The Impossible Dead (4 page)

‘
I’m
the family – all that’s left of it.’ Carter paused. ‘Are your folks still with us?’

‘My dad is,’ Fox conceded.

‘Sisters and brothers?’

‘Just the one sister.’

‘Close, are you?’ Fox chose not to answer. ‘Luckier than most if you are. Sometimes you have to draw a line between yourself and the ones you’re supposed to love.’ Carter ran a finger horizontally through the air. ‘It might sting for a while, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it.’

Fox sat for a further moment or two, then rose to his feet, his host copying him. The man was almost wedged into the chair, but Fox doubted he’d accept any offer of help.

‘Macaroni cheese, that’s my downfall, eh, Jimmy?’

The dog’s ears pricked up at mention of its name. Fox had paused next to the dining table.

‘If I was to describe you,’ Fox began, ‘I’d say you were orderly – coats on the rack; boots laid out in a row. Biscuits need to go on a plate, not served straight from the packet. And that makes me wonder about this …’ He waved his hand across the table. ‘It’s not just hoarding, is it? There’s some sort of pattern to it.’

‘A bit of historical research.’

‘Nineteen eighty-five?’

‘There or thereabouts.’

‘Late April maybe?’

‘Go on then – tell me what happened.’

‘In April ’85?’ Fox tried to think. In the end, he gave up.

‘Dennis Taylor beat Steve Davis at the snooker,’ Alan Carter said, leading the way to the door.

6

Detective Constable Cheryl Forrester liked to ask questions. Questions like: How long have you been in the Complaints? Is there a selection process? How many of you work there? Is it for life, or some kind of fixed term? Why is it you’re detective grade but not called detectives? What’s been your most shocking case? What’s the nightlife like in Edinburgh?

‘It’s only a train ride away, you know,’ Joe Naysmith told her.

‘Oh, I’ve been there plenty times.’

‘Then you probably know the nightlife better than we do,’ Tony Kaye said.

‘But I mean the places locals go …’

‘DC Forrester, we’re not really here to pass along tourist tips.’

‘I like the Voodoo Rooms,’ Naysmith interrupted. He saw the look on his colleague’s face and swallowed back a further comment.

The problem was, Forrester’s enthusiasm was almost infectious. The description ‘bubbly’ might have been coined for her. She had curly brown hair, tanned skin, and a rounded face with freckles and large brown eyes. She had been in the force for six years, the last two in CID. Right at the start, she’d told them she was too busy for a boyfriend.

‘I’m sure plenty have tried,’ Kaye had stated, intending to bring Paul Carter’s name into play, but she had steered the conversation in another direction by asking Naysmith if the Complaints worked nine-to-five, to which he’d responded by telling her about their surveillance van and how an operation could last anything up to a year.

‘A year of your life? Better be a result at the end of it!’

And so it went, until Kaye finally rapped his knuckles against the table. They were in the interview room again, but without the recording equipment. Forrester, sensing she was somehow worthy of censure, set her mouth tight and clasped her hands together in front of her.

‘As you know,’ Tony Kaye began, ‘certain allegations have been levelled at several of your colleagues. Would you care to tell us what you think of them?’

‘The allegations or the colleagues?’

‘Why not both?’

Forrester puffed out her cheeks. ‘I was shocked when I heard. I think everyone was. I’d worked with DC Carter for almost eighteen months and he’d never … well, never struck me as being like that.’

‘You’ve been out on calls with him?’

‘Yes.’

‘In the car with him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he’s never said anything? Never asked you to wait while he popped into a house or a flat?’

‘Not like that, no.’

‘Police stations are terrible places for gossip …’

‘I can’t say I’ve ever heard anything.’ She stared at Kaye with her wide, innocent-seeming eyes.

‘Your colleagues in CID – Scholes, Haldane, Michaelson …’

‘What about them?’

‘When the Carter investigation started, they must’ve talked about it.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Did anything strike you? Maybe they went into a huddle?’

She gave a look of concentration, then shook her head slowly but with certainty.

