Next door the music started booming.
The stakeout operation started again at ten on the dot: same team, same cars, same positions. Thick raindrops had given way to a fine drizzle before petering out, leaving the alleyway rife with puddles and slick cobblestones. High above, the clouds were low and dark, reflecting back the orange-yellow glow of the streetlights. Down in Shore Lane that was pretty much the only illumination there was. Three of the remaining lights had died, leaving only one sulphurous lamp for WPC Menzies to strut her stuff beneath.
Logan had parked the pool car in the same place as before and while the inspector called round all the positions on her radio – making sure everyone was in place – he reclined his seat and shut his eyes, determined that tonight was going to be his turn to catch up on sleep. Since leaving the hospital he’d requested Brendan ‘Chib’ Sutherland’s record from Lothian and Borders Police, chased up the lookout call on Agnes Walker – still no sign of her yet – and filled in the paperwork to get Jamie McKinnon charged for the drugs he was packing. As soon as McKinnon got out of hospital he was going to go straight to court and then back to Craiginches. Logan couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy: it wasn’t as if he’d had much say in the matter when Chib decided to ram a quarter-kilo of crack cocaine inside him.
Logan wriggled in the driver’s seat, trying to get comfortable without standing on the pedals or banging his knees on the steering wheel. It was the same car from yesterday – no one had even bothered to chuck the chip papers in the bin. They were still lying on the back seat, along with all the items seized from Councillor Marshall’s car. Logan had half expected them to get signed into evidence, but for that to happen some sort of charge would have to be pressed, and the inspector flat-out refused to do it. Christ alone knew what sort of dodgy deal she’d done with Marshall to keep the man out of court and out of the papers.
He was just about asleep when the sound of snoring drifted across from the passenger seat. The inspector had beaten him to it. Grumbling, Logan pulled his seat upright again and sat staring morosely at the darkened alley: one of them had to stay awake in case something happened. It was going to be another long night.
Five to midnight and Logan was sent out to fetch the inspector’s chips. Again. At least it wasn’t raining any more and, to be honest, he was grateful for an excuse to get out of the car and stretch his legs. The inspector had been making sounds like a tractor from one end and a leaky inner tube from the other, all night.
Instead of heading straight up Marischal Street to the chip shop he cut right along Regent Quay, intending to make a left onto Commerce Street like last time, then keep on going till he could nip across the roundabout and in round the back of the Castlegate. At least it would keep him away from Steel and her noisome backside for an extra ten minutes.
There were a lot more people on the streets tonight, most of them drunk; lurching, staggering and singing away to themselves in a mixture of broken English and Russian. One of the big boats must be in.
WPC Davidson was standing at the corner of Mearns Street – dressed in a vast upholstered bra and tiger-print miniskirt, with a duffel coat over the top. She got into character as soon as she saw him coming, shouting out, ‘Oi, Big Boy, you looking fer a good time, darlin’? I’ll bile yer tatties and champit yer neeps! Whoooooarrrrr!’ ending with an embarrassingly graphic display of breast-clutching and hip-thrusting as he walked past laughing.
‘Couldn’t afford you, Mrs Davidson: too classy for me.’
She gave him a farewell two-finger salute and went back to picking her teeth. He took a left at the corner, leaving the Quay for Commerce Street, walking out into the road to avoid a huge puddle of black, oil-skimmed water.
It wasn’t the prettiest end of town by any stretch of the imagination. Unloved, utilitarian buildings in uniform grey, interspersed with modern units in plastic and corrugated steel. Welders and tool-rental places rubbed shoulders with ships’ chandlers, prowled after dark by late-night drunkards and drugged-up hookers. One of the latter was negotiating with two of the former in the mouth of a tiny, darkened alleyway. Logan kept walking, trying to ignore the exchange, but hearing it nonetheless: ‘Come on,’ said a big, unsteady bloke, slurring. ‘You . . . you can do both of us for that, can’t ye, darlin’? Aaatha same time like? Yer man Steve says you’re the best . . . aaatha same time?’
His mate, barely able to stand, shouted, ‘Am no’ takin’ sloppy fuckin’ seconds!’
