Tuesday morning – Vince Faulkner’s body is found.
Tuesday afternoon – Charlie Brogan contacts his solicitor.
Thursday – his boat is found drifting, its owner missing.
Missing presumed dead.
Without really meaning to, Fox found that he’d strolled the quarter-mile to Leith Police Station. He walked as far as the corner of Constitution Street, then turned. He was just passing the building’s public entrance when a woman came out, sliding her oversized sunglasses back on to her face. She was dressed not in black but coordinated brown. She reached into her leopard-print handbag for cigarettes and lighter, but the breeze kept foiling her attempts.
‘Let me,’ Fox said, opening his suit jacket so it provided a windbreak. She got the cigarette lit and gave him a nod of thanks. Fox nodded a response and then moved off. Once back at his car, he made a U-turn and headed in the direction of the police station. She was still standing there, looking up and down the street. Fox pulled to a halt next to her and slid down the passenger-side window.
‘It’s Ms Broughton, isn’t it?’
She took a moment to recognise him as her nicotine saviour, then leaned down a little towards the open window.
‘I take it you’ve just been talking to my colleagues?’ he asked her.
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice less husky than he’d imagined it would be.
‘Looking for a taxi?’ She was peering up and down the street again. ‘I’m headed in your direction, if you’re interested.’
‘How do you know?’
Fox offered a shrug. ‘Casino or Inverleith – they’re both on my route.’
She studied him for a moment. ‘Can I smoke in the car?’ she asked.
‘Sure,’ he said with a smile. ‘Hop in.’
They drove in silence for the first couple of sets of traffic lights. As they stopped at the third, she noticed that he had wound his window halfway down.
‘You didn’t mean it about the smoking,’ she said, flicking the remains of her cigarette out of her own window.
‘Where do you want dropped?’ he asked.
‘I’m going home.’
‘By Inverleith Park?’
She nodded. ‘SeeBee House.’
Fox worked it out. ‘Your husband’s initials?’
She nodded again. ‘I suddenly realise something,’ she began, twisting in her seat so she was facing him. ‘I’ve only got your word for it that you’re a police officer. I should ask to see some ID.’
‘I’m an inspector. What did my colleagues want with you?’
‘More questions,’ she answered with a sigh. ‘Why it can’t be done over the phone…’
‘It’s because the face says a lot about us – we give things away when we talk. I’m assuming it wasn’t DS Dearborn you saw?’
‘No.’
‘That’s because I had a meeting with him at the same time.’
She nodded, as though accepting that he had proved his credentials. Her phone trilled and she plucked it from her handbag. It was a text message, which she responded to with quick, sure movements of her thumbs.
‘Long nails help,’ Fox commented. ‘My fingers are too pudgy for texting.’
She said nothing until she’d sent the message. Then, just as she was opening her mouth, her phone trilled again. Fox realised that it was mimicking the sound of an old-fashioned bell on a hotel reception desk. Broughton busied herself punching buttons again.
‘Messages from friends?’
‘And creditors,’ she muttered. ‘Charlie seems to have had more of the latter.’
‘You know his shoes have surfaced?’ He saw her give him a hard look. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised, ‘not the best turn of phrase…’
‘They told me at the station.’ She was back to her texting again. But then another phone sounded from inside her handbag. She rummaged until she found it. Fox recognised the ringtone – it was the theme from an old western.
‘Sorry about this,’ Broughton said to him as she answered. Then, into the phone: ‘I can’t talk now, Simon. Just tell me everything’s all right.’ She listened for a moment. ‘I should be there by six or seven. If you can’t cope till then, start writing out your resignation.’ She ended the call and dropped the phone back into her bag.
‘Staff problems?’ Fox asked.
‘My own fault for not having a proper deputy.’
‘You don’t like to delegate?’
She looked at him again. ‘Have we met somewhere before?’
‘No.’
‘You look familiar.’ She had slid her sunglasses down her nose and was peering at him. When she’d applied the make-up around her eyes this morning, her hand hadn’t been too steady. Close up, her hair was clearly a dye job, the tan probably fake. There was some crêping of the skin around her neck.
‘I get that a lot,’ Fox decided to reply. Then: ‘I was sorry to hear about your husband – and I’m not just saying that. Guy I know used to work for him… only had good things to say.’
‘What’s your friend’s name?’
‘Vince Faulkner. I say he worked for your husband, but really he worked on the site at Salamander Point.’
Joanna Broughton didn’t say anything for a moment. ‘A lot of people liked Charlie,’ she eventually affirmed. ‘He was easy to like.’
‘It’s when you get into trouble, though, that you find out who your real friends are.’
‘So they say…’ She had twisted towards him again. ‘I never caught your name.’
It took Fox a second to decide not to lie. ‘Inspector Malcolm Fox.’
‘Well then, Inspector Malcolm Fox, are you trying to get me to say something?’
‘How do you mean?’ Fox tried for a hurt tone.
‘I didn’t know Charlie was going to do it. I certainly didn’t aid and abet. And despite appearances, I’m torn to shreds inside – all of which I’ve repeated time and again to you and your kind…’ She looked out of the window. ‘Maybe you should drop me off here.’
‘It’s only another five minutes.’
‘I can walk that far.’
‘In those heels?’ Fox exhaled noisily. ‘I’m sorry, and I suppose you’re right. Once you’re a cop, it’s hard to switch off the mechanism. No more questions, okay? But at least let me drive you the rest of the way.’
She pondered this. ‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘Actually, that’s ideal. Your colleagues want to see Charlie’s business diary – you can take it back and save me the trouble.’
‘Sure,’ Fox agreed. ‘Happy to.’
SeeBee House was a five-storey apartment building comprising mainly steel and glass. It sat within a compound of brick walls and metal security gates. Broughton had her own little remote-control box, which she pressed, initiating the mechanism on the gates. There was an underground car park, but she told Fox to stop at the main door. He turned off the ignition and followed her towards the building. The foyer was almost as big as the ground floor of his house. There were two lifts against one wall, but Broughton was marching over to the opposite wall, where a single, narrower lift stood.
‘Penthouse has its own,’ she explained as they got in. Sure enough, when the lift doors opened again, they stepped directly into a small carpeted lobby with just the one door off. Broughton unlocked it and Fox followed her inside. ‘They call it a triplex,’ she informed him, shrugging off her coat and pushing her sunglasses up on to the crown of her head, ‘but that’s a cheat – one floor has nothing but a couple of terraces.’