‘Yes, sir.’
McEwan stared at him hard, then turned his attention back to Kaye and Naysmith. ‘Off you go, then.’
Kaye didn’t need telling twice, steering Naysmith out of the door ahead of him.
‘What’s going on, Malcolm?’ McEwan asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Who’s under surveillance?’
‘Scholes,’ Fox admitted. ‘But with Paul Carter a murder suspect, we’re pulling it.’
‘This is a simple enough procedure: three interviews, three reports.’
‘These things have a way of growing, Bob – you know that yourself.’
There was a finger pointing at Fox again. ‘A simple enough procedure,’ McEwan repeated, laying equal stress on each word. ‘If that has somehow changed, I need to know the why and the what – understood?’
‘Understood, sir.’
Fox knew he had only to bide his time. The two men settled at their desks and worked in silence. When Fox got up to make more coffee, McEwan refused his offer, which told Fox that he was still in the bad books. Forty-five minutes later, McEwan checked his watch and sighed, making to rise from his chair.
Another planning meeting.
‘Got enough to keep you busy?’ McEwan asked.
‘Always,’ Fox replied.
McEwan found the paperwork, but then had to come back because he’d left his phone charging beside one of the sockets. When he’d left for a second time, Fox got up and went to the doorway, checking that the corridor was empty. He closed the door and returned to his desk, picking up the phone and placing a call to Portugal. When a woman answered, he told her he wanted to speak to Mr Hendryson.
‘Is that you, Andrew?’
‘My name’s Fox – I’m phoning from Edinburgh.’
‘Just a minute, then,’ she trilled. He could hear her placing the phone on a solid surface and then calling out for her husband.
‘Rab! You’ve a call from the old country!’
It was a few moments before anything happened. Fox was trying to visualise the scene: a view of a mirror-flat blue bay, perhaps. Wooden decking with recliner chairs. The retired superintendent in flip-flops and baggy shorts. Maybe there was a golf course nearby, and an ex-pat golfing buddy called Andrew whose voice sounded a bit like Fox’s…
‘Robert Hendryson,’ a voice said as the phone was picked up again.
‘Mr Hendryson, my name’s Malcolm Fox – I’m an Inspector at Lothian and Borders Police.’
‘I know who you are.’
‘Oh?’
‘Pitkethly told me.’
‘Did she now?’
‘She used to call me a lot when she first took over. Finding her feet, but not always able to locate the key to a cupboard or some requisition form.’
‘And she’s still in touch?’
‘She wanted to let me know about Alan Carter.’
‘You knew him, then?’
‘A little. He was CID and I wasn’t – you’ll know yourself there’s a tribalism there. Plus Alan was retired before I took over at Kirkcaldy.’
‘So what did Superintendent Pitkethly tell you?’
‘Just that the Complaints were in town, led by someone called Fox. All that business about Paul Carter…’
‘You’d have known him better than his uncle,’ Fox stated.
‘Paul could be a handful, Inspector. But he got results – and I never heard a bad word about him until I was nearly retired.’
‘But when the allegation was made, did you ever doubt his innocence?’
‘Innocent until proven guilty,’ Hendryson recited. Then: ‘Is that what this is about?’ He considered for a moment, and answered his own question. ‘Of course it is. You want to know if CID really did cover up for Paul. Maybe you think it went beyond CID – the whole station, eh?’
‘Not at all, sir.’
‘I don’t need to speak to you, you know.’ The voice was growing irritated. ‘I can put the phone down right now.’
Fox waited for Hendryson to draw breath. When he did, Fox uttered a name and waited again.
‘What?’ Hendryson said, bemused by the switch.
‘Gavin Willis,’ Fox repeated. ‘I was wondering what you could tell me about him. Nothing to be afraid of – he’s been dead for years.’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Simple curiosity. Alan Carter is dead, and the two of them seem to have been very close.’
‘What has any of that got to do with the Complaints?’
‘It’s a fair question, sir. Paul Carter’s looking a likely candidate for his uncle’s murder. I happen to be in a minority – I don’t think he did it. So I’m trying to build up a picture of Alan Carter’s life, hoping it might help me understand why he died.’
Hendryson spent some time mulling this over. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, ‘I can see that. The thing is, I barely knew the man, and never as a serving officer.’
‘How, then?’
‘There were get-togethers sometimes – reunions, I suppose you’d say, though it might just be a few drinks one night after work.’
‘What was he like?’
‘A big, no-nonsense guy – the sort of cop we used to treasure. Knew everyone in the town, and if something happened he’d have a pretty good instinct who was to blame. Graffiti on a wall or a stone through a window… more likely than not, justice would be dispensed on the spot.’
Fox thought of a phrase Alan Carter had used: the backlands, where things tend to get fixed on the quiet… ‘A slap around the ear?’ he guessed.
‘As and when needed – and no bleeding-heart liberals to cry foul. We’d be better off if that was still the case.’
‘Is that why you emigrated?’
‘Wife wanted a bit of sun on her face,’ Hendryson explained. ‘But you have to admit, policing’s got a lot harder.’
‘We’re more accountable,’ Fox countered.
‘Being the Complaints, you’d think that a good thing, of course.’
Fox didn’t want to get into an argument, so instead he asked how close Willis had been to Alan Carter.
‘Like teacher and star pupil. From the minute Alan joined CID, Gavin was there to see him right.’
‘Did they work together on the Francis Vernal case?’
Hendryson took a moment to place the name. ‘The lawyer? Smashed his car and topped himself?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘What case are we talking about?’
‘I just meant the crash site… collecting evidence and what have you.’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Did you know anything about the deceased’s car?’
‘What is there to know?’
‘Willis seems to have salvaged it from the scrapyard. It’s been sitting in his garage all these years.’
‘News to me, Inspector.’
‘Now that I’ve told you, what do you think?’
‘I’m retired – I don’t think anything.’
‘Bit of luck, wasn’t it, sir? You leaving the force just as all this was about to break.’
‘All what? Paul Carter, you mean?’
‘For starters. Alan Carter came to you, and you decided to take it to your own Complaints people…’
‘Yes?’
‘No thought of brushing it under the carpet?’
‘Alan wouldn’t hear of it. He wanted an inquiry.’
‘Or?’
‘Or he’d talk to the newspapers.’
‘Even so, the local Complaints didn’t get very far, did they?’
‘Not until that woman changed her mind.’
‘Teresa Collins?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why do you think she decided to speak up?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Alan Carter can’t have been too happy when the original investigation drew a blank.’
There was silence on the line, interrupted only by a crackle of static.
‘Is there anything else?’ Hendryson’s voice eventually responded.
‘When did Gavin Willis die?’
‘Nineteen eighty-six. Towards the end of January. Keeled over in the street one day. Heart attack.’
‘And Alan Carter snapped up the cottage?’
‘What if he did?’ Hendryson waited, but Fox had no answer worth giving. ‘Are we done here?’
‘Just you go and enjoy the sunshine while you still can,’ Fox told the man, ending the conversation.
27
He had parked his Volvo on the street outside the police station. Sergeant Alec Robinson looked to left and right as he crossed the car park, and craned his neck to make sure there were no witnesses at the windows. He got into the passenger seat without ceremony.