The Impossible Dead

37



At lunchtime, Fox drove home. The tests on his father had so far proved inconclusive. It still looked like a stroke, but they wouldn’t know more until Mitch regained consciousness.

‘Can’t you make him?’ Jude had asked. ‘A shot of adrenaline or something?’

There had been some more tears, and the consultant had suggested that a break from the hospital might be an idea. Fox had offered to drive her, but she’d insisted she would take the bus.

‘This is just stupid,’ he had made the mistake of telling her. ‘Are you going to be like this the rest of your days?’ She’d aimed a swipe at his face and stormed off. He had passed her in his car, standing in the bus shelter, arms folded, angry at the whole world.

He made good time and parked outside his house just before one. As he was getting out of the car, his phone rang: Tony Kaye.

‘How did it go?’ Fox asked him.

‘I think DI Cash may be in the huff with me.’

‘Excellent work.’ Fox pushed his thumb down on the key fob, locking the Volvo. ‘I take it you couldn’t keep your gob shut?’

‘I might have accidentally offered Tosh Garioch a deal.’

‘What sort of deal?’

‘Go easy on him over the drowning if he talks to us about his boss.’

‘Cash wasn’t keen on that?’

‘Not overly. I’d say he’s close to running us out of town.’

‘The club has room for two more,’ Fox conceded. He was standing at his front door, staring at it.

‘Any word on your dad?’

‘I’m going to have to ring you back.’ Fox ended the call and walked to the living-room window, peering into the house. No sign of movement. Back at the front door, he noted the damage to the jamb. There wasn’t much of it. A crowbar or some sort of chisel had been enough. He couldn’t help thinking of the damage to the door of Gallowhill Cottage. He studied the neighbouring properties. It was a quiet street –people kept themselves to themselves. It had probably taken the thief half a minute to effect entry. Could have made it look like he was ringing the doorbell or pushing a delivery through the letter box. Fox edged the door open with his foot and stepped into the hall.

It didn’t look as though any of the papers on his dining table were missing. Maybe they’d been looked at; it was hard to say. His laptop was gone, along with its cable and charger, though the TV and DVD player hadn’t been touched. In the kitchen, the radio had vanished from its spot next to the kettle. Upstairs: bedroom drawers spilling out their contents. His good watch was missing, but his passport remained. Contents of the wardrobe tipped out on to the floor. He sat on the bed and rested his chin on his hands.

Worth calling it in? Yes, but only so he could get a reference number to pass on to the insurers. He doubted there’d be prints. A joiner would put the door right. Whoever had been there had left without taking the spare set of keys. They weren’t coming back. It had been made to look like a regular break-in, but Fox wasn’t convinced. He went downstairs again and stared at the paperwork on the table. Charles Mangold’s name stared back at him from the topmost sheet, written there in capitals. He’d jotted down other names, too, along with dates and queries …

If I’d been here, he wondered, would I have been made to look like a suicide …?

‘Get a grip, Malcolm,’ he muttered to himself.

He tried to think how much information was to be found on the laptop. More of his thoughts, in more detailed sequence than the written notes. He hadn’t got round to adding Alison and Stephen Pears and Andrew Watson to the mix. Had he made mention of Francis Vernal’s logbook? The connection between Gavin Willis and the Dark Harvest Commando, specifically the man called Hawkeye? He thought so. Nothing had been printed off, but he’d copied the contents of the folder on to a memory stick.

A memory stick now missing.

And Professor Martin’s book with it.

A four-quid memory stick and a tatty old book – no self-respecting housebreaker would have bothered with either. Spooks? Special Branch? Was this the same warning intended for Alan Carter, only that time things had gone wrong? Fox took out his phone and reported the break-in, then went outdoors again and checked that Vernal’s logbook was still in the glove box of the car. It was. He tried the bungalows either side of his, but no one was home. Across the street, Mr Anderson, elderly and hard of hearing, had seen nothing unusual.

‘A car or van?’ Fox persisted, but Anderson just shook his head and offered to make a pot of tea for them both.

‘Another time,’ Fox told him.

He tried two more neighbours, but no one had seen or heard a vehicle. No strangers noticed.

Quiet, as usual.

