Insch strode down Queen Street, coming back from the Sheriff Court, face set in an ugly line, his huge, fat body barely shielded from the rain by a massive golf umbrella. Someone stepped out in front of him — thin, bearded, glasses, looking furious — and the inspector paused, then grabbed the man by the arm and steered him in through the main doors to FHQ. Logan caught, ‘It’s him isn’t it? Why the hell are you letting him go? What’s wrong with you people-’ before the doors shut.
Steel stayed outside to finish her fag while Logan hurried in out of the rain to make sure everything was ready for the briefing, keeping his head down as he passed Insch and the angry man, not wanting to get involved. Ignoring the inspector as he promised to put Macintyre away for a long, long time.
Four o’clock and the briefing room was full of men and women in uniform, a handful of detective constables in suits, and an overweight detective sergeant eating cheese and onion crisps. There was still no sign of DI Steel so Logan did the roll call. Then the introduction. Then the background. He was just launching into the CCTV footage when she turned up with the Assistant Chief Constable in tow. Trying not to look as pissed off as he felt, Logan got one of the CID blokes to turn off the lights. ‘Right,’ he said, pressing play as Steel and the ACC found seats, ‘this was taken at twelve minutes past ten last night.’
The large screen behind his head flickered and the entrance to Accident and Emergency appeared. An ambulance sat in front of the doors, lights off and nobody home. Then a ratty old Volvo estate shuddered to a halt, half mounting the kerb, the driver an indistinct blob behind the steering wheel. The blob unclipped its seatbelt, wrenched the door open and leapt out of the car. Logan hit pause and everything stopped. ‘Blue jeans, black trainers, grey hooded top, dark green baseball cap.’ The face was invisible, hidden in the cap’s shadow.
‘The car’s number plate’s been purposely obscured — probably with electrical tape — so all we have is make and model. I’ve put out a lookout request for a blue or green Volvo estate: the details are in your briefing packs.’ He paused and looked around the room, trying to make eye-contact with as many people as possible. ‘The backseat’s soaked in blood, so the killer will either try to hide the vehicle, or get rid of it. We need to find it first!’
He pressed play again and the hooded figure sprinted round the front of the Volvo, opened the rear passenger door, and dragged the dying man from the back seat. Then jumped back into the car and got the hell out of there.
‘This,’ said Logan as the picture became a fuzz of static and white lines, ‘is the camera at the security barriers …’ The screen settled into a shot of a bright orange booth with a uniformed old man in it, reading a newspaper. He looked up, smiled and waved as the Volvo slowed down. The driver wound down his or her window and slipped the ticket into the machine. A brief pause, the barrier slid up, the Volvo drove off, and the guard went back to his paper.
‘So we have a witness. If you turn to the back of your pack, you’ll find an e-fit.’ Logan switched off the video and clicked on the projector. Behind him a computer-generated identikit picture sprang onto the screen: round face, big moustache, glasses and a neatly trimmed goatee. ‘According to our security guard the suspect has an Irish accent-’ A uniformed constable stuck up her hand. ‘Yes?’
‘Northern or southern Irish?’
‘He says it was like that thick priest on Father Ted, so southern. Our suspect was calm enough to exchange a few words about the weather, even though he’s just dumped someone who’s bleeding to death outside A amp;E.’
Logan hit the button and the e-fit disappeared, replaced with a post mortem photo of the dead man’s face. ‘This is our victim. And this is what the killer did to him …’ Click — and everyone in the room squirmed.
Logan worked his way to the end of the briefing, finishing up with everyone’s teams and assignments, then DI Steel creaked to her feet and told them all the Assistant Chief Constable wanted a word. ‘Now then,’ said the ACC, going for a friendly smile, ‘as you know, the health of our officers is of primary importance to us all …’
When at long last everyone was gone, Steel slumped into a chair at the front of the room, head back, groaning at the flickering fluorescent lights. ‘God, that man’s hard work.’
‘I had to start without you.’
