The inspector sighed, screwed up his face and swore. Logan knew it seemed like a stretch, but he could feel it in his gut, between the scars: the amazing Debbie killed Jason Fettes. All he had to do now was prove it.
Logan grabbed a couple of uniforms and sent them off to do a background search on Deborah Kerr, hoping it would turn up some sort of history: drugs, violence, parking tickets – he wasn’t fussy. And if they could find out where she might have taken Fettes that would be a bonus – friends’ or relatives’ houses, rented accommodation, holiday home, secret bondage dungeon – exactly the same thing they’d done with Frank Garvie before he killed himself.
And then he went to check up on Insch’s search team.
The wind whistled through the granite streets, stealing the warmth from bundled-up bodies as they picked their way through Holburn, Ruthrieston and Mannofield, looking for the little red hatchback Rob Macintyre had taken on his jaunts south. ‘Anything?’ asked Logan, collar turned up, hands deep in his pockets as a large, shivering policeman slowly succumbed to hypothermia.
‘Bugger all.’ The sergeant cupped his hands and blew into them, ears and nose neon red. ‘Bloody thing could be anywhere. If it was me, it’d be a burnt-out wreck somewhere out Ballater way by now, or at the bottom of a loch. We’d never find it.’
Which was pretty much what Logan was starting to think. And without the car they had no forensic evidence.
Four o’clock and they still hadn’t found the hatchback, so he and Insch were back in interview room two with Rob Macintyre’s fiancée. A day in the cells hadn’t done her any favours – her make-up was smudged, mascara all down her face, her eyes red and watery, nose raw from wiping it on the sleeve of her black blouse, leaving little, glittering silver trails. Logan doubted she’d stopped crying since they’d questioned her that morning.
Insch didn’t beat about the bush: ‘Where’s the car?’
Ashley shrugged, eyes down, picking the red varnish off her nails. ‘Think Rob’s auntie might have picked it up again’
‘She lives in a nursing home in Ellon. She’s in a wheelchair.’ They’d checked.
Another shrug. ‘Not my car.’
‘Let’s try something else then.’ Logan opened the case file and started pulling photographs out, laying them one by one in front of Ashley. ‘Christine, Gail, Sarah, Jennifer, Joanne, Sandra, Nikki, Jessica, Wendy. These are the before shots.’ All smiling young women, making nice for the camera with their whole lives ahead of them and no idea what was coming. Looking at them all together like this, it was obvious that Macintyre was a predator of opportunity. None of his victims had anything in common, other than being young, attractive, and in the wrong place at the wrong time. ‘Would you like to see what they looked like after your fiancé got hold of them?’
Ashley stared at him. ‘My Robert didn’t do anything.’
‘Sarah Calder.’ Logan laid the photograph taken when she’d got out of hospital on top of the smiling ‘before’ image. Dark hair, frightened eyes, bruised chin, her left cheek held together with black stitches: an inch and a half of raw, puckered flesh. ‘She’s twenty-three. Was getting married in April, but now she can’t stand for her boyfriend to touch her.’ He took the next pic out and placed it over another happy face. ‘Jennifer Shepherd, she was second.’ A deep-purple bruise stretched across her forehead, her nose swollen and misshapen where it had been rammed into the pavement, the mark of the knife curling from her left ear to the side of her mouth. ‘She works with disabled children. On tranquillizers now, too scared to leave the house.’ Then it was numbers three, and four, and five, and six, the violence and scarring getting worse every time. ‘Christine killed herself: swallowed a pile of sleeping pills and painkillers, climbed into the bath and slit her wrists from here to here,’ Logan took hold of Ashley’s arm and demonstrated with the tip of his finger.
She yanked it back out of his grasp, rubbing at the skin as if it were infected. ‘He didn’t! I. . .’
‘You gave him an alibi, Ashley: you lied for him. And he went out and he did that.’ Pointing at the women. ‘Every time you lied, another one got added to the list.’
He pulled out the first photo from the Dundee attacks. ‘Nikki Bruce.’ And as Logan went through the list Ashley got paler and paler, crying quietly, eyes wide and bloodshot. Rocking back and forth with an arm wrapped around herself, as if that would hold her world together.
