The Impossible Dead (24 page)

‘I should visit Mitch.’

‘Except
that’s
not exactly a night off, is it? Bound to be a Jason Statham playing somewhere.’

‘Lots of explosions and cars getting wrecked? Those’ll help me feel the benefit, will they?’

‘Don’t just sit there stewing – that’s all I’m saying.’

Fox thanked Kaye and ended the call. He didn’t fancy going out for dinner, not on his own again. He looked online and saw that the Filmhouse was showing
The Maltese Falcon
. For five minutes, he told himself he would go.

Then he drove to Lauder Lodge to see his father instead.

Mitch was drowsy. There was whisky on his breath, and though seated in his chair, he was already in his pyjamas. Fox checked his watch: it wasn’t even eight o’clock. He sat opposite his father for over an hour, sifting through the photographs from the shoebox, concentrating on cousin Chris, Jude as a toddler, and Fox’s own mother. He would glance at his sleeping father from time to time, the mouth slightly open, chest rising and falling.

We played football, you and me: you wanted me to be a goalie – less chance of an injury, you said. And you sat with me night after night as I tried learning my times tables. You laughed at bad TV sitcoms and shouted at refereeing mistakes, as if they could hear you from behind the glass screen. On Remembrance Sunday you stood to attention for the minute’s silence. You were never much good in the kitchen, but always made Mum a cup of tea before bed. She wanted two sugars but you only ever added one, telling her she was sweet enough already
.

And look – there’s Jude on a donkey at Blackpool beach. You’re walking beside her, making sure she’s safe. You’ve rolled the legs of your trousers up, a concession to the sunshine. You saved all year for the summer holiday, a little bit out of each week’s pay packet
.

Are you happy with the way we’ve turned out?

Will you ever stop worrying about us?

So many of the photographs showed faces Fox didn’t know, none of them still alive. Moments in time captured but also flattened. You could see the beach, but not feel its salty heat. You could study the smiles and the eyes above those smiles, but not see beyond them to the hopes and fears, ambitions and betrayals.

When a member of staff opened the door, it took Fox a moment to realise anyone was there.

‘We should be getting your father into bed,’ she said.

Fox nodded his agreement. ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ he said quietly.

But she shook her head. ‘Regulations,’ she explained. ‘Got to stick to the script, or they’ll have my head on a block.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Fox replied, starting to put the photographs away.

On his way home, he stopped at a fish-and-chip shop and bought a haggis supper. While he waited for a fresh batch of chips, he stood at the counter and stared at the TV. The Scottish news was on: the press conference from earlier. Flashes going off and the Chief Constable, Alison Pears, reading from a prepared statement, taking a couple of questions afterwards. She had tidied her hair and was wearing regulation uniform. She seemed to speak calmly and authoritatively, though he couldn’t hear any of it above the sizzle of the deep-fat fryer. The report cut to the car park at Kippen and the same reporter Fox had seen earlier.
Live from the scene
, according to the on-screen banner. There were fewer vehicles now that night had fallen, and no barking dog to mess things up. The reporter held one of those big fluffy microphones in front of him. It was starting to drizzle, rainwater dotting the camera lens. The reporter was trying to look both knowledgeable and interested, but Fox could sense fatigue in his unblinking gaze. He seemed to get a question in his earpiece and nodded before starting to answer. The director cut to a blurry photo of the bomb crater. It looked to have been taken with a mobile phone, presumably snapped by a member of the public before the area could be cordoned off. A second picture followed, this time showing a close-up of one of the trees with the metal shards embedded there.

‘Bloody hellish thing,’ the proprietor of the chip shop said. He sounded Polish to Fox, but it could have been Bosnian, Romanian – just about anywhere really. Fox was not exactly an expert. On another night, he might have asked, just out of curiosity.

But not tonight.

Back home, he ate on the sofa, and caught the press conference again. When it cut to the studio, the presenter had some news.

