The Impossible Dead (12 page)

18

Having dropped Naysmith outside the library, Fox headed for the police station. Rain had started gusting against the windscreen. He turned on the wipers. The drops were huge, sounding like sparks from a fire. He thought back to that day in Alan Carter’s cottage, the two of them seated either side of the fireplace, mugs of tea and an old dog for company. What could have been cosier or more domestic? Yet Carter was a man who had built up a security company from nothing: that spoke to Fox of an inner toughness, maybe even ruthlessness. Then there was the evidence of his old friend Teddy Fraser: the cottage door kept locked at all times – why? What had the jovial old chap to fear? Maybe nothing. Maybe it was the sharp businessman who had to keep his wits about him – to the extent of having a gun nearby …

If the gun was his to begin with; Teddy Fraser thought otherwise.

There was no sign of Jamieson or the woman reporter outside the car park. Fox spotted Tony Kaye’s Mondeo. Pitkethly’s space was free again, but she had warned him against taking it. Looked like the Volvo was going to have to sit on the street again and risk a ticket. Francis Vernal, too, had driven a Volvo. A safe, steady choice, so the adverts would have you believe – Kaye had teased Fox often enough about that. The roadway either side of the crash site boasted a few curves and bends, but nothing serious. Fox thought of the speeding cars that had passed him near the memorial. Were there petrolheads back then? Nothing else for the local youths to do of a rural evening? Could someone have driven Vernal off the road?

Having parked, and looked around for traffic wardens in the vicinity, Fox got out and locked the car. He felt something in the pocket of his coat: the logbook from Vernal’s Volvo. Its edges were brown with age, warped by damp. Some of the pages were stuck together. At the back were sections to be filled out after each regular service. The lawyer had owned the car from new, by the look of things. Three years he’d been driving it, prior to the crash. Eight and a half thousand miles on the clock at the time of its last trip to the garage. The service centre’s stamp was from a dealership on Seafield Road in Edinburgh, long since relocated. There were some loose folded sheets in a clear plastic pocket attached to the inside back cover of the book, dealing with work done to the car and parts replaced. Fox unlocked the driver’s-side door, tossed the logbook on to the passenger seat, and headed towards the station. He was halfway across the car park when his phone rang. It was Bob McEwan.

‘Sir,’ Fox said by way of introduction.

‘Malcolm …’ McEwan’s tone caused Fox to slow his pace.

‘What have I done this time?’

‘I’ve had Fife on the phone – the Deputy Chief.’

‘He wants to pull us out?’

‘He wants to pull
you
out.’ Fox stopped walking. ‘Kaye and Naysmith can keep doing their interviews and prepare their report.’

‘But Bob—’

‘CID called his office, apparently furious with you.’

‘Because I told them their job?’

‘Because you went barging into a potential crime scene. Because instead of leaving when told, you found somewhere else to stick your nose in …’

‘I went there to assist.’

McEwan was silent for a moment. ‘Would you swear to that in court, Malcolm?’ Fox didn’t answer. ‘And would you have Joe Naysmith back you up?’

‘All right,’ Fox relented. ‘It’s a fair point.’

‘You know better than anyone – we
have
to stick to the rules.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And that’s why you’re coming home.’

‘Is that an order or a request, Bob?’

‘It’s an order.’

‘Do I get to kiss the children goodbye first?’

‘They’re not children, Malcolm. They’ll do fine without you.’

Fox was staring at the station’s back door.

‘I’ll let them know what’s happened,’ McEwan was saying. ‘You’ll be back here in an hour, yes?’

Fox switched his gaze to the sky above. The shower had passed, but another was on its way.

‘Yes,’ he told Bob McEwan. ‘I will, yes.’

When Fox walked into the Complaints office, there was a note waiting for him from Bob McEwan.

Another bloody meeting. Keep your nose clean
…

Fox noticed a couple of supermarket carrier bags sitting on the floor next to his desk. They were heavy. He lifted a box file from one and opened it. A photograph of Francis Vernal in full oratorical flow stared up at him. Below it lay a sequence of stapled sheets, some half-covered in scribbled Post-it notes. The second box file seemed to comprise more of the same. There was no covering letter. Fox phoned down to reception and quizzed the officer there.

‘Gentleman dropped them in,’ he was told.

‘Give me a description.’

There was a thoughtful pause. ‘Just a gentleman.’

‘And he gave my name?’

‘He gave your name.’

Fox ended the call and made another – to Mangold Bain. The secretary put him through to Charles Mangold.

