The Complaints Read Free Page B

private. Fox had looked at a couple of council alternatives, but they’d been drab and acrid-smelling. Lauder Lodge was better. Some of the money Fox had shelled out had gone into the pot and come out as Anaglypta and pine freshener. He could always smell talcum powder, too, and the lack of any unpleasant aromas from the kitchen was testament to quality venting. He found a parking space round the side of the building and announced himself at the front door. It was a detached Victorian house and would have been worth seven figures until the recent crunch. There was a waiting area at the foot of the stairs, but one of the staff told him he could go to his father’s room.

    ‘You know the way, Mr Fox,’ she trilled as he nodded and made for the longer of the two corridors. There was an annexe, built on to the original structure about ten years back. The walls had a few hairline cracks in them and some of the double glazing suffered from condensation, but the rooms were light and airy - the very words he’d been plied with when he’d first inspected the place. Light and airy and no stairs, plus en suites for the lucky few. His dad’s name was on a typed sliver of card taped to the door.

    Mr M. Fox. M for Mitchell, this being Malcolm’s grandmother’s maiden name. Mitch: everyone called Malcolm’s dad Mitch. It was a good strong name. Fox took a deep breath, knocked and walked in. His dad sat by the window, hands in his lap. He looked a little more gaunt, a little less animated. They were still shaving him, and his hair seemed freshly washed. It was fine and silver, and the sideburns were kept long, the way they’d always been.

    ‘Hiya, Dad,’ Fox said, resting against the bed. ‘How you doing?’

    ‘Mustn’t complain.’

    Fox smiled at that, as was expected. You injured your back at the factory where you worked; you were on disability for years; then cancer came along and you got treated successfully, if painfully; your wife died soon after you got the all-clear; and then old age crept in.

    And you mustn’t complain - because you were the head of the family, the man of the house.

    Your son’s own marriage broke up after less than a year; he already had a problem with drink, but it got worse then, for a while; your daughter flew far from the nest and kept in touch infrequently, until landing back home with an unlikeable partner in tow.

    But you couldn’t complain.

    At least your room didn’t smell of piss, and your son came to see you when he could. He’d done pretty well for himself, all things considered. You never asked if he liked what he did for a living. You never thanked him for the fees he paid on your behalf.

    ‘I forgot to bring you chocolate.’

    ‘The girls fetch it, if I tell them to.’

    ‘Turkish Delight? Not so easy to find these days.’

    Mitch Fox nodded slowly, but didn’t say anything.

    ‘Has Jude been round?’

    ‘I don’t think so.’ The eyebrows bunched together. ‘When was it I saw her?’

    ‘Since Christmas? Don’t fret, I’ll ask the staff.’

    ‘I think she has been here ... was it last week or the week before?’

    Fox realised that he’d taken out his mobile phone. He was pretending to look for messages but actually checking the time. Less than three minutes since he’d locked the car.

    ‘I finally closed that case I was telling you about.’ He snapped the phone shut again. ‘Met with the Procurator Fiscal this morning - looks like it’s going to trial. There’s still plenty that can go wrong, though . . .’

    ‘Is it Sunday today?’

    ‘Friday, Dad.’

    ‘I keep hearing bells.’

    ‘There’s a church round the corner - maybe it’s a wedding.’ Fox didn’t think so: he’d driven past and the place had looked empty. Why do I do that? he asked himself. Why do I lie to him?

    Answer: the easy option.

    ‘How’s Mrs Sanderson?’ he asked, reaching into his pocket again for his handkerchief.

    ‘She’s got a cough. Doesn’t want me