Francis Vernal had died on the evening of Sunday, 28 April. That night, a large chunk of the population – Fox included – had been glued to their TV sets as Dennis Taylor faced Steve Davis in the final of the World Snooker Championship. Taylor, eight frames down at one stage, had staged the fightback of his career. When he potted the final black of the final frame, to take the match 18-17, it was the first time he’d been ahead in the entire contest. For the few days afterwards, his face was all over the papers. Vernal’s death rated not a mention, until his obituary appeared, including, on one line, a misprint of his name as Vernel.
‘Couldn’t happen today,’ Fox mused out loud. No internet back then, as Naysmith had said. Rumours could be contained. Even news could be contained. Few enough Woodwards and Bernsteins in the Scottish media at the best of times. Fox could imagine a newspaper editor baulking at reporting details of a suicide: there was the family to consider, and maybe you’d liked the guy, respected him. What good did it do tarnishing his name by letting strangers know how he’d died?
A patriot.
Opening the second box, Fox felt his eyebrows raise a little. Photocopies of the original police notes on the case, along with autopsy details and pictures. Someone had been into the vaults to retrieve this lot, which Alan Carter had then copied and sent to his employer. Had money changed hands, or did Carter still have friends on the force? Where did Fife Constabulary store its old case-work? In Edinburgh, they used a warehouse on an industrial estate. He checked his watch. It would take him a few hours to go through everything. He knew he should take a break. The sound of a message arriving on his phone was timely. Tony Kaye and Joe Naysmith were having a drink at Minter’s.
POETS Day, remember!
Fox smiled to himself: Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday.
It was all the invitation he needed.
19
‘I have to tell you,’ Kaye said as Fox approached the table, ‘you’re in danger of becoming a local hero in Kirkcaldy.’
‘How’s that?’ Fox asked, settling into his seat.
‘They don’t like the Murder Squad muscling in, and so far you’re the only one who’s managed to put those particular noses out of joint.’
‘Is it a murder yet?’
Kaye shook his head as he took a sip of beer. ‘Suspicious death,’ he confirmed. Joe Naysmith returned from the bar with Fox’s spiced tomato juice.
‘Thanks, Joe,’ Fox said. ‘How did you get on at the library?’
‘Eight scrapyards in Fife, six of them still going.’
‘Did you manage to call all six?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get lucky?’
‘Not exactly. One guy I spoke with reckons the job would’ve gone to Barron’s Wrecking.’
‘Can I assume that’s one of the two firms no longer in business?’
Naysmith nodded. ‘The scrapyard’s now a housing estate.’
‘And Mr Barron?’
‘That’s the good news – when he sold up, he got one of the new-builds as part of the deal.’
‘He lives on the estate?’
‘It’s not really an estate – six “executive homes”.’
‘He’s still there?’
‘I’ve not managed to speak to him yet, but I will.’
‘Good lad.’ Fox realised Kaye was giving him a look not too far removed from pity.
‘Wild goose chase,’ Kaye duly commented.
‘How about you, Tony – anything to report?’
Kaye considered his response while he swilled another mouthful of beer. Then he smacked his lips and said: ‘Not much.’ Fox waited for more, and Kaye obliged. ‘Incident room’s been set up in the main CID office, meaning Scholes and Michaelson have been shunted out.’
‘Haldane’s still off sick?’
Kaye nodded. ‘DCI Laird has decided that CID should take up residence in the interview room, leaving Joe and me homeless.’
‘Have you talked to Pitkethly about it?’
‘She wasn’t exactly sympathetic.’ Kaye paused. ‘There is one thing …’
‘What?’ Fox asked.
‘The surveillance,’ Kaye replied. ‘With you kicked into touch, shouldn’t you hook me up with Coco Chanel? Joe and me need to know what she’s hearing from those phone taps.’
‘I’ll check with her,’ Fox said.
Kaye nodded slowly. ‘And what about you, Foxy? Got enough to keep you busy?’
‘I’ll manage.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Kaye had finished his drink and was rising to fetch another. Fox shook his head, and Naysmith said he’d just have a half to top up his own pint. Once Kaye had gone to the bar, Naysmith leaned over towards Fox.
‘Do you need me for anything?’
‘Just keep doing what you’re doing.’
Naysmith nodded. ‘I was thinking about the gun,’ he added.
‘Whose gun?’
‘The one used to kill Francis Vernal.’
‘What about it?’
‘Where did it come from?’
‘I’ve been wondering that myself.’
‘How outrageous would it be if…?’
Fox finished the sentence for Naysmith: ‘It turned out to be the same gun?’ Fox considered this. ‘Pretty outrageous,’ he decided.
‘Any way to find out?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Want me to…?’
Fox shook his head. ‘You’re doing fine as it is.’
‘The car’s the other thing.’ The words were tumbling from Joe Naysmith; Fox had seldom known him so excited. Maybe the youngster was more suited to CID than Complaints. ‘I mean, it was never given a forensic check, was it? And the technology these days is way ahead of what they had back then. If we got it to a lab, who knows what they could find…’
‘Up to and including your prints on the interior,’ Fox reminded him. ‘Which would give you a few awkward questions to answer.’
This reminded Naysmith of something. ‘The stuff I got from the glove box…?’
Fox shrugged. ‘Service history.’
Naysmith looked disappointed, then perked up. ‘Am I right though – about forensics?’
Fox nodded slowly. ‘Let’s see if there’s a case first, though, eh?’
‘The internet has his widow as a prime candidate. Nice-looking woman. Bit younger than him. Came from a rich family.’ Naysmith paused. ‘Still alive?’
‘For now.’
‘Worth talking to?’
‘Maybe.’ Fox wasn’t sure Charles Mangold would like that, but all the same… Kaye was returning with the drinks. Naysmith moved back to his original position.
‘Look at the pair of you,’ Kaye chided them. ‘Like kids plotting something and not wanting the grown-ups to know.’ He placed the fresh glasses on the table. ‘What do you reckon – should we make a night of it, it being Friday?’
‘I’m heading back,’ Fox demurred.
‘Me too,’ Naysmith added.
Kaye sighed, shook his head more in sorrow than in anger, and lifted the pint to his mouth. ‘Pair of sodding kids,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Off you go, then, and remember to do your homework.’
‘We will,’ Naysmith said with a smile.
‘One last thing, though,’ Kaye added with a wag of his finger. ‘Don’t bother to wait up for Daddy.’
Once home, Fox sent a text to Evelyn Mills and sat down at the table again. There was some unopened mail on the windowsill. He hadn’t opened it because it comprised a bank statement and a credit-card bill, and neither would be good news. Fees at the care home had risen twice in the past year. Fox didn’t begrudge them… Well, maybe just a bit. More than once he’d considered asking Jude if she couldn’t look after their dad. It wasn’t as if she had a job. He could pay her, make it worth her while, and he’d still be better off. He wasn’t sure why he kept chickening out. Plenty of hints for her to take… or she could always make the offer herself. Instead, she just nagged at him and said she’d be happy to pay her share if she ever had the money.
You could always take him in…