‘Shuthafuckup – I know that! Did I no’ just say she had tae do us aaatha same time?’ Belch. Two steps backward, one step forward. ‘Which end you want?’
‘Cost more, both at same time. More!’ Slavic accent.
Logan froze: it was her.
‘More?’ It was Fat Boy again, undoing his trousers and letting them fall round his ankles. ‘C’moan, amma sex god! You should be payin’ me!’ He lurched forward, tripped over his trousers and fell in a heap on the cobbles. His friend immediately commenced pissing himself with laughter.
Logan stepped into the alley. The friend was now doubled up, as Fat Boy tried valiantly to scrabble to his feet – vast, white, hairy arse first. ‘Kylie’ watched all this with unfocused indifference, scratching away at the crook of her left arm, the one with the cigarette burns and needle tracks. Logan walked right up to her. She stared through his shoulder for a moment, before swaying her eyes up to his face and smiling. ‘You want make fuck now? You police: I do for free. . .’
‘Why don’t you and me go for a walk and a chat?’
She grinned. ‘I talk dirty good!’
‘Yeah, I know: you told me that before, remember?’ He took hold of her arm and steered her back towards the street, provoking a cry of protest from the bloke with his trousers round his ankles. Apparently Logan was jumping the queue. ‘She’s fourteen,’ Logan replied, ‘and I’m CID. Want to see me arresting you for child abuse?’ The big man yanked his trousers up and mumbled something about having kids himself and wasn’t it terrible and he never meant anything by it and he really didn’t know she was fourteen. . .
Beneath the streetlights Logan got his first good look at her. Sometime in the last week she’d managed to break her nose. ‘What happened to your face?’
Kylie shrugged. ‘Steve – he get angry. I tell him rain bad for business, but he say I not make enough money.’
‘You look like you haven’t eaten for a week.’
She shook her head, staggering a little as they walked up the side of the Citadel and into the Castlegate. ‘I eat Happy Meal. Steve good to me.’
Yeah, thought Logan, good old ‘Steve’. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you some chips.’
The queue was longer than usual, the drunk and the not-so-drunk waiting patiently for their turn to order smoked sausage supper and a mealie pudding, beneath the silent, flickering glare of a television set up above the till. Logan and Kylie slowly shuffled their way around the little chicane in the middle of the shop to encourage orderly queuing, with the Lithuanian explaining why Edinburgh chip shops were much better than the ones in Aberdeen because they did salt and sauce, not just salt and vinegar. They’d finally made it as far as the long stainless-steel-and-glass bunker – where the deep-fried bits and pieces went to die – when Kylie pointed up at the silent TV screen and squealed with delight. ‘I make fuck with him!’
Blushing, but unable to help himself, Logan looked up to see the smug, slimy face of Councillor Andrew Marshall. ‘You sure?’ he hissed, not wanting to draw any more attention than they already had.
She nodded. ‘At private party, when I come Aberdeen first, him and bald friend both at same time. “Spit roast”, is right? When bald man in mouth and other man is up—’
Logan didn’t need to hear any more; given the Councillor’s taste in magazines it was pretty clear where he would have been. He paid for their chips and walked her across the road to eat them. She was so engrossed she didn’t even notice they’d walked all the way ar
ound the Arts Centre and were heading up the ramp onto the rear podium. In fact it wasn’t until Alpha Six Two honked its horn to get past that she suddenly realized where she was: Grampian Police Force Headquarters. Screaming curses in Lithuanian she hurled her remaining chips at Logan and turned to run, but he grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and dragged her, kicking and screaming, into the building.
Half an hour later Logan jumped into DI Steel’s CID pool car and handed the inspector a white pudding supper, with the obligatory pickled egg.
‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been waiting bloody ages!’
Logan grinned and sank down in the driver’s seat. ‘Oh, here and there.’
‘What?’ she said, chewing suspiciously on a handful of chips. ‘What’s so damn funny?’
‘I just picked up a prostitute.’
‘Oh aye?’ She picked up her white pudding and ripped a bite out of it, chewing round the words. ‘What’s the matter, WPC Watson not dirty enough for you, ’cos I can—’
He didn’t let her finish. ‘A fourteen-year-old Lithuanian prostitute to be precise. Called Kylie.’ This got a blank look. ‘Saw Jamie McKinnon having sex with Rosie Williams the night she was murdered?’
