‘An accident? How do you accidentally bugger someone to death?’
‘You know what these bondage lot are like,’ said Logan, pointing at the contents of Jason’s hope chest, ‘one minute it’s tying each other up for a bit of light spanking, and the next it’s whips, chains, nipple-clamps and butt plugs.’ He might have been imagining it, but he got the feeling Rickards was scowling at him. ‘And let’s face it: if you’re going to kill someone, there are better ways of doing it. You’ve already got the guy tied up and gagged, why not just strangle him? Or put a plastic bag over his head. And why rush him to the hospital afterwards?’
Steel scowled, obviously trying to come up with an alternative scenario. ‘Oh bloody hell,’ she said at last, ‘so much for my nice juicy murder.’ And then she stomped off to tell the ACC.
PC Rickards waited till she was gone before he spoke. ‘You know, just because Jason was different it doesn’t make him a pervert!’
Logan stared at him. ‘Oh – my – God, you’re one of them aren’t you? You’re into all this bondage stuff!’
‘I …’ The constable’s face blossomed with beetroot-coloured embarrassment and then he stormed off, leaving a grinning Logan to pack Jason Fettes’ collection away.
‘Right, settle down you lot!’ DI Steel stood at the front of the briefing room while Aberdeen’s finest made themselves comfortable. ‘We now have an ID for our victim.’ She nodded to Logan and he hit the button. Behind the inspector the screen filled with a smiling face, snapped on a beach somewhere a damn sight warmer than the northeast of Scotland. ‘Jason Fettes, AKA: Dick Longlay.’ That got a laugh and the inspector let it die down before continuing. ‘He made dirty movies for Crocodildo Films, which is how our very own PC Rickards was able to identify him.’
A sudden barrage of wolf whistles and off-colour comments were thrown in Rickards’ direction – the constable looked mortified. He went even redder when Steel started talking about Jason Fettes’ bondage set. ‘So,’ she said, as Logan clicked the screen onto a picture of the rubber romper suit, laid out on the incident room floor, ‘we need to start asking around the sex shops and wherever else it is the bondage crowd hang. Like Ellon. And Westhill.’
While the inspector spoke, Logan kept an eye on Rickards: it seemed as if he was about to say something, but thought better of it.
‘Current theory: this was a sex game gone wrong, so Fettes probably went home with this person of his own free will. There’s no blood at the victim’s house, so they must have gone to Mr Moustache’s bondage bachelor pad.’ Click and the e-fit appeared.
‘We’re pretty sure the victim was contacted through this site…’ Steel paused, waiting for Logan to catch up – the image behind her changing to a pink and black website called ‘BONDAGEOPOLIS!’. ‘Fettes had an advert on there, the IT guys found a copy on his hard drive …’ She paused and dug out a printout from the briefing pack, reading aloud: ‘Real life porn star seeks switch for no-holds-barred action.’
It was DC Rennie who stuck his hand up. ‘What’s a switch?’
‘Well,’ said Steel, ‘let’s ask our resident sexpert.’ She stared at PC Rickards, until he came out with, ‘It’s a BDSM term: someone who can be either dominant or submissive. Top or a bottom.’ Blushing furiously as most of the room started making ‘bottom’ jokes.
‘OK,’ the inspector tipped the embarrassed constable a wink, ‘that’s enough out of—’ Rennie’s hand was up again. ‘What now?’
‘BDSM?’
‘Bondage, Domination and Sadomasochism. Pay attention, for God’s sake. See Constable Rickards afterwards if you want a demonstration.’ More laughter. Gradually a sense of order returned, but the rest of the briefing was marked by giggles and sniggering. Now that this was ‘death by misadventure’ rather than murder, it didn’t seem quite so … serious. When Steel called the meeting to a close, Rickards was the first one out the door.
‘You should go easy on him,’ said Logan as the last few people wandered off, ‘I get the feeling he’s not exactly seeing the funny side.’
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ She rolled her eyes and dug out a packet of cigarettes, shaking them, then peering inside. ‘What is it with bloody prima donnas in this place? OK, OK, I’ll talk to him. Can I at least have a fag first?’
