The girls exchanged a look. ‘Aye, well,’ said one, ‘it’s no’ easy celebratin’ life wi’ a dildo up yer—’
‘Ragnarok,’ said Insch, his deep bass rumble echoing off the bare warehouse walls, ‘is an event, not a place.’
The sound man looked up, saw them standing there, then bonked the director on the shoulder with his boom mike. ‘You got visitors.’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake!’ Zander threw his hands in the air. ‘This is a closed set! You’re not supposed to be in here!’ He stopped and stared at Logan. ‘Do I know you?’
Insch nodded. ‘Show the nice man your warrant card, Sergeant.’
Zander snapped his fingers. ‘Of course – you were with that inspector woman, weren’t you: ugly, wrinkled old boot, thought erotic films were beneath her. You here about my breakin this time?’ The director stuck out his hand to Insch. ‘Zander Clark, with a Z.’ Logan had been right: the director wasn’t quite as big as the inspector, but it was close. Without the beard, hair and glasses they’d be very fat, pink, peas in a pod.
Insch took his hand and squeezed, making the man wince. ‘We need to talk to you about some of your employees.’
‘Oh, right …’ Zander retrieved his hand and stuck it under his arm, before turning and shouting back at the set, ‘Take ten, people. You’re doing great today!’ He sounded a lot more convincing than Insch had last night with his theatre crowd. ‘Honestly,’ said Zander, dropping his voice as the ladies on the bed unplugged themselves and climbed into fluffy pink dressing gowns, ‘it’s like juggling cats some days.’
Insch nodded. ‘I know what you mean. And I’ll bet half of them can’t remember their bloody lines either.’
Zander smiled, hooked his arm through Insch’s and led him over to a trestle table with thermos flasks, pastries and sandwiches on it. ‘God, if I had a pound for every time I’ve had to re-shoot a scene because of that! The only things they get even vaguely right are “ooh” and “ahh” and “harder!” Try getting them to say anything more complicated and you’re at it all day. Are you in the arts, Inspector?’
‘Local stuff. Mostly musicals. A bit of pantomime, I—’
‘That’s it!’ He slapped Insch on the back. ‘I knew I’d seen you somewhere before: two years ago – Aladdin. You were Evil Uncle Abanaza. Brilliant.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t—’
‘Just you stop right there! You brought an emotional resonance to the role, and that’s not easy with the little buggers in the audience shouting, “He’s behind you!” the whole time.’
Logan wandered off before they could start discussing motivation and method acting: panto versus porn.
The cast and crew had split up: the sound, camera, make-up and lighting people hanging out in one of the fake cabins while the actors went round the back to smoke cigarettes and talk about EastEnders. He tried them first. ‘Excuse me.’
The Viking ladies turned to him in unison. Up close it was easy to see the layers of foundation hiding bad skin, the slightly squint features. Pale, plain women done up to look like something they weren’t. And Mr Orange Boiler Suit wasn’t exactly an oil painting either. ‘Sorry, darlin’,’ said Gemma, flicking a chunk of ash off the end of her fag, ‘we’re kinda workin’ right now, so we canna do the whole fan thing. OK?’
Logan pulled out his warrant card again. ‘Coincidence: I’m working too.’
The girls took a step back, but Mr Boiler Suit squared his shoulders – he couldn’t have been much over five foot three, but Logan supposed ‘height’ wasn’t the measurement they’d hired him for. Not standing up anyway. Boiler Suit scowled. ‘You heard her, we’re working!’ He flexed his muscles and gave Logan his best hard-man impersonation. ‘Now clear off out of it!’
Logan stared at him, until the man looked away, then shuffled backwards to stand with the Vikings. ‘You recognize any of these men?’ Logan handed over the three screenshots from Jason’s porn collection.
‘Hey,’ said the man, peering at one, then flipping it over, reading the film name off the back, ‘this is me! Wow … Claire, you remember Cumlamity Jane?’
Claire groaned. ‘Fastest Dildo In The West: couldnae walk straight for a week!’ Boiler Suit handed over the printout and she laughed. ‘You used to be such a porker, Brian!’
Logan checked the e-fit – without the extra weight round the face he looked nothing like the man in the picture. But Logan asked him where he was the night Fettes died anyway.