Steel groaned and shovelled in another handful of chips. ‘What fucking good is that to me?’ Bits of chewed potato were falling onto her blouse. ‘Bastard already admitted shagging her. And if it was the same guy who killed Rosie and Michelle Wood, then it doesn’t matter who saw McKinnon there.’
‘But just in case – it puts him at the scene. We don’t have any evidence remember? You destroyed. . .’ He stopped when he saw the expression on the inspector’s face. ‘I mean, the tape machine wasn’t working.’
‘And you’d better fucking remember that.’
‘There’s something else, if you’re interested?’ He smiled and let the question hang as Steel took another huge bite out of her white pudding. As if she was trying to castrate the thing. ‘This fourteen-year-old girl says Councillor Marshall’s shagged her up the arse while she was sucking someone else’s dick.’
There was a sudden explosion of half-chewed white pudding coating the inside of the windscreen while DI Steel choked.
Logan winked. ‘Thought you’d like that.’
21
Thursday started much like any other day, unfortunately. Not enough sleep and what little he’d managed to grab after Operation Cinderella packed up for the night was riddled with dreams of dead children, damp and rotten, the flesh falling from their bones as they skipped and danced through his flat, their eyes like runny-yolked eggs. No wonder he felt dreadful. He was definitely going to check up on PC Maitland today. Pop past and see how he was doing. Offload a bit of the guilt.
DI Steel was in the incident room, speaking to DI Insch and fiddling with a pack of cigarettes. Logan was too tired to bother listening in, so he slouched over to his desk instead and tried to figure out what he was going to do about Steel. She’d told him in no uncertain terms that he was to have nothing more to do with Kylie – she’d be taking over the underage sex thing personally. And if he breathed a word of it to anyone she’d have his balls.
There was a plastic bag full of videotapes sitting on Logan’s desk, each one bearing a sticky label with ‘OPERATION CINDERELLA NIGHT 2’ scribbled on it, and next to that a big Manila folder: the criminal records of one Chib Sutherland. Sighing, Logan got himself a mug of coffee and started to read.
Chib was every bit as lovely as Colin Miller had implied. Most of his formative years were spent in borstal for knifing some attendant at the children’s home he was staying in, then on to a serious life of violent crime. Right up to the time he started working for that great philanthropist, Malcolm McLennan – AKA Malk the Knife. He’d taken the boy in and moulded him in his own image: a vicious wee thug who wouldn’t get caught any more. According to Lothian and Borders he was in the frame for at least eight murders, though there was never enough hard evidence to do him for any of them. But people had gone missing, never to be seen again. Then there were the bodies that had been found, battered and mutilated. Everyone knew Chib was responsible; there just wasn’t any way to prove it. Not when any witnesses were so conveniently struck down with amnesia, or a cricket bat.
‘Hoy, Lazarus.’ Logan looked up to see DI Steel hovering over the desk, smiling at him with yellowed teeth. ‘Good news,’ she said, ‘in a crappy sort of way. Seems like the big boys down south have decided to lend little old Grampian Police a helping hand. Isn’t that just fucking swell?’ When Logan didn’t answer she slapped a couple of sheets of A4 on top of the report he was reading. ‘They’ve sent us up a preliminary psychological offender profile! Wow! According to Insch, you’ve already worked with the specky-four-eyed git who wrote it, so guess what?’ The inspector beamed and punched him on the shoulder. ‘You have “experience”. I want to know what all the shite in that report means, and – more importantly – if any of it’s worth the paper it’s written on. And don’t take too long: Mr Clinical Psychologist is on his way up the road as we speak. I want some sort of synopsis before he gets here at eleven.’ Logan tried not to groan. Instead he poked the plastic bag full of videotapes and asked the inspector what she expected him to do with them all. ‘I don’t bloody care, do I,’ she said. ‘Take them home and record over them if you like, it’s not like we’re ever going to watch the bloody things anyway.’ She stopped, halfway to the door. ‘Oh, and don’t forget what we talked about last night.’ The threat was implicit: tell anyone and you’re screwed.
