‘You reckon her for a Mata Hari?’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ Fox was lying along the sofa, the TV remote in his free hand. He flicked to a news channel, keeping the sound muted. ‘Did you hear about Stirling?’
‘Sounds like a copycat to me – these nutters see it on TV and think: I could do that; stir things up a bit.’
‘The brass seemed to be taking it seriously enough.’
There was silence on the line while Tony Kaye digested this. ‘What were you doing there?’
‘Looking for DCI Jackson.’
‘The guy from Special Branch?’
‘I had something I needed to ask him.’
‘This is Vernal, isn’t it? You’re still digging?’
‘And I think I’m hitting a few worms, too. According to Jackson, the spooks had nothing to do with Vernal’s death. But Donald MacIver says there was a chunk of cash hidden in the car boot. Thirty to forty grand’s worth.’
‘Who the hell’s Donald MacIver?’
‘He led one of the splinter groups at the time.’
‘And where is he now?’
Fox hesitated before answering. ‘Carstairs.’
‘You’ve been to Carstairs?’
‘Had to be done, Tony.’
‘Was he in a straitjacket?’
‘Bit high-strung, but coherent with it.’
‘And you believe him about the money?’
‘Yes.’
Kaye seemed to think for a moment. ‘Then Gavin Willis got it,’ he surmised.
‘And did what with it?’ Fox countered. ‘Plus, how would he have known it was there?’ But of course there was every chance Willis might have known – guns exchanged for cash, maybe at dead of night in a deserted car park…
‘More questions than answers, Malcolm,’ Tony Kaye was saying. ‘Mind if I give you a word of advice?’
‘You’re going to tell me to drop it.’
‘Something like that, yes. Hand the whole lot over to CID – not Fife necessarily; there’s got to be someone in Edinburgh you can give it to.’
‘Just when I’m starting to enjoy myself?’
‘Is that what you’re doing?’ Kaye gave a sigh. ‘You’ve not got anything to prove, Malcolm. To me or the High Hiedyins or anyone else.’ He paused for a moment. ‘At least take a night off – go see a film or something.’
‘I should visit Mitch.’
‘Except that’s not exactly a night off, is it? Bound to be a Jason Statham playing somewhere.’
‘Lots of explosions and cars getting wrecked? Those’ll help me feel the benefit, will they?’
‘Don’t just sit there stewing – that’s all I’m saying.’
Fox thanked Kaye and ended the call. He didn’t fancy going out for dinner, not on his own again. He looked online and saw that the Filmhouse was showing The Maltese Falcon. For five minutes, he told himself he would go.
Then he drove to Lauder Lodge to see his father instead.
Mitch was drowsy. There was whisky on his breath, and though seated in his chair, he was already in his pyjamas. Fox checked his watch: it wasn’t even eight o’clock. He sat opposite his father for over an hour, sifting through the photographs from the shoebox, concentrating on cousin Chris, Jude as a toddler, and Fox’s own mother. He would glance at his sleeping father from time to time, the mouth slightly open, chest rising and falling.
We played football, you and me: you wanted me to be a goalie – less chance of an injury, you said. And you sat with me night after night as I tried learning my times tables. You laughed at bad TV sitcoms and shouted at refereeing mistakes, as if they could hear you from behind the glass screen. On Remembrance Sunday you stood to attention for the minute’s silence. You were never much good in the kitchen, but always made Mum a cup of tea before bed. She wanted two sugars but you only ever added one, telling her she was sweet enough already.
And look – there’s Jude on a donkey at Blackpool beach. You’re walking beside her, making sure she’s safe. You’ve rolled the legs of your trousers up, a concession to the sunshine. You saved all year for the summer holiday, a little bit out of each week’s pay packet.
Are you happy with the way we’ve turned out?
Will you ever stop worrying about us?
So many of the photographs showed faces Fox didn’t know, none of them still alive. Moments in time captured but also flattened. You could see the beach, but not feel its salty heat. You could study the smiles and the eyes above those smiles, but not see beyond them to the hopes and fears, ambitions and betrayals.
When a member of staff opened the door, it took Fox a moment to realise anyone was there.
‘We should be getting your father into bed,’ she said.
Fox nodded his agreement. ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ he said quietly.
But she shook her head. ‘Regulations,’ she explained. ‘Got to stick to the script, or they’ll have my head on a block.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Fox replied, starting to put the photographs away.
On his way home, he stopped at a fish-and-chip shop and bought a haggis supper. While he waited for a fresh batch of chips, he stood at the counter and stared at the TV. The Scottish news was on: the press conference from earlier. Flashes going off and the Chief Constable, Alison Pears, reading from a prepared statement, taking a couple of questions afterwards. She had tidied her hair and was wearing regulation uniform. She seemed to speak calmly and authoritatively, though he couldn’t hear any of it above the sizzle of the deep-fat fryer. The report cut to the car park at Kippen and the same reporter Fox had seen earlier. Live from the scene, according to the on-screen banner. There were fewer vehicles now that night had fallen, and no barking dog to mess things up. The reporter held one of those big fluffy microphones in front of him. It was starting to drizzle, rainwater dotting the camera lens. The reporter was trying to look both knowledgeable and interested, but Fox could sense fatigue in his unblinking gaze. He seemed to get a question in his earpiece and nodded before starting to answer. The director cut to a blurry photo of the bomb crater. It looked to have been taken with a mobile phone, presumably snapped by a member of the public before the area could be cordoned off. A second picture followed, this time showing a close-up of one of the trees with the metal shards embedded there.
‘Bloody hellish thing,’ the proprietor of the chip shop said. He sounded Polish to Fox, but it could have been Bosnian, Romanian – just about anywhere really. Fox was not exactly an expert. On another night, he might have asked, just out of curiosity.
But not tonight.
Back home, he ate on the sofa, and caught the press conference again. When it cut to the studio, the presenter had some news.
‘Police confirmed just a short time ago that they are working on a definite line of inquiry. And we’ll keep you up to date as that story progresses. Now all the latest sport with Angela…’
Fox must have dozed off at some point, because he woke up stretched along the sofa with his shoes still on and the half-empty plate resting on his chest. The food was cold and unappetising. He could smell sauce on his fingers, and went to the kitchen to dump the remnants of the meal into the pedal bin and wash his hands in the sink. He returned to the sofa with a mug of tea and found himself face to face with Chief Constable Pears again. They had gone to her live as she stood on what he guessed were the steps of Central Scotland Force HQ – presumably in Stirling itself. She had to push the hair out of her face as the wind gusted around her. She had no statement this time, but still sounded coolly professional. Fox was blinking the sleep out of his eyes. When she stopped speaking and listened to a journalist’s question, she jutted her chin out a little. Fox tried to think who it was she reminded him of – Jude maybe; the jutting chin denoting concentration. But it wasn’t Jude.
It was a photograph.
Fox hauled his laptop on to the sofa and punched her name into the search engine.
Alison Pears was one of only two female Chief Constables in Scotland. She was married to the financier Stephen Pears. Fox knew that name. Pears was in the papers a lot, pulling off deals and seemingly keeping the straitened financial sector afloat in Scotland. He found photos of the couple – had to admit, the Chief Constable scrubbed up well, and filled a little black dress with easy glamour. On the TV, however, she was fighting the elements and dressed in the same uniform as before. The rain was coming at her near-horizontally. The ticker tape along the bottom of the screen read: Three arrests in bomb scare.