The Impossible Dead (14 page)

‘I knew him as well as Imogen did.’

Fox didn’t bother responding to this. Instead, he moved to item two.

‘All these groups of the time … the SRSL, SNLA, Dark Harvest Commando … I forget the Gaelic one …’

‘Siol Nan Gaidtheal.’

‘That’s it.’

‘Seed of the Gael.’

‘How close was Vernal to them? I only know what I’ve read.’

‘Imogen can’t help you there. None of those rumours ever reached her.’

‘But
you
heard them?’

‘Of course.’

‘And believed them?’

‘I asked Francis a few times. He would just dismiss the suggestion with one of his looks.’

‘What’s your feeling, though?’

Mangold took a sip of coffee while he considered the question. ‘Was he an active paramilitary? No, I doubt that. But there are ways in which he could have helped.’

‘Legal advice?’

‘Possibly.’

‘What else?’

‘Money had to be raised, and then kept safe. Frank would have known what to do with it.’

Fox nodded. ‘He was their banker?’

‘I have absolutely no proof.’

‘Would he have kept the money on him?’

Mangold offered a shrug.

‘How much are we talking about?’

‘Thousands,’ Mangold speculated. ‘There were a few bank robberies early in the decade; a couple of security-van hold-ups.’

‘Claimed by the SNLA?’

‘Those were the stories at the time.’

‘All the years you worked with him – dodgy visitors … locked-door meetings … odd phone calls …?’

‘No more than any other lawyer,’ Mangold replied with a lopsided smile. He stared into the bottom of his cup. ‘I really do need to stop drinking at lunchtime. I’ll feel bloody awful later on.’ He glanced up at Fox. ‘Are we finished here, Inspector?’

‘Not quite. Did you ever hear names?’

‘Names?’

‘Members of these various groups.’

‘MI5 would know more about that than me.’

‘But they’re not here right now …’

Mangold conceded the point and furrowed his brow in thought. ‘No, no names,’ he said at last.

‘Any of Vernal’s friends seem a bit out of place?’

‘We met all sorts, Inspector. You’d visit a couple of pubs and end up in the company of vagabonds and cut-throats. Never knew if you were going to wake up with a tattoo or an infection – or not wake up at all.’

Fox managed the smile he felt was expected of him. ‘How about your own politics, Mr Mangold?’

‘Unionist now …’

‘But back then?’

‘Broadly the same.’

‘Funny you were such good friends with a dyed-in-the-tweed nationalist.’ Fox paused. ‘Or is that where
Mrs
Vernal comes in?’

‘I’d rather she didn’t come into it at all,’ Mangold said quietly.

‘But she must,’ Fox insisted, dropping his own voice a little. Mangold looked suddenly tired and defeated. He held up his hands in surrender, then slapped them down against the table.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He paused, staring down at his cup again. ‘More coffee, I think.’

‘Thank you for your time.’ Fox started to get up. ‘But just remember –
you
came to me.’

‘Yes,’ Mangold said, with almost a trace of regret.

‘Oh, one other thing …’

Mangold had risen and was facing Fox.

‘Did Alan Carter ever mention the car to you?’

Mangold seemed confused. ‘What car?’

‘Francis Vernal’s Volvo.’

‘No, I don’t think so – why do you ask?’

‘No reason really,’ Fox said with a shrug. But inside he was thinking:
What else did he keep from you … and why?

Mangold stayed in the room, Fox insisting that he could see himself out. He stopped at the receptionist’s desk. She looked up from her work and smiled.

‘Marianne, isn’t it?’ Fox enquired. She added a nod to her smile. ‘Something I’ve always meant to ask Charles and somehow keep forgetting …’

‘Yes?’

‘The firm’s name – Mangold Bain: is there still a Bain?’

‘It was Vernal Mangold,’ she explained.

‘Ah yes, until poor Francis died …’ He tried his best to sound like one of Mangold’s oldest clients. ‘You’re too young to have known him, of course?’

‘Of course,’ she agreed, looking slightly put out that he could mistake her for someone of
that
vintage.

‘So Mr Bain …?’ he prompted.

‘There’s never been a Mr Bain. It’s a maiden name.’

