‘Fuck the lot of you,’ he growled, pushing past Tony Kaye and hauling open the door.
But only after snatching the business card from Kaye’s hand.
37
At lunchtime, Fox drove home. The tests on his father had so far proved inconclusive. It still looked like a stroke, but they wouldn’t know more until Mitch regained consciousness.
‘Can’t you make him?’ Jude had asked. ‘A shot of adrenaline or something?’
There had been some more tears, and the consultant had suggested that a break from the hospital might be an idea. Fox had offered to drive her, but she’d insisted she would take the bus.
‘This is just stupid,’ he had made the mistake of telling her. ‘Are you going to be like this the rest of your days?’ She’d aimed a swipe at his face and stormed off. He had passed her in his car, standing in the bus shelter, arms folded, angry at the whole world.
He made good time and parked outside his house just before one. As he was getting out of the car, his phone rang: Tony Kaye.
‘How did it go?’ Fox asked him.
‘I think DI Cash may be in the huff with me.’
‘Excellent work.’ Fox pushed his thumb down on the key fob, locking the Volvo. ‘I take it you couldn’t keep your gob shut?’
‘I might have accidentally offered Tosh Garioch a deal.’
‘What sort of deal?’
‘Go easy on him over the drowning if he talks to us about his boss.’
‘Cash wasn’t keen on that?’
‘Not overly. I’d say he’s close to running us out of town.’
‘The club has room for two more,’ Fox conceded. He was standing at his front door, staring at it.
‘Any word on your dad?’
‘I’m going to have to ring you back.’ Fox ended the call and walked to the living-room window, peering into the house. No sign of movement. Back at the front door, he noted the damage to the jamb. There wasn’t much of it. A crowbar or some sort of chisel had been enough. He couldn’t help thinking of the damage to the door of Gallowhill Cottage. He studied the neighbouring properties. It was a quiet street -people kept themselves to themselves. It had probably taken the thief half a minute to effect entry. Could have made it look like he was ringing the doorbell or pushing a delivery through the letter box. Fox edged the door open with his foot and stepped into the hall.
It didn’t look as though any of the papers on his dining table were missing. Maybe they’d been looked at; it was hard to say. His laptop was gone, along with its cable and charger, though the TV and DVD player hadn’t been touched. In the kitchen, the radio had vanished from its spot next to the kettle. Upstairs: bedroom drawers spilling out their contents. His good watch was missing, but his passport remained. Contents of the wardrobe tipped out on to the floor. He sat on the bed and rested his chin on his hands.
Worth calling it in? Yes, but only so he could get a reference number to pass on to the insurers. He doubted there’d be prints. A joiner would put the door right. Whoever had been there had left without taking the spare set of keys. They weren’t coming back. It had been made to look like a regular break-in, but Fox wasn’t convinced. He went downstairs again and stared at the paperwork on the table. Charles Mangold’s name stared back at him from the topmost sheet, written there in capitals. He’d jotted down other names, too, along with dates and queries…
If I’d been here, he wondered, would I have been made to look like a suicide…?
‘Get a grip, Malcolm,’ he muttered to himself.
He tried to think how much information was to be found on the laptop. More of his thoughts, in more detailed sequence than the written notes. He hadn’t got round to adding Alison and Stephen Pears and Andrew Watson to the mix. Had he made mention of Francis Vernal’s logbook? The connection between Gavin Willis and the Dark Harvest Commando, specifically the man called Hawkeye? He thought so. Nothing had been printed off, but he’d copied the contents of the folder on to a memory stick.
A memory stick now missing.
And Professor Martin’s book with it.
A four-quid memory stick and a tatty old book – no self-respecting housebreaker would have bothered with either. Spooks? Special Branch? Was this the same warning intended for Alan Carter, only that time things had gone wrong? Fox took out his phone and reported the break-in, then went outdoors again and checked that Vernal’s logbook was still in the glove box of the car. It was. He tried the bungalows either side of his, but no one was home. Across the street, Mr Anderson, elderly and hard of hearing, had seen nothing unusual.
‘A car or van?’ Fox persisted, but Anderson just shook his head and offered to make a pot of tea for them both.
‘Another time,’ Fox told him.
He tried two more neighbours, but no one had seen or heard a vehicle. No strangers noticed.
Quiet, as usual.
When the patrol car arrived, Fox showed them his warrant card, then pointed to the damage. One of the officers had a handheld electronic device into which he tapped the details.
‘Serial number for the laptop?’ he asked.
Fox went to fetch the guarantee. He could have said it won’t turn up, but then they would have wanted to know why he was so sure.
‘Not Lothian and Borders issue, is it?’ the other officer enquired. Fox shook his head. ‘Nothing work-related on it, then?’
‘No,’ he lied.
‘At least you won’t face a disciplinary,’ the officer commented.
‘Bit of a blessing,’ his colleague added.
‘Does the sarcasm come at no extra charge?’ Fox asked. ‘And a disciplinary’s only if you’ve been negligent – I don’t think break-ins count.’
They’d had their fun at the Complaints’ expense, so stopped smirking and suggested getting a team in to dust for prints, Fox argued it wasn’t worth the bother.
‘Not so sure about that, Inspector,’ the elder of the two countered. ‘Been a few homes broken into round here in the past six months. Might be able to tie yours to them.’
‘Then when we catch the wee bastards…’ the younger officer said.
‘Fine, then,’ Fox said.
It took an hour for a forensic car to arrive. A young woman brought her box of tricks into the house and got to work. Fox had got the bedroom back to normal. He watched her as she brushed powder on to the front door.
‘Didn’t take much,’ she commented.
‘No.’
‘Not even your telly. Means they were probably on foot.’
‘Yes.’
She paused in her work. ‘I’m not getting much here,’ she admitted. A few minutes later she was in the living room. He asked her to dust the surface of the dining table. She came up with a few prints.
‘Probably mine,’ Fox conceded.
She lifted a few samples anyway, then took his prints to check them against. Fox was reminded of the scene outside Alan Carter’s cottage. He was still wondering if he was lucky to have been out of the house.
But if they’d really wanted him there, they could have chosen their moment. Relatively easy to find his home address – a word in the right ear, maybe even a bit of computer hacking. He wasn’t in the phone book, though Jude was. Hell, he could even have been tailed from Police HQ. They had either watched him leave the house, or they’d known he was on his way to the hospital after his brief trip to the office.
Were they listening to his phone calls?
Had someone planted bugs in his house, office or car?
He tried to snort the thought away, but knew it would bother him for the rest of the day.
‘The woolly-suits gave you a reference number?’ the forensics officer was asking, having finished with the upstairs bedroom.
‘Woolly-suits?’
‘Uniforms,’ she explained with a smile. ‘There was a DI who used to call them that.’
‘They gave me a reference number, yes.’
‘All you can do is put in a claim, then – and get a stronger door for next time.’
Fox nodded.
‘Could have been worse, eh?’ she said with a smile.