‘Did you ever feel left out? Maybe they headed off to the pub together …’

‘We have nights at the pub, yes.’

‘You must have discussed the case.’

‘Yes, but not how to tamper with evidence.’

‘The time Michaelson spilled coffee on his notebook – did you see that?’

‘No.’

‘And you never saw Teresa Collins, never heard Carter on the phone to her?’

‘No.’

‘How come you weren’t called as a witness at the trial? Sounds to me like you could have done Carter a power of good.’

‘I don’t really know. I mean, all I could have said is what I’ve just told you.’

‘Carter never came on to you?’

There was silence in the room. Forrester looked down at her hands and then up again. ‘Never,’ she stated.

‘And that’s the truth, not just something you’ve been told to say?’

‘It’s the truth. Bring me a bible and I’ll swear on it.’

‘If we can’t find a bible,’ Naysmith interrupted, ‘would a cocktail list suffice?’

Cheryl Forrester laughed, showing perfect pearly teeth.

At the end of the interview, Naysmith said he’d walk her back to CID.

‘It’s not like she’s going to get mugged,’ Kaye chided his colleague, but Naysmith ignored him. Kaye decided to wander outside for some air. In the car park, a hovering gull just missed him, splattering an MG’s windscreen instead. There was no sign of the Mondeo, and no sign of Fox. Kaye took out his mobile and checked for messages. He had three, one of them from Malcolm. Back inside the station, he kept his finger on the bell until the desk sergeant arrived with the same welcoming black look as ever.

‘I’ll take DCI Laird, if he’s around,’ Kaye said.

‘I’m not sure he is.’

‘Okay, never mind.’ Kaye headed for the corridor and climbed the stairs to the next floor. CID comprised several offices here. Cheryl Forrester was in one of them, while Naysmith stood in the doorway, arms folded, one foot crossed over the other, talking to her. Kaye gave him a dig in the back as he passed, then pushed open the door to the large open-plan office further on. Scholes and Michaelson looked up from their desks. Scholes was on the phone, Michaelson navigating his computer screen with a mouse. Another man, slightly older than the other two, stood in the centre of the room. He had dispensed with his suit jacket, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. He had waxy olive skin, hair that was grey at the temples, and bags under his eyes. He was reading from a sheaf of papers.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Laird?’ Kaye held out his hand. Laird had yet to make eye contact. He added a couple of words to the margin of one sheet, then pocketed his pen.

‘You’re Fox?’ he drawled.

‘Sergeant Kaye,’ Kaye corrected him, withdrawing his hand.

‘Where’s Fox?’

‘Probably off getting a second opinion on Haldane’s flu.’

‘Well now …’ Laird deigned to meet Kaye’s eyes at last. ‘You’re a cheeky little bastard, aren’t you?’

‘Depends on the situation, sir.’ Kaye sensed that he was standing in front of a man who believed in the troops under his command and would defend them to the bitter end. Forrester hadn’t been helpful because there was nothing for her to be helpful
with
, but Laird was another matter entirely. He would give them nothing because that was all they deserved. It was there in his tone, his manner, his way of standing, feet planted widely apart. Kaye had encountered the type plenty of times. They could be dismantled, but it took time and effort. Weeks of time, unceasing effort.

Fox’s message had been ‘Ask Laird why Pitkethly was brought in.’ It was a reasonable question, and Kaye knew why it was best not to ask Pitkethly herself. Quite simply, she probably wouldn’t know. She hadn’t known the station at all until she was shipped there. Laird had served under the previous regime. He was an old hand. If there was a story worth telling, Laird might be the one to tell it.

But a few seconds spent in the man’s company told Kaye this wasn’t going to happen.

‘My boss,’ he said, ‘had something he wanted me to ask you.’

‘Spit it out, then.’

But Kaye just shook his head. ‘I don’t think I will.’

Then he turned and walked away. Halfway down the corridor, he grabbed Naysmith by the back of his collar and took him with him.