‘Mr Vernal’s widow Imogen?’ Fox guessed. ‘She’s a partner of some sort?’

‘Not that, no. Mr Mangold meant it as a … well, a kind of memorial, I suppose.’

‘Wouldn’t it have been more of a memorial if he’d just kept the name Vernal on the stationery?’ Fox asked. Marianne seemed never to have considered this. ‘Thanks for your help,’ Fox told her, bowing his head slightly and taking his leave.

21

Fox sat at his desk in the Complaints office, staring at the blank screen of his computer. Bob McEwan was taking a phone call. As ever, it seemed to concern the upcoming reorganisation. The Complaints would be swallowed up by ‘Standards and Values’. They would go, in the words of McEwan, from ‘micro’ to ‘macro’.

‘Just don’t ask me what that means.’

Fox had sent texts to both Tony Kaye and Joe Naysmith and was waiting to hear back from them. He had thought about visiting the Central Library, digging into its newspaper archive. He had cuttings from the
Scotsman
, but not from the
Herald
or any other Scottish paper of the time. He doubted he would find anything. The media had soon lost whatever interest it had had in the story.

When the office door opened, Fox saw that the Chief Constable was leading a visitor inside. The Chief’s name was Jim Byars. He was in full uniform, peaked cap included, which meant he was on his way to a meeting or else was out to impress someone. The visitor was a man in his late forties with a tanned face, square jaw and greying hair. He wore a three-piece suit and what looked like a silk tie. A handkerchief was visible in his breast pocket.

‘Ah, Malcolm,’ the Chief Constable said. Then, for the guest’s benefit: ‘This is Professional Standards – PSU.’

‘The “rubber heels”?’ the visitor said with a slight smile. His accent was English. The hand he held out for Fox to shake bore no rings. Fox had glanced in McEwan’s direction. He could see that his boss was torn. It would be polite to end the call and greet the visitor, but he wanted Byars to know that he was earning his keep. He gave the Chief a wave, then motioned that he would wrap up the call. Byars’ gesture let him know this wasn’t necessary.

‘Just giving DCI Jackson the tour,’ the Chief explained to Fox. Then, to Jackson: ‘Malcolm Fox is an inspector – detective rank, but we don’t use the term.’

‘How’s your workload?’ Jackson asked Fox.

‘Manageable,’ Fox replied, wishing he had turned on his computer. His desk looked bare; half an inch of paperwork in the in-tray. Was Jackson something to do with the coming reorganisation? Was he seeking posts that could be cut? He had that look to him – a brisk, hard-nosed bean-counter.

‘Working in Fife, aren’t you?’ the Chief asked, frowning as he realised how stupid the question sounded.

‘Not today, sir. Rest of my team are.’ Fox swallowed. There was no reason to suppose the Chief Constable would know he’d been kicked into touch. Even if he
did
know, it wasn’t the sort of thing you wanted to advertise to a visitor. ‘What brings you here?’ Fox asked Jackson instead. Byars got in first with the answer.

‘DCI Jackson is based at Special Branch – anti-terrorism.’

‘Didn’t know we had much of that in Edinburgh,’ Fox felt obliged to state.

Jackson gave the same brief smile. ‘The blast in the forest outside Peebles?’ he offered. ‘And Lockerbie before that?’

Fox nodded to let him know he’d heard.

‘We’re thinking they may have been a trial run, Inspector.’

‘Why Peebles?’

‘Anywhere would have done.’ Jackson paused. ‘Remember Glasgow Airport? The perpetrators lived quietly in the suburbs.’

‘And as Peebles is part of Lothian and Borders,’ Byars explained, ‘we’re assisting DCI Jackson and his team.’

Not quite a bean-counter, then.

Jackson was looking around the office, as if filing every detail of it away. Bob McEwan was trying desperately to wind up his conversation. ‘What’s happening in Fife?’ the Englishman asked.

‘Not much,’ Fox said.

‘CID officer,’ Byars told Jackson. ‘In court for overstepping the line. We’ve been asked to check whether his colleagues covered up for him.’

Jackson looked at Fox, and Fox knew what he was thinking:
I’m with you, chum – never give away more than you have to
.

McEwan had ended the call and was coming towards them. Byars made the fresh round of introductions and explanations.

