The Complaints by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online

moment. ‘What’s happened?’

    ‘I live next door,’ the woman stumbled on. ‘She happened to mention once that you were in the police. That’s how I got your number . . .’

    ‘What’s happened?’ Fox repeated, aware that both Naysmith and Kaye were now listening.

    ‘Jude’s had a bit of an accident . . .’

     
     
    She tried to close the door in his face, but he pushed against it and her resistance evaporated. Instead, she marched back into her living room. It was a mid-terraced house in Saughtonhall. He didn’t know which side Alison Pettifer lived - neither set of net curtains had twitched. Each and every house on the street boasted a satellite dish, and Jude’s TV was tuned to some daytime chat-and-cookery show. She turned it off as he walked into the room.

    ‘Well now,’ was all he said. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. There was some faint bruising on her left cheek, and her left arm was in plaster, a sling cradling it. ‘Those stairs again?’

    ‘I’d had a drink.’

    ‘I’m sure.’ He was looking around the room. It smelt of alcohol and cigarettes. There was an empty vodka bottle on the floor next to the sofa. Two ashtrays, both full. A couple of crushed cigarette packets. A breakfast bar separated the living area from the small kitchen. Plates stacked up, next to discarded fast-food cartons. More empty bottles - lager; cider; cheap white wine. The carpet needed vacuuming. There was a layer of dust on the coffee table. One of the legs had been snapped off, replaced by a stack of four building bricks. Figured: Vince worked in the building trade.

    ‘Mind if I sit down?’ Fox asked.

    She tried to shrug. It wasn’t easy. He decided his safest bet was the arm of the sofa. He still had his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. There didn’t seem to be any heating in the room. His sister was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt and a baggy pair of denims. Her feet were bare.

    ‘You look a right state,’ he told her.

    ‘Thanks.’

    ‘I mean it.’

    ‘You’re not exactly a poster boy yourself.’

    ‘Don’t I know it.’ He’d lifted the handkerchief from his pocket so he could blow into it.

    ‘You still haven’t got rid of that cold,’ she commented.

    ‘ You still haven’t got rid of that bastard of yours,’ he replied. ‘Where is he?’

    ‘Working.’

    ‘I didn’t know anyone was building anything.’

    ‘There’ve been lay-offs. He’s hanging in.’

    Fox nodded slowly. Jude was still standing up, shifting slightly from the hips. He recognised the movement. She’d done it as a kid, whenever she’d been caught out. Paraded in front of their father for a telling-off.

    ‘You not got a job yet?’

    She shook her head. The estate agent had laid her off just before Christmas. ‘Who told you?’ she asked eventually. ‘Was it next door?’

    ‘I hear things,’ was all he said.

    ‘It wasn’t anything to do with Vince,’ she stated.

    ‘We’re not in a bloody police station, Jude. This is just the two of us.’

    ‘It wasn’t him,’ she persisted.

    ‘Who then?’

    ‘I was in the kitchen Saturday . . .’

    He made show of peering over the breakfast bar. ‘Wouldn’t have thought there was room to fall over.’

    ‘Caught my arm on the corner of the washing machine as I went down . . .’

    ‘That the story you gave them at A and E?’

    ‘Is that who told you?’

    ‘Does it matter?’ He was staring towards the fireplace. There were shelves either side, filled with videos and DVDs - looked like every single episode of Sex and the City and Friends , plus Mamma Mia and other films. He gave a sigh and rubbed his hands down his face, either side of his nose and mouth. ‘You know what I’m going to say.’

    ‘It wasn’t Vince’s fault.’

    ‘You provoked him?’

    ‘We provoke each other, Malc.’

    He knew as much; could’ve told her that the neighbour often heard slanging matches. But then Jude would have known who’d called