7

The Mondeo’s parking space had been taken by an idling Astra. In fact, the only bay left was the one marked Superintendent, so that was where Fox ended up. As he made for the station entrance, he gave the Astra’s driver a look. The face was familiar.

‘About bloody time,’ Tony Kaye said, emerging from the station with Naysmith in tow. ‘Got your text but I didn’t reckon I was going to get any joy from Laird.’

‘DC Forrester was nice and helpful, though,’ Naysmith added, Kaye shooting him a look.

‘Helpful?’ he mimicked. ‘She gave us the square root of heehaw.’ Then, turning to Fox: ‘Tell me you’ve been having it worse than us. Got lost a few times maybe. Found the uncle but he’s doolally … Foxy? You listening?’

Fox’s attention was still focused on the Astra.

‘That’s Paul Carter,’ he said.

‘What?’

Fox started walking towards the car. It reversed out of its bay and began to exit the car park. Fox jogged after it for a few paces, then stopped. Kaye caught him up, the two men watching as the car shot away, modified exhaust roaring.

‘You sure?’

Fox gave him a cold stare.

‘Okay,’ Kaye conceded. ‘You’re sure.’

Fox took out his phone and called the Procurator Fiscal’s office. He was passed between extensions and offices until he found someone with the answers he needed. Paul Carter had been released on bail at 8.15 a.m., pending the sheriff’s decision on sentencing.

‘Cells are jam-packed,’ Fox was told. ‘Sheriff Cardonald reckoned he was one of the safer bets. Restricted movements – he’s not allowed within range of the three women.’

‘Who posted the bail?’

‘It wasn’t a huge amount.’

‘And this was the sheriff’s idea? Colin Cardonald?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘The judge who doesn’t like cops?’

‘Steady on …’

But Fox had ended the call. ‘He’s out,’ he confirmed, for Kaye and Naysmith’s benefit.

‘Want to bring him in for a chat?’ Naysmith asked.

Fox shook his head.

‘Hell was he doing here?’ Kaye added.

‘Catching up with his pals,’ Fox guessed, turning to look at the station’s first-floor windows. Ray Scholes stood in one of them, a mug in his hand. He toasted Fox with it before turning away.

‘Doesn’t change anything,’ Tony Kaye stated.

‘No,’ Fox agreed.

‘And you still haven’t told us how you got on with the uncle.’

‘Good guy.’ Fox paused. ‘I liked him.’

‘Not half as much as Joe here likes DC Forrester.’ Kaye looked around the car park. ‘Where’s my Mondeo?’

‘I had to take Pitkethly’s spot.’

‘Best move it then, eh?’ Kaye held out his hand for the key.

‘Better still,’ Fox said, ‘let’s jump in and grab a spot of lunch. My shout.’

Kaye stared at him. ‘What’s the catch?’

Fox’s mouth twitched. ‘A wee cruise around town first.’

‘With an eye to spotting a silver Astra?’ Kaye guessed.

Fox handed him the key.

After a fruitless half-hour, they ended up back at the Pancake Place. Since Fox was paying, Kaye ordered soup and the fish mornay pancake. The same table as before was available, so they’d taken it.

‘Where does Carter live?’ Joe Naysmith asked.

‘Dunnikier Estate,’ Fox told him. ‘We drove through it yesterday.’

‘We drove through a lot of estates yesterday.’

‘Semis, pebble-dash, and satellite dishes.’

‘You’re not narrowing it down.’

‘We could go there,’ Kaye suggested. ‘See how he likes having us parked outside for an hour or two.’

‘To what end?’ Fox asked.

‘Getting his back up. Could we maybe set up the surveillance van – bug his phone and computer?’

Naysmith looked interested.

‘We’d need permission from HQ,’ Fox stated. ‘And they won’t give it.’

‘Why not?’ Naysmith asked with a frown.

‘Because we’re here for Scholes, Haldane and Michaelson – Carter’s outwith our remit.’

‘Well, what about bugging
their
phones?’ Naysmith suggested.

Fox looked at him. ‘Surveillance is a whole new game, Joe. I doubt anyone at HQ thinks them big enough fish to merit it. Plus, we’re not from here. It would have to be a Fife operation – local Complaints.’

