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gives you your excuse.’

    ‘But our work on Heaton’s done and dusted.’

    ‘For now it is, but who’s to know?’

    ‘And you’ll back me up? Sign off on the paperwork?’

    ‘Whatever you need. DCC is already in the loop.’

    Meaning the Deputy Chief Constable, Adam Traynor, whose authorisation was required for any of the small-scale covert stuff. McEwan’s phone rang and he placed his hand on the receiver, ready to pick it up, gaze still locked on to Fox. ‘I’ll leave it to your discretion, Foxy.’ Then, as Fox straightened up, readying to leave: ‘Did you enjoy your long weekend, by the way?’

    ‘Managed two nights in Monaco,’ Fox replied.

    As he passed Tony Kaye’s desk, he wondered how much the Human Radar had picked up. Kaye appeared to be busy at his keyboard, typing in some notes. ‘Anything interesting?’ Fox asked.

    ‘I could ask you the same,’ Kaye responded, glancing in the direction of the Boss’s corner.

    ‘Might be room for you to climb aboard,’ Fox decided there and then, scratching at the underside of his chin.

    ‘Just give me a shout, Foxy.’

    Fox nodded distractedly and made it to the relative safety of his desk. Naysmith was brewing another pot of coffee.

    ‘Three sugars!’ Kaye called to him.

    Naysmith gave a twitch of the mouth, then noticed that he was being watched. He waved an empty mug in Fox’s direction, but Fox shook his head.

3

    The HR department were never happy to see someone from the Complaints. HR - Human Resources - used to be Personnel, a term Fox preferred. HR, meantime, would have preferred it if officers like him couldn’t come swanning in as if they owned the place. HR felt prickly, and with good reason. They had to provide open access, access denied to practically anyone else. McEwan had called ahead to let them know Fox was on his way. He’d then typed and signed a letter verifying Fox’s need to see the records. No names were mentioned, and this was what riled some of the HR staff - the assumption being that they couldn’t be trusted with the information. If they knew who the Complaints had their eye on, they might pass the information along, crippling any inquiry at its very start. It had happened once in the past - over a decade back - since when the rules had been changed so that the Complaints had total privacy when they did their search. To this end, the head of HR had to vacate her private room, so that Fox could use it. She had to log on to her computer, then leave it available for his use. She had to hand him the keys to the many filing cabinets in the main open-plan office. Then she had to stand with arms folded, fuming, eyes averted as he went about his business.

    Fox had been through the procedure many times, and had tried at the start to be cordial, apologetic even. But Mrs Stephens was not to be placated, so he’d given up. She still took some pleasure in delaying him and his ilk, reading the Chief Inspector’s notification with the greatest care and attention, sometimes even phoning McEwan back to double-check. Then she would ask for Fox’s warrant card and note his details on a form, which he had to sign. She would then check his signature against the one on his ID, exhale noisily, and hand over the keys, her computer, her desk and her office.

    ‘Thank you,’ he would say, usually his first and last words of the encounter.

    HR was on the ground floor of Police HQ. Lothian and Borders was not the largest force in Scotland, and Fox often wondered how they filled their time. They were civilian staff - most of them women. They stared at him from above their computer screens. One might wink or blow him a kiss. He knew some of their faces from the canteen. But there was never any conversation, no offer of coffee or tea - Mrs Stephens saw to that.

    Fox made sure no one was watching as he lifted Jamie Breck’s file from the cabinet. He held it to his chest so the name couldn’t be seen, locked the drawer and headed