It would have been nice to say she looked serene in death, but she didn’t. Her once-pretty eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling, mouth hanging open as if she was about to say something. Like blame Logan for not stopping Macintyre before he raped her. Even the scar that twisted its way down her face seemed to stand out more than it had when she was alive. A trail of pain etched in broken skin.
‘You want us to get her out of there?’ asked one of the ambulance men, peeling off a pair of latex gloves.
‘No . . . thanks, if you can just leave her where she is.’ He’d have to call Insch and probably the Procurator Fiscal too, even if it was obviously a suicide. Christine had left a note – apologizing for not being stronger. For not being able to cope. For letting everyone down. As if it had all been her fault.
Logan couldn’t look at her any more. He closed the bathroom door and showed the ambulance crew out.
It took three goes before the inspector would answer his phone, an angry, ‘What now?’ blaring out into Logan’s ear.
‘Christine Forrester’s dead. Slit her wrists and took a pile of pills.’
Silence, then swearing and then the sound became muffled, as if Insch had clamped his hand over the mouthpiece. But Logan could still hear him shouting that they should do the finale again, and this time try not to screw it up. Then some crackling, and finally what sounded like a heavy door closing. ‘When?’
‘About three or four hours ago. Boyfriend came home and found her in the bath. He drinks all the whisky in the house, then goes up to the hospital for revenge. I think if he could have got into Macintyre’s room he’d have killed him.’
‘Bloody hell. . .’
‘You want me to tell the PF?’
Insch thought about it for a moment. ‘No, I’ll do it. . . Why the hell did she have to go do something stupid?’
But they both knew why – because they’d let Rob Macintyre get away with it.
49
The funeral directors took Christine Forrester away in a stainless steel coffin. The IB had been in and photographed her body in situ, but it wasn’t the usual bells and whistles job, just the recording of a life ended. Without suspicious circumstances the PF didn’t need to turn up, and neither did the rest of the travelling circus, which made it all the more sad. As if Christine’s life wasn’t worth as much as some junkie knifed in an alleyway for the price of a burger.
Logan left her boyfriend with a Family Liaison officer and followed the undertakers’ grey van back to headquarters. The day shift was already two and a half hours over by the time he got there, but he had a heap of paperwork to do.
The CID room was dead, just the repetitive, hungry bleep of the fax machine wanting more paper, spoiling the silence. Logan settled down at his computer and began to type.
‘Oh for God’s sake – not you again!’ Big Gary looked up from his copy of the Evening Express: TRIBUTES POUR IN FOR BRAVE MACINTYRE and watched Logan signing out. ‘I’m going to start charging you rent!’
‘One of Macintyre’s victims killed herself.’
The big man’s face fell. ‘Aw shite. . .’
‘Yeah. So you can stop giving me a hard time. Got enough of that from bloody Eric today.’
‘Aye well,’ Gary smiled, ‘don’t take it too personally: his daughter borrowed the family car and wrapped it round a bollard yesterday. She’s OK, but the car’s buggered. Mind you,’ said Gary, leaning over the desk to whisper theatrically, ‘it’s his own fault for letting her have the keys in the first place. I wouldn’t trust her to blow her nose, never mind drive to the shops. Still, that’s kids for you. . . What?’
Logan had turned on his heel and was already hurrying back the way he’d come, ignoring the shouts of, ‘Hoy! You’ve got to sign back in!’
The CCTV team were in the process of following a group of teenagers down Union Street, tracking them from camera to camera as they sung and shouted and staggered their way past the closed shops. Logan accosted the inspector in charge. ‘Can you run an ANPR check on old tapes?’
‘How old are we talking?’
‘Sunday and Monday.’
He thought about it for a bit. ‘Don’t see why not, but it’ll take a while.’
Logan frowned. ‘Any way to speed it up? I only need from about. . .’ taking a rough guess, ‘call it ten pm onwards?’
‘You got the number?’
‘It’s a red hatchback, probably registered to Rob Macintyre’s mother.’