Naysmith considered this for a moment, then went back to eating his Scotch broth. Fox’s phone started ringing and he answered. It was Superintendent Isabel Pitkethly.

‘Paul Carter’s no longer in custody,’ she told him.

‘I know.’

‘Seems the sheriff has a little bit of faith in him.’

‘Yes.’

‘If he decides to appeal, the allegations against my officers may well be challenged in court.’

‘Not my concern, Superintendent.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not working for the courts or the prosecution. Your bosses in Glenrothes tell me what to do, and so far they’ve not said anything about dropping the inquiry.’ Fox paused. ‘Have you spoken with Carter?’

‘Of course not.’

‘He was outside the station an hour ago.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Scholes knew. Maybe you should ask why he kept it to himself.’

‘I’m not long back from HQ.’

‘You seem to spend a lot of time there. Updating them in person?’

She ignored this. ‘So you’ve not finished here yet?’

‘Not nearly.’

‘I’ll see you later then. And Inspector …?’

‘Yes, Superintendent?’

‘Don’t ever park that car in my space again.’

The afternoon comprised a wasted session in the interview room with DCI Peter Laird – there was nothing unusual about Superintendent Hendryson’s retirement; it had been his time, that was all – and a visit to the home of the sickly DS Haldane. They found Haldane sprawled on the sofa in his living room, a duvet swamping him and a visiting mother doling out tea, cold remedies and seasoned advice.

‘Can’t this wait till he’s better?’ she had chided the three intruders. It had eventually been agreed that Haldane would make himself available at the station in a day or two, so that a proper interview could take place.

‘What now?’ Kaye asked afterwards as they climbed into the car.

‘Dunnikier Estate,’ Fox said.

Kaye gave a little smile, as if he’d known this answer might be coming. Their destination was on the other side of town, and traffic was slow.

‘Schools coming out,’ Naysmith commented, watching uniformed pupils tramping along the pavement.

‘You’re a regular Hercule Poirot,’ Kaye muttered.

Eventually they turned in to Carter’s street. ‘That house there,’ Fox stated.

‘The one with the silver Astra in the drive?’ Kaye commented. ‘Hercule Poirot
and
Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Whose is the other car?’ Naysmith asked.

Fox supplied the answer. ‘Belongs to Ray Scholes.’

‘You sure?’

‘If that’s him coming out of the house …’

And so it was. A brief hug between the two men, Scholes and Carter, and then Carter disappearing inside, closing the door. Scholes clocked the Mondeo but didn’t seem surprised or bothered by it. He unlocked his black VW Golf and got in, Fox watching from the rear window of the Mondeo.

‘Do we pay our respects?’ Kaye asked, as they slowed for a junction.

‘No.’

‘What then?’

‘Back to Edinburgh.’

‘Now you’re talking.’

‘And to while away the time, we’ll have a little quiz.’ Fox leaned forward so his face was between the two front seats. ‘What can either of you remember about 1985? Specifically, late April …’

Kaye’s way of insisting that they have a drink at Minter’s before going their separate ways was to drive directly to the pub and park outside it.

‘My treat,’ he said, ordering a pint for himself, a half for Naysmith and a Big Tom for Fox. From experience, the barman knew Naysmith’s ‘half’ was a joke, and began pouring two pints of Caledonian 80. They took their drinks to a table, and Kaye asked Fox how long it had been since he’d allowed himself a proper drink.

‘I’ve stopped counting.’

‘Aye, right.’ Kaye wiped a line of foam from his top lip.

‘You know,’ Joe Naysmith commented, ‘surveillance isn’t a bad idea.’

‘Hey,’ Kaye warned him with a wagging finger, ‘we’re off duty here.’

‘I’m just saying, it’s how we’d normally build a case.’

‘I thought I’d already explained …’ Fox began.

Naysmith nodded. ‘But – correct me if I’m wrong – we’re going to get nowhere otherwise. Say we asked Bob McEwan for permission, set everything up without letting anyone in Fife know. Then, when we get something—’

‘
If
we get something,’ Fox corrected him.

