Free The Complaints by Ian Rankin Page B

down its customers. Lauder Lodge’s monthly payment had gone out. The rest seemed to be petrol and groceries. He looked in the fridge, seeking inspiration for a quick dinner. Denied, he tried the cupboards and emerged with a tin of chilli and a small jar of jalapenos. There was long-grain rice in a jar on the worktop. The radio was tuned to Classic FM, but he changed the channel to something he’d come across recently. The station was just called Birdsong and birdsong was precisely what it delivered. He went back to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Appletiser, sat with his drink at the table and rubbed a hand across his face and forehead, kneading his temples and the bridge of his nose. He wondered who would pay for his nursing home when the time came. He hoped there’d be someone like Mrs Sanderson waiting for him there.

    When the food was ready, he took it through to the living room and switched on the TV. There was birdsong still audible from the kitchen; sometimes he left it on all night. He flicked through the Freeview channels until he found Dave. It was all repeats, but still watchable. Fifth Gear followed by Top Gear followed by another Top Gear .

    ‘Can I stand the pace?’

    He’d left his mobile to recharge on the worktop in the kitchen. When it started ringing, he considered not answering. A scoop of dinner, a half-groan, and he placed the tray on the carpet. The phone had gone dead by the time he reached it, but the readout showed two capitalised letters: TK. Meaning Tony Kaye. Fox unplugged the phone from its charger, punched in his colleague’s number, and retreated to the sofa.

    ‘Where are you?’ Kaye asked.

    ‘I’m not pubbing tonight,’ Fox warned him. He could hear the background hubbub. Minter’s or some place like it.

    ‘Yes, you are,’ Kaye informed him. ‘We’ve got trouble. How soon can you get here?’

    ‘What sort of trouble?’

    ‘Your friend Breck’s been on the blower.’

    ‘Get him to call me at home.’

    ‘It wasn’t you he wanted - it was me.’

    Fox had dug his fork back into the chilli, but now left it there. ‘What do you mean?’

    ‘You’re going to have to square this, Foxy. Breck’s going to be here at the top of the hour.’

    Fox lifted the phone from his ear long enough to check its clock. Seventeen minutes. ‘I can be there in twenty,’ he said, rising from the sofa and switching off the TV. ‘What does he want with you?’

    ‘He’s keen to know why I had a mate look up Vince Faulkner on the PNC.’

    Fox cursed under his breath. ‘Twenty,’ he repeated as he grabbed his coat and car keys. ‘Don’t say anything till I get there. Minter’s, right?’

    ‘Right.’

    Fox cursed again and ended the call, slamming the front door on his way out.

    The same two customers were at the bar, conferring with the landlord on a question from yet another TV quiz show. Jamie Breck recognised Fox and nodded a greeting. He was seated at Tony Kaye’s regular table, Kaye himself seated opposite, his face stern.

    ‘What can I get you?’ Breck asked. Fox shook his head and sat down. He noted that Kaye was drinking tomato juice, Breck a half-pint of orange and lemonade. ‘How’s your sister doing?’

    Fox just nodded and rolled his shoulders. ‘Let’s get this sorted, eh?’

    Breck looked at him. ‘I hope you appreciate,’ he began, ‘that I’m trying to do you a favour here.’

    ‘A favour?’ Tony Kaye didn’t sound convinced.

    ‘A heads-up. We’re not idiots, Sergeant Kaye. First thing we did was a background check. PNC keeps a record of recent searches, and that’s what led us to your pal in Hull CID.’

    ‘Some pal,’ Kaye muttered, folding his arms.

    ‘He was slow enough giving us your name, if that’s any consolation. Took his boss to do a bit of the strongarm.’

    ‘How did the autopsy go?’ Fox interrupted.

    Breck turned his attention to him. ‘Blunt trauma, internal injuries ... We’re pretty sure he was dead