‘The door wasn’t locked?’
‘No barking when I knocked. Thought they must be out on a walk, even though the dog could only manage a few yards at a time without its back legs giving way. So I was expecting the door to be locked.’ He seemed to remember something. ‘In fact, it wasn’t even closed properly. That’s right… when I knocked, it opened a wee bit.’
‘I suppose,’ Fox said, playing devil’s advocate, ‘if he’d planned to do what he did, he might leave the door open so he could be found.’
Fraser considered this notion, but then dismissed it with a snort. ‘You know I’m looking after Jimmy Nicholl? It’s the least I could do. Alan doted on that hound – and you’re telling me he wouldn’t have taken Jimmy to a vet’s before doing away with himself?’ He screwed up his face.
‘Can I ask you something else, Mr Fraser?’
‘I’m Teddy, son. Everybody calls me Teddy.’
‘I was just wondering what he was working on – all those papers on his table.’
‘Ancient history.’
‘Nineteen eighty-five’s not that ancient.’
‘To some people it is. I’ll prove it to you right here.’ Fraser paused, readying himself to gauge Fox’s reaction. He clasped his hands together, then mentioned a name.
‘You’ve got me,’ Fox conceded after a moment. ‘Who’s Francis Vernal?’
‘You’d do better finding out for yourself.’
‘Why was Mr Carter so interested in him?’
‘I’m not sure he was – not at first.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Alan was a copper back then – that’s why he got the job.’
‘Someone was paying him to look back at 1985? Was this some case he’d worked on?’
Fraser dug a bony finger into Fox’s chest, stabbing out a beat to his next words. ‘Better – finding – out – for – yourself.’
Having said which, he gave a little bow, turned, and started walking away at a brisker pace than Fox had foreseen. It actually hurt where the little man had poked him. He rubbed the spot with the heel of his hand. Back inside, the desk sergeant was lying in wait.
‘Come here, you,’ he said from the other side of the desk. Fox walked up to him. ‘You’ve not been pestering Teddy, I hope?’
‘He gave as good as he got. I take it you know him?’
‘Donkey’s years.’
‘And you knew Alan Carter, too?’
‘Served with him.’ The desk sergeant puffed out his chest. ‘One of the old school…’
‘I got the same feeling, the one time we met. I’m sorry.’
The muscles in the sergeant’s face twitched.
‘I don’t even know your name,’ Fox apologised further.
‘Robinson. Alec Robinson.’
Fox held out his hand, and after the briefest of hesitations Robinson took it.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Fox said, causing the man to smile.
‘Sorry if I seemed to give you such a hard time,’ the sergeant responded. ‘You know what it’s like…’
‘I’ve had worse, trust me.’ Fox paused. ‘But can I ask you this – did you see much of Alan Carter in his later years?’
‘Not really. Maybe at the football or a reunion…’
‘He liked to keep busy, though, eh?’
‘Built that company of his from scratch.’ Robinson sounded impressed, so Fox nodded his agreement.
‘The day I saw him, he was still busy,’ he informed the sergeant.
‘Oh?’
‘All that work he was doing on Francis Vernal.’
Robinson’s face stiffened.
‘Care to shed some light?’
‘I’m not the one to talk to,’ Robinson eventually confided.
‘Then who is?’
‘These days?’ Robinson pondered his answer. ‘Probably no one…’
Back in the interview room, Fox pointed at Joe Naysmith.
‘I need you to do something for me. Got a laptop with you?’
‘No.’
‘Well there must be a spare computer somewhere around here.’
‘What is it you need?’
‘An internet search.’
‘My phone can do that.’
‘Can it print, though?’ When Naysmith shook his head, Fox told him that only a computer would do.
‘What am I searching for?’
‘Francis Vernal.’
‘You mean the lawyer?’ Tony Kaye said. Fox turned towards him. ‘Died in a car smash back in the eighties.’
‘Go on.’