‘Police confirmed just a short time ago that they are working on a definite line of inquiry. And we’ll keep you up to date as that story progresses. Now all the latest sport with Angela …’

Fox must have dozed off at some point, because he woke up stretched along the sofa with his shoes still on and the half-empty plate resting on his chest. The food was cold and unappetising. He could smell sauce on his fingers, and went to the kitchen to dump the remnants of the meal into the pedal bin and wash his hands in the sink. He returned to the sofa with a mug of tea and found himself face to face with Chief Constable Pears again. They had gone to her live as she stood on what he guessed were the steps of Central Scotland Force HQ – presumably in Stirling itself. She had to push the hair out of her face as the wind gusted around her. She had no statement this time, but still sounded coolly professional. Fox was blinking the sleep out of his eyes. When she stopped speaking and listened to a journalist’s question, she jutted her chin out a little. Fox tried to think who it was she reminded him of – Jude maybe; the jutting chin denoting concentration. But it wasn’t Jude.

It was a photograph.

Fox hauled his laptop on to the sofa and punched her name into the search engine.

Alison Pears was one of only two female Chief Constables in Scotland. She was married to the financier Stephen Pears. Fox knew that name. Pears was in the papers a lot, pulling off deals and seemingly keeping the straitened financial sector afloat in Scotland. He found photos of the couple – had to admit, the Chief Constable scrubbed up well, and filled a little black dress with easy glamour. On the TV, however, she was fighting the elements and dressed in the same uniform as before. The rain was coming at her near-horizontally. The ticker tape along the bottom of the screen read:
Three arrests in bomb scare
.

‘Fast work,’ Fox said, toasting her with his mug.

Then he got to work himself, finding as much of her curriculum vitae as he could, while failing to locate any historical photos of her. Nevertheless, he was fairly sure.

Very fairly sure.

In 1985 she’d been a recent graduate of the Scottish Police College at Tulliallan. Not Pears back then – she was yet to meet her husband and take his name.

Alison Watson, born in Fraserburgh in 1962. Not such a jump, really, from Alison Watson to Alice Watts. He reached for the photo in Professor Martin’s book, and the two matriculation snaps. There was the slightly jutting chin. It was evident in some of the online photos, too – at a film premiere, an awards dinner, a graduation ceremony, hand in hand with her husband. Stephen Pears glowed. Did the tan come from skiing or a salon? The hair was immaculately clipped, the teeth shiny, a chunky watch on one wrist. He was stocky, his face fattened by success. Twelve years since they’d first met, married for ten of those.

‘Quite the pair, Mr and Mrs Pears,’ Fox muttered to himself. But she was even better connected than that, because her brother Andrew was a Member of the Scottish Parliament. He was part of the SNP government: Andrew Watson, Minister for Justice.

Minister for Justice
…

Fox pushed the computer aside and slumped back against the sofa, head arched towards the ceiling.

What the hell do I do with this? he asked himself.

And what exactly did it mean?

Eleven

34

‘Bloody hell, Foxy, did you get any sleep at all last night?’

‘Not much,’ Fox admitted, as Kaye dragged out a chair and sat down across from him. It was just after nine in the morning, and the Police HQ cafeteria was doing a roaring trade in breakfast rolls and frothy cappuccinos. Fox had a half-drunk cup of tea in front of him, alongside an apple he had yet to start. Kaye’s tray held a mug of coffee and a Tunnock’s caramel wafer.

‘Good dinner last night?’ Fox asked.

‘Cost enough,’ Kaye grumbled. ‘Did you go out like I told you to?’

Fox nodded slowly.

‘Whatever film you saw,’ Kaye commented, ‘looks like it was downer enough for both of us.’ He took a slurp of coffee, leaving a white milky mark on his top lip, and peeled the wrapper from the biscuit.

Fox started at the beginning – more or less. First sighting of Alison Pears in the flesh, then on TV. And then the connection and his findings and theories.

