The Impossible Dead (30 page)

‘I was in some woods a few days back,’ Fox began, settling himself on the sofa again. ‘It took me back to the Hermitage and the walks we used to take. That was in the days when you still preferred me to other boys.’

‘I
never
preferred you to other boys,’ Jude teased.

Fox smiled and they continued chatting. He had the TV remote in his hand and flicked through the available channels. Late-night shopping, astrology, phone-in quizzes. There was news, but he didn’t linger on it. He settled on a comedy channel instead. An old episode of
MASH
was just starting. Hawkeye and Trapper John and Hot Lips and Radar. The actor Alan Alda played Hawkeye, all floppy fringe, loping walk and wisecracks. Jude was talking about a den they’d made one time at a secret spot in the Hermitage. But Fox wasn’t sitting so comfortably now. His grip had tightened on the remote. He pretended to yawn, apologising to his sister.

‘I should let you sleep,’ she told him.

‘I’m really enjoying talking, but I can hardly keep my eyes open.’

‘Tomorrow at the hospital?’

‘What time do you think you’ll be there?’ he asked.

‘After breakfast. You?’

‘Later, probably.’

‘Things to do?’ she guessed.

‘Night, sis.’

‘Night, bro.’

Fox ended the call and wandered into the kitchen, boiling the kettle and making himself some strong tea. On another night, he might have spent time reflecting on the thawing in his relationship with his sister – but that would have to wait. He took the mug back through to the living room and tried using his mobile phone to access the internet. It was hopeless, though – slow, and the screen too small. After peering at it for a while, he decided he needed to go to Fettes and use one of the computers in the Complaints office. As he was readying to leave, his phone trilled. According to the display, it was Evelyn Mills. He let it keep ringing. Two minutes later there was a text:
Need someone to talk to
. He stared at the message, undecided. He had his jacket on, car key in his free hand. The phone went again and he answered.

‘Evelyn?’

But it was a man’s voice. ‘Whoever you are, just bugger off. She doesn’t need you.’

The line went dead. Fox stared at the handset. Her partner Freddie, presumably.

‘Fine then,’ Fox said to himself, heading for the door.

40

‘It’s Stephen Pears,’ Fox repeated.

It was just shy of five a.m. and he was seated at the breakfast bar in Tony Kaye’s kitchen. He had spent the best part of an hour trying to persuade his friend of the truth of it, the two men keeping their voices low so as not to wake Kaye’s wife. Eventually Kaye had sighed, scratched his nose and suggested food.

As the toast was placed in front of Fox, he knew he wouldn’t eat it.

‘And this is all because of a late-night repeat on the Comedy Channel?’ Kaye said, pouring more coffee.

‘Yes.’

‘See when you took that trip to Carstairs – madness isn’t catching, is it?’

‘I’ve told you – Hawkeye Pierce … Hawkeye Pears. He was on the archery team in high school. It was the obvious nickname for him. After university he’s supposed to have spent a couple of years “drifting” – he’s always been vague about it. Says he did a variety of jobs all over the world and came back to Scotland with a chunk of money. First anyone heard of him in the finance sector was mid-1986, and he had almost thirty K to invest. Split it between two start-ups, and a year later he’s quadrupled his stake.’

‘And you got all this from a journalist?’

Fox nodded. ‘I drove to the
Scotsman
offices. Night shift comprised one staffer. He phoned the business editor for me.’

‘Did either of them wonder why you were interested?’

‘I told him I was the Media Unit.’

‘What Media Unit?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Putting together a press pack about Chief Constable Alison Pears …’

‘And to do that, you needed to ask the media for help?’ Kaye shook his head slowly and brushed toast crumbs from the corners of his mouth. ‘In the middle of the night?’

‘It was all I had,’ Fox reasoned. ‘And I got what I needed, didn’t I?’

‘It’s not enough. The guy in that photo looks nothing like Stephen Pears.’

‘I can ask him.’ Fox had taken the photo from his pocket, the one showing Vernal, Alice and Hawkeye. It was scuffed from so much handling.

‘What if he denies it? That’s all he’s got to do, Malcolm.’

Fox picked up his replenished mug, but put it down again without drinking. He knew his friend was right. The photo wasn’t enough. The theories weren’t enough.

Kaye swallowed some coffee and stifled a belch. ‘If it
is
him,’ he speculated, ‘the wife’s got to know.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Fox countered. ‘They met twelve years ago and have been married for ten. That makes it thirteen years since she’d laid eyes on Hawkeye. Beard gone, hair short and dyed a lighter colour, a bit heavier around the waist and the face ….’

