justified?’
‘Justified is an interesting word – we could spend a year and a day debating it.’ MacIver fixed Fox with a stare. ‘They have a cause, they have passion and commitment. They have seen the systems around them fail, yet the status quo remains. Frustration turns to anger and anger to a sense of injustice.’
‘That’s how you felt back in the day?’
‘We all felt it!’ MacIver’s voice was rising as his agitation grew. Suddenly Gretchen Hughes was in the doorway, flanked by a couple of orderlies.
‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.
MacIver was on his feet. He stared down at the newspaper with all its underlined paragraphs, then snatched at it and began tearing it to shreds. The orderlies moved forward, Fox making room for them.
‘Betrayed and given trinkets?’ MacIver was spluttering. ‘Call that power? Why not call it what it is?’
Hughes’s hand was on Fox’s arm.
‘Time for us to leave,’ she said.
Fox stood his ground. ‘What is it?’ he asked MacIver. The hand on his arm tightened.
‘I think that’s quite enough, Inspector.’
‘It’s a kind of death,’ MacIver stated, voice shaking. ‘And we’re paying for it. Mark my words – we’re paying for it…’ He slumped down on his chair.
‘You need to go now,’ Hughes was telling Fox.
‘I’m going,’ he assured her, backing out of the room.
33
Fox had no way of getting in touch with DCI Jackson, so he started driving in the direction of Stirling. The radio news reports told him the blast had happened somewhere close to the village of Kippen. Fox’s satnav advised him to take the A73 and the M80. His heartbeat was returning to something like normal as he played back the visit to Carstairs in his head. MacIver had lost little of his zeal. He wasn’t an orator like Francis Vernal, perhaps, but Fox could imagine him filled with passionate argument, sounding heated but rational. He could well imagine young people hanging on his every word. He would have sounded like a man with justifiable grievances, if few answers – other than insurrection.
Fox stopped at a service station, filled the car’s tank and stayed parked while he ate a sandwich and drank a bottle of Irn-Bru. When he got back on the road and started to see signs to Kippen, he found himself part of a convoy, tucking in behind a van with a satellite dish on its roof. The TV crews were on their way to cover the bomb blast. The van eventually signalled to enter a country park at the foot of a range of hills. Paths led into the woods, and there was a muddy car park, filled with police patrol cars. Fox hauled his Volvo on to the closest verge and got out. Journalists were talking into their phones or to each other. Uniformed officers were trying to stop them wandering off. Bemused ramblers were returning to their cars, only to find them blocked in. Fox could see no sign of Jackson. He showed his ID to a uniform and was pointed in the direction of the right-hand path. On another day it would have been a pleasant enough hike, though Fox would have chosen different footwear. He slipped on leaves a few times, just about staying upright. As he walked further into the forest it grew eerily quiet, and he stopped and listened, breathing deeply. He was reminded of the Hermitage of Braid, near where he’d grown up in Edinburgh. As a kid, he’d gone there with Jude, playing games of hide-and-seek and chasing sticks down the narrow, fast-flowing stream. Right up until the day she started finding other boys more interesting than her brother.
He took out his phone, tempted to call her and share the memory, but hesitated. A couple of uniformed officers emerged from the path ahead. They asked to check his ID.
‘I’m not a reporter,’ he assured them, but they took a good look anyway. The one who handed the warrant card back looked like he had a question to ask – What’s this got to do with the Complaints? – but Fox moved on before he got the chance. The climb levelled out and he could see a clearing over to his left. Several figures had gathered there. Fox walked towards them, no one paying him any attention. Jackson, arms folded, was talking to a dark-haired woman. She wore a cream trench coat and green wellingtons, and she too had her arms folded. Fox stood and waited for Jackson to notice him. It was the woman who turned her head first, narrowing her eyes a little as she tried to place the new arrival. Jackson turned to see what had caught her attention. He muttered something to her and tramped in Fox’s direction.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he asked, keeping his voice low.
‘Sorry,’ Fox apologised. ‘I would’ve called if I’d had your number.’
Jackson was trying to lead him out of the clearing, but Fox stayed put. There was a small crater that everyone else seemed interested in. Blackened foliage and strewn earth. Fox wondered for a second why the trees were glinting, then realised their bark was studded with shrapnel – bits of nails and nuts and bolts.
‘Looks like they’ve got the quantities about right,’ he stated.
Jackson had placed himself between Fox and the scene. ‘Look, I’ll give you my number; we can talk later.’
‘It was just the one question, really.’
Jackson didn’t seem to be listening. He handed Fox his business card. The address was New Scotland Yard, London.
‘Just the one question,’ Fox repeated.
‘Can’t it wait?’
Fox stared at him. Jackson sighed and folded his arms again.
‘The watcher team – is that what you called them? The ones who rifled Vernal’s car while he lay injured in the front seat…’
‘What about them?’
‘Did they leave their jobs soon after? Or maybe start buying flash watches and Italian suits?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve just heard that there was thirty or forty grand in that car.’
‘You think they stole it?’
Fox shrugged. ‘It’s a theory, and that means I may have to write it up.’
‘Look, write whatever the hell you want. I’ve told you what I found in the vaults.’
‘You’ve not told me their names.’
‘And I’m not going to.’
‘Are they still active?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Over by the bomb crater, the woman cleared her throat. Jackson took the hint. ‘You need to go,’ he told Fox.
‘Who is she?’
‘She’s the Chief Constable of Central Scotland, and right now I’m keeping her waiting.’
‘Didn’t recognise her without her uniform,’ Fox said. ‘I’ll let you get back to it, then.’
Jackson didn’t need a second invitation. He strode towards the circle of investigators and mumbled some sort of apology.
Fox took his time returning along the path. Another forensics team passed him, lugging heavy boxes of equipment. The TV vans had got their satellite dishes properly positioned. One reporter was doing a piece to camera. Fox recognised the face – he worked on the same show as John Elliot. Somehow Elliot himself, one-time dabbler in terrorism, was stuck doing pieces about restaurant menus.
‘No word from the authorities as yet,’ the reporter was telling the audience at home, ‘but a press conference will take place in an hour or so’s time…’
The sound recordist wasn’t happy. A dog was barking in the back of a nearby car. The dog’s owner was remonstrating that he was boxed in by the reporter’s own van.
‘Middle of bloody nowhere,’ the cameraman complained, ‘and there’s still always something…’
A few cars had arrived after Fox, and had parked behind him. Locals, it looked like, curious to see what was
