He seemed to agree with her that it could.
The same meeting room as before at Mangold Bain. And as expected, Charles Mangold could spare only a few minutes. There was no offer of a drink – time, as Mangold himself put it, did not permit. He pressed his hands together, lips brushing the tips of his fingers, and listened to what Fox had to say.
‘My home’s been broken into. The stuff you gave me got left behind, but they took my laptop. Some of my own work on the Vernal case was on it. They’ll have your name now…’
Mangold waved this aside. ‘Who do you think is responsible?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ve had a few run-ins with someone from Special Branch…’
‘Ah.’
‘And last night I went to see Alice Watts.’
Mangold didn’t bother trying to conceal his surprise. ‘The girl Francis was seeing? You found her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is she? What’s she doing?’ He watched Fox shake his head slowly. ‘Why not?’
‘I have my reasons.’
Mangold seemed to be considering pressing the point, but Fox’s look told him it would be futile. ‘Did she talk to you about Francis?’ he asked instead.
Fox nodded.
‘Well?’ the lawyer demanded.
‘She didn’t love him.’
Mangold stared at him. ‘You’re sure of that?’ He watched Fox nod again. ‘Why did she disappear off the face of the earth? Did she have something to do with his death?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Not directly. ‘But you can put Imogen Vernal’s mind at rest.’ Fox paused. ‘Though I’m not sure that’s ever been your intention.’ The two men locked eyes. ‘I think what you really want is for the scales to fall from her eyes.’
‘Is that so?’
‘It galls you that all these years she’s held fast to an image of her husband – the crusader, the patriot. No matter what you’ve done for her – including adding her name to the law firm – she’s never given you your due, has she?’
‘I don’t see that this outburst serves any purpose, Inspector.’
Fox shrugged the complaint aside. ‘Why did you choose Alan Carter to be your bloodhound? You’d had years to look into Vernal’s death, and my guess is, that’s what you did. It didn’t get you very far. But you knew Gavin Willis had led the original inquiry, and you probably discovered that he’d been a mentor to Alan Carter.’ Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘You weren’t interested in what he found. You wondered how much he would try to conceal. That way you’d have a better understanding of the role Gavin Willis played. And you had a point – Carter didn’t tell you about Vernal’s car, for example, tucked away all these years in a garage behind Gallowhill Cottage. See, it works both ways: there was stuff he didn’t want you to know. That’s probably why he took the job on – he could control the investigation and make sure no mud stuck to Gavin Willis’s name.’
‘I don’t see,’ Mangold repeated, his voice quiet but trembling with anger, ‘that this gets us any further.’
Fox sat in silence for a few seconds, then shrugged. ‘A couple more names have come up,’ he stated. ‘Andrew Watson, for one.’
‘Our current Justice Minister?’
‘The same. Do you know him?’
‘No.’
‘He was a lawyer, though, before becoming an MSP?’
‘A different generation from me. And he practised in Aberdeen.’
‘Criminal law?’
It was Mangold’s turn to nod. ‘What has he got to do with Francis’s death?’ An eyebrow shot up. ‘You’re after him to reopen the investigation?’
‘Would you like that?’
‘It would be a nightmare for Imogen.’
‘She might reach out for someone to hold her hand…’
The look Mangold gave told Fox the lawyer reckoned this a very cheap shot. ‘What’s the other name?’ Mangold asked.
Fox shook his head slowly, as if to indicate that it wasn’t at all important. ‘Just that I saw a photo of his brother-in-law.’
‘Stephen Pears?’
‘Taken in the New Club.’
‘He’s a member.’
‘I thought it was mostly lawyers and judges.’
‘A fairly wide spectrum,’ Mangold corrected him.
‘Is the Justice Minister a member too?’
Mangold thought for a moment. ‘Do you know, I don’t think he is.’
‘Would Vernal have known Andrew Watson?’ Fox asked. ‘Both lawyers
… both keen nationalists…’
‘Wouldn’t Watson still have been at school when Frank died?’ Mangold did the arithmetic in his head. ‘Couldn’t have been much more than sixteen or seventeen.’
‘The age of idealism,’ Fox stated. ‘Sort of age when you’re open to ideas, too.’
Though not, perhaps, the idea that your sister was sleeping with a man twice her age, a married man, a man called Francis Vernal…
Lacking a computer at home, Fox returned to Fettes, hoping he wouldn’t bump into the Chief Constable. The car radio news told him that the three Kippen suspects were likely to be charged by the end of the day, but would remain in custody in any event, extra time for questioning having been granted. Fox knew that after the Megrahi case, the Scottish government would feel the spotlight was on them – and on the justice system.
Next to the reception desk, the status was still CRITICAL.
‘Even with the bad guys detained?’ Fox asked the desk officer.
‘We don’t know how many more are out there,’ the man replied, ‘and maybe wanting revenge…’
Fear: Fox had noticed the same thing when skimming the news reports from 1985. Fear was ever-present. When you’d stopped needing to fear a US-Soviet conflagration or an impending ice age, something else came along in its place. Fear of crime always seemed to outpace the actual statistics. Right now, people were fearing for their jobs and pensions, fearing global warming and dwindling resources. If these problems were ever resolved, new worries would fill the vacuum. He stared at the word CRITICAL, then moved past the sign and headed for the stairs.
Joe Naysmith was in the Complaints office. He gave Fox a wave.
‘Done and dusted in Fife?’ Fox asked him. Naysmith nodded. ‘So where’s Tony?’
Naysmith shrugged and asked Fox if he wanted a coffee.
‘Sure,’ Fox said, sitting down at his computer. He took a twenty-pound note from his pocket, folded it to make a paper plane, and launched it in Naysmith’s direction. The young man looked at him.
‘I’m paying off the kitty debts,’ Fox explained. ‘Does that cover it?’
‘With room to spare.’
‘Good,’ Fox said. Then he got to work, doing a search on Andrew Watson. As Mangold had suggested, the current Justice Minister would just have been starting at Aberdeen University when Francis Vernal died. Fox looked carefully, but could see no sign that Watson had ever been a hardliner or especially radical. He’d graduated with a first in law, then joined a practice. SNP councillor by the age of twenty-seven and an MSP at thirty-one. The party leader seemed to like and respect him. As a ‘back-room boy’, Watson was credited with helping the SNP canvass its way into government.
The twenty-pound note seemed to have cheered Joe Naysmith up. He sat with Fox and let Fox bounce ideas off him, then got up and made more coffee while Fox texted Tony Kaye to ask him where he was. When his phone rang, he reckoned it would be Kaye, but it was Jude, phoning from the hospital.
‘He’s awake,’ she said. ‘But he’s not right…’
Fox drove out to the Infirmary and found himself entering the car park just behind a slow-moving Rover. He sounded his horn in irritation and gestured for the driver to put his foot down. After a couple of circuits he found an empty bay. It was at the very furthest corner, and he had to walk past the Rover as he made for the hospital entrance. The driver was Fox’s father’s age and looked fearful as Fox stalked towards him. The CRITICAL sign flashed in Fox’s head and he paused for a moment, muttering the word ‘sorry’ before carrying on.
When he reached his father’s bedside, Mitch’s eyes were closed, hands clasped on his chest. Jude was talking to a woman who introduced herself as Mae Ross.
‘Mrs Ross works at Lauder Lodge,’ Jude explained.