The Complaints by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online Page B

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