‘Bloody criminal, isn’t it?’ said PC Steve, abandoning his current topic: the alleged extra-curricular activities of Detective Sergeant Beattie’s wife. ‘They should all be shot, that planning department. My dad tried for planning permission for a single house, yeah? Just the one – and they turn him down. But up pops this McLennan Homes lot, wanting to put three hundred of the bastards on greenbelt and it’s all: “Yes sir, Mr McLennan sir, and can I polish your knob for you while you wait?” Makes you sick.’ Logan didn’t tell Steve his dad would have a much better chance of building his house if he took photos of the Chief Greenbelt Development Planner with his dick in a fourteen-year-old girl.
The next piece was on a new dress shop in Inverurie winning some sort of big fashion thing – PC Steve had nothing to add to that one – and then it was on to the main news story of the day: fatal fire kills four! But it was the last piece before the weather that made Logan’s heart sink. ‘Today colleagues and friends paid tribute to Constable Trevor Maitland, the officer tragically shot during an operation to recover stolen property earlier this month.’ The announcer’s voice was replaced by a tearful woman telling the world how her Trevor was a wonderful husband and father. Then someone else saying, ‘Unlike a lot o’ folk, Trev niver wanted ta be CID. Could’a done the job no bother, but he wanted ta stay in uniform, oot on the streets, like, helping people. That wis Trev all over.’ And finally, the voice of doom – at least as far as Grampian Police were concerned – Councillor Andrew I’m-A-Dirty-Dirty-Bastard Marshall. ‘It is important at a time like this to remember all the good that Officer Maitland and his colleagues do every day on the streets of Aberdeen. I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say that we are all thinking of his family during this difficult time.’ And that was it. No accusations of incompetence or any of his usual anti-police rants. If Logan had been driving he would’ve crashed the car in shock.
‘Bloody hell,’ said PC Steve, staring aghast at the radio. ‘Did Councillor Slug-Face just say what I think he said? Did he just miss a chance to rub our noses in the shi—’
‘Watch where you’re going!’ Logan grabbed onto the dashboard as PC Steve slammed his foot on the brake and swerved back into his own lane.
It was a little after one when Steve dropped him off at FHQ – he still had time to get something to eat in the canteen before the afternoon collapsed in on him like a ton of bricks. He’d got as far as punching the first two digits of the entry code into the keypad that opened the internal door, when Sergeant Eric Mitchell appeared behind the big glass barrier that topped the reception desk, and called out, ‘Sergeant! Sergeant McRae, can you assist?’ Logan turned to see what was up, his heart sinking as he saw who was sitting in one of the nasty purple chairs set against the far wall: expensive suit, slim briefcase, a pair of half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose and a superior expression on his face: Sandy Moir-Farquharson, AKA Sandy the Snake, AKA Hissing Sid, AKA Anything Else Derogatory They Could Think Of At The Time. This was all Logan needed; a perfect way to crown off the whole bloody month. Hell, the whole year. Sandy Moir-Farquharson: the nasty little shite who’d defended Angus Robertson, the Mastrick Monster. Who’d tried to convince the world that Robertson was the real victim here, rather than the fifteen women he’d raped and murdered. That it was Grampian Police in general, and Logan in particular, who were to blame. And he’d nearly succeeded.
Moir-Farquharson was halfway out of his chair before Eric pointed to the other bank of seats, the ones by the front window. An attractive woman sat snivelling beneath the plaque commemorating the force’s dead from World Wars I and II, wringing a handkerchief like she was trying to strangle the thing. Sandy the Snake got as far as, ‘I was here first,’ before Logan showed the woman into a small room off the reception area, closing the door in the lawyer’s face. She was pretty, even with the puffy eyes: long bleached-blonde hair, slightly upturned nose – with a drip hanging from the end of it – full lips concealing a slight overbite, and a figure that would have had DC Rennie dribbling. ‘Now, Miss. . . ?’
‘Mrs. Mrs Cruickshank. It’s my husband Gavin, he’s not been home since Wednesday morning!’ She bit her lower lip, the tears welling up in her bloodshot green eyes. ‘I don’t. . . I don’t know what to do!’
‘Have you reported him missing?’
