The Impossible Dead by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online

sat for a few moments longer. Alan Carter seemed in no rush to see him go, but he had nothing keeping him there, nothing but the warmth of the fire and companionable silence.
    ‘A long way from Edinburgh, isn’t it, Inspector?’ Carter said quietly. ‘These are the backlands, where things tend to get fixed on the quiet.’
    ‘You regret what’s happened to your nephew? All that media exposure?’
    ‘I doubt anything’s “happened” to him.’ Carter tapped the side of his head. ‘Not in here.’
    ‘He’s in jail, though. That’s tough on the family.’
    ‘ I’m the family – all that’s left of it.’ Carter paused. ‘Are your folks still with us?’
    ‘My dad is,’ Fox conceded.
    ‘Sisters and brothers?’
    ‘Just the one sister.’
    ‘Close, are you?’ Fox chose not to answer. ‘Luckier than most if you are. Sometimes you have to draw a line between yourself and the ones you’re supposed to love.’ Carter ran a finger horizontally through the air. ‘It might sting for a while, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it.’
    Fox sat for a further moment or two, then rose to his feet, his host copying him. The man was almost wedged into the chair, but Fox doubted he’d accept any offer of help.
    ‘Macaroni cheese, that’s my downfall, eh, Jimmy?’
    The dog’s ears pricked up at mention of its name. Fox had paused next to the dining table.
    ‘If I was to describe you,’ Fox began, ‘I’d say you were orderly – coats on the rack; boots laid out in a row. Biscuits need to go on a plate, not served straight from the packet. And that makes me wonder about this …’ He waved his hand across the table. ‘It’s not just hoarding, is it? There’s some sort of pattern to it.’
    ‘A bit of historical research.’
    ‘Nineteen eighty-five?’
    ‘There or thereabouts.’
    ‘Late April maybe?’
    ‘Go on then – tell me what happened.’
    ‘In April ’85?’ Fox tried to think. In the end, he gave up.
    ‘Dennis Taylor beat Steve Davis at the snooker,’ Alan Carter said, leading the way to the door.

6

    Detective Constable Cheryl Forrester liked to ask questions. Questions like: How long have you been in the Complaints? Is there a selection process? How many of you work there? Is it for life, or some kind of fixed term? Why is it you’re detective grade but not called detectives? What’s been your most shocking case? What’s the nightlife like in Edinburgh?
    ‘It’s only a train ride away, you know,’ Joe Naysmith told her.
    ‘Oh, I’ve been there plenty times.’
    ‘Then you probably know the nightlife better than we do,’ Tony Kaye said.
    ‘But I mean the places locals go …’
    ‘DC Forrester, we’re not really here to pass along tourist tips.’
    ‘I like the Voodoo Rooms,’ Naysmith interrupted. He saw the look on his colleague’s face and swallowed back a further comment.
    The problem was, Forrester’s enthusiasm was almost infectious. The description ‘bubbly’ might have been coined for her. She had curly brown hair, tanned skin, and a rounded face with freckles and large brown eyes. She had been in the force for six years, the last two in CID. Right at the start, she’d told them she was too busy for a boyfriend.
    ‘I’m sure plenty have tried,’ Kaye had stated, intending to bring Paul Carter’s name into play, but she had steered the conversation in another direction by asking Naysmith if the Complaints worked nine-to-five, to which he’d responded by telling her about their surveillance van and how an operation could last anything up to a year.
    ‘A year of your life? Better be a result at the end of it!’
    And so it went, until Kaye finally rapped his knuckles against the table. They were in the interview room again, but without the recording equipment. Forrester, sensing she was somehow worthy of censure, set her mouth tight and clasped her hands together in front of her.
    ‘As you know,’ Tony Kaye began, ‘certain allegations have been