‘It’s still incredible,’ Fox said. There was glass on three sides, floor to double-height ceiling, and views across the Botanic Gardens towards the Castle. Turning to his left, he could make out Leith and the coastline. To his right he could see as far as Corstorphine Hill.
‘Great for entertaining,’ Joanna Broughton agreed.
‘Place looks brand new.’
‘One of the benefits of having no children.’
‘True enough – and a sort of blessing, too, I suppose.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Not having to explain things to them…’ Fox watched her begin to nod her understanding. ‘The worker who died didn’t have any children either.’
‘What worker?’
‘My friend, the one I was telling you about – did your husband not mention him?’
She ignored the question and instead told him to wait while she fetched the diary. Fox watched her as she started climbing the glass staircase to the next floor, then turned his attention to the room he was standing in. It was much as he remembered it from the newspaper photo. An L-shaped open-plan with pale stone flooring and modern furniture. The kitchen area was just around the corner. When he looked up, he could see a landing, probably with bedrooms and office off. The living area’s back wall – the only wall made of something more substantial than glass – seemed to have been stripped of its art. There were still a few hooks, plus holes where hooks had been removed. Fox remembered the newspaper article. It had described Brogan as ‘a collector’. He took a step back and watched as Joanna Broughton descended the stairs, taking her time, holding on to the handrail. She was keeping her high heels on, even at home. They added over an inch to her height, and he wondered if that was the reason.
‘Here you go,’ she said, handing over the large, leather-bound diary.
‘Any idea why they want it?’ Fox asked.
‘You’re the detective,’ she said, ‘you tell me.’
He could only shrug. ‘Just being thorough,’ he guessed. ‘See if there was any unusual activity prior to your husband’s…’ He swallowed back the end of the sentence.
‘You’re wondering at his state of mind? I don’t mind saying it again – he was absolutely fine when he left here. I hadn’t the slightest inkling.’
‘Look, I said I wasn’t going to ask anything…’
‘But?’
‘But I’m wondering if it hurt you, him not leaving a note.’
She considered this for a moment. ‘I’d like to know why, of course I would. Money worries, yes, but all the same… we could have worked it out. If he’d asked, I’m sure we could have put our heads together.’
‘Maybe he was too proud to ask for help?’
She nodded slowly, arms hanging loosely by her sides.
‘Did he sell all his paintings?’ Fox asked into the silence. She nodded again, then started as the intercom sounded. She walked over to it.
‘Yes?’ she demanded.
‘Joanna, it’s Gordon. I’ve got Jack with me.’
Her face relaxed a little. ‘Come on up,’ she said. Then, turning to Fox: ‘Thanks again for the lift – I’d probably still be waiting there.’
‘My pleasure.’
She held out her hand and he shook it. The diary was too big for any of his pockets, so he carried it with him into the lobby. When the lift doors opened, Gordon Lovatt emerged, momentarily surprised to find someone facing him. Lovatt was dressed to the nines in what looked like a bespoke three-piece pinstripe suit. A gold watch chain dangled from the pockets of the waistcoat. His silk tie boasted an extravagant knot and his hair looked freshly barbered. He nodded a greeting but then decided more was needed.
‘Gordon Lovatt,’ he said, holding out his hand.
The two men shook. ‘I know who you are,’ Fox told him, not bothering to reciprocate with an introduction. The man next to Lovatt was much older, but dressed in what looked like an even more expensive suit. He too held out his hand.
‘Jack Broughton,’ he announced.
Fox just nodded and squeezed past both men, turning to face them once he was inside the lift. He pressed the button for the ground floor, and waited for the doors to close. Jack Broughton seemed already to have dismissed him, and was entering the penthouse, greeting his only surviving child with a kiss. Lovatt, on the other hand, had stayed in the lobby to stare at Fox, the same enquiring look on his face.
‘Going down,’ the lift’s automated female voice said. The doors slid shut and Fox let go of the breath he’d been holding.
There was no sign of the PR man’s car outside, so he’d either left it in the car park or come by taxi. If the car park, then he had to have some way of accessing the compound. But then the same was true if he’d been dropped off from a cab – he still had to get past the gates. So then maybe Joanna had gifted her father one of the small black remote-control boxes…
Fox got into his own car and placed Charlie Brogan’s diary on the passenger seat. Then he stared at it, wondering what the Grampian Complaints would make of his recent activities. He’d been very careful all morning – watching for cars tailing him, for people loitering or following him. It had been easy for them to keep tabs on him the previous week – he’d not been alerted to the probability. But now he knew he’d been under surveillance, that made things a great deal harder for any team trying to track him. Then again, if he was going to keep pulling stunts like this one… It took him a further three or four minutes to decide, but at last he picked up the diary and flipped it open.
He started with the Monday of the previous week, but found nothing immediately of interest. It wasn’t that Brogan used a code, but like most people he used initials and abbreviations. The J in ‘8 p.m. – J – Kitchin’ Fox assumed was Joanna Broughton. The Kitchin was a fancy restaurant in Leith, run by a chef with the surname Kitchin. There were notes of meetings, but it hadn’t exactly been an action-packed week. Flipping back to January, Fox found that Brogan had been far busier. By February, he’d been reduced to noting TV shows he was planning to watch.
After quarter of an hour, Fox closed the book and turned the ignition. On his way back to Leith Police Station he made two stops. One was at a stationer’s, where he bought a padded envelope big enough to take the diary. The other was at a phone shop, where he bought a pay-as-you-go mobile, using his credit card. If he was still under surveillance, this new phone wouldn’t keep him off the radar for long… but maybe long enough.
And it was certain to annoy any Complaints team when they eventually worked out what he’d done.
He parked his car outside the police station just long enough to drop the envelope off at reception. He’d written Max Dearborn’s name on the front. It would puzzle Max, perhaps, but Fox didn’t mind that in the least. Back in the car, his old mobile started ringing. Fox checked the caller ID but made no attempt to answer. When the ringing stopped, he used his new phone and called Tony Kaye back.
‘Who’s this?’ Kaye asked, not recognising the number.
‘It’s Malcolm. This is how to get me from now on.’
‘You’ve changed phones?’
‘In case they’re tracking me.’
‘You’re paranoid.’ Kaye paused. ‘Good thinking, though – reckon I should do the same?’
‘Have they spoken to you again?’ They: Grampian Complaints.
‘No – how about you?’
‘Later today. So why were you calling?’
‘I just wanted a moan. Hang on a sec…’ Fox listened as Kaye moved from the Complaints office to the hallway. ‘Those two are driving me nuts,’ he said. ‘It’s like they’ve known one another since the playground.’