She nodded, handkerchief clasped over her scarlet nose, shuddering for breath. ‘They . . . they told me they couldn’t do anything!’ Mrs Cruickshank buried her head in her hands and cried and cried and cried. Logan gave her a couple of minutes to see if she’d pull herself together, before offering to fetch her a cup of tea and excusing himself, feeling like a shit for running out on her. As soon as Logan stepped out into the reception area, Sandy the Snake was on his feet again, this time making it all the way to, ‘DS McRae, I must insist that—’ Logan dismissed him with a gesture and asked Eric to see if he could dig out the missing person report on a Mr Gavin Cruickshank. And a cup of tea for Mrs Cruickshank as well. He turned from the reception desk to find Hissing Sid standing directly in front of him. At six foot two the lawyer was just tall enough to look down his squint nose at Logan. ‘I am here about my client, Mr James McKinnon. Sergeant, I insist that you allow me access!’
Arrogant fuck. Logan glowered up at the man, getting angrier by the second. Who the hell did he think he was, coming in here and throwing his bloody weight around? ‘You insist all you want: I am currently busy with a distraught member of the public. You want access to your client? Try the hospital – visiting hours are two thirty to five.’ He pushed past Mr Moir-Farquharson and started back towards the interview room. A firm hand grabbed his shoulder.
‘I insist you—’
Logan didn’t look round, scared that if he did he’d end up smacking the bastard. ‘Get your damn hand off me, before I break your bloody fingers.’ His voice low and clear, the words squeezed out between gritted teeth. Just begging for an excuse to vent some of the shite that had filled his every day for the last six months on this smarmy, stuck-up, sleazy lawyer bastard. Moir-Farquharson flinched back as if burnt, snatching his hand away.
Silence.
The door to reception banged open and a ragged-arsed man lurched in, breaking the moment. Dressed in a tatty AFC tracksuit from three seasons ago, with a beard that looked more like mould than hair, he made a concerted stagger for the centre section of the reception desk, pounded on the wooden top and shouted, ‘Ah’ve hud ma script nicked!’
The missing persons form arrived on a tray with two mugs of hot, milky tea and a folded note from Sergeant Eric Mitchell suggesting that Logan might like to finish up his interview sharpish and get the hell out of the station and not come back for the rest of the day. Slippery Sandy the Snake was making a formal complaint.
Trying not to look as if he was hurrying the process along, Logan went through the background of the case with Gavin Cruickshank’s distraught wife. How they were both desperate for a baby and had been trying for months. How she’d given up her job so she’d be less stressed and more fertile. How Gavin had to work late most nights these days. About his battles with the next-door neighbour. The last time she’d seen her husband he’d been going out the front door, a pair of sunglasses hiding a black eye – courtesy of the harridan next door – still furious . . . and that was Wednesday morning. She hadn’t heard from him since. ‘I phoned the office, but . . . but they said he was out with a client and wouldn’t be back till late.’ Her eyes were desperate. ‘He always comes home! Always!’
‘So, when he didn’t you phoned the police?’ said Logan, scanning the report for the date she’d reported her husband missing: half past seven, Thursday morning.
She nodded, sending tears dripping into her congealing tea. ‘Sometimes he doesn’t get back till four or five, if he has to go to the casino, or one of those. . .’ she blushed, ‘clubs, so I went to bed. When he wasn’t back by six I tried his mobile, but it said to leave a message. I tried again and again and . . . the
n I called the police.’
Logan nodded, trying to concentrate on her story and failing. Why on earth did he have to threaten Hissing Sid? As if the enquiry into PC Maitland’s death wasn’t going to be painful enough without adding a formal complaint to the pile. . . Suddenly Logan realized that Mrs Cruickshank had just finished saying something and was looking at him expectantly. ‘Hmmm. . .’ he said, putting on a frown of concentration, no idea at all what she’d just asked him. ‘In what way?’
‘Well.’ She scooted her chair closer to the table. ‘What if she’s done something to him? She’s dangerous!’