‘I’m just heading out,’ Mangold warned him.

‘I got your little present.’

‘Good. It’s everything Alan Carter passed on to me before his death.’

‘I’m not sure what you think I can do with it …’

‘Take a look at it, maybe? Then give me your reaction. That’s as much as I can hope for. Now I really need to be on my way.’

Fox ended the call and stared at the two large boxes. Not here: Bob McEwan would have too many questions. He crossed to his boss’s desk and left a note of his own.

Knocked off early. At home if you need me. Phone the house if you’re sceptical
.

Then he drove to Oxgangs, and placed the two boxes on the table in his living room. As he came back through from the kitchen with a glass of Appletiser, he realised how similar the two scenes might eventually be – Alan Carter’s table, piled high with paperwork, and now his.

With a tightening of the mouth, he got down to business.

Alan Carter had, on the face of it, done a lot of work. He had sourced copies of the
Scotsman
for the whole of April and May 1985, really to prove only that almost no attention had been paid to the lawyer’s death. Fox found himself lost in these newspapers. There was an advert for a computer shop he remembered visiting. The advert was for an ICL personal computer with a price tag of almost four thousand pounds, this at a time when a brand-new Renault 5 – with radio/cassette thrown in – could be had for six. In the Situations Vacant column, one company was seeking security guards at seventy-five quid a week. A flat in Viewforth was on sale at offers over £35,000.

News stories flew at him: bombs in Northern Ireland; a CND demo at Loch Long; ‘Soviet Missiles Freeze Snubbed by Washington’ … There were protesters at a proposed cruise missile base in Cambridgeshire. Companies were being advised to protect ‘sensitive electronic information’ from the effects of a nuclear detonation. The Princess of Wales, on a visit to Scotland Yard, was shown the oven and bath used by serial killer Dennis Nilsen …

Alex Ferguson was the boss of Aberdeen FC, and they topped the league throughout April. Petrol was going up five pence to just over two pounds a gallon, and Princess Michael of Kent professed herself ‘shocked’ to find out that her father had been in the SS. Fox found himself reaching for his mug of tea without remembering getting up to make it. Animal-rights protests and acid-rain protests and teachers warned by their employers against wearing CND badges in the classroom. Neil Kinnock was leader of the Labour Party, and Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher was on a Middle East tour. A poll showed support for the SNP stubbornly fixed at fifteen per cent of the Scottish population. A flooded colliery was to be closed, and there were fears the Trustee Savings Bank might move its HQ south of the border.

Joe Naysmith had mentioned Hilda Murrell, and though she had died the previous year, she made it into the newspaper too. The MP Tam Dalyell was insisting she had been killed by British Intelligence, and Home Secretary Leon Brittan was to be quizzed on the matter.

Fox was surprised by how little of this he remembered. He would have been in his Highers year at Boroughmuir, confident that a university or college place awaited him. Jude had been more interested in politics than him – she’d gone out canvassing for the Labour Party one time. Fox, meanwhile, had turned his bedroom into a sanctum where he could concentrate on his Sinclair Spectrum computer, losing patience as yet another game failed to load because he couldn’t find the sweet spot on his cassette-player’s volume knob. Hearts games with his dad on a Saturday, but only if he could prove all his homework was done. He was fine with schoolwork, but never watched the news or read a paper – just
2000 AD
and the sports pages.

Francis Vernal had died on the evening of Sunday, 28 April. That night, a large chunk of the population – Fox included – had been glued to their TV sets as Dennis Taylor faced Steve Davis in the final of the World Snooker Championship. Taylor, eight frames down at one stage, had staged the fightback of his career. When he potted the final black of the final frame, to take the match 18–17, it was the first time he’d been ahead in the entire contest. For the few days afterwards, his face was all over the papers. Vernal’s death rated not a mention, until his obituary appeared, including, on one line, a misprint of his name as Vernel.

‘Couldn’t happen today,’ Fox mused out loud. No internet back then, as Naysmith had said. Rumours could be contained. Even
news
could be contained. Few enough Woodwards and Bernsteins in the Scottish media at the best of times. Fox could imagine a newspaper editor baulking at reporting details of a suicide: there was the family to consider, and maybe you’d liked the guy, respected him. What good did it do tarnishing his name by letting strangers know how he’d died?

A patriot
.