When the patrol car arrived, Fox showed them his warrant card, then pointed to the damage. One of the officers had a handheld electronic device into which he tapped the details.

‘Serial number for the laptop?’ he asked.

Fox went to fetch the guarantee. He could have said it won’t turn up, but then they would have wanted to know why he was so sure.

‘Not Lothian and Borders issue, is it?’ the other officer enquired. Fox shook his head. ‘Nothing work-related on it, then?’

‘No,’ he lied.

‘At least you won’t face a disciplinary,’ the officer commented.

‘Bit of a blessing,’ his colleague added.

‘Does the sarcasm come at no extra charge?’ Fox asked. ‘And a disciplinary’s only if you’ve been negligent – I don’t think break-ins count.’

They’d had their fun at the Complaints’ expense, so stopped smirking and suggested getting a team in to dust for prints, Fox argued it wasn’t worth the bother.

‘Not so sure about that, Inspector,’ the elder of the two countered. ‘Been a few homes broken into round here in the past six months. Might be able to tie yours to them.’

‘Then when we catch the wee bastards …’ the younger officer said.

‘Fine, then,’ Fox said.

It took an hour for a forensic car to arrive. A young woman brought her box of tricks into the house and got to work. Fox had got the bedroom back to normal. He watched her as she brushed powder on to the front door.

‘Didn’t take much,’ she commented.

‘No.’

‘Not even your telly. Means they were probably on foot.’

‘Yes.’

She paused in her work. ‘I’m not getting much here,’ she admitted. A few minutes later she was in the living room. He asked her to dust the surface of the dining table. She came up with a few prints.

‘Probably mine,’ Fox conceded.

She lifted a few samples anyway, then took his prints to check them against. Fox was reminded of the scene outside Alan Carter’s cottage. He was still wondering if he was lucky to have been out of the house.

But if they’d really wanted him there, they could have chosen their moment. Relatively easy to find his home address – a word in the right ear, maybe even a bit of computer hacking. He wasn’t in the phone book, though Jude was. Hell, he could even have been tailed from Police HQ. They had either watched him leave the house, or they’d known he was on his way to the hospital after his brief trip to the office.

Were they listening to his phone calls?

Had someone planted bugs in his house, office or car?

He tried to snort the thought away, but knew it would bother him for the rest of the day.

‘The woolly-suits gave you a reference number?’ the forensics officer was asking, having finished with the upstairs bedroom.

‘Woolly-suits?’

‘Uniforms,’ she explained with a smile. ‘There was a DI who used to call them that.’

‘They gave me a reference number, yes.’

‘All you can do is put in a claim, then – and get a stronger door for next time.’

Fox nodded.

‘Could have been worse, eh?’ she said with a smile.

He seemed to agree with her that it could.

The same meeting room as before at Mangold Bain. And as expected, Charles Mangold could spare only a few minutes. There was no offer of a drink – time, as Mangold himself put it, did not permit. He pressed his hands together, lips brushing the tips of his fingers, and listened to what Fox had to say.

‘My home’s been broken into. The stuff you gave me got left behind, but they took my laptop. Some of my own work on the Vernal case was on it. They’ll have your name now …’

Mangold waved this aside. ‘Who do you think is responsible?’

‘I’m not sure. I’ve had a few run-ins with someone from Special Branch …’

‘Ah.’

‘And last night I went to see Alice Watts.’

Mangold didn’t bother trying to conceal his surprise. ‘The girl Francis was seeing? You found her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where is she? What’s she doing?’ He watched Fox shake his head slowly. ‘Why not?’

‘I have my reasons.’

Mangold seemed to be considering pressing the point, but Fox’s look told him it would be futile. ‘Did she talk to you about Francis?’ he asked instead.

Fox nodded.

‘Well?’ the lawyer demanded.

‘She didn’t love him.’

Mangold stared at him. ‘You’re sure of that?’ He watched Fox nod again. ‘Why did she disappear off the face of the earth? Did she have something to do with his death?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Not directly. ‘But you can put Imogen Vernal’s mind at rest.’ Fox paused. ‘Though I’m not sure that’s ever been your intention.’ The two men locked eyes. ‘I think what you really want is for the scales to fall from her eyes.’

‘Is that so?’