‘Dangerous . . . I see. . .’ No he didn’t: he wasn’t any the wiser. He’d just have to bite the bullet and admit that he hadn’t been listen—
‘That woman next door has been nothing but trouble since she moved in! She hit him! Gave him a black eye! He reported it. . .’ The tears started again. ‘You have to find him!’ Logan promised her he’d do his best and escorted her to the front door. There was no sign of Sandy the Snake in reception – probably off complaining to the Chief Constable in person – so he made himself scarce, grabbing one of the CID pool cars. Not really caring where he went just as long as he was far away from FHQ before anyone noticed he was gone. To be on the safe side, he switched off his mobile phone as well. What he needed was something to keep his mind off things. Something to make him feel useful, even if he was only marking time until the summons back to headquarters for another ear-bashing. And maybe a bit of getting fired. According to Mrs Cruickshank, her husband worked for an oil-service company based in the Kirkhill Industrial Estate, hiring lifting gear out to the drilling rigs and platforms. OK, so it was only a missing persons job, but at least he’d be doing something.
ScotiaLift occupied a featureless two-storey rectangle with a small car park in front and a gated enclosure out the back stacked with brightly coloured lifting equipment. The car park boasted a Porsche, a huge BMW four-wheel-drive thing, a soft-top Audi – none of which looked more than a couple of months old and all of which had personalized number plates – and a six-foot-tall sign with the company’s logo rendered in layers of shiny plastic. Logan parked his filthy, dented CID pool car next to the Porsche, severely lowering the tone of the place, and let himself into the building’s reception.
Aberdeen had a long and proud history of hiring attractive young ladies to sit behind reception desks and ScotiaLift was no exception. She smiled brightly as Logan entered. ‘Can I help you?’ The smile faltered as he proffered his warrant card and told her he was there to ask some questions about the disappearance of a Mr Gavin Cruickshank. She looked from the card to Logan and back again, worry making little creases at the corners of her eyes.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘it’s a dreadful photo. I need to speak to Mr Cruickshank’s colleagues and anyone else who might have seen him on Wednesday.’
‘But he didn’t come in on Wednesday!’
Logan frowned. ‘Are you sure?’
The woman nodded and tapped the reception desk with a painted fingernail. ‘I would have seen him.’ Logan turned and took a quick look around the reception area. It wasn’t huge and the front door was directly opposite where the woman sat. She was right: if he’d come in the front she would have seen him.
‘There isn’t a back way?’
She nodded, pointing off through an open door to the left of the desk. ‘Round the side, but it opens into the yard and the gate’s kept locked. Well, unless there’s equipment getting moved. Everyone parks out front – I’d’ve seen his car.’
‘In that case,’ asked Logan, ‘how come when Mrs Cruickshank phoned on the Wednesday afternoon she was told her husband was out with a customer?’
A slight blush. ‘I don’t know.’
Logan let the silence hang for a minute, hoping she’d leap in and say something more. But she didn’t. Instead she took an all-consuming interest in the phones, as if willing them to ring and give her an excuse not to speak to him any more, cheeks turning redder by the minute. ‘OK,’ he said at last, breaking the uncomfortable silence, ‘then I’ll need to speak to everyone who worked with him.’
She found him an empty office on the first floor, Gavin’s: an untidy room with a girlie calendar hanging on the back of the door, another one on the far wall, two computers and a huge desk that looked as if it hadn’t been cleared since the last ice age. But it did have a lovely view of the car park. One by one, all of ScotiaLift’s employees were called into Logan’s commandeered office, from the yardsman to the managing director, sitting on the other side of the messy desk and telling Logan what a great guy Gavin Cruickshank was and how it wasn’t like him to just disappear like that. None of them admitted to speaking to Gavin’s wife on the phone and telling her he’d just popped out to see a client. Logan was getting ready to leave when a flashy two-seater sports car pulled up out front. He watched from his first-floor window as a tanned man in his early twenties hopped out, pointed his key fob at the car and plipped on the alarm, before swaggering towards the building and disappearing from view. Thirty seconds later the same tanned face popped around the door to Logan’s office and grinned at him.
‘Evenin’, squire, understand you’re looking for me?’ Spiky blond hair, linen suit, no tie, Armani sunglasses, faint Dundee accent.
‘That depends. You speak to Gavin Cruickshank’s wife on Wednesday?’
‘The lovely Ailsa?’ The grin grew even wider as the man peeled off his jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. ‘Guilty as charged. One of these days she’s going to wise up and dump that tosser husband of hers.’ He gave Logan a wink. ‘You ever met her? Knockers like melons, sexy as hell. Never believe she used to be the size of a house. Must go like a fucking bunny. . .’ He sighed, happy with his fantasy.