‘She’s got to have known,’ Kaye persisted, wiping at his mouth again.

Fox didn’t say anything. He stared at the toast on his plate, with its layer of pale yellow butter. The very thought of it was making him queasy. He slid the photograph back into his pocket as Kaye spoke.

‘Even supposing – just for argument’s sake – that you’re right, it doesn’t mean you can tie Pears to anything. Are you saying he killed Francis Vernal and Alan Carter?’

‘He’d have had motive enough.’

‘Because his wife’s risen through the ranks and he doesn’t want anyone pooping her party?’

‘There’s that,’ Fox agreed. ‘Plus he’s on course for the House of Lords – a terrorist past might not sit too well with a Tory peerage. He’s a donor to the party, too.’

Kaye was staring at him. ‘You can’t go saying any of this, Malcolm. Not without at least a few shreds of evidence.’

‘I went on the internet. Pears spoke at a conference a few years back in Barbados, same time an arms dealer called William Benchley drowned in his swimming pool. Benchley had been selling guns smuggled home by soldiers from the Falklands.’

Kaye’s stare intensified. ‘Malcolm …’

Fox held up a hand. ‘I know, I know – maybe I
should
check myself into Carstairs.’ He paused. ‘But what if at least some of it is true?’

Kaye pushed his empty plate aside and lifted his coffee mug. ‘I still don’t see you’re in a position to do anything about it,’ he said.

‘Maybe not,’ Fox conceded.

‘But since it’s a night for storytelling, I can offer you one of my own.’

Fox tried hard to concentrate on Tony Kaye’s account of his meeting with Tosh Garioch.

‘So Paul Carter
was
being set up by his uncle,’ he stated at the conclusion.

‘Not exactly,’ Kaye argued. ‘Garioch says Paul did try it on with Billie and Bekkah. And Alan Carter
did
put a bit of pressure on Teresa Collins, but only
after
she made her original complaint.’

Fox was thoughtful. ‘Uncle Alan wanted to make sure the mud stuck.’

‘He really did hate his nephew, didn’t he?’

‘So why phone him that night? Phone him but not speak to him?’ Fox’s eyes were on Kaye. ‘The address book with Paul’s number in it … it was left open for anyone to find.’

‘So?’

‘Any check of calls made, and Paul’s name would pop up. But say it wasn’t Alan who did the calling …’

‘The murderer?’

Fox was nodding slowly. ‘Paul’s been found guilty but suddenly he’s not on remand any more. The judge at his trial is no friend of the police, yet he lets him out, pending sentencing.’ Fox gave a little smile.

‘What is it?’ Kaye asked.

‘Sheriff Cardonald is a member of the New Club. I saw him there that time I met with Charles Mangold.’

‘So?’

‘So Stephen Pears is a member, too.’

‘Pears gets his friend the sheriff to release Paul Carter?’

‘Paul was the perfect fall guy,’ Fox argued. ‘The court case had made it clear uncle and nephew loathed one another.’

‘But it only worked if Paul was back on the street.’ Kaye was actually sounding half-convinced.

‘It’s all conjecture,’ Fox admitted. ‘You said so yourself – where’s the proof?’

‘Don’t always need proof to flush someone out,’ Kaye stated. ‘We know that from experience.’

‘Do you still think I’m mad?’

‘Maybe not so much.’ Tony Kaye drained his coffee. ‘The thing is, though – what do you do about it?’

‘I’ll have to think about that.’

Having showered, shaved and changed his clothes, Fox was parked outside Mangold Bain at nine thirty. He watched the receptionist arrive but failed to bring her name to mind. He knew he needed sleep.

Straight after this, he promised himself.

Mangold arrived on foot. He turned his head at the sound of the car door opening.

‘Good morning, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Did we have an appointment?’

‘Just curious about something,’ Fox explained. ‘Does Colin Cardonald know Stephen Pears?’

‘Sheriff Cardonald? What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘It’s a simple enough question,’ Fox reasoned.

‘I’ve seen them together,’ Mangold conceded.

‘At the New Club?’

‘Yes.’

‘Friends, then?’

‘Colin Cardonald likes to dabble.’

‘Dabble?’

‘Stocks and shares.’

‘Handy to have someone like Pears to offer advice,’ Fox surmised.

‘I’d say so.’ Mangold paused. ‘Does this have something to do with Francis?’

