‘Hold on…’
The phone changed hands. It was a man’s voice this time.
‘Yes?’ Stephen Pears asked.
‘Enjoying the canapes?’ Fox commented. ‘Managed to get all those juicy directors’ bonuses past the shareholders?’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m driving. Had to drop Donald MacIver off.’
‘The man who was with you?’ Pears pretended to guess.
‘Your old pal.’ Fox paused, watching a lorry hurtle past. ‘Not much wrong with his memory…’
‘What exactly is it that you think you’re doing?’
‘A bit of future-proofing,’ Fox stated.
There was silence on the line for a moment. ‘Are we talking about money?’
‘We could be – or else your own future might not be too bright.’
Pears gave a little laugh. ‘I don’t think I believe you.’
‘Oh?’
‘Nothing about you strikes me as the type.’
‘The type?’
‘To be bought off.’
‘How much do you know about me, though? You’ve got my phone number – but then I gave that to your wife. Did your little break-in provide any clues? I wouldn’t mind my laptop back, by the way – if you’re done with it. And the watch. You can hang on to Professor Martin’s book. What did you think of his thesis? All that political energy wasted…’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Of course you don’t. And you were never known as Hawkeye when you were part of the Dark Harvest Commando. You never held up banks and post offices, never sent poison and letter bombs to London. Never stole all that money from Francis Vernal’s car after putting a bullet in his head.’
‘These sound like ravings, Inspector.’
‘You tell your version, I’ll tell mine.’
‘You’ll end up in a room next to your friend in Carstairs.’
Fox tutted. ‘I didn’t say anything about Carstairs, Mr Pears. But you’ve got me wondering now – would John Elliot recognise you, given a nudge? Maybe there’ll be others who’ll come out of the woodwork. The police can do wonders these days. We’ll take a recent photo and change the hair colour and length, give you a beard… reverse the ageing process. Then we’ll start to see.’
‘See what?’
‘See Hawkeye staring back at us. The man who wanted to bring down the government, the man with anarchy in his veins.’ Fox paused. ‘Until greed got the better of him…’
‘You’re making a mistake.’
‘I really don’t think so.’
‘I do.’ It was Pears’s turn to pause. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got more important things to attend to.’
‘You do that, Mr Pears. I’ll just give Mrs Pears a call. Alice Watts, as was. Have you seen that picture of the two of you, arm in arm at the cop-shop demo?’
‘Do what you have to do, Inspector.’
‘Fine by me. Just need to toss a coin to decide which murder we charge you with first. Or were there more than two? My arithmetic’s not what it was.’
Fox ended the call, checked the quality of the recording, then sat for a few minutes, his hands resting against the steering wheel. He hadn’t got much; nothing that would begin to stand up in court. Hawkeye had learned caution somewhere along the way. Fox was about to head back on to the road when his phone rang again. Same number as before. He switched the recorder back on.
‘I seem to have hit a nerve,’ he commented.
‘I’m a man who likes a deal, Inspector. If there’s any sort of deal to be done here, I’m willing to consider it.’
‘It’s only when you don’t get your way that the killer instinct takes over?’ Fox speculated.
‘Business requires a touch of ruthlessness,’ Pears seemed to agree. ‘But accommodation is always preferable.’
‘And you’re a reasonable man?’
‘Unless pushed too far.’
Fox stayed silent, pretending to weigh things up.
‘We need to meet face to face,’ he eventually stated.
‘Why?’
‘We just do.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’
‘The Wallace Monument. Five this evening.’
‘I have plans for this evening.’
‘Five o’clock, Mr Pears.’ Fox ended the call and stared at his phone. He found that his heart was pounding, the blood whistling in his ears, and there was a slight tremor in his hands.
Other than that, he felt fine.
42
‘I don’t like this,’ Joe Naysmith said. ‘It’s too quiet.’
Fox had to agree. He was seated in his Volvo, phone pressed to his ear, listening to his colleague. He looked out at the car park. The last time he’d been here, it had been the middle of the day and there had been a few tourists about. Now the place was almost deserted. Two other cars – belonging to the staff, most probably – plus, at the far end of the car park, the unmarked white van with Naysmith and Tony Kaye hidden in the back. It was their surveillance hub, filled with listening and monitoring equipment. Mostly, it didn’t stand out from the crowd, but there was no crowd here.
‘Could we park further away?’ Fox heard Tony Kaye ask.
‘Signal’s not brilliant as it is,’ Naysmith answered.
Fox pressed his free hand to his chest. Beneath his shirt, a sticking plaster fixed the tiny microphone to his skin. Naysmith preferred plasters to ordinary tape – sweat was less likely to affect them. The microphone wire ran to the battery pack in Fox’s back trouser-pocket.
‘Is he sitting on the aerial?’ Kaye was asking.
‘Tell him I’ll strap it to my head if that’ll help,’ Fox commented. Joe Naysmith passed the message along.
It had taken an hour’s paperwork before they were okayed use of the van and its contents, but that was fine – just a matter of box-ticking. Fox was adept at box-ticking. At some point, someone further up the ladder would see the completed form and maybe wonder about it, but that was for later. The van’s fuel tank was nearly empty. Fox had handed Naysmith fifty quid and told him to stop at the garage on Queensferry Road.
‘Your own shilling?’ Kaye had asked.
‘That’s the way I want it,’ Fox had confirmed.
‘Why here?’ Kaye was now asking. Meaning: why the Wallace Monument?
‘Resonance,’ Fox responded. His rear-view mirror showed him that the tables were being wiped down in Legends, the lights turned off at the end of another working day. It was ten minutes to the top of the hour. They’d been in position since half past four. Fox was trying to guess which car Pears would arrive in – the Maserati or the Lexus. He had his answer a couple of minutes later, the black Maserati emitting a low growl as it entered the car park.
