She stared off into the middle distance for a bit, then said, ‘Better interview them all anyway. Even the priestophile. If nothing else it’ll look like we’re doing something.’ Steel lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘You heard from Watson yet?’
‘No.’ As soon as Jackie signed in she’d been escorted straight up to Professional Standards.
‘Shame you can’t get that Weegie journo of yours to cover for her.’ But the days of Colin Miller doing favours for Logan were long gone.
‘So, you want me to get those guys picked up?’
Another thoughtful pause, then, ‘No. Let’s go see them. If I’m no’ in the office this mornin’ I can’t have my medical for that stupid “Fit Like” programme.’ She twirled her cigarettes in her hand. ‘Put it off for long enough and they might forget all about me.’
It took the inspector fifteen minutes before she was fed up with the first rapist. And only seven before she leaned over and whispered, ‘How about we accidentally kick the shite out of him?’ at the second’s house. And the flasher wasn’t up to much, not after DI Steel shouted, ‘Let’s see it, then!’ as soon as they’d been let in through the front door. Iain Watt was probably taller than he looked, standing hunched into himself, thinning brown hair, cardigan, overweight, mid thirties. The archetypal Mr Nobody, living in a big empty house on Don Street that overlooked the main route students took between the halls of residence and Aberdeen University. As Steel stood at the lounge window, a handful of young women sashayed past, laughing and joking, all long hair and unexplored curves. Logan could have sworn he heard her groan.
‘So, how’s it work?’ she asked, when the students finally disappeared round the corner, ‘you see them coming, nip out and flash them a glimpse of your “turgid member”? That it?’
‘I. . .’ Watt wouldn’t meet her eyes, just kept staring at the spotless sheepskin rug in the middle of the room, ‘I’ve had counselling. . . I’m on pills.’
‘Yeah? Can’t get it up any more, eh?’ She drew the curtains, plunging the room into darkness, leaving just a sliver of light that fell across Watt’s bald spot. ‘If I hear so much as a rumour about someone showing their willy off down here, you’re not going to need pills. I’m going to permanently fix you with the toe of my boot. Understand?’
He blushed, head still down. ‘I haven’t. . . I haven’t felt the need. I had counselling.’
‘Yeah, you said.’ She stood in silence for a moment. ‘So why did you do it then?’
Logan could see the beads of sweat starting to form on the man’s forehead. The silence drew out and the beads joined up, trickling down the side of Watt’s face. ‘I. . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘We know.’ The inspector’s voice was soft, almost sorrowful.
‘I. . .’ His eyes darted towards the door, then back to the sheepskin. ‘But, I. . .’
‘Come on, don’t make me do this the hard way.’
He buried his head in his hands and started to cry. ‘I didn’t mean to!’
Logan threw Steel a questioning look, but she just shrugged. Whatever the guy was confessing to was news to her. ‘Why don’t you tell us all about it, Iain?’ asked Logan, ‘You’ll feel better if you can tell someone.’
Slowly, Watt stood, biting his bottom lip, tears and snot dribbling down his face, mixing with the sweat. His round shoulders shivered as he led them through into the kitchen, snivelling, ‘I didn’t mean to, I didn’t. . .’ over and over again. And Logan began to seriously worry about whatever it was Watt had done.
The hunched man reached for a kitchen drawer, but Logan got there first, clamping his hand down over Watt’s. Just in case it was full of knives. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, keeping his voice low and calm, ‘why don’t you let me get that for you? You just stand back. . . Good.’ Logan pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and snapped them on, before easing the drawer open. Inside was a flash-light, a packet of AAA batteries and a pair of blood-soaked women’s underwear. The kind Laura Shand was supposed to have been wearing when Rob Macintyre raped her. The kind Macintyre was supposed to have taken as a trophy.
DI Steel said what they both were thinking: ‘Oh fuck.’
7
The car park was in shadow, the February sun hidden behind the grey and black bulk of FHQ. Dark and cold. ‘This is going to be a nightmare,’ said Steel, when Logan came out to tell her Watt was processed and ready for interview. She sighed, letting loose a pall of cigarette smoke. ‘Tell you, Insch is going to blow a fucking gasket. . . Still,’ she straightened up and flicked the last inch of her fag under the Chief Constable’s BMW, ‘no’ really our problem right now.’ She sniffed thoughtfully, then told Logan to go dig up everything they had on Laura Shand: interview transcripts, medical reports, the lot. She wanted to read up on Watt’s victim before they interviewed him.
