‘Jesus, sir: you OK? You look like sh . . . erm . . . dreadful.’ DC Rennie was trying to get into the room bearing a tray covered with coffee and chocolate biscuits. Logan didn’t reply, just helped himself to a mug of mid-brown slurry on his way to the desk he was sharing with the admin officer. One side of the desk was covered in orderly stacks of paper and an ancient-looking computer, the other side belonged to Logan; an expanse of bare Formica with a brand-new yellow Post-it note bang slap in the middle. He picked it up, trying to decipher the biro scrawl. It looked like AOPEN WULHIR and an address that could have been SANITTFILD DRIVE, or SUNITHFIULD DRIVE. DC Rennie came past with the biscuits, took one look at the note and said, ‘Smithfield Drive? I had a great aunt lived there when I was wee. Nice old lady: loved Coronation Street.’ He offered Logan a Jaffa Cake. ‘Didn’t miss a single episode till they carted her off to the crematorium. They played the theme tune as she went through the curtains.’
Logan stuck the note under the constable’s nose. ‘What about that bit?’ he said, pointing at AOPEN WULHIR.
Rennie squinted. ‘Looks like “Agnes Walker” to me. . . Oh, is that Skanky Agnes? I did her once: drunk and disorderly down the docks. Puked all over the back of the van, dirty cow.’
That sounded about right. ‘You busy?’ he asked. Rennie shook his head. All he’d done that morning was file paperwork and get the teas in.
They picked out one of the newer CID pool cars, Rennie driving as Logan slumped in the passenger seat. It was warm in the car, the sunlight seeping in through the windshield – a soporific blanket that wrapped itself around him adding to the effects of a large lunch. He drifted off, not quite asleep, but not quite awake either as Rennie drove them through the centre of town, dribbling on and on about how someone from Home and Away was in EastEnders now, playing someone else’s uncle. Logan tuned him out, head lolling against the window, letting the city’s summer streets slide by as Rennie took them past Victoria Park and up Westburn Road. The lights were against them at the junction to the hospital and Logan felt a pang of guilt: he’d still not been to see PC Maitland. Not paid his respects to the nearly dead. . . Red, amber, green and they were on their way again, leaving the hospital behind.
Smithfield Drive was on the other side of North Anderson Drive, overlooking the dual carriageway where it dipped down the final hill and died at the Haudagain Roundabout. The buildings were standard Aberdeen City Council fare, no different to the other schemes of rectangular granite slabs all over the city. Skanky Agnes’s building was a two-storey block of four flats, hiding behind a front garden that groaned under the weight of gnomes, wishing wells and ornamental trellis smothered in vivid-yellow climbing roses. Not exactly what Logan had been expecting. Agnes’s flat was top right, behind a pristine red front door with the name ‘Saunders’ on it. He stifled a yawn and got Rennie to lean on the doorbell. It took two more goes before the red door opened and a creased face blinked out at them. Early thirties; bleached-blonde curly hair, flat on one side and sticking up on the other; black-and-gold kimono clutched half-heartedly closed at the waist, exposing an expanse of cleavage at the top end, and a pair of sturdy legs at the other. Mascara smudged around both eyes on a hardened, but still attractive, professional face. Definitely not Skanky Agnes. ‘What fuckin’ time you call this?’ Rennie told her it was twenty to two. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake. . .’ A yawn, big enough to take a full-grown cat. ‘What is it with you police bastards? Can you no’ let a body sleep?’
Rennie bristled, obviously a little flustered at being ID’d as a copper so easily. ‘What makes you think I’m not a Jehovah’s Witness?’
She sighed, looked him up and down once more, then pulled the kimono a little tighter, hiding the cleavage, but exposing a dangerous amount of upper thigh. ‘Christ, you’re not, are you?’
‘No, but I could have been.’
The woman laughed and released her grip on the kimono, causing it to fall back into exactly the same position it had occupied in the first place, only more open. ‘Aye. That’ll be shinin’. You got copper written all over you. What you want?’
‘Ms?’
‘Saunders.’
‘Right, Ms Saunders, we’re looking for Agnes Walker. We understand she lives here?’
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
‘We . . . er . . . that is. . .’ Rennie passed a panicked look back at Logan, who hadn’t actually told the constable what they were doing here.
‘We want to speak to her about an assault that happened two weeks ago.’
