The Complaints by Ian Rankin

when they dumped him.’

    ‘Dead how long?’

    ‘Day, day and a half.’ Breck paused, rotating his glass on its coaster. ‘The PNC search was yesterday. Is that the same day you found out about Jude’s broken arm?’

    ‘Yes,’ Fox admitted.

    ‘You went looking for Faulkner?’

    ‘No.’

    Breck raised an eyebrow, though his stare remained focused on the glass in front of him. ‘The man who’d just broken your sister’s arm - you didn’t want a word with him?’

    ‘I wanted a word, but I didn’t go looking.’

    ‘And how about you, Sergeant Kaye?’

    Kaye opened his mouth to answer, but Fox held up a hand to stop him. ‘This has nothing to do with Sergeant Kaye,’ he stated. ‘I asked him for a background check on Faulkner.’

    ‘Why?’

    ‘Ammunition - if there was anything there, I was hoping maybe Jude would see sense.’

    ‘Leave him, you mean?’ Fox nodded. ‘You told her?’

    ‘Never got the chance - Faulkner was already dead, wasn’t he?’

    Breck didn’t bother answering. Fox made eye contact with Tony Kaye, giving the slightest of nods to let him know this was how he wanted it. If there was going to be flak, it was Fox’s to take.

    ‘Remember when I asked you if there was anything you wanted to tell me about the victim?’ Breck was fixing Malcolm Fox with a stare. ‘How come you didn’t mention his previous?’

    ‘I don’t really know,’ Fox answered with a shrug.

    ‘What else did you find?’

    ‘Nothing.’

    ‘But you knew he was a naughty boy?’

    ‘Seems to have toed the line since coming north.’

    ‘Well, it takes time, doesn’t it? He’d want to be sure of the new terrain. How long had he been in town?’

    ‘A year, year and a half,’ Fox answered. The aroma was in his nostrils again: two fresh malts had just been poured at the bar.

    ‘How did your sister meet him?’

    ‘You’ll have to ask her.’

    ‘We’ll definitely do that.’ Breck glanced at his watch. ‘I said I was giving you a heads-up, but time’s nearly up.’

    ‘How do you mean?’

    Breck locked eyes with Malcolm Fox. ‘I’m not your problem here, just remember that.’ All three turned as the door to the pub was pushed open with enough force to rattle it on its hinges. The man who lumbered in was almost as wide as he was tall. Despite the plummeting temperature outside, he wore only a checked sports jacket over his open-necked shirt. Fox recognised him, and with good reason. He was Detective Chief Inspector William Giles - ‘Bad Billy’ Giles. Judging from the well-lined face, the black wavy hair had to be a dye job, not that anyone was about to point this out to the owner. The eyes were a cold, crystalline blue.

    ‘Pint of eighty,’ Giles ordered, approaching the table. Breck rose to his feet, but hesitated long enough to start making introductions.

    ‘I know who they are,’ Giles growled back at him. ‘Three hours they spent grilling me - three hours of my life I’ll never get back.’

    ‘Glen Heaton didn’t deserve the effort you put in,’ Fox commented.

    ‘You can knock a man down as often as you like,’ Giles spat. ‘The measure is when he keeps getting up, and Glen Heaton’s a long way from being counted out by the likes of you.’ The chair - Breck’s chair - creaked as Giles lowered himself on to it. His eyes flitted between Tony Kaye and Malcolm Fox. ‘But now you’re mine,’ he stated with grim satisfaction.

    Billy Giles wasn’t just the CID head honcho at Torphichen, not just Jamie Breck’s boss - and Glen Heaton’s, come to that. He was also Heaton’s oldest friend. Fox was thinking back to that three-hour interview. Thinking, too, of all the obstacles Giles had placed in the way of the PSU investigation.

    ‘Now you’re mine,’ Giles echoed with quiet satisfaction. From the bar, Breck made eye contact with Malcolm Fox. I’m not your problem here ... Fox acknowledged as much with the same slight nod he’d earlier given to Tony