He almost felt sorry for her.
Logan placed the last photo down, completing Rob Macintyre’s mosaic of pain. Insch leant forward. ‘What did it cost?’ he asked, tapping the table with a fat finger. ‘What did he give you to lie for him? New car? Jewellery? Don’t tell me: you did it for love!’ Logan’s money was on jewellery, like that fancy gold and ruby necklace she’d been wearing the day they went round to interview Macintyre after the first Dundee rape. The one she played with whenever the attack was mentioned. Then there were the earrings and the bracelet. A brand-new, blood-red ruby for every woman her fiancé attacked.
Bottom lip trembling, she wiped the tears from her eyes with the heel of her hand. More welled up in their place. ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why are you doing this? He’s in a coma, for God’s sake!’
Insch’s voice was like a dark rumble in the silence that followed. ‘Can you not see the photographs? Do you think your boyfriend being in hospital makes it all better? That they don’t wake up screaming in the dark, because of him? They deserve more than that.’
She jumped to her feet, eyes full of fire and tears. ‘WHAT ABOUT ME? WHAT DO I DESERVE?’
Insch stood, looming over her. ‘Right now you deserve five to eight years. You covered up for him and he ruined nine women’s lives. You’ll get out on parole in three, maybe four years, but they’ll never stop suffering. And it’s all your fault.’
By the time Logan finished off everything he needed to do, the day shift had been over for more than an hour. There was still no sign of the little red hatchback and no confession from Macintyre’s mum or fiancée. And to make things worse, the team Logan had sent off to look into Debbie Kerr had come back with nothing more exciting than two outstanding parking tickets and a drunk and disorderly when she was eighteen. All in all it had been a crap day.
Logan switched off his computer, leant back in his chair and scowled at the ceiling tiles. Now he had to go home and deal with Jackie. Why the hell couldn’t he have got involved with someone more stable? Someone like. . .’ Fuck.’ Rachael – the dinner invitation, something scary from Delia and wine. What was it, last night? The night before? He’d not even called her back to cancel, and now he couldn’t even find his mobile to check the message again. ‘Bloody, sodding, bastarding fuck.’
DI Insch thundered into the CID office, his voice making the walls shake, ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling you for the last half hour.’
Logan pulled out his handset and checked it. ‘It’s not—’
‘I’ve been calling you on your bloody mobile.’ Insch turned and marched back towards the door. ‘Well, come on then, get your backside in gear or we’re going to be late for rehearsal.’
Oh Christ: not another night of Gilbert and bloody Sullivan. ‘Actually, I’m going to give it a miss tonight, I—’
‘No you bloody don’t! This is all your stupid idea. And if I’ve got to question the only person in my entire cast with any talent, you’re sodding well going to be there too!’
It might have been Logan’s imagination but Insch’s driving seemed to be getting worse the further they got from the station. Roaring out at junctions, leaning on the horn every two minutes to berate some motorist or pedestrian. Swearing a blue streak when an old lady dared to use the zebra crossing. So Logan kept his mouth shut and tried to remember what he’d done with his mobile phone. The damn thing had to be somewhere!
‘Can you believe they’ve still not picked the bastard up?’ said Insch, swin
ging onto Summer Street, ‘Oh, they say they can’t find Duff, but we all know the truth, don’t we? They don’t want to do any sodding work, so— LEARN TO BLOODY DRIVE!’ The Range Rover’s horn blared at a wee blue Mini Metro trying to turn right from Crimon Place. ‘That bastard Finnie’s asking for a punch in the teeth. Bloody drugs squad think they own the place. . .’ The tirade dried up as Insch fought his huge car into a tiny parking space just up from the church hall. He clambered out into the chilly evening.
‘You,’ said Insch, poking Logan in the chest with a fat finger, ‘are going to light a fire under uniform tomorrow – I want Jimmy Duff picked up. If Finnie isn’t going to do his bloody job, we will!’
Inside the church hall it was chaos. Half of the inspector’s acting crowd were in costume, the other half struggling to get dressed, everyone talking at once.
‘Can we not just get the DCS to pull rank on him?’ asked Logan as Insch settled his huge frame into a creaky plastic chair. ‘Tell Finnie to get his finger out?’