Opening the second box, Fox felt his eyebrows raise a little. Photocopies of the original police notes on the case, along with autopsy details and pictures. Someone had been into the vaults to retrieve this lot, which Alan Carter had then copied and sent to his employer. Had money changed hands, or did Carter still have friends on the force? Where did Fife Constabulary store its old case-work? In Edinburgh, they used a warehouse on an industrial estate. He checked his watch. It would take him a few hours to go through everything. He knew he should take a break. The sound of a message arriving on his phone was timely. Tony Kaye and Joe Naysmith were having a drink at Minter’s.

POETS Day, remember!

Fox smiled to himself: Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday.

It was all the invitation he needed.

19

‘I have to tell you,’ Kaye said as Fox approached the table, ‘you’re in danger of becoming a local hero in Kirkcaldy.’

‘How’s that?’ Fox asked, settling into his seat.

‘They don’t like the Murder Squad muscling in, and so far you’re the only one who’s managed to put those particular noses out of joint.’

‘Is it a murder yet?’

Kaye shook his head as he took a sip of beer. ‘Suspicious death,’ he confirmed. Joe Naysmith returned from the bar with Fox’s spiced tomato juice.

‘Thanks, Joe,’ Fox said. ‘How did you get on at the library?’

‘Eight scrapyards in Fife, six of them still going.’

‘Did you manage to call all six?’

‘Yes.’

‘Get lucky?’

‘Not exactly. One guy I spoke with reckons the job would’ve gone to Barron’s Wrecking.’

‘Can I assume that’s one of the two firms no longer in business?’

Naysmith nodded. ‘The scrapyard’s now a housing estate.’

‘And Mr Barron?’

‘That’s the good news – when he sold up, he got one of the new-builds as part of the deal.’

‘He lives on the estate?’

‘It’s not really an estate – six “executive homes”.’

‘He’s still there?’

‘I’ve not managed to speak to him yet, but I will.’

‘Good lad.’ Fox realised Kaye was giving him a look not too far removed from pity.

‘Wild goose chase,’ Kaye duly commented.

‘How about you, Tony – anything to report?’

Kaye considered his response while he swilled another mouthful of beer. Then he smacked his lips and said: ‘Not much.’ Fox waited for more, and Kaye obliged. ‘Incident room’s been set up in the main CID office, meaning Scholes and Michaelson have been shunted out.’

‘Haldane’s still off sick?’

Kaye nodded. ‘DCI Laird has decided that CID should take up residence in the interview room, leaving Joe and me homeless.’

‘Have you talked to Pitkethly about it?’

‘She wasn’t exactly sympathetic.’ Kaye paused. ‘There
is
one thing …’

‘What?’ Fox asked.

‘The surveillance,’ Kaye replied. ‘With you kicked into touch, shouldn’t you hook me up with Coco Chanel? Joe and me need to know what she’s hearing from those phone taps.’

‘I’ll check with her,’ Fox said.

Kaye nodded slowly. ‘And what about you, Foxy? Got enough to keep you busy?’

‘I’ll manage.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’ Kaye had finished his drink and was rising to fetch another. Fox shook his head, and Naysmith said he’d just have a half to top up his own pint. Once Kaye had gone to the bar, Naysmith leaned over towards Fox.

‘Do you need me for anything?’

‘Just keep doing what you’re doing.’

Naysmith nodded. ‘I was thinking about the gun,’ he added.

‘Whose gun?’

‘The one used to kill Francis Vernal.’

‘What about it?’

‘Where did it come from?’

‘I’ve been wondering that myself.’

‘How outrageous would it be if …?’

Fox finished the sentence for Naysmith: ‘It turned out to be the same gun?’ Fox considered this. ‘Pretty outrageous,’ he decided.

‘Any way to find out?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Want me to …?’

Fox shook his head. ‘You’re doing fine as it is.’

‘The car’s the other thing.’ The words were tumbling from Joe Naysmith; Fox had seldom known him so excited. Maybe the youngster was more suited to CID than Complaints. ‘I mean, it was never given a forensic check, was it? And the technology these days is way ahead of what they had back then. If we got it to a lab, who knows what they could find …’

‘Up to and including your prints on the interior,’ Fox reminded him. ‘Which would give you a few awkward questions to answer.’

This reminded Naysmith of something. ‘The stuff I got from the glove box …?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Service history.’

Naysmith looked disappointed, then perked up. ‘Am I right though – about forensics?’

Fox nodded slowly. ‘Let’s see if there’s a case first, though, eh?’

‘The internet has his widow as a prime candidate. Nice-looking woman. Bit younger than him. Came from a rich family.’ Naysmith paused. ‘Still alive?’

