The Impossible Dead (17 page)

Eight

26

Fox woke up early and went to see his father. There was a bench in the garden of Lauder Lodge, and Mitch fancied sitting there, so Fox got him wrapped up, and one of the staff provided a travel rug for his legs. But Mitch drew the line at a hat and scarf.

‘Any more swaddling and I’ll be fit for a pharaoh’s tomb.’

The garden’s high walls gave protection from the North Sea’s gusts. The gardener looked like he’d be checking in as a guest some time soon. He nodded a greeting, then carried on with his work.

‘I was never one for gardening,’ Mitch told his son.

‘Mum had the green fingers,’ Fox agreed.

‘If I’d had my way, I’d have turned the whole lot into a patio.’

‘Remember that time I was hanging from the clothes-rope? It snapped and I bounced off the nearest flagstone.’

‘Your mum phoned me from the hospital. Three stitches, was it?’

Fox rubbed at the crown of his head. ‘Five,’ he corrected his father.

Mitch smiled. ‘Know what your mum said when she called? She told me she’d have a job getting the blood out.’

Fox remembered: a striped bath towel wrapped around his head to staunch the wound. He hadn’t seen it again afterwards.

Mitch watched as his son tried stifling a yawn. ‘Late night?’

‘A bit.’

‘Business or pleasure?’

‘Take a guess.’

‘Work’s all well and good, Malcolm, but there’s got to be more to life. Still, it explains why I haven’t seen you in a few days.’

‘Jude’s been visiting, though?’

‘Saturday and Sunday – your absence was noted.’

‘I was busy.’

‘Not just avoiding us, then?’

‘No.’ Fox shifted on the bench. ‘We always seem to end up fighting, though.’

‘You and your sister?’ Mitch nodded slowly. ‘I think she’s annoyed that the money for this place is coming out of your pocket.’

‘I don’t begrudge it.’

‘They’ve hiked the fees again, though, haven’t they?’

‘It’s not an issue.’

‘Maybe Jude thinks it is.’

Fox offered nothing more than a shrug.

‘How’s Fife?’ Mitch asked after a lull.

‘I was in St Andrews.’

‘Went to a caravan there once – when your mum and me were winching. Had to make sure her dad never found out.’ Mitch looked at his son. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘I just don’t hear people say “winching” these days.’

‘What do they say?’

‘Dating, I suppose.’ Fox paused. ‘Did we ever go to St Andrews? As a family, I mean.’

‘Maybe for a day … Do you think you remember it?’

Fox shook his head. ‘I just seem to have forgotten quite a lot.’

‘Join the bloody club – I remember that the caravan was pale green, but I couldn’t tell you what I had for dinner last night.’ Mitch watched his son try to swallow back another yawn.

‘I’ve got pills in the bathroom – you should sneak a few out with you.’

‘I might do that,’ Fox said, only half-joking.

‘Jude was looking through the shoebox again. I don’t know if it’s for my benefit or hers.’

‘Both, maybe.’

‘Plenty memories in there. No photos of the caravan, though.’ He paused. ‘We had some good holidays. Could be that’s what Jude’s looking for – times when you and her were a team.’

‘We’re still a team: she visits; I pay the bills.’

‘There are other places I could go, you know – places cheaper than this must be. It’s no wonder you can’t afford a new shirt or tie.’

Fox peered down towards his chest. ‘What’s wrong with my shirt and tie?’

‘You were wearing them last time you were here.’

‘Was I? I don’t remember.’

His father gave a sudden smile and slapped him on the knee. ‘No, me neither – I’m just winding you up.’

‘Thanks for that.’

‘You’re more than welcome.’

They were still smiling when the tea tray arrived.

‘By the way,’ Mitch said, ‘I’m sorry about the other day – teasing you in front of Sandy.’

‘Is that what it was: teasing?’

‘I could see you were hurt. But we both know you’re good at your job.’

‘That’s not what you were saying, though. You were wondering whether I’m cut out for life outside the Complaints. I’ve been asking myself the same thing.’

‘Well, I’m sorry I said it anyway.’

‘Don’t worry about it – gives me a bit of ammo next time Jude tells me I’m your favourite.’

‘You are, though – you know that.’

Fox looked at his father. ‘Do you say the same to Jude when I’m not around?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Thought as much.’

When Mitch Fox started to laugh, his son couldn’t help but join in.

The three men – Fox, Kaye and Naysmith – convened at their office at HQ. While Naysmith made coffee for all of them, stifling yawns of his own and needing a shave, Kaye told Fox about his meeting with Teresa Collins.

