‘And he drives off afterwards?’
‘Yes.’
‘Still heading towards the cottage?’
‘Is he saying it’s coincidence?’
‘He’s saying he did a U-turn.’
Jamieson was thoughtful. ‘Camera only covers the pumps.’ He had moved ahead of Fox so he was facing him. ‘Funny, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Paul Carter… so close by his uncle’s place the night the uncle decides to do away with himself. And who are the first two officers on the scene? Paul Carter’s best buddies.’
Fox kept his face a blank. ‘What made you think to ask the attendant if he’d seen anything suspicious?’
Jamieson gave a twitch of the mouth. ‘Maybe a hunch. Hunches have got me where I am today.’
‘You’re a regular Quasimodo,’ Fox agreed, heading for the police station’s back door. Waiting for him on the other side stood Ray Scholes, hands in pockets, feet apart.
‘You know who he is?’ Scholes cautioned.
Fox agreed that he did.
‘Are you giving him anything?’
‘No.’
‘Best keep it like that.’
Fox made to move past, but found his way blocked.
‘I need to show you something,’ Scholes said. It was the screen of his phone. Fox took it from his hand and peered at the message. It was from Paul Carter.
Get Fox for me. Five minutes.
The phone started vibrating. Fox looked at Scholes.
‘That’ll be for you,’ Scholes told him.
‘I don’t want it.’ Scholes said nothing, and wouldn’t take the phone back when Fox offered it to him. The call ended, the two men staring at one another. It rang again immediately.
‘Point made,’ Scholes said. ‘You can answer it now.’
‘Hello?’ said Fox.
‘It’s Carter.’
‘I know.’
‘Listen, I’ve pulled a few stunts in my time – I admit that. But not this. Never this.’
‘What do you want me to do about it?’
‘Fuck’s sake, Fox. I’m a cop, aren’t I?’
‘You were.’
‘And someone’s trying to frame me.’
‘So?’
‘So somebody’s got to be on my side!’ There was anger in the voice, but fear too.
‘Tell that to Teresa Collins.’ Fox’s eyes were boring into Scholes’s.
‘You want me to own up?’ Paul Carter was saying. ‘Every time I crossed the line or even thought about it?’
‘Why did Alan Carter die?’
‘How should I know?’
‘You didn’t go to see him?’ Fox’s voice hardened. ‘If you try lying to me, I can’t help you.’
‘I swear I didn’t.’
‘Did you send anyone else?’ He was still looking at Scholes, who stiffened and bunched his fists.
‘No.’
‘Any idea why he phoned you?’
‘I’m telling you, I don’t know anything!’
‘So what am I supposed to do?’
‘Ray can’t exactly go snooping, can he?’
‘Wouldn’t look good,’ Fox conceded.
‘But he tells me you talked to my uncle…’ The sound that came from Carter’s throat was somewhere between a sigh and a wail. ‘Maybe you can do something… anything.’
‘Why should I?’
‘I don’t know,’ Carter admitted. ‘I really don’t know…’
Wherever Carter was, Fox could hear new noises, muffled voices. He was no longer free to talk. The phone went dead and Fox checked the screen before handing it back to Scholes.
‘Well?’ Scholes asked.
Fox seemed to be weighing up his options. Then he shook his head, squeezed past Scholes, and headed for the interview room. But Scholes wasn’t giving up.
‘Alan Carter had enemies,’ he said. ‘Some he made on the force, others afterwards. The Shafiqs – they own a string of shops and businesses. Had a run-in with some of Carter’s boys. Bad blood there.’
Fox stopped and held up a hand. ‘You can’t just go throwing names around.’
‘Bombs going off in Lockerbie and Peebles – we could play the anti-terrorism card, keep them in custody till they talk.’ Scholes saw the look on Fox’s face. ‘Oh aye,’ he said with a sneer. ‘I forgot – it’s racist to lock up anyone with a funny name.’
Fox shook his head and moved off again. This time, Scholes didn’t bother following. He called after him instead.
‘When he texted me wanting to speak to you, I sent a message straight back, told him he was wasting his time. A real cop’s what he needs, and that’s not you, Fox. That’s nothing like you.’ His voice dropped just a fraction. ‘A real cop’s what he needs,’ he repeated, as Fox shoved open the swing doors.
16
‘Anyone else we should be talking to?’ Tony Kaye asked.
The three of them were perched on the sea wall, eating fish and chips from the wrappings. Across the water, a ray of sun picked out Berwick Law. Far to the right, they could make out Arthur’s Seat and the Edinburgh skyline. Tankers and cargo vessels sat at rest in the estuary. It was lunchtime, and the gulls were flapping around, looking interested.
‘Haldane might be worth another shot,’ Fox suggested.
‘Really?’ Kaye asked.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think a murder inquiry might be about to happen, and we’d be better off elsewhere. Last thing Fife Constabulary is going to need is us running around, trying not to barge into their murder team.’
‘True,’ Fox admitted.
‘Yet I can’t help noticing we’re still here.’ Kaye tossed a morsel of batter into the air, watching a gull swoop and snatch it, its friends readying to gang up against it. ‘So tell me what else we could add to the sum of our knowledge.’
‘There’s the surveillance,’ Fox offered.
‘But that’s not our operation.’
‘Scholes, Haldane and Michaelson – we’ve hardly scratched the surface with them…’
‘You’re clutching at straws, Malcolm.’ This time a salted chip spun into the sky, dropping to the ground and being pounced on by four of the gulls.
‘All right, I give in.’ Fox turned towards Naysmith. ‘Joe, tell the man why we can’t go home just yet.’
‘Francis Vernal,’ Naysmith said, on cue. It had been evident to Fox from first thing: Naysmith had been reading the same online articles, rumours and suppositions as Fox – and he was hooked. ‘Taken for granted at the time that it was suicide. Media hardly touched it – no rolling news or internet back then. But Vernal had told friends he thought he was being watched, that his office and house had been broken into – nothing taken, just stuff put back in the wrong place.’
‘So who was watching him?’ Kaye asked.
‘Spooks, I suppose.’
‘And why would they be interested in him?’
‘I hadn’t realised how wild things were in the mid-eighties,’ Naysmith said, licking vinegar from his fingers. ‘You had CND demos, Star Wars summits-’
‘Star Wars?’
‘Not the film – it was a missile defence thing; Reagan and Gorbachev. Cruise missiles were on their way to Britain. The Clyde was being picketed because of Polaris. Friends of the Earth were protesting about acid rain. Animal rights… Hilda Murrell…’ Naysmith paused. ‘You remember her, right?’
‘Let’s pretend I don’t,’ Kaye said.
‘Pensioner, but also an activist. Tam Dalyell…’ Naysmith broke off.
‘The MP,’ Kaye stated. ‘I’m not completely glaikit.’
‘Well, he had a theory she’d been killed by MI5. They’d been paying a private eye to keep tabs on her…’
‘I’m not hearing anything about Francis Vernal.’ Kaye was scrunching the greasy wrappings into a ball.
‘Early eighties was also a hotbed of nationalism,’ Fox informed him. ‘Isn’t that right, Joe?’
Naysmith nodded. ‘SNP weren’t doing well in the polls, and that led some nationalists to look towards Ireland for inspiration. They reckoned a few explosions might focus London’s attention.’
‘Explosions?’
‘Letter bombs were sent to Mrs Thatcher and the Queen. Plus Woolwich Arsenal, the Ministry of Defence and Glasgow City Chambers – that last one on a day Princess Di was visiting. All these splinter groups: Seed of the Gael, SNLA…’