‘Her photo’s on page one of
Metro
today,’ Kaye said, picking bits of caramel from between his teeth. ‘Three home-grown terror suspects in custody.’

‘Her brother was on the box this morning too,’ Fox added. He had watched from his sofa, having spent much of the night there, some of it busy at the laptop. Andrew Watson: four years younger than his sister; short red hair, steel-framed glasses, a pudgy face with some traces of acne.
Peely-wally
, Mitch Fox would have said.

‘He’s only Justice Minister because everyone before him either screwed up or fell out with the “Great Chieftain”.’ By which, Fox knew, Tony Kaye meant the First Minister.

‘Handy to have him on your side, though, if you’re a Chief Constable …’

Kaye managed a rueful smile. ‘You’re really going to stand up and accuse her of being a terrorist?’

‘No.’

‘What then?’

‘A spy.’

Kaye stared at him. ‘A spy?’ he repeated.

‘Infiltrating Dark Harvest Commando and God knows who else.’

‘And shagging Francis Vernal into the bargain?’ Kaye took a deep breath. ‘If that ever got out …’

‘Wouldn’t do her reputation any good,’ Fox confirmed.

‘So you’ll be having a
quiet
word with her?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Rather you than me. She’s suddenly the face of equality in the police – glass ceiling shattered; nobody’s going to want
that
to change.’

‘No,’ Fox agreed.

‘Bloody hell – look what the cat dragged in!’ Kaye smiled as Joe Naysmith trudged his way towards the table, nothing in his hand but a can of some super-caffeinated energy drink. Naysmith’s eyes were bleary, and he had skipped a shave.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he commented, sitting down next to Kaye.

‘She’s too much woman for you, young Joseph,’ Kaye persisted. ‘Maybe I should take her in hand.’

Naysmith gulped at his drink, eyes squeezed shut. When he opened them, he looked from Kaye to Fox and then back again. ‘Something I should know?’ he asked.

Fox gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head in Tony Kaye’s direction.

‘Man talk, Joe,’ Kaye went on to explain. ‘Nothing for you to worry your little head about.’

‘How’s DC Forrester?’ Fox asked.

‘She’s fine.’

‘Any word on Paul Carter?’

Naysmith thought for a second, then nodded. ‘Another witness,’ he decided to confide. ‘Saw a man walking along the high street some time after midnight. A man with shoes that squelched.’

Fox frowned. ‘Not Carter?’

‘This guy was bald. Shaved head, anyway. But he’d definitely been in some water, according to the witness. Worried look on his face. Might have had a tattoo on his neck.’ Naysmith paused, eyes on Kaye. ‘The side of his neck.’

‘Who is it?’ Fox asked.

Kaye rubbed a hand down his face. ‘Sounds like someone I know,’ he conceded.

‘Who, though?’

‘Tosh Garioch,’ Kaye answered. ‘Billie’s boyfriend.’

Naysmith was nodding. ‘Might not be, of course – but it fits the description you gave me after you interviewed him.’

‘Garioch’s the doorman?’ Fox checked. ‘The one who worked for Alan Carter’s firm?’

‘That’s him,’ Kaye confirmed. ‘Big tattoo of a thistle creeping up his neck. Shaved head. Criminal record.’ He turned his attention back to Naysmith. ‘Did you let on to Forrester?’

Naysmith shook his head. Kaye and Fox shared a look.

‘Decisions, decisions,’ Kaye commented. ‘But I like our choices better than yours, Foxy …’

Stirling.

There were armed officers and security checks outside Central Scotland Police Force HQ, keeping the media at bay and on the lookout for terrorist sympathisers and demonstrators.

Inside the main building, the Alert Status had been raised to CRITICAL. In all his years as an officer, Fox had never seen that before. After CRITICAL, there was nowhere else to go.