‘Bloody DCS wants the drug bust. According to him it takes precedence over some wee pervert who rented himself out to bondage freaks.’ He turned to face his cast, pulled on a smile that reeked of false bonhomie, and said, ‘Places everyone please – we’re going all the way through tonight.’
The men scurried into position, freezing into oriental poses, holding paper fans and jars and plastic samurai swords. The ladies hung back against the hall’s dingy walls, waiting for the chorus of schoolgirls and their chance to shine. Logan scanned their faces, trying to pick Debbie Kerr out. ‘What about the CC?’
The piano lurched into the overture and Insch nodded. ‘Got a meeting with him: half-eleven tomorrow morning.’ The piano changed tune and suddenly all the posing figures came to life, chasing one another around the masking tape stage in shuffling steps.
And then they started to sing.
Logan watched a look of pain crawl across the inspector’s face. It was going to be a long, long night.
51
Logan never wanted to see another Gilbert and Sullivan operetta as long as he lived. He’d not been a big fan to start with, but having to sit through Insch’s production yet again was torture. Afterwards, when it was all over and the inspector had conducted his ritual post mortem, the gentlemen and ladies of Japan clambered out of their costumes and back into their heavy, winter jackets. Insch called his star performer over. ‘Debs, you were brilliant. Loved Bellow of the Blast, gets better every time.’ She flushed slightly, enjoying the compliment while she untangled her wavy brown hair from the severe bun she’d put it into to play the part. The inspector paused, shifted uncomfortably, cleared his throat. ‘I need to ask you a couple of questions. . .’ A gaggle of middle-aged women chattered by and Insch smiled at them, told them they’d all been great tonight, then led his star off into the corner and out of earshot.
Logan stayed where he was, watching as Insch ejected Rickards from the prompting desk so he could settle one huge buttock on top of it while he talked to her. It didn’t matter how obvious it was that Debbie Kerr had been involved in Fettes’ death, the inspector refused point blank to do anything more formal than have a quick chat at rehearsal. Now that his best actor was a suspect, the fat man was a lot more inclined towards the ‘unfortunate sexual adventure gone wrong’ way of thinking. So much for ‘Jason Fettes died in agony,’ and ‘we’re going to treat this as a murder enquiry’. Hypocrite.
Rickards wandered over, hands in his pockets, looking back over his shoulder as the cast slowly drifted out through the door, heading for the pub. ‘Wish I’d got here a couple of months sooner. I’d love to be on stage. . .’
‘Uh huh.’ Logan wasn’t really listening, he was watching to see how Debbie Kerr reacted to Insch’s questions. Right now she was shaking her head, arms folded across her chest, wearing a frown.
‘I mean I know all the words and all that. I could probably pick up the moves easy enough.’
Insch was holding up his hands, making calming, placatory gestures.
‘You think the DI would let me? Bit late in the day, I know, but—’
An angry: ‘NO!’ rang out across the hall and everyone froze, turning to stare at Insch and Debbie. ‘What, just because I’m in the scene you think I’m guilty? You’re questioning me because of my sexuality?’
The only person not watching the floorshow was Rickards, he was staring at Logan instead. ‘Oh Jesus . . . oh, you didn’t, did you?’ His face went deathly pale. ‘Please tell me you didn’t!’
Logan shushed him.
The inspector said something, his voice too low to be heard from where they were, but Debbie’s carried loud and clear. ‘Who’s next? You going to arrest all the homosexuals? Jews? Why not round up all the ethnic minorities while you’re at it? You narrow-minded, pig-ignorant, fat bastard!’ She turned and stormed off with the inspector hurrying after her. Pleading.
‘Debs! I had to ask! It wasn’t my idea; we just needed to eliminate you from our enquiries, we—’
‘And you!’ She marched straight up to Rickards and gave him a huge ringing slap across the face, nearly knocking him off his feet. ‘I trusted you! Don’t think I won’t tell everyone what a shit you are, ’cos I will! You won’t be able to put foot in a munch ever again!’
‘But—’ Rickards.
‘Debs, if we can all just calm down—’ Insch.
‘Fuck the lot of you!’ And she was on the go once more, the inspector trying to convince her he hadn’t meant anything by it, all the way out of the hall.
