Free The Complaints by Ian Rankin Page A

old boy was doing the same thing again.

    ‘This is my son, Audrey.’

    Mrs Sanderson gave a tinkling laugh. ‘I know, Mitch. I’ve met Malcolm before.’

    Mitch Fox’s brow furrowed as he tried to remember. Fox leaned down over Mrs Sanderson and placed a kiss against her cheek. She smelled faintly of talcum powder and her face was like parchment; her hands and arms, too. She’d probably always been thin, but now the skin on her face matched the exact contours of the skull beneath. Yet for all that, she was a handsome woman.

    ‘You’re feeling better?’ Fox asked.

    ‘Much better, dear.’ She gave his hand a pat before releasing it.

    ‘Twice in a few days,’ Fox’s father was saying. ‘Am I supposed to feel flattered? And when’s that sister of yours going to put in an appearance?’

    There was nowhere for Fox to sit except the bed, so he stayed standing. It seemed to him that he towered over the two seated figures. Mrs Sanderson was arranging the tartan travel rug that lay spread across her lower body.

    ‘Jude’s had some bad news, Dad,’ Fox said.

    ‘Oh?’

    ‘It’s Vince. He’s been killed.’

    Mrs Sanderson stared up at him, mouth opening in an O.

    ‘Killed?’ Mitch Fox echoed.

    ‘Do you want me to ...?’ Mrs Sanderson was trying to rise to her feet.

    ‘You sit back down,’ Mitch ordered. ‘This is your room, Audrey.’

    ‘Looks like he got himself into a spot of bother,’ Fox was trying to explain, ‘and ended up taking a beating.’

    ‘No more than he deserved.’

    ‘Now really, Mitch!’ Mrs Sanderson protested. Then, to Fox: ‘How’s Jude taking it, Malcolm?’

    ‘She’s bearing up.’

    ‘She’ll need all the help you can give her.’ She turned to Mitch. ‘You should go see her.’

    ‘What good would that do?’

    ‘It would show her that you cared. Malcolm will take you ...’ She looked at Fox for confirmation. He managed something between a nod and a shrug. Her voice softened a little. ‘Malcolm will take you,’ she repeated, leaning forward and stretching out an arm. After a moment, Mitch Fox copied her. Their hands met and clasped.

    ‘Maybe not just yet, though,’ Fox cautioned, remembering the plaster cast. ‘She’s not really up to visitors . . . She’s sleeping a fair bit.’

    ‘Tomorrow then,’ Mrs Sanderson decided.

    ‘Tomorrow,’ Fox eventually conceded.

    On the drive home, he thought about visiting Jude, but decided he would phone her instead, just before bedtime. She’d given Alison Pettifer the details of a couple of her closest friends, and the neighbour had promised Fox she would call them and get them to take turns with Jude.

    ‘She won’t be alone,’ had been Pettifer’s closing words to him.

    He wondered, too, what Annie Inglis would be doing. She’d told her son to be home by seven. It was seven now. Fox had memorised her address from the HR file. He could drive there in ten or fifteen minutes, but to what purpose? He was curious about the kid. Tried to imagine what it had been like for the schoolgirl to confront her farming father with the news. Mum and Dad were furious ... but they looked after him . Yes, because that’s what families did - they rallied round; they dug in.

    But Duncan’s not on your file, Annie . . .

    At the next set of traffic lights, he stared at an off-licence’s window display. Little halogen spotlights threw each bottle into sharp relief. He wondered if Jude’s friends were drinkers. Would they turn up with carrier bags and a collection of memories, tragic stories for the telling and retelling?

    ‘Cup of tea for you, Foxy,’ he told himself as the queue of traffic began its crawl across the junction.

    The mail waiting for him on the hall carpet was the usual stuff: bills and junk and a bank statement. At least the Royal Bank of Scotland was still in business. There was nothing in the envelope with the statement, no letter of grovelling apology for getting above itself and letting