Fox had been seated in reception for over half an hour. Around him there was a real buzz of anticipation. He got the distinct feeling this wasn’t normally the case. Somewhere in the vicinity, the three suspects were being questioned. Outside, the TV broadcast vans had set up camp on the main road. Print journalists clustered in each other’s cars. Foragers had been sent out, returning with pies and bridies, hot drinks and crisps. On his way in, Fox had spotted the news reporter from the previous day. He looked exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure and was rubbing his hands together to keep warm, an as-yet-unneeded earpiece draped over one shoulder. A couple of uniformed officers in visored riot helmets, body armour strapped across their chests, had been placed at the entrance to the car park and were being filmed by cameramen who lacked anything more interesting to fill the time.

Fox’s request to the woman behind the reception desk had been clear and succinct. ‘Need a word with the Chief Constable. My name’s Fox. Professional Standards Unit, Lothian and Borders Police.’ The woman had studied his warrant card.

‘You know she’s kind of busy?’ she had asked, voice heavy with sarcasm.

‘Aren’t we all?’ he had retorted. The look on her face told him he wasn’t making a new friend.

‘Take a seat, Inspector.’

‘Thank you.’

After five minutes, he’d walked up to the desk again, only to be told she hadn’t managed to get through to ‘the Chief’.

A further ten minutes: same story.

He’d been busying himself with his phone: checking for news and e-mails; deleting old messages … and watching the hubbub around him.

Twenty minutes: a shake of the head from the receptionist.

Same thing at the half-hour mark.

And then the journalists had arrived, camera crews in tow. They had to be allocated visitor passes and shown where the news conference was happening. Fox decided to queue up with them. The receptionist gave him a questioning look.

‘Thought it might pass the time,’ he explained. So he too filled in his details and was handed a pass and a laminate sleeve with a clip on the back. He fixed it to his jacket and followed the herd.

The large conference room was bursting at the seams. Fox realised there was some sort of unspoken arrangement, whereby the most senior journalists were saved seats at the front. His own TV reporter was there, next to the aisle. Chairs had been laid out in rows. Some looked to have been requisitioned from the canteen, others from offices. A young woman in plain clothes was handing out a press release. People got busy on their phones, texting the salient points to their newsrooms and studios. She gave Fox a look that told him she knew most of the media representatives but not him. He just smiled and relieved her of another copy of the release.

Three arrests, no charges as yet.

If needed, extra time in custody would be sought under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.

Material found at the scene was being examined.

Fox was still reading when the Chief Constable brushed past him and made her way down the aisle towards a table festooned with microphones. The cameras got busy and the audience switched their phones to ‘record’ mode. Alison Pears was flanked by her Deputy Chief Constable and a DCI who had nominally been put in charge of the case. She cleared her throat and began to read from a prepared statement. Fox could smell her perfume. It lingered where she had pushed past him. Tony Kaye would be able to place it, but Fox couldn’t. He felt a hand touch his forearm. Turning, he saw DCI Jackson standing in the doorway. Jackson’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing. The unspoken question was clear.

What the hell are you doing here?

Fox gave him a wink and turned to concentrate on Pears’s closing remarks. There were questions from the seats. Again Fox saw a hierarchy at work: if a hand went up from the front row, Pears would go there first. She had been well briefed: knew what would be asked and had her answers ready.

Were the suspects local?

What nationality?

Did anything tie them to the blasts near Lockerbie and Peebles?

Pears gave away precious little, but did so while appearing open and friendly. Once or twice she batted a question to the DCI, who was gruffer and less gifted but also knew what to say and what not to say. Jackson was tugging at Fox’s arm again, gesturing towards the corridor, but Fox shook his head. As the press conference broke up, Pears led her small delegation back towards the door, fending off a slew of questions with a pleasant smile and a wave of the hand.

She wasn’t looking at Fox as she made to pass him, but he stepped in front of her.

‘Care to make a statement about Francis Vernal?’ he asked.

Her eyes drilled into him, face frozen.

‘Who?’

