‘It’s not like you took advantage of me.’
‘But all the same…’
She started to sing a slurred snatch of Edith Piaf, then broke into a tired laugh.
‘Maybe a glass or two of water before bed,’ Fox advised.
‘That’s what Freddie always says.’ The sigh she gave translated into a crackling on the line.
‘Good night, Evelyn.’
‘Night-night, Malcolm.’
He plugged the phone back into its charger and lay down again, head against the pillow, eyes closed. The bedside lamp was on, but he liked it that way. When he got up in the morning, he would switch it off before opening the curtains. He placed his hands behind his head and opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. He would drift off to sleep eventually.
He always did.
But first, he had some more thinking to do.
Seven
23
The morning was blustery. Fox parked on the esplanade and got into the back seat of the car next to his.
‘Coffee,’ Joe Naysmith said, handing him a takeaway. Fox thanked him and removed the lid. The liquid was tepid but drinkable.
‘Keeping our seats warm for us at Fettes?’ Tony Kaye asked.
‘Little visit yesterday from Special Branch,’ Fox informed him. ‘They’ve got their eye on those explosions.’
‘Kids with fireworks,’ Kaye said. ‘I’d bet the house on it. Suits the spooks to act as though it’s serious – keeps punters worried and them in their cushy little jobs.’
‘Since when did kids put together nail bombs?’ Fox countered.
‘You saying we’ve got to start watching out for a tartan jihad?’ Kaye rolled his eyes. ‘As if we didn’t have enough on our plates.’
‘Maybe the Dark Harvest Commando are back,’ Naysmith added.
‘Aye, you and Malcolm should paddle out to Anthrax Island, see if they’re digging it up again.’ Kaye shook his head slowly.
‘But in the meantime…’ Fox prompted.
‘Got a call from your pal Mills this morning,’ Kaye obliged. ‘I was hardly out of the shower – she’s a keen one, isn’t she?’
‘What did she say?’
‘A little present would be waiting for us in reception.’
‘And?’
Naysmith held up a memory stick. He then reached down and produced his laptop from the floor between his feet. The three men finished their drinks as they listened to the telephone recording. It had been logged at eight ten the previous evening, and the quality was variable.
‘That’s me just home,’ Paul Carter complained. ‘Ten hours of questions.’
‘Harsh,’ Ray Scholes offered.
‘Harsh is right. Someone’s knifing me in the gonads here.’
‘I know.’
‘Any ideas?’
‘You remember the Shafiqs? I’ve been wondering if one of the sons maybe held a grudge.’
‘That was last year.’
‘Well, I’ve offered it to Cash anyway.’
Naysmith turned in his seat. ‘I did a quick check: the Shafiqs own a range of businesses all across Fife.’
Fox nodded and continued listening.
‘Your uncle had a few headcases on his books,’ Scholes was saying. ‘Tosh Garioch, Mel Stuart…’
‘I know them,’ Carter said.
‘Then you’ll know they’ve both done time. Short-fuse merchants pumped up from bodybuilding and illegal supplements.’
‘Uncle Alan had them working as doormen.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you’re thinking they might’ve had a grievance?’
‘Not really,’ Scholes eventually admitted.
‘CID seem to think the only one around here with a motive is yours truly.’
‘I’m doing my best, mate.’
‘Look, Ray,’ Carter responded, ‘I can appreciate you might’ve thought you were doing me a favour-’
‘Let me stop you right there, Paul. No way I had anything to do with this, so let’s get that clear in our minds.’
‘What about Gary or Mark?’ Meaning Michaelson and Haldane.
‘You’re grasping at the wrong straws.’
‘Sounds to me like you think I did it.’
‘Nothing’s for certain yet – the crime scene might look a bit wonky, but it’s suicide until proven otherwise.’
‘I didn’t kill him, Ray.’
‘That’s what I’m saying – maybe nobody did.’ There was the sound of a door opening and a woman’s voice. ‘I’ve got to go, Paul,’ Scholes said, sounding relieved rather than apologetic. ‘Stay strong, eh?’
‘Can I come over?’
‘Not tonight, mate.’
‘I’m… sorry. About everything.’
‘You’ll beat this, Paul – you’re Mr Non-Stick, remember?’
‘Non-Stick,’ Paul Carter echoed, sounding tired and not nearly convinced.
Naysmith closed the laptop. ‘End of,’ he stated.
‘Carter said he was sorry,’ Kaye stated. ‘Presumably for all the shite he’s put Scholes through – including perjuring himself.’
‘Bit of detail would have been nice,’ Naysmith argued. ‘What do you think, Malcolm?’
‘He’s pretty adamant he didn’t top his uncle.’
‘Aye,’ Kaye retorted, ‘like he was adamant in court he didn’t do anything to those women.’
‘Speaking of which…’ Fox prompted.
‘I spoke to Billie and Bekkah again,’ Kaye obliged. ‘Interesting that Scholes mentioned those two knuckle- draggers: Tosh Garioch happens to be Billie’s current squeeze.’ Kaye turned in his seat so he was facing Fox. ‘It was when you mentioned that Alan Carter’s company employed doormen…’
‘You thought you’d see if the two connected?’ Fox nodded slowly. ‘And they do.’
‘Coincidence, eh?’ Kaye said with a twitch of the mouth. ‘Alan Carter doesn’t get on with his nephew… makes a complaint about him… nothing much comes of it until Teresa Collins changes her mind and Billie and Bekkah come forward.’
‘And Billie’s boyfriend,’ Naysmith added, ‘happens to work for the uncle.’
‘So what’s your thinking?’
‘Bit more digging required,’ Kaye answered. ‘But I’m just beginning to see a glimmer of light.’
‘Paul Carter was set up by his uncle?’
‘If so,’ Naysmith argued, ‘even more reason to hold that grudge.’
