‘Just Naysmith and me,’ Kaye corrected him.
‘That true?’ Cash asked Fox.
‘I was at home in Edinburgh.’
‘Anyone with you?’
‘No.’
Cash turned his attention towards Kaye and Naysmith. ‘Then we’ll start with the two of you.’ He walked over to the video camera. ‘How does this work, son?’
Naysmith looked to Fox for instruction.
‘You’ve made your point, Cash,’ Fox stated.
‘The hell I have: this has got to be done by the book. Don’t tell me the Complaints wouldn’t agree. There’s a local copper lying on a slab, and here I am with two witnesses who saw him the night he died.’ Cash gestured towards DS Young. ‘Know how to operate this thing, Brendan?’
‘Can’t be that hard,’ Young suggested.
Cash turned back towards Fox. ‘You still here? I might have to make a complaint, Inspector.’
Fox looked ready to stand his ground, but Kaye gave a jerk of the head towards the door.
‘I’ll be outside,’ Fox said to nobody in particular.
‘Best place for you,’ Brendan Young muttered in reply.
Fox sat in his car for a while, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel and staring out of the windscreen without really seeing anything. He tried the radio but couldn’t find a station he liked. There were no messages on his phone. Eventually he got out and paced the car park. He thought of Paul Carter, lying in the chill gloom of the mortuary, his last moments filled with fear and flight. Then he pictured Alan Carter, seated at his desk in Gallowhill Cottage – quite relaxed, unafraid of whoever stood behind him.
Unafraid or unaware.
Francis Vernal had driven off the road, or been shunted off it. Shot while he was driving, maybe? It would have taken a marksman – but marksmen could be found.
Fox’s last memory of Paul Carter alive: running from the cottage to his car. I’m sick of all this… I want my life back…
‘Me too, pal,’ Fox muttered, lifting his phone to check the incoming message.
Start the engine – we’re blowing this joint!
He had just reached the station’s rear door as it swung open. Kaye led the way, Joe Naysmith behind him.
‘Well?’ Fox asked.
‘He pissed us about as long as he felt able to,’ Kaye reported. ‘Not sure he quite bought Joe’s story, but then neither did I.’
‘I drove to North Queensferry,’ Naysmith explained to Fox.
‘To see his squeeze,’ Kaye added.
‘Did Cash ask for her name?’ Fox watched Naysmith shake his head. ‘That’s just as well. We can’t go giving him any more ammo. Any second now, the bosses are going to decide we’re more trouble than we’re worth.’
‘Home sweet home,’ Kaye answered, rubbing his hands together. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘We were given a job,’ Fox reminded him.
Kaye rolled his eyes. ‘From which you quickly absconded, dusting off the history books instead.’
‘I was kicked into touch, remember?’
‘Thing is, Malcolm, you’re so happy there, I’d swear you’d fallen on a team of pompom girls.’
Naysmith smiled at the image. After a moment, so did Fox. Eventually Kaye joined in too.
‘What if I show you?’ Fox suggested.
‘Show me?’
‘Joe’s been there; it’s right and proper you should see it too.’
Naysmith nodded his understanding. ‘How many cars?’ he asked Fox.
‘Just the one should do it. And mine seems to be closest.’
Indeed it was: he’d parked it in Superintendent Pitkethly’s bay again.
The door was still unlocked; didn’t look as if anyone had been there since Fox’s last visit.
‘So who gets it?’ Kaye asked, as practical as ever. He was examining the cottage like a prospective buyer.
‘Paul Carter seems to be the only family,’ Fox answered, pushing open the door.
‘I’d have the Land Rover,’ Joe Naysmith added. ‘Rather that than the house.’
‘Can you imagine being shown round?’ Kaye was following Fox into the living room. ‘The selling agent trying to avoid the obvious…’
‘Should we even be in here?’ Naysmith asked. ‘It’s still a crime scene, isn’t it?’
‘One that’s been picked clean,’ Fox reassured him. He was studying Tony Kaye. For all his faults, Kaye had a true cop’s instinct. Fox wasn’t expecting revelations: he was hoping Kaye might reinforce a few theories he himself had.
‘Alan Carter was seated here,’ he explained, touching the back of the solid wooden chair. Paperwork in front of him – everything he’d discovered about Francis Vernal’s death.’
‘Everything? You sure about that, Malcolm?’
‘Everything we know about.’
‘He let his killer in?’
‘According to Carter’s best friend, the door was usually kept locked.’
‘No signs of a break-in?’
Fox shook his head.
‘Someone he knew then – which brings us back to the nephew.’
‘The papers had been moved – swept to the floor.’
‘Deceased could have done that himself,’ Kaye commented. ‘Annoyed about something… fit of temper.’
Naysmith was resting his backside against the arm of Alan Carter’s fireside chair. ‘Why leave the dog?’ he asked.
‘Good question,’ Kaye replied with a nod. ‘An animal-loving assassin?’
‘There was no grievance against the dog,’ Fox said.
‘As far as they were concerned,’ Naysmith added, ‘Alan Carter had to die.’
Kaye gave a grunt that sounded like agreement. ‘So what had he turned up?’ he asked Fox.
‘The Vernal case, you mean?’ Fox considered his answer. ‘Not a whole lot, as far as I can see.’
‘That might be a dead end, then – and we’re back to the nephew again.’
Kaye did a circuit of the room, opening drawers, studying ornaments, even crouching down in front of the fireplace and peering at the ash and dead cinders in the grate. He got to his feet, sniffed, and made for the kitchen, after which all three men climbed the stairs to the upper floor.
‘Cottage used to belong to Gavin Willis,’ Fox recited. ‘Willis was Alan Carter’s mentor – seasoned DI to his L-plate DC. When Willis died, Carter bought the place and practised his lack of DIY skills on it.’
‘Should’ve stuck to the day job,’ Kaye agreed.
‘When Paul Carter was young, his dad brought him here – Uncle Alan said he didn’t need any help.’
‘He was lying,’ Kaye stated.
‘Bit of replastering… new wallpaper…’
Kaye looked at Fox. ‘You think he was looking for something?’
‘Money went missing when Vernal died – a few thousand.’
‘Cash? That would make a hell of a bump in any patch of wallpaper.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t money, then,’ Fox speculated.
Kaye had caught on by now: he knew Fox was using him as a sounding board, and acknowledged as much with a wink.
‘The car?’ Joe Naysmith asked. ‘Much better hiding place.’
‘Yes,’ Fox agreed.
‘But the car was in the garage, right?’ Kaye said. ‘So why tear the cottage to pieces?’
‘Maybe Alan Carter didn’t know about the car,’ Naysmith replied. ‘Not straight off.’