‘Nice try, Alice,’ he responded. The DCI placed a hand on Fox’s chest, clearing the route. Fox took a step back, apologising to the cub reporter whose toes he managed to squash. Pears was out of the room, stalking down the corridor. Jackson had caught up with her, but she was saying something to her own DCI. He peeled off and approached Fox, handing him a card.

‘Put your mobile number on there,’ he growled.

‘I’ve already been waiting a while.’

‘She’ll get back to you.’

Fox scribbled down his number and the DCI snatched the card back. As the man left, it seemed to be Jackson’s turn.

‘What are you trying to do?’ he muttered, his mouth close to Fox’s ear so no one else could hear.

‘You’ve got your case, I’ve got mine.’

‘You’re the Complaints, not some fucking Simon Schama.’

‘History seems to have a funny way of repeating itself.’

Jackson glowered at him. The journalists were comparing notes, or on their phones, or preparing themselves for their pieces to camera. But they kept glancing over towards the two men, too, recognising at least one of them from the site of the Kippen explosion.

‘Leave it be,’ Jackson urged in a fierce undertone.

‘I need some time with her.’

‘Why?’

Fox shook his head slowly. ‘Maybe afterwards,’ he offered.

‘You’re a bastard, Fox. Really and truly.’

‘Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘Trust me, it’s not meant as one, not in the slightest.’

Jackson turned and headed back down the corridor. The young woman who had handed out the press releases was ushering everyone from the room. She had been joined by an assistant, ensuring that no one wandered off on their own.

‘Linda says she’s not seen you before,’ the assistant informed Fox.

‘Temporary assignment,’ he explained.

‘Me too. I’m usually Community Liaison.’ She looked around her. ‘Makes a change, I suppose.’

Fox nodded his agreement, and followed everyone else back to reception.

Alison Pears had his number; all he could do was wait. He drove into Stirling, and started seeing signs pointing him towards the Wallace Monument. He could see it in the distance, a single Gothic-looking tower atop a hill. He tried to remember what he knew about Wallace. Like every other Scot, he’d watched
Braveheart
, won over by it. Stirling Bridge was the battle Wallace had won against the English invaders. Having no other plan, Fox kept following the signposts, eventually turning into a car park. A couple of single-decker buses sat idling, awaiting the return of their tour parties. Fox got out of the Volvo and wandered into the Legends café. He was recalling more snippets of information about Wallace, mostly about his life’s excruciating end. There was an information desk, and the woman behind it told him it cost £7.75 to visit the monument.

‘Seven seventy-five?’ he queried.

‘There’s an audiovisual presentation – and Wallace’s sword.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Well, you can climb to the top of the tower.’

‘The hill looks pretty steep.’

‘There’s a free bus to the top.’

‘Free if I pay seven seventy-five?’ Fox pretended to be thinking about it. ‘Is the statue still there? The one that looks like Mel Gibson?’

‘It’s been moved to Brechin,’ she replied, a little coolness entering her voice.

Fox smiled to let her know he wasn’t going to become a customer. Instead, he saved five pounds by settling for peppermint tea in Legends, where he had a good view of the hillside and the memorial above it. Wallace was reckoned a patriot: could the same really be said of Francis Vernal? Had he been
justified
– that word MacIver had wanted to debate – in his stance and his actions? And what would either of them make of the Scotland where Fox found himself: was this the same country they had fought for and lost their lives for? There were visitors in the shop next to the reception desk. They were debating the purchase of beach towels made to look like kilts. Theirs was probably a romantic Scotland of glens and castles, Speyside malts and eightsome reels. Other Scotlands were available if you cared to check, and at least as many people these days favoured looking forward to the longing glance back at the nation left behind. The tables around him were filling up. He didn’t bother pouring a second cup from the teapot. As he was returning to his car, his phone rang. But it wasn’t Alison Pears.

‘Mr Fox? This is the nurse at Lauder Lodge. I’m afraid your father’s been taken ill.’