Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’

‘So why don’t we do it over the phone?’

‘Because a phone could be bugged, couldn’t it? Same as my car yesterday. I’m just trying to put your mind at rest…’

‘I choose where we meet?’

‘Somewhere you know you’ll be safe.’

‘I like Lowther’s.’

‘Fine, but I don’t want too many people around – could it be after closing time?’ Fox was looking at Breck and Breck winked back – he had bet twenty quid Wauchope would choose the pub.

‘I’ll make sure everybody’s gone by eleven.’

‘Then we’ll be there at quarter past.’

‘But not with Brogan?’

‘Not till we’ve had our little chat.’

‘I’ll need proof you know where he is.’

‘Not a problem.’

‘And I swear to God, if you try anything I’ll have you nailed to the wall before your buddies can kick the door down.’

‘Understood. But I want us to be clear on something – Heaton and Vass are not negotiable.’

‘Give me Brogan and they’re yours.’ The line went dead. Fox held the phone in his hands for a moment.

‘Well?’ Breck asked.

‘We’ve got more calls to make.’ Fox held the phone in front of him and found the number he was looking for.

‘Five hours till we have to leave,’ Breck calculated. ‘Is that enough time?’

‘It better be,’ Malcolm Fox said as the first of his calls was answered.

They parked the car outside Lowther’s at precisely one minute to eleven. People were leaving, not all of them happy at having their evening curtailed. But the grumbling was muted, and even then it only started once they were safely on the street. At five past, Terry Vass emerged. He recognised the Volvo but ignored it. His job seemed to be reconnaissance. He walked up and down the street, looking for signs that Fox and Breck had brought company. Seemingly satisfied, he headed inside again. At ten past, Fox asked Breck if he was ready.

‘Few more minutes,’ Breck replied with a glance at his watch. They sat in silence, and saw the bar staff making to leave, shrugging themselves into their jackets, lighting cigarettes as they headed home. Vass came out of the pub again, this time signalling for them that it was time. Fox looked at Breck and nodded. Breck fetched the laptop from the back seat and they crossed the road. There hadn’t been time for anyone to do more than the most cursory amount of tidying up. A few chairs had been placed upside down on tables, and the top of the bar was lined with dirty glasses. The fruit machine’s lights were flashing, tempting players who no longer existed.

At a corner table sat Bull Wauchope. His arms were draped along the edge of the bench behind him.

‘Search them,’ he ordered.

Vass stood in front of the two detectives. ‘Take off your jackets and undo your shirts.’

‘As long as you’re not after The Full Monty,’ Breck said, placing the laptop on the nearest table. They slid their jackets off and unbuttoned their shirts, untucking them so Vass could check for wires. He patted down each jacket, squeezing the pockets and reaching in to check they only had wallets and phones.

‘Trousers, Terry,’ Wauchope barked, so Vass ran his hands down their legs, too, checking their ankles and socks.

‘Nothing,’ he said, struggling to get back to his feet.

‘Take their phones off them – don’t want anyone eavesdropping, do we?’

Vass ended up with three phones. ‘This one’s got two,’ he told his boss, nodding towards Fox.

Wauchope stared at Fox and Breck, then pointed to the chairs on the other side of the table. Breck placed the laptop between them. ‘Okay if I plug this in?’ he asked, looking down at the floor for the nearest socket.

‘What’s it for?’ Wauchope demanded.

‘Proof,’ Fox told him. ‘And since I don’t have a phone, I’ll need to borrow yours.’ He had his hand held out.

‘Give him his phone back,’ Wauchope ordered Terry Vass. Then: ‘But I’m warning you…’

‘Crucifixion’s not high on my wish list,’ Fox assured him.

Breck had found a socket on the skirting board below the bench. Fox punched buttons on his phone and held it to his ear. Wauchope’s eyes had narrowed. They were flitting between the two men.

‘We’re ready, Tony,’ Fox said when the call was answered. Then he snapped the phone shut and tossed it towards Vass. Breck had powered up the laptop and turned it so it was facing Wauchope.

‘Give it a minute,’ he said, leaning over so he could make a few adjustments.

‘Mind if I…?’ Fox nodded towards the bench. Wauchope’s head twitched, which Fox took for agreement. He sat down next to the man so he too could view the screen. Wauchope’s body odour was almost overpowering.

‘What we’ve got,’ Fox explained, trying to keep his breathing shallow, ‘is a webcam.’ On the screen, a three-inch-square box had opened. There was a face there, Charles Brogan’s face.

‘Who’s Tony?’ Wauchope asked.

‘Just someone doing me a favour.’

‘He’s operating the camera?’

‘Didn’t think Brogan could be trusted to do it for himself.’

Wauchope leaned forward. Brogan’s head was moving from side to side as he stretched the muscles in his neck. There was no sound. ‘Why’s the picture so small?’

‘Blame the laptop,’ Fox explained. ‘Wages Breck’s on, he can’t always afford quality.’

‘I could magnify it,’ Breck added, ‘but you’d lose definition.’

Wauchope just grunted. Then, a few seconds later: ‘You’re telling me this is live?’ Instead of answering, Fox gestured for the phone again.

‘One way to prove it,’ he offered.

Vass looked to his boss for permission, then handed the phone over. Fox waited until he was connected.

‘Tony,’ he said, ‘tell him we need a wave.’

The face on the computer turned to one side, as if listening to an instruction. Then Charlie Brogan gave a half-hearted wave of one hand. Fox snapped shut the phone again, holding on to it this time. Wauchope kept staring at the screen.

‘So now you know we’ve got him,’ Fox said.

‘I know he’s in police custody,’ Wauchope corrected him, but Fox shook his head.

‘You’ve got friends in Lothian and Borders, Bull – you know he’s not handed himself in.’

Wauchope turned to look at him. ‘What is it you want?’

‘I want to know why my colleague here was targeted.’

Wauchope considered for a second, then turned his attention back to the screen. ‘He can’t hear me?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Fox confirmed.

Wauchope leaned his face right in against the screen. ‘Going to get you, you fucker!’ he yelled. Flecks of saliva spattered Brogan’s head and shoulders.

‘Will that be enough to appease the gangs in Lanarkshire and Aberdeen?’ Fox asked. Wauchope turned to him again.

‘It’s a start,’ he confirmed. ‘I told them he’d die.’

‘When he disappeared from the boat… you could’ve tried taking the credit.’ Fox saw Wauchope’s face change. ‘You did, didn’t you? You told them you’d had him executed? That’s why he can’t turn up alive and kicking…’

Wauchope was staring at him again. Breck cleared his throat.

‘Malcolm… maybe we’re cheating ourselves here.’

‘How do you mean?’ Fox asked.

‘We’re trading him for a few scraps of information. Seems to me he’s worth a whole lot more now.’

‘Don’t go getting greedy,’ Wauchope snarled.

‘Then start talking,’ Fox said. He had risen and shifted to the seat next to Breck. Wauchope’s eyes were on the screen again. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He had an inch of lager left in his glass, and he drained it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He made a smacking sound with his lips, then stared across the table.