Steel nodded. ‘I saw. Well done you. Top of the class. I would’ve been on time, but the rotten sod was hanging about outside the women’s toilets. Pervert. Had to tell him what we were up to.’ She worked a hand under her jacket and fiddled about in her armpit. ‘Concerned about the health of their officers … If they think I’m going to take part in their stupid “Fit Like” programme they can kiss my sharny arse!’
Logan finished tidying up. ‘Where do you want to start?’
Steel checked her watch, thought about it, then said, ‘A large white wine. And some chips. And some fags. Nearly knocking off time.’
‘But-’
‘Look, the papers will run the victim’s photo and the killer’s e-fit tomorrow. All the dentists’ surgeries will be closed by now so we can’t start searching dental records. We’re no’ going to get an ID tonight. The only thing left to do is get the incident room set up, and the admin officer can do that. You and me are going for a pint.’
‘But-’
‘That’s an order, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Archibald Simpson’s used to be a bank before it became a pub. A huge granite edifice on the east end of Union Street, complete with Corinthian pillars, portico, ornate ceiling, shiny brass fittings, chandeliers, and cheap beer. Being just round the corner from FHQ it was the standard police drinking hole after a hard day’s sodding about in the rain.
Steel made Logan get the first round in, taking her usual seat in the aisle just off the main banking floor, in the corner, under the television. One large white wine, two portions of chips, and a pint of Stella. What he really wanted was to go home and get some sleep, but if he did that the inspector would sulk and he’d end up lumbered with all the crappy jobs on the investigation. So he stayed and talked shop, listening to her moan on about her other cases, like the dead tramp they’d found in Duthie Park — natural causes, but no one knew who the hell he was — and the series of housebreakings in Tillydrone, Bridge of Don, and Rosemount. And the man flashing his undercarriage on Guild Street. By the time the chips arrived she was moaning about her girlfriend Susan and how she was always on at her to get a cat, but Steel knew it was just the warm-up act for a baby and she wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment.
They got more drinks and the day-shift started squelching in, the pub slowly filling up with off-duty police men and women. Logan knew most of them by name — well, except for some of the younger ones — but he’d only ever seen one of them naked: PC Jackie Watson, marching towards them, bearing beer, a scowl, and tomato sauce flavour crisps.
She plonked herself down next to Logan and offered the crisps round. ‘Jesus, what a shitty day.’
‘And hello to you too.’ Logan grinned at her: the effects of two pints on a nearly empty stomach. ‘We saw Hissing Sid outside the courthouse.’
Jackie scowled. ‘Little bastard. How come every bloody case he’s involved in has to have a press conference on the steps outside FHQ? You know anyone else who does that?’
Logan shrugged. ‘He’s a media whore.’
‘Aye,’ said Steel, polishing off her drink, ‘he’s a whore, but we’re the ones getting screwed the whole time. Anyone for another?’ She took their orders and stomped off to the bar, leaving Logan and Jackie alone.
‘Can you believe he had the cheek to say I assaulted his rapist bastard client while he was cuffed and on the ground?’ Jackie scowled. ‘And get this — they’re saying he was only out jogging. He approached me to “ask directions”.’ She even made little sarcastic quote-bunnies with her fingers. ‘With a knife. Can you believe that?’
Logan knew better than to say anything, just
sat there and nodded. Letting her rant. ‘And the bloody media! According to them he’s already been found innocent! Bastards. And the bloody search team couldn’t find their arses with both hands and a map. All through Macintyre’s house and not one bloody trophy. No knickers, no jewellery, nothing. Not a bloody thing!’ There was more, but Logan gradually tuned it out. Jackie just needed to let off a bit of steam: get it out of her system.
Jackie was still going strong when DI Steel wobbled back to the table with a handful of glasses. The inspector clinked them down on the tabletop, with an apologetic, ‘I forgot what everyone wanted, so I got whiskies.’
And slowly, but surely, they all got very, very drunk.
5
Wednesday morning’s half-seven briefing was a lot more painful than Tuesday’s, but at least this time Logan got to slouch in a seat at the back of the class, while DI Steel grumbled her hungover way through the day’s assignments, finishing off with a subdued chorus of, ‘We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up!’ The whole team joined in, trying to make Logan’s head split in two.
