‘So,’ said Logan, as the PC swung the car across the King George IV bridge, the water sparkling like sharpened diamonds on either side, ‘you were in on that big brothel raid in Kingswells last week?’
Rickards mumbled something about a team effort. ‘Kinky dungeon, wasn’t it?’ said Logan, watching a pair of seagulls fighting over an abandoned crisp packet. ‘Whips and chains and nipple-clamps and all that?’
‘Ah … er … yes … it … erm …’ Rickards blushed, the twisted line of scar tissue that snaked up the middle of his top lip standing out white against red, as if someone had tried to give him a hair lip with a broken bottle. Logan smiled – it looked as if the constable wasn’t exactly a man of the world. He resisted the urge to take the piss, and went back to watching the world go by.
The old lady’s house was three-quarters of the way down Abbotswell Crescent, with a view out across the dual carriageway, over the Craigshaw and Tullos industrial estates. Lovely. Especially with Torry in the background, the sunshine and blue skies fighting a losing battle to make it look attractive.
Fifteen minutes, two cups of tea and some Penguin biscuits later, they were back in the car.
‘So much for that.’ Logan called DI Steel with the bad news, only to be given another two addresses: one in Mannofield, the other in Mastrick. Both of which were equally useless.
Rickards squirmed in his seat, as if his underwear was trying to eat him. ‘So what now?’
Logan checked his watch: coming up for eleven. ‘Back to the station. We can—’ His mobile phone went into its usual apoplexy of bleeps and whistles. ‘Hold on.’ He dragged it out. ‘Hello?’
‘Where the hell are you?’ DI Steel, sounding annoyed.
‘Mastrick. You sent us here, remember?’
‘Did I? Oh … Well … in that case, why haven’t you finished yet?’
‘We have. We’re just heading back now.’
‘Good – press conference is at twelve. We’re going to be on the lunchtime news. And when I say ‘we’ I mean you too. Don’t be late. And you can check out another address on your way in – woman phoned to say the dead guy lives next door with his parents. And remember: if you’re no’ back here by twelve, I’ll kill you.’
Logan took down the address and hung up with a groan. ‘Change of plan – we’ve got one more stop to make.’
Blackburn was more like a building site than a dormitory town: sprawling developments of tiny detached houses crammed into minuscule plots of land, spilling away to the north and west, costing an arm and a leg, even though it meant living like a battery chicken. The address Steel had given them was for the second-last house in a half-completed cul-de-sac that didn’t even have a proper road yet, just a thin layer of rutted tarmac covered in drying mud and potholes, the rumble of earthmovers battling for supremacy against the screech of circular saws and the bang of nailguns. Everything was slowly disappearing beneath a pale cloud of cream-coloured dust.
Number seven was a four-bedroom ‘executive villa’ built on a postage stamp. Logan got Rickards to ring the doorbell while he stared out over the rolling hills to the north. Wondering how long it would take the developers to carpet them in more houses.
The door was answered by a flushed-looking woman in baggy T-shirt and jogging bottoms, balancing a small child on one hip. ‘Hello?’ Sounding slightly nervous.
Logan went for a reassuring smile as the woman’s kid stared at him with open mouth and wide blue eyes. ‘Mrs …’ he checked his notes, ‘Brown? Hi. You phoned us this morning about this man?’ Logan held up the photo.
She nodded. ‘I think so. He sort of looks like the guy next door’s son. Jason I think it is.’ The toddler wriggled and she shifted him, bringing him round till he was sitting in the crook of her arm, clutching her hair and peering out at the policemen on the doorstep. ‘He’s looking after the house while they’re on holiday.’
‘You’re sure it’s him?’ Logan handed her the picture and she bit her bottom lip.
‘I … It looks a lot like him …’ Nervous giggle. ‘I asked Paul and he said it might be …’
‘When did you last see Jason?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s been kind of hectic. Couple of days?’
‘OK.’ Logan took the photo back and the child began to squeal. ‘What’s Jason’s last name?’ Having to speak up over the noise.
‘Sorry: we only moved in three weeks ago, everything’s still in boxes.’ She bounced the child up and down, making cooing, ‘Who’s Mummy’s big boy?’ noises. ‘Maybe the site office would know?’
‘Thanks for your help.’
Logan and Rickards went next door, tried the bell, peered in through the front window – a pristine living room with tasteful furnishings and paintings on the wall – then walked round the house. The back yard was a morass of mud flecked with grass seed, a solitary whirly standing in the middle like a marooned antenna, the yellow plastic cable sagging and empty. There was nothing in the garage either, just a dark black splot of leaked motor oil.
Rickards walked back to the unfinished road, staring up at the house’s empty windows. ‘What do you think?’
‘Much the same as every other sighting we’ve had today – bloody useless.’ Logan climbed back into the car and checked the time. ‘Jesus, it’s twenty to twelve! Come on, we’d better get a shift on: Steel will kill us if we’re late.’
