Ian Rankin - The Complaints

My life, Malcolm, my business… That was probably how she would put it. Of everything they had to do, all the cases they had to work, cops hated domestics the worst. They hated them because there was seldom a happy outcome, and precious little they could do to help or ease the situation. And that was how Jude would look to the majority of Fox’s colleagues. Hers was most definitely a domestic. The smokers were standing at the bar. One of them was drinking whisky. Fox could smell it, and even felt the faintest of tangs at the back of his throat. It was making his mouth water.

‘So tell us,’ Tony Kaye was enquiring. Joe Naysmith had leaned forward, elbows on knees.

His sister’s face was in his mind, and the aroma of the single malt in his nostrils. He told Kaye and Naysmith what he knew about Jamie Breck.

Next morning, Fox called Jude but got no answer. He’d tried her the previous night, too. She probably had caller ID. She was almost certainly ignoring him. After breakfast, he drove to work. Kaye and Naysmith wanted to know their ‘plan of action’. Fox’s idea was that Annie Inglis should brief them, but there was no one at home in 2.24. He texted her mobile instead, asking her to get back to him.

‘We’ll wait,’ he told his colleagues. ‘No rush.’ They were heading back to their own desks when Fox’s phone rang. He picked it up, and heard a voice he didn’t know asking him if he was Malcolm Fox.

‘Who’s this?’ Fox asked back.

‘My name’s Detective Sergeant Breck.’ Fox’s spine stiffened, but he didn’t say anything. ‘Am I speaking to Malcolm Fox?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Fox, I’m calling on behalf of your sister.’

‘Is she there? What’s happened?’

‘Your sister’s fine, Mr Fox. But I’m afraid we’re on our way to the mortuary. I asked her if there was anyone, and she…’

The voice was professional without being cold.

‘Tell me what’s happened.’

‘Your sister’s partner, Mr Fox – do you know how to find the City Mortuary…?’

He knew all right: it was on the Cowgate. An inconspicuous brick building you’d drive past without guessing what went on there. Traffic was hellish slow; there seemed to be roadworks and diversions everywhere. It wasn’t just the trams – there were gas mains being replaced, and resurfacing at the Grassmarket. It seemed to Fox that he passed more traffic cones than pedestrians. Kaye had asked if he wanted company, but he’d shaken his head. Vince Faulkner was dead, and that was as much as Jamie Breck was going to tell him. Breck – managing to sound concerned and thoughtful. Breck – waiting at the mortuary with Jude…

Fox parked the Volvo in one of the loading bays and headed inside. He knew where they’d be waiting. The viewing room was one floor up. He flashed his ID at any staff he passed, not that they showed the slightest interest. They wore foreshortened green rubber galoshes and three-quarter-length smocks. They had just washed their hands or were on their way to do so. Jude heard his footsteps on the stairs and was running towards him as he came into view. She was bawling her head off, body shuddering, eyes bloodshot behind the tears. He held her to him, being careful of her arm. After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked over her shoulder to where DS Jamie Breck was standing.

You don’t know his name’s Jamie, Fox reminded himself. On the phone, he called himself DS Breck. Breck was walking towards him now. Fox managed to push Jude back a little, but as gently as possible. He held out a hand to the other detective. Breck was smiling, almost sheepishly.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have known it was a Fettes number.’ He gestured towards Jude. ‘Your sister tells me you’re a DI.’

‘Just plain Inspector,’ Fox corrected him. ‘In PSU we drop the Detective bit.’

Breck nodded. ‘PSU means the Complaints?’

Fox nodded back at him, then turned his attention to Jude. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘Are you all right?’ She shivered in response, and he asked Breck if the identification had taken place.

‘Two minutes,’ Breck said, pretending to look at his watch. Fox knew what was happening behind the door: they were making the corpse as presentable as possible. Only the face would be visible, unless identification necessitated the revealing of a tattoo or distinguishing feature.

‘Where was he found?’ Fox asked.

‘A building site by the canal.’

‘Where they’re knocking down the brewery?’

‘He wasn’t working there,’ Jude stated tremulously. ‘I don’t know what he was doing there.’

‘When was he found?’ Fox asked Breck, squeezing his sister’s hand a little more tightly.

‘Early this morning. Couple of joggers on the towpath. One got a stitch, so they stopped. Leaning against the fence, doing stretches or whatever. That’s when they saw him.’

‘And you’re sure it’s…?’

‘Couple of credit cards in the pocket. I gave Ms Fox a description of the deceased and his clothing…’

Jamie Breck had blonde hair tending towards the curly, and a face speckled with freckles. His eyes were a milky blue. He stood an inch or so shorter than Fox, and was probably only two thirds his waist measurement. He wore a dark brown suit with all three buttons done up. Fox was trying to dismiss from his mind everything he knew about him: schooled at George Watson’s… parents both doctors… lives near the supermarket… has yet to comply with the twenty-five-pic minimum… He found himself stroking Jude’s hair.

‘They beat him up,’ she was saying, voice cracking. ‘They beat him up and left him for dead.’ Fox looked to Breck for confirmation.

‘Injuries consistent with,’ was all the younger man said. Then the door of the room behind them slid open. The body lay on a trolley, swaddled except for the face. Even the hair and ears had been covered. The face was pulpy, but recognisable, even from a distance. Fox caught sight of it before his sister.

‘Jude,’ he cautioned her, ‘I can do this if you don’t want to.’

‘I need to do it,’ she answered. ‘I need to…’

‘You’ll want to go home with her,’ Breck was telling Fox. Both men held plastic beakers of tea. They were standing in the Family Room. A pile of children’s books had been placed on one of the chairs, and someone had pinned up a poster of a sunflower. Jude was seated a few feet away, head bowed, holding a beaker of her own – water was all she’d asked for. They were waiting for the forms, the forms she would need to sign. Vince Faulkner’s battered corpse was already on its way to the autopsy suite, where a couple of the city’s pathologists would get to work on it, their assistants weighing and measuring, bagging and tagging.

‘What time was he found?’ Fox asked quietly.

‘Just after six.’

‘It’s still dark at six.’

‘There were streetlights.’

‘Was he attacked there or just dumped there?’

‘Look, Inspector Fox, this can all wait… you’ll want to be with Jude now.’

Fox stared at his sister. ‘There’s a neighbour,’ he found himself saying. ‘Alison Pettifer. Maybe she could take Jude home and stay with her.’

Breck pulled back his shoulders. ‘Due respect, I know you outrank me, but…’

‘I just want to see the locus. Any harm in that, DS Breck?’

Breck seemed to consider this for a moment, then let his shoulders relax. ‘Call me Jamie,’ he said.

Twenty-five-pic minimum, Fox thought to himself.

It was another hour before the paperwork was finalised and Alison Pettifer was fetched from her home. Fox shook hands with her and thanked her again for calling him the previous day.