‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Fox said as he approached. ‘You said it was urgent, ma’am.’
Lyon tried for a disappointed look. ‘Another time, Owen? Sorry about this.’
With a glower in Fox’s direction, the HMRC man started to leave.
‘I’ll email you,’ Lyon called out in assurance. Then, lowering her voice so only Fox could hear, ‘Thanks for that. Let’s sit down.’
They did, watching the ebb and flow of officers. One or two gave more than a passing glance, recognising Lyon and wondering who she was with. Lyon played with the lanyards hanging around her neck. Two passes: one a photo ID, the other giving keyless entry to the building’s more secure sections.
‘Is it something to do with the memo?’ Fox nudged.
She shook her head. ‘It’s this Stuart Bloom thing.’ She saw his blank look. ‘I thought you were in Professional Standards at the time?’
‘When are we talking about?’
‘Two thousand and six.’
‘I joined the following year.’
‘His family were still vocal then, and every year since.’
Fox was nodding. ‘The private eye who went missing? Wasn’t their original complaint dismissed?’
‘And every one after. But now it looks like his body has turned up. Questions are going to be asked about how we missed it first time round. Some of the original team didn’t exactly cover themselves in glory, from what I’ve been told.’ She paused, her eyes finally meeting his. ‘I want you to go take a look. You were in the Complaints, you’ll maybe notice what shortcuts were taken. Anything from general sloppiness up to criminal conspiracy — there were always rumours and I’d like to see them quashed.’
‘Wouldn’t I be treading on the toes of the new inquiry?’
‘Is that going to cause you to lose any sleep?’
‘Not at all.’ Fox reacted to her icy tone by sitting up a bit straighter. ‘So I’d go through the original case files...’
‘There’s a bit more to it than that, Malcolm. The family always talked about it being a conspiracy, our lot colluding with the rich and the powerful, leaking stuff to the press to make sure the public saw only one side of the story.’ She broke off, looking to left and right, checking she could not be overheard. All the same, she lowered her voice a little further. ‘We’re not releasing the information just yet, but the victim was handcuffed.’
‘Police issue?’ He watched as she gave the slightest of shrugs. ‘You think cops were involved?’
‘That’s one of the things I want you to think about. Reporting back directly to me. I’ll clear it with the officer in charge. The last thing we need right now is any more crap being tossed in our direction. Media and politicians have more or less scooped the latrine dry.’ When she stopped speaking, Fox saw it suddenly in her eyes: the fatigue from having fought too many bouts, the hope that someone would deal with this and make it all go away.
‘Leave it to me,’ he said.
There was no nod of acknowledgement or smile of thanks. Lyon just got to her feet and strode off towards the relative safety of her own office. Fox sat for a moment longer, then took his phone out and checked the news. The body had been found in Poretoun Woods, south-east of Edinburgh. That meant the MIT’s base would probably be Leith — there were only so many rooms across the country set aside for such operations. His eyes flickered over the story, taking in names and details. If Complaints had been involved, it would have been under the aegis of his predecessor, Ray Hungerford. Ray was still in the land of the living; Fox saw him at retirement parties and funerals. He checked his list of contacts, but there was no number for him.
Lowering the phone, he found himself staring at the door to the Major Crime office. They would be waiting for him to come back, ready for him to tell them he’d had a word with the boss. Instead of which, Fox stood up, pocketed his phone and headed in the direction of the outside world.
It took Fox only a few phone calls to track down Ray Hungerford. He was driving a black taxi these days, apparently, and Fox ordered the cab company to keep him where he was, on a rank on Lothian Road. The drive back into Edinburgh was slowed by roadworks on the M8 and one accident at the junction with a slip road. Fox kept the radio news on, but the media didn’t have much as yet. He listened as Stuart Bloom’s mother was interviewed. She implored anyone with information to come forward. Fox didn’t doubt many would respond to her plea, the vast majority of them attention-seekers or cranks. Some would do it with the best intentions, swamping the inquiry before it had had a chance to establish itself. He couldn’t see the major incident team welcoming him with anything other than impatience and irritation.
‘Just like the old days in the Complaints,’ he muttered to himself as the congestion ahead began to ease. Edinburgh loomed ahead, the castle on its raised volcanic platform visible for miles. Fox felt himself relax a little; he understood the city better than he did Gartcosh. He knew how it worked.
There were three taxis lined up outside the Sheraton Hotel, but one had reversed to the very back of the rank, its flashers on, hire light switched off. Fox pulled up in front of it and got out of his car. As he neared the cab, its passenger-side window slid down.
‘Keeping busy, Ray?’ he enquired.
‘You’ve put on a bit of weight, Malcolm.’
‘Okay if we talk?’
‘What about.’
‘Maybe join me in the back?’
Hungerford kept the engine running so there’d be some heating inside the cab. He settled next to Fox and the two men exchanged a handshake.
‘I’ve turned down three fares, you know,’ Hungerford complained.
‘I appreciate that. Pension not keeping you afloat?’
‘It’s my son’s cab. I’m just in charge while he’s on holiday. Gets me out of the house. You can’t still be Complaints, surely?’
‘Gartcosh these days, Major Crime.’
‘The new Big House, eh?’
‘They’ve got me looking at the Stuart Bloom case,’ Fox revealed.
‘That old chestnut. So it really is him in those woods?’
‘Looks like. The original inquiry wasn’t without its difficulties.’
Hungerford gave him a hard look. ‘Are you working as a diplomat now or something? I was always a fan of plain speaking myself.’
‘Okay then, the original case was pretty much a fuck-up from the start.’
‘There was a good man in charge,’ Hungerford countered. ‘Never heard a bad word about Bill Rawlston.’
‘The officers under him, though...?’
Hungerford puckered his mouth. ‘A prize collection of pricks, incompetents and chancers.’
‘An assessment included in your report, I don’t doubt?’
‘There wasn’t much of a report; everything was hearsay. A handful of officers probably were homophobic. Christ, it used to almost be mandatory. Friends of Bloom’s from the gay scene were hauled in for questioning and not exactly treated with kid gloves. Meantime, you had a good cop in Glasgow who wanted his son kept out of it, even though that son had to be treated as a suspect.’ Hungerford puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. ‘The two moguls meantime...’
‘Jackie Ness and Adrian Brand?’
Hungerford nodded. ‘Usual cock-measuring going on there. They had lawyers crying foul at every opportunity, journalists eager to buy drinks for anyone who might have a story to tell...’
‘Including officers from the investigation?’
‘Undoubtedly. I dare say you’ve done something similar in your time; I know I have. Guy stands you a few nice malts, maybe you start to like him and decide he merits something in return. Some cops used to get off on it — the thrill of seeing a piece in the paper that they’d had a hand in.’