Kaye gave a shrug. ‘I was only a kid…’ He paused. ‘Come to think of it, didn’t he shoot himself?’
‘Before or after he crashed the car?’
Kaye shrugged again, and Fox turned his attention back to Naysmith, who took the hint and started to leave.
‘What’s this about?’ Kaye asked as the door closed behind Naysmith.
‘Something Alan Carter was working on.’
‘And what’s that got to do with us?’
‘Maybe nothing…’
‘Maybe nothing? I thought you were bringing us back Ray Scholes – Joe got the camera ready and everything.’
Fox noticed the tripod for the first time. The audio recorder was on the table, flanked by microphones.
‘He says he’s busy.’
‘Whoopee for him. Let’s all take a holiday until he deigns to grace us with his presence.’
‘The two women,’ Fox said. ‘Why don’t you go talk to them?’
‘You trying to get rid of me?’
‘I thought you were keen?’
‘I suppose it beats sitting here watching the cogs whir inside that head of yours.’
‘Well then…’
‘But first you need to tell me what’s going on.’
‘Nothing’s going on. A guy died, I liked him, his front room was like a shrine to someone called Francis Vernal.’
‘And you want to know why?’
‘And I want to know why.’ Fox paused, eyes boring into those of his colleague and friend. ‘Good enough for you?’
‘Anything for a quiet life.’ Kaye was rising from his chair, easing his arms back into the sleeves of his suit jacket. ‘Do I take Junior with me?’
‘If you need him.’
‘Isn’t he busy on a little job for you?’
‘It can wait.’
‘And while we’re out there on the mean streets, you’ll be doing what exactly?’
‘Checking on the surveillance… telling McEwan about the suicide… trying to pin Ray Scholes down – I won’t be slacking.’
‘Okay.’ Kaye nodded slowly. ‘But we’ll miss you, you know that. Hell, we might even send you a postcard.’
12
It wasn’t Fox’s fault that Evelyn Mills wasn’t answering her phone. The same was true of Bob McEwan – while Ray Scholes had gone AWOL. Fox found himself back in the police station’s reception area, staring at one of the notices on the wall. It was an advert for a local cab company. Five minutes later, he was in the passenger seat of a dented white Hyundai. The driver was keen to learn more about the suicide, but Fox offered him nothing. The cordon had been removed and there was no activity outside the cottage itself. The driver asked if he wanted him to wait.
‘Good idea.’
The man turned off the engine. He looked to be readying to get out of the car, but Fox stopped him.
‘Nothing to see,’ he stated.
So the driver switched the radio on, modern dance music sound-tracking Fox as he made for the front door.
It was locked.
He made a circuit around the house, but there was no back door. He peered in through the living-room window. There were flecks of blood on the insides of a couple of the panes. Fox’s fingers brushed a small plant pot balanced on the outside ledge. He lifted it and saw a key lying there. Either a spare, or left by the police. He unlocked the door and went inside.
Jimmy Nicholl’s basket was no longer in the living room. Fox wondered if he should have asked Teddy Fraser how the dog was doing. Didn’t pets often pass away soon after their owners? The room smelled of woodsmoke. The remains of a charred log sat in the grate, a fine layer of ash coating the top of the mantelpiece. Fox started leafing through the paperwork on the table. Sure enough, the news clippings related to the life and death of Francis Vernal. One lengthy story was headlined ‘The Inner Turmoil of the Activist Patriot’. It looked to Fox as though the media at the time had soon switched their focus from eulogies to something meatier: the dead man’s private life. There was a blurry photo of his attractive wife, and mention of Vernal’s ‘heavy-drinking lifestyle and string of affairs’. The same photo of the lawyer had been picked up by several newspapers. He was addressing a Scottish National Party rally. It was outside a factory earmarked for closure. Vernal was in full flow, one hand bunched into a fist, mouth open wide, teeth bared. Fox glanced through the window to check that the cab-driver was still in his car. He was whistling and had opened a newspaper.