‘Thing is,’ he concluded, ‘if Alan Carter
did
get her to testify against his nephew, we’re stuck with the nephew as prime suspect in the murder.’

‘And it
is
murder now,’ Naysmith confirmed. ‘Fiscal’s office gave the Murder Squad the nod.’

‘When did you hear that?’ Kaye asked.

Naysmith hesitated. ‘Last night,’ he eventually admitted.

‘Who’s your source, Joe?’ Kaye gave a wolfish smile. ‘Certain young lady in CID? Keep you out late, did she?’

Naysmith kept his back to his colleagues as he finished making the drinks.

‘Billie and Bekkah only knew Alan Carter through Billie’s boyfriend, right?’ Fox asked Kaye.

‘Tosh Garioch,’ Kaye confirmed. ‘Do I talk to him next?’

‘Can’t do any harm.’

‘Any reason to suppose he’d grass up his boss?’

Fox offered a shrug and took the proffered mug from Naysmith. Accepting his own drink, Kaye made a little kissing sound. Naysmith scowled, but refused to meet his eyes.

‘Joe,’ Fox said, ‘got anything on Gavin Willis for me?’

‘Not exactly.’ Naysmith eased himself on to his desk, letting his legs hang over the side and placing his coffee next to him. ‘Best I could do is a number for Superintendent Hendryson. He lives in Portugal. There’s an address, too …’ He brandished a page torn from a notebook.

‘And all it cost him was his virtue,’ Tony Kaye offered.

‘By the way,’ Naysmith added, ignoring Kaye, ‘Mark Haldane’s back from sick leave – effective as from this morning.’

‘That means the two of you can have a proper word with him,’ Fox said. He had risen from his chair and taken the phone number from Naysmith. ‘Portugal, eh?’ he commented as he looked at it.

‘Portugal,’ Joe Naysmith confirmed.

‘And you got this from Cheryl Forrester?’

‘Yes.’

‘Careful there, Joe.’

‘No fraternising with the enemy,’ Kaye added teasingly.

‘She’s not the enemy.’ Naysmith couldn’t help sounding defensive.

‘Maybe not now,’ Fox cautioned. ‘But all the same …’

Bob McEwan arrived just as Kaye and Naysmith were leaving. ‘Off to Fife?’ he guessed.

Kaye gestured in Fox’s direction. ‘How soon till we get our pal back?’

‘Not my decision. How near are you to being able to make a comprehensive report?’

‘Nobody’s admitting anything,’ Kaye told him.

McEwan’s focus moved to Naysmith. ‘Is that true, Joe?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You don’t sound too sure.’

‘Nobody’s admitting anything,’ Naysmith echoed. ‘And the tap hasn’t—’ He stopped abruptly, winded by Kaye’s elbow finding his kidneys.

‘What tap?’ McEwan asked quietly.

‘We’re about to lift it, Bob,’ Fox explained, walking towards his boss.

‘I didn’t authorise any surveillance.’

‘It was a Fife call,’ Fox stated.

‘I should still have been told.’

‘Sorry about that.’

McEwan stabbed a finger towards Fox. ‘I don’t like this, Malcolm.’

‘Yes, sir.’

McEwan stared at him hard, then turned his attention back to Kaye and Naysmith. ‘Off you go, then.’

Kaye didn’t need telling twice, steering Naysmith out of the door ahead of him.

‘What’s going on, Malcolm?’ McEwan asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Who’s under surveillance?’

‘Scholes,’ Fox admitted. ‘But with Paul Carter a murder suspect, we’re pulling it.’

‘This is a simple enough procedure: three interviews, three reports.’

‘These things have a way of growing, Bob – you know that yourself.’

There was a finger pointing at Fox again. ‘A simple enough procedure,’ McEwan repeated, laying equal stress on each word. ‘If that has somehow changed, I need to know the why and the what – understood?’

‘Understood, sir.’

Fox knew he had only to bide his time. The two men settled at their desks and worked in silence. When Fox got up to make more coffee, McEwan refused his offer, which told Fox that he was still in the bad books. Forty-five minutes later, McEwan checked his watch and sighed, making to rise from his chair.

Another planning meeting.

‘Got enough to keep you busy?’ McEwan asked.

‘Always,’ Fox replied.

McEwan found the paperwork, but then had to come back because he’d left his phone charging beside one of the sockets. When he’d left for a second time, Fox got up and went to the doorway, checking that the corridor was empty. He closed the door and returned to his desk, picking up the phone and placing a call to Portugal. When a woman answered, he told her he wanted to speak to Mr Hendryson.