‘Interesting,’ McEwan said, folding his arms. ‘Never goes away, does it?’

‘How do you mean?’ Jackson asked him.

‘Domestic terrorism. Malcolm’s latest case has an angle …’

‘Really?’ Jackson sounded suddenly interested.

It had to be Naysmith. Had to be Joe Naysmith who’d let it slip to McEwan
.

Fox made show of shrugging it off. ‘A very
slight
connection,’ he mooted.

But Jackson was not to be deflected. ‘As in?’ he prompted.

‘Someone Malcolm interviewed,’ McEwan obliged. ‘He was doing some research into a lawyer who got himself involved with Scottish separatists.’

‘Quarter of a century back,’ Fox stressed.

The Chief Constable looked at Jackson. ‘Not quite the same as your Peebleshire bombers.’

‘Not quite,’ Jackson admitted. His next question was aimed at Fox: ‘What happened to the lawyer?’

‘Died in a car crash,’ Fox stated.

‘Unlike the researcher,’ McEwan added. ‘
He
put a revolver to his head.’

‘Dearie me,’ Jackson said. Then he gave Fox that same unnerving smile again.

When Naysmith called Fox’s mobile an hour or so later, Fox was alone in the office, McEwan having left for yet another meeting elsewhere in the building. Before Naysmith could say anything, Fox thanked him for telling McEwan all about Alan Carter and Francis Vernal.

‘He just asked me what I was up to,’ Naysmith responded.

‘Well, thanks anyway. Now we’ve got Special Branch interested.’ Fox went on to explain the circumstances.

‘Could be a bonus,’ Naysmith argued. ‘Can’t you ask him if there’s anything in the files on Vernal? Whether he really
was
being spied on?’

‘You think he’d tell me, even if he knew? This was twenty-odd years ago – reckon the spooks have instant access?’

‘Maybe not,’ Naysmith conceded. ‘But how else are we going to find out if they were keeping tabs on him?’

‘We aren’t,’ Fox said eventually. There was silence on the line for a moment.

‘Want to hear what I’ve got?’ Naysmith asked.

‘What have you got?’

‘Barron’s Wrecking.’

‘You spoke to him?’

‘He’s a good age now, but what a memory. When I said as much, he joked that it was because so much of his business was kept off the books. Told me I could grass him up to the taxman if I liked …’

‘But you got round to asking about the car eventually?’

‘He remembered it well. Tow-truck brought it in, but it was there hardly any time at all before someone came asking for it to be taken elsewhere.’

‘Gavin Willis?’ Fox guessed.

‘The very same,’ Naysmith confirmed. ‘They got it as far as the cottage, but it took four of them to push it up the slope into the garage.’

‘Did he tell them why he wanted it?’

‘I don’t think anybody asked. He paid Barron in cash and that was that.’

‘And no one came to the scrapyard asking for it?’

‘Willis slipped Mr Barron an extra twenty and told him to say it had gone into the crusher.’

‘And Barron never bothered asking why?’

‘The way he put it was, when a cop tells you to do something, you do it.’

‘I’m not sure that’s so true these days.’ Fox thought for a moment. ‘Willis worked the firearms detail,’ he informed Naysmith. ‘Could have pocketed the revolver that was used on Alan Carter.’

‘Why, though?’

‘I’m still not sure. Did Barron remember anything else about the car? He didn’t swipe anything from it?’

‘Nothing he’s admitting to.’

‘Then that’s that,’ Fox said, pacing the empty office.

‘What do you want me to do next, Malcolm?’

‘Gavin Willis – I wouldn’t mind knowing how and when he died. Maybe he’s got some family left …’

‘I can check.’ Naysmith sounded as if he was writing himself a note to that effect.

‘Have you seen Tony?’ Fox asked.

‘Told me he was taking Billie and Bekkah out for coffee.’

‘The hairdressers?’ Fox stopped by the window. He had a view towards the car park, with Fettes College behind it. The pupils seemed to be heading home, a line of parental cars waiting to collect most of them. ‘What’s his thinking?’

‘Hormonal?’ Naysmith guessed.

