He broke off. ‘I might grab a glass of water.’ As he walked over to the sink and lifted a clean glass from the draining board, he heard Cafferty clapping his hands slowly.
‘Wee speech over and done with?’ Cafferty asked once he’d finished the round of mock applause. ‘Feel better for getting all that off your chest? If so, drink your drink and get your fat arse out of here. I’ve got calls to make and some juicy wee bits of video to send out into the world.’
Fox took his time draining the glass, placing it in the sink after. He checked the time on his wristwatch.
‘Somewhere else you need to be, Malcolm?’
Fox shook his head. ‘Something you need to see.’ He had activated his phone and was tapping in keystrokes. ‘It’s being streamed on the Scotsman website. They got the exclusive, but it’ll be everywhere tomorrow. Your eyesight up to a screen this size?’
Cafferty had risen slowly to his feet. Fox turned the volume all the way up and held the phone away from him. Dennis Jones was seated on a sofa, his wife Jennifer Lyon next to him. The interview had already started, but they were getting to the meat of it. Jones and Lyon held hands, as had been arranged. The questions had been vetted. The interviewer was Laura Smith. While not exactly the tamest inquisitor, she had been warned about what gaining an exclusive meant.
‘So I want to apologise publicly and profoundly to my wife especially,’ Jones was saying, ‘but also to everyone else involved in this sorry episode — a mess entirely of my own making. I can only hope that Jenni will be able to forgive me. I know I will work tirelessly to regain some level of trust. I’ve certainly never stopped loving her and I never shall. I will, of course, be resigning with immediate effect from my university post, and will be seeking counselling...’
Fox watched Cafferty as Cafferty watched the scene play out. ‘The ACC thinks she can ride out the storm,’ he explained while Laura Smith asked one of her prepared questions. ‘She’s assembled a team of PR people and lawyers, so do what you like with those tapes. Story’s already been broken, and my boss is controlling it. All you’ve done is make yourself a target. Every agency based at the Scottish Crime Campus is going to move your name to the top of their wanted list.’ He shifted his attention to the window overlooking the Meadows. ‘Enjoy the uninterrupted view while you can.’
He switched off the live feed and pocketed the phone, walked to the door in silence and let himself out. Waiting for the lift, he half expected Cafferty to emerge, ready to vent. But the lift came and Fox stepped into it, turning to face the doors as they closed. He pressed G for ground floor. Halfway down, he released the breath he’d been holding. He would give Jennifer Lyon an hour before calling her, let her know it had gone to plan. Her plan, outlined to him that day in Gartcosh. It had taken time to persuade her husband, but then the only other option offered to him had been divorce.
‘Bloody waste of all that surveillance, though,’ Fox muttered to himself. Still, the ACC owed him now, and she would not be allowed to forget.
The lift doors slid open again and he stepped out. One more door separated him from the clear fresh air of the world outside. Through the glass, he could see a hooded figure waiting just the other side.
Food delivery? No, the figure wasn’t carrying anything. Tenant? Just possibly. But Fox was starting to think otherwise: one of Cafferty’s collection of scumbags. A junior-level dealer most likely. He pulled open the door. Beneath the hood, the pockmarked face was hesitant.
‘You going in or what?’ Fox demanded to know.
Another moment before the decision was made. Then: ‘Aye, thanks.’ Hands stuffed deep inside the hoodie’s pockets, the youth started to move past Fox, who was still holding the door open for him.
‘I’m assuming you know the way — P for penthouse.’
‘I know the way, aye. Cheers. Really helpful.’
‘Don’t expect him to be in the best of moods, mind,’ Fox said as he exited the building. It was still light outside. This time of the year, it was hard to imagine the many long dark nights that would arrive all too soon...
Acknowledgements
This book was begun long before the COVID outbreak of 2020, but edited while the lockdown was in force. I am so grateful to my wife Miranda for putting up with me throughout, as well as for being my first reader and most telling reviewer. I’d also like to thank the staff of Forward Vision in Edinburgh for their dedication in looking after not only our son Kit but all the other young adults in their care.
Those who know the area around Tongue will realise that I have taken several liberties. There is no village of Naver, nor does Camp 1033 exist, though other camps mentioned are real, as are some of the incidents recounted.
I’m grateful to Edinburgh Central Library for pointing me in the direction of several valuable resources, most notably Camp 165 by Valerie Campbell and British Concentration Camps: A Brief History from 1900–1975 by Simon Webb. On one of my visits to the north coast I also happened across Tongue and Farr by Jim A. Johnston, which helped me explore the history of that beautiful region of Scotland.
All errors and inaccuracies are mine.
Here’s to all the songs and all their singers, in times of darkness and times of light.
I. R.