Which was why Logan ended up outside DI Insch’s incident room. According to the records department, the inspector had the files signed out – working on the prosecution case and trying to pin everything on Rob Macintyre. Taking a deep breath, Logan marched in.
It was one of the biggest incident rooms in the place, but it was virtually empty, just a couple of admin officers packing the remnants of Operation Sweetmeat away into brown cardboard filing boxes, clearing the place out for the next major enquiry. And there, perched on the edge of a groaning desk, was DI Insch. He was massive: a big fat man with a shiny bald head and hands the size of shovels, his suit stretched to bursting point. He looked like an angry pink caterpillar about to outgrow its skin, as he shovelled chocolate-covered raisins into his mouth.
Logan cleared his throat and said, ‘Excuse me, sir, I need to borrow the Laura Shand file.’
Insch stopped chewing and swung a baleful eye in Logan’s direction. ‘Oh aye?’ his voice a deep, bass growl, ‘Why?’
Oh God, here we go. . .’ Er, we’ve arrested someone who claims to have attacked her.’ Logan added a ‘sir,’ for good measure.
The inspector levered himself off the desk and scowled. ‘Don’t be stupid, Macintyre attacked her.’
‘Yes, well. . .’ Think fast! ‘This guy’s probably lying; we just need to make sure. You know, to prove he had nothing to do with it . . . which he can’t have if it was Macintyre. . .’ Starting to ramble. ‘So, if I could just have the file, sir, I’ll get out of your. . .’ DON’T SAY HAIR! ‘Way.’
‘Who is it?’
Logan could feel his fixed grin starting to slip. ‘Iain Watt, he’s just a flasher. It’s probably nothing. . .’ He watched as DI Insch’s eyes contracted to little black coals in his angry, piggy face.
‘It better be.’ But he handed the file over anyway.
Somehow Logan got the feeling it would be pushing his luck to ask if the inspector knew what Professional Standards had done to Jackie.
Six thirty-eight and interview room number five smelt of fear and stale sweat. Iain Watt sat on the other side of the scarred table, his white SOC suit making scrunching noises every time he moved. He fidgeted and fiddled while he told Logan and DI Steel about his time in therapy and how Dr Goulding thought he’d been making excellent progress. . . Not looking at the clear plastic evidence pouch sitting on the table in front of him. The one with Laura Shand’s knickers in it: pink with grey pigs, stained with dark brown dried blood.
‘If you’re making such bloody good progress, how come you had these in your kitchen drawer?’ asked Steel, poking the evidence bag.
‘I. . .’ Watt hung his head. ‘I used to see her walking sometimes. In Seaton Park. . . I. . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘Can I have a glass of water?’
‘No. Now tell us about her.’
Silence.
Then, ‘I thought about it for ages. . .’
More silence.
‘I’ll bet you bloody did.’
‘No! Dr Goulding’s been telling me how I have to make contact with women
, try to forge a meaningful relationship. Change the way I think about them. Not just . . . you know. . .’ He took a deep shuddering breath. ‘I just wanted to say hello to her. That’s all. Just “hello”, maybe, “nice day, isn’t it?” and maybe she’d say hello back and it would be nice and we’d be having a conversation and it would be all right and. . .’ Watt’s eyes slid across the blood-spattered material. He licked his lips. ‘And I thought about it for weeks. How Dr Goulding said I had to make the first move. And I practised in front of the mirror and it was all perfect. . .’
Another pause, broken only by the metallic whirr of the tapes going round in the recording unit – audio and video, immortalizing the moment for posterity. Logan leaned forward in his seat. ‘But it didn’t go to plan, did it, Iain?’
Watt shook his head. ‘I said, “hello, nice day isn’t it?” and she didn’t say anything. She just kept walking. Like I wasn’t even there. . .’
Steel sighed. ‘So you attacked her.’
‘No! No, I thought maybe she misheard. Maybe I had my fly down by accident, you know? Accidentally?’ He looked from Steel to Logan, searching for understanding. ‘But, but I hadn’t . . . she didn’t like me. She didn’t want to talk to me. I’d reached out, just like Dr Goulding said I should. . .’