‘Not at all,’ Fox lied. ‘Like I say, I was just curious.’

‘Curious enough to ambush me outside my office.’

Fox couldn’t deny it.

‘You’re close, aren’t you?’ Mangold’s voice had dropped, though there was no one nearby to overhear. He took a step towards Fox. ‘There’s a sort of fever in your eyes.’

‘She won’t like it, you know,’ Fox responded.

‘Who?’

‘The widow. If I’m right, and it becomes public knowledge, she’ll blame you. She might very well end up hating your guts.’

The lawyer reached out and gripped Fox’s forearm. ‘What is it?’ he hissed. ‘Tell me what it is you’ve found!’

But Fox shook his head slowly and got back into the car. Mangold stood by the driver’s-side window, peering in. When Fox turned the key in the ignition, the lawyer thumped on the Volvo’s roof with both hands. He was still standing in the road as Fox drove away, decreasing in size and importance in the rear-view mirror.

Thirteen

41

It took a few days to arrange, but that was fine. In the meantime, the terror suspects had been charged, remanded and moved into Edinburgh’s Saughton Prison. The Justice Minister had enjoyed giving interviews and had praised ‘my big sister’, much to the delight of the tabloids. The alert level at Fettes remained CRITICAL, but would soon be downgraded. Fife Constabulary had written a letter to Lothian and Borders congratulating the Complaints team on its ‘exemplary’ report. Whether the media were informed or not, Fox and his team didn’t know – nothing seemed to appear in the press. Reprimands would be issued to Scholes, Haldane and Michaelson, and that would be that.

Mitchell Fox had left hospital, not for Lauder Lodge but for his son’s living room. Fox had bought a single bed from IKEA, Tony Kaye helping him put it together. The only toilet in the house was upstairs, so Fox tracked down a commode. Jude was promising to act as nurse for a short while – ‘not for ever and a day, mind’. Mitch was slow and occasionally confused, and his speech was slurred, but he was able to eat and drink with just a little bit of help. Lauder Lodge warned Fox that they couldn’t keep his father’s room unoccupied for long, but he had paid them until the end of the month, which gave a bit of breathing space. At night, he sat and watched TV – him on the sofa, his dad propped up in bed. The old boy could get up during the day, though it was proving a challenge getting him dressed. More often, they left him in his pyjamas and a towelling robe.

Mitch’s old drinking buddy Sandy Cameron had visited and approved of the effort brother and sister were making:
Your old man’s proud of you – I can see it in his eyes
. They cooked dinner on alternate nights and pretended everything was quite normal. Afterwards, whatever the weather, Jude would disappear into the back garden for a cigarette – she was already up to ten a day – and Fox would settle down on the sofa with the TV remote and the evening paper. The room had become cramped, bed and commode taking up space. Mitch’s clothes had been relegated to a suitcase and bin liner in the hall. The coffee table was covered with his paraphernalia, and the dining table had been folded closed, meaning all Fox’s paperwork was now spread across his bedroom floor.

A physio was due to pay a visit once a week to work with Mitch. A speech therapist had even been mooted. They’d given him a rubber ball he was supposed to squeeze twenty times per hand three or four times a day. The shoebox of photographs sat untouched on the coffee table. Jude made a shopping list: furniture polish, fabric conditioner, vacuum-cleaner bags and dusters. Plus an iron and ironing board. She asked her brother how he’d coped all these years.

‘Dry-cleaning,’ was his unconvincing answer.

Stephen Pears was due to address shareholders at a meeting in Edinburgh on the Tuesday at ten in the morning. The venue was the ballroom of a venerable city-centre hotel. Fox’s contact on the
Scotsman
’s business desk had proffered the information, and had also asked if Pears was in any trouble.

‘Because whatever this is about, Inspector, it’s not a profile of his sister.’

Fox had asked if there were any rumours flying around. As far as the journalist was concerned, their apparent lack was no great comfort.

‘These days, seems anybody can go bust at an hour’s notice.’

‘If I get anything,’ Fox assured the man, ‘you’ll be the first to know.’

The shareholders piling into the ballroom looked quietly prosperous. They carried their copies of the annual report and muttered about the levels of remuneration the board seemed keen on divvying up. Most appeared to be well into their twilight years. They were the prudent, cautious types who hadn’t lost too much so far in the recession but would welcome good news from Stephen Pears and his team. There was to be a reception afterwards, drinks and canapés served. Names were ticked off and shiny brochures handed out. On the front of the brochure a smiling couple held hands across a restaurant table.
Future-Proofing Your Dreams
, the headline announced. Fox took a copy, then admitted that his name wasn’t on the acceptance list. He showed the staff behind the makeshift desk his warrant card, then pointed to the three men behind him.

