…’
‘Kirkcaldy? That’s where I’ve just been. How come I don’t remember it?’
‘You won a goldfish there once. Poor thing was dead inside a day.’ Mitch fixed his son with a look. ‘You’ll put Jude’s mind at rest?’
Fox nodded, and his father patted his hand again before lying back against the pillows. Fox sat with him for another hour and a half, looking at photographs. He switched the lamp off just before he left.
Two
5
‘This is a joke, right?’
‘It’s what’s on offer,’ the desk sergeant said. He looked every bit as pleased with this morning’s outcome as he had done the day before when informing them that none of their interviewees were available. ‘The door locks, and the key’s yours if you want it.’
‘It’s a storeroom,’ Joe Naysmith stated, switching on the light.
‘Forty-watt bulb,’ Tony Kaye said. ‘We might as well bring torches.’
Someone had placed three rickety-looking chairs in the centre of the small room, leaving no space for a desk of any kind. The shelves were filled with boxes – old cases identified by a code number and year – plus broken and superannuated office equipment.
‘Any chance of a word with Superintendent Pitkethly?’ Fox asked the sergeant.
‘She’s in Glenrothes.’
‘Now there’s a surprise.’
The sergeant was dangling the key from his finger.
‘It’s somewhere to park the gear, if nothing else,’ Naysmith reasoned.
Fox gave a loud exhalation through his nostrils and snatched the key from the sergeant.
While Naysmith brought the equipment bag in from the car, Fox and Kaye stayed in the corridor, eyeing the interior of the storeroom. The corridor was suddenly busy with uniforms and civilian staff, all passing through and stifling smirks.
‘No way I’m parking myself in there,’ Kaye said with a slow shake of the head. ‘I’d look like the bloody janitor.’
‘Joe’s right, though – it’s somewhere to store the gear between interviews.’
‘Any way we can speed the process, Malcolm?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You and me – we could take an interview each, be done in half the time. The only people we need on tape are Scholes, Haldane and Michaelson. The others are just chats, aren’t they?’
Fox nodded. ‘But there’s only one interview room.’
‘Not everyone we’re talking to is based at the station…’
Fox stared at Kaye. ‘You really do want this over and done with.’
‘Basic time management,’ Kaye said with a glint in his eye. ‘Better value for the hard-pressed taxpayer.’
‘So how do we split it?’ Fox folded his arms.
‘Got any favourites?’
‘I fancy a word with the uncle.’
Kaye considered this, then nodded slowly. ‘Take my car. I’ll try Cheryl Forrester.’
‘Fair enough. What do we do with Joe?’
They turned to watch as Joe Naysmith pushed open the door at the end of the corridor, the heavy black bag slung over one shoulder.
‘We toss a coin,’ Kaye said, holding out a fifty-pence piece. ‘Loser keeps him.’
A few minutes later, Malcolm Fox was heading out to Kaye’s Ford Mondeo, minus Naysmith. He adjusted the driver’s seat and reached into the glove box for the satnav, plugging it in and fixing it to the dashboard. Alan Carter’s postcode was in the file, and he found it after a bit of hunting. The satnav did a quick search before pointing him in the right direction. He soon found himself on the coast road, heading south towards a place called Kinghorn. Signposts told him the next town after this was Burntisland. He thought again of his father’s cousin Chris. Maybe the motorbike had crashed on this very stretch. It was the kind of drive he reckoned bikers would relish, winding gently and with the sea to one side, steep hillside to the other. Was that a seal’s head bobbing in the water? He slowed the car a little. The driver behind flashed his lights, then overtook with a blast of his horn.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Fox muttered, glancing at the satnav. His destination was close by. He passed a caravan site and signalled to take the next road on the right. It was a steep track, rutted and throwing up clouds of dust behind him. He knew he daren’t ding Kaye’s pride and joy, so ended up in first gear, doing five miles an hour. The climb continued. According to the satnav, he was nowhere, had passed his destination. Fox stopped the car and got out. He had a fine view down towards the shoreline, rows of caravans to his left and a hotel to his right. He looked at the address he had for Alan Carter: Gallowhill Cottage. The road was about to disappear into woodland. Something caught Fox’s eye: a wisp of smoke from above the treeline. He got back behind the steering wheel and eased the gear lever forward.
The cottage sat near the top of the rise, just as the track came to an end at a gate leading to fields. A few sheep were scattered around. Noiseless crows glided between the trees. The wind was biting, though the sun had broken from behind a bank of cloud.
Smoke continued to drift up from the cottage’s chimney. There was an olive-green Land Rover parked off to one side, next to a large, neat pile of split logs. The door of the cottage rattled open. The man who filled the doorway was almost a parody of the big, jolly policeman. Alan Carter’s face was ruddy, cheeks and nose criss- crossed with thin red veins. His eyes sparkled and his pale yellow cardigan was stretched to the limit of its buttons. The check shirt beneath was open at the collar, allowing copious grey chest hair to breathe. Though almost completely bald, he retained bushy sideburns, which almost met at one of his chins.
‘I knew I’d be getting a visit,’ Carter bellowed, one pudgy hand resting on the door frame. ‘Should’ve made an appointment, though. I seem to be busier these days than ever.’ Fox was standing in front of him now, and the two men shook hands.
‘You’re not in the Craft, then?’ Carter asked.
‘No.’
‘Time was, most coppers you met were Masons. In you come then, lad
…’
The hallway was short and narrow, most of the space taken up with bookshelves, coat rack and a selection of wellington boots. The living room was small and sweltering, courtesy of a fire piled high with logs.
‘Need to keep it warm for Jimmy Nicholl,’ Carter said.
‘Who?’
‘The dog.’
An ancient-looking Border collie with rheumy eyes blinked in Fox’s direction from its basket near the fireplace.
‘Who’s he named for?’
‘The Raith manager. Not now, of course, but Jimmy took us into Europe.’ Carter broke off and gave Fox a look. ‘Not a football fan either?’
‘Used to be. My name’s Fox, by the way. Inspector Fox.’
‘Rubber-Sole Brigade – that what they still call you?’
‘That or the Complaints.’
‘And doubtless worse things too, behind your back.’
‘Or to our faces.’
‘Will it be a mug of tea or something stronger?’ Carter nodded towards a bottle of whisky on a shelf.
‘Tea’ll do the job.’