Steel tried again. ‘So then you attacked her.’
‘No. I went home and had beans on toast. Then I read the paper. And they were saying about this guy who goes after women with a knife and how he . . . how he has sex with them. Sex. . . And I thought . . . I . . . I went out and waited for her. . . She wouldn’t even say hello. . .’
‘Shite. Could he no’ have just been making it up?’ DI Steel stood, smoking by the open window in her office. Outside, the sun was setting: gilding the granite spines of Marischal College with sparkling light, deep blue shadows creeping in around the edges, ready to smother it all.
‘I’ve called Laura Shand,’ said Logan, from the other side of the desk. ‘She’s going to come in and make a formal ID.’ He tried to look nonchalant. ‘Are you going to tell DI Insch?’
‘What, that we’ve buggered his case?’ Steel sighed, then examined the glowing tip of her cigarette. ‘I should probably give these things up. Then again. . .’ she took a long, deep drag. ‘Fuck it.’ She pulled out her mobile and fiddled with the buttons, before holding it to her ear. ‘Insch? . . . Yeah, it’s me Steel. . . Uh huh, I told him to get the files. . . Uh huh. . . No. Watt’s copped for it. Macintyre didn’t rape Laura. . . Hello? Insch?’ She pursed her lips and blew a kiss at her phone, before switching the thing off and sticking it back in her pocket. ‘He hung up.’
‘Oh. . .’ Logan could see what was coming, and didn’t want to be anywhere near when it did. ‘Er, Inspector, if you don’t need me, I think I’d better—’ A loud bang from somewhere down the corridor outside Steel’s office, like someone slamming a door. ‘You know,’ he stood, inching his way towards the exit, ‘I should go get an ID book made up and—’ Too late.
The door burst open: DI Insch, looking very, very angry, his face swollen and red. He poked a fat finger at DI Steel. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at!’
She sighed, took one last puff on her cigarette and threw it out of the window. ‘My job, OK? I don’t like it any more than—’
‘You had no right interviewing—’
‘Watt confessed. His story matches Laura Shand’s—’
‘HE’S LYING!’ Little white flecks of spit flew in the evening light.
‘Oh grow the fuck up.’ Steel slumped into her tatty office chair. ‘And close the bloody door: you want the rest of the station to hear you acting like an arsehole?’
It took an obvious effort, but DI Insch, still scarlet and trembling with rage, stepped into the small office and closed the door behind him. Trapping Logan inside. ‘Did it ever occur to you,’ said Insch, through gritted teeth, ‘that your flasher’s just confessing for the attention! He’s an exhibitionist, remember?’
‘Then how come everything matches? Eh?’ Steel leant forward and waved Laura Shand’s file at him. ‘Not just one or two things, everything! He had her bloody panties in a kitchen drawer!’
‘Oh, really? Well that’s convenient, isn’t it? You get an arrest and my whole case gets screwed. You cast doubt on Laura Shand’s rape and—’
‘We didn’t do it on sodding purpose! I was just fishing – trying out the old “we know you’ve been naughty” bit – and he fell for it. Could have been anything, flashing, stolen radios—’
‘The Shand MO was identical!’
Steel threw her hands in the air. ‘He read about it in the papers: man plus knife plus woman equals sex.’ Emphasizing each and every word: ‘He – had – her – knickers – in – his – kitchen! He raped her!’
‘He. . .’ Insch scowled. ‘He must have seen it happen. He watched Macintyre rape her, and then he took the knickers. Something to remind himself—’
‘Give it up.’ Steel sighed and ran a tired hand across her wrinkly face. Pulling it out of shape. ‘For Christ’s sake: Macintyre might have raped the others, but he didn’t do Laura.’
‘But—’
‘NO! Get it through your thick head: he didn’t do this one!’
Insch loomed over her desk, voice low and menacing. ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’
‘You!’ Steel shoved her chair back and stood, leaning in close until her nose was inches from Insch’s. ‘You’ve been a right miserable cunt for months now! Whatever’s eating your fat arse it’s not my bloody fault! So stop taking it out on the rest of us! Watt raped Laura Shand – END OF STORY!’
