fingerprints.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m still not sure I get it.’

‘There’s nothing to get – we meet, we ask you a few questions. If we’re happy with what we hear, you get your little reward.’