‘Aye, right, Finnie’s got a big drug bust going on; every bugger’s off playing Miami Vice. They’ve no one spare. Tell you, I had a gang of shoplifters. . .’ He was still moaning two minutes later when Rickards puttered up in front of the station in a fusty old Vauxhall that smelled of armpits.
Logan jumped in the passenger seat. ‘What the hell took you so long?’
‘It was—’
‘Well, get a shift on! Out, left on Broad Street. . .’ he held the phone to his ear again, ‘Schoolhill. . .’
Rickards put his foot down and the scabby car lurched out onto the road, pausing at the junction to let a huge bendy bus hiss and judder past. The constable strained forward in his seat, looking for a gap in the traffic. ‘I don’t get it: why are we—’
‘They’ve just got out of court, they’re charged with perverting the course of justice, they know the only way we’re going to prove Rob Bloody Macintyre’s guilty is if we find that little red hatchback. No car: no forensic. No forensic: no conviction. If you were them, what would you do?’
‘Oh.’
‘Exactly.’ They followed the trail of CCTV cameras, Logan relaying instructions as Rickards did his best to catch up with Macintyre’s nearest and dearest.
‘There!’ Logan jabbed a finger at the windscreen – the taxi was at the head of a queue of traffic, waiting for the lights to turn green and let them out onto Union Street. Red, amber . . . and they were off, trailing more than a dozen cars behind. A taxi ahead of them jerked to a halt as a pissed teenager lurched out on to the road, swinging her arms and singing incoherently for the benefit of her equally drunk friends. A sudden braying of horns, some swearing, threats and the vomit-spattered girl staggered back to the kerb, giggling. The traffic started moving again, just in time for the lights to do their slow parade back to red.
Rickards snapped on the siren, the noise wailing out into the rain-speckled afternoon, but nothing happened. The cars were too tightly packed on Chapel Street to get out of their way. By the time the lights were green again the taxi was nowhere to be seen. Logan got an update from the CCTV team and Rickards floored it, siren blaring, nipping between cars and buses as they pulled over to let them past, traumatizing an old lady with a shopping trolley halfway across a pelican crossing on Union Grove.
Logan grabbed the dashboard as the constable slammed on the brakes, trying not to make OAP pâté. ‘Switch it off!’
‘Eh?’
‘The siren, you idiot – switch it off! If they hear us coming they’re not going to lead us to the car, are they?’
Rickards did as he was told.
The pasty-faced old woman hobbled out of the way, clutching her chest as Logan checked in with the CCTV team again. They were screwed: the taxi had disappeared off the network. Wherever the car was, they’d run out of camera coverage. ‘Fuck!’ Logan slammed his hand off the dashboard.
Rickards cringed. ‘It wasn’t my fault!’
Ignoring him, Logan punched the number for Rainbow Taxis into his mobile and listened to it ring. ‘Come on, come on—’ Someone picked up at the other end. He cut them off before they could get into the whole introductory spiel. ‘You had a pick-up from Queen Street – the police station – ten minutes ago. Where’s it going?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t give out that kind of information over the phone—’
‘Fine: you call Grampian Police and you tell them where that taxi’s going. OK? You tell them that DS McRae needs to know urgently.’
‘Well . . . we—’
‘Urgently!’
The woman on the other end said she’d do her best.
His phone went not long after – Control with the address from the taxi firm. It was Rob Macintyre’s house. Logan swore. So much for that theory. ‘Aye, they say the driver dropped the mother off, then took the younger one to another address.’
‘Where? Where did he take her?’
‘You’re sure it was here?’ said Logan, looking around the flat, featureless car park, sitting in the shadow of a tower block on the outskirts of Kittybrewster. The wind was picking up again, sending an empty polystyrene carton bouncing across the damp concrete.
‘Aye.’ The taxi driver pointed a stubby finger at the far corner, where a ragged opening punctured the chain-link fence. ‘Dropped her right here an’ she tottered off ower there wie her box.’ He sniffed, looked up at the cold, blue sky, and said, ‘Nae bad weather for a change, eh?’
‘Box? What box?’
A shrug. ‘No idea. The mother goes intae the house and comes out with this cardboard box and gives it to the blonde bit in the back. Tells me to drive her here.’