6
They made it back to the station by the skin of their teeth. The room was already filling up: television cameras, journalists, and photographers staking out their territory among the rows of folding chairs, all eyes focused on the raised stage and table at the front. ‘Thought you was never going to turn up!’
Logan turned to find DI Steel standing directly behind him, fiddling with a packet of cigarettes, turning them round and round in her hands, like nicotine prayer beads. ‘You get anything from those addresses?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Bugger.’ The cigarette packet got a few more twists.
‘Problem?’
Steel shrugged, looked over her shoulder, then back at the gathering mass of reporters. ‘Just could do with a swift result on this one. We’re keeping a lid on the cause of death, but you know what this place is like: sooner or later, someone’s going to say something stupid.’ She paused and sneaked a glance at Logan. ‘Course, you know all about that.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing, nothing.’ She backed off, grinning. ‘Who cares what the Daily Mail says anyway? Shite, there’s the ACC …’ Logan watched her go, wondering what on earth she was talking about.
The briefing started at twelve o’clock prompt, and as the ACC launched into his ‘thank you all for coming’ speech, Logan let his attention wander. He wouldn’t be needed until they threw the thing open to questions and probably not even then. So instead he scanned the assembled journalistic horde, looking to see if he recognized anyone. Colin Miller was sitting in the third row, face like a wet fart, mumbling into a small digital recorder. Probably getting ready to give Grampian Police another kicking in tomorrow’s P&J. There were a couple of others Logan knew from previous conferences, and some he recognized from the telly, but his eyes kept going back to Miller, his surly expression, and his black leather gloves. Not exactly playing the happy expectant father. The reporter looked up from his Dictaphone and saw Logan watching him. He scowled back, obviously still blaming Logan for the loss of his fingers, as if he’d been the one wielding the poultry shears …
The ACC threw the conference open to questions and the moment was gone.
*
As soon as they were finished, Logan hurried down to the incident room. Steel was the second person to make cryptic comments about the Daily Mail and Logan wanted to know why. The copy Eric had thrown at him was still sitting where he’d left it, so Logan skimmed quickly through the paper, looking for DS LOGAN MCRAE SCREWS UP AGAIN! but not finding it. What he did find was a centre-page spread titled, POLICE
HOUND ABERDEEN STRIKER! with a big photo of Rob Macintyre’s ugly face and an article charting his meteoric rise to fame; describing Grampian Police’s investigation as part of ‘an ongoing campaign to cripple Aberdeen Football Club’s only chance of winning the Scottish Premier League’.
‘Macintyre (21)’, the paper said, ‘was an obvious target for desperate women: young, successful, wealthy, and going all the way to the top!’ But that wasn’t the bit DI Steel and Sergeant Eric Mitchell had been dropping hints about.
It was a pull-out quote, big white letters on a bright red background: OF COURSE HE’S B****Y GUILTY – THE LITTLE S*** ATTACKED ME! attributed to PC Jackie Watson (28) with a couple more choice sentences further on in the article about how ‘little b******s like him should be banged up for life’. Logan groaned. No wonder Eric said Jackie should call in sick – she was in for one hell of a bollocking when she reported for duty. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. Which would be in about fifteen minutes. ‘Crap!’
He dialled the flat, hoping to God she hadn’t left for work yet. She hadn’t.
Jackie picked up the phone with an angry, ‘What?’
Too late. ‘You’ve seen the paper then?’
‘I’ve seen the lounge! We’re living in a bombsite!’
‘Oh God … Look, do you remember talking to a journalist?’
‘What? I’ve got to get ready for—’
‘It’s in the Daily Mail: “Of course he’s bloody guilty – the little shite attacked me”. Sound familiar?’
There was a moment’s silence from the other end of the phone and then the swearing started. Lots and lots of swearing. ‘Bastard never said he was a journalist!’
‘Who?’
‘That greasy little fuck in the pub last night – remember? I told you he bought me a drink, was all “oh, I saw you on the telly”, and “what a great job you policewomen do” and “can I have your phone number?” Bastard!’
‘You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?’
‘Count Bloody Dracula.’
‘Eric thinks you should call in sick.’
Jackie laughed. Short and hollow. ‘Fat lot of good putting it off will do …’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘So what we got?’ DI Steel loomed over Logan’s shoulder, peering down at the report in his hands, her breath reeking of stale cigarettes and extra-strong mints.
Logan sighed and started ticking things off on his fingers: ‘Sixty callers say they know who our victim is, but none of them agree. We’ve got seven teams of two going through them. As for the suspect, there’s five men on the sex offenders’ list who look like the e-fit: two rapists, one paedophile, a flasher, and guy who sexually assaulted a priest.’
‘Yeah?’ Steel smiled, ‘Makes a change from them molesting choirboys I suppose.’
‘Don’t think any of them are likely though: flashers are all mouth and no trousers; the victim was too old to be of interest to a paedophile; both rapists only attacked women; and the priest fiddler’s just come out of Peterhead, so he’s under a supervisory order. According to his handlers he was locked up in his hostel when our guy was dumping his victim outside A&E.’
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 flashlight, 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.
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