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.
“Bull Wauchope and Terry Vass are bad men, Malcolm.” “Meaning you’re not?” Fox stared at his boss. After a few moments of silence, he gave a sigh. “In the morning,” he said, “you’re going to take everything on Wauchope and Brogan and Vince Faulkner to the Chief…” “Everything?” McEwan echoed. “You’re going to have to tell him about Traynor and you’re going to make sure Jamie Breck gets reinstated without the hint of a slur or a stain on his character. McEwan nodded slowly. “And what about us?”
free-standing metal shelves. On the shelves sat computers and their hard drives. Some of the hard drives had been stripped back to show their workings. Others were bagged and tagged as evidence. The only free wall space had been covered with head shots. The men didn’t all look the same. Some were young, some old; some had beards and mustaches; some were dull-eyed and shifty, others unapologetic as they faced the camera. There was only one other person in the room, presumably the man who had
leaned down so her face was at the passenger-side window. Fox slid the window down. “What are you doing here?” she asked. He handed her a business card, on the back of which was written the number of his new mobile phone. “That’s in case you need to reach me,” he explained. “But keep it to yourself.” Then: “I need a favor, Annie.” “Look, Malcolm…” “It would be easier to talk if you got in. I can even give you a lift.” “I don’t need a lift.” When he made no answer to this, she sighed and
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.
as the driver’s-side tires once more connected with the cat’s eyes down the middle of the carriageway. Breck made the adjustment and started talking. “Booze and cigarettes for sure, plus porn and anything else that might turn a profit. Once you know you’re not getting caught, you might decide to up the stakes a little.” He paused. “Or it could be that someone just comes along and makes you the right offer.” Fox considered this. “Bruce Wauchope’s in jail for drug-dealing.” “Indeed he is.” “You