While the inspector was off sacrificing a lung to the gods of nicotine, Logan went looking for Jackie, finding her in the same place as yesterday: covered in dust, down in the basement archives.
‘How’s it going?’
She looked up and shrugged. ‘Same shite, different day. You?’
‘I got to tell someone their son had been killed.’
‘Shite too, then.’ She scribbled something in her notebook then slid a set of case files back on the shelf. ‘You hear about Macintyre? Hissing Sid’s got him an interim hearing. Says he has “new evidence”. We’ve got to present tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow.’ Jackie slammed another box down on the concrete floor. ‘Unbe-fucking-lievable isn’t it? Things you can get away with if you’re famous.’ She yanked the lid off and dropped it at her feet. ‘I tell you, if that slimy lawyer bastard gets Macintyre off I’m going to make his life a living hell. Him and Macintyre both.’
Logan believed her. ‘You want to go get something to eat tonight? We could try that tapas bar on Union Street? Get a bit squiffy? Go home and fool around?’
‘“Squiffy”? What the hell is this, Five Go Mad in Mastrick? I don’t get “squiffy”; I get paralytic, shitfaced, drunk. Maybe tipsy at a push.’ She grinned at him. ‘But the rest of it sounds fine.’
Only Logan never got that far.
Half past seven and the rain was coming down like icy nails, bouncing off the rutted car park floor, misting in the headlights as Logan pulled up and killed the engine. The sun had set long ago, leaving behind a cold, bleak night; Brimmond Hill was a dark mass looming above them, only the winking red lights on the transmitter at the summit giving any indication of where the top was. And even then it was lost in the downpour most of the time. Alpha Two Zero was parked at the far end, blue and white lights rotating lazily, made fuzzy by the rain.
DI Steel sat in the passenger seat, listening to it drumming on the car roof. ‘Buggering arsemonkeys. We’re going to get soaked …’ She pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes, automatically offering one to Logan, before remembering he didn’t any more and lighting one up herself. She pointed her lighter at the burnt-out hulk sitting between the two cars. ‘They sure it’s his?’
Logan nodded, coughed, then rolled down his window, letting the smoke out. The steady hiss and clacker of rain hitting the gorse bushes, heather and potholes oozed in. ‘The silly sods found the thing on Tuesday, didn’t put two and two together because it wasn’t blue.’ Which was fair enough, the burnt-out hulk was an off-grey-brown colour, mottled with black. ‘They only ran the chassis number this afternoon so they could issue a fixed-penalty notice to the owner for dumping it here. Someone recognized Fettes’s name.’
Steel swore. ‘We could have had an ID two bloody days ago!’
Logan just shrugged.
Someone clambered out of the patrol car opposite, turning up his collar and hurrying towards them, the rain drumming on his peaked cap as a dirty, battered-looking white Transit van bumped its way into the car park. The constable bent down and stuck his head through Logan’s open window. ‘You want us to cordon off the scene before the IB get started?’ he asked, dripping.
Steel squinted at him through the smoke. ‘No bloody point now, is there? Everything’ll be washed away! Why the hell didn’t you call it in when you found the sodding thing?’
The constable shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me: I was off sick!’
‘Fine, yes, go. Cordon to your heart’s content.’ She scowled as he scurried off. ‘Fat lot of bloody good this’ll do us: damn thing looks like a charcoal briquette. You imagine any forensic evidence lasting through that, and all this?’ indicating the torrential rain.
‘Not really, no. But at least now we know that whoever did it is local.’
Steel nearly choked on her fag. ‘Come on then, Miss Marple, astound me.’
‘They spotted the Volvo on Tuesday night, yes? That means it was dumped and burned on Monday night/early Tuesday morning. Whoever did it was able to get home from here without a car.’
Grudgingly, Steel admitted he had a point – Brimmond Hill wasn’t exactly the middle of nowhere, but it was close – anyone setting fire to the car they drove up here would be facing a long, slow trek into town. ‘Kingswells?’ It was on the other side of the hill.
‘Maybe, but you’d break your neck in the dark if you didn’t know where you were going.’
