‘Fuck.’ The fact he was even debating it probably said a lot.
Marching back downstairs to the bar Logan saw DI Insch, hulking over the small table where Steel and the rest of them sat, clapping people on the back and telling them how he’d always said it was Robert Bloody Macintyre. The only person missing now was. . . Talk of the devil: Jackie Watson, coming in from the rain, hair plastered down to her head, jacket dripping on the blue-and-yellow carpet.
Logan froze, just out of earshot, watching as Jackie beamed, paused, then hugged DI Insch. The large man looked momentarily taken aback, then shouted, ‘Drinks!’ And all the way through, Rachael just smiled.
Oh God. . . Taking a deep breath, Logan joined them.
56
Saturday morning hurt. Not as much as it could have done, but enough to make Logan regret staying up till two in the morning, drinking. He rolled out of bed, groaned, and scrubbed his face with his hands. Some grumbling from under the duvet next to him and he hit the off switch on the alarm, then slouched through to the shower.
FHQ was busy. Ten past seven and the day shift were catching up on all the arrests from a standard Aberdeen Friday night on the piss. Logan signed in and grabbed a big cup of coffee from the canteen before checking with the front desk to see who was about. Sergeant Eric Mitchell frowned at him. ‘You’re supposed to be on the back shift.’
Logan shrugged. ‘Jimmy Duff – he’s off to court at half three.’
‘Bloody hell. . . Take some sodding time off! You know how much of a pain in the arse it is to balance the books with buggers like you screwing up the overtime bill?’
‘Steel in?’
‘Nope. And neither’s Insch. . .’ He leant forward and put on a dramatic whisper: ‘Been suspended!’ Then a sniff. ‘Finnie’s about, if you’re desperate.’
‘Never mind.’ Logan would never be that desperate. ‘I’ll manage.’
The cell block stank of disinfectant, urine and vomit, the custody assistant pushing a mop back and forth on the filthy green floor and muttering away to himself. ‘Dirty fuckers. . .’
Logan took a quick look at the clipboard hanging on the wall. ‘Anything interesting?’
‘Fights, drunk and disorderlies, pissing in shop doorways, the usual.’ He slopped another mopful of grey water on the floor. ‘How come I’m always the one lumbered with the—’
‘Jimmy Duff straight again?’
‘Eh?’ He made dirty, swirly patterns on the green terrazzo floor. ‘Oh, aye. He’s whinging about that kicking he got though. Little bugger hasn’t shut up since I came on. “Oh I’m in pain! Oh I’m dying. Oh I need some medication. Blah, blah, blah.”’ He scrubbed at a blob of gritty pink chewing gum. ‘I’ve got a bad back, and you don’t hear me—’
‘Do me a favour and get someone to stick him in an interview room.’
‘What did your last bloody slave die of?. . . OK, fine. Not like I’ve got anything better to do.’ He sighed and stuck his mop back in the bucket. ‘Room one?’
Logan thought about it. ‘The heater working in there?’
‘Aye, three’s still buggered though.’
‘Stick him in three then.’
There was an overwhelming air of doom and gloom in what used to be DI McPherson’s incident room, and it was all coming from a hungover-looking PC Rickards, still complaining about Debbie Kerr, and how his life was ruined. He was sharing a desk in the middle of the room with Rennie, who looked as if he was doing his best to ignore all the moaning and get some work done; fighting through the paperwork Logan had lumbered him with yesterday. ‘Right,’ said Logan, looking round the room, ‘anyone free?’
Rennie’s hand shot out, pointing at Rickards. ‘John’s free, aren’t you John? Yeah, take John. Do him good to get out of the office!’
Logan looked at the dejected figure and got as far as, ‘Ah. . .’ when Rickards looked up, sighed and dragged himself to his feet. ‘Actually,’ said Logan, backing away from the desk, trying to play it cool, ‘don’t worry about it: you’re busy. It was just questioning a prisoner, I can always. . .’ But Rickards was already retrieving his jacket from the back of his chair and pulling it on over his wrinkled white uniform shirt.
He stood there, looking as if the world had just caved in, saying: ‘You want me to get coffees.’ Not a question.
‘Well . . . I. . .’
‘Fine.’ And he slouched off.