Ms Saunders shifted her attention from Rennie to Logan as he told her that Agnes wasn’t in any trouble, they wanted to find out who beat her up, so they could stop him from doing it again.
The woman folded her arms, making the hem of her kimono rise a good four inches. ‘And how come you’re suddenly so bloody interested in Agnes’s welfare? Eh? Where the hell were you when he was beatin’ the shite out of her?’ She squared her shoulders. ‘Come to think of it, how come it’s taken you this long to take a bloody interest?’
Logan had to admit she had a point. ‘She told me it was an accident.’
‘An accident?’ She snorted. ‘Are you kiddin’ me? You see the state of her? That was no accident, some bastard tried to strangle the poor cow! Four days she was laid up in her bed, pissing blood half the time. Sheets were in a hell of a mess.’
‘Did she tell you who did it?’
‘She didn’t know. She did, I’d’ve been round there in a shot with a pair of rusty shears, cut the bastard’s prick right off!’
Logan peered over her shoulder into the darkened flat. ‘Look, can we talk about this inside—’
‘No you fuckin’ don’t: I don’t do freebies. And definitely no threesomes!’
‘I’m not looking for a “freebie”, OK? And neither is he,’ Logan jerked a thumb in Rennie’s direction. It was difficult not to notice that the constable was spending an inordinate amount of time staring at the flesh appearing beneath the woman’s slipping kimono. ‘Give us a description – did Agnes tell you what her attacker looked like?’
She shrugged. ‘Medium height, brownish hair, ordinary looking.’ When Logan didn’t say anything, just stood there silently, she sighed again. ‘Look, I don’t know, OK? Said he had a flashy motor, one of them big BMWs. That’s all I can remember. You want any more, you’ll have to ask her yourself.’
‘I will. Where is she?’
‘No idea.’
A man’s voice echoed out from inside the flat – hoarse, deep and sounding of Fraserburgh: ‘Whit is it?’ She turned and shouted back, ‘It’s nothin’. Start on yer own, I’ll be in in a minute,’ before turning back to Logan. ‘She didn’t come back this morning.’
The man’s voice again, ‘Are you fuckin’ comin’ or what?’ and Ms Saunders sighed. ‘In a fuckin’ minute!’ She stuck out her hand to Logan. ‘Give us your card. She’ll call you when she gets back, and if she doesn’t, I will. Wee shite did that to her deserves all he gets.’ And as soon as Logan handed over his Grampian Police business card the door was slammed in their faces.
‘So,’ said Rennie on the way back to the car. ‘You want to tell me what that was all about?’
‘Agnes Walker had the crap beaten out of her about twelve days ago. Four days later, give or take, Rosie Williams is beaten to death. Four days after that it’s Michelle Wood’s turn.’
‘So?’ Rennie plipped the locks and clambered in behind the wheel.
‘What if Rosie Williams wasn’t the guy’s first?’ said Logan, getting into the passenger seat. ‘Suppose he’s been out there hunting before, only victim number one puts up a fight and he can’t finish the job. He learns from his mistakes and out he goes again. He tries Rosie, and she’s not as strong as the first one, or maybe he’s just better prepared this time: he kicks and punches her till she’s dead. Four days later he’s back again. He did Rosie right there in the street; anyone could come along – too ris
ky. This time he snatches his victim. Instead of killing her at the scene, he takes her away somewhere quiet and secluded where he can enjoy himself a bit more. Less chance of discovery.’ Rennie did a three-point turn and headed back towards Anderson Drive as Logan fought with the seatbelt. ‘The more he does it, the better he gets. So far, Skanky Agnes is the only one who’s seen him and lived. Soon as we’re back at FHQ get a lookout request out for her. We need to know what he looks like.’
Rennie whistled, waiting for his turn at the roundabout onto the dual carriageway. ‘So that definitely puts the kybosh on Jamie McKinnon killing Rosie. . .’
‘If it’s the same man.’
The car lurched onto the roundabout as Rennie floored it, nipping out before an articulated lorry could flatten them. He drove straight across the Drive, heading back into town. ‘You think it’s the same man, don’t you?’
Logan shrugged. ‘Either that or it’s a huge bloody coincidence. . .’ He watched the houses on Rosehill Drive go by for a moment, before coming to a conclusion. ‘Change of plan: drop me off at the Journals. I’ve got to see a man about some drugs.’