‘Aye, well,’ she said, as three IB technicians swore their way out of the dirty white van and started fighting with the blue plastic scene-of-crime tent, trying to get it up over the scorched wreck, ‘there’s no need to look so damn pleased with yourself – it doesn’t get us any closer to catching him, does it?’ She rolled down her window and pinged the last tiny nub of her cigarette out into the rain. ‘Beginning to wonder if this whole case isn’t a waste of time. Isn’t like Fettes was battered to death, is it? He was into kinky sex. It went wrong. He died.’ She closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose, and sighed. ‘The poor sod on the other end didn’t do it on purpose, did they? Can you imagine having to live with that on your conscience?’
There was silence as they watched the IB getting drenched trying to protect trace evidence that probably wasn’t there any more.
‘This is such a bloody waste of time,’ said Steel at last. ‘Come on, let’s get the hell out of here. If they find anything they’ll call us.’
They didn’t.
11
Quarter to nine in the morning was far too early to be hanging about outside a licensed sex shop on Crown Street, waiting for it to open. But Logan didn’t have any choice – this was where DI Steel wanted to be. She was sitting in the passenger seat, munching her way through a packet of Bacon Frazzles, a tin of Irn-Bru sitting on the dashboard in front of her. A thin drizzle misted the windscreen, slowly turning the granite tenements a darker grey to match the sky. Logan yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, then settled down into his seat, wondering if it’d be OK to have a quick nap. Steel poked him in the shoulder. ‘Heads up,’ she said, pointing through the windscreen at a small bald man with glasses, all bundled up against the cold, carrying a big bunch of keys.
The shop was discreet, just a frosted window with the words SECRET TIMES etched on it in powder pink. The little bald bloke hunted through his keys, then squatted down and took the padlock off the roller grille covering the entrance. They waited until he’d unlocked the front door before climbing out of the car and into the cold drizzle.
Inside, Secret Times was lined with videos, DVDs and moulded latex. Mr Bald was in the process of peeling off his coat. ‘We’re no’ open till ten,’ he said, without a smile.
‘Now is that any way to greet a valued customer, Frank?’
‘Eh?’ The man took off his rain-misted glasses, polishing them on the corner of his cardigan, before putting them back on again. ‘Inspector Steel! How nice t’see you again.’ This time he did smile, showing off a huge number of perfect white teeth, as if they’d come out of a packet. He cast a quick look at Logan, then back to Steel, lowering his voice to a stage whisper: ‘I’ve no’ got that thing in for you yet. They say it’s still out of stock.’
Steel shook her head. ‘I’m no’ here about that, Frank. I need to know if you’ve seen this bloke.’ She waited for Logan to pull out a copy of the e-fit picture – baseball cap, round face, glasses, huge moustache, goatee beard.
The bald man took the picture and frowned at it. ‘Fit’s he done?’
‘None of your business. Recognize him? He’ll be one of the BDSM crowd.’
Frank peered some more then handed it back. ‘Nope. But we get a few of them in here; you want I should ask around?’
‘Couldn’t hurt.’ She turned to leave then froze on the doorstep, turning back. ‘And try lighting a fire under your supplier, eh? I’m in my sexual prime here, no point wasting it, is there?’
They tried the other licensed sex shops in Aberdeen, then had to make a last-minute dash back to FHQ for a meeting Steel had forgotten about with the Detective Chief Superintendent in charge of CID. ‘If anyone asks,’ she said, jumping out of the car, ‘we were detained questioning a suspect, OK?’ And then she was gone, scurrying into the building, complaining about not having time for a cigarette all the way.
Logan parked the car.
Up in the incident room, things carried on as normal – occasional telephone calls from public-spirited idiots claiming to have seen a blue Volvo estate, others who said they knew who the man in the e-fit was, some with alternative IDs for Jason Fettes, and a couple who actually claimed to have seen him shopping in Boots that morning. Even though he was still lying in a refrigerated drawer down in the morgue.
Logan sat with the admin officer, a skeletally thin woman in her mid-forties, going through the reams of actions churned out by the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, and assigning them to the available officers. After that he went through the progress reports. And then, with nothing else needing his attention, wandered off to the archives to see how Jackie was getting on. Only she wasn’t there.
Up at the reception desk, Big Gary looked at him as if he’d been dropped on his head as a child. ‘She’s in court, you idiot – they’ve got that special hearing thing for Macintyre.’
