The Impossible Dead

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.’

‘Bit early in the day for the “cratur”, maybe,’ Carter agreed. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

He headed for the kitchen. Fox could hear him pouring water into a kettle. His voice boomed down the hallway. ‘When I read Cardonald’s summing-up, I knew there’d have to be an inquiry. You’re not local, though. A local might’ve known the name Jimmy Nicholl. On top of which, your car’s from Edinburgh …’

Carter was back in the room now, looking pleased with himself.

‘The registration?’ Fox guessed.

‘The dealer’s sticker in the back window,’ Carter corrected him. ‘Take a seat, laddie.’ He gestured to one of the two armchairs. ‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Just milk. Are you still in security, Mr Carter?’

‘Is this you showing me you’ve done your research?’ Carter smiled. ‘The company’s still mine.’

‘What exactly does the company do?’

‘Doormen for bars and clubs … security guards … protection for visiting dignitaries.’

‘Do a lot of dignitaries pass through Kirkcaldy?’

‘They did when Gordon Brown was PM. And they still like to play golf at St Andrews.’

Carter left the room to fetch their drinks, and Fox crossed to the window. There was a dining table there, piled high with paperwork and magazines. The paperwork had been stuffed into folders. A map of Fife lay open, locations circled in black ink. The magazines seemed to date back to the 1980s, and when Fox lifted one of them he saw that there was a newspaper beneath it. The date on the newspaper was Monday, 29 April 1985.

‘You’ll have me pegged as a hoarder,’ Carter said, carrying a tray into the room. He placed it on a corner of the table and poured out tea for the both of them. Half a dozen shortbread fingers had been emptied on to a patterned plate.

‘And a bachelor?’ Fox guessed.

‘Your research has let you down. My wife ran off with somebody two decades back, and the same number of years younger than me at the time.’

‘Making her a cradle-snatcher.’

Carter wagged a finger. ‘I’m sixty-two. Jessica was forty and the wee shite-bag twenty-one.’

‘Nobody else since?’

‘Christ, man, is this a Complaints interview or a dating service? She’s dead anyway, God rest her. Had a kid with the shite-bag.’

‘But none with yourself?’ Carter gave a twitch of the mouth. ‘Does that rankle?’

‘Why should it? Maybe my son or daughter would have turned out as bad as my nephew.’

Carter gestured towards the chairs and the two men sat down with their drinks. There was a slight stinging sensation in Fox’s eyes, which he tried blinking away.

‘It’s the woodsmoke,’ Carter explained. ‘You can’t see it, but it’s there.’ He reached down and fed Jimmy Nicholl half a shortbread finger. ‘His teeth are just about up to it. Come to think of it, mine aren’t much better.’

‘You’ve been retired fifteen years?’

‘I’ve been out of the force that long.’

‘Your brother was a cop same time as you?’

‘A year shy of retirement when his heart gave out.’

‘Was that around the time your nephew joined the police?’

Alan Carter nodded. ‘Maybe it was why he joined up. He never seemed to have a gift for it. What’s the word I’m looking for?’

‘Vocation?’

‘Aye. That’s what Paul never had.’

‘You weren’t keen on him following the family tradition?’

Alan Carter was silent for a moment, then he leaned forward as best he could, resting the mug on one knee.

‘Paul was never a good son. He ran his mother ragged until the cancer took her. After that, it was his dad’s turn. At the funeral, all he seemed interested in was how much the house was worth, and how much effort it was going to take to get the place emptied.’

‘The two of you weren’t exactly friendly, then. Yet he came to see you …’

‘I think he’d been partying all night. It was just past noon. How he got the car up here without smashing it …’ Carter stared into the fire. ‘He wanted to do a bit of bragging. But he was maudlin, too – you know the way drink can sometimes take us.’

‘One of the reasons I don’t do it.’ Fox took a swig of tea. It was dark and strong, coating his tongue and the back of his throat.

‘He came here to show off. Said he was a better cop than any of us. He “owned” Kirkcaldy, and I needn’t go thinking I did, even if I could hide behind an army of bouncers.’

‘I get the feeling this is verbatim.’

‘Got to have a good memory. Whenever I was called to give evidence, I always knew it by heart – one way to impress a jury.’

‘So eventually he told you about Teresa Collins?’

