‘You know she’s kind of busy?’ she had asked, voice heavy with sarcasm.
‘Aren’t we all?’ he had retorted. The look on her face told him he wasn’t making a new friend.
‘Take a seat, Inspector.’
‘Thank you.’
After five minutes, he’d walked up to the desk again, only to be told she hadn’t managed to get through to ‘the Chief’.
A further ten minutes: same story.
He’d been busying himself with his phone: checking for news and e-mails; deleting old messages… and watching the hubbub around him.
Twenty minutes: a shake of the head from the receptionist.
Same thing at the half-hour mark.
And then the journalists had arrived, camera crews in tow. They had to be allocated visitor passes and shown where the news conference was happening. Fox decided to queue up with them. The receptionist gave him a questioning look.
‘Thought it might pass the time,’ he explained. So he too filled in his details and was handed a pass and a laminate sleeve with a clip on the back. He fixed it to his jacket and followed the herd.
The large conference room was bursting at the seams. Fox realised there was some sort of unspoken arrangement, whereby the most senior journalists were saved seats at the front. His own TV reporter was there, next to the aisle. Chairs had been laid out in rows. Some looked to have been requisitioned from the canteen, others from offices. A young woman in plain clothes was handing out a press release. People got busy on their phones, texting the salient points to their newsrooms and studios. She gave Fox a look that told him she knew most of the media representatives but not him. He just smiled and relieved her of another copy of the release.
Three arrests, no charges as yet.
If needed, extra time in custody would be sought under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.
Material found at the scene was being examined.
Fox was still reading when the Chief Constable brushed past him and made her way down the aisle towards a table festooned with microphones. The cameras got busy and the audience switched their phones to ‘record’ mode. Alison Pears was flanked by her Deputy Chief Constable and a DCI who had nominally been put in charge of the case. She cleared her throat and began to read from a prepared statement. Fox could smell her perfume. It lingered where she had pushed past him. Tony Kaye would be able to place it, but Fox couldn’t. He felt a hand touch his forearm. Turning, he saw DCI Jackson standing in the doorway. Jackson’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing. The unspoken question was clear.
What the hell are you doing here?
Fox gave him a wink and turned to concentrate on Pears’s closing remarks. There were questions from the seats. Again Fox saw a hierarchy at work: if a hand went up from the front row, Pears would go there first. She had been well briefed: knew what would be asked and had her answers ready.
Were the suspects local?
What nationality?
Did anything tie them to the blasts near Lockerbie and Peebles?
Pears gave away precious little, but did so while appearing open and friendly. Once or twice she batted a question to the DCI, who was gruffer and less gifted but also knew what to say and what not to say. Jackson was tugging at Fox’s arm again, gesturing towards the corridor, but Fox shook his head. As the press conference broke up, Pears led her small delegation back towards the door, fending off a slew of questions with a pleasant smile and a wave of the hand.
She wasn’t looking at Fox as she made to pass him, but he stepped in front of her.
‘Care to make a statement about Francis Vernal?’ he asked.
Her eyes drilled into him, face frozen.
‘Who?’
‘Nice try, Alice,’ he responded. The DCI placed a hand on Fox’s chest, clearing the route. Fox took a step back, apologising to the cub reporter whose toes he managed to squash. Pears was out of the room, stalking down the corridor. Jackson had caught up with her, but she was saying something to her own DCI. He peeled off and approached Fox, handing him a card.
‘Put your mobile number on there,’ he growled.
‘I’ve already been waiting a while.’
‘She’ll get back to you.’
Fox scribbled down his number and the DCI snatched the card back. As the man left, it seemed to be Jackson’s turn.
‘What are you trying to do?’ he muttered, his mouth close to Fox’s ear so no one else could hear.
‘You’ve got your case, I’ve got mine.’
‘You’re the Complaints, not some fucking Simon Schama.’
‘History seems to have a funny way of repeating itself.’
Jackson glowered at him. The journalists were comparing notes, or on their phones, or preparing themselves for their pieces to camera. But they kept glancing over towards the two men, too, recognising at least one of them from the site of the Kippen explosion.
‘Leave it be,’ Jackson urged in a fierce undertone.
‘I need some time with her.’
‘Why?’
Fox shook his head slowly. ‘Maybe afterwards,’ he offered.
‘You’re a bastard, Fox. Really and truly.’
‘Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘Trust me, it’s not meant as one, not in the slightest.’
Jackson turned and headed back down the corridor. The young woman who had handed out the press releases was ushering everyone from the room. She had been joined by an assistant, ensuring that no one wandered off on their own.
‘Linda says she’s not seen you before,’ the assistant informed Fox.
‘Temporary assignment,’ he explained.
‘Me too. I’m usually Community Liaison.’ She looked around her. ‘Makes a change, I suppose.’
Fox nodded his agreement, and followed everyone else back to reception.
Alison Pears had his number; all he could do was wait. He drove into Stirling, and started seeing signs pointing him towards the Wallace Monument. He could see it in the distance, a single Gothic-looking tower atop a hill. He tried to remember what he knew about Wallace. Like every other Scot, he’d watched Braveheart, won over by it. Stirling Bridge was the battle Wallace had won against the English invaders. Having no other plan, Fox kept following the signposts, eventually turning into a car park. A couple of single-decker buses sat idling, awaiting the return of their tour parties. Fox got out of the Volvo and wandered into the Legends cafe. He was recalling more snippets of information about Wallace, mostly about his life’s excruciating end. There was an information desk, and the woman behind it told him it cost?7.75 to visit the monument.
‘Seven seventy-five?’ he queried.
‘There’s an audiovisual presentation – and Wallace’s sword.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Well, you can climb to the top of the tower.’
‘The hill looks pretty steep.’
‘There’s a free bus to the top.’
‘Free if I pay seven seventy-five?’ Fox pretended to be thinking about it. ‘Is the statue still there? The one that looks like Mel Gibson?’
‘It’s been moved to Brechin,’ she replied, a little coolness entering her voice.
Fox smiled to let her know he wasn’t going to become a customer. Instead, he saved five pounds by settling for peppermint tea in Legends, where he had a good view of the hillside and the memorial above it. Wallace was reckoned a patriot: could the same really be said of Francis Vernal? Had he been justified – that word MacIver had wanted to debate – in his stance and his actions? And what would either of them make of the Scotland where Fox found himself: was this the same country they had fought for and lost their lives for? There were visitors in the shop next to the reception desk. They were debating the purchase of beach towels made to look like kilts. Theirs was probably a romantic Scotland of glens and castles, Speyside malts and eightsome reels. Other Scotlands were available if you cared to check, and at least as many people these days favoured looking forward to the longing glance back at the nation left behind. The tables around him were filling up. He didn’t bother pouring a second cup from the teapot. As he was returning to his car, his phone rang. But it wasn’t Alison Pears.