The Impossible Dead (9 page)

14

In the car back to Edinburgh, Naysmith asked Fox if he still wanted information on Francis Vernal.

‘I can do it at home tonight,’ he offered.

‘Thanks,’ Fox replied.

‘And in case you were thinking that Kirkcaldy’s boring …’ He took a folded printout from his pocket and handed it over. ‘Here’s what I already discovered about the place.’

It was a newspaper report about a Yugoslav secret-service agent, sent to Kirkcaldy in 1988 to assassinate a Croatian dissident. The story was back in the news because the assassination had failed, the gunman had been jailed, and he now claimed he had information about the murder of Swedish prime minister Olaf Palme.

Fox read the piece aloud for Tony Kaye’s benefit. ‘Unbelievable,’ was Kaye’s only comment, before turning the hi-fi on.

‘Alex Harvey again,’ Naysmith complained.

‘The
Sensational
Alex Harvey,’ Kaye corrected him, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. ‘Part and parcel of your musical education, young Joseph.’

‘Terrorists and bampots, eh?’ Naysmith offered, eyes fixed on Malcolm Fox. ‘We never seem to be rid of them.’

‘We never do,’ Fox agreed, reading the article a second time.

They decided to have one drink at Minter’s. It was mid-afternoon and the place was dead. Fox went outside and called the offices of Mangold Bain.

‘I’m afraid Mr Mangold’s appointments diary is full,’ he was told.

‘My name’s Fox. I’m an inspector with Lothian and Borders Police. If that doesn’t clear me some space today, tell him it concerns Alan Carter.’

He was asked to hold the line. The woman’s lilting voice was replaced for a full minute by Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
.

‘Six o’clock?’ she offered. ‘Mr Mangold wonders if the New Club might be acceptable – he has another meeting there at six thirty.’

‘It’ll have to do, then, won’t it?’ Fox said, secretly pleased – the New Club was one of those Edinburgh institutions he’d heard about but never been able to visit. He knew it was somewhere on Princes Street and filled with lawyers and bankers escaping their womenfolk.

Back in the bar, Kaye and Naysmith were waiting to hear if they needed to go back to the office or could call it a day. Fox checked his watch – not quite four. He nodded, to let them know they were off the hook.

‘That calls for another drink,’ Kaye said, draining his glass. ‘And it’s your shout, Joseph.’

Naysmith rose from the table and asked Fox if he wanted another Big Tom. Fox shook his head.

‘Somewhere else to go,’ he said, glancing at the TV above the bar. The local newsreader was telling viewers that there was no further information on the explosion in the woods outside Lockerbie.

‘Some sick sod’s idea of a practical joke,’ Kaye muttered. ‘Unless you think the Yugoslavs are back, Joe …’

Half an hour later, Fox was at Lauder Lodge. When he opened the door to his father’s room, he saw that Mitch had a visitor. There was a half-bottle of Bell’s open on the mantelpiece.

‘Hiya, Dad,’ Fox said. His father looked sprightly. He was dressed and his eyes sparkled.

‘Malcolm,’ Mitch said, with a nod towards the visitor, ‘you remember Sandy?’

Malcolm shook Sandy Cameron’s hand. The three of them had attended Hearts games together when Malcolm had been a boy, his father always keen to remind him that Sandy had almost become a professional, back in the day. Years later, the two men had played indoor bowls for a team in the local league.

‘Decent measure,’ Fox noted, watching Cameron switch his tumbler to his left hand so he could shake with the right.

‘Whisky shandy,’ Cameron explained, angling his head towards a bottle of Barr’s lemonade on the floor next to the chair.

‘Don’t know how you can bear to dilute it,’ Mitch Fox said, draining his own glass.

‘Maybe you should learn, Dad,’ Malcolm chided him. He dragged another chair over and joined them. ‘How are you, Mr Cameron?’

‘Can’t complain, son.’

‘Sandy was just reminiscing about the ice rink,’ Mitch confided. Fox reckoned they’d be stories he had heard half a dozen times or more. ‘A hell of a skater you were, Sandy. Could have turned pro.’

‘I did love it.’ Cameron smiled to himself. ‘And the football …’

But Fox knew he had ended up a draughtsman. Married to Myra. Two kids. A contented life.

‘What brings you here?’ Mitch was asking his son. ‘Thought you were doing something in Fife?’

Fox dug in his pocket and produced the photograph. ‘Came across this,’ he said, handing it over. His father made show of focusing, holding the cutting as far from him as his arm would allow. Then he fished in his cardigan pocket for his reading glasses.