‘Sodding hell.’ He’d forgotten all about it.
‘If you hurry, you can still go cheer on your beloved.’ Gary dunked a KitKat in his huge mug of tea, then sooked off the melted chocolate. ‘Eric says she’s next up.’
Court One was a lot busier than normal – the public galleries crammed with people here to see Sandy Moir-Farquharson trying to get Rob Macintyre off with rape. The place always made Logan think of a converted cinema: magnolia walls, balcony and stalls, the screen replaced by a tall wooden platform topped with pillars and a portico, and above all that the royal coat of arms keeping watch over the proceedings. Even if it was covered with elastic bands, presumably pinged up from the floor below when the court was empty and no one was watching. An oval podium sat in front of the bench, the court clerk and his assistant on one side facing the unwashed masses, the prosecution and defence on the other – looking up at the Sheriff in his robes and silk drop.
Normally all this would have been done in a little room round the back, behind closed doors, but the defence had requested a hearing in open court and to everyone’s surprise Sheriff McRitchie had agreed. According to station gossip it had something to do with his being a lifelong Dons fan in search of an extra season ticket.
Hissing Sid was in full flow as Logan sneaked in the back doors and found a seat at the end of a row, right behind DC Rennie. The constable was wearing his ‘court appearance’ suit – the one that always made him look like the accused, rather than a police witness.
Logan inched forward and whispered in Rennie’s ear: ‘How’s it going?’
The constable turned and gave him a pained look. ‘Not good. I thought Insch was going to tear Hissing Sid a new one when he started banging on about police bias and harassment.’
Logan pointed at the dock where Jackie glowered down at Sandy the Snake as he postured and played to the court. ‘How’s she doing?’
‘Well … she’s not hit anyone yet.’
‘Oh.’
‘So, you see, Milord,’ said the lawyer with a flourish, ‘every time Grampian Police have investigated my client they have been forced to drop the charges, because the malicious claims of these women have been proven groundless. My client is an irritation to Inspector Insch and his ilk: an innocent man they can’t “fit up” with—’
The prosecution was on her feet like a shot. ‘Milord – I must object!’
Sandy didn’t even wait for the Sheriff to rule on it, just smiled his oily smile and apologized. ‘I merely meant that while we all have our crosses to bear, Grampian Police seem to have their axe to grind …’
Logan scanned the court. It didn’t take long to make out the huge, angry figure of DI Insch, looking as if his head was about to explode. He was going to be a nightmare to deal with after this. Rachael Tulloch – the deputy fiscal left in charge while the PF was off sunning herself on a beach in the Seychelles – wasn’t looking any happier, sitting at the central desk next to the prosecution scribbling furiously while Moir-Farquharson put on his one-man show.
The lawyer held up a clear plastic evidence pouch so everyone could see the contents. ‘Can you identify this item, Constable Watson?’
Jackie nodded. ‘It’s the knife Macintyre attacked me with.’
The lawyer smiled. ‘That would be for a jury to decide, Constable. You say he attacked you with this knife, but your labs couldn’t find a single fingerprint from my client on it. Could they?’
‘He was wearing gloves.’
‘So you have no proof at all that this knife belongs to my client, or that he’d ever used it?’
‘He attacked—’
‘Please answer the question, Constable.”
‘We … we have no empiric evidence, but—’
‘You have no evidence.’ He turned and faced the Sheriff, smiling up at the man. ‘they have no evidence, Milord. My client was out jogging in preparation for tomorrow’s match against Falkirk and stopped this woman to ask for directions. She attacked him.’
‘That’s a load of—’
‘Constable!’ Sheriff McRitchie waggled his gavel at her. ‘I will not warn you again!’
Jackie shut her mouth and seethed.
‘Thank you, Milord. You assaulted Mr Macintyre, didn’t you, Constable Watson? Even after you had nearly crippled him, cracked two of his teeth, and had him handcuffed on the ground – you assaulted him!’
‘Boll…’ she stopped herself. ‘I restrained him: that was all!’
‘You kicked him in the ribs, it’s in the photographs!’ Hissing Sid held the glossy eight-by-tens up as proof.
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