‘We were just wondering how he’s doing,’ Mrs Ross added.
‘And I was apologising for not getting in touch sooner.’
Fox just nodded. ‘You said he was awake,’ he commented.
‘He is… sort of.’
Fox leaned over his father and watched the eyelids flutter, then open. The eyes took a moment to focus.
‘Chris?’ his father said, voice slurred.
‘It’s Malcolm.’ Fox laid a palm against his father’s hands.
‘Malcolm?’ The word was barely recognisable.
‘Strokes do that,’ Mrs Ross stated. Then, to the patient, in the sort of sing-song voice usually reserved for children: ‘We’re all looking forward to seeing our favourite client back at Lauder Lodge!’
Her wide smile disappeared as Fox turned to face her. ‘He’s not a “client”,’ he growled. ‘He’s my father!’
She looked shocked. ‘I didn’t mean anything, Mr Fox…’
Jude seemed stunned by the outburst. She placed a hand on Fox’s forearm.
‘Chris,’ Mitch Fox was repeating.
‘Not Chris – Malcolm,’ his son informed him.
‘Cousin Chris?’ Jude guessed. ‘Burntisland Chris?’
‘Chris is dead,’ Fox was telling his father. ‘He fell off his motorbike, remember?’
Fox took the photograph from his pocket – the one showing Chris Fox cheering Francis Vernal. He unfolded it and thrust it into his father’s face.
‘See?’ he said. ‘That’s Chris.’ He pointed to the face. ‘That’s Chris and I’m Malcolm.’
‘It’s okay, Malcolm,’ Jude was telling him, while Mrs Ross looked at him as if he were mad. The hospital staff were taking an interest too. Fox lowered the photograph and watched his father’s face clear.
‘Chris was always so careful on that bike of his,’ Mitch Fox said.
‘Not careful enough, though.’ But a question was starting to form in Fox’s mind, a question only one person could answer. He turned towards Jude, who was still gripping him by his forearm.
‘There’s somewhere I need to go,’ he told her. ‘Will you be all right here?’
She nodded slowly, looking a little fearful. Fox freed himself from her grasp and ran his hand down the side of her head. ‘But if anything changes…’
‘I’ll call you,’ she said.
‘I shouldn’t be too long.’
‘Just come back to us when you’re ready,’ Jude told him. She even managed a smile of sorts, as if keen to bolster him. Fox did something he hadn’t done in a while: leaned in towards her and kissed her on the cheek. She lifted herself a little, making it easier for him.
And then he was gone.
38
When Fox got to Police HQ in Stirling, the media presence had not lessened, and armed officers still gave his warrant card a thorough inspection. He texted the Chief Constable’s mobile with a message: Tell Jackson I’m downstairs.
Ten minutes later, the Special Branch man was standing in front of him. Fox took his time getting up from the same seat he’d used on his previous visit.
‘What the hell do you want?’ Jackson snarled.
‘Charged them yet?’ Fox asked casually.
Jackson folded his arms and said nothing.
‘I had a good chat with the Chief Constable last night,’ Fox went on. ‘Sorry she felt the need to keep you out of it.’
Jackson exhaled noisily through his nostrils. His phone sounded and he checked the message on his screen. Fox waited until he had the man’s attention again, then started to speak.
‘Chris Fox – does the name mean anything to you?’
Jackson stared at him, then gave the slightest of nods. ‘Wondered when you’d get round to that,’ he muttered. ‘Come on…’
Fox was given a visitor’s pass by the same receptionist as the previous day. He followed Jackson along a corridor and down a flight of stairs. Another corridor, but this time with an armed officer checking IDs. Two interview rooms, facing one another across the corridor. Kevlar-vested officers standing guard outside both of them. Jackson pushed open one of the doors.
‘Take a look,’ he said.
Standing in the doorway, Fox saw that a man was seated at a table. He was handcuffed and refused to look up. Light-brown skin, thick wavy hair, dark rings under his eyes, the left eye swollen shut. Jackson closed the door again and stared at Fox.
‘Military and political targets first, then civilian – supermarkets, football fixtures, even hospitals. He didn’t care who got killed as long as we took notice.’
‘What’s your point?’ Fox asked.
‘My point is, there’s a real and current threat and we’d be foolish to dwell on the past.’ Jackson could tell that the guards were listening. He paced further down the corridor, past shirtsleeved detectives who nodded a greeting at him. There was a small empty office next to a further set of doors, and Jackson walked in, waiting for Fox to follow.
‘Close the door,’ he ordered. Fox did so, and the two men faced one another. ‘A real and current threat,’ the Special Branch man repeated quietly. ‘We do what is necessary to stop it becoming a reality.’
‘I was asking about Chris Fox.’
‘I thought that’s what this was all about. When I saw that surname in the vaults – had to be a connection.’
‘When we spoke at the cafeteria?’
‘I already knew,’ Jackson confirmed. ‘Made me wonder why you didn’t bring it up. I was beginning to think maybe you had something to hide.’
‘Such as?’
Jackson gave a shrug. ‘He’s a relative of some kind?’
‘Cousin. How come he’s in the Special Branch vaults?’
‘You don’t know?’ Jackson sounded genuinely surprised. Fox watched him calculate how much to say.
‘Strictly between us,’ Fox offered.
Jackson took a few moments more to make up his mind. ‘He was a shop steward – a radical shop steward. Liked nothing better than a violent picket or stirring things up. Card-carrying member of the Communist Party – plenty of them in Fife. But he switched to separatism. He was a good friend to Francis Vernal in the early years. The two of them hatched plans for marches and demos against visiting royals. It would only have taken one hothead with a gun…’ Jackson paused. ‘It was the same back then as it is now – a real and current threat…’
‘With Special Branch doing everything necessary to stop it becoming a reality?’
Jackson fixed Fox with a look. ‘We did not kill Chris Fox.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It was a motorbike accident, pure and simple. So if that’s what all this is about…’
‘It’s not.’
‘What, then?’
‘I don’t like the idea of people getting away with murder.’
‘We can agree on that, at least.’ Jackson paused. ‘What did the Chief Constable say to you last night?’
‘Nothing she wants you to know, or she’d have said.’
‘Her brother’s furious with you.’
‘I can live with that.’
Jackson stared down at his feet, as if studying his shoes. ‘He looks quite normal, doesn’t he?’
‘Who?’
Jackson gestured towards the corridor. ‘They always seem so ordinary. Just that bit more… driven.’
‘And what is it that drives them?’
Jackson could only shrug.
‘What happened to him?’ Fox asked. ‘The black eye, I mean.’
‘Punched himself in the face. That way, when the media eventually get their photo, it looks as if he’s been roughed up.’ Jackson looked at Fox again. ‘Don’t worry – local Complaints have been informed, statements taken.’
‘That’s all right, then.’
‘Your cousin Chris… we were keeping tabs on him, but nothing serious. We didn’t see him as the real threat.’
‘Who was the real threat? Vernal? Donald MacIver? Or the foot soldiers like Hawkeye?’
‘Who’s Hawkeye when he’s at home?’
‘You didn’t come across his name?’ Fox watched Jackson shake his head. ‘Maybe you need another trip to the vaults, then.’
‘Easier just to ask you.’
‘I’ve no idea who he is.’
‘Hardly matters,’ Jackson speculated. ‘Whatever threat there was, we dealt with it at the time.’