Rennie sank down in his seat till his head was resting on the desktop. ‘Oh, dear God – please don’t bring him back!’
Interview room three was like a sauna. The sun blazed in through a crack in the blinds, striking the back of Jimmy Duff’s head, making his rumpled hair glow like a halo. Which was probably about as close to divinity as he was ever likely to get. Yesterday the bruising had been bad, but today it was even worse: purple, dark blue, green and yellow covering most of his face, like a gaudy, camouflage tattoo. The custody sergeant had confiscated Duff’s broken glasses, so he had to squint, screwing up his blackened eyes, complaining about only being given paracetamol for his aches. ‘I need morphine! Or you know somethin’ a bit. . . You’ve got gear here, right?’
‘For the last time: no, OK? We’re the police not your dealer.’ Logan settled back in his chair and pointed the remote control at the TV set Rickards had set up in the corner. The picture fizzed and crackled until the DVD player came online. ‘Recognize this?’
Duff squinted at the screen, watching Jason Fettes being strapped to a table and spanked. ‘Look, I’m really in pain here. I need some medication.’
‘Do you recognize it?’
A shrug that ended in a wince. ‘Never seen it before.’
‘No? Well, how come Ma Stewart says you gave it to her: security on a loan?’
At the mention of Ma’s name Duff flinched. ‘Ah,’ he said, licking his broken, swollen lips, ‘if Ma says it, then yeah. I recognize it. Gave it to her. Yeah.’ Jimmy’s unbroken hand stroked the plaster covering his left arm. ‘If Ma says it.’
‘Uh huh. She the one did this to you Jimmy? You gave her a fake name, didn’t you?’
‘No! Nothing to do with her. I. . . I. . . A couple of guys in a pub. Spilt their pints, they . . . you know.’
‘Sure.’ The second ‘it was a pub fight’ story Logan had heard this week. At least Jackie’s had sounded a lot more convincing. ‘The DVD. Where’d you get it?’
‘You sure I can’t get somethin’ for the pain, eh? It’s really—’
‘The DVD Jimmy! Where – did – you – get – it?’
‘—couple of diffs, some jellies . . . you know, make it stop hurtin’ for a bit.’
Logan slammed his hand down on the tabletop, and Duff flinched again, trembling into silence as Logan said, ‘If you don’t tell me where you got that bloody DVD from, Jimmy, I’m going to see Ma Stewart and tell her how you’re pressing charges for assault. And loan-sharking.’
A look of terror leapt onto Duff’s bruised face. ‘No! I didnae! I didnae say anything!’
‘She doesn’t know that.’
Jimmy shivered in his seat, scratching away at his cast. ‘I. . .’ He looked from the screen to Logan, to Rickards, then to the camera bolted up on the wall. ‘It was this bird, er . . . woman, you know? I needed the cash. I mean, you know, I’m no’ into it, or nothing, I just needed the cash. . .’
Logan listened to DI Steel giving someone a hard time on the other end of the phone, threatening them with all manner of horrible repercussions if they didn’t come round and fix her toilet. The inspector slammed the handset down and stuck her middle finger up at it. ‘Well, what did Duff say?’ she asked. ‘He cop to Fettes’s backside?’
‘Thought you weren’t coming in today?’
‘Aye well,’ she shrugged and unwrapped a stick of nicotine gum, ‘Susan’s mum’s up from bloody Dundee and she’s getting on my wick. Told them I had an urgent case on. So: Duff?’
‘We got an addres
s – says he lifted the movie with Fettes in it by accident. Disk was in the DVD player he nicked, along with some jewellery, CDs, and electrical stuff. Said it was compensation for what the householder had done to him.’
‘Yeah?’ She popped the gum in her mouth and chewed. ‘Let me guess—’
‘Strapped him to a table and spanked him.’
‘Same as Fettes.’
‘Identical. She showed him the DVD and told him it was all an act: special effects. Wanted him to scream and struggle, just like Fettes.’
‘Freak.’ Steel tried to blow a bubble, and ended up spitting the gum onto her desk. ‘Fuck. . .’ She picked it up and stuck it back in her mouth. ‘So? Did he let her fist him?’
