‘Are we done?’ the man asked.

‘One last thing…’ Fox watched Wauchope pause with his hand on the door handle. ‘You’ve got to give us Vass, too.’

‘Why?’ Wauchope sounded genuinely curious.

‘He killed Vince Faulkner. Vince was my sister’s bloke.’

Fox kept watching Wauchope in the mirror as comprehension started to set in: this was family. That explained a lot. Where family was involved, the normal rules did not apply. The man didn’t say anything – he still didn’t trust the car not to be wired – but he locked eyes with Fox and nodded slowly. Then he started clambering out, before pausing to stick his head back inside. ‘You I’ve never heard of,’ he announced to Fox. He closed the door and headed back to Lowther’s. Vass walked alongside him, and Wauchope draped an arm over his shoulder.

‘You any good at reading signs?’ Fox asked Jamie Breck.

‘He’s telling us Vass might just be expendable,’ Breck answered quietly. Fox turned towards him.

‘Do I get another “well played”?’

‘What did he mean at the end?’

Fox had been wondering that too. ‘I suppose he meant what he said – he’s never heard of me.’ He shifted in his seat.

‘Why the slip of paper rather than a business card?’

‘Less info he has on me, the better.’ Fox paused. You I’ve never heard of… He spat his gum out of the window. ‘All of a sudden, I’m starving. How about you?’

‘I could go an Indian.’ Breck looked around. ‘I’m just not sure we’d be safe in Dundee.’

‘You’re right – when Wauchope calls, we want to be as far from here as possible.’

‘So we’ve got time to set everything up?’ Breck nodded his agreement. ‘You warned everybody to be ready?’

‘I warned them.’

‘How’s my crazy plan shaping up so far?’

‘We’re still breathing,’ Fox answered, starting the engine. ‘That’s saying something, I suppose.’ He peered in his rearview mirror as he drove off. The Sierra was still parked in the middle of the road, as if it owned the place.

Which in a funny way, Malcolm Fox reasoned, it did.

Monday 23 February 2009

29

Monday afternoon, Breck and Fox were playing cards at Breck’s house when the call came. They’d been drinking tea and coffee all day. Three newspapers had been read from cover to cover. TV news had been watched, music listened to, and there’d been phone calls to Annabel and Jude. Lunch had comprised supermarket sandwiches and chocolate eclairs. The sun had been shining earlier, bringing a little warmth with it, but now the sky was a sheet of unbroken cloud the colour of old dishwater.

‘It’s him,’ Fox said, glancing at the phone’s tiny screen.

‘How do you know?’

‘I don’t recognise the number.’ Fox waggled the phone at Breck but didn’t answer it.

‘Don’t tease the man,’ Breck chided him. He was attempting levity, but Fox could see he was anxious. Fox pressed the answer button and placed the phone to his ear.

‘Malcolm Fox speaking.’ He realised his own voice sounded higher than usual – Breck wasn’t the only one suffering nerves.

‘It’s me.’ Bull Wauchope’s voice. He probably thought he was being clever, not identifying himself by name. As if the latest technology couldn’t match a voice to its owner as surely as fingerprints.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m still not sure I get it.’

‘There’s nothing to get – we meet, we ask you a few questions. If we’re happy with what we hear, you get your little reward.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’

‘So why don’t we do it over the phone?’

‘Because a phone could be bugged, couldn’t it? Same as my car yesterday. I’m just trying to put your mind at rest…’

‘I choose where we meet?’

‘Somewhere you know you’ll be safe.’

‘I like Lowther’s.’

‘Fine, but I don’t want too many people around – could it be after closing time?’ Fox was looking at Breck and Breck winked back – he had bet twenty quid Wauchope would choose the pub.

‘I’ll make sure everybody’s gone by eleven.’

‘Then we’ll be there at quarter past.’

‘But not with Brogan?’

‘Not till we’ve had our little chat.’

‘I’ll need proof you know where he is.’

‘Not a problem.’

‘And I swear to God, if you try anything I’ll have you nailed to the wall before your buddies can kick the door down.’

‘Understood. But I want us to be clear on something – Heaton and Vass are not negotiable.’

‘Give me Brogan and they’re yours.’ The line went dead. Fox held the phone in his hands for a moment.

‘Well?’ Breck asked.

‘We’ve got more calls to make.’ Fox held the phone in front of him and found the number he was looking for.

‘Five hours till we have to leave,’ Breck calculated. ‘Is that enough time?’

‘It better be,’ Malcolm Fox said as the first of his calls was answered.

They parked the car outside Lowther’s at precisely one minute to eleven. People were leaving, not all of them happy at having their evening curtailed. But the grumbling was muted, and even then it only started once they were safely on the street. At five past, Terry Vass emerged. He recognised the Volvo but ignored it. His job seemed to be reconnaissance. He walked up and down the street, looking for signs that Fox and Breck had brought company. Seemingly satisfied, he headed inside again. At ten past, Fox asked Breck if he was ready.

‘Few more minutes,’ Breck replied with a glance at his watch. They sat in silence, and saw the bar staff making to leave, shrugging themselves into their jackets, lighting cigarettes as they headed home. Vass came out of the pub again, this time signalling for them that it was time. Fox looked at Breck and nodded. Breck fetched the laptop from the back seat and they crossed the road. There hadn’t been time for anyone to do more than the most cursory amount of tidying up. A few chairs had been placed upside down on tables, and the top of the bar was lined with dirty glasses. The fruit machine’s lights were flashing, tempting players who no longer existed.

At a corner table sat Bull Wauchope. His arms were draped along the edge of the bench behind him.

‘Search them,’ he ordered.

Vass stood in front of the two detectives. ‘Take off your jackets and undo your shirts.’

‘As long as you’re not after The Full Monty,’ Breck said, placing the laptop on the nearest table. They slid their jackets off and unbuttoned their shirts, untucking them so Vass could check for wires. He patted down each jacket, squeezing the pockets and reaching in to check they only had wallets and phones.

‘Trousers, Terry,’ Wauchope barked, so Vass ran his hands down their legs, too, checking their ankles and socks.

‘Nothing,’ he said, struggling to get back to his feet.

‘Take their phones off them – don’t want anyone eavesdropping, do we?’

Vass ended up with three phones. ‘This one’s got two,’ he told his boss, nodding towards Fox.

Wauchope stared at Fox and Breck, then pointed to the chairs on the other side of the table. Breck placed the laptop between them. ‘Okay if I plug this in?’ he asked, looking down at the floor for the nearest socket.

‘What’s it for?’ Wauchope demanded.

‘Proof,’ Fox told him. ‘And since I don’t have a phone, I’ll need to borrow yours.’ He had his hand held out.

‘Give him his phone back,’ Wauchope ordered Terry Vass. Then: ‘But I’m warning you…’

‘Crucifixion’s not high on my wish list,’ Fox assured him.

Breck had found a socket on the skirting board below the bench. Fox punched buttons on his phone and held it to his ear. Wauchope’s eyes had narrowed. They were flitting between the two men.

‘We’re ready, Tony,’ Fox said when the call was answered. Then he snapped the phone shut and tossed it towards Vass. Breck had powered up the laptop and turned it so it was facing Wauchope.