‘Are you sure about that? Dusting off old enmities and conspiracies, hoping some mud might stick…’
‘Does the name Hawkeye mean anything to you?’
The question appeared to puzzle Watson. He thought for a moment. ‘Just the character from MASH,’ he concluded.
‘And Last of the Mohicans,’ Fox added.
‘That too,’ Watson agreed. He seemed tired, all his energy and anger used up. ‘It’s working, you know,’ he said at last, his eyes meeting Fox’s. ‘The administration, I mean. A quarter of a century back, few would have said they’d see the SNP in power in their lifetime – and that includes a lot of us in the party. But we got there.’ He nodded to himself. ‘We got there,’ he repeated. Then he stiffened. ‘But we can’t afford another Megrahi. These bomb-blasts… Alison needs all her concentration, meaning no sideshows.’
‘I’d hardly call murder a sideshow.’
‘Murder?’
‘Alan Carter – the man investigating Vernal’s death. Made to look like suicide but actually an execution.’
‘You can’t think Alison had anything to do with that!’
‘Why not? If Carter knew about her and was about to blow the whistle…’
‘Never.’ Watson shook his head. ‘You really can’t go bandying that sort of-’
‘It seems to be the only way of getting anyone’s attention,’ Fox countered. ‘After all, it got yours.’
‘She can’t have this hanging over her,’ Watson pressed. ‘Alison’s worked hard to get where she is.’
‘I dare say you think you’ve worked hard too.’
‘Of course.’
Fox narrowed his eyes. ‘Is it her you’re worried about or yourself? The job of Justice Minister seems to have a curse hanging over it, doesn’t it? Bit of a fillip to have a Chief Constable you can depend on, especially if she can also deliver a few extra column inches…’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How about if I hang fire – do nothing till after your terrorists are sentenced? You get your moment of glory… and afterwards I start asking my questions again?’
Watson stared at him. ‘What would you want in return?’ he asked, his tone softening.
‘Nothing.’ Fox paused. ‘Because it’s not going to happen – I just wanted to see if you’d bite.’
Watson flew to his feet. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he spluttered.
Fox ignored the outburst. ‘By the way, I meant to ask – how did you get my address?’
‘What?’
‘My address.’
‘Jackson,’ Watson snapped.
Fox nodded to himself: so the Special Branch man knew where he lived…
Watson had paced to the window and back again. ‘Is there any point trying to reason with you?’
Fox shrugged.
‘Then I’ll have to take this up with your Chief Constable.’
‘What will you do – have me suspended? Remember to fill him in on your sister’s history.’
‘What is it you think she’s done wrong exactly?’
‘I’m still trying to figure that out.’ Fox met Watson’s gaze. ‘Care to help me?’
‘Help you?’
‘By reopening the Vernal investigation – properly this time. Set up a public inquiry. He was being spied on by MI5 and an undercover police officer. Did that play any part in his death? Was there a cover-up afterwards? And does it connect to the murder of Alan Carter?’ Fox rose slowly to his feet, keeping his eyes fixed on Watson. ‘Could be a real feather in your cap if you started to get some answers to those questions.’
But the Justice Minister was shaking his head. ‘Dark Harvest Commando… the SNLA – nobody wants those corpses resurrected.’
‘Nobody in your party,’ Fox corrected him.
‘Nobody, period.’
‘You might be surprised.’
Watson kept on shaking his head.
‘Just me, then?’ The question was rhetorical, but Watson answered it anyway.
‘Just you.’
Three minutes later, Fox was watching from his window as the car pulled away. The interior light was on, the minister mulling over documents. Fox’s phone let him know he had a text. It was from Jude.
You awake?
He called her back. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. Didn’t want to bother you if you were asleep.’
‘Speaking of which…’
‘I can’t stop tossing and turning,’ she confessed with a sigh. ‘I keep thinking about Dad – what are we going to do with him, Malcolm?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘He can’t stay in hospital for ever.’
‘No.’
‘But unless he improves…’
‘Lauder Lodge isn’t much use to him either,’ he agreed, finishing the thought for her. ‘I’ll put my thinking cap on, Jude.’
‘Me too.’ He listened to her shift positions, guessed she was lying in bed.
‘Remember when we were kids?’ he said. ‘I’d sneak into your room and we’d sing songs together under the sheets?’
‘Our own Top of the Pops, until Mum or Dad heard us. I haven’t thought of that for years…’
‘I was in some woods a few days back,’ Fox began, settling himself on the sofa again. ‘It took me back to the Hermitage and the walks we used to take. That was in the days when you still preferred me to other boys.’
‘I never preferred you to other boys,’ Jude teased.
Fox smiled and they continued chatting. He had the TV remote in his hand and flicked through the available channels. Late-night shopping, astrology, phone-in quizzes. There was news, but he didn’t linger on it. He settled on a comedy channel instead. An old episode of MASH was just starting. Hawkeye and Trapper John and Hot Lips and Radar. The actor Alan Alda played Hawkeye, all floppy fringe, loping walk and wisecracks. Jude was talking about a den they’d made one time at a secret spot in the Hermitage. But Fox wasn’t sitting so comfortably now. His grip had tightened on the remote. He pretended to yawn, apologising to his sister.
‘I should let you sleep,’ she told him.
‘I’m really enjoying talking, but I can hardly keep my eyes open.’
‘Tomorrow at the hospital?’
‘What time do you think you’ll be there?’ he asked.
‘After breakfast. You?’
‘Later, probably.’
‘Things to do?’ she guessed.
‘Night, sis.’
‘Night, bro.’
Fox ended the call and wandered into the kitchen, boiling the kettle and making himself some strong tea. On another night, he might have spent time reflecting on the thawing in his relationship with his sister – but that would have to wait. He took the mug back through to the living room and tried using his mobile phone to access the internet. It was hopeless, though – slow, and the screen too small. After peering at it for a while, he decided he needed to go to Fettes and use one of the computers in the Complaints office. As he was readying to leave, his phone trilled. According to the display, it was Evelyn Mills. He let it keep ringing. Two minutes later there was a text: Need someone to talk to. He stared at the message, undecided. He had his jacket on, car key in his free hand. The phone went again and he answered.
‘Evelyn?’
