The Impossible Dead

21



Fox sat at his desk in the Complaints office, staring at the blank screen of his computer. Bob McEwan was taking a phone call. As ever, it seemed to concern the upcoming reorganisation. The Complaints would be swallowed up by ‘Standards and Values’. They would go, in the words of McEwan, from ‘micro’ to ‘macro’.

‘Just don’t ask me what that means.’

Fox had sent texts to both Tony Kaye and Joe Naysmith and was waiting to hear back from them. He had thought about visiting the Central Library, digging into its newspaper archive. He had cuttings from the Scotsman, but not from the Herald or any other Scottish paper of the time. He doubted he would find anything. The media had soon lost whatever interest it had had in the story.

When the office door opened, Fox saw that the Chief Constable was leading a visitor inside. The Chief’s name was Jim Byars. He was in full uniform, peaked cap included, which meant he was on his way to a meeting or else was out to impress someone. The visitor was a man in his late forties with a tanned face, square jaw and greying hair. He wore a three-piece suit and what looked like a silk tie. A handkerchief was visible in his breast pocket.

‘Ah, Malcolm,’ the Chief Constable said. Then, for the guest’s benefit: ‘This is Professional Standards – PSU.’

‘The “rubber heels”?’ the visitor said with a slight smile. His accent was English. The hand he held out for Fox to shake bore no rings. Fox had glanced in McEwan’s direction. He could see that his boss was torn. It would be polite to end the call and greet the visitor, but he wanted Byars to know that he was earning his keep. He gave the Chief a wave, then motioned that he would wrap up the call. Byars’ gesture let him know this wasn’t necessary.

‘Just giving DCI Jackson the tour,’ the Chief explained to Fox. Then, to Jackson: ‘Malcolm Fox is an inspector – detective rank, but we don’t use the term.’

‘How’s your workload?’ Jackson asked Fox.

‘Manageable,’ Fox replied, wishing he had turned on his computer. His desk looked bare; half an inch of paperwork in the in-tray. Was Jackson something to do with the coming reorganisation? Was he seeking posts that could be cut? He had that look to him – a brisk, hard-nosed bean-counter.

‘Working in Fife, aren’t you?’ the Chief asked, frowning as he realised how stupid the question sounded.

‘Not today, sir. Rest of my team are.’ Fox swallowed. There was no reason to suppose the Chief Constable would know he’d been kicked into touch. Even if he did know, it wasn’t the sort of thing you wanted to advertise to a visitor. ‘What brings you here?’ Fox asked Jackson instead. Byars got in first with the answer.

‘DCI Jackson is based at Special Branch – anti-terrorism.’

‘Didn’t know we had much of that in Edinburgh,’ Fox felt obliged to state.

Jackson gave the same brief smile. ‘The blast in the forest outside Peebles?’ he offered. ‘And Lockerbie before that?’

Fox nodded to let him know he’d heard.

‘We’re thinking they may have been a trial run, Inspector.’

‘Why Peebles?’

‘Anywhere would have done.’ Jackson paused. ‘Remember Glasgow Airport? The perpetrators lived quietly in the suburbs.’

‘And as Peebles is part of Lothian and Borders,’ Byars explained, ‘we’re assisting DCI Jackson and his team.’

Not quite a bean-counter, then.

Jackson was looking around the office, as if filing every detail of it away. Bob McEwan was trying desperately to wind up his conversation. ‘What’s happening in Fife?’ the Englishman asked.

‘Not much,’ Fox said.

‘CID officer,’ Byars told Jackson. ‘In court for overstepping the line. We’ve been asked to check whether his colleagues covered up for him.’

Jackson looked at Fox, and Fox knew what he was thinking: I’m with you, chum – never give away more than you have to.

McEwan had ended the call and was coming towards them. Byars made the fresh round of introductions and explanations.

‘Interesting,’ McEwan said, folding his arms. ‘Never goes away, does it?’

‘How do you mean?’ Jackson asked him.

‘Domestic terrorism. Malcolm’s latest case has an angle …’

‘Really?’ Jackson sounded suddenly interested.