‘Aye.’ Carter nodded to himself, still watching the fire spit and crackle. ‘Hers was the only name, but he said there’d been others. I thought the force had seen the back of his kind – maybe you’re not old enough to remember the way it was.’

‘Full of racists and sexists?’ Fox paused. ‘And Masons …’

Carter gave a quiet chuckle.

‘It still goes on,’ Fox continued. ‘Maybe not nearly as widespread as it was, but all the same.’

‘Your line of work, I suppose you see it more than most.’

Fox answered with a shrug and placed his empty mug on the floor, declining the offer of a refill. ‘The day he came here, did he mention the others: Scholes, Haldane, Michaelson?’

‘Only in passing.’

‘Nothing about them bending the rules?’

‘No.’

‘And you hadn’t heard rumours to that effect?’

‘I’d say you’ve got your work cut out there.’

‘Mmm.’ Fox sounded as if he were in complete agreement.

‘The force is going to want to move on.’

‘I’d think so.’ Fox shifted in his chair, hearing it creak beneath him. ‘Can I ask you something else about your nephew?’

‘Fire away.’

‘Well, it’s one thing to disapprove of what he said he did …’

‘But quite another to take it further?’ Carter pursed his lips. ‘I didn’t do anything about it … not straight away. But lying in bed at night, I’d be thinking of Tommy – Paul’s dad. A good man; a really good man. And Paul’s mum, too; such a lovely woman. I was wondering what they’d be thinking. Then there was Teresa Collins – I didn’t know her, but I didn’t like the way he’d talked about her. So I had a quiet word.’

‘And this quiet word was with …?’

‘Superintendent Hendryson. He’s not there any more. Retired, I seem to think.’

‘It’s a woman called Pitkethly nowadays.’

Carter nodded. ‘It was Hendryson who really started the ball rolling.’

‘Nothing happened, though, did it?’

‘Teresa Collins wouldn’t talk. Not at first. Without her, there was nothing for the Fife Complaints to investigate.’

‘Any idea why she changed her mind?’

‘Maybe she was tossing and turning, same as me.’

‘You’ve no friends left on the force, Mr Carter?’

‘All retired.’

‘Superintendent Hendryson?’

‘He was after my time, more or less.’

‘So you went to Hendryson. He brought in the local Complaints team. They didn’t get very far. But then these other two women came forward, and that’s when Teresa Collins decided she’d cooperate?’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

Fox sat for a few moments longer. Alan Carter seemed in no rush to see him go, but he had nothing keeping him there, nothing but the warmth of the fire and companionable silence.

‘A long way from Edinburgh, isn’t it, Inspector?’ Carter said quietly. ‘These are the backlands, where things tend to get fixed on the quiet.’

‘You regret what’s happened to your nephew? All that media exposure?’

‘I doubt anything’s “happened” to him.’ Carter tapped the side of his head. ‘Not in here.’

‘He’s in jail, though. That’s tough on the family.’

‘I’m the family – all that’s left of it.’ Carter paused. ‘Are your folks still with us?’

‘My dad is,’ Fox conceded.

‘Sisters and brothers?’

‘Just the one sister.’

‘Close, are you?’ Fox chose not to answer. ‘Luckier than most if you are. Sometimes you have to draw a line between yourself and the ones you’re supposed to love.’ Carter ran a finger horizontally through the air. ‘It might sting for a while, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it.’

Fox sat for a further moment or two, then rose to his feet, his host copying him. The man was almost wedged into the chair, but Fox doubted he’d accept any offer of help.

‘Macaroni cheese, that’s my downfall, eh, Jimmy?’

The dog’s ears pricked up at mention of its name. Fox had paused next to the dining table.

‘If I was to describe you,’ Fox began, ‘I’d say you were orderly – coats on the rack; boots laid out in a row. Biscuits need to go on a plate, not served straight from the packet. And that makes me wonder about this …’ He waved his hand across the table. ‘It’s not just hoarding, is it? There’s some sort of pattern to it.’

‘A bit of historical research.’

‘Nineteen eighty-five?’

‘There or thereabouts.’

‘Late April maybe?’

‘Go on then – tell me what happened.’

‘In April ’85?’ Fox tried to think. In the end, he gave up.

‘Dennis Taylor beat Steve Davis at the snooker,’ Alan Carter said, leading the way to the door.