‘I’m really enjoying talking, but I can hardly keep my eyes open.’
‘Tomorrow at the hospital?’
‘What time do you think you’ll be there?’ he asked.
‘After breakfast. You?’
‘Later, probably.’
‘Things to do?’ she guessed.
‘Night, sis.’
‘Night, bro.’
Fox ended the call and wandered into the kitchen, boiling the kettle and making himself some strong tea. On another night, he might have spent time reflecting on the thawing in his relationship with his sister – but that would have to wait. He took the mug back through to the living room and tried using his mobile phone to access the internet. It was hopeless, though – slow, and the screen too small. After peering at it for a while, he decided he needed to go to Fettes and use one of the computers in the Complaints office. As he was readying to leave, his phone trilled. According to the display, it was Evelyn Mills. He let it keep ringing. Two minutes later there was a text: Need someone to talk to. He stared at the message, undecided. He had his jacket on, car key in his free hand. The phone went again and he answered.
‘Evelyn?’
But it was a man’s voice. ‘Whoever you are, just bugger off. She doesn’t need you.’
The line went dead. Fox stared at the handset. Her partner Freddie, presumably.
‘Fine then,’ Fox said to himself, heading for the door.
40
‘It’s Stephen Pears,’ Fox repeated.
It was just shy of five a.m. and he was seated at the breakfast bar in Tony Kaye’s kitchen. He had spent the best part of an hour trying to persuade his friend of the truth of it, the two men keeping their voices low so as not to wake Kaye’s wife. Eventually Kaye had sighed, scratched his nose and suggested food.
As the toast was placed in front of Fox, he knew he wouldn’t eat it.
‘And this is all because of a late-night repeat on the Comedy Channel?’ Kaye said, pouring more coffee.
‘Yes.’
‘See when you took that trip to Carstairs – madness isn’t catching, is it?’
‘I’ve told you – Hawkeye Pierce… Hawkeye Pears. He was on the archery team in high school. It was the obvious nickname for him. After university he’s supposed to have spent a couple of years “drifting” – he’s always been vague about it. Says he did a variety of jobs all over the world and came back to Scotland with a chunk of money. First anyone heard of him in the finance sector was mid-1986, and he had almost thirty K to invest. Split it between two start-ups, and a year later he’s quadrupled his stake.’
‘And you got all this from a journalist?’
Fox nodded. ‘I drove to the Scotsman offices. Night shift comprised one staffer. He phoned the business editor for me.’
‘Did either of them wonder why you were interested?’
‘I told him I was the Media Unit.’
‘What Media Unit?’
Fox shrugged. ‘Putting together a press pack about Chief Constable Alison Pears…’
‘And to do that, you needed to ask the media for help?’ Kaye shook his head slowly and brushed toast crumbs from the corners of his mouth. ‘In the middle of the night?’
‘It was all I had,’ Fox reasoned. ‘And I got what I needed, didn’t I?’
‘It’s not enough. The guy in that photo looks nothing like Stephen Pears.’
‘I can ask him.’ Fox had taken the photo from his pocket, the one showing Vernal, Alice and Hawkeye. It was scuffed from so much handling.
‘What if he denies it? That’s all he’s got to do, Malcolm.’
Fox picked up his replenished mug, but put it down again without drinking. He knew his friend was right. The photo wasn’t enough. The theories weren’t enough.
Kaye swallowed some coffee and stifled a belch. ‘If it is him,’ he speculated, ‘the wife’s got to know.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Fox countered. ‘They met twelve years ago and have been married for ten. That makes it thirteen years since she’d laid eyes on Hawkeye. Beard gone, hair short and dyed a lighter colour, a bit heavier around the waist and the face…’
‘She’s got to have known,’ Kaye persisted, wiping at his mouth again.
Fox didn’t say anything. He stared at the toast on his plate, with its layer of pale yellow butter. The very thought of it was making him queasy. He slid the photograph back into his pocket as Kaye spoke.
‘Even supposing – just for argument’s sake – that you’re right, it doesn’t mean you can tie Pears to anything. Are you saying he killed Francis Vernal and Alan Carter?’
‘He’d have had motive enough.’
‘Because his wife’s risen through the ranks and he doesn’t want anyone pooping her party?’
‘There’s that,’ Fox agreed. ‘Plus he’s on course for the House of Lords – a terrorist past might not sit too well with a Tory peerage. He’s a donor to the party, too.’
Kaye was staring at him. ‘You can’t go saying any of this, Malcolm. Not without at least a few shreds of evidence.’
‘I went on the internet. Pears spoke at a conference a few years back in Barbados, same time an arms dealer called William Benchley drowned in his swimming pool. Benchley had been selling guns smuggled home by soldiers from the Falklands.’
Kaye’s stare intensified. ‘Malcolm…’
Fox held up a hand. ‘I know, I know – maybe I should check myself into Carstairs.’ He paused. ‘But what if at least some of it is true?’
Kaye pushed his empty plate aside and lifted his coffee mug. ‘I still don’t see you’re in a position to do anything about it,’ he said.
‘Maybe not,’ Fox conceded.
‘But since it’s a night for storytelling, I can offer you one of my own.’
Fox tried hard to concentrate on Tony Kaye’s account of his meeting with Tosh Garioch.
‘So Paul Carter was being set up by his uncle,’ he stated at the conclusion.
‘Not exactly,’ Kaye argued. ‘Garioch says Paul did try it on with Billie and Bekkah. And Alan Carter did put a bit of pressure on Teresa Collins, but only after she made her original complaint.’
Fox was thoughtful. ‘Uncle Alan wanted to make sure the mud stuck.’
‘He really did hate his nephew, didn’t he?’
‘So why phone him that night? Phone him but not speak to him?’ Fox’s eyes were on Kaye. ‘The address book with Paul’s number in it… it was left open for anyone to find.’
‘So?’
‘Any check of calls made, and Paul’s name would pop up. But say it wasn’t Alan who did the calling…’
‘The murderer?’
Fox was nodding slowly. ‘Paul’s been found guilty but suddenly he’s not on remand any more. The judge at his trial is no friend of the police, yet he lets him out, pending sentencing.’ Fox gave a little smile.
‘What is it?’ Kaye asked.
‘Sheriff Cardonald is a member of the New Club. I saw him there that time I met with Charles Mangold.’
‘So?’
‘So Stephen Pears is a member, too.’
‘Pears gets his friend the sheriff to release Paul Carter?’
‘Paul was the perfect fall guy,’ Fox argued. ‘The court case had made it clear uncle and nephew loathed one another.’
‘But it only worked if Paul was back on the street.’ Kaye was actually sounding half-convinced.
‘It’s all conjecture,’ Fox admitted. ‘You said so yourself – where’s the proof?’
‘Don’t always need proof to flush someone out,’ Kaye stated. ‘We know that from experience.’
‘Do you still think I’m mad?’
‘Maybe not so much.’ Tony Kaye drained his coffee. ‘The thing is, though – what do you do about it?’
‘I’ll have to think about that.’
Having showered, shaved and changed his clothes, Fox was parked outside Mangold Bain at nine thirty. He watched the receptionist arrive but failed to bring her name to mind. He knew he needed sleep.
Straight after this, he promised himself.
Mangold arrived on foot. He turned his head at the sound of the car door opening.
‘Good morning, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Did we have an appointment?’
‘Just curious about something,’ Fox explained. ‘Does Colin Cardonald know Stephen Pears?’