The Impossible Dead

10



‘Well now,’ McEwan said, as they walked into the office. He was leaning with the small of his back against Fox’s desk, hands in his pockets.

‘You’ve heard, then.’

‘Deputy Chief Constable of Fife Constabulary – the very man who asked for our help in the first place.’

‘But he’s pleased with the rest of our progress?’ Kaye commented.

‘Not the place for wisecracks, Sergeant Kaye,’ McEwan snapped back. ‘Suppose one of you tells me what in God’s name happened.’

‘We went to interview her at her home,’ Fox began. ‘She learned Carter was no longer in custody and threw a wobbly.’

‘We decided our presence wasn’t helping,’ Kaye added. ‘Discretion being the better part of valour and all that.’

‘What state was she in when you left?’

‘She was a bit shaky.’ Naysmith decided to answer.

‘A bit shaky?’ McEwan echoed. ‘Not the screaming abdabs neighbours claim to have heard?’

‘She did do some shouting,’ Fox conceded.

‘About police intimidation?’

‘She misread the situation, sir.’

‘Sounds to me like she wasn’t the only one.’ McEwan pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut. He spoke without opening them. ‘This gives them a bit of ammo – you know that?’

‘Does the Deputy want us replaced?’

‘I think he’s weighing it up.’

‘She wouldn’t agree to be interviewed at the station, Bob,’ Fox explained calmly. ‘We had to go to her.’

McEwan opened his eyes again, blinking as if to regain some focus. ‘You told her Carter was out?’

‘That was my fault,’ Naysmith admitted. McEwan gave a little nod of acknowledgement.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘best get your side of the story down on paper and we’ll see what Glenrothes thinks. Anything else I should know?’

Fox and Kaye exchanged a look.

‘No, sir,’ Fox stated.

News of the surveillance operation on Scholes could wait: one little bombshell at a time was probably enough for the boss.

Later, Fox went to the canteen for coffee, and remembered when he got there that he’d not had anything since breakfast. Egg-and-cress sandwiches were all that remained of the lunch offerings, so he added one to his tray, along with a Kit Kat and a Golden Delicious. When his phone rang, he thought about not answering, but checked the display and recognised the caller.

‘Hiya, Evelyn,’ he said.

‘Ouch,’ Mills said.

‘You’ve heard, then?’

‘Not much else being talked about here. Local press seem to be on to it too. You know how that lot will twist it.’

‘They can try.’

‘Did she seem suicidal?’

‘No more than any of us.’ Fox wiped melted chocolate from his fingers on to a napkin. ‘Are you still going to be able to help?’

‘Will you still be around for me to help?’

‘Hopefully.’

‘In that case … we’ll see.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means my boss might get cold feet.’

‘Buy him some socks.’

There was silence on the line until she asked him how he was feeling.

‘I’m okay.’

‘You don’t exactly sound it.’

‘I’ll be all right.’ He looked down at his tray. Only one bite was missing from the sandwich, but the Kit Kat was history. The coffee had an oily sheen to it, and he didn’t feel like starting on the apple.

‘All you can do is tell them the truth,’ Mills was saying. ‘Give your side of the story.’

He could have told her: that was the problem, right there. Every story had a number of sides; your version might differ from everyone else’s. Back in Collins’s flat, had they been pragmatic, cowardly or callous? Others would decide the truth of it – and that might not be the truth at all.

‘Malcolm?’

‘I’m still here.’

‘Do you want someone to talk to? We could meet for a drink.’

‘I don’t drink.’

‘Since when?’ She sounded genuinely surprised.

‘Long before I met you.’

‘I must have forgotten.’ She paused. ‘We could still meet, though.’

‘Another time, eh?’ Fox thanked her and ended the call, then started rolling the apple across the table, from left hand to right and back again.

Nobody suggested a trip to Minter’s after work. But as they left the office, Naysmith did something out of the ordinary – reached out his hand for Fox and Kaye to shake. Only afterwards did Fox see it as a reinforcement of the notion that they comprised a team. He drove his Volvo out of the car park and headed for home. He’d almost reached Oxgangs when he found himself turning towards the ring road instead. It was rush-hour busy, but he wasn’t in a hurry, not now that he had made up his mind. He followed the signs for the Forth Road Bridge.

