‘I did love it.’ Cameron smiled to himself. ‘And the football…’
But Fox knew he had ended up a draughtsman. Married to Myra. Two kids. A contented life.
‘What brings you here?’ Mitch was asking his son. ‘Thought you were doing something in Fife?’
Fox dug in his pocket and produced the photograph. ‘Came across this,’ he said, handing it over. His father made show of focusing, holding the cutting as far from him as his arm would allow. Then he fished in his cardigan pocket for his reading glasses.
‘That’s Francis Vernal,’ he stated.
‘But who’s next to him?’
‘Is it Chris?’ His father’s voice rose a little in surprise. ‘It’s Chris, isn’t it?’
‘Looks like,’ Fox agreed.
Mitch had handed the photo across to his old friend.
‘Francis Vernal,’ Cameron confirmed. ‘And who did you say the other fellow was?’
‘Cousin of mine,’ Mitch explained. ‘Chris, his name was. Died young in a bike crash.’
‘How come he knew Vernal?’ Fox asked.
‘Chris was a shop steward at the dockyard.’
‘And an SNP man?’
‘That too.’
‘I saw Vernal speak once,’ Cameron added. ‘At a miners’ institute somewhere – Lasswade, maybe. “Firebrand” is the word that springs to mind.’
‘I don’t really remember him,’ Fox admitted. ‘I was in my teens when he died.’
‘There were rumours at the time,’ Cameron went on. ‘His wife…’
‘Bloody tittle-tattle,’ Mitch said dismissively. ‘Selling papers is all it’s good for.’ He looked at his son. ‘Where did you find this?’
‘There’s an ex-cop in Fife, he was interested in Vernal.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Fox thought for a moment. ‘What year did Chris die?’
It was his father’s turn to think. ‘Seventy-five, seventy-six… Late on in seventy-five, I think. Crematorium in Kirkcaldy, then a meal at a hotel near the station.’ Mitch had retrieved the photo and was staring at it. ‘Smashing lad, our Chris.’
‘He never married?’
Fox’s father shook his head. ‘Always told me he liked life free and easy. That way he could just jump on his bike and go exploring.’
‘Whereabouts did the crash happen?’
‘Why are you so interested all of a sudden?’
Fox gave a shrug.
‘Is this you trying some real detective work for a change?’ Mitch turned towards Cameron. ‘Malcolm here’s only got another year or two till he’s back in CID.’
‘Oh aye? The Complaints isn’t for life, then?’
‘I think Malcolm would like it better if it was.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Fox couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice.
‘You were never happy there,’ his father told him.
‘Says who?’
‘You’ll be a bit rusty, then,’ Cameron chipped in, ‘when you have to go back to the detective work.’
‘What I do now is detective work.’
‘It’s not the same, though, is it?’ his father continued.
‘It’s exactly the same.’
His father just shook his head slowly. Silence descended on the room for a moment.
‘Firebrand,’ Cameron eventually repeated. He seemed to be thinking back to Francis Vernal’s speech. ‘The hairs went up on your arms. If he’d been asking you to advance on the enemy lines, you’d have done it, armed or not.’
‘I saw him on the James Connolly march one year,’ Mitch added. ‘Not something I usually paid attention to, but a pal wanted to go to the rally. Leith Links, I think it was. Francis Vernal got up to speak, and you’re right, Sandy – he had the gift. Not saying I agreed with him, but I listened.’
‘People used to compare him to Jimmy Reid,’ Cameron mused. ‘I thought he was better. There was none of the “comrades” stuff.’
‘It seemed a lost cause back then, though, didn’t it?’ Fox added, relieved that he was no longer the focus of attention. ‘Nationalism, I mean.’
‘They were strange times,’ Mitch said. ‘A lot of anger. Things getting blown up…’ He had poured himself another whisky, the bottle pretty well empty now. ‘I was always Labour, but I remember your mum getting on her high horse about the SNP. They used to recruit outside folk concerts.’
‘Same thing at the picture house when Braveheart was playing,’ Cameron added.
‘Malcolm was never political, though,’ Mitch Fox said. ‘Maybe worried about sticking his head above the parapet – or at least above his homework books…’
Fox was staring at his father’s whisky. ‘Dash of water with that?’ he asked.
‘Dash of water be damned.’
The New Club was hard to find. The edifice Fox had always assumed it to be turned out to belong to the Royal Overseas League instead. A woman in reception pointed him back along Princes Street. The evening was turning blustery. A set of tramlines had been laid, but there was now yet another delay as the contractors bickered with the council about payment. Workers were queuing at bus stops, keen to get home. It didn’t help Fox’s cause that few of the shops on Princes Street had numbers. It was 86 that he was after, but he missed it again and had to retrace his steps. Eventually, next to a cash machine, he saw an anonymous varnished wooden door. There was a small window above it, and he could just about make out the name etched there. He rang the bell and was eventually admitted.
He had been expecting small, stuffy Georgian-style rooms, but the interior was vast and modern. A uniformed porter told him he was expected and led him up a further flight of stairs. A few elderly gentlemen wandered around, or could be glimpsed poring over newspapers in armchairs. Fox had thought his destination would be some lounge or bar, but in fact it was a well-appointed meeting room. Charles Mangold was seated at a large circular table, a carafe of water in front of him.
‘Thank you, Eddie,’ he said to the porter, who bowed and left them to it. Mangold had risen and was shaking Fox’s hand.
‘Charles Mangold,’ he said, introducing himself. ‘Inspector Fox, is it?’
‘It is.’
‘Mind if I see some proof?’
Fox pulled out his warrant card.
‘Can’t be too careful these days, I’m afraid.’ Mangold handed back the wallet and gestured for him to take a seat. ‘I forgot to ask Eddie to fetch us some drinks…’
‘Water’s fine, sir.’
Mangold poured them a glass apiece while Fox studied him. Portly, early sixties, bald and bespectacled. He wore a dark three-piece suit, pale-lemon shirt with gold cufflinks, and a tie of maroon and blue striped diagonals. His confident air was edging towards smugness. Or maybe ‘entitlement’ was the word.
‘Been here before?’ he asked.
‘First time.’
‘Most other clubs have closed their doors, but somehow this place soldiers on.’ He took a sip of water. ‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you very much time, Inspector. As my secretary may have said…’
‘You have another meeting at half past.’
‘Yes,’ Mangold said, glancing at his watch.
‘Did you know Alan Carter was dead, Mr Mangold?’
The lawyer froze for a second. ‘Dead?’
‘Put a gun to his head yesterday evening.’