Three cups of coffee later and he was beginning to feel slightly less terminal, even if he was bored out of his pounding skull. The incident room was busy, everyone still all excited and determined to get a quick result, the walls lined with maps and pin-boards and post mortem photographs. The local papers had been full of speculation about Rob Macintyre, but Steel’s unknown body had still managed to make the front page of the P amp;J. They’d printed the touched-up morgue photo, the killer’s e-fit, and a story that somehow managed to make it all sound like Grampian Police’s fault.
Which wasn’t surprising, considering who wrote it: Colin Miller, the Press and Journal’s star reporter. He certainly knew how to hold a grudge.
Sighing, Logan folded the paper and dumped it in the bin. So far the response had been lack-lustre, only about a dozen people had phoned in claiming to know who the dead man was. No one had recognized the killer yet. But all that would change as soon as the press conference went out on the lunchtime news; then they’d be swamped. Televised appeals always brought the nutters out in droves. Still, you never knew …
‘Hoy, Laz.’
Logan looked up to see a thin man in a sergeant’s uniform and huge Wyatt Earp moustache. Sergeant Eric Mitchell, peering over the top of his glasses and grinning like an idiot. ‘Your “lady friend” about?’
Logan frowned, suspicious. ‘Which one?’
‘Watson, you daft sod. Is she about?’
‘Back shift, won’t be in till two.’
‘Aye, well you might want to tell her to call in sick …’ he tossed a rolled-up copy of the DailyMail onto Logan’s lap, winked, then sauntered off. Whistling happily to himself.
But before Logan could ask what was going on, DI Steel plonked a pile of files on the table in front of him. ‘This bloody thing’s killing me,’ she said, fiddling with her bra strap. ‘Get a couple of uniforms to go through these, OK? See if we can’t find someone on the dodgy bastards list who matches that e-fit. Then you can go chase up that dental records lot.’ She gave up on the strap and started hauling at the underwire. ‘And while you’re at it-’
‘Actually,’ said Logan, cutting her off, ‘I thought I might go out and follow up a couple of those possible IDs for our victim. You know: show willing for the troops.’ Which had the added advantage of getting him away from the inspector before she could think up any more crappy jobs for him to do.
Steel thought about it, head on one side, focusing on a spot between Logan’s ears, as if she was trying to read his brain. ‘OK,’ she said at last, ‘but you can take …’ she did a slow turn, pointing at a constable in the corner, scribbling something up on the incident board, ‘yeah, take Rickards with you. Do the poor wee sod good to see the outside world. Might stop the short-arsed bastard whining for a change. He’s-’
‘Inspector?’ It was the admin officer, waving some more paperwork at them.
‘Oh God,’ Steel groaned and then whispered to Logan, ‘cover for me, will you? I’m dying for a fag.’ She turned and told the admin officer she had an urgent meeting with the ACC to get to, but DS McRae would deal with whatever it was. Then made herself scarce.
With a sigh, Logan accepted the sheets of paper.
He signed for a CID pool car — one of the many scabrous Vauxhalls in the FHQ fleet — and made Constable Rickards drive, so he could slump in the passenger seat and doze. At least he was starting to feel a little better now. After the whisky they’d gone onto vodka, then some weird little bloke had tried to chat Jackie up, and they’d all had a good laugh at him, and then it was more beer, tequila, and then … it was kind of blurry until they were standing outside the kebab shop on Belmont Street. And when they finally got home, Jackie had fallen asleep in the toilet.
Logan ran a hand over his face, stifling a yawn — he was getting too old for this …
Yesterday’s rain had gone, leaving the city sparkling clean. Everything glowed in the light of an unseasonably warm February sun, glinting back from chips of mica trapped in the pale grey granite. Rickards drove them down Union Street, heading for a small semi-detached in Kincorth — a blob of houses on the south-side of the city — and an old woman who claimed to know the dead man from the papers.
‘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.
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