It had to be Naysmith. Had to be Joe Naysmith who’d let it slip to McEwan.

Fox made show of shrugging it off. ‘A very slight connection,’ he mooted.

But Jackson was not to be deflected. ‘As in?’ he prompted.

‘Someone Malcolm interviewed,’ McEwan obliged. ‘He was doing some research into a lawyer who got himself involved with Scottish separatists.’

‘Quarter of a century back,’ Fox stressed.

The Chief Constable looked at Jackson. ‘Not quite the same as your Peebleshire bombers.’

‘Not quite,’ Jackson admitted. His next question was aimed at Fox: ‘What happened to the lawyer?’

‘Died in a car crash,’ Fox stated.

‘Unlike the researcher,’ McEwan added. ‘He put a revolver to his head.’

‘Dearie me,’ Jackson said. Then he gave Fox that same unnerving smile again.

When Naysmith called Fox’s mobile an hour or so later, Fox was alone in the office, McEwan having left for yet another meeting elsewhere in the building. Before Naysmith could say anything, Fox thanked him for telling McEwan all about Alan Carter and Francis Vernal.

‘He just asked me what I was up to,’ Naysmith responded.

‘Well, thanks anyway. Now we’ve got Special Branch interested.’ Fox went on to explain the circumstances.

‘Could be a bonus,’ Naysmith argued. ‘Can’t you ask him if there’s anything in the files on Vernal? Whether he really was being spied on?’

‘You think he’d tell me, even if he knew? This was twenty-odd years ago – reckon the spooks have instant access?’

‘Maybe not,’ Naysmith conceded. ‘But how else are we going to find out if they were keeping tabs on him?’

‘We aren’t,’ Fox said eventually. There was silence on the line for a moment.

‘Want to hear what I’ve got?’ Naysmith asked.

‘What have you got?’

‘Barron’s Wrecking.’

‘You spoke to him?’

‘He’s a good age now, but what a memory. When I said as much, he joked that it was because so much of his business was kept off the books. Told me I could grass him up to the taxman if I liked …’

‘But you got round to asking about the car eventually?’

‘He remembered it well. Tow-truck brought it in, but it was there hardly any time at all before someone came asking for it to be taken elsewhere.’

‘Gavin Willis?’ Fox guessed.

‘The very same,’ Naysmith confirmed. ‘They got it as far as the cottage, but it took four of them to push it up the slope into the garage.’

‘Did he tell them why he wanted it?’

‘I don’t think anybody asked. He paid Barron in cash and that was that.’

‘And no one came to the scrapyard asking for it?’

‘Willis slipped Mr Barron an extra twenty and told him to say it had gone into the crusher.’

‘And Barron never bothered asking why?’

‘The way he put it was, when a cop tells you to do something, you do it.’

‘I’m not sure that’s so true these days.’ Fox thought for a moment. ‘Willis worked the firearms detail,’ he informed Naysmith. ‘Could have pocketed the revolver that was used on Alan Carter.’

‘Why, though?’

‘I’m still not sure. Did Barron remember anything else about the car? He didn’t swipe anything from it?’

‘Nothing he’s admitting to.’

‘Then that’s that,’ Fox said, pacing the empty office.

‘What do you want me to do next, Malcolm?’

‘Gavin Willis – I wouldn’t mind knowing how and when he died. Maybe he’s got some family left …’

‘I can check.’ Naysmith sounded as if he was writing himself a note to that effect.

‘Have you seen Tony?’ Fox asked.

‘Told me he was taking Billie and Bekkah out for coffee.’

‘The hairdressers?’ Fox stopped by the window. He had a view towards the car park, with Fettes College behind it. The pupils seemed to be heading home, a line of parental cars waiting to collect most of them. ‘What’s his thinking?’

‘Hormonal?’ Naysmith guessed.

Fox saw DCI Jackson being escorted to his car by the Chief Constable. Jackson had his own driver; nice executive saloon, too. He got into the back, Byars closing the door for him. As the car pulled away, a window slid down. Jackson was staring up towards the Complaints office. There was no way he could see Fox standing there, but Fox backed away all the same, though he wasn’t exactly sure why.