The Impossible Dead

15



There was a lay-by near the spot where Francis Vernal’s car had left the road. A small cairn had been erected, with a plaque on it commemorating ‘A Patriot’. Someone had even left a bouquet of flowers. The flowers were shrivelled – could be they dated back to the anniversary of the crash. Mangold’s work maybe, on behalf of himself and Vernal’s widow.

Fox had brought his own car over to Fife this morning, leaving the M90 and skirting Glenrothes, heading for what was known as the ‘East Neuk’: little fishing villages popular with landscape painters and caravanners. Lundin Links and Elie, St Monans and Pittenweem, then Anstruther – pronounced ‘Ainster’ by locals. Francis Vernal had died on a stretch of the B9131, north of Anstruther. He didn’t play golf, but had a weekend place on the outskirts of St Andrews. Nobody was sure why he hadn’t stuck to the A915 – a quicker route. The only theory was a picturesque detour. Once you headed away from the coast, it was all farmland and forestry. No way to tell which particular tree his car had collided with. Another theory: mud left on the roadway by tractors had caused the car to skid. Fine, Fox could accept that. But something had happened afterwards. Not everyone who smashed their car then felt compelled to reach for a handgun. Had Vernal’s lifestyle caught up with him? Stress, a rocky marriage, too much drink. The drink makes him swerve off the road – maybe he wants to end it all. But he’s still alive afterwards, so he reaches into the glove box for the revolver.

A revolver: same sort of gun used by Alan Carter.

By him – or on him.

Fox ran his fingers over the memorial. Kids down the years had scratched their names into it. A couple of souped-up cars had flown past him a few miles back, stereos blaring, maybe driven by ‘Cambo’ or ‘Ali’, ‘Desi’ or ‘Pug’. Straightening up, he breathed deeply. Not a bad spot: peaceful. The drone of distant farm machinery, the half-hearted cawing of a few crows. He could smell freshly turned earth. A trudge around the vicinity provided no further clues. No one had left a bouquet resting against any of the trees. None of the news reports had been able to provide a photo of the car in situ, and even the few monochrome pictures of the site were speculative, apparently. Mangold was right: the Volvo had been removed and taken to a local junkyard before any forensics could be done. The early newspaper reports didn’t even mention suicide. It was a ‘tragic accident’, robbing the country of ‘a bright political talent’. The obituaries had been plentiful, but sticking to the same anodyne script. A book had been published a few years later, and half a chapter had been dedicated to the ‘mystery death’ of ‘political activist Francis Vernal’. The book had been a short compendium of unsolved Scottish crimes, but it produced no new evidence. Instead, its author had posed questions, the same questions Fox had been asking himself throughout his online reading of the previous evening. He’d printed out quite a lot of it, finishing one ink cartridge and replacing it with a spare. Back at his car, he lifted the heavy folder from the passenger seat and considered opening it. But then his phone buzzed, meaning he had a text message. It was from Tony Kaye.

Summat’s up.

Fox called Kaye’s number but he wasn’t answering. He turned the ignition key, did a three-point turn, and headed back towards Kirkcaldy.

The cop-shop car park was full, so he parked on the street outside. Single yellow line, so he had to hope he wouldn’t get a ticket. The sign next to the front desk stated that the Alert Status had been raised from MODERATE to SUBSTANTIAL. The storeroom was unlocked and empty, so he made for the interview room. Opening the door, he saw Paul Carter slumped in a chair. On the other side of the table sat Isabel Pitkethly.

‘Out,’ Pitkethly ordered.

Fox muttered an apology and closed the door again. Kaye and Naysmith were coming along the corridor towards him.

‘Might have warned me,’ Fox growled.

‘I just did,’ Kaye responded. Sure enough, Fox had another text message.

IR a no-no!

‘Thanks,’ Fox said, stuffing the phone back into his pocket. ‘So what’s going on?’

‘You should see CID,’ Naysmith interrupted. ‘They’re going mental.’

‘It would be nice if someone told me why.’

‘Some spotty little reporter,’ Tony Kaye obliged. ‘There’s a petrol station on Kinghorn Road and he went there to fill up his putt-putt—’

‘And,’ Naysmith butted in again, ‘he asks the attendant if he saw anything the night Alan Carter died. Turns out the guy did.’

‘Paul Carter,’ Kaye added. ‘He saw Paul Carter.’

‘Looking agitated.’

‘Stopped his car at the pumps, got out but didn’t do anything about filling it.’

‘Pacing up and down.’

‘Looking at his phone.’

‘Punching the buttons but not seeming to get an answer …’

‘We already know Paul Carter phoned his uncle,’ Fox felt it necessary to state.

‘But he was heading for the cottage,’ Naysmith stressed.

‘So half an hour ago it was a clear case of suicide, and now the nephew’s a murder suspect?’ Fox’s stare moved from Kaye to Naysmith and back again.

‘He’s going to go to jail,’ Kaye argued, ‘in no small part because of his uncle …’

‘If nothing else,’ Naysmith added, ‘it probably means he went to the cottage. Whatever they talked about, it ended with a gunshot and a corpse.’

They heard footsteps. Two men and a woman had come through the swing doors, led by Sergeant Alec Robinson. Robinson was stony-faced. The new arrivals took the measure of Fox, Kaye and Naysmith, then knocked on the interview-room door and went in. Robinson avoided eye contact with Fox as he headed back to his desk.

