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keep it warm for Jimmy Nicholl,’ Carter said.
    ‘Who?’
    ‘The dog.’
    An ancient-looking Border collie with rheumy eyes blinked in Fox’s direction from its basket near the fireplace.
    ‘Who’s he named for?’
    ‘The Raith manager. Not now, of course, but Jimmy took us into Europe.’ Carter broke off and gave Fox a look. ‘Not a football fan either?’
    ‘Used to be. My name’s Fox, by the way. Inspector Fox.’
    ‘Rubber-Sole Brigade – that what they still call you?’
    ‘That or the Complaints.’
    ‘And doubtless worse things too, behind your back.’
    ‘Or to our faces.’
    ‘Will it be a mug of tea or something stronger?’ Carter nodded towards a bottle of whisky on a shelf.
    ‘Tea’ll do the job.’
    ‘Bit early in the day for the “cratur”, maybe,’ Carter agreed. ‘I won’t be a minute.’
    He headed for the kitchen. Fox could hear him pouring water into a kettle. His voice boomed down the hallway. ‘When I read Cardonald’s summing-up, I knew there’d have to be an inquiry. You’re not local, though. A local might’ve known the name Jimmy Nicholl. On top of which, your car’s from Edinburgh …’
    Carter was back in the room now, looking pleased with himself.
    ‘The registration?’ Fox guessed.
    ‘The dealer’s sticker in the back window,’ Carter corrected him. ‘Take a seat, laddie.’ He gestured to one of the two armchairs. ‘Milk and sugar?’
    ‘Just milk. Are you still in security, Mr Carter?’
    ‘Is this you showing me you’ve done your research?’ Carter smiled. ‘The company’s still mine.’
    ‘What exactly does the company do?’
    ‘Doormen for bars and clubs … security guards … protection for visiting dignitaries.’
    ‘Do a lot of dignitaries pass through Kirkcaldy?’
    ‘They did when Gordon Brown was PM. And they still like to play golf at St Andrews.’
    Carter left the room to fetch their drinks, and Fox crossed to the window. There was a dining table there, piled high with paperwork and magazines. The paperwork had been stuffed into folders. A map of Fife lay open, locations circled in black ink. The magazines seemed to date back to the 1980s, and when Fox lifted one of them he saw that there was a newspaper beneath it. The date on the newspaper was Monday, 29 April 1985.
    ‘You’ll have me pegged as a hoarder,’ Carter said, carrying a tray into the room. He placed it on a corner of the table and poured out tea for the both of them. Half a dozen shortbread fingers had been emptied on to a patterned plate.
    ‘And a bachelor?’ Fox guessed.
    ‘Your research has let you down. My wife ran off with somebody two decades back, and the same number of years younger than me at the time.’
    ‘Making her a cradle-snatcher.’
    Carter wagged a finger. ‘I’m sixty-two. Jessica was forty and the wee shite-bag twenty-one.’
    ‘Nobody else since?’
    ‘Christ, man, is this a Complaints interview or a dating service? She’s dead anyway, God rest her. Had a kid with the shite-bag.’
    ‘But none with yourself?’ Carter gave a twitch of the mouth. ‘Does that rankle?’
    ‘Why should it? Maybe my son or daughter would have turned out as bad as my nephew.’
    Carter gestured towards the chairs and the two men sat down with their drinks. There was a slight stinging sensation in Fox’s eyes, which he tried blinking away.
    ‘It’s the woodsmoke,’ Carter explained. ‘You can’t see it, but it’s there.’ He reached down and fed Jimmy Nicholl half a shortbread finger. ‘His teeth are just about up to it. Come to think of it, mine aren’t much better.’
    ‘You’ve been retired fifteen years?’
    ‘I’ve been out of the force that long.’
    ‘Your brother was a cop same time as you?’
    ‘A year shy of retirement when his heart gave out.’
    ‘Was that around the time your nephew joined the police?’
    Alan Carter nodded. ‘Maybe it was why he joined up. He never seemed to have a gift for it. What’s the word I’m looking