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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.
Broughton, I’m calling you from Vince Faulkner’s phone.” “Yes?” “You remember the name?” “You mentioned him. Then you went to my casino to watch the CCTV footage.” “From the Saturday night, yes. But what I’m wondering now is, why does he have your number, and why did the two of you speak on eleven separate occasions between October and January?” The silence at the other end stretched past twenty seconds. Fox gave Jude a look to gauge her reaction. She placed her hand on his arm, as if to
Rankin, who matches the elements that have marked the novels of his successful Inspector Rebus series…. The Complaints is part mystery, part buddy story, part morality essay. Mr. Rankin never lets the reader down for a single page.” —Robert Croan, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette “Rankin weaves all of his narrative threads together—and dispenses generous dabs of local color—in a cleverly complicated plot.” —Harry Levins, St. Louis Post-Dispatch “If the point of crime fiction is to make you think while
man nearest Fox nodded a half-greeting. He looked to be in his early sixties, his face deeply lined, eyes rheumy. “Table three’s the lucky one tonight,” he offered in an undertone. Fox puckered his mouth, as if considering this. “Thanks,” he said. He had three twenty-pound notes in his pocket, and knew he would have to offer to break one of them to buy Breck back a drink. Hopefully Breck wouldn’t accept, and they’d go home instead. Fox certainly had no intention of handing any of the cash to
matter. Is it true?” “Is what true?” “You went round to Jude’s Monday night.” “What if I did?” “Why in God’s name did you do that?” Fox was massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Christ, Foxy, you’d just told me he’d broken your sister’s arm.” “My problem, not yours.” “But we both know, don’t we? We know you weren’t planning on doing anything about it!” “And what were you going to do, Tony? Take a swing at him?” “Why not? Might’ve stopped him doing it again.” “And both of
my arm.” “So?” She was blinking back tears. “DCI Giles thinks maybe you had Vince killed.” “I didn’t.” “Then why send your friend round?” “I didn’t send him. He was looking for Vince, remember? But Vince was already dead, Jude—and that means Tony Kaye didn’t know.” Pain was thrumming in Fox’s temples. He opened a drawer and took out a packet of aspirin tablets, popping two of them from the blister pack and washing them down with water from the tap. Jude waited until she had his full