The box – Macintyre’s trophies, the ones the search team couldn’t find – they were getting rid of the evidence. Logan thanked him and hurried off towards the hole in the fence, trying not to listen to Rickards moaning on about how Debbie Kerr would tell everyone in the Aberdeen scene he was a rotten wee shite and not to be trusted as he slouched along behind.
A churned mud path reached through the grass from the fence towards another tower block. Logan ducked through. Four o’clock on a Friday afternoon and the parking spaces in front of the tower block were empty. There were another two eighteen-storey blocks in the development – bland concrete towers that dominated the skyline – but their car parks were virtually empty too. No sign of a little red hatchback.
According to the taxi driver he’d dropped Ashley off only a couple of minutes earlier: so where the hell was she?
‘I mean it’s not as if I did it on purpose! Why did Debs have to—’
‘Look, would you shut up about your bloody bondage buddies for two fucking minutes and help me find Macintyre’s car?’
Rickards blushed and mumbled an apology, but five minutes later he was whinging again.
There was a small road lined with lock-up garages, tucked down the side of a cluster of shops. Puddles shone with oily rainbows, glittering in the sunlight as Logan picked his way between the potholes. The garage doors were peeling and chipped, bare metal showing through ancient paintwork; only one was open, down at the far end, the sound of someone talking to themselves just audible over the chattering of a single magpie and Rickards’ incessant whining.
‘What am I supposed to do? I mean it’s not as if—’
Logan hit him. ‘Shhh!’ pointing at the open garage door. ‘Down there.’
They crept forward, the voice becoming clearer with every step. It was Ashley, swearing away to herself. ‘Fucking bastards with their fucking fuck . . . shit. . .’ Something clanged.
Logan peered inside: Ashley was on her hands and knees fishing about beneath a little red hatchback, her pert, rounded backside wiggling in the air. Logan resisted the urge to take a running kick at it. ‘Lost something?’
She froze. Swore. Then slowly turned to stare at him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. ‘This . . . you . . . private property, you can’t—’
‘Step away from the vehicle please, Miss.’ It was hard to keep the grin from his face, so Logan didn’t even try. They finally had. . . He frowned, beneath the smell of dirt and oil was something a lot more worrying: bleach. The box – the one she’d collected from Macintyre’s house – was full of cleaning products and a tiny, handheld vacuum cleaner.
‘I was. . .’ She looked over Logan’s shoulder, eyes wide: ‘What the hell?’
Logan didn’t even bother looking round. ‘Nice try. On your feet.’
She swore again, and stood. ‘Bastards.’
‘Rickards, do the honours, will you?’
The constable pulled out his cuffs and started reciting Ashley’s rights, getting as far as, ‘anything you do say will be—’ before she kneed him in the balls. ‘Aya, fuck!’ She was fast, slamming an elbow down on the back of Rickard’s head as he crumpled, sending him crashing to the dirty garage floor, then snatching something out of the cardboard box – a squeezy bottle of bleach – spraying it in Logan’s face.
He got his arms up just in time, his head surrounded with fumes as she barged past, bouncing him off the hatchback’s passenger door. He stumbled, tripped, and landed on his backside as Ashley ran for it.
He clambered to his feet. Rickards was groaning, coiled up around his battered testicles. He’d live, but he’d be bugger-all help. Swearing, Logan burst out of the garage, skidding to a halt on the pockmarked tarmac.
She was running for the main road, shouting, ‘HELP! RAPE!’ at the top of her lungs, going as fast as her high heels would carry her.
Logan caught up with Ashley outside a small newsagents, grabbing the back of her jacket and spinning her round. She swung at him, her fist whistling past his nose as he dodged back. He returned the favour, only he didn’t miss – there was a soft crack and she went down, landing flat on that pert backside of hers, blood dribbling out between her fingers as she clutched her broken nose and moaned.
Logan hauled Ashley to her feet, shoved her up against the newsagents’ window and handcuffed her wrists behind her back. She left a smear of bright red on the glass. ‘You fuck! You fucking fuck! I’m pregnant! I’m fucking suing you! POLICE BRUTALITY!’
The newsagent’s door sneaked open a crack and a wee mannie peered out into the street, shaking his fist, staying well back. ‘You leave her alone!’
Blood streaming down her face, Ashley glared at the not-so-have-a-go hero still hiding behind his shop door. ‘You saw! You saw him attack me! Police fucking brutality!’