‘Be quicker to just run the tapes on the MUX and fast forward till you see a red car, then. Soon as we’ve finished with these wee buggers,’ he said, pointing at the teenagers on the screen, ‘I’ll give you a hand.’
‘You’ve got to be bloody kidding me!’ said Insch, mouth hanging open, bits of half-chewed jelly babies stuck to his teeth, while the chorus launched into the entrance of the Mikado for the second time since Logan had pushed through the church hall doors. ‘He borrowed his mum’s car?’
‘Technically it’s his aunt’s car. Took us a while to track down the registration, but it was caught on camera taking the road south last Sunday and Monday. I’ve got the team going back through the tapes for all the other nights there was a rape – the ones we’ve still got anyway. Tayside are doing the same.’
‘And you’re sure it’s him driving?’
Logan helped himself to a green baby, biting its head off with a grin. ‘Perfect shot of him going down the Drive, and one more coming back about four hours later. More than enough time.’
The inspector looked confused. ‘But he had that video – the one with you and Watson—’
‘All he had to do was change the time on his watch before he shot it. Half three in the morning: I was keeping watch and Jackie was asleep. On the video we’re both awake. I didn’t twig till we traced the car.’
The singing came to a halt, but it took Insch a couple of moments to realize the chorus were all staring at him. He stood and glowered back. ‘Did I tell you to stop? Keep going! Right,’ he said when they were up and running again, ‘we wait for Dundee to get back to us. Soon as they do: we go to the Fiscal.’
Tayside Police had promised to call Logan back as soon as they found anything, so he settled down to watch the rehearsal. He had to admit Insch’s cast was getting better, even Rennie, but the star of the show was Debbie – the one everyone said was brilliant. Two steps on stage and she shone – changing from a wavy-haired woman in her late thirties into a bitter, twisted old battleaxe, cheated out of love. What she was doing with the rest of Insch’s performing monkeys was anyone’s guess.
The call from Dundee didn’t come for nearly an hour. ‘Well?’ said Insch as Logan thanked the woman on the other end and hung up.
He tried to keep a straight face, but it was impossible. ‘We’ve got him.’
The drinks just kept on coming. After rehearsal they decamped to the Noose and Monkey, where Insch was in such a good mood he bought a round for the entire cast. Logan found himself sitting next to Rennie and his groupies, while Rickards sat at the far end of the table, deep in conversation with Debbie. Logan wasn’t really listening to Rennie telling his ‘When I Met Billy Connolly’ story, he was watching Rickards laughing and joking with the only decent thespian the production had. Logan smiled, remembering that night in the Illicit Still when he’d seen the contents of her handbag, and wondering if the Rankin paperback she’d been carrying around was Black and Blue or something else. Maybe she and Rickards had a lot more in common than anyone knew? It would certainly explain the fur-lined handcuffs.
The guy who played Poo-Bah sauntered over and cajoled Debbie into doing her party piece – an impersonation of their beloved director. She put her wine down, puffed up her cheeks, lumbered to her feet and harangued them all in a pretty good facsimile of the inspector’s bass rumble for not knowing their bloody words. All the time eating invisible sweeties from an invisible bag. Everyone laughed, even Insch.
‘So
,’ said Logan, catching Insch after the applause had died down, ‘what’s the plan with Macintyre?’
‘Haul his mother and skanky girlfriend in. Charge them with perverting the course of justice, giving false alibis, lean on them. Impound the car, get the IB to go through it with a fine-toothed comb. The bastard may be in a coma, but we’re going to nail him anyway!’ The inspector stood, towering over Logan, ‘Time for more drinks!’
A bleary face peered out from beneath the duvet as Logan lurched in, clicked on the bedroom light and started to fight his way out of his octopus-like clothes. The socks were the worst. ‘You’ll never guess,’ he said. ‘Go on: guess.’
‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Jackie buried her head under a pillow with a muffled, ‘Switch the bloody light off!’
‘Come on, have a guess. . .’ He threw the last sock at the light switch, but it didn’t work, so he had to turn it off by hand. ‘We got him!’
‘It’s after one!’
