Saturday 14 February 2009

13

Saturday, Fox slept late, but then he hadn’t fallen asleep until two. By eleven, he was seated at the kitchen table with three newspapers – Scotsman, Herald and the very earliest printing of the Evening News. He was looking for background on Charlie Brogan, and Scottish journalism was happy to oblige. Working-class roots, raised and schooled in Falkirk. His father had been a joiner, Charlie picking up some skills even before school had kicked him out. His CV was copious and wide-ranging, taking in everything from carpet-fitting to door-to-door selling. The two had combined eventually, Brogan setting up a company that sold floor coverings to factories and businesses. By twenty-three, he had enough money going spare that he could afford a punt – buying flats and either letting them out or refurbishing them for resale. The economy was buoyant and Brogan prospered further, moving into full-scale land development and rubbing shoulders with the rich and influential. He enjoyed the hospitality of bankers and other businessmen, dated some of Scotland’s most eligible young women and eventually met and married Joanna Broughton.

The papers carried several snapshots of Joanna. She’d always been a looker, but there was a hardness to her features and her stare. Even smiling, she let the photographer know she was the boss. The interior of the Inverleith penthouse featured in one picture, its walls festooned with art. A sidebar had been contributed by a professional psychologist who warned that more tragedies involving one-time high-flyers might be the inevitable outcome of the credit crunch.

The sole public failure in Brogan’s long career had come when his attempt to join the board of Celtic FC was rebuffed. One of his friends reminisced for the Herald about the incident: ‘Charlie never got used to people saying no to him. It festered to the extent that he discussed switching his allegiance to Ibrox – that’s the kind of guy he was.’

The hot-headed kind, Fox thought to himself. Not the kind to rationalise a snub if he could stew about it instead. A man who would see the economy’s doldrums as a personal affront. But that phrase about Ibrox… about not giving in but getting even… it didn’t hint that Brogan was the sort to just give up. He would want to fight back. The psychologist had focused on the economy without bothering to debate the most important question: could Charlie Brogan have been classed as a suicide risk? There was no mention that any note had been left; no evidence that he had tidied up his affairs before taking the plunge. But then maybe that was fair enough – he’d taken his boat out, drifting further and further from his troubles, tranquillising himself with pills and alcohol. He could have gone on deck, stumbled and fallen overboard. Or that impetuous streak might have suggested to him suddenly that he should finish things properly. Not a planned suicide, but absolutely of the moment.

There had been no comment from the family, apart from the original statement issued through Gordon Lovatt. Fox stared at Joanna Broughton’s photograph.

‘You made sure you had a media angle,’ he told her, ‘before you let anyone else in on it.’

Was that cold? Was it calculating? Or just a smart woman being smart? Fox stared and stared and couldn’t decide. He took a break, stretching his spine and loosening his shoulders. Through in the living room, he saw that the coffee table was covered in books. There were more on the floor in front of the shelves, the shelves themselves denuded. Dust hung in the air. So far, he’d found only half a dozen titles that he felt no further use for, heavily outnumbered by those he wanted to read again. When his phone rang, he had to hunt for the handset. It was hidden between two of the piles.

‘Malcolm Fox,’ he said by way of greeting.

It was Lauder Lodge. Mitch wanted to know if he’d be visiting today or tomorrow. He wanted to see him. Fox was about to suggest Sunday until he remembered lunch with Annie Inglis. He glanced at his watch, then asked the caller to tell his father he was on his way.

He took the city bypass to the Sheriffhall roundabout, and headed for The Wisp, cutting through Niddrie and reaching the care home in under twenty minutes. Mitch was seated in reception, dressed in coat, scarf and hat.

‘I want to go out,’ he told his son.

‘Sure,’ Fox agreed. ‘I can bring the car round.’

‘My legs haven’t seized up entirely.’ So they walked around the corner to where Fox had found a parking space. He had to help his father with his seat belt, and they took the short drive to Portobello, parking on a side road by the promenade.

‘We should have invited Mrs Sanderson.’

‘Audrey’s spending the day in her bed,’ Mitch explained. ‘She’s got a cold coming.’ Then, as Malcolm unclipped his seat belt for him: ‘I asked them to phone Jude for me, but she wasn’t answering. ’

‘She’s been getting a lot of calls from journalists. Or it could be she’s next door with a neighbour.’

‘How is she?’

‘Bearing up.’

‘Are you any nearer catching whoever did it?’

‘It’s not my case, Dad.’

‘I’d hope you’d be keeping a bloody eye on it, though.’

Fox nodded slowly. ‘I don’t think there’s been much progress…’

The sun was shining, and the seafront was busy. There were dog-walkers and children down on the beach itself. Kids with in-line skates were being guided along the concrete walkway by their parents. A sharp wind was whipping across the Firth of Forth. Fox wondered if Charlie Brogan’s boat would have been visible from here. According to the papers, it had been towed to North Queensferry, which meant that Fife Constabulary were vying with Lothian and Borders for jurisdiction. The respective Chief Constables would sort it out, with Edinburgh the likely winner, much as the Fife cops might fancy a few days or weeks stationed in the capital.

‘What are you thinking?’ Fox’s father asked him. They were standing by the sea wall, staring out at the view.

‘Weekends aren’t for thinking,’ Malcolm stated.

‘Meaning you had your mind on work.’

Fox couldn’t deny it. ‘Things have been a bit rough,’ he admitted.

‘You need a holiday.’

‘I had a decent break at Christmas.’

‘And did what exactly? I mean a proper holiday with sunshine and a hotel swimming pool and meals served on the terrace.’ Mitch Fox paused. ‘You could well afford it, if you didn’t have my bills hanging over you.’

Fox looked at his father. ‘Lauder Lodge was a godsend, Dad. I don’t begrudge a penny of it.’

‘I’m betting your sister doesn’t chip in.’

‘She doesn’t need to – I can afford it.’

‘But it leaves things tight, doesn’t it? I know damned well how much my room costs, and I can guess how much you make…’

Fox gave a short laugh, but said nothing.

‘What if you meet a nice girl and want to take her away somewhere? ’ his father continued.

‘What’s brought this on?’ Fox asked with a smile.

‘I’m not going to be here much longer, Malcolm – we both know that. I just want to be sure in my mind that my son and daughter are all right.’

‘We’re fine.’ Fox touched the sleeve of his father’s coat. ‘And you shouldn’t be talking like that.’

‘I think I’ve earned the privilege.’

‘Maybe so, but all the same…’ Fox blew his nose and looked up and down the promenade. ‘Let’s get something to eat,’ he said.

They ate fish and chips from the paper, seated by the sea wall. ‘Sure you’re not too cold?’ Fox asked his father. The old man shook his head. ‘The smell of vinegar,’ Fox confided, ‘always takes me back to holidays and high days.’

‘A treat on Saturday night,’ Mitch Fox agreed. ‘Except your mother was never so keen on the fish – had to be chicken or steak pie for her.’