‘Police? Oh, er . . . I. . .’ He blanched, gripping the edge of his door, inching it closed again.
Ashley spat a mouthful of scarlet at him.
Logan frogmarched her back to the garage.
55
DI Steel fiddled with a packet of cigarettes as the IB crawled all over Macintyre’s little red hatchback. She kept glancing back towards the ambulance and the woman sitting on the tailgate glowering out into the drizzle: squint nose still leaking bright red blood, eyes already beginning to blacken. ‘Jesus Laz, could you no’ just ask her to come quietly? How’s it going to look – “Police Beat The Shite Out O’ Pregnant Bint”? You’re a walking PR disaster. I’ve. . .’ She frowned. ‘What happened to your jacket?’
Logan looked down, saw nothing, then twisted his arms round: blotches on the sleeves were slowly going pale blue/brown where the bleach had hit. ‘Bastard. . .’ Now he’d have to get a new suit. ‘She just about castrated Rickards.’
‘Aye?’ Steel shrugged and put her fags away. ‘Best thing for him. Stop the wee fucker breeding.’ She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, then took the cigarettes out again. ‘Fuck’s sake, what’s taking them so long?’ pointing at the IB team in their white coveralls. One team was going through the interior, another guddling about in the boot, pulling out all manner of junk, photographing it, and sticking it into labelled evidence bags. ‘Got to be something. . . Shite, can you imagine what would happen if this was all just some big fuck-up?’
One of the IB team hefted the spare tyre out of the boot with a grunt. There was a pause, then: ‘Bloody hell!’
‘What?’ Steel lurched forward to the cordon of blue and white POLICE tape, standing on her tiptoes, trying to see past the sudden clump of white oversuits. ‘What is it? If it’s a pile of cash I call first dibs!’
The video operator filmed, the photographer flashed and the IB poked about. Steel took a deep breath and bellowed, ‘What the fuck is going on?’
There was a sudden silence and the head technician turned round, an Aberdeen Football Club holdall in his hands – the sort you could buy at any sports shop in the city. He reached in and pulled out a knife. ‘There’s bits of jewellery and all sorts of shite in here!’
‘Oh thank fuck for that.’ DI Steel closed her eyes, sighed, then turned to Logan and grinned. ‘See, I keep tellin’ people you’re no’ just an ugly face.’
The rear podium was crowded by the time they got back to FHQ – vans and patrol cars double-parked by the rear doors as half a dozen struggling, swearing men were dragged through into the custody area. Two support officers were unloading what looked like bricks wrapped in black plastic and brown packing tape, stacking them up on a wheeled trolley. And right there in the middle, directing things like a taller, uglier version of Napoleon was DI Finnie. He held up an imperious hand as Logan and Steel manhandled Ashley out of the back of their pool car.
‘Well, well, well, if it’s not DS McRae.’ Finnie grabbed one of the blocks from the trolley, shaking it at them. ‘Half a million in uncut heroin! You can thank your lucky stars all this was still there when we raided the place. After that crap you and Fat Boy Insch pulled this morning they could have moved the lot, and next time we saw it it’d be getting sold on the streets! You’re not a police officer, you’re a bloody disgrace.’ And with that he barged past, bumping Logan with his shoulder on the way.
‘Ach,’ said Steel, ‘don’t listen to him. Wanker probably hasn’t had a shag for years.’
The Procurator Fiscal was a hair’s breadth away from doing cartwheels – the jewellery in the holdall was a perfect match for each of the victims, the ones from Aberdeen and the ones from Dundee. If he ever woke up from his coma, Macintyre was going to prison for a long, long time. Steel let Logan phone Tayside Police with the good news, getting little more than a grunt and ‘About bloody time!’ from that craggy-faced tosspot DCS Campbell.
‘Well?’ said Steel as Logan hung up. ‘He overcome with gratitude?’
‘No.’ He checked his watch: six thirty-one. ‘What about Jimmy Duff?’
The inspector slouched back in her chair and stared at him. ‘Jesus, can you no’ enjoy the moment for once? We just caught The Granite City Rapist! Fuckin’ balloons, jelly and ice-cream time.’ She shook her head. ‘Kids today. . . Fine, go, play with Duff, but you better get your arse back here by seven o’clock sharp: press conference. Then you, me and Spanky are having a booze up.’
