‘Other than bankers,’ Tony Kaye said, placing Fox’s glass of iced cola on the corner table, ‘who else can afford a house here?’

Naysmith was drinking lager, Kaye Guinness. The landlord, sleeves rolled up, was intent on a TV quiz show. Two further customers had gone outside with their cigarettes. There was a woman seated in another corner with a friend. Kaye had taken her over a brandy and soda, then explained to Fox and Naysmith that she was a pal of his.

‘Does the missus know?’ Joe Naysmith had asked.

Kaye had wagged a finger at him, then pointed it towards the woman. ‘Her name’s Margaret Sime, and if you’re ever in here and I’m not, I’d better hear that you’ve sent a drink over…’

‘Did you get parked?’ Naysmith was now asking Malcolm Fox.

‘Halfway up the bloody hill,’ Fox complained. Then, to Kaye: ‘I see you didn’t have any trouble.’ Kaye’s Nissan X-Trail was outside the pub’s front door, on a double yellow line and with the POLICE notice wedged in between dashboard and windscreen. Kaye just shrugged and gave a smirk, making himself comfortable and attacking what remained of his pint. Wiping a line of foam from his top lip, he fixed his gaze on Fox.

‘Vince has been a naughty boy again,’ he said. Fox just stared at him, but it was Naysmith who provided the explanation.

‘Soon as you’d left, Tony phoned the caller’s number.’

‘She told me about Jude’s “accident”,’ Kaye confirmed.

‘Leave it, will you?’ Fox cautioned, but Kaye was shaking his head. Again, it was Naysmith who spoke.

‘Tony looked up Vince Faulkner.’

‘“Looked up”?’ Fox’s eyes narrowed.

‘On the PNC,’ Naysmith said, slurping at his drink.

‘Police National Computer’s only for south of the border,’ Fox stated.

Tony Kaye gave another shrug. ‘I know a cop in England. All I did was give him Faulkner’s name and place of birth – Enfield, right? I remember you telling me.’

‘You know a cop in England? I thought you hated the English.’

‘Not individually,’ Kaye corrected him. ‘Look, do you want to know or don’t you?’

‘I doubt I could stop you telling me, Tony,’ Fox said.

But Kaye pursed his lips and folded his arms. Naysmith looked keen to bursting, but Kaye was warning him off with his eyes. The two smokers were coming back into the bar. The landlord slammed the palms of both hands against the bar top and yelled at the TV, ‘A schoolkid would’ve known that!’

‘Don’t be so sure, Charlie,’ one of the smokers said. ‘Not these days.’

‘He’s got previous,’ Naysmith blurted out, trying to keep his voice down. Kaye rolled his eyes and unfolded his arms, reaching for his glass and draining it.

‘Your shout, kiddo,’ he said.

Naysmith gawped, but then sprinted towards the bar with the empty glass.

‘Previous?’ Fox echoed. Tony Kaye leaned in towards him, keeping his voice low.

‘A few petty thefts from nine or ten years back. Couple of street brawls. Nothing too serious, but Jude might not know about them. How’s she doing?’

‘Her arm’s in plaster.’

‘Did you have words with Faulkner?’

Fox shook his head. ‘I didn’t see him.’

‘Something’s got to be done, Malcolm. Will she file a complaint?’

‘No.’

‘We could do it for her.’

‘She’s not leaving him, Tony.’

‘Then it’s up to us to have a word with him.’

Naysmith was back at the table, the landlord having taken his order. ‘Exactly what we should do,’ he confirmed.

‘You’re forgetting something,’ Fox said. ‘We’re the Complaints. Word gets out that we’re running around putting the fear on members of the great unwashed…’ He shook his head again, more firmly this time. ‘We don’t get to do that.’

‘Then there’s no fun left in life,’ Tony Kaye decided, throwing open his arms. Naysmith had marched off again and returned with Kaye’s drink. Fox studied his two colleagues.

His two friends.