He was back two minutes later, looking more shocked than angry. ‘She’s quit the show. . .’ He looked around at the remaining members of his cast. ‘We. . .’ he cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Just a small misunderstanding. Nothing to worry about. It’ll be fine.’
Rickards stood with one hand covering his cheek, a red weal already starting to bloom. ‘She’ll tell everyone! Oh God. . .’
‘What about Fettes?’
Insch turned back to Logan, ‘She wasn’t even in the country that day – away at an IT conference in Bristol. With about half a dozen people from work. . .’
‘I’ll check it out tomorrow morning. She could still be—’
The inspector buried his face in his hands. ‘Why the hell did I ever listen to you?’
Under the circumstances Logan decided to give the pub a miss. Insch’s shock would wear off soon enough: then there would be recriminations and shouting. All directed at him.
The sound of something dreadful on television filtered out into the hall as he unlocked the flat’s front door. That meant Jackie was home. Sighing, he peeled off his work clothes in the bathroom, then climbed into the shower without saying hello. She was through five minutes later, talking to him over the drone of the blow heater. ‘Are you still sulking?’
‘I’m not sulking.’ Standing under the hot water and lying.
‘Then what? You want a divorce? You’re just trying to piss me off? Aliens stole your balls? What?’
He hung his head and closed his eyes. Trying to keep his voice neutral. ‘Just had a bad day, OK?’
‘You’ve been ignoring me all week! I left God knows how many messages on your bloody phone!’
And that’s when Logan remembered where he’d left his mobile: charging in the CID offices. ‘It’s not working. I’ve been on an Airwave thing since yesterday.’
‘That’s not the point. You’ve not been around for days – you’ve been avoiding the flat, and don’t bloody tell me you’ve not, because you have!’
‘Jackie, I—’
‘It’s because of Macintyre isn’t it?’
‘I—’
‘Not bad enough the little raping fuck attacks all those women, now he’s—’
‘Enough!’ Logan stuck his head round the side of the shower curtain, water dripping onto the bathroom floor. ‘OK? Enough. Leave it. I don’t want to talk about—’
‘No? We
ll I do! I’m not putting up with you dragging your pitiful arse round the whole time! Get—’
‘YOU PUT HIM IN A COMA!’ There was silence, just the dull drone of the heater and the spluttering shower. Logan sat on the edge of the bath, with his back against the cool tiles. ‘You could have killed him. You made me an accessory after the fact and I’m on the bloody investigation! What am I supposed to do?’
She stared back at him through the cloud of steam. ‘Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t actually do it?’
‘Oh come off it. You hated him. You come back, throw everything in the washing machine, ask me to lie and say you were here all night, and next morning he turns up battered so badly they don’t know if he’ll ever wake up. Look at your knuckles for God’s sake, they’re still bruised.’
Jackie held up her hands, turning them so Logan could see the dark purple patches. ‘I got into a fight, OK? I was in a pub and some arsehole started going on about how the police should leave Macintyre alone ’cos he was a hero and we’re all corrupt fuckwits and those women were asking for it. He threw something, it got nasty. I think I broke his chin. . .’ Flexing her hands and wincing. ‘I’m not proud of it, but I didn’t want to get caught. They’d suspend me, or worse, and he started it! I’m not getting chucked off the force ’cos some slope-headed fuckwit wants to pick a fight.’
Logan looked at her, trying to work out if she was telling the truth or not, searching for the telltale signs, but there weren’t any. If it was a lie it was a good one. ‘So you never laid a hand on Macintyre?’
‘I kicked him in the ribs when I arrested him, yeah, kneed him in the balls, but I didn’t put him in a bloody coma, OK? How could you think I would do something like that? I’m a police officer!’
‘I. . .’ Logan put his head in his hands. ‘It’s been a shite week.’
She nodded, slipped off her shoes and clambered into the bathtub with him, fully dressed, her shirt going transparent in the shower, revealing a hideous grey bra. ‘Well,’ she said, pulling him to his feet and stepping close, ‘if you think I’m a dirty cop, you’d better give me a damn good wash.’ And then there was kissing, full frontal nudity, and soap-on-a-rope.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 111