‘Eurodisney. Two weeks with the girlfriend and her kid. Pissed down the whole time.’ It’d be easy enough to check.
‘And what about the other two?’
Gemma ID’d the man in From Rubber With Love: ‘Frank Garvie – I think he’s somethin’ in computers now … Oh and this een,’ she held up the last printout, ‘Mat McEwan, he’s deid. Took an overdose at Christmas. Shame, he was nice.’
Logan thanked them for their time, then went and asked the camera crew the same questions, just in case, but the stars seemed to be telling the truth. Insch and Zander were laughing about something when Logan got back to the food table, both of them drinking coffee and stuffing their faces with Danish pastries. ‘You see,’ said the director in a shower of pastry flakes, ‘it’s all about challenging expectations. It doesn’t have to just be sex, sex, sex – there should be a real emotional message to it as well. It has to have some heart! That’s why I don’t do gonzo films. No freak sex, nothing that degrades women, no violence,’ another bite, ‘OK, there’s a bit of spanking in the bondage stuff, but it’s all safe, consensual, and straight.’
Insch opened his mouth, but Logan butted in before he could say anything. ‘What about James Bondage: the nun with the strap-on?’
‘Oh, please, that’s straight. Kinky, but straight. I don’t do gay porn.’
‘No? What about the two girls then? Your Vikings.’
Zander smiled indulgently, patting Logan on the shoulder. ‘Girl-on-girl isn’t gay, it’s erotic.’
‘Yes … well … I’ve identified the guys from Fettes’s porn collection: one’s dead, one’s here, and the other quit the business about a year ago.’
Zander peered at the screenshot. ‘Oh, Frank. Yes… got performance anxiety after a while. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was floppy. Works for an IT company in the Bridge of Don now. Used to do our website. I’ve got his business card around here somewhere if it helps?’ Insch told him that it would, and the director led them back through to the reception area, copying Garvie’s home and work addresses down onto a compliments slip. ‘Look, I’ve got to get back to it, but before you go,’ Zander rummaged about in a cardboard box under the desk, coming out with a DVD. ‘Crocodildo Dundee, my masterpiece. I’d really like to know what you think. It’s so nice to actually talk to someone about the art for a change.’
He showed them to the front door, shook Insch’s hand, then did the same with Logan, winking as he did. ‘Remember, Sergeant: kinky, but straight.’
19
Insch made Logan drive: he was too busy reading the blurb on the back of his new DVD. ‘You know,’ he said as Logan wrestled the Range Rover through the Sunday lunchtime traffic, ‘I always wanted to work in films. OK, maybe not this kind of thing, but proper movies with cameras and lights and clapperboards …’
Logan had never heard the huge man sigh wistfully before. ‘You not think he’s a bit suspect?’ he asked, edging out into the traffic on King Street, ‘Everything he does has anal sex and dildos in it. He’s obsessed.’
‘So?’
‘Jason Fettes: internal bleeding, torn sphincter, prolapse … ?’ He squeezed in between a bus and a filthy grey lorry. ‘Plus when Steel and I asked him if he could identify Fettes’s photo he didn’t ask “what’s he done”?’
Insch frowned, then rummaged about in the glove compartment, letting loose an avalanche of sweetie wrappers. ‘Not everyone asks.’ He popped a toffee into his mouth. ‘You’ve been hanging round with DI Steel for too long. It’s rotted y
our brain.’
There was no response at Frank Garvie’s flat, so they tried his work address instead. Aberdeen Science and Technology Park sat in a little belt of green, surrounded by trees, in the Bridge of Don, the car parks virtually empty except for a handful of vehicles and a family of deer grazing on the grass verges. Garvie’s office was a couple of rooms in a wing of Davidson House, a starfish-shaped building at the furthest end of Campus One. He didn’t look much like a porn star – balding, slightly podgy, clean shaven, shirt and tie. No sign of the raven-and-skull-tattooed backside Logan had seen bobbing about in From Rubber With Love. It wasn’t that kind of office.
Everyone else was away for lunch, so they had the room to themselves: a collection of cubicles decorated with plants, plastic Darth Vaders, and Dilbert cartoons. The blinds drawn to keep the low sun from glaring back off the computer screens. Garvie’s smile was nervous as the inspector lowered himself into one of the office chairs and made a show of looking round the room. ‘So: not in the porn business any more then?’