‘Thanks all the same,’ he said. And then, lowering his voice still further: ‘In the meantime, maybe there’s some fun we could have.’ He checked that no one else in the bar was showing an interest. ‘McEwan’s put me on to a cop called Breck…’

‘Jamie Breck?’ Kaye guessed.

‘You know him?’

‘I know people who know him.’

‘Who is he?’ Naysmith asked, settling himself at the table. Only the top inch was missing from his lager.

‘CID, based at Torphichen,’ Kaye enlightened him. Then, to Fox: ‘He’s dirty?’

‘Maybe.’

‘That’s why you were at the Chop Shop this morning?’

‘Nothing gets past you, Tony.’

‘And HR this afternoon?’

‘Ditto.’ Fox leaned back in his seat. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, not exactly. No harm in Kaye and Naysmith being on board, but did he have anything for them to do? All he knew was, he needed to show his appreciation, and this was as good a way of doing it as any. Plus, now they could talk about work rather than Jude. And that was another thing: what did he do with the info about Vince Faulkner? Store it away? He couldn’t see himself confronting Jude with it. She’d accuse him of snooping, of interfering.

My life, Malcolm, my business… That was probably how she would put it. Of everything they had to do, all the cases they had to work, cops hated domestics the worst. They hated them because there was seldom a happy outcome, and precious little they could do to help or ease the situation. And that was how Jude would look to the majority of Fox’s colleagues. Hers was most definitely a domestic. The smokers were standing at the bar. One of them was drinking whisky. Fox could smell it, and even felt the faintest of tangs at the back of his throat. It was making his mouth water.

‘So tell us,’ Tony Kaye was enquiring. Joe Naysmith had leaned forward, elbows on knees.

His sister’s face was in his mind, and the aroma of the single malt in his nostrils. He told Kaye and Naysmith what he knew about Jamie Breck.

Next morning, Fox called Jude but got no answer. He’d tried her the previous night, too. She probably had caller ID. She was almost certainly ignoring him. After breakfast, he drove to work. Kaye and Naysmith wanted to know their ‘plan of action’. Fox’s idea was that Annie Inglis should brief them, but there was no one at home in 2.24. He texted her mobile instead, asking her to get back to him.

‘We’ll wait,’ he told his colleagues. ‘No rush.’ They were heading back to their own desks when Fox’s phone rang. He picked it up, and heard a voice he didn’t know asking him if he was Malcolm Fox.

‘Who’s this?’ Fox asked back.

‘My name’s Detective Sergeant Breck.’ Fox’s spine stiffened, but he didn’t say anything. ‘Am I speaking to Malcolm Fox?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Fox, I’m calling on behalf of your sister.’

‘Is she there? What’s happened?’

‘Your sister’s fine, Mr Fox. But I’m afraid we’re on our way to the mortuary. I asked her if there was anyone, and she…’

The voice was professional without being cold.

‘Tell me what’s happened.’

‘Your sister’s partner, Mr Fox – do you know how to find the City Mortuary…?’

He knew all right: it was on the Cowgate. An inconspicuous brick building you’d drive past without guessing what went on there. Traffic was hellish slow; there seemed to be roadworks and diversions everywhere. It wasn’t just the trams – there were gas mains being replaced, and resurfacing at the Grassmarket. It seemed to Fox that he passed more traffic cones than pedestrians. Kaye had asked if he wanted company, but he’d shaken his head. Vince Faulkner was dead, and that was as much as Jamie Breck was going to tell him. Breck – managing to sound concerned and thoughtful. Breck – waiting at the mortuary with Jude…

Fox parked the Volvo in one of the loading bays and headed inside. He knew where they’d be waiting. The viewing room was one floor up. He flashed his ID at any staff he passed, not that they showed the slightest interest. They wore foreshortened green rubber galoshes and three-quarter-length smocks. They had just washed their hands or were on their way to do so. Jude heard his footsteps on the stairs and was running towards him as he came into view. She was bawling her head off, body shuddering, eyes bloodshot behind the tears. He held her to him, being careful of her arm. After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked over her shoulder to where DS Jamie Breck was standing.