‘They’re with me,’ he announced.

The attendants from Carstairs stood either side of Donald MacIver. Fox had picked them up at quarter past eight. Gretchen Hughes had repeated that MacIver shouldn’t get too much stimulus. Fox had signed his name to the paperwork, knowing that if his bosses at Fettes HQ ever got wind of this, he would be on a charge. He had lied and lied again in order to convince Hughes and her colleagues that he was fully authorised in his actions and that a murder inquiry might be stymied without Donald MacIver’s help. MacIver himself looked presentable, as though making an effort for the occasion. Fox asked him when he’d last set foot outside the compound.

‘A hospital visit,’ he eventually remembered. ‘Suspected appendicitis. That was probably four or five years back.’

They’d all decided that restraints would not be needed in the first instance. The attendants looked like they worked out in what spare time they had, and could probably handle their charge whatever happened. During the drive, they’d kept up a dialogue about various martial arts and dietary supplements, while MacIver stared at the passing scenery, answering Fox’s questions with a series of grunts, punctuated by the occasional yes and no.

‘Not too many changes,’ he’d muttered as they entered the city. ‘A few new roads and buildings.’

‘I could take a detour past the parliament,’ Fox had offered.

‘Why bother?’ had been MacIver’s response.

‘“Bought and sold for English gold”?’ Fox had quoted, receiving a slow, determined nod of the head in return.

So they’d headed for George Street instead, parking on a meter and entering the hotel.

The ballroom was larger than necessary. There were eighty or ninety chairs, laid out in rows of ten. Pears’s team seemed to comprise sharply dressed young men and women who scanned the room for possible dissenters and handed out notepads and pens to anyone who needed them. It didn’t take them long to spot Fox and his guests. They remained standing at the back of the room, and wouldn’t budge when offered seats. MacIver seemed slightly agitated, but the attendants didn’t look worried. His facial colouring was what Fox would call ‘prison grey’, but he didn’t suppose his own was much better. He hadn’t slept well the past few nights – and not just because of his father’s presence in the house.

The stage beyond the front row of seats didn’t look permanent. It supported a long table with a blue velvet cloth draped over it. Four place cards with names on them, but too far away for Fox to make out the actual names themselves. Carafes of water and pre-filled tumblers. Microphones. There were loudspeakers stage-right and left. People in the audience greeted each other with curt nods. A young man stopped in front of Fox, but Fox was ready for him. He held his warrant card an inch from the lackey’s nose and identified himself as a police officer.

‘I can say it louder, if you want everyone else to hear,’ he offered. MacIver gave a little growl and the young man took a step back, then turned and fled. He went into a confab with others in the team. Someone punched a number into their phone and started a whispered conversation, holding their hand over their mouth as if fearing lip-readers.

Good: Fox hoped the news would get backstage.

Maybe the call had come too late, though, for now four men were arriving by way of a side door. They strode purposefully towards the stage, climbed the steps and settled themselves behind the table. Stephen Pears tugged at the cuffs of his shirt and checked the straightness of his tie. When introduced, he nodded and smiled, taking in the whole room. There were others standing at the back now – not just Fox, MacIver and the two attendants, but the team working for Pears, plus some latecomers. One person in the third row started having a coughing fit, and a staffer was quick to take them some water. The four men on the stage tried not to let this distract them. A statement of the company’s achievements during the previous twelve months was being recited. Fox had eyes only for Stephen Pears, though Pears appeared focused on the rows of seats – these were his constituents. He had brought no papers with him. When a phone chirruped in the room and went unanswered, he tried not to look annoyed.

The attendant next to Fox nudged him, letting him know it was
his
phone that was the culprit. It stopped, but half a minute later started ringing again. The ringtone had been set to maximum volume. When Fox lifted the device from his pocket and checked the screen, he saw that it was Tony Kaye, right on cue. The man reading out the report had come to a stop, reminding the room that all phones should be switched off. People were turning their heads to look at Fox. He did eventually cancel the ringing, but only when he was satisfied that he had at last gained Stephen Pears’s attention.

Fox stared back at him, nodding an acknowledgement. The report was in full flow again, but Pears’s body language had changed. He was stiffer, less sure of himself. When he looked towards the back of the room a second time, Fox leaned past the attendant and touched MacIver’s arm, whispering something to him.