‘Er … no … And I’d rather people didn’t know about it, OK? I’ve got a good job here.’
‘In IT.’
‘The money’s a lot better, I get overtime on the weekends. And… well, you know…’
Insch just sat and stared at him, letting the silence grow. It didn’t take long before Garvie felt uncomfortable enough to start talking again. ‘I couldn’t do it, OK? Get an erection. I couldn’t get it up. You try screwing two women in front of half a dozen people, with cameras and sound men and someone shouting instructions the whole time – it’s not easy.’ He folded his arms, bit his bottom lip, then said, ‘Plus there … Look, it …’ An embarrassed cough. ‘You’ve heard of gay-for-pay, yeah? Well … I was the other way round.’
‘And no one else knows.’
Garvie hung his head, mumbling, ‘A couple of friends. Not my parents or the guys I work with. So … I’d rather you didn’t …’ He shrugged. ‘You know.’
‘Don’t worry, sir, we’re the soul of discretion. Aren’t we, Sergeant?’
That meant it was Logan’s turn: ‘Where were you on Monday night, four weeks ago?’
‘Four weeks? Erm …’ He checked his Star Trek calendar. ‘At home? I think? Monday I usually go out role-playing, but I was in bed with something.’
Insch smiled. ‘And does “something” have a name?’
Garvie blushed. ‘There wouldn’t be any point … I still can’t …’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m impotent.’ Staring hard at Captain Kirk fighting Spock in some sort of arena.
‘I see. And is there anyone who can confirm that you were in bed, alone?’
‘Not unless my cat counts. What am I supposed to have done?’
‘Do you know a Mr Jason Fettes?’
Garvie didn’t even take time to think about it: ‘No.’
‘Really?’ Logan held up one of Fettes’ DVDs. ‘That’s funny because he was in From Rubber With Love too. See?’
‘Well,’ Garvie kept his eyes on Kirk and Spock, ‘with films you don’t always get to meet everyone who—’
‘You did a double entry with him and a girl called “Misty”. He was on the bottom. So to speak.’
Silence. ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
Insch found an open packet of Skittles on the desk and helped himself. ‘Tough.’
‘He …’ Deep breath. ‘Look, I’m really not comfortable discussing this, OK? I mean, I saw that thing in the papers—’
‘But you didn’t come forward and tell us who he was?’
‘I wanted to … but …’
Silence.
Dark circles were beginning to form beneath Garvie’s arms, the smell of secondhand curry oozing out of him like a malodorous fog. Fidgeting in his seat, he stared up at the ceiling tiles, then down at his hands, then back to his Star Trek calendar again. Anything to avoid making eye-contact with DI Insch or Logan. He couldn’t have looked more guilty if he’d tried.
‘I… I didn’t think it would make any difference …’ Garvie ran a hand over his damp forehead, then wiped it dry on his trouser leg. ‘We worked together a couple of times, that’s all.’
‘And did you ever see him socially?’
Squirm. ‘I … no … well … ehm …’ His cheeks bright red. ‘We… he…’ Gulp. ‘We met at a couple of … parties.’
‘What kind of parties?’
‘BDSM … BDSM parties.’
Insch frowned. ‘What the hell is a—’
Logan answered that one for him, ‘Bondage, domination and sadomasochism. Far as we can tell Fettes was pretty active in the scene.’
There was an uncomfortable pause, then Garvie cleared his throat, fidgeted some more, and finally said, ‘When I started having… problems, I … well … sometimes it helped. The … it’s not …’ He gave up. ‘We used to go to parties in Ellon, or Cults. Westhill a couple of times. They’d have a Black Room, usually just a bedroom you know, with beanbags and stuff? The windows taped over, no lights. I had this sweet dark red, full-body rubber suit, custom made – a Kastley, top of the range … Doesn’t fit any more …’ Garvie paused and took a deep breath. ‘It’s meant to be anonymous, but I knew what Jason … Sometimes he and I …’ he trailed off and shrugged.
‘You’re saying Jason was gay.’
Garvie almost laughed. ‘It’s not like that. Gay, straight … it’s … it’s not like that. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘So you and Jason would meet up at bondage parties and have sex. Why did you tell us you’d never met him?’
‘Why do you think? I never hurt him, OK?’