‘Couldn’t sit down for days afterwards. So he went back, broke in and helped himself to her stuff. Said it was only fair.’
‘Probably right.’ She stood, worked a crick out of her neck and grabbed her jacket. ‘Come on then, backside in gear. You can grab Spanky while I go to the bog. Christ knows what was in that kebab last night, but it’s no’ agreeing with me.’
‘Ah . . . maybe we should take Rennie instead, he—’
‘Spanky. Not Rennie: bastard’s on the shit list after that crap he pulled last night with the pork scratchings. And let the PF know we’ve got a suspect.’ She pushed past him, pausing to grab a copy of that morning’s Press and Journal from her in-tray: OLD AGE PERVERT MADE MY WEE BOY KILL! Exclusive.
She was probably going to be a while.
As soon as the door swung shut, Logan groaned. Closed his eyes. Counted to ten. Then pulled out his phone and called the Procurator Fiscal’s office. It rang twice then diverted, probably to the mobile of whoever was on duty this weekend. ‘Please not Rachael, please not Rachael, please not. . .’ Rachael answered the phone. ‘Bollocks.’
‘What?’
‘Er . . . no, not you, something here. Erm. Look—’
‘I knew you’d call. I had a good time last night.’
Logan hadn’t, he’d spent the whole evening on tenterhooks, waiting for her to lean across the table and tell Jackie about their curry and snog. ‘We—’
‘So tonight, I’m thinking lasagne, red wine and a movie. You can bring a bag of salad and something for dessert.’
‘I can’t I. . . I’m. . . Look, Rachael, I like you, you’re smart and pretty and fun—’
‘If you’re about to say “but” you can stop right there.’
‘I’m living with someone. I can’t do this.’
Silence. ‘I see. . . So what: I was just a fling?’
Oh bloody hell. ‘No, it’s not like that, it’s . . . well. . .’ Silence. Bloody fucking hell. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You need to sit down and figure out what you actually want, Logan. And don’t take too long – I’m not going to hang around like an idiot forever while you make up your mind.’
Bloody, fucking, sodding hell. This was just getting worse, so Logan told her about Jimmy Duff and the woman he’d got the DVD from. Asking for an arrest and search warrant.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’ said Rachael when he’d finished going through all the details. ‘All you’ve got is Jimmy Duff’s word this woman’s involved: and he’s a known drug user, pusher and thief. Not exactly a credible witness.’
‘He. . . look, he says he was spanked, buggered and fisted by the householder. It’s not exactly the kind of thing you lie about to make yourself look good, is it?’
She admitted he had a point, but she still wasn’t going to give him a warrant. Not unless he could come up with something better than the word of some junkie scumbag. And that was the end of the discussion. ‘Don’t forget,’ she said, before he could hang up, ‘I’m not going to wait forever.’
‘Where the hell you been?’ asked Steel, shivering at the back door, hands jammed deep in her armpits, still chewing away on her nicotine gum.
Logan stepped out into the cold, grey morning. ‘We’re not getting a warrant.’
‘Didn’t think so. Still, worth a try, eh?’ She turned and bellowed out into the rear podium car park, ‘Come on Spanky, get a bloody shift on!’
A grumbling PC Rickards appeared from a filthy, battered pool car, carrying armfuls of chips papers and old burger boxes. He’d changed into his ‘going out’ clothes – the crumpled shirt and tie replaced by a black T-shirt and stab-proof vest. With the fluorescent yellow waterproof jacket on over the top, he looked like a short, grumpy lollypop man. He dumped the rubbish in the wire-mesh bin at the back of the building. Then went back for another load.
‘Honestly,’ the inspector pulled the gum from her mouth and squeeged it into the brickwork by the door, ‘some people treat this place like a tip.’ She grabbed Rickards as he deposited his load of rubbish in the bin. ‘Right, that’ll do. Fun though this is, I’m freezing my tits off here.’
The address Jimmy Duff had given them was for a small, bland, two-up, two-down on the outskirts of Blackburn. It sat in the middle of a row of identical houses, all sulking away beneath the featureless grey sky. A wee blue mini was parked at the kerb, in front of a neglected garden decorated with gnomes.
‘You know,’ said Steel, as Rickards pulled up opposite and killed the engine, ‘I’m thinking of going blonde.’
