Fox had parked his car on a yellow line outside. A warden was hovering as he emerged from the café. The man was wondering whether to honour the POLICE sign Fox had left on the inside of the windscreen. When Fox scowled at him, the warden decided there might be easier pickings elsewhere. Fox had offered Linda Dearborn a lift, but she’d said she was happy walking. Her destination was George Street, ‘for a little window shopping’. Fox could bet that she liked walking, knowing male heads were turning as she passed them; knowing eyes were fixed on her from cars and vans and office windows. He was turning the key in the ignition when his phone – his new phone – sounded. The number belonged to Jamie Breck.
‘Morning,’ Fox said, answering.
‘I’ve just had a call from Mark Kelly.’
‘What’s he got for us?’
‘He visited Norquay’s widow. She didn’t seem fazed by his request.’
‘She showed him hubby’s phone bills?’
‘Mark says the whole house is a shrine. She’s bought a job lot of photo frames. There are hundreds of family pics strewn across the living-room floor as she sorts them all out. She took him into her husband’s den – the paperwork was immaculate. She’s got it all boxed in chronological order – bank statements, bills and receipts, credit card stuff…’
‘And phone bills?’ Fox prompted.
‘Right.’ Fox listened as Breck picked up a sheet of paper. ‘Luckily he opted to have everything itemised – calls in as well as calls out. Towards the end of that dinner he was at, he got a call from a local number. It’s a payphone in a bar called Lowther’s. Mark tells me it’s pretty grim, but slap-bang in the centre of town.’
‘Okay.’
‘Call lasted two minutes and forty seconds.’
‘And do we know his state of mind immediately afterwards?’
‘Mark hadn’t thought to go that particular extra mile…’
‘But you’ve asked him now?’
‘He’s going to talk to the friends who were with Norquay at the dinner.’
‘I don’t suppose it’ll get us much further.’
‘No…’ Breck drew the word out, and Fox knew there was something else.
‘In your own time, Jamie,’ he prompted.
‘Well, Mark knows Lowther’s by repute – there’s often a bit of trouble there on a Saturday night, except actually the trouble always seems to happen a hundred yards or so from the pub itself.’
‘Out on the street, you mean?’
‘If an argument starts, it’s always taken outside.’
‘And why would that be?’ Fox asked, already with an inkling of the answer.
‘Nobody wants to get on the wrong side of the owners.’
‘Wauchope Leisure Holdings?’
‘Who else?’ Jamie Breck said.
‘In a way, that’s a bit of a shame – means none of the punters are going to tell us who made the call.’
‘Probably not,’ Breck agreed. ‘But it’s certainly got Mark interested. ’
‘He needs to ca’ canny.’
‘Don’t worry about him. How did your meeting with Linda Dearborn go? Was she asking after me?’
‘Your name didn’t quite come up.’
‘She’s a little stunner, isn’t she?’
‘She’s also pretty good at her job. There’s a link between Wauchope and Brogan’s company. Do you think we could tie Wauchope to Norquay’s outfit too?’
‘We can try… or rather, Mark can – it’s a Tayside shout.’
‘Wauchope’s company also employs a PR firm…’
‘Let me guess – LMM?’
‘They ran an advertising campaign for lap-bars.’
‘On the sides of buses – I remember that. Do we need to talk to them about it? Their HQ’s slap-bang next to the Parliament…’
‘Maybe for later,’ Fox advised. ‘Get back on the phone to your friend in Tayside and see if he can find anything else to tie Wauchope to our Dundee developer.’
‘Will do. What’s next on your own list, Malcolm?’
‘Family,’ Fox said, signalling out into traffic.
Jude opened the door. When she saw it was him, she turned and headed back to the living room, knowing he would follow. Her hair and clothes looked like they could do with a wash, and she was sunken-cheeked. There was a cigarette waiting for her in the ashtray on the arm of her chair.
‘I thought you weren’t coming round till the weekend,’ she said. ‘This isn’t a good day for me to go see Dad.’
Fox noted the two empty wine bottles on the breakfast bar and the remains of the bottle of cheap vodka on the coffee table. Jude was seated and pretending an interest in the television, but her eyes were heavy-lidded.
‘You okay, sis?’ he asked.
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ She looked up at him and her eyes widened. ‘What happened to you?’
Fox rubbed his face with his fingers. ‘I fell down some stairs.’
Her look hardened, but then she turned away, lifting the cigarette and sucking on it. Fox wandered into the kitchen and filled the kettle. He couldn’t see any tea or coffee, and there was no milk in the fridge. Plenty of food, though – it didn’t look as though she’d eaten anything since her shopping trip.
‘Has your pal Sandra not been in?’ Fox called to his sister.
‘Not for a few days. She’s phoned me a couple of times, just to check.’
‘How about Mrs Pettifer next door?’
‘Visiting her brother in Hull. He’s had a stroke or something.’
‘So you’re having to manage on your own?’
‘I’m not an invalid.’
‘You’re not exactly taking care of yourself either.’
‘Fuck off, Malcolm.’ She slung her legs over the arm of the chair, almost knocking the ashtray to the floor.
Fox allowed her a few moments to calm down. ‘When I was round here the other day, you seemed to be coping…’ Opening cupboards, he found a fresh jar of instant coffee. He rinsed two mugs, and decided to add two spoonfuls to Jude’s.
‘You okay with black?’ he asked. She didn’t answer. ‘What are you doing for money?’
‘There’s some in the account.’
‘But probably not much…’
‘When I’m reduced to begging on the street, I’ll let you know.’
He picked up some of the mail from the breakfast bar. There was a letter explaining that the mortgage repayments were being reduced in line with the recent cut in interest rates. ‘Did Vince have life insurance?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Have you done anything about it?’
‘Sandra did… phoned them and then got me to sign a letter.’
‘Well, that’s something.’ Fox was sifting through the rest of the mail, some of which had yet to be opened. There was an O2 bill addressed to Mr V. Faulkner. Fox peeled it open, eyes on his sister’s back. He gave a little twitch of the mouth when he saw that it wasn’t itemised. A hundred and twelve pounds was owing. The kettle came to the boil and Fox took Jude’s mug through to her.
‘You could do with some milk,’ he said, handing it over. She stubbed out her cigarette and took the drink from him. ‘And maybe not so much wine and spirits.’
‘You’re not my dad.’
‘I’m the next best thing.’ He reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet. When she saw what he was doing, she flew from her chair and headed into the kitchen, pulling open one of the drawers and coming back into the living room brandishing a wad of banknotes, which she flung up into the air in front of him.
‘See?’ she said. ‘I don’t need any of your bloody charity!’
Fox stared down at the notes strewn across the carpet. Jude was back in her chair, staring at the TV, knowing he was awaiting an explanation.
‘I found it,’ she obliged. ‘About two grand in total.’
‘Found it where?’
‘Hidden in Vince’s room upstairs. Lucky I got to it before your lot turned the place over – they might’ve pocketed it.’
‘Where did it come from?’