Fox saw DCI Jackson being escorted to his car by the Chief Constable. Jackson had his own driver; nice executive saloon, too. He got into the back, Byars closing the door for him. As the car pulled away, a window slid down. Jackson was staring up towards the Complaints office. There was no way he could see Fox standing there, but Fox backed away all the same, though he wasn’t exactly sure why.

22

Francis Vernal’s widow lived in a detached Victorian mansion house in the Grange district of the city. The narrow streets were devoid of traffic and pedestrians. Almost no homes were visible. They remained hidden, like their owners and those owners’ wealth, behind high stone walls and solid wooden gates. Charles Mangold had been adamant that Fox could only visit if Mangold accompanied him. Fox had been just as adamant that this was a non-starter. Nevertheless, Mangold was waiting in an idling black taxi as Fox approached the driveway. As Fox got out of the car to announce his arrival at the intercom, Mangold emerged from the back of the cab.

‘I have to insist,’ the lawyer was saying.

‘Insist all you like.’

‘What if Imogen wants me there?’

‘She can tell me that to my face. But you stay
this
side of the gates until she does.’

Mangold looked furious but said nothing. He spluttered his way back to the taxi, slamming the door after him. Fox told the intercom he had an appointment. The gates swung back on themselves with a motorised hum, and he returned to his car. It was a long, winding driveway, with thick shrubbery to either side. Fox emerged into a gravelled parking area in front of the two-storey gabled house. It was dusk, birds roosting in the well-established trees. He locked his car from habit only. The front door to the house was open, a woman in her thirties standing there. She introduced herself as Eileen Carpenter.

‘I look after Mrs Vernal.’

‘Her nurse, you mean?’

‘And other things besides.’

The hall smelled musty, but had been dusted. Carpenter asked him if he wanted some tea.

‘Please,’ he answered, following her into the drawing room. It boasted a huge bay window. Imogen Vernal’s chair had been placed so that it faced the garden to the side of the property.

‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up,’ she said. Fox introduced himself and shook her hand. Her ash-blonde hair was thin and wispy, and there were lesions on her cheeks and forehead. Her skin was almost transparent, the veins showing. Fox reckoned she couldn’t weigh more than seven and a half stone. But her eyes, though tired, were lively enough, the pupils dilated by recent medication.

There was a dining-room chair to one side of her, and Fox seated himself. A book was open on the floor – a hardback copy of a Charles Dickens novel. Fox presumed one of Eileen Carpenter’s tasks was to read to her employer.

‘Quite a house,’ Fox said.

‘Yes.’

‘Did you live here with your husband?’

‘My parents bought it for us – a wedding gift.’

‘Great parents.’

‘
Rich
parents,’ she corrected him with a smile.

There were framed photographs of her husband on the mantelpiece. One looked familiar: the orator in full flow, fist clenched as he addressed his audience.

‘I wish I’d heard him speak,’ Fox said truthfully.

‘I think I have some recordings.’ She paused and raised a finger. ‘No,’ she corrected herself, ‘I donated them to the National Library – along with his books and papers. People have done their PhDs on him, you know. When he died, an American senator wrote an obituary for the
Washington Post
.’ She nodded at the memory.

‘He was quite a character,’ Fox agreed. ‘In public.’

Her eyes narrowed a little. ‘Charles told me about you, Inspector. Such a pity about the other man, the one who passed away …’ She paused. ‘Is Charles outside the gates?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s very protective.’

‘Was he one of your lovers?’

She took her time answering, as if wondering how to respond. ‘You make me sound like a Jezebel.’ Her voice was becoming more noticeably Scottish.

‘It’s just that he seems to have a great deal of affection for you.’

‘He does,’ she agreed.

‘And there were always the rumours that your marriage had been stormy.’

‘Stormy?’ She considered the word. ‘Not a bad description.’

‘How did the two of you meet?’

‘Manning the barricades.’

‘Not literally?’

‘Almost – a sit-in at the university. I think we were protesting against Vietnam.’ She seemed to be thinking back. ‘Although it could have been apartheid, or Rhodesia. He was already a lawyer; I was a student. We hit it off …’

‘Despite the age gap?’

‘My parents didn’t approve at first,’ she conceded.

‘Was Mr Vernal a nationalist back then?’

‘He was a communist in his youth. Then it was the Labour Party. Nationalism came later.’