‘That’s Francis Vernal,’ he stated.

‘But who’s next to him?’

‘Is it Chris?’ His father’s voice rose a little in surprise. ‘It’s Chris, isn’t it?’

‘Looks like,’ Fox agreed.

Mitch had handed the photo across to his old friend.

‘Francis Vernal,’ Cameron confirmed. ‘And who did you say the other fellow was?’

‘Cousin of mine,’ Mitch explained. ‘Chris, his name was. Died young in a bike crash.’

‘How come he knew Vernal?’ Fox asked.

‘Chris was a shop steward at the dockyard.’

‘And an SNP man?’

‘That too.’

‘I saw Vernal speak once,’ Cameron added. ‘At a miners’ institute somewhere – Lasswade, maybe. “Firebrand” is the word that springs to mind.’

‘I don’t really remember him,’ Fox admitted. ‘I was in my teens when he died.’

‘There were rumours at the time,’ Cameron went on. ‘His wife …’

‘Bloody tittle-tattle,’ Mitch said dismissively. ‘Selling papers is all it’s good for.’ He looked at his son. ‘Where did you find this?’

‘There’s an ex-cop in Fife, he was interested in Vernal.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Fox thought for a moment. ‘What year did Chris die?’

It was his father’s turn to think. ‘Seventy-five, seventy-six … Late on in seventy-five, I think. Crematorium in Kirkcaldy, then a meal at a hotel near the station.’ Mitch had retrieved the photo and was staring at it. ‘Smashing lad, our Chris.’

‘He never married?’

Fox’s father shook his head. ‘Always told me he liked life free and easy. That way he could just jump on his bike and go exploring.’

‘Whereabouts did the crash happen?’

‘Why are you so interested all of a sudden?’

Fox gave a shrug.

‘Is this you trying some real detective work for a change?’ Mitch turned towards Cameron. ‘Malcolm here’s only got another year or two till he’s back in CID.’

‘Oh aye? The Complaints isn’t for life, then?’

‘I think Malcolm would like it better if it was.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Fox couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice.

‘You were never happy there,’ his father told him.

‘Says who?’

‘You’ll be a bit rusty, then,’ Cameron chipped in, ‘when you have to go back to the detective work.’

‘What I do now is detective work.’

‘It’s not the same, though, is it?’ his father continued.

‘It’s
exactly
the same.’

His father just shook his head slowly. Silence descended on the room for a moment.

‘Firebrand,’ Cameron eventually repeated. He seemed to be thinking back to Francis Vernal’s speech. ‘The hairs went up on your arms. If he’d been asking you to advance on the enemy lines, you’d have done it, armed or not.’

‘I saw him on the James Connolly march one year,’ Mitch added. ‘Not something I usually paid attention to, but a pal wanted to go to the rally. Leith Links, I think it was. Francis Vernal got up to speak, and you’re right, Sandy – he had the gift. Not saying I agreed with him, but I listened.’

‘People used to compare him to Jimmy Reid,’ Cameron mused. ‘I thought he was better. There was none of the “comrades” stuff.’

‘It seemed a lost cause back then, though, didn’t it?’ Fox added, relieved that he was no longer the focus of attention. ‘Nationalism, I mean.’

‘They were strange times,’ Mitch said. ‘A lot of anger. Things getting blown up …’ He had poured himself another whisky, the bottle pretty well empty now. ‘I was always Labour, but I remember your mum getting on her high horse about the SNP. They used to recruit outside folk concerts.’

‘Same thing at the picture house when
Braveheart
was playing,’ Cameron added.

‘Malcolm was never political, though,’ Mitch Fox said. ‘Maybe worried about sticking his head above the parapet – or at least above his homework books …’

Fox was staring at his father’s whisky. ‘Dash of water with that?’ he asked.

‘Dash of water be damned.’

The New Club was hard to find. The edifice Fox had always assumed it to be turned out to belong to the Royal Overseas League instead. A woman in reception pointed him back along Princes Street. The evening was turning blustery. A set of tramlines had been laid, but there was now yet another delay as the contractors bickered with the council about payment. Workers were queuing at bus stops, keen to get home. It didn’t help Fox’s cause that few of the shops on Princes Street had numbers. It was 86 that he was after, but he missed it again and had to retrace his steps. Eventually, next to a cash machine, he saw an anonymous varnished wooden door. There was a small window above it, and he could just about make out the name etched there. He rang the bell and was eventually admitted.