‘Glenrothes?’ Kaye speculated.

‘Aye,’ Fox said.

A minute later, the same three officers were leading Paul Carter out. He saw Fox and his colleagues and came to a stop.

‘I’m being stitched up here,’ he snarled. ‘I never did nothing!’

The two male officers gripped him by either forearm and led him away.

‘Hands off me!’

The woman offered a glance back in Fox’s direction as she followed them.

‘Know her?’ Kaye asked, his mouth close to Fox’s left ear.

‘Name’s Evelyn Mills,’ Fox admitted. ‘She’s Complaints, same as us.’

‘And she wears Chanel.’

Pitkethly was standing in the doorway of the interview room. The look she gave Fox told him it had been her decision to bring Glenrothes in. He nodded to let her know he’d have done the same.

‘What does he say?’ he asked.

‘Got a call from his uncle’s number. Caller hung up. Another call, same thing happened.’ She folded her arms. ‘Wondered what was going on, decided to go ask him in person, but got halfway and changed his mind.’

‘Maybe that’s what happened, then.’

‘Maybe.’

‘You don’t sound convinced.’

She glowered at him and decided against answering. Fox, Kaye and Naysmith watched her stride down the corridor away from them.

‘Home sweet home,’ Kaye said, making to enter the interview room. Fox saw that Naysmith was lifting a heavy-looking shoulder bag from the floor at his feet.

‘That stuff you wanted,’ the young man explained. ‘Took me half the night, a ream of paper and a change of printer cartridges.’ He made to hand the contents of the bag to Fox. ‘You’ll never guess how many hits there were on Francis Vernal’s name.’

He looked stunned when Fox got it exactly right.

It was over an hour before Mills had the chance to call Fox. He hesitated a moment before answering.

‘Your girlfriend?’ Kaye guessed.

‘Yes, Inspector Mills?’ Fox said into the phone, letting her know he had company.

‘I’m not sure what this means for the surveillance,’ she told him.

‘Me neither.’

‘If we catch Carter talking to Scholes and owning up to something …’

‘Might be inadmissible,’ Fox concurred.

‘I’ve got the Procurator Fiscal’s office working on the pros and cons, but knowing them, it’ll take a while.’ She paused. ‘Might be safer just to pull the plug.’

‘On the other hand,’ Fox reasoned, ‘the tap is on Scholes’s phone, not Carter’s. And Scholes isn’t the one CID have in their sights.’ It was Fox’s turn to pause. ‘How’s it looking for Carter?’

‘His superintendent tells us you were the one who came up with the left-hand/right-hand thing on the revolver.’

‘That’s true.’

‘It’s all circumstantial, of course …’

‘Of course,’ he agreed.

‘But it might add up to something.’

‘Foul play?’

‘Yes.’

‘A murder inquiry?’

‘Quite possibly.’

‘Based here?’ Fox looked around the small room.

‘It’s the nearest station. We’d have to send in our own team, naturally.’

‘Naturally. CID and the Complaints working together?’

‘If that’s what the bosses decree.’

‘Scholes, Michaelson, Haldane …?’

‘Sidelined.’

‘Sounds as if it’s going to be pretty hectic around here.’

‘You plan to stay put?’

‘Until told otherwise.’

‘Malcolm … you realise you’re a witness? We’ll need to ask you about Alan Carter.’

‘No problem.’

‘Scholes is already stirring things.’

‘Oh?’

‘Says you were on the scene pretty fast.’

‘Not half as fast as him and Michaelson.’

‘Difference is, they’d been called to the cottage.’

‘I’m happy to answer any questions, Inspector Mills.’

‘See you soon, then,’ she said, ending the call.

Fox relayed everything to Kaye and Naysmith, then told them he was stepping outside for a breath of air. Across the other side of the car park, Brian Jamieson was standing next to his scooter. There was a woman alongside him with some sort of recorder slung over one shoulder and headphones clamped to her ears. She was holding a microphone in front of Jamieson.

Local radio was interviewing local stringer.

Fox walked over. Jamieson had already spotted him and was telling the woman who he was. The microphone swung towards him.

‘I need a word,’ Fox told Jamieson.

‘Inspector,’ the young woman said, ‘can I just ask you for a comment on the arrest of Paul Carter?’

Fox shook his head and then angled it into the car park, knowing Jamieson would follow. That way, he would look important, and Fox got the feeling he’d want to look important in front of his colleague-cum-competitor.

‘We saw him being lifted,’ Jamieson was saying as he caught up with Fox. ‘Is that him off to Glenrothes?’

‘What made you go into the petrol station?’

‘Pit stop. After you left the scene, I was there the best part of two hours. Needed a caffeine hit.’

‘The attendant knew Paul Carter?’

Jamieson shook his head. ‘It was the car he described, rather than the man.’

‘So you can’t be sure it actually was Carter?’

Jamieson stared at him. ‘The forecourt’s covered by CCTV. I had to wait for the garage owner to okay me seeing the playback. That’s why I didn’t come forward sooner. No doubt about it, Inspector – it’s Paul Carter caught on camera.’

‘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?’

‘F*ck’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.