‘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.
22
Francis Vernal’s widow lived in a detached Victorian mansion house in the Grange district of the city. The narrow streets were devoid of traffic and pedestrians. Almost no homes were visible. They remained hidden, like their owners and those owners’ wealth, behind high stone walls and solid wooden gates. Charles Mangold had been adamant that Fox could only visit if Mangold accompanied him. Fox had been just as adamant that this was a non-starter. Nevertheless, Mangold was waiting in an idling black taxi as Fox approached the driveway. As Fox got out of the car to announce his arrival at the intercom, Mangold emerged from the back of the cab.
‘I have to insist,’ the lawyer was saying.
‘Insist all you like.’
‘What if Imogen wants me there?’
‘She can tell me that to my face. But you stay this side of the gates until she does.’
Mangold looked furious but said nothing. He spluttered his way back to the taxi, slamming the door after him. Fox told the intercom he had an appointment. The gates swung back on themselves with a motorised hum, and he returned to his car. It was a long, winding driveway, with thick shrubbery to either side. Fox emerged into a gravelled parking area in front of the two-storey gabled house. It was dusk, birds roosting in the well-established trees. He locked his car from habit only. The front door to the house was open, a woman in her thirties standing there. She introduced herself as Eileen Carpenter.
‘I look after Mrs Vernal.’
‘Her nurse, you mean?’
‘And other things besides.’
The hall smelled musty, but had been dusted. Carpenter asked him if he wanted some tea.
‘Please,’ he answered, following her into the drawing room. It boasted a huge bay window. Imogen Vernal’s chair had been placed so that it faced the garden to the side of the property.
‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up,’ she said. Fox introduced himself and shook her hand. Her ash-blonde hair was thin and wispy, and there were lesions on her cheeks and forehead. Her skin was almost transparent, the veins showing. Fox reckoned she couldn’t weigh more than seven and a half stone. But her eyes, though tired, were lively enough, the pupils dilated by recent medication.
There was a dining-room chair to one side of her, and Fox seated himself. A book was open on the floor – a hardback copy of a Charles Dickens novel. Fox presumed one of Eileen Carpenter’s tasks was to read to her employer.
‘Quite a house,’ Fox said.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you live here with your husband?’
‘My parents bought it for us – a wedding gift.’
‘Great parents.’
‘Rich parents,’ she corrected him with a smile.
There were framed photographs of her husband on the mantelpiece. One looked familiar: the orator in full flow, fist clenched as he addressed his audience.
‘I wish I’d heard him speak,’ Fox said truthfully.
‘I think I have some recordings.’ She paused and raised a finger. ‘No,’ she corrected herself, ‘I donated them to the National Library – along with his books and papers. People have done their PhDs on him, you know. When he died, an American senator wrote an obituary for the Washington Post.’ She nodded at the memory.
‘He was quite a character,’ Fox agreed. ‘In public.’
Her eyes narrowed a little. ‘Charles told me about you, Inspector. Such a pity about the other man, the one who passed away…’ She paused. ‘Is Charles outside the gates?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s very protective.’
‘Was he one of your lovers?’
She took her time answering, as if wondering how to respond. ‘You make me sound like a Jezebel.’ Her voice was becoming more noticeably Scottish.
‘It’s just that he seems to have a great deal of affection for you.’
‘He does,’ she agreed.
‘And there were always the rumours that your marriage had been stormy.’
‘Stormy?’ She considered the word. ‘Not a bad description.’
‘How did the two of you meet?’
‘Manning the barricades.’
‘Not literally?’
‘Almost – a sit-in at the university. I think we were protesting against Vietnam.’ She seemed to be thinking back. ‘Although it could have been apartheid, or Rhodesia. He was already a lawyer; I was a student. We hit it off…’
‘Despite the age gap?’
‘My parents didn’t approve at first,’ she conceded.
‘Was Mr Vernal a nationalist back then?’
‘He was a communist in his youth. Then it was the Labour Party. Nationalism came later.’
‘You shared his politics?’
She studied him. ‘I’m not sure what it is you want from me, Inspector.’
‘I just felt we should meet.’
She was still mulling this over when Eileen Carpenter arrived with a tray. The teapot was small, and there was just the one bone-china cup and saucer. It was loose-leaf tea, accompanied by a silver strainer. Fox thanked her. She asked her employer if anything else was needed.
‘We’re fine, I think,’ Imogen Vernal replied. ‘You might want to let Charles know.’ Then, for Fox’s benefit: ‘He’ll be waiting for her to send him a message.’
A little colour was rising to Carpenter’s cheeks as she left the room.
‘She’s not a spy, exactly,’ Imogen Vernal told Fox. ‘But Charles will keep fussing…’
Fox poured tea for himself. ‘You know why he hired Alan Carter?’ he asked.
