The Complaints by Ian Rankin Page B

Pettifer?’

    ‘The foot of the stairs.’ He heard her apologise as someone pushed past her. Heavy footsteps making for the upstairs landing. ‘They don’t seem to like me sticking around.’

    ‘What happened to Jude’s other friends, the ones who were going to look after her?’

    ‘Joyce stayed the night, but she had to leave for work at six thirty. The police started arriving just after, so I got dressed and ...’

    ‘Thanks for everything, Mrs Pettifer. You can go home now.’

    ‘A couple of reporters came to the door yesterday evening, but I gave them short shrift.’

    ‘Thanks again.’

    ‘Well . . . I might just nip home then, if you think that’s for the best.’

    Fox ended the call, fetched a fresh shirt from its hanger and decided yesterday’s tie would suffice. He was halfway down the stairs when the landline started ringing again. He lifted the receiver from the sofa and pressed it to his ear.

    ‘Fox,’ he said.

    ‘It’s McEwan.’

    ‘Morning, sir.’

    ‘You sound harassed.’

    ‘No, sir, just getting ready to leave.’

    ‘So I’ll see you here in half an hour?’

    ‘Actually, I need to stop off somewhere first.’

    ‘I don’t think that’s advisable, Malcolm.’

    ‘Sir?’

    ‘Torphichen have told me what’s happening. I got the call half an hour ago. That stunt you pulled with the PNC is going to take a bit of work to defuse.’

    ‘I was going to tell you, sir . . .’ Fox paused. ‘Truth is, they’ve taken my sister in for questioning. She needs someone with her.’

    ‘Not you, Malcolm. You need to be here .’

    ‘They know she’s my sister, Bob. They don’t like what I’ve done to their pal Heaton.’

    ‘I know people at Torphichen, Malcolm. I’ll see to it everything’s squared.’

    ‘Yes, sir.’

    ‘Half an hour, then. You, me and Tony Kaye are going to have a fine wee natter ...’ The phone went dead in Fox’s hand.

    In fact, the journey took him longer than expected. His excuse: tram works. Really, he’d detoured to Jude’s street in Saughtonhall. Her front door was open. A Scene of Crime van stood kerbside. Someone had been dispatched to the corner shop - the crew were drinking from polystyrene cups and munching on pastries and crisps. He saw just a couple of plain-clothes cops - faces he recognised dimly from visits to Torphichen. No sign of either Billy Giles or Jamie Breck. A neighbour on the opposite side of the road stood watching from her window, arms folded. Fox let his engine idle, knowing there was nothing to be gained from going in. Eventually he signalled back out into the traffic. The drivers were all being polite; didn’t mind braking on his behalf.

    It gave them more time to gawp.

     
     
    ‘My dabs will be all over the place,’ Fox told McEwan. They weren’t in the office: McEwan had found an empty meeting-room. An elliptical table and eight or nine chairs. There was a marker board on a tripod. Three words written there:
    VISIBILITY

    VIABILITY

    VERSATILITY

    Tony Kaye had found the only chair in the room with castors. He was rolling himself backwards from the table, then forward again.

    ‘That’s annoying me,’ McEwan warned him.

    ‘What are we going to do about Bad Billy?’ Kaye asked, still moving.

    ‘He’s DCI Giles to you, Sergeant Kaye - and we’re going to let him do his job.’ He turned his head in Fox’s direction. ‘Isn’t that right, Malcolm?’

    Fox nodded. ‘Only thing we can do. They’ll feel better once they’ve given us a kicking.’

    McEwan gave a sigh. ‘How many times have I told you? PSU has to be above reproach.’

    ‘Like I say, sir, searching the database for Vince Faulkner was my idea.’

    McEwan glared at Fox. ‘That’s a load of balls and you know it. Tony here is the kind who’d decide a protocol could be bent - isn’t that right, Sergeant?’

    ‘Yes, sir,’ Kaye admitted.

    ‘Last night we told Giles something different,’ Fox cautioned.

    ‘Then you