‘You all right there, Mr MacIver?’

An innocent enough question, to which MacIver responded with the nod Fox had wanted from him.

‘Sure?’

Another nod. Fox turned his attention back to the stage and gave Pears a little smile, hoping it looked satisfied enough. Pears ran a hand through his hair, leaned back in his seat, gave the ceiling his full attention, then the tabletop. The report was winding to its conclusion. He was being invited to say a few words about the future. When people clapped, Fox clapped with them. The noise didn’t agree with MacIver. He pressed his hands over his ears and gave a low moan. As Pears stood up and the applause ended, that moan could still be heard. Pears had taken hold of the microphone, but he didn’t say anything. The attendants were trying to calm MacIver.

‘No,’ he said, repeating the word a few times.

‘Better take him out,’ the attendant nearer to Fox said. Fox nodded his agreement.

‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ he replied.

The whole room watched as MacIver was led away. Then they turned back to Pears, expecting the usual poised performance, the noteless tour de force. Pears had finished all the water in his glass. More was being poured. After fifteen or twenty seconds, he started his speech.

And it was fine. Fox doubted anyone who had heard him before would notice anything different about the delivery.

Quite the actor
, he thought to himself.

But then he knew that already. Five minutes in, he caught Pears’s eye again, and offered a mimed handclap, along with a slow nod. Then he headed for the doors, taking out his phone as if to make a call.

MacIver was seated in the hotel’s reception area, running a finger along the stories on the front of a morning paper.

‘Back to normal,’ one of the attendants assured Fox. Fox settled himself next to MacIver and asked if he’d recognised anyone on the stage. MacIver shook his head.

‘You sure?’ Fox persisted.

‘Sure,’ MacIver echoed.

Fox held out his copy of
Future-Proofing Your Dreams
. Its back cover consisted of smiling portrait photographs of the main players. ‘Him?’ Fox asked, dabbing a finger against Stephen Pears.

‘He was in the room.’

‘Yes, he was.’

‘I don’t know him.’

‘He’s been on TV and in the newspapers. His name’s Stephen Pears. I’m pretty sure you’d have known him as Hawkeye.’

MacIver stared at him. ‘You’re wrong,’ he stated.

‘The war’s over,’ Fox persisted. ‘No need to lie for a cause that’s won.’

But MacIver was shaking his head slowly and defiantly. ‘Can I go back?’

‘Back?’ Fox thought he meant to the ballroom.

‘Home,’ MacIver corrected him.

‘He means Carstairs,’ one of the attendants clarified. ‘Isn’t that right, Donald?’

‘That’s right,’ MacIver confirmed. ‘I don’t like it here.’ He glared at the attendant. ‘And it’s
Mr MacIver
to you until you know me better.’

‘I’ve known you almost two years.’

‘You’re still on probation.’

‘What if we went back to the hall for a minute,’ Fox suggested, ‘just so you could hear him speak?’

MacIver was shaking his head again.

‘We don’t want to make things worse,’ the other attendant cautioned.

Fox considered his options. Hadn’t he got what he wanted? MacIver was back to his reading, asking the attendants if they had a crayon.

‘I’ve got a pen,’ Fox offered.

‘Has to be a crayon,’ the same attendant told him. ‘And not too sharp.’

Fox nodded his understanding. His phone bleeped a message. It was Tony Kaye, asking if it had worked.

More or less
, Fox texted back. MacIver was studying the portraits on the back of the annual report. But then he seemed to dismiss it and went back to his newspaper.

‘Ready when you are, Mr MacIver,’ Fox announced. ‘And I want to thank you for everything.’

MacIver got to his feet and took a last look at his plush surroundings. ‘Russians or Arabs?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Who owns this place? It’ll be one or the other, mark my words. And next year or the year after, it’ll be sold on to China. A nation bought and sold …’

The attendants shared a look. One rolled his eyes. ‘Here we go again,’ he said.

MacIver’s grievances were growing louder as they accompanied him to the door.

Having dropped the three men back at Carstairs, Fox was halfway to Edinburgh when his phone started ringing. He had a good idea who it might be and was content not to answer – not straight away. Eventually there was a sign pointing to a lay-by, so he signalled and pulled to a stop. The number wasn’t one he recognised, and no message had been left. He took a hand-held digital recorder from his pocket. Joe Naysmith had assured him the batteries were brand new and it would be good for eight hours of continuous use. Fox switched it on, then called the number and engaged the speakerphone mode.