Malcolm Fox made himself a last mug of tea and headed for bed. It wasn’t yet ten, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do.
Monday 16 February 2009
15
Malcolm Fox’s alarm woke him at seven as usual. He was in the shower before he realised there was no necessity to be up this early. Nor did he have to wear a clean shirt and a fresh tie, or his suit and braces, but that didn’t stop him putting all of them on. As he was eating breakfast, there was a phone call. It was a woman called Stoddart from Grampian Police PSU. She was ‘inviting’ him to a meeting at Fettes HQ.
‘Shall we say three p.m.?’
‘Three’s fine,’ Fox informed her.
The day was cold and overcast. Snowdrops were starting to appear in his front garden, and he reckoned there’d be some brave crocuses already sticking their heads above the parapet in the Meadows and the city’s other parks. He tried to work out a route that would take him through the Meadows on his way to Leith. It would be circuitous, but with the added bonus of a drive through Holyrood Park. Besides, he wasn’t exactly in a hurry.
A few years back, Fox and his team had investigated an officer based at Leith Police Station. He’d been taking backhanders and turning a blind eye. One of his own men had come to them, but only with a promise of anonymity. Meetings had taken place at a greasy spoon near the docks, and this was Fox’s destination today. The café was called The Marina, its paintwork peeling, interior walls shiny with grease. There were half a dozen Formica-topped tables and a ledge by the window where you could stand and eat if you preferred. The owner was a large, red-faced woman who did much of the cooking while an Eastern European girl worked the till and the tables. Fox had been seated for fifteen minutes, nursing a mug of industrial-strength tea, when Max Dearborn walked in. Dearborn saw him and his whole body seemed to sag. He’d put on half a stone or more since they’d last met, and had developed jowls. There was still acne around his mouth, and his dark hair was slick-looking, combed straight down. More than ever, he resembled Oliver Hardy’s Scottish nephew.
‘Hiya, Max,’ Fox said.
Dearborn’s breathing was hoarse as he wedged himself into the seat opposite Fox.
‘Is this just some horrific coincidence?’ the young man pretended to guess.
Fox was shaking his head. The waitress had arrived, and he ordered a bacon roll.
‘Usual for you, Max?’ she asked Dearborn, who nodded a reply, keeping his eyes on Fox. When she moved away, Fox spoke in an undertone.
‘I hear you’re a DS these days – congratulations.’
Dearborn responded with a twitch of the mouth. Fox remembered him the way he’d been – a detective constable with ideals and principles still intact, yet fearful of alienating his colleagues. ‘Serpico’, Tony Kaye had called him.
‘What do you want?’ Dearborn was asking. He’d taken a good look around the café, seeking out enemies and sharp ears.
‘Are you working the Charlie Brogan drowning?’ Fox could feel sweat forming on his back. His heart was beating far too fast. The tea had enough tannin in it to fell an ox, so he pushed the mug to one side.
‘It’s not a drowning yet,’ Dearborn corrected him. ‘And what’s it to you anyway?’
‘I’m just interested. Reckon maybe you owe me a favour.’
‘A favour?’
‘For keeping your name under wraps.’
‘Is that some sort of threat?’
Fox shook his head. Dearborn’s coffee had arrived and he shovelled two spoonfuls of sugar into it, stirring noisily.
‘Like I say, I’m just interested. I’m hoping someone can keep me up to date.’
‘And that’s me, is it?’ Dearborn stared at him. ‘Why the interest? ’
Fox shrugged. ‘Brogan might tie in to another case.’
‘To do with the Complaints?’ Dearborn was suddenly less hostile, and more interested.
‘Maybe. It’s all hush-hush, but if anything did come to light, I’d be willing to share the credit.’ Fox paused. ‘You know my boss had a say in your promotion?’
‘Thought he might have.’
‘It can happen again, Max…’ Fox let his voice drift away. Dearborn took a slurp of coffee and then another, and started to do some thinking. Fox just sat there, hands in his lap, not wanting to rest any part of his suit against the surface of the table. The waitress was returning with their food – Fox’s filled roll; Dearborn’s fry-up. The young man’s plate was heaped, and he turned towards the cook and gave her a nod and a smile. She smiled back. Fox had peeled open his roll. The bacon looked pale and stringy. He closed it again and left it on the plate. Dearborn was squeezing brown sauce across the array of bacon, fried egg, sausage, beans and mushrooms.
‘Looks good,’ Fox commented. Dearborn just nodded and took his first mouthful, eyes on Fox as he chewed.
‘Body’s still not surfaced,’ Dearborn said.
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Not according to those in the know. Currents are irregular in the channel. He could have been swept out into the North Sea. A container ship’s propeller could have snagged him and turned him to mush. Coastguard were out again at first light. We’ve got patrols working both seashores, north and south.’
‘I heard Fife Constabulary was claiming jurisdiction.’
Dearborn shook his head. There were already traces of egg yolk either side of his mouth. ‘That’ll never wash. We’ve asked for their cooperation, but this is D Division territory, fair and square.’
‘So where’s the boat?’
‘Dalgety Bay.’
‘Last time I looked, that was in Fife.’
‘It’s going to be towed to Leith later today.’
‘I’m assuming you’ve already given it a once-over?’
‘Forensics have,’ Dearborn confirmed.
‘Evidence of alcohol and pills,’ Fox stated.
‘You’re well informed. No suicide note, but I’m told that’s not so unusual. He’d contacted his solicitor a few days back to check some of the details of his will.’
Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘When exactly?’
‘Tuesday afternoon.’
‘Did he want to change anything?’
Dearborn shook his head.
‘I’m assuming everything will go to the widow?’
‘That depends on us finding a body. If we don’t, then she’s got a wait on her hands – it’s a legal thing.’ Dearborn concentrated on his food, then decided to share something with Fox. ‘His shoes have been found. Deck shoes, they’re called. Bobbing in the water off Inchcolm Island.’ He paused. ‘Supposing this does tie in to whatever you’re working on… how do I get my share of the spoils without anyone on my side knowing I’ve been talking to you?’
‘There are ways,’ Malcolm Fox said. ‘Trust me.’
When the meal was finished, their waitress asked if something was wrong with the bacon roll.
‘Just not hungry,’ Fox reassured her. Then, to Dearborn: ‘Let me get this.’
‘Your money’s no good in here.’
‘How come?’
Dearborn offered a shrug. ‘There was a break-in a few months back. I made sure we put in an extra bit of effort…’
‘You sure you should be telling this to someone from the Complaints?’
Max Dearborn winked and, with a certain amount of effort, got back to his feet. He insisted on leaving first. Fox watched him go and speculated as to a future of high blood pressure and diabetes, maybe even the odd coronary. About a year back, his own doctor had foretold much the same for him. Since when he’d dropped a stone, while feeling little better for it. He stood outside the café, listening to the screaming of gulls on the nearby roofs. Then he started walking. D Division HQ was on Queen Charlotte Street. As with Torphichen, it boasted a solid if drab Victorian exterior, but unlike Torphichen its interior still held traces of a certain faded grandeur – marble floors, carved wooden balustrades, ornate pillars. Dearborn would be inside by now. His last words to Fox had consisted of a promise to keep him posted. Fox had given him a card with his mobile number – ‘Your best bet for catching me,’ he’d said. Last thing he wanted was Dearborn calling his Fettes office and being told that Inspector Malcolm Fox was out of the game. Word would spread fast enough – Billy Giles would see to that – but meantime Dearborn might prove useful. He’d already given Fox something to think about.