Insch actually went dark purple for a moment, then turned on his heel and stormed off, slamming the door behind him hard enough to make Logan’s fillings vibrate.
FHQ was eerily silent in the wake of Insch’s storming out. There was barely a whisper as Logan left DI Steel’s office and wandered back to his little cubicle in the CID room. It took him nearly twenty minutes to check his email and make up an identification book for Laura Shand to look at when she came in – Iain Watt’s face hidden amongst pictures of eleven others from the Scottish Criminal Records Office database. It was a formality more than anything else: with Watt’s confession and the forensic evidence, he’d be on the first bus back to Peterhead Prison, whether she could identify him or not.
And then Logan really couldn’t put it off any longer: he called the front desk and asked Big Gary where Jackie was.
‘No idea.’ Was the reply. ‘She went to Professional Standards first thing, but they can’t have fired or suspended her, or they’d’ve had me in there as her Federation rep.’ There was a faint slurping sound, as if Gary was in the middle of a mug of tea. ‘Probably just a smack on the wrists.’
‘Yeah . . . thanks Gary.’ Logan hung up and tried her mobile: it rang and rang, then beeped over to voicemail. There was no point asking Professional Standards – they wouldn’t tell him anything – so he went for a walk instead, wandering the corridors and asking if anyone had seen PC Watson.
He found her in the basement records room, where the old files went to die, sorting through the ancient unsolved investigations and swearing under her breath – a constant, violent monologue about what would happen if she ever got her hands on that bastard from the Daily Mail. She dumped a dusty box onto the concrete floor and yanked the lid off, glaring at the contents.
Logan closed the door behind him and wandered over. ‘Hey you.’ She looked up, still glaring and he backed off a couple of paces, hands up in surrender. ‘Whoa, whatever it is, I’m sorry!’
Jackie went back to scowling at the open box. ‘Can you believe this shite?’ She hauled out an ancient bundle of files held together by an elastic band so old it was beginning to flake away in brittle brown shards. ‘Half these bloody things don’t even match the sodding inventory. Lazy bastards. . .’
‘You OK?’
She shrugged and start
ed scribbling down a list of the contents into a large notebook. ‘I mean, look at it. Not like it’s hard to keep track of what’s in a bloody box, is it?’
‘Jackie?’
‘I mean, some of this stuff goes back thirty, forty years! Why the hell couldn’t they do it properly in the first place?’ Throwing the pile of files back in the box, the vitrified rubber band shattering into a thousand pieces. ‘Fucking thing!’
‘Jackie. It’s OK.’
‘Get the prehistoric bastards out of retirement and make them come down here and inventory their own bloody case files.’ She dragged another bundle out and began scribbling in her notebook again. ‘Should have solved them in the first place! Who cares about some daft sod getting beaten up twenty years ago – it’s not like we’re going to catch whoever did it any time soon, is it?’ There were angry tears, glinting at the corners of her eyes.
‘Jackie!’
‘They talked to me like I was a fucking child! OK? Like I’d done it on purpose! Like I was just some stupid bloody woman who couldn’t keep her big mouth shut!’
‘Come here.’ Logan helped her to her feet, then wrapped her in his arms.
8
The shit hit the fan, first thing Thursday morning – Logan could smell it as soon as his copy of the Press and Journal was delivered at ten past seven. TOLD YOU I DIDN’T DO IT! was the headline, above a photo of Rob Macintyre’s ugly, big-eared head. Logan read the article in the kitchen, his cup of coffee going cold beside him. There was a brief account of how DI Steel and local police ‘hero’ DS McRae had charged a known sex offender with one of the rapes Macintyre was supposed to have committed, leaving the footballer in the clear. According to the paper, Macintyre’s legal team were going to the Sheriff Court to have the whole case abandoned. And last, but not least, was a nice big quote from Sandy the Snake telling everyone how this just went to prove that his client had been the victim of a cynical campaign by Grampian Police.
Logan didn’t need to look at the by-line to know who’d written it: Colin Bloody Miller rides again. He noticed for the first time that the word ‘hero’ Miller always attached whenever he mentioned Logan in the papers now came in ironic single quotes. Grimacing, he sluiced the last filmy remnants of his morning coffee down the sink and went to work.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 82