20
As Rennie pulled away from the P&J’s concrete bunker, Logan called Colin Miller on his mobile. ‘Colin, it’s me.’ Silence from the other end of the phone. ‘Look, Colin, I know Steel can be an arse at times, but. . .’ He couldn’t actually think of an excuse for the inspector’s behaviour, so he settled for, ‘But I could really do with your help.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Five minutes. I’m outside. Come on, we can go for a walk in the sunshine. . .’
A deep sigh. ‘OK, OK – if I do, will you promise tae leave me alone?’
‘Scout’s honour.’ Ten minutes later Miller appeared, dressed in his shirtsleeves, jacket slung casually over one shoulder. They walked up the Lang Stracht, sun on their faces, bus fumes in their lungs. ‘So, you want to tell me about your friends from down south?’
Miller sighed. ‘You know the bloody answer to that.’ He glanced back at the bulky, grey P&J building as it slowly disappeared from sight. ‘Everythin’s fucked.’ He shook his head. ‘I was on tae a nice wee gig here, know what I mean? All the front page stories I wanted, nice car, good woman. . .’ He trailed off as he remembered he was talking to Isobel’s ex-lover. ‘Aye, well . . . you know. Now these fuckers are screwin’ it all up.’
‘I saw your piece on McLennan Homes.’
‘Piece of shite, that was. Can you believe I had tae beg tae get that on the front page?’ He gave a bitter smile. ‘Everyone thinks I’ve lost it, Laz.’
‘What they do, threaten you?’
Miller looked up at him, brow furrowed. ‘What, Malkie’s lads? Oh, just your basic how hard would it be to type with no fingers? Tellin’ me whit a lovely home I have and how pretty Isobel is, what a shame it’d be if somethin’ happened to her face. . . So I published, and now I’m damned: stuck doin’ shitey wee pieces on fairs and bloody bake sales.’
‘If it makes you feel any better, last night they broke a guy’s fingers in hospital. Smacked him around a bit. Probably forced him to hide a couple of condoms of coke up his arse. So he probably had a worse day than you.’ Miller almost smiled; it was the first time in ages Logan had seen him without a scowl on his face. ‘Look, you need these guys to go away – I can do that if you help me. I’ll keep you out of it. I just need to know who they are, where they’re staying, anything you’ve got.’
They walked along in silence for a while, heading back towards the newspaper building. Up above, the pure blue of the sky was beginning to fade, a long, low purple band of cloud coming in off the sea. ‘Brendan Sutherland,’ said Miller at last, ‘known as “Chib” to his pals, on account of him stabbin’ folk, like.’
‘“Chib”? What is he, west-coast mafia?’
Miller laughed, short and sharp. ‘Naw, he’s a wannabe Weegie. An Edinburgh tosspot with delusions of grandeur. Only trouble is, as you know, he’s a fuckin’ huge tosspot. When he turned up first time, I did me some diggin’. Wee shite’s got himself a big reputation. Doesn’t play in the shallow end of the cesspit. Malk the Knife likes tae keep Chib for breakin’ in new territories. Fixin’ stuff. Gettin’ rid of people Malkie doesn’t want anyone to find.’
Logan wasn’t surprised Miller had been bricking it in the pub the other morning. ‘What about the other one, his driver?’
Miller shook his head. ‘No idea. Soon as I saw Chib’s résumé I stopped askin’ questions. Someone slaps my knob in a blender, I’m no’ playin’ with the buttons.’
‘Does Isobel know?’
The reporter blushed. ‘I . . . er. . . You’re no’ to tell her, OK? I don’t want her upset. No’ now.’
‘If this Chib bloke’s threatening both of you, she’s got a right to know!’
‘You don’t fuckin’ tell her! Promise me! I’ll sort it out.’
‘How? How the hell can you sort this out? If Chib’s here to carve up Aberdeen for Malk the Knife, he’s not leaving any time soon!’
A crafty light glimmered in Miller’s eye. ‘Unless something happens to him. . .’
‘Don’t even start. What you going to do? Hit him over the head and bury the body in your back garden?’
Miller grinned. ‘I’ve got a mate with a pig farm up by Fyvie. They’d love a bite of prime Edinburgh bampot. . .’ He thought about it for a minute then shrugged. ‘Give us a day. I’ll get you an address. But for Christ’s sake don’t let him find out where you got it, OK?’