‘You shared his politics?’

She studied him. ‘I’m not sure what it is you want from me, Inspector.’

‘I just felt we should meet.’

She was still mulling this over when Eileen Carpenter arrived with a tray. The teapot was small, and there was just the one bone-china cup and saucer. It was loose-leaf tea, accompanied by a silver strainer. Fox thanked her. She asked her employer if anything else was needed.

‘We’re fine, I think,’ Imogen Vernal replied. ‘You might want to let Charles know.’ Then, for Fox’s benefit: ‘He’ll be waiting for her to send him a message.’

A little colour was rising to Carpenter’s cheeks as she left the room.

‘She’s not a spy, exactly,’ Imogen Vernal told Fox. ‘But Charles
will
keep fussing …’

Fox poured tea for himself. ‘You know why he hired Alan Carter?’ he asked.

‘To clear up my husband’s murder.’

‘You’re sure in your own mind that it
was
murder?’

‘Pretty sure.’

‘Did you say as much at the time? I don’t recall the newspapers mentioning it.’

‘To be quite honest with you, I was a little bit afraid.’

Fox accepted this. ‘But all you have are suspicions – no actual evidence?’

‘No more than you’ll have gleaned,’ she conceded, placing her hands on her lap.

‘And suicide …?’

‘Not an option: Francis was too much of a coward. It’s something I’ve been thinking about recently. I told them I was coming off the chemo and everything else – it was too, too much. There’s morphine for the pain, but you can still feel it, just beyond the cotton wool. Suicide had to be considered, but that particular course of action takes a certain bravery. I’m not brave, and neither was Francis.’

‘He wasn’t ill, was he?’

‘Strong as an ox.’

‘Despite the cigarettes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Had there been a falling-out?’

‘No more so than usual.’

‘That stormy relationship again?’

‘Stormy rather than rocky. Has anyone used the word “firebrand” in connection with him?’ She watched as Fox nodded his reply. ‘I’d be disappointed had they not – that was Francis, you see: in his life, his work, his politics. He didn’t care if you were for him or against him, so long as you had fire in your belly.’

‘There’s a cairn near where he died …’

‘Charles had it placed there.’

‘And the yearly bouquet?’

‘From me.’

Fox leaned forward a little. ‘Who do you think killed him, Mrs Vernal?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘The period leading up to his death … had he been worried about anything?’

‘No.’

‘He thought he was being watched.’

‘That pleased him: it meant he was “getting to them”.’

‘Who?’

‘The establishment, I suppose.’

‘And how was he getting to them?’

‘His speeches. His power to change people’s minds.’

‘The polls suggest he wasn’t changing
too
many minds.’

She dismissed this with a toss of her head. ‘Everyone he met … he had an effect on them.’

She paused and watched Fox bring out the photograph of her husband with Chris Fox.

‘Do you know this man?’ he asked her.

‘No.’

‘His name’s Chris Fox. He died in a motorbike crash, a few years before your husband. It happened near Burntisland.’

She considered this. ‘Not so far from where they killed Francis. You think there’s a connection?’

‘Not really.’

‘He shares your surname.’

‘He was my father’s cousin.’

She looked at him. ‘Did he know Francis well?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ Fox studied the picture again before returning it to his pocket. He took another sip of tea. ‘I’ve heard break-ins mentioned …’

‘Yes – here and at the office. Two in as many weeks.’

‘Reported to the police?’

She nodded. ‘No one was ever caught.’

‘Was much taken?’

‘Money and jewellery.’

‘None of your husband’s papers?’

‘No.’

‘Did Francis ever discuss breaking the law himself?’

‘How do you mean?’ She seemed to be focusing on the view from the window, even though it was now dark and the garden was invisible.

‘He was said to be close to certain groups …’

‘He never spoke about it.’

‘But it’s not exactly news to you?’

‘He knew a lot of people, Inspector – I dare say one or two wanted to take the struggle that bit further than the law of the time would allow.’

‘And he would have supported that view?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Do any names come to mind?’

She shook her head. ‘You’re thinking,’ she said, ‘that political friends sometimes turn into foes. But if Francis had enemies –
real
enemies, I mean – he kept them to himself.’