Logan checked the details he’d printed off back at the station. ‘Vicky Peterson. . . You sure you don’t recognize the name?’
‘They say blondes have more fun. But they also say two’s company and three’s a crowd, and we know that’s shite, don’t we, Spanky? Three’s a very fine number in the bed department.’
‘Er. . .’ Rickards coughed, then looked back between the seats at Logan. ‘It doesn’t ring any bells, but she might not go by her real name at munches.’ And then his face fell. ‘Not that I’ll ever be able to set foot in one again. I’m—’
‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Steel clambered out into the cold morning. ‘We’ve put up with your whinging all the way from the bloody station: OK, we get it. Your life’s ruined. Everyone hates you. It’s no’ fair. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Now shut up about it.’ She slammed the car door and Rickards sagged even further into his seat.
‘She doesn’t understand! Nobody understands . . . they were my family. The only people who understood what it’s like.’ He sighed. ‘How would you feel if you could never speak to your family ever again?’
Logan didn’t even have to think about it, ‘Fucking delighted.’ It wasn’t the answer the constable was expecting, but at least it shut him up.
Steel was waiting for them at the front door, stomping her feet and blowing into her cupped hands, making little clouds of steam. ‘About time.’ She hoicked a thumb at the bell. ‘Spanky, you’re on point.’
A long-suffering sigh, and Rickards leant on the bell. Brrrrrrrrrrrringgggggg.
‘What d’you think?’ Steel asked as they waited.
‘Well,’ Logan looked up at the building, ‘I checked with records – no one reported a break-in at this address. Wouldn’t be the first time Duff’s sold us a line. He’s not exactly the font of all honesty.’
Steel slapped him on the arm. ‘Not bloody Duff! Me: blonde or auburn?’
‘Oh, er. . .’ Saved by the answer to the bell. The door creaked open revealing a familiar-looking woman: slightly shorter than Rickards, green eyes, shiny brown ponytail, overweight, expensive casual clothes, shocked expression—
‘Tina?’ The constable waved and Logan groaned. Tina. The intense one from Rickard’s bondage group, the one who wouldn’t shut up about Jack and his Bloody Beanstalk. ‘Er . . . can we come in?’
Tina, AKA Vicky Peterson, looked Rickards up and down. ‘You never said you were a policeman.’
‘Er . . . sorry about that.’
There was an awkward silence. ‘Do they let you take your handcuffs home?’
The constable got as far as another, ‘Er. . .’ when Steel poked him in the back and said, ‘Get a shift on, Spanky
: we’re freezing out here!’
Rickards went bright red. ‘Can we . . . er. . .’
Tina rolled her eyes, gave a big, dramatic sigh, then turned and marched into the house. ‘Sure, why not. Wipe your feet though.’
Logan hung back, cursing Jimmy Duff’s name.
‘What’s up with your face?’ hissed Steel as they followed Tina and Rickards through the rubber-scented hall and into a tidy lounge.
‘It’s not her. She’s a bottom. Whoever fisted Jason Fettes was a top, or a dom. And look at her: she’s too short and heavy to be the woman on the video. That bastard Duff lied to us.’
Steel swore. ‘Just what I need, another wild bloody goose chase.’
‘So,’ said Tina, striking her pantomime pose again, fist on hips, legs spread wide, ‘to what do I owe the pleasure?’
Rickards cast a panicked look at the inspector who just shrugged and passed the buck on to Logan. ‘Ah. . .’ he said, ‘we’re. . . Burglaries.’
‘Burglaries?’
‘Burglaries. We’ve had a number of break-ins reported in the area, and we’re going door to door to see if anyone saw anything. And, you know, if their properties are secure.’
‘Oh.’ Tina stood with her head to one side, like a cat. ‘I know Mrs Ross had her car nicked, but I thought that was in town.’
‘So you haven’t seen anything?’ Brazening it out.
‘Nope.’
Logan nodded, as if he’d feared as much. ‘Right, well, we’d probably better take a quick look round. Make sure everything’s secure before we go next door.’ And if they were lucky she’d never even know she was under suspicion. After the fiasco with Insch’s star performer, the last thing Logan needed was someone else shouting about sexual bias and making official complaints.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 115