‘Everyone was . . . was. . .’ Logan collapsed on the bed and tried to figure out what he wanted to say. ‘He. . .’ a small belch. ‘You shouldn’t have done it though.’ Having a bit of difficulty with the words. ‘But it was him, so no one cares.’ He lent over and patted her leg through the duvet. ‘You shouldn’t have done it though.’
‘You’re drunk. Go to sleep.’
‘I didn’t tell anyone,’ he said, then shooshed her, then giggled. ‘I’m a fucking awful policeman.’ And suddenly it stopped being funny. But he was asleep before the guilt could really take hold.
‘Well, isn’t this nice,’ said Insch, sipping from his delicate china cup, a Tunnocks caramel wafer balanced on his knee. Macintyre’s house was gloomy, icy rain rattling the windows as Ashley, her mother-in-law to be, Logan and Insch took morning tea in the front room.
The footballer’s mum sniffed and scowled at him over the top of her glasses. ‘I resent your accusations, Inspector: My Robby was home.’
‘No he wasn’t.’
‘I just said he was! You’ve no right to call me a liar in my own home! How dare you!’
Insch let her rant for a bit, before cutting her off in mid flow. ‘Well, if you’re telling the truth, why do we have CCTV footage of him driving your sister’s car from Aberdeen to Dundee every night there was a rape down there?’
The inspector had his eyes fixed on the old woman, but Logan was watching Ashley – she’d dressed all in black today, the ruby pendant joined by a matching bracelet and pair of earrings, her make-up perfect – and as soon as Insch mentioned the rapes she flinched as if she’d been slapped. But she kept her mouth shut.
Macintyre’s mum put her cup down and poked a finger at the fat man. ‘You’re the one who’s lying.’
‘Tayside police have identified your son from their cameras. He was there.’
‘I don’t speak to ugly, fat liars. I’m making a complaint.’ She stood, and glowered down at the inspector. ‘You can’t speak to me like this: my son’s in a coma!’
‘Let me just get this crystal clear,’ said Insch, settling back into the couch with a smile, ‘you’re telling me Robert Macintyre was here all night, every time. Never went out.’
‘I want you out of my house!’
‘Is that what you’re saying? That your son never took your sister’s car to Dundee to rape women?’
‘What’s wrong with you? YES: my Robby’s a good boy!’
‘What about you, Ashley?’
‘Tell him Ashley! You tell him Robby was here!’
Macintyre’s fiancée stared Insch in the eye, but Logan could see her left leg trembling. ‘Robert was here. With me. All night.’
‘Excellent.’ The inspector lurched to his feet. ‘Then I’m arresting you both for conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. We’ll continue this down the station.’
The swearing started when Insch pulled out the handcuffs.
‘Christ,’ Sergeant Eric Mitchell winced, standing in the corridor outside the women’s cells, ‘is she ever going to shut up?’
Logan shrugged, ‘Who knows?’ Macintyre’s mum had kept it up all the way through her interview, shouting at them for being corrupt and incompetent and out to get her poor wee boy. ‘Think she’ll upset the muggers and shoplifters?’
‘Fucking upsetting me.’
Back up in interview room number two, Rob Macintyre’s fiancée was fidgeting in the suspect’s chair. ‘This thing’s bolted to the floor. . .’ she said, as Logan returned from the canteen bearing three big, wax-paper cups of fancy coffee. ‘Did you know this chair’s bolted to the floor?’
‘It’s for the junkies and murderers,’ explained Insch, accepting his latte with extra cinnamon, nutmeg, chocolate and vanilla without so much as a thank you. ‘In case they hurt themselves.’
‘Oh. . .’ She stared at the coffee Logan placed in front of her. ‘I. . .’
The inspector gave her a chance to get the rest of the sentence out, but nothing came. ‘OK, Ashley,’ he said at last, ‘we know you’re lying about Macintyre’s whereabouts. We’ve got proof. That means when you give him an alibi you’re trying to pervert the course of justice. You can get seven, eight years for that. You’re a pretty girl,’ he said, taking a sip from his coffee, ‘probably do well in prison. Some butch lesbian makes you her bitch and you won’t have to worry about getting stabbed in the showers. The years will just fly by.’ All said in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice.
