‘Wee chat with Tosh Garioch.’
‘Is he giving you anything?’
‘I doubt he’d give me the smell from his farts – no, tell a lie: in that one respect he’s being more than generous.’
‘Paul Carter’s taking his mates out for a drink tonight.’
‘All of them?’
‘All of them.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s the last thing we’ll glean from the phone tap.’
‘You reckon we should be there?’
‘Pub’s called the Wheatsheaf – why don’t you check it out, see if there’s any chance of us blending in.’
‘They know all our faces.’
‘There’s always the dressing-up box.’
‘Hat and scarf and a pair of glasses?’ Kaye sounded doubtful.
‘Joe’s always been in the background – you and me have done all the talking.’
‘True.’
‘One guy standing at the bar… who’s to know?’
‘Joe might have plans for tonight.’
‘Nothing he can’t cancel.’
Kaye seemed to be thinking it through. ‘Can’t do any harm to give the place the once-over. Soon as I’ve finished with Garioch.’
‘Thanks, Tony.’
‘Listen, one last thing…’
‘Yes?’
‘Your pal Evelyn Mills.’
‘What about her?’
‘She phoned me. I got the feeling she was after some gen on you – relationship status and such.’
‘Thanks for letting me know.’
‘I’m not trying to put you off or anything – quite the opposite.’
‘She’s married, Tony.’
‘Not always a bad thing, Malcolm.’
‘I’m putting the phone down now.’ He could hear Kaye chuckling as he ended the call.
Fox started driving again, not really sure where he was headed. Not for the first five minutes anyway, after which he realised he was on the Kinghorn road. He passed the filling station where Paul Carter had been spotted on the night of the murder. Signalling right, the Volvo climbed the gradient, coming to a stop at the door to the cottage. The field was empty; no vans or patrol cars. With the incident room set up in Kirkcaldy, the team had finished with Gallowhill Cottage, but not before boarding up the window of the living room to deter gawpers. Fox got out and checked, but the door was padlocked and there was no key beneath the flowerpot on the windowsill. He walked to the garage – judging by the outline under the tarpaulin, Francis Vernal’s car was still there. He was starting down the slope again when he heard another vehicle approaching. Paul Carter parked his silver Astra directly behind the Volvo, blocking Fox in.
‘What are you doing here?’ Carter asked, slamming shut his driver’s-side door.
‘Just came for a look,’ was all Fox could come up with.
Carter said nothing to this. He took some keys from his pocket, selected one and undid the padlock, kicking open the door.
‘This all yours now?’ Fox asked.
‘Until they do me for his murder,’ Paul Carter muttered. ‘Nobody’s found a will yet, and I’m next of kin.’ He walked inside, and Fox followed.
‘So what happens to your uncle’s company?’
‘Goes to the wall, I’m guessing – he’s the only one that can sign cheques.’ Carter was looking around the hallway. ‘Hell am I supposed to do with all this?’
‘There are companies who clear houses,’ Fox offered.
‘Bonfire might be a better bet. I could be back inside any day.’
‘Sheriff Cardonald’s still deliberating?’
‘Bastard’s taking his time.’
‘Are you surprised he let you out?’
‘Been better for me if he hadn’t.’ Carter walked into the living room. ‘Place has been given a good going-over,’ he commented.
‘They took my prints,’ Fox admitted.
‘And mine.’
Fox was studying Carter’s face. If he had killed his uncle, would it show as he stood here? Would images from the night flash before him? He looked flustered and fearful, but without remorse or obvious guilt. Fox noticed that the table had been cleared – every scrap of paper had been bagged and removed by the inquiry team. No one, however, had washed the fine spray of blood from the window. Carter opened a drawer – it, too, had been emptied of paperwork; all those neatly kept household bills and bank statements. Carter slid it shut again and stood in the middle of the room, running a hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp.
‘When was the last time you were here?’ Fox asked.
‘Night he died – after Ray phoned me. He wanted to be the one to break the news.’
‘And before that?’
‘Months… maybe a year.’
‘He said you came here drunk one day, spouting off about stuff.’
‘I was in court, remember?’ Carter muttered. ‘I heard it from his own lips.’
‘But he wasn’t lying?’
‘I was off my tits; no idea what I said or didn’t say.’
‘But would that have been the last time you were here?’
‘Yes.’
‘When he made the accusation, you didn’t come back here to ask him why?’
‘What good was that going to do me?’
‘So why do you think he phoned you the evening he died?’
‘No idea.’
‘He hadn’t spoken to you since the trial?’
Carter shook his head. He walked over to the wall next to the fireplace and ran a hand down the uneven wallpaper. ‘Did all this himself, you know. Top to bottom. My dad used to say he was cack-handed.’ He found a join in the paper and slid a finger underneath, tearing it. ‘Cack-handed’s just about right.’
Without uttering another word, he left the room and started climbing the stairs. After a few moments, Fox followed. There were three rooms in the eaves – two bedrooms and a bathroom.
‘Look at this,’ Carter said. He was showing how wallpaper, badly fitted to the ceiling in the main bedroom, was falling off. Then he knocked against a skirting board with the heel of his shoe, showing that nails were missing. The door didn’t close properly, and the knob was loose.
‘Cack-handed,’ he repeated.
Fox saw cracks in the plasterwork, badly fitted windows, loose floorboards. Some of the cupboards were open, showing that Alan Carter’s wife had not bothered taking all her clothes with her when she left him. Had he kept them in the hope that she might come back? And then, after her death, to keep her memory alive? In the bathroom, tiles were missing from the shower, and the bath looked antiquated. Both of the handbasin’s taps dripped. Fox tried not to linger on the dead man’s toiletries: his wet-razor, denture cream, nail scissors.
‘What would you do with the place?’ Carter asked.
‘Same thing your uncle presumably did when he got hold of it – rip it up and start again.’
‘When he first bought it, my dad dragged me along a few times. Dad found it hilarious, the way Uncle Alan thought he was tarting the place up, when he was actually making it worse…’ Carter seemed caught for a moment in the memory, but shook it away. ‘Maybe I should torch the place and collect on any insurance.’
‘Are you sure you should be telling me that?’
Carter managed a smile. He looked washed-out – the interviews had taken their toll; maybe the whispers and stares around town had too.
‘Thing is, I liked him when I was a kid – and I thought he liked me.’
‘I forget, what was his wife called?’
‘Aunt Jessica – you always had to get it right. If you tried “Jess” or “Jessie”, she’d be quick to correct you. Turned out she’d been seeing someone behind Uncle Alan’s back, and that was the end of that.’
‘Did you really make your parents’ lives a misery?’
‘Plenty of nippers do.’
‘But after you’d stopped being a nipper?’
Carter shrugged and moved from the bathroom to the small spare bedroom. This was used for storage, boxes and suitcases piled high.
‘Bonfire,’ he muttered again, before turning towards Fox. ‘I wasn’t so different from anyone else. If he told you I was some sort of monster, he was lying.’
‘He grassed you up,’ Fox stated quietly.
‘Then maybe he’s the monster – you ever considered that?’