‘But you know he supported paramilitary groups? Mr Mangold seems to think you’d no inkling.’

‘Charles doesn’t know
everything
.’

Fox took another sip of tea and placed the cup and saucer back on the tray. The room was silent for the best part of a minute. He got the feeling that when she was left alone, this was how she sat – calm and still and waiting for death, staring at her reflection in the window, the rest of the world lost somewhere beyond. He was reminded of his father:
I don’t sleep … I just lie here
…

Eventually, he cleared his throat. ‘What do you think he was doing on that particular road?’ he asked.

‘Politically, you mean?’

He smiled at the error. ‘No, the road between Anstruther and St Andrews.’

‘It was the weekend,’ she said, her voice fading a little. ‘He often spent weekends in Fife.’

‘On his own?’

‘Not with me.’

He knew from her tone what she meant. ‘Other women?’ he suggested. She gave the slightest of nods. ‘Many?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘He used the weekend house?’

‘I suppose so.’ She looked down at her lap and brushed something from it, something Fox couldn’t see.

‘And Anstruther …?’ he prompted, waiting her out. Eventually she gave a sigh and took a deep breath.

‘That’s where
she
lived.’ She fixed him with a stare. ‘I was quite a catch when Francis met me, but maybe you know what it’s like.’

‘A little,’ he offered, since she had waited for his response.

‘She was a student too. Alice Watts – that was the name.’

‘He told you?’

She shook her head. ‘Letters from her. Hidden in his office desk. It was months before I came across them – there was so much to be gone through.’

‘She lived in Anstruther?’

Imogen Vernal was staring at the window again. ‘She was studying politics and philosophy at St Andrews. He gave a talk to the students and she met him afterwards. I suppose you’d call her a groupie.’ Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘I’ve not told anyone about her.’

‘Charles Mangold?’

She shook her head.

‘So Alan Carter wouldn’t have known either?’

‘I suppose Charles might have known,’ she said. ‘He was Francis’s friend, after all. Men sometimes talk to one another, don’t they? When they’re out drinking.’

Fox conceded that they did. The temperature in the room had dropped a few degrees – the thick floor-length curtains should be closed and the gas fire turned on.

‘I want to thank you for seeing me and for being so open,’ Fox said. ‘Maybe we can talk again?’

But Vernal’s widow wasn’t finished with him. ‘I went looking for her, you know. I felt I needed to see her – not talk to her, just
see
her. I had her address from the letters. But when I went there, she’d packed up and left. The university told me she’d quit her course.’ She paused. ‘So I suppose it’s just possible she may have loved him.’

‘Do you still have those letters, Mrs Vernal?’

She nodded. ‘I wondered whether you would ask.’ She reached down the side of her chair and produced them, still in their envelopes. They bore neither addresses nor stamps. Hand-delivered, then.

Fox turned them over in his hands without opening them. ‘You were prepared,’ he stated. ‘Why am I the first person you’ve told?’

She smiled at him. ‘You insisted on coming here alone,’ she explained. ‘You stood up to Charles. That speaks to me of a certain something … a quality.’

‘You know some of the rumours of the time?’ he felt able to ask. ‘The papers hinted that you’d had a string of lovers, and maybe one of them had …’

‘You don’t believe that,’ she stated. ‘Francis was the only man I loved – and I still do. Goodbye, Inspector. Thank you for coming.’ She broke off, and thought of something else. ‘You asked me earlier who killed him. In a sense, I think we all did. But if I were to place a wager, I’d say the odds favoured your own kind.’

‘Meaning the police?’

‘Police, Secret Service – you’ll know better than I do. But take heed, Inspector: the man Charles employed ended up dead. You’d best be careful.’

‘Why do you think Mangold hired him in the first place?’

‘I thought I’d already answered that. Why do
you
think he did?’

‘To solve the mystery while you’re both still alive to hear it.’

She considered this, then shook her head slowly. ‘Perhaps.’

‘What other reason?’

‘Charles wants me to think less of Francis, so I’ll think more of
him
.’

‘He wants to prove that your husband consorted with bombers as well as women?’

She gave a thin smile. ‘Leading to my deathbed conversion. I recant and clasp Charles to my bosom – metaphorically speaking or otherwise.’