They had passed the Victoria Hospital on one of their drives around Kirkcaldy. It resembled a building site, because it was one, a shiny new edifice near to completion standing next to the old original complex. Fox showed his ID at reception and gave them Teresa Collins’s name. He was told which ward to go to and pointed in the direction of the lifts. He eventually found himself at a nurses’ station.

‘No visitors,’ came the reply when he asked for Teresa, so he showed his ID again.

‘I don’t want to disturb her if she’s awake,’ he explained.

The nurse stared at him, wondering, perhaps, what use Teresa would be to him asleep. But eventually she said she would check. He thanked her and watched her go. Behind him, a row of half a dozen hard plastic chairs sat next to the ward’s swing doors. A young man had been sitting there, busy texting with his thumb. He was on his feet now, crossing to the dispenser on the wall opposite and treating himself to some of the antibacterial hand foam.

‘Can’t be too careful,’ he said, rubbing his palms together.

‘True,’ Fox agreed.

‘Police?’ the young man guessed.

‘And you are …?’

‘You look like police, and I pride myself on knowing most of the CID faces around here. Edinburgh, is it? Professional Standards? Heard you were in town.’ He was doing something with his phone’s screen. When he held it out in front of him, Fox realised it doubled as a recording device.

The sandy-haired young man in the black anorak was a reporter.

‘If you don’t mind me asking, were you at Teresa Collins’s flat earlier today?’

Fox stood his ground, saying nothing.

‘I’ve got descriptions of three plain-clothes police officers …’ The journalist looked him up and down. ‘You’re a dead ringer for one of them. Inspector Malcolm Fox?’ As hard as he tried, something in Fox’s expression must have changed. The journalist gave a lopsided smile. ‘It was on a card left on the armchair,’ he offered by way of explanation.

‘How about a name for you?’ Fox asked in an undertone.

‘I’m Brian Jamieson.’

‘Local paper?’

‘Sometimes. Can I ask you what happened in the flat?’

‘No.’

‘But you were there?’ He waited a few moments for an answer. ‘And now you’re here …’

Fox turned and walked in the direction the nurse had taken. She appeared around a corner.

‘Drowsy from the sedative,’ she informed him. Fox checked that Jamieson wasn’t in earshot, but kept his voice just audible in any case.

‘She’s all right, though?’

‘A few stitches. We’ll just keep her the one night. Psychological Services will assess her in the morning.’

After which, Fox knew, she’d either be sent home or transferred elsewhere.

‘If you wait twenty minutes,’ the nurse added, ‘she may well drift off.’

Fox glanced in Jamieson’s direction. ‘You know he’s a reporter?’

She followed his look, then nodded.

‘What’s he been asking you?’

‘I’ve not told him anything.’

‘Can’t security kick him off the ward?’

She turned her attention back to Fox. ‘He’s not being a nuisance.’

‘Has he asked to speak to her?’

‘He’s been told it’s not going to happen.’

‘So why is he still here?’

The nurse’s tone grew cooler. ‘Why don’t you ask him? Now, if you’ll excuse me …’ She brushed past him and returned to her desk, where a phone was ringing. Fox stood there a further thirty seconds or so. Jamieson was back in his chair, busy texting. He looked up as Fox approached.

‘What are you expecting to get from her?’ Fox asked.

‘That’s the very question I was about to put to you, Inspector.’

‘Not another one!’ the nurse was complaining into the receiver. When she saw that they were watching her, she turned away, cupping a hand over the handset. Jamieson had been about to push his phone’s mic in Fox’s direction again, but he lowered his arm instead. Then he turned and started to leave. Fox stayed where he was. The nurse was ending the call, shaking her head slowly.

‘What’s up?’ Fox asked.

‘A man’s just tried to do away with himself,’ she answered. ‘Might not pull through.’

‘Hopefully not a normal night,’ Fox offered. She puffed out her cheeks and exhaled.

‘Two a year would be more like it.’ She noticed Jamieson’s absence. ‘Has he gone?’

‘I think you did that.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘He’ll be down at A and E, if I know Brian.’

‘Sounds like you do know him.’

‘Used to go out with a friend of mine.’

‘Who does he work for?’

‘All sorts. What is it he calls himself …?’

‘A stringer?’

‘That’s it.’ Her phone was ringing again. She made an exasperated sound and picked the receiver up. Fox considered his options, gave a little bow in her direction, and headed for the lifts.

