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.
Four
11
‘A right little Jonah.’
Fox gave Tony Kaye a look. ‘That’s what Scholes said, too.’
It was the following morning and they were back in Kirkcaldy. They’d ruled out ever using the storeroom again, so had commandeered the interview room.
‘We’ll be needing it all day,’ Fox had informed the desk sergeant. The man had put up no resistance, just nodded and gone back to his paperwork.
Fox had wondered about that: no gloating over Teresa Collins? ‘No,’ he’d said out loud, once seated in the interview room. The man’s in mourning…
‘No?’ Joe Naysmith had echoed, arriving with a spare chair from the storeroom.
‘Never mind,’ Fox had said.
Kaye had been out to a cafe and fetched them cardboard beakers of coffee. Fox had phoned him the previous night to tell him about Alan Carter.
‘Coincidence?’ Kaye had asked, getting right to the heart of it.
‘Got to be coincidence,’ Naysmith said now, prising the top from his cup and adding a couple of thimble- sized cartons of milk.
‘I don’t know,’ Fox countered. ‘Scholes said something last night about guilt. Maybe he got wind that his nephew was out and might be lodging an appeal.’
‘So he went and stuck a pistol to his head?’ Kaye said, his tone one of disbelief.
‘Revolver,’ Fox corrected him.
‘Must be more to it than that, Malcolm.’
‘Or less,’ Naysmith added.
‘You didn’t tape your interview with him, did you?’ Kaye was asking Fox.
‘Wasn’t as formal as an interview… but the answer’s no.’
‘Reckon it might take some heat off? With this to occupy them, maybe Teresa Collins will stop being the headline.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Nobody’s spoken to you?’
Fox shook his head. ‘Far as I know, we’re still on the case.’
‘Such as it is.’
Fox allowed the point with a shrug of his shoulders.
‘So what are we doing today?’ Naysmith asked.