‘For now.’

‘Worth talking to?’

‘Maybe.’ Fox wasn’t sure Charles Mangold would like that, but all the same … Kaye was returning with the drinks. Naysmith moved back to his original position.

‘Look at the pair of you,’ Kaye chided them. ‘Like kids plotting something and not wanting the grown-ups to know.’ He placed the fresh glasses on the table. ‘What do you reckon – should we make a night of it, it being Friday?’

‘I’m heading back,’ Fox demurred.

‘Me too,’ Naysmith added.

Kaye sighed, shook his head more in sorrow than in anger, and lifted the pint to his mouth. ‘Pair of sodding kids,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Off you go, then, and remember to do your homework.’

‘We will,’ Naysmith said with a smile.

‘One last thing, though,’ Kaye added with a wag of his finger. ‘Don’t bother to wait up for Daddy.’

Once home, Fox sent a text to Evelyn Mills and sat down at the table again. There was some unopened mail on the windowsill. He hadn’t opened it because it comprised a bank statement and a credit-card bill, and neither would be good news. Fees at the care home had risen twice in the past year. Fox didn’t begrudge them … Well, maybe just a bit. More than once he’d considered asking Jude if she couldn’t look after their dad. It wasn’t as if she had a job. He could pay her, make it worth her while, and he’d still be better off. He wasn’t sure why he kept chickening out. Plenty of hints for her to take … or she could always make the offer herself. Instead, she just nagged at him and said she’d be happy to pay her share if she ever had the money.

You could always take him in
…

‘So could you, Malcolm,’ he said to himself. Pay a home help to do a lunchtime meal and a bit of cleaning. It would be manageable. Just about manageable. Not really, though. No, Fox couldn’t imagine it. He was too set in his ways, liked things just so. It wouldn’t work …

It was almost a relief when his phone rang. He answered: it was Mills.

‘Why a text rather than calling me yourself?’ she immediately asked. ‘Are you cheap or what?’

‘I just thought …’ He paused for a second. ‘Doesn’t it look suspicious, me phoning you of an evening?’

She snorted. ‘I get calls all the time – Freddie’s used to it.’ Freddie: her husband, presumably. ‘A mysterious text, on the other hand …’

‘I should have thought of that.’

‘Anyway, I’m here now, so what can I do for you?’

‘Wondered how the surveillance is going.’

‘Nothing to report.’ She paused. ‘Who
do
I report to anyway?’

‘You’ve heard, then?’

‘DI Cash can be like that.’

‘You know him?’

‘By reputation.’

‘Tell me he’s on your radar.’

She gave a little laugh. ‘He’s never crossed the line, Malcolm – not yet, at any rate.’

‘Pity.’ Fox rubbed a hand across his forehead. ‘To answer your question, I suppose Tony Kaye is your contact now. Let me give you his number.’ He did so, then asked if it was okay to give Kaye her name and number.

‘Sure,’ she said.

‘How’s the Alan Carter inquiry shaping up?’

‘Slow going. Kirkcaldy hasn’t exactly thrown a welcome party.’

‘Evelyn … I need to ask you another favour.’

‘You want me to put in a word? See if they’ll let you back?’

‘Not that, no. But I’m interested in the gun.’

‘Oh?’

‘So I’m wondering if I can talk to someone about it.’

‘And you want me to arrange it? You don’t ask much, do you, Malcolm?’

‘I’m sorry. A name and maybe a contact number – that’s all.’

‘And what do I get in return?’ She sounded almost coquettish. Fox stared at the paperwork in front of him.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just my little joke.’ She laughed again. ‘You needn’t sound so scared.’

‘It’s not that, Evelyn.’

‘What then?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Did you really have that bad a time at Tulliallan?’

‘I had a great time at Tulliallan.’

‘Mmm, I wish I could remember more of it.’ She paused, as if waiting for him to say something. When he didn’t, she said she would text him if she got anywhere with the gun.

‘Thanks again.’

‘Can you tell me
why
you’re so interested in it, though?’

‘Not really, no.’ He paused. ‘It might be nothing.’

‘Need to let that brain of yours ease off. I can hear it working from here. Take the weekend off, Inspector. Let your hair down.’

‘You’re probably right.’ He managed a smile. ‘Good night, Evelyn.’

‘Sweet dreams, Malcolm. Do you still snore …?’

His mouth was hanging open, wondering how to answer, but she had already ended the call.