‘It galls you that all these years she’s held fast to an image of her husband – the crusader, the patriot. No matter what you’ve done for her – including adding her name to the law firm – she’s never given you your due, has she?’

‘I don’t see that this outburst serves any purpose, Inspector.’

Fox shrugged the complaint aside. ‘Why did you choose Alan Carter to be your bloodhound? You’d had years to look into Vernal’s death, and my guess is, that’s what you did. It didn’t get you very far. But you knew Gavin Willis had led the original inquiry, and you probably discovered that he’d been a mentor to Alan Carter.’ Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘You weren’t interested in what he found. You wondered how much he would try to conceal. That way you’d have a better understanding of the role Gavin Willis played. And you had a point – Carter didn’t tell you about Vernal’s car, for example, tucked away all these years in a garage behind Gallowhill Cottage. See, it works both ways: there was stuff he didn’t want you to know. That’s probably why he took the job on – he could control the investigation and make sure no mud stuck to Gavin Willis’s name.’

‘I don’t see,’ Mangold repeated, his voice quiet but trembling with anger, ‘that this gets us any further.’

Fox sat in silence for a few seconds, then shrugged. ‘A couple more names have come up,’ he stated. ‘Andrew Watson, for one.’

‘Our current Justice Minister?’

‘The same. Do you know him?’

‘No.’

‘He was a lawyer, though, before becoming an MSP?’

‘A different generation from me. And he practised in Aberdeen.’

‘Criminal law?’

It was Mangold’s turn to nod. ‘What has he got to do with Francis’s death?’ An eyebrow shot up. ‘You’re after him to reopen the investigation?’

‘Would you like that?’

‘It would be a nightmare for Imogen.’

‘She might reach out for someone to hold her hand …’

The look Mangold gave told Fox the lawyer reckoned this a very cheap shot. ‘What’s the other name?’ Mangold asked.

Fox shook his head slowly, as if to indicate that it wasn’t at all important. ‘Just that I saw a photo of his brother-in-law.’

‘Stephen Pears?’

‘Taken in the New Club.’

‘He’s a member.’

‘I thought it was mostly lawyers and judges.’

‘A fairly wide spectrum,’ Mangold corrected him.

‘Is the Justice Minister a member too?’

Mangold thought for a moment. ‘Do you know, I don’t think he is.’

‘Would Vernal have known Andrew Watson?’ Fox asked. ‘Both lawyers … both keen nationalists …’

‘Wouldn’t Watson still have been at school when Frank died?’ Mangold did the arithmetic in his head. ‘Couldn’t have been much more than sixteen or seventeen.’

‘The age of idealism,’ Fox stated. ‘Sort of age when you’re open to ideas, too.’

Though not, perhaps, the idea that your sister was sleeping with a man twice her age, a married man, a man called Francis Vernal …

Lacking a computer at home, Fox returned to Fettes, hoping he wouldn’t bump into the Chief Constable. The car radio news told him that the three Kippen suspects were likely to be charged by the end of the day, but would remain in custody in any event, extra time for questioning having been granted. Fox knew that after the Megrahi case, the Scottish government would feel the spotlight was on them – and on the justice system.

Next to the reception desk, the status was still CRITICAL.

‘Even with the bad guys detained?’ Fox asked the desk officer.

‘We don’t know how many more are out there,’ the man replied, ‘and maybe wanting revenge …’

Fear: Fox had noticed the same thing when skimming the news reports from 1985. Fear was ever-present. When you’d stopped needing to fear a US–Soviet conflagration or an impending ice age, something else came along in its place. Fear of crime always seemed to outpace the actual statistics. Right now, people were fearing for their jobs and pensions, fearing global warming and dwindling resources. If these problems were ever resolved, new worries would fill the vacuum. He stared at the word CRITICAL, then moved past the sign and headed for the stairs.

Joe Naysmith was in the Complaints office. He gave Fox a wave.

‘Done and dusted in Fife?’ Fox asked him. Naysmith nodded. ‘So where’s Tony?’

Naysmith shrugged and asked Fox if he wanted a coffee.

‘Sure,’ Fox said, sitting down at his computer. He took a twenty-pound note from his pocket, folded it to make a paper plane, and launched it in Naysmith’s direction. The young man looked at him.