He had been expecting small, stuffy Georgian-style rooms, but the interior was vast and modern. A uniformed porter told him he was expected and led him up a further flight of stairs. A few elderly gentlemen wandered around, or could be glimpsed poring over newspapers in armchairs. Fox had thought his destination would be some lounge or bar, but in fact it was a well-appointed meeting room. Charles Mangold was seated at a large circular table, a carafe of water in front of him.

‘Thank you, Eddie,’ he said to the porter, who bowed and left them to it. Mangold had risen and was shaking Fox’s hand.

‘Charles Mangold,’ he said, introducing himself. ‘Inspector Fox, is it?’

‘It is.’

‘Mind if I see some proof?’

Fox pulled out his warrant card.

‘Can’t be too careful these days, I’m afraid.’ Mangold handed back the wallet and gestured for him to take a seat. ‘I forgot to ask Eddie to fetch us some drinks …’

‘Water’s fine, sir.’

Mangold poured them a glass apiece while Fox studied him. Portly, early sixties, bald and bespectacled. He wore a dark three-piece suit, pale-lemon shirt with gold cufflinks, and a tie of maroon and blue striped diagonals. His confident air was edging towards smugness. Or maybe ‘entitlement’ was the word.

‘Been here before?’ he asked.

‘First time.’

‘Most other clubs have closed their doors, but somehow this place soldiers on.’ He took a sip of water. ‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you very much time, Inspector. As my secretary may have said …’

‘You have another meeting at half past.’

‘Yes,’ Mangold said, glancing at his watch.

‘Did you know Alan Carter was dead, Mr Mangold?’

The lawyer froze for a second. ‘Dead?’

‘Put a gun to his head yesterday evening.’

‘Good God.’ Mangold stared at one of the wood-panelled walls.

‘How did you know him?’

‘He was doing some work for me.’

‘On Francis Vernal?’

‘Yes.’

‘Had you known Mr Carter long?’

‘I barely knew him at all.’ Mangold seemed to be considering what to say next. Fox bided his time, sipping from the glass. ‘There was a profile of him in the
Scotsman
a while back – focusing on his various business interests. It mentioned that he was an ex-policeman and that he’d played a small role in the original investigation.’

‘The Francis Vernal investigation, you mean?’

Mangold nodded. ‘Not that there was much of one. Suicide was the story everyone stuck to. There wasn’t even an FAI.’

Meaning a Fatal Accident Inquiry. ‘Bit odd,’ Fox commented.

‘Yes,’ Mangold agreed.

‘You reckon there was a cover-up of some kind?’

‘The truth’s what I’ve been after, Inspector.’

‘Twenty-five years on? Why the wait?’

Mangold bowed his head a little, as if to acknowledge the acuity of the question. ‘Imogen isn’t well,’ he said.

‘Vernal’s widow?’

‘Six months or a year from now, I doubt she’ll be with us – and I know the papers will dredge it up again.’

‘The stories that she drove him to it?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t think she did?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Did you work alongside Mr Vernal?’

‘For a long time.’

‘Friend of his, or friend of his wife?’

Mangold stared hard at Fox. ‘I’m not sure I can let that insinuation pass.’

‘Then don’t.’

‘Look, I’m sorry Alan Carter’s dead, but what precisely does it have to do with me?’

‘You’ll be wanting to take charge of all his research material. Might have to get used to a few blood spatters, mind …’ Fox looked to be readying himself to rise from his chair and leave.

‘Francis Vernal was murdered,’ Mangold blurted out. ‘And no one’s done anything about it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say officers at the time went beyond wilful negligence.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning they were involved. By the time they found out he’d been shot, his car had been removed from the scene, the scene itself trampled over, obliterating any evidence. Took them a full day to find the gun – did you know that? It was lying on the ground, twenty yards from where the car had stopped.’ Mangold was talking rapidly, as if needing to put the words out there. ‘Francis didn’t own a gun, by the way. Papers from his briefcase strewn around nearby. Car’s back window smashed, but not the windscreen. Things missing …’

‘What things?’

‘Cigarettes, for one – he smoked forty a day. And a fifty-pound note he always carried – the fee from his first case.’ Mangold ran a hand across his head. Then he looked up at Fox. ‘You’re not what I expected … not at all.’

‘In what way?’

‘I thought I was going to be warned off. But you’re … too young to have been part of it. And your warrant card says Professional Standards. That means police corruption, yes?’