Logan leant across the desk and laid an understanding hand on Garvie’s arm. ‘Not even if he asked you to? Wanted you to be his “top”? Is that what happened, Frank? Did he ask you to hurt him and it just got out of hand?’
‘No! See: I knew you’d do this! I didn’t do that to him.’
‘Accidents happen, Frank. We can understand that.’
‘It wasn’t me! I’ve not seen Jason for over a month!’
‘He died four weeks ago.’
Garvie shoved his chair back and lurched to his feet. ‘IT WASN’T ME!’
‘Calm down, Frank—’
‘You can’t pin this on me! I didn’t do anything!’ He wiped the sweat from his face. ‘It’s not fair!’
‘Not fair?’ Insch turned on him, ‘I’ll tell you what’s not bloody fair – a young man lying in the morgue while some sick bastard gets away with murder. THAT’S not fair!’
Garvie backed away, trembling. ‘I want a lawyer.’
‘I’ll bet you do. Sergeant, escort Mr Garvie to the car please. We’re going for a little ride.’
They put Garvie in the back of Insch’s Range Rover and stuck the child locks on, the inspector driving them back into town while Logan rode with the ex-porn star. Making sure he didn’t get up to anything. The sky had darkened – wind whipping white froth off the steel-grey North Sea, as they took the Beach Esplanade.
A handful of hardy souls were out braving the elements with their dogs, marching along the top path, their coat-tails whipping about their legs. The Kings Links golf course was nearly deserted, and so was the road, just the clump and bump of potholes and the occasional whimper from their ‘guest’. The man was terrified, hunched up and trembling, eyes darting left and right, sweat beading on his forehead. Not big on small talk.
‘You know,’ said Logan, trying again, ‘it doesn’t have to be this hard, Frank, all you need to do is talk to us. OK?’
Garvie inched away from him until he was hard against the other door without so much as a word. Logan sighed and watched the scenery go by instead, looking down the embankment at the side of the road as the golf course gave way to a driving range. There was a dilapidated old pitch-and-put between there and the road: a manky collection of four rusty white anchors and some little concrete lumps, all glowing in a shaft of golden sunlight. A wee boy was whacking a golf ball about on the patchy
grass, completely oblivious to the brooding clouds and howling wind. Logan envied him, it would be nice to be that innocent again and un—‘Stop the car!’
Insch didn’t need to be told twice: he slammed on the brakes. The Range Rover screeched to a halt and Logan yanked the door handle. Nothing happened. ‘Bloody child locks!’
‘What the hell is going—’
‘Let me out!’
‘Sergeant?’
Logan mashed his thumb down on the electric window button, sticking his hand through the gap and opening the door from the outside. Insch unbuckled himself, shouting, ‘What’s wrong?’ as Logan leapt from the car and started running hell for leather down the steep slope towards the large white-painted anchor that marked the northern edge of the pitch-and-put course, yelling back over his shoulder: ‘It’s Morrison! Call for backup!’
He nearly lost it jumping over a gorse bush, slithering on the grass on the other side, just managing to stay upright by flailing his arms in circles. The kid had his back to Logan – completely oblivious – bent over his putter, trying to get his ball into a two-foot length of ancient drainpipe. He looked up at the last moment, just as Logan barrelled into him, sending them both crashing to the ground. The wee boy screamed as Logan pushed his face into the damp grass and dragged the handcuffs out, breathing hard. ‘Sean Morrison … I’m arresting you … for the murder of Jerry Cochrane—’
Someone was shouting in the background.
‘—and the attempted murder of PC Jess Nairn. Hold still! You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention—’
Angry voices getting closer. Sean struggling beneath him. Logan put his knee in the small of the child’s back. Trying not to take too much satisfaction from the yelp of pain. That would teach him to go kicking policemen in the head.
‘—when questioned something you later rely on in court—’
‘GET OFF HIM!’
‘—Anything you do say will be given in evidence.’ Logan pulled out his warrant card and flashed it at the furious-looking man running across the pitch-and-put course, an angry woman following close behind. ‘Police – stay back everything’s under—’ A fist connected with his cheekbone, snapping his head round. Logan crashed into the grass, struggling to get up as the man leapt on him. Another fist caught him on the side of the head. The world roared in his ears, and the sound of a woman screaming something.
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