‘I’m paying off the kitty debts,’ Fox explained. ‘Does that cover it?’

‘With room to spare.’

‘Good,’ Fox said. Then he got to work, doing a search on Andrew Watson. As Mangold had suggested, the current Justice Minister would just have been starting at Aberdeen University when Francis Vernal died. Fox looked carefully, but could see no sign that Watson had ever been a hardliner or especially radical. He’d graduated with a first in law, then joined a practice. SNP councillor by the age of twenty-seven and an MSP at thirty-one. The party leader seemed to like and respect him. As a ‘back-room boy’, Watson was credited with helping the SNP canvass its way into government.

The twenty-pound note seemed to have cheered Joe Naysmith up. He sat with Fox and let Fox bounce ideas off him, then got up and made more coffee while Fox texted Tony Kaye to ask him where he was. When his phone rang, he reckoned it would be Kaye, but it was Jude, phoning from the hospital.

‘He’s awake,’ she said. ‘But he’s not right …’

Fox drove out to the Infirmary and found himself entering the car park just behind a slow-moving Rover. He sounded his horn in irritation and gestured for the driver to put his foot down. After a couple of circuits he found an empty bay. It was at the very furthest corner, and he had to walk past the Rover as he made for the hospital entrance. The driver was Fox’s father’s age and looked fearful as Fox stalked towards him. The CRITICAL sign flashed in Fox’s head and he paused for a moment, muttering the word ‘sorry’ before carrying on.

When he reached his father’s bedside, Mitch’s eyes were closed, hands clasped on his chest. Jude was talking to a woman who introduced herself as Mae Ross.

‘Mrs Ross works at Lauder Lodge,’ Jude explained.

‘We were just wondering how he’s doing,’ Mrs Ross added.

‘And I was apologising for not getting in touch sooner.’

Fox just nodded. ‘You said he was awake,’ he commented.

‘He is … sort of.’

Fox leaned over his father and watched the eyelids flutter, then open. The eyes took a moment to focus.

‘Chris?’ his father said, voice slurred.

‘It’s Malcolm.’ Fox laid a palm against his father’s hands.

‘Malcolm?’ The word was barely recognisable.

‘Strokes do that,’ Mrs Ross stated. Then, to the patient, in the sort of sing-song voice usually reserved for children: ‘We’re all looking forward to seeing our favourite client back at Lauder Lodge!’

Her wide smile disappeared as Fox turned to face her. ‘He’s not a “client”,’ he growled. ‘He’s my father!’

She looked shocked. ‘I didn’t mean anything, Mr Fox …’

Jude seemed stunned by the outburst. She placed a hand on Fox’s forearm.

‘Chris,’ Mitch Fox was repeating.

‘Not Chris – Malcolm,’ his son informed him.

‘Cousin Chris?’ Jude guessed. ‘Burntisland Chris?’

‘Chris is dead,’ Fox was telling his father. ‘He fell off his motorbike, remember?’

Fox took the photograph from his pocket – the one showing Chris Fox cheering Francis Vernal. He unfolded it and thrust it into his father’s face.

‘See?’ he said. ‘That’s Chris.’ He pointed to the face. ‘That’s Chris and I’m Malcolm.’

‘It’s okay, Malcolm,’ Jude was telling him, while Mrs Ross looked at him as if he were mad. The hospital staff were taking an interest too. Fox lowered the photograph and watched his father’s face clear.

‘Chris was always so careful on that bike of his,’ Mitch Fox said.

‘Not careful enough, though.’ But a question was starting to form in Fox’s mind, a question only one person could answer. He turned towards Jude, who was still gripping him by his forearm.

‘There’s somewhere I need to go,’ he told her. ‘Will you be all right here?’

She nodded slowly, looking a little fearful. Fox freed himself from her grasp and ran his hand down the side of her head. ‘But if anything changes …’

‘I’ll call you,’ she said.

‘I shouldn’t be too long.’

‘Just come back to us when you’re ready,’ Jude told him. She even managed a smile of sorts, as if keen to bolster him. Fox did something he hadn’t done in a while: leaned in towards her and kissed her on the cheek. She lifted herself a little, making it easier for him.

And then he was gone.