‘OK.’ They walked back to the P&J offices, Miller promising to phone as soon as he found out anything. And while they were on the subject, Logan asked for a little favour. ‘I want you to lay off DI Steel.’
‘Bollocks to that. I’m no’ taking shite like that from a manky wee bitch—’
‘If you screw her over in the paper, Professional Standards will have my arse. I don’t know why, but they’ve got a thing for her. She goes down, I do too. And if I go down, I can’t help you.’
Miller swore. ‘OK, OK: hands off the saggy-faced old cow. I get it. I don’t shaft her and you don’t tell Isobel about these Edinburgh bastards. Deal?’ They shook on it, then the reporter shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking as if he was gearing himself up for something. ‘Er . . . Laz, you know I’m stuck doin’ this shitey bake-sale crap? Well, any chance of . . . you know. . . You got anything I can use? Somethin’ about them dead prostitutes, like? Or anything else? I’m fuckin’ dyin’ here!’
Logan was about to say he’d see what he could do when his phone rang. It was Steel; telling him to get over to the hospital. Jamie McKinnon had just failed his rectal exam.
Aberdeen Royal Infirmary wasn’t far, just over the lights at Anderson Drive and down the hill a bit, so Logan made his excuses and walked. By the time he got there the thin band of cloud had grown until it covered half the sky, battleship grey and ominous purple. He ducked into the hospital’s lobby as the first tentative specks of rain stuttered against the automatic doors.
The ARI front lobby was an open-plan space with pictures and comfortable seating that always made his skin crawl. He hurried across the infirmary’s coat of arms and made his way to Jamie McKinnon’s ward. Only Jamie wasn’t there any more. A knackered nurse in a bloodstained uniform told Logan he’d been moved to a private room on the third floor. It didn’t take him long to find it.
DI Steel was already there, along with a tall bloke from the Drugs Squad. Logan was introduced and got as far as shaking the man’s hand before remembering where it had just been. It was a huge hand, engulfing Logan’s own, and he had a sudden pang of sympathy for Jamie McKinnon – who was now lying curled up on the bed like a spanked child, face to the wall. That must have hurt! Councillor Marshall would have been delighted.
‘Go on,’ said Steel to her large friend. ‘Show him what you found.’
The man gave a cold smile and held up a stainless steel kidney dish with two sli
my, lumpy packages in it, each one no more than four inches long, looking like a pair of small mealie puddings. ‘Rough guess, I’d say you’re looking at about a quarter-kilo of crack,’ he said. ‘No way this much cocaine is for personal use: this is for dealing. Don’t see that much of it up here. Your boy must be looking to start a trend.’
Steel sank down on the bed, next to Jamie’s foetal form, patting him on the thigh. ‘So, Jamie, you want to tell us all about your mates from down south now, or shall I just go ahead and add “possession with intent to supply” to your list of charges?’ But Jamie had had enough of the long arm of the law for one day. He kept his face to the wall, curled up in a ball, silent.
Half past four. Ailsa Cruickshank picked up the phone and called Gavin’s office. It was Norman who answered, far too young to be an account manager and a terrible flirt. Blushing, Ailsa asked him if she could talk to her husband. There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the phone, as if Norman was thinking about something. And then, ‘Ailsa, what does a fine, hot babe like you want to be speaking to an old fart like that for?’
‘I need him to pick up some things for tea,’ she said, embarrassed and thrilled to be called a ‘hot babe’.
‘Hold on a minute, OK, sexy?’ There was muffled conversation at the other end. ‘Sorry, Ailsa, my kitten, I’m afraid the old stinker’s out with a customer. Probably won’t be back till late. Sorry, love, you know how it goes here: customer comes first and all that. But if you’re lonely, I could always come over and keep you warm?’ Smiling, she told him it was OK and hung up. Norman was simply dreadful! Full of compliments and naughty suggestions, just like Gavin had been, before all the tests had taken the spark out of things. Four years of trying for children. Four years of medical evaluations and ovulation cycles. . . Anyway, it didn’t matter. Things would be back to normal soon. Life had a way of working things out. It always did.
With a brave smile she picked the keys to their new car off the table. She’d just have to go to the supermarket herself. Gavin always liked steak for his birthday tea, maybe she’d make it tonight as well. Just for a treat.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 58