Ian Rankin - The Complaints

‘He all right?’ Fox asked.

‘Scared shitless,’ Kaye answered with a smile.

‘He heard the whole thing?’

‘Clear as a bell.’

‘So he’s convinced it’s us or nothing?’

‘He’s convinced. Doesn’t mean he’s happy about it.’

‘He did well, though,’ Jamie Breck said. ‘If Wauchope had screamed at me like that, I’d have started running for the hills.’

‘I kept the volume low,’ Kaye explained. ‘And there was a bit of prep beforehand…’

Breck had bent a little at the knees so he could give Brogan a thumbs-up sign, while Brogan resolutely ignored him.

‘Have you tried playing it back?’ Fox was asking Kaye.

‘It’s fine – sound and vision, and copied on to an external hard drive, date- and time-stamped.’

‘What would we have done if he’d spotted the camera?’ Breck asked Fox.

‘Told him the truth,’ Fox replied. ‘It’s built into the laptop, meaning there’s nothing to be done about it.’

‘He’d have wanted it covered up.’

‘We’d still have the audio.’ Fox looked to Kaye for confirmation. Kaye nodded back at him and Fox patted his friend’s arm. Truth to tell, he’d harboured doubts about Tony Kaye, had even wondered for a time if Kaye might have been got at. He felt a little bad about that… but not too bad.

Fox’s phone rang and he answered it. It was Bob McEwan, letting them know the squad was in position at Salamander Point.

‘The van’s got to go to Forensics,’ Fox reminded him. ‘Could well be the same one they used with Vince Faulkner.’

‘Relax, Malcolm,’ McEwan said, ending the call.

‘He says we should relax,’ Fox informed Breck and Kaye.

‘Want to go watch the fun?’ Breck asked. Fox checked his watch.

‘If they catch so much as a glimpse of us,’ he warned, ‘they’ll know something’s up.’

‘What about our resident scaredy-cat?’ Kaye gestured towards Brogan.

‘We keep him at HQ for the interview – I’d hate for him to have an “accident”.’

‘You’re saying Leith’s not safe?’

‘Is anywhere?’ Fox asked, sounding deadly serious.

It was another five minutes before the surveillance vehicle arrived, driven by Joe Naysmith and with Gilchrist as his passenger. Fox hauled open the driver’s-side door.

‘Well?’ he asked.

Naysmith jumped down from the van and Breck tossed him the three-pin adaptor. This, rather than the laptop’s mains cable, was what he’d plugged into the wall socket at the pub. The device only looked like an adaptor, but was actually a bug with its own transmitter and a range of seventy-five metres. Terry Vass had looked up and down the street, but the van had been parked around the corner.

‘Picked up every word,’ Naysmith said, beaming a smile.

‘And duly recorded.’ Gilchrist was holding a freshly burned CD in his hand.

Breck started counting off on his fingers. ‘Brogan’s evidence… plus the laptop… plus the surveillance…’

‘Any evidence Forensics can lift from the van,’ Fox added. ‘And the fact they’re about to be caught red-handed…’

‘Just about wraps it up,’ Breck concluded. ‘Doesn’t it?’

‘Just about,’ Fox seemed to agree. The two men stared at one another.

‘All right then,’ Fox relented. ‘Let’s go.’

It took them only a few minutes to reach Salamander Point, helped by the fact that the roads were deserted. They had borrowed Kaye’s car to make them less recognisable to Wauchope and Vass. Fox was in the driving seat, slowing only marginally for red lights and then going through them if there was no other traffic.

‘We’re not going to get much of a view if we stay in the car,’ Breck complained. ‘There’s nowhere nearby to park.’ So they left the Nissan on a side street and walked around the perimeter of the site. The temporary fencing had been removed from that part of Salamander Point boasting finished abodes. Grass had been laid, and a few trees and shrubs planted. The address handed to Wauchope belonged to one of the few actual houses. It was semi-detached and stood in a row of six. There was light coming from its upstairs window. Fox had plumped for it because there was less chance of neighbours getting in the way. Many of the flats were occupied, but four of the six houses stood empty. Fox and Breck kept their distance, peering from behind a brick wall that sheltered the neighbours’ dustbins from general view. There was no sign of life from any of the properties.

‘We can’t have missed them,’ Breck whispered. ‘Maybe the van wouldn’t start, or they got cold feet…’

‘Ssh,’ Fox advised. ‘Listen.’

The low rumble of an engine. A scruffy white van slowly turning the corner into the cul-de-sac. Each homeowner had a parking bay, but these were grouped together at the rear of the row of houses. The roadway was to be kept clear at all times, and boasted an unbroken run of double yellow lines. Not that this bothered the van. Its headlights had been turned off, and it pulled to a stop in the middle of the tarmac. When the engine died, Fox realised he was holding his breath. The burning bulb in the upstairs bedroom had been Tony Kaye’s idea. A good one, too. The van doors creaked open and two men got out. Fox recognised both of them. They padded over to the front door of the house, Wauchope’s face illuminated by the screen of his phone. Fox realised he was checking the time. When he nodded, Vass tried the door handle. Having opened it a fraction, proof that it hadn’t been locked, they pulled it closed again and went to check through the downstairs window. Then Bull Wauchope took a couple of steps back and angled his head towards the lit window upstairs. He seemed to whisper something to Vass, who nodded his agreement. Vass retreated to the van, looking to left and right, and returned carrying a length of clothes line and a roll of tape.

It was Wauchope who pushed the door open, but he let Vass lead the way. When both men were inside, Fox nodded towards Breck. They left their hiding place and started crossing the road. They were halfway to the door when they heard the shouts. Suddenly the doors of the houses on either side flew open, officers pouring out and following Wauchope and Vass inside. There were figures in the upstairs window – more officers. They were dressed in black and protected by visors and stab vests. They carried pepper spray and truncheons. There were yelled commands and the sounds of a struggle. Fox and Breck had no means of identifying themselves to their colleagues, so stayed outside on the path, moving aside when the team started pouring back out again. Wauchope and Vass had been handcuffed and were led downstairs, an officer behind them toting an evidence bag containing the clothes line and tape. Breck stayed to watch, but Fox had walked over to the van. He used the sleeve of his jacket when he turned the handle, opening its back doors and staring at the shadowy interior. Neighbours were finally coming out, alerted to the commotion. Officers were reassuring them that there was nothing to be worried about. Fox kept staring. He could make out Terry Vass’s voice, cursing the arresting officers. Police cars were arriving on the scene, lights flashing, bringing out more spectators. Fox flipped his mobile phone open, using the light from its screen as a torch. A sheet of plywood separated the rear compartment from the front seats. Wedged in against the furthest corner was a big, ugly-looking steel hammer. It looked stained, matted with something very like human hair. The phone’s screen went dark again, but Fox only turned his head away from the scene when he felt Jamie Breck’s hand land lightly on his shoulder.

‘You okay, Malcolm?’ Breck was asking.

‘I’m not sure,’ Fox admitted. He saw that Bob McEwan was standing in the doorway of the house, hands in pockets. McEwan spotted Fox and Breck, but made no gesture of recognition. Instead, he turned and wandered back indoors.