She was right of course, he should have been celebrating, but he really wasn’t in the mood; Finnie’s little outburst had managed to take the shine off things. Because much though he couldn’t stand the abusive bastard, the man had a point – they’d compromised an ongoing drugs operation just so Insch could get his hands on a junkie who might have something to do with an accidental death. It wasn’t as if Jason Fettes had been murdered: he was into rough sex, it went too far, he died. End of story. But accident or not, it still needed tidying up, and it gave Logan something to focus on, other than how badly he’d fucked up. How he’d nearly ruined Finnie’s drug bust. How he’d thought Insch was blinded by his need to pin everything on Rob Macintyre. But mostly how he’d doubted Jackie. She wasn’t obsessed, she was right.
He phoned down to the cells to see if Jimmy Duff had come back from orbit yet. The custody assistant said, ‘Hud oan, I’ll check,’ then disappeared for a bit. He was back a couple of minutes later. ‘Nope, still boldly going where millions of other buggers have been before. He’s due in court at. . .’ another pause and some rustling, ‘aye, half three the morn. Bags of time. You want me to get someone to interview him tonight?’
Logan thought about it. ‘No. I’ll do him when I get in tomorrow.’ After all, it wasn’t as if there was a rush. Jason Fettes wasn’t going to get any more dead.
The press conference went surprisingly well: all the newspapers and TV crews seemed to have conveniently forgotten that this time yesterday they’d been smearing the front pages and national news with, GRAMPIAN POLICE’S SHAMEFUL CAMPAIGN OF HATE AGAINST BRAVE ROBBY MACINTYRE! Suddenly the footballer was a monster and it was a good job he was in a coma and couldn’t hurt anyone else.
Afterwards they hit the pub: Logan, Steel and Rickards, with Rennie bringing up the rear – anything for a free drink.
‘So,’ said Steel, watching Rickards scamper off to the bar for another round, ‘where’s Watson then? Thought she’d be gagging for a celebratory pint or three.’
Logan shrugged, still feeling guilty about the whole thing. ‘Day off. I left her a message.’ Wherever she was she didn’t have her phone switched on, but Insch did. Suspended or not, he was on his way in to join the party.
‘Course,’ said Steel, helping herself to another large whisky when Rickards got back from the bar, ‘now every bugger says they always knew Macintyre was guilty. But they didn’t catch him, did they? No: Spanky and Lazarus did!’ She held up her glass, proposed a toast to the pair of them – sending Rickards into a bright-red blushing fit – then downed her drink in one and sent Rennie off to the bar with her wallet.
She was halfway through a filthy joke about two nurses and a shipment of cucumbers when someone tapped Logan on the shoulder and asked if the seat next to him was taken. He got as far as, ‘No, help yourself, we—’ before he realized who it was: Rachael Tulloch, still wearing her work suit. He’d never got around to calling her back.
‘Thought I’d find you here,’ she said, sitting down next to him, then addressing the table, ‘the PF says, “bloody well, done and the next round’s on her”.’ That got a cheer.
The inspector went back to her joke as more people drifted in from FHQ – off-duty constables, sergeants, inspectors, all of them telling Steel how they knew she’d get to the bottom of it. Rachael laid a hand on Logan’s thigh when she was sure no one was watching. He tried not to flinch and she smiled at him. ‘I sort of thought you’d be stuck here tonight, what with Macintyre and everything.’
‘I. . . yes, about that, we—’
‘Come over tomorrow instead. It’ll be fun, I’ve got the weekend off, as long as nothing major happens.’ She gave his thigh a squeeze.
Oh God. ‘We. . . I’m. . .’ TELL HER! ‘I’m living with someone.’
Rachael smiled at him. ‘I know.’
Logan didn’t know what to say to that, so he drank half his pint in one and announced he had to go to the toilet, scurrying away before she could say anything else. Round the corner, through the doors, up the stairs. . . He stopped on the landing and leant back against the wall with his eyes closed. Fuck. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He’d done the hard bit: he’d told her he was living with Jackie and it didn’t make any difference! Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck. It wasn’t as if he didn’t like Rachael – he’d kissed her for God’s sake! And it’d been nice. And she was probably a lot less volatile than Jackie, who wasn’t exactly easy to live with. And . . . and he didn’t know what to do.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 114