Downstairs, he got a plastic bottle of Irn-Bru from the vending machine. No sugar tomorrow, he promised himself, heading outside. The sky overhead was black. Fox knew there was nothing for him to do now but drive home. He wondered if the budget for the investigation might stretch to a local hotel room. He’d spotted a place behind the railway station, not far from the park and the football ground. It would save the commute next morning – but then what would he do with himself the rest of tonight? Italian restaurant … maybe a pub … There were some ambulances parked up outside the hospital entrance. A couple of green-uniformed paramedics were shooing Brian Jamieson away. The reporter held up his hands in surrender and turned away, pressing his phone to his ear.

‘All I know is, he tried blowing his brains out. Can’t have been much of a shot, because he was still alive on the way here. Not so sure now, though …’ Jamieson saw that he was about to pass Malcolm Fox. ‘Hang on a sec,’ he said into the phone. It seemed he was about to share the news, but Fox stopped him.

‘I heard,’ he said.

‘Hellish thing.’ Jamieson was shaking his head. His eyes were wide and unblinking, brain racing.

‘Many guns in Kirkcaldy?’ Fox asked.

‘Might have been a farmer. They keep guns, don’t they?’ He saw that Fox was looking at him. ‘It was outside town,’ he explained. ‘Somewhere off the Burntisland road.’

Fox tried to stop himself looking interested. ‘Got a name for the victim?’

Jamieson shook his head and glanced back towards the paramedics. ‘I’ll get one, though.’ He offered Fox the same self-confident smile as before. ‘Just you watch me.’

Fox did watch him. Watched him make for the doors to the hospital, the phone to his ear again. Only when he had disappeared inside did Fox walk quickly towards his own car.



The police cordon was at the junction of the main road and the track to Alan Carter’s cottage. Fox felt acid gathering somewhere between his stomach and his throat. He cursed under his breath, pulled in to the side of the road and got out. The parked patrol car had its roof lights on, strobing the night with a cold, electric blue. The solitary uniform was trying to tie crime-scene tape between the posts either side of the track. The wind had whipped one end of the roll from his grasp and he was fighting to control it. Fox already had his warrant card out.

‘Inspector Fox,’ he told the uniform. Then: ‘Before you do that, I need to get past.’

He returned to his car and watched the uniform move the patrol car forward, leaving space for Fox’s Volvo to squeeze through. Fox offered a wave and started the slow climb uphill.

There were lights on in the cottage and just the one car outside, Carter’s own Land Rover. As Fox closed the door of the Volvo, he heard a voice call out:

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Ray Scholes was standing in the doorway, hands in pockets.

‘Is it Alan Carter?’ Fox asked.

‘What if it is?’

‘I was out here yesterday.’

‘Regular bloody Jonah, then, aren’t you?’

‘What happened?’ Fox was standing directly in front of Scholes, peering past him into the hallway.

‘Had a good go at topping himself.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘If I lived out here, I might do the same.’ Scholes sniffed the air, looked at Fox again, and relented, turning and heading indoors.

Fox himself hesitated. ‘Don’t we need …?’ He looked down at Scholes’s feet.

‘Not a crime scene, is it?’ Scholes answered, walking into the living room. ‘Cordon’s just to stop weirdos drifting up here for a gawp. Thing I’m wondering is, what are we going to do about the dog?’

Fox had reached the doorway of the living room. The fire had been reduced to a few embers. To the left of it, Jimmy Nicholl lay panting in his basket, eyes open just a fraction. Fox crouched down and stroked the old dog’s head and back.

‘No note,’ Scholes commented, popping a strip of chewing gum into his mouth. ‘Not that I can see, anyway.’ He waved a hand across the dining table. ‘Hard to tell with all this mess …’

Mess.

Papers strewn everywhere, removed from their folders. Crumpled, some torn into strips, others swept to the floor. Those left on the table were spotted with blood, a darker pool where Carter had been seated on his chair.

‘Gun?’ Fox said quietly, his mouth dry.

Scholes nodded towards the table. It was half-hidden beneath a magazine. Looked to Fox’s untrained eye like an old-style revolver.

‘How was he when you spoke to him?’ Scholes asked.

‘He seemed fine.’

‘Until you came calling, eh?’

