Breck thought for a moment and then nodded. He asked Cartwright if she wanted to leave them to it, but she shook her head and said she’d just sit there and finish her drink. Breck leaned a little further over the table, elbows resting either side of his glass.

‘To start with,’ he said, ‘there’s new information on Vince. Another cab-driver’s come forward. This one had been waiting for fares outside the Oliver. He reckons he picked Vince up around one in the morning.’

‘He’s sure it was Vince?’

Breck nodded. ‘The team showed him photos. Plus, he ID’d Vince’s clothes.’

‘So where did he take him?’

‘The Cowgate. Where else are you going to go if you want to keep drinking at that time of night?’

‘It’s a bit…’

‘Studenty?’ Breck guessed. ‘Trendy?’

But Fox had thought of something else. ‘Isn’t the Cowgate closed to traffic at night?’

‘Driver knew all the little short cuts and side streets. Dropped him outside a club called Rondo – do you know it?’

‘Do I look the type?’

Breck smiled. ‘Annabel dragged me there once.’ She jabbed him in the ribs by way of complaint and Breck squirmed a little. ‘Live music in the back room, sticky carpets and plastic glasses in the front.’

‘That’s where he was headed?’

‘Driver wasn’t sure. But it was where he got out.’

‘Meaning he was still alive in the small hours of Sunday morning? ’

Breck nodded. ‘So now the inquiry team’s going to be doing a sweep of the Cowgate – must be about a dozen pubs and clubs; more if they widen the search to the Grassmarket. They’re printing up flyers to hand out to the clubbing fraternity.’

‘Doormen might remember him,’ Fox mused. ‘He probably wasn’t typical of their clientele. Did the cabbie say what sort of state he was in?’

‘Slurring his words and a bit agitated. Plus he didn’t tip.’

‘Why was he agitated?’

‘Maybe he was wondering what was waiting for him back home,’ Breck offered. ‘Maybe he was just the type who gets that way after a skinful.’

‘I’d like to listen to the interview with the cabbie…’

‘I could probably get you a transcript,’ Cartwright offered.

Fox nodded his thanks. ‘The first cab would have dropped him at the Oliver around ten – means he was in there three hours.’

‘A fair amount of time,’ Breck agreed.

‘Well, it’s progress, I suppose. Cheers, Annabel.’

Cartwright gave a shrug. ‘Tell him the rest,’ she commanded Breck.

‘Well, this is just something Annabel picked up when she was talking to a colleague based at D Division…’

‘Meaning Leith and Charlie Brogan?’ Fox guessed.

‘The inquiry team’s beginning to wonder why no body’s been washed ashore. They’re digging a bit deeper into the whys and wherefores.’

‘And?’

‘Brogan had recently sold a large chunk of his art collection.’

Fox nodded again. ‘Worth about half a million.’

Annabel Cartwright took up the story. ‘Nobody seems to know where that money is. And Joanna Broughton’s not exactly being cooperative. She’s got her lawyers setting up their wagons in a circle. She’s also got Gordon Lovatt reminding everyone involved that it won’t look good if we start harassing a “photogenic widow” – his very words.’

‘Leith think the suicide was staged?’

‘As Jamie says, they’re definitely beginning to wonder.’

‘Has any other cash gone AWOL?’

‘Hard to know until the lawyers stop denying access. We’d need a judge to issue a warrant, and that means convincing him it’s right and proper.’

‘There’s no way of knowing if any of Brogan’s accounts or credit cards are still being used?’ Fox didn’t expect an answer. He lifted his glass, but paused with it halfway to his mouth. ‘When I was in her flat, I saw the spaces on the wall where those paintings had been.’

‘You’ve been to her house?’ Cartwright asked.

‘There wasn’t any paperwork lying around, but then she had to fetch Brogan’s diary from elsewhere. Must be a room he uses as an office.’

‘He could always have siphoned some cash off from CBBJ,’ Breck added. ‘We’ve got specialist accountants for that kind of digging.’

‘But there still needs to be a judge’s signature,’ Cartwright cautioned.

Fox shrugged. ‘If Joanna Broughton’s being obstructive,’ he argued, ‘I’d have thought that might be reason enough.’

‘I’m sure they’ll fight their corner,’ Breck said, running his finger down the wine glass.

‘Any more revelations?’ Fox’s eyes were on Annabel.

‘No,’ she said.

‘I really do appreciate this.’ Fox got to his feet. ‘So much so that I’m going to buy you another drink.’

‘This one’s on us,’ Breck said, but Fox was having none of it. When he placed the order, the barmaid smiled and nodded towards the table.

‘Nice when you bump into friends, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Malcolm Fox replied. ‘Yes, it really is.’

20

At midnight, he was standing at the foot of Blair Street, staring towards the illuminated doorway of Rondo. There was just the one doorman. They usually operated in pairs, so the partner was either inside or on a break of some kind. The street was almost deserted, but wouldn’t have been at the same sort of time on a Saturday. Plus the Welsh rugby fans had been in town the night Vince died, gearing up for Sunday’s encounter – some of them would have known that the Cowgate was the late-licence district.

Fox stood at the corner, hands in pockets. This was where Vince had been dropped. Access to the main thoroughfare was curtailed between ten at night and five in the morning. Fox knew that this was because the Cowgate boasted narrow pavements. Drunks kept stumbling from them into the path of oncoming traffic. Cars had been banned because people were stupid. But then no one surely would pass this way sober at dead of night. It was a dark, dank conduit. There were homeless hostels and rubbish-strewn alleys. The place reeked of rat piss and puke. But there were plenty of little oases like Rondo. Lit by neon and radiating warmth (thanks to the heaters above their doors), they coaxed the unwary inside. As Fox crossed to the other side of the road, the doorman sized him up, loosening his shoulders under his three-quarter-length black woollen coat.

‘Evening, Mr Fox,’ the man said. Fox stared at him. There was a smile playing at the edges of the mouth. Stubble on the scarred chin. Shaven head and piercing blue eyes.

‘Pete Scott,’ the man eventually said, having decided that Fox needed help.

‘You’ve shaved your hair off,’ Fox replied.

Scott ran a hand over his head. ‘I was beginning to lose it anyway. Long time no see.’ He held out a hand for Fox to shake.

‘How long have you been out, Pete?’ Fox remembered Scott now. Six years ago, in his pre-Complaints life, he’d helped put him away. Housebreaking, a string of convictions stretching back to adolescence.

‘Almost two years.’

‘You served four?’

‘Took me a while to see the error of my ways.’

‘You battered someone?’

‘Another con.’

‘But you’re doing okay now?’

Scott shuffled his feet and made show of looking up and down the street. There was a Bluetooth connected to his left ear. ‘Keeping out of trouble,’ he eventually offered.

‘You’ve a good memory for names and faces.’

Scott just nodded at this. ‘You having a night out?’ he asked.

‘Working,’ Fox corrected him. ‘There was a murder the weekend before last.’

‘They’ve been round already.’ Scott reached into his coat and pulled out a sheet of paper. Fox unfolded it and saw that it was a head-and-shoulders photo of Vince Faulkner, with a few salient details and a phone number. ‘They’ve left them on the tables inside, with another stack on the bar. Won’t do any good.’

Fox handed back the sheet. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Guy didn’t come in here. I was on the door that Saturday. I’d have known about it.’