Dr Bushel was exactly as Logan remembered: arrogant, self-satisfied, balding and immaculately dressed. The strip lights sparkled off his little round glasses as he stood at the front of the briefing room taking a select group of Grampian’s finest through his psychological profile for their potential serial killer. There wasn’t anything here that Logan hadn’t already told DI Steel after reading the report, but it was all new to the Assistant Chief Constable, the deputy CC, and the head of CID. The killer would be white, male, in his mid to late twenties, have intimacy issues, and have used a prostitute before, but found it a humiliating experience. The beating was a sign of his hatred towards women, the intensity of his rage acting as a pointer to buried conflict with his mother. He would have a menial job, but be articulate enough to lure Michelle Wood into his car. Socially adequate. He took his victims’ clothes, not as a trophy, but because he wanted to humiliate them. And possibly for some sort of masturbatory fantasy. He would strike again.
Once the doctor had finished his presentation, DI Steel started asking the questions Logan had raised in private earlier, framing each one as if she was pulling it out of the blue, thinking on her feet. Putting on a show for the senior brass while Logan sat and fumed in disgust.
Dr Bushel hummed and hawed and speculated and theorized, but it all sounded like bollocks to Logan. The man had come up with a vague outline based on next to no evidence, having never seen either of the crime scenes at first hand. Logan couldn’t see how any of it was going to help them actually catch the killer.
The ACC thanked Dr Bushel for his time and invited him to a special lunch with the Chief Constable later. When they were all gone, DI Steel slouched in her seat and blew a long, wet raspberry. ‘Did you ever hear so much shite in your life? “He will strike again!” Course he bloody will, he’s got away with it twice, what’s he going to do, call it quits and take up needlepoint instead?’ She shook her head, scratching away at her left armpit. ‘And I’ll bet Bushel gets paid twice as much as we do. Specky git.’
Logan scowled. ‘So how come you played up to it then?’
‘Ah . . . politics, Sergeant. When the top brass hand you a turd, you polish it and say, “my, what a lovely jobbie!” That way they are impressed by your intellect, perception and ability. If you don’t, all you’ve got is a handful of shit. Come on, we’ve got more important things to do than sod about here. We’ve a killer to catch.’
It was
just after lunch when Logan finally got a result from his lookout request on Skanky Agnes, though it wasn’t the one he’d been hoping for. A WPC, over at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary visiting her mother in intensive care, had spotted Agnes Walker lying on a bed in the corner, tubes going in and out of every orifice. She’d been mainlining heroin while pissed out of her face on supermarket vodka – the perfect recipe for an overdose. An unemployed receptionist discovered her slumped in the ladies’ toilets at the Trinity shopping centre. She lapsed into cardiac arrest in the ambulance and had been in a coma ever since. DI Steel sent a WPC up to sit by her bedside, just in case she made a miraculous recovery and decided to give them a description of whoever had beaten her up. They weren’t holding their breath.
So instead of charging off to save the day, Logan was stuck wading through the list of known sex offenders in an attempt to match one of them to Dr Bushel’s ridiculously vague offender profile. It was too noisy in the incident room, so Logan grabbed his piles of paperwork and went looking for somewhere quieter. All the other offices were busy, but interview room four was free. He annexed it, flicking the switch that changed the light outside from green to red: INTERVIEW IN PROGRESS, before spreading out the files and printouts on the battered tabletop. Trying to find a killer in amongst the rapists, paedophiles and flashers. Even with the window open it was too hot in here – Logan loosened his tie, yawned, rested his elbows on the table and propped his head up with his hands. Slowly the words started blurring into each other. Blink. Rapist. Blink. Rapist. Nod . . . blink. Paedophile. Yawn. Blink, blink . . . darkness.
‘Mmmphf. . . ?’ Logan snapped upright, eyes wide and dilated, what the hell was – he dragged his mobile out, wiping the small trail of drool from the side of his mouth with his other hand. Blink, blink. The clock on the interview-room wall said seven minutes past five: he’d been asleep for three whole hours. ‘Hello?’ trying not to sound like he’d just woken up. It was DI Insch.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 59