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Nobody likes The Complaints--they're the cops who investigate other cops. It's a department known within the force as "The Dark Side," and it's where Malcolm Fox works. He's a serious man with a father in a nursing home and a sister who persists in an abusive relationship, frustrating problems about which he cannot seem to do anything.
Then the reluctant Fox is given a new case. There's a cop named Jamie Breck, and he's dirty. The problem is, no one can prove it. As Fox takes on the job, he learns that there's more to Breck than anyone thinks--dangerous knowledge, especially when a vicious murder takes place far too close to home.
In THE COMPLAINTS, Rankin proves again why he is one of the world's most beloved and bestselling crime writers, mixing unstoppable pacing with the deeper question of who decides right from wrong.
half his opponent’s body weight and none of his indignation. There wasn’t going to be a fight. “Do what you’ve got to do,” was all he said, turning his head so Fox couldn’t make eye contact. “You’re a turd,” Fox said, his voice rasping. “What’s worse, you’re the turd who got me into this. So I’m going to ask you again—who was it brought Jamie Breck to you?” “Why does it matter?” “It just does.” “You going to slap me about a bit? We could compare bruises after.” Fox pulled Gilchrist forward,
ringing, he answered it. “Fox,” he stated. “Anything you want to tell me, Malcolm?” It was Breck’s voice. “How do you mean, Jamie?” “Take a look to your left, over by the Portakabins.” With the phone still held to his ear, Fox turned his head, knowing what he would see. Breck was standing on the scaffolding. There was a hard hat on his head and another on the man standing next to him. Breck waved and spoke into his phone. A split second later, his words reached Fox. “Come on over, then…”
suspect! You knew that! Since when do we get cozy with suspects?” “Glen Heaton did it often enough,” Fox commented in an undertone. Giles’s eyes were full of fire, his voice just about under control. “Listen to the hypocrisy of the man,” he growled. Then he leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders and neck. “None of this looks good. Time was, maybe the force would have dealt with it in its own way…” He pretended a rueful sigh. “But with all the checks and balances these days, the need
Police?” “That’s right.” “Specifically the Professional Standards Unit?” “Yes.” “How long have you been based there?” “Four and a half years.” “And before that?” “I was at St. Leonard’s for three years, and Livingston before that.” “This was in your drinking days?” “I’ve been sober for five years. Didn’t realize my tippling was a matter of record.” “You’ve never looked at your personnel file?” She sounded unconvinced. “No,” he told her, crossing one leg over the other. In doing so, he
Majesty’s Pleasure for his role in a drug-smuggling scheme in the northeast. “Fishing boats working out of the likes of Aberdeen,” she explained. She’d arrived at Fox’s house with a sheaf of photocopied pages—mostly newspaper articles about Wauchope, but also the transcript of the interview with the cabbie who’d dropped Vince off at the Cowgate. It hadn’t added much. Took him the best part of a minute to decide he was getting out, the cab-driver stated. I thought he was going to change his