‘Okay,
if
we get something—’

‘And it’s a big “if”,’ Kaye added.

‘Yes, but what we’d then do is present it to Fife HQ as a fait accompli.’

‘The boy’s losing me with all these big words,’ Kaye complained to Fox.

‘What makes you think McEwan would agree to it in the first place?’ Fox asked Naysmith.

‘We’d ask him nicely.’

Kaye snorted. ‘Oh aye, he’s a sucker for a kind word.’

‘Like I said,’ Fox told Naysmith, ‘it’d have to be a Fife call.’

‘So where’s the harm in asking them? You must know somebody on the Complaints over there …’

Fox hesitated for a moment before nodding. ‘I doubt we’re in their good books, though. We’re working what should be their patch.’

‘But you do know somebody?’ Naysmith persisted.

‘Yes,’ Fox conceded, turning to look at Kaye.

Kaye shrugged. ‘Can’t see it working.’

‘Why not?’

‘Surveillance operation needs the okay from upstairs. Haven’t we been saying all along that Glenrothes doesn’t necessarily want us finding anything?’

‘But if they deny their own Complaints department,’ Naysmith argued, ‘that looks bad, too.’

Kaye’s eyes were still on Malcolm Fox. ‘What do you say, Foxy?’

‘It’s a protocol minefield.’

‘First step might not blow us up, though.’

‘Home phones and mobiles,’ Naysmith added, ‘just to hear what Carter’s saying to his pals in CID.’

‘I’ll have a think about it,’ Fox eventually said.

Kaye slapped a hand down on Naysmith’s knee. ‘That means he’s going to do it. Well played, Joseph. And it’s your round, by the way …’

Once home, Fox microwaved another ready-meal and ate it at the table. The TV stayed off. He was lost in thought. After he’d cleaned up, he called his sister and apologised for not getting back to her sooner.

‘Don’t tell me: you’ve been busy?’

‘It happens to be true.’ Fox squeezed the skin at the bridge of his nose.

‘But you
did
go see Dad?’

‘Last night, as promised. He was back to himself by the time I got there.’

‘Oh?’

‘We took a look through some of those photographs.’

‘They didn’t upset him?’

‘Not so much, no.’

‘Maybe it’s me, then – is that what you’re getting at? You think I’m overreacting?’

‘No, Jude, I’m sure you’re not. And I saw the pack of pads in the bathroom.’

‘If he starts wetting himself, they’re going to kick him out.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘They’ll want him home with one of us.’

‘Listen, Jude—’

‘It can’t be me, Malcolm! How am I supposed to cope?’

‘They’re not going to get rid of him.’

‘Why? Because you keep coughing up for his bed and board? That’s fine as long as he’s not a bother to them.’

‘Would it put your mind at rest if we went to see them?’

‘You do it – they hate me.’

‘No they don’t.’

‘They treat me like dirt. You don’t see it because you’re the one waving the chequebook. That’s all right, though, isn’t it?
You’ll
be the one getting the lion’s share of his will. It’s you he likes, the one he’s always talking about when I’m there. Never me – I just fetch and carry, like one of the fucking staff!’

‘Listen to yourself, Jude.’

But instead it was Fox who listened – listened to his sister as her complaints lengthened and intensified. He pictured the photograph of her as a small girl, atop Chris’s shoulders, bursting with carefree energy. Now distilled to this.

Sometimes you have to draw a line
…

Fox watched himself lower the telephone receiver back on to its charger. As the connection was made, the line went dead. He drew in his bottom lip, staring at the machine, wondering if it would ring, Jude enraged on the other end.

But it didn’t, so he made himself some tea, considering whether there was anything he could have said to her to make things better – offered to visit his father more often; arranged for the three of them to go to lunch some weekend.
It’s you he likes … I just fetch and carry
.

With a sigh, he went over to his computer and switched it on, wondering what his search engine could tell him about 1985, while the stinging memory of the phone call began to melt away.