‘Wednesday afternoon: why did you tell her Gavin was out with a client?’
‘Hmm? Oh, ’cos he was.’
‘Funny. Everyone else says he didn’t turn up for work that day.’
Pause. Fidget. And then the smile was back. ‘You got me, it’s a fair cop. He didn’t show up Wednesday morning.’
‘So why did you lie to her?’
‘Well, you see, it’s kinda like this: sometimes he doesn’t come in till later. Sometimes he doesn’t come into the office at all. Gav brings in a lot of business, so he can get away with murder round here.’
‘So how did you know he was with a client? Did you speak to him?’
‘Not as such, no. But he sent me a text message.’
‘When was this?’
‘Dunno, mid morning I think. Said he wouldn’t be in till later, didn’t say when.’
‘So you assumed he was with a client?’
‘Ah. . .’ The smile flickered on and off as he settled into the chair behind the messy desk and switched on one of the computers. ‘Not really, no. You see, Gav is what we call a “cheating bastard”. Here. . .’ He dug about in the piles of paper, coming out with a glossy photograph of a topless Gavin Cruickshank, surrounded by a gaggle of T-shirt-stretching blondes and brunettes bearing the legend HOOTERS. One of them was squeezing his tanned chest, her hand almost covering a black tattoo. They had HOOTERS emblazoned on their chests; he had AILSA on his. ‘Got that taken when we was in Houston for the last offshore technology conference. He knobbed three of them in four days. Not that his poor bloody wife has any idea. She still thinks he’s Mister Shiny.’ He shook his head. ‘Unbe-fucking-lievable isn’t it? I mean if you could go home and screw someone like Ailsa, why the hell would you need anyone else? But there you are: he’s an arsehole.’
‘So when he sent you a text saying he wouldn’t be in until later, you thought. . .’
‘That he was off getting his knob sucked by some lovely young thing? Yeah. Wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘Any idea who?’
‘Well, you met Janet on reception? He’s been poking her off and on for a bit. I think he’s been giving one of your lot’s wife a good s
eeing to. Detective Sergeant something or other. And he’s been seeing this pole-dancer at Secret Service, you know, the titty bar on Windmill Brae? Hayley. . .’ An envious grin. ‘’Cording to him she does some of the filthiest things with a carrot you ever seen! Criminal. Hey, maybe she’s got a pimp or something and he’s done for Gav? Or maybe they’ve just run off together. Silly bastard’s talked about it often enough. . .’ And the grin became a leer. ‘I could console his poor, sexy, abandoned wife! Give her a shoulder to cry on and a knob to bounce on. Jesus, that would be sweet.’
Back outside in the sunshine Logan stood in the car park, looking up at the building Mr Gavin Cruickshank ran his empire of extramarital sex from. Four women – how did he have the energy? Logan had enough trouble with one.
24
Logan’s phone started ringing pretty much the moment he switched it back on – a harsh cacophony of bings, squeaks and whistles that made his stomach clench. But it was only Colin Miller; the reporter had managed to track down an address for Brendan ‘Chib’ Sutherland. According to Miller’s sources, Chib and his mate with the long hair and ‘tache were staying in an exclusive little development on the western edge of Mannofield. Logan got the feeling there was something else, something the reporter wasn’t telling him, but no amount of prompting, cajoling or questioning would get him to spill the beans. So in the end Logan just had to thank Miller for the info. Whatever it was, he’d probably find out soon enough. ‘So, Laz . . . you got anythin’ for me? You know, quid pro quo, like?’ Logan thought about it. DI Steel wanted to let Councillor Marshall get away with abusing a fourteen-year-old, wanted everyone to look the other way, had told him in no uncertain terms to keep his nose out of it? No problem, he’d let the Press and Journal do it for him. So Logan told Miller all about Councillor Marshall, the Chief Greenbelt Development Planner, and the fourteen-year-old Lithuanian prostitute. Miller nearly exploded with delight. ‘Holy shit, that’s fantastic! Talk about caught with your pants down!’ Pause. ‘You sure I can use this?’ Logan told him to go ahead and knock himself out, then hung up. It was the first time in ages he’d actually got some job satisfaction.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 62