Fox ignored this. ‘Who found him?’

‘Pal of his. Makes the regular walk from Kinghorn. They neck a few glasses of whisky and off he toddles. Only today he comes waltzing in and finds this. Poor old bastard …’

Fox wanted to sit down, but couldn’t. He didn’t know why; it just felt wrong. Scholes’s phone rang. He listened for a moment, gave a grunt, then ended the call.

‘Died in the ambulance,’ he said.

The two men fell silent. The only sound was the dog’s laboured breathing.

‘The pair of you talked about Paul?’ Scholes asked eventually.

Fox ignored the question. ‘Where’s this pal now?’

‘Michaelson’s running him home.’ Scholes checked his watch. ‘Wish he’d hurry up – there’s a beer waiting for me in the pub.’

‘You knew Alan Carter – doesn’t it bother you?’

Scholes continued chewing the gum as he met Fox’s eyes. ‘It bothers me,’ he said. ‘What is it you want to see – wailing and gnashing of teeth? Should I be waving my fist at the skies? He was a cop …’ He paused. ‘Then he wasn’t. And now he’s dead. Good luck to him, wherever he is.’

‘He was also Paul Carter’s uncle.’

‘That he was.’

‘And the first complainant.’

‘Maybe that’s why he did it – an overwhelming sense of guilt. We can play the amateur psychology game all night if you like. Except here’s my lift.’

Fox heard it too: engine noise as a car approached the cottage.

‘What are you going to do?’ he asked. ‘Just shut the place up?’

‘I wasn’t planning on bunking down. We’ve had a look and seen what’s to be seen – uniforms can take it from here.’

‘And next of kin …?’

Scholes shrugged. ‘Might even be Paul.’

‘Have you told him?’

Scholes nodded. ‘He’ll be here.’

‘How did he sound when you told him?’

There was silence in the room as Scholes stared at Fox. ‘Why don’t you just piss off back to Edinburgh? Because if I were you, I wouldn’t be here when Paul arrives.’

‘But you’re not staying? I thought he was your mate.’

Scholes cocked his head, having obviously just thought of something. ‘Hang on a sec – what are you doing here in the first place?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Is that right?’ Scholes raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll make sure to put that in the report.’ He paused. ‘Underlined. In bold.’

Gary Michaelson was standing on the threshold of the room, glaring at Fox. ‘Thought there was a bad smell,’ he said. Then, to Scholes: ‘What’re you doing letting him tramp all over a crime scene?’

‘A what?’

‘Carter’s pal says he’d never have done himself in. Says they’d talked about it, what they’d do if they ever got cancer or something. Carter told the guy he’d cling on for dear life.’

‘Something changed his mind,’ Scholes speculated.

‘And there’s another thing – pal says he’d’ve known if Carter owned a gun. Something else they talked about – shooting the seagulls for the noise they made.’ Michaelson looked towards the basket. ‘What are we doing about the dog?’

‘You want it?’ Scholes asked. ‘Do we even know its name?’

‘Jimmy Nicholl,’ Fox said. ‘He’s called Jimmy Nicholl.’

The dog’s ears pricked up.

‘Jimmy Nicholl,’ Scholes echoed, folding his arms. ‘Owner might’ve done the decent thing and taken you with him, eh, Jimmy?’ Then, to Michaelson: ‘We ready for the off?’

Fox was torn between staying and going, but Scholes was not going to give him the choice. ‘Out, out, out,’ he said.

‘The dog,’ Fox remonstrated.

‘You want it?’

‘No, but …’

‘Leave it to the professionals, then.’

They emerged to blue flashing lights: another patrol car, with an unmarked van behind it.

‘It’s all yours,’ Scholes called to the driver at the front. But there was manoeuvring to be done: too many vehicles in a tight space. Someone had the idea of unlocking the gate to the neighbouring field. A bit of reversing, a three-point turn, and they were on their way. Scholes and Michaelson had made sure Fox’s Volvo was in front. As they approached the main road, the same constable as before undid the cordon to let them through. There was a white scooter parked next to his car. Brian Jamieson sat astride it, one foot on the tarmac for the sake of balance. He was on his phone again, pausing as he recognised the driver of the Volvo. Fox kept his eyes on the road ahead, Scholes and Michaelson tailing him for the first couple of miles, just to make sure.