‘I. . . I’ve. . . Robert’s a good man. He’s done nothing wrong.’ Wiping tears from her eye with the heel of her hand, smearing her mascara. ‘I . . . I don’t want to talk to you any more. I want to go home.’ Breaking down completely on the last word.
Insch reached out and took her hand, but she jerked it back as if she’d been scalded, hiding it under the table, letting the tears fall unchecked on the tabletop. The inspector nodded sadly. ‘It’s OK, Ashley, I understand. It’s hard. But if you talk to us, tell us where the car is, we can maybe do something about your sentence. We’ve got search teams out there already, we’ll find it sooner or later, but if you help us we can help you.’
But all Ashley wanted to do was cry.
The dynamic duo – Rennie and Rickards – were in full flow, joking and laughing about last night’s rehearsal, when Logan got back to the incident room. ‘Of course,’ said Rennie, checking his reflection in a lifeless computer monitor, ‘Liz was all over me.’
Rickards grinned. ‘In your dreams. She’s married!’
‘They’re the best kind. Anyway, you were getting very pally with Debs.’
The constable shrugged, but Rennie slapped him on the back and called him a leather-clad stud-muffin. Rickards blushed. ‘She’s very talented.’
‘Only one of us who is. Don’t break her heart for God’s sake, we’d be buggered if she took the hump and left.’
‘So. . .’ said Logan, choosing his words carefully, ‘Debs: she’s a Rankin fan.’
Rickards froze, and that was all Logan needed to know he’d been right: she was part of the BDSM scene.
‘I saw the book in her handbag.’
‘Oh.’ The constable shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Not a problem, is it?’
‘Not with me.’
‘Good.’
He supposed it wasn’t that surprising Insch’s top star was into bondage – that Tina woman in Café Ici kept banging on about performing being like pulling on a second skin. Being something and someone you weren’t. Just like wearing a full-body rubber suit. Which probably explained why Rickards was attracted to her. Logan wondered if that made her a top, or a bottom. Looking at the constable it was easy to see him as the spankee rather than the spanker, but you never knew.
He frowned, feeling the little wheels going round in his brain. ‘Shite.’ It was obvious when you thought about it.
‘Sir?’
Logan grabbed the DVD of Jason’s final performance and hurried from the room. There were a couple of th
ings he needed to check, but he had a sinking feeling he knew what he’d find.
And DI Insch was not going to be happy about it.
50
‘No.’ The inspector scowled at the printouts Logan had spread across his desk. ‘This is just a load of—’
‘But if you look at the—’
‘No: it’s not her!’
‘Look at the pictures! She’s the same body shape as the woman in the bondage suit, she’s in the scene – ask Rickards – and she’s a switch, exactly what Fettes was advertising for. Plus she’s new, inexperienced, likely to make mistakes.’ It had taken some doing to get all that out of the constable without letting him know why, but eventually Rickards had spilled the beans.
‘It’s not her! You should be out there chasing up that search team, not in here wasting my bloody time!’
Logan shuffled through the images. ‘Here – the e-fit of the driver, if you lose the moustache, glasses and goatee it looks just like her.’ He’d cheated a bit on the second image, using the various Mikado posters Insch had stuck up all over the station for reference, making sure the new e-fit had Debbie Kerr’s eyes and mouth: the resemblance was uncanny. ‘There never was a second person, it was all her.’
Insch picked up both pictures and held them side by side. ‘Her face is more heart-shaped. This isn’t—’
‘Remember the impersonation she does of you? She’s a brilliant mimic, how hard would it be for her to slap on a fake moustache and Irish accent?’
‘Don’t be bloody. . .’ Insch went silent, staring at the printout. ‘It’s a coincidence.’
‘She even moves the same way – watch the video again and you’ll see! You know she’s a good enough actor to carry it off. They say BDSM lets people be someone else – someone without boundaries. That’s what she does on stage, isn’t it? Be someone else?’
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 110