‘That’s it.’ Her phone was ringing again. She made an exasperated sound and picked the receiver up. Fox considered his options, gave a little bow in her direction, and headed for the lifts.
Downstairs, he got a plastic bottle of Irn-Bru from the vending machine. No sugar tomorrow, he promised himself, heading outside. The sky overhead was black. Fox knew there was nothing for him to do now but drive home. He wondered if the budget for the investigation might stretch to a local hotel room. He’d spotted a place behind the railway station, not far from the park and the football ground. It would save the commute next morning – but then what would he do with himself the rest of tonight? Italian restaurant… maybe a pub… There were some ambulances parked up outside the hospital entrance. A couple of green-uniformed paramedics were shooing Brian Jamieson away. The reporter held up his hands in surrender and turned away, pressing his phone to his ear.
‘All I know is, he tried blowing his brains out. Can’t have been much of a shot, because he was still alive on the way here. Not so sure now, though…’ Jamieson saw that he was about to pass Malcolm Fox. ‘Hang on a sec,’ he said into the phone. It seemed he was about to share the news, but Fox stopped him.
‘I heard,’ he said.
‘Hellish thing.’ Jamieson was shaking his head. His eyes were wide and unblinking, brain racing.
‘Many guns in Kirkcaldy?’ Fox asked.
‘Might have been a farmer. They keep guns, don’t they?’ He saw that Fox was looking at him. ‘It was outside town,’ he explained. ‘Somewhere off the Burntisland road.’
Fox tried to stop himself looking interested. ‘Got a name for the victim?’
Jamieson shook his head and glanced back towards the paramedics. ‘I’ll get one, though.’ He offered Fox the same self-confident smile as before. ‘Just you watch me.’
Fox did watch him. Watched him make for the doors to the hospital, the phone to his ear again. Only when he had disappeared inside did Fox walk quickly towards his own car.
The police cordon was at the junction of the main road and the track to Alan Carter’s cottage. Fox felt acid gathering somewhere between his stomach and his throat. He cursed under his breath, pulled in to the side of the road and got out. The parked patrol car had its roof lights on, strobing the night with a cold, electric blue. The solitary uniform was trying to tie crime-scene tape between the posts either side of the track. The wind had whipped one end of the roll from his grasp and he was fighting to control it. Fox already had his warrant card out.
‘Inspector Fox,’ he told the uniform. Then: ‘Before you do that, I need to get past.’
He returned to his car and watched the uniform move the patrol car forward, leaving space for Fox’s Volvo to squeeze through. Fox offered a wave and started the slow climb uphill.
There were lights on in the cottage and just the one car outside, Carter’s own Land Rover. As Fox closed the door of the Volvo, he heard a voice call out:
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Ray Scholes was standing in the doorway, hands in pockets.
‘Is it Alan Carter?’ Fox asked.
‘What if it is?’
‘I was out here yesterday.’
‘Regular bloody Jonah, then, aren’t you?’
‘What happened?’ Fox was standing directly in front of Scholes, peering past him into the hallway.
‘Had a good go at topping himself.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘If I lived out here, I might do the same.’ Scholes sniffed the air, looked at Fox again, and relented, turning and heading indoors.
Fox himself hesitated. ‘Don’t we need…?’ He looked down at Scholes’s feet.
‘Not a crime scene, is it?’ Scholes answered, walking into the living room. ‘Cordon’s just to stop weirdos drifting up here for a gawp. Thing I’m wondering is, what are we going to do about the dog?’
Fox had reached the doorway of the living room. The fire had been reduced to a few embers. To the left of it, Jimmy Nicholl lay panting in his basket, eyes open just a fraction. Fox crouched down and stroked the old dog’s head and back.
‘No note,’ Scholes commented, popping a strip of chewing gum into his mouth. ‘Not that I can see, anyway.’ He waved a hand across the dining table. ‘Hard to tell with all this mess…’
Mess.
Papers strewn everywhere, removed from their folders. Crumpled, some torn into strips, others swept to the floor. Those left on the table were spotted with blood, a darker pool where Carter had been seated on his chair.
‘Gun?’ Fox said quietly, his mouth dry.
Scholes nodded towards the table. It was half-hidden beneath a magazine. Looked to Fox’s untrained eye like an old-style revolver.
‘How was he when you spoke to him?’ Scholes asked.
‘He seemed fine.’
‘Until you came calling, eh?’
Fox ignored this. ‘Who found him?’
‘Pal of his. Makes the regular walk from Kinghorn. They neck a few glasses of whisky and off he toddles. Only today he comes waltzing in and finds this. Poor old bastard…’
Fox wanted to sit down, but couldn’t. He didn’t know why; it just felt wrong. Scholes’s phone rang. He listened for a moment, gave a grunt, then ended the call.
‘Died in the ambulance,’ he said.
The two men fell silent. The only sound was the dog’s laboured breathing.
‘The pair of you talked about Paul?’ Scholes asked eventually.
Fox ignored the question. ‘Where’s this pal now?’
‘Michaelson’s running him home.’ Scholes checked his watch. ‘Wish he’d hurry up – there’s a beer waiting for me in the pub.’
‘You knew Alan Carter – doesn’t it bother you?’
Scholes continued chewing the gum as he met Fox’s eyes. ‘It bothers me,’ he said. ‘What is it you want to see – wailing and gnashing of teeth? Should I be waving my fist at the skies? He was a cop…’ He paused. ‘Then he wasn’t. And now he’s dead. Good luck to him, wherever he is.’
‘He was also Paul Carter’s uncle.’
‘That he was.’
‘And the first complainant.’
‘Maybe that’s why he did it – an overwhelming sense of guilt. We can play the amateur psychology game all night if you like. Except here’s my lift.’
Fox heard it too: engine noise as a car approached the cottage.
‘What are you going to do?’ he asked. ‘Just shut the place up?’
‘I wasn’t planning on bunking down. We’ve had a look and seen what’s to be seen – uniforms can take it from here.’
‘And next of kin…?’
Scholes shrugged. ‘Might even be Paul.’
‘Have you told him?’
Scholes nodded. ‘He’ll be here.’
‘How did he sound when you told him?’
There was silence in the room as Scholes stared at Fox. ‘Why don’t you just piss off back to Edinburgh? Because if I were you, I wouldn’t be here when Paul arrives.’
‘But you’re not staying? I thought he was your mate.’
Scholes cocked his head, having obviously just thought of something. ‘Hang on a sec – what are you doing here in the first place?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Is that right?’ Scholes raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll make sure to put that in the report.’ He paused. ‘Underlined. In bold.’
Gary Michaelson was standing on the threshold of the room, glaring at Fox. ‘Thought there was a bad smell,’ he said. Then, to Scholes: ‘What’re you doing letting him tramp all over a crime scene?’
‘A what?’
‘Carter’s pal says he’d never have done himself in. Says they’d talked about it, what they’d do if they ever got cancer or something. Carter told the guy he’d cling on for dear life.’
‘Something changed his mind,’ Scholes speculated.
‘And there’s another thing – pal says he’d’ve known if Carter owned a gun. Something else they talked about – shooting the seagulls for the noise they made.’ Michaelson looked towards the basket. ‘What are we doing about the dog?’
‘You want it?’ Scholes asked. ‘Do we even know its name?’
‘Jimmy Nicholl,’ Fox said. ‘He’s called Jimmy Nicholl.’
The dog’s ears pricked up.