‘Is that you, Andrew?’

‘My name’s Fox – I’m phoning from Edinburgh.’

‘Just a minute, then,’ she trilled. He could hear her placing the phone on a solid surface and then calling out for her husband.

‘Rab! You’ve a call from the old country!’

It was a few moments before anything happened. Fox was trying to visualise the scene: a view of a mirror-flat blue bay, perhaps. Wooden decking with recliner chairs. The retired superintendent in flip-flops and baggy shorts. Maybe there was a golf course nearby, and an ex-pat golfing buddy called Andrew whose voice sounded a bit like Fox’s …

‘Robert Hendryson,’ a voice said as the phone was picked up again.

‘Mr Hendryson, my name’s Malcolm Fox – I’m an Inspector at Lothian and Borders Police.’

‘I know who you are.’

‘Oh?’

‘Pitkethly told me.’

‘Did she now?’

‘She used to call me a lot when she first took over. Finding her feet, but not always able to locate the key to a cupboard or some requisition form.’

‘And she’s still in touch?’

‘She wanted to let me know about Alan Carter.’

‘You knew him, then?’

‘A little. He was CID and I wasn’t – you’ll know yourself there’s a tribalism there. Plus Alan was retired before I took over at Kirkcaldy.’

‘So what did Superintendent Pitkethly tell you?’

‘Just that the Complaints were in town, led by someone called Fox. All that business about Paul Carter …’

‘You’d have known him better than his uncle,’ Fox stated.

‘Paul could be a handful, Inspector. But he got results – and I never heard a bad word about him until I was nearly retired.’

‘But when the allegation was made, did you ever doubt his innocence?’

‘Innocent until proven guilty,’ Hendryson recited. Then: ‘Is that what this is about?’ He considered for a moment, and answered his own question. ‘Of course it is. You want to know if CID really did cover up for Paul. Maybe you think it went beyond CID – the whole station, eh?’

‘Not at all, sir.’

‘I don’t need to speak to you, you know.’ The voice was growing irritated. ‘I can put the phone down right now.’

Fox waited for Hendryson to draw breath. When he did, Fox uttered a name and waited again.

‘What?’ Hendryson said, bemused by the switch.

‘Gavin Willis,’ Fox repeated. ‘I was wondering what you could tell me about him. Nothing to be afraid of – he’s been dead for years.’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Simple curiosity. Alan Carter is dead, and the two of them seem to have been very close.’

‘What has any of that got to do with the Complaints?’

‘It’s a fair question, sir. Paul Carter’s looking a likely candidate for his uncle’s murder. I happen to be in a minority – I don’t think he did it. So I’m trying to build up a picture of Alan Carter’s life, hoping it might help me understand why he died.’

Hendryson spent some time mulling this over. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, ‘I can see that. The thing is, I barely knew the man, and never as a serving officer.’

‘How, then?’

‘There were get-togethers sometimes – reunions, I suppose you’d say, though it might just be a few drinks one night after work.’

‘What was he like?’

‘A big, no-nonsense guy – the sort of cop we used to treasure. Knew everyone in the town, and if something happened he’d have a pretty good instinct who was to blame. Graffiti on a wall or a stone through a window … more likely than not, justice would be dispensed on the spot.’

Fox thought of a phrase Alan Carter had used:
the backlands, where things tend to get fixed on the quiet
… ‘A slap around the ear?’ he guessed.

‘As and when needed – and no bleeding-heart liberals to cry foul. We’d be better off if that was still the case.’

‘Is that why you emigrated?’

‘Wife wanted a bit of sun on her face,’ Hendryson explained. ‘But you have to admit, policing’s got a lot harder.’

‘We’re more accountable,’ Fox countered.

‘Being the Complaints, you’d think that a good thing, of course.’

Fox didn’t want to get into an argument, so instead he asked how close Willis had been to Alan Carter.

‘Like teacher and star pupil. From the minute Alan joined CID, Gavin was there to see him right.’

‘Did they work together on the Francis Vernal case?’

Hendryson took a moment to place the name. ‘The lawyer? Smashed his car and topped himself?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘What case are we talking about?’

‘I just meant the crash site … collecting evidence and what have you.’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Did you know anything about the deceased’s car?’

‘What is there to know?’

‘Willis seems to have salvaged it from the scrapyard. It’s been sitting in his garage all these years.’