The cathedral car park went straight through to Huntly Street, and so did a small path down the side of the GlobalSantaFe building, but Logan had seen Sean sprinting past them onto Crimon Place, the little eight-year-old’s arms and legs going fifteen to the dozen.
That left the King’s Gate car park at the far end, but there was no way Sean could have got there so fast. He was hiding somewhere.
Gritting his teeth against the stitch in his side, Logan jogged forwards, pulling out his mobile phone to call for backup. It rang and rang and rang …
A drenched, knackered-looking policewoman staggered to a halt at the far end of the street, face flushed, panting and shiny as the rain drummed on her peaked cap and black waterproof jacket.
Still waiting for Control to pick up, Logan shouted, ‘You see him?’
She shook her head. ‘No … not … not a sign … Little bastard can run …’
A voice crackled in his ear — Control telling him the switchboard was buggered and- Logan cut the man off and told him to get a patrol car to Crimon Place right now. Sean Morrison had gone to ground. He snapped his phone shut and started back up the street, yelling, ‘Check the cars!’ to the constable at the far end. He peered underneath and between the vehicles as he went, splashing through puddles, the cold rain bouncing off the road, pavement, BMWs, Porsches, clapped-out Fiestas, Rovers… soaking through Logan’s stained suit, plastering his hair to his head as he searched for the child.
‘There!’ It was the policewoman who spotted him. ‘Behind the skip!’ Sean Morrison — eight years old, four foot two, bloody nose, wearing jeans and a red AFC hooded top — grabbed a length of wooden banister not much smaller than a cricket bat from the debris filling the skip, swinging it as the constable lunged for him, catching her right in the face. She grunted and jack-knifed, both feet leaving the ground as she fell, leaving a spray of bright scarlet hanging in the air, glowing against the low, blue-grey clouds. Logan froze for a moment, and so did Sean, watching as she battered onto the wet tarmac, then the eight-year-old looked up at Logan, turned, and legged it.
For a moment Logan was torn between checking the constable was OK and grabbing the little bastard who’d clobbered her. He sprinted after the boy.
Sean Morrison was fast all right, but his little legs weren’t nearly as long as Logan’s, plus he was still carrying his makeshift club. He made a hard right, skidding on the wet road, trendy trainers sending up a spray of rainwater as he leapt the kerb and hammered round the side of the Boys’ Brigade Battalion with Logan hard on his heels. And then he suddenly stopped, swinging his chunk of banister.
Logan had just enough time to get his arms up, covering his face before the wood cracked into it. But it was still enough to make him stop dead, slipping on the wet ground and hitting it hard as his legs went out from underneath him. The breath rushing out of his lungs, fire screeching across his scarred stomach. And then Sean was swearing, calling him a dirtymotherfuckingcuntbastard as he swung the wooden weapon again, smashing it down on Logan’s back, then more swearing — something about a splinter — and the banister went flying. Smash. A car alarm shredded the rainy air. Then a trainer crashed into the top of Logan’s head. He curled into a ball, protecting his stomach as a foot stomped down on his ribs. Making them creak. The little thug took three steps back, took a run up and slammed another foot into Logan’s back.
Sean was about to do it again, when a pained, angry shout cut across the blaring car alarm: ‘CUMB HERE YOU LIDDLE BASDARD!’
Logan opened his eyes in time to see Sean Morrison turn and begin to run. ‘No you bloody don’t!’ Lashing out with a hand, he grabbed the eight-year-old’s ankle, sending him crashing to the ground. More swearing. Logan lurched upright, staggered sideways and fell against an Alfa Romeo with a smashed front windscreen, clutching his head as the policewoman skidded to a halt. Everything was lurching in and out of focus in time to the ringing in his ears.
The PC’s face was a mess of blood, one eye already swollen shut, her nose flattened and misshapen, scarlet bubbles popping from her nostrils as she grabbed Sean Morrison by the scruff of the neck and hauled him off the ground. ‘You’re fugging nicked!’
She turned, asked Logan if he was OK, then suddenly went very pale. Clatter and Sean Morrison hit the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. The eight-year-old scrambled to his feet as the constable stared open-mouthed at the knife hilt sticking out of her neck, just between the stab-proof vest and her collarbone. Her hands fluttered, bright red spilling down her chest, her eyes locked onto Logan’s, imploring … Then she went down like a sack of tatties.
Logan caught her just in time to stop her head cracking open on the pavement. Easing her down he grabbed the Airwave handset on her shoulder and shouted, ‘Officer down! Corner of Crimon Place and Skene Terrace! Repeat, Officer down!’
He cradled her head in his lap as she twitched and moaned. Fresh blood soaking into his trousers as Sean Morrison ran away.
Four hours later and Logan was standing in Accident and Emergency, getting an update from a male nurse with a hairy mole. The PC was lucky still to be alive, the knife had nicked the brachiocephalic vein — one millimetre to the right and the last sixty seconds of her life would have been sprayed all over the pavement and Logan. She was still critical, but stable.
Outside, the rain had eased up a bit as the day had grown colder, not enough to snow yet, but it’d probably get there soon enough. Logan dug out his phone and switched it back on. Six messages. The first was Jackie trying not to sound worried as she asked about his run-in with Sean Morrison. Then it was Rennie telling him how that missing old-age pensioner they were looking for had being sighted in Turriff, and then Big Gary wanting Logan to keep him up to date with the PC’s condition. Apparently there was still no sign of Sean Morrison. Logan thought about just deleting Steel’s messages, but listened to them anyway:
The first was pretty much her standard whine these days, ‘Bloody ACC’s been down here again! Why haven’t we arrested anyone for Jason Fettes’s death? His bloody parents have been banging their gums in the papers again. Jesus, it’s no’ like we didn’t try, is it? No’ our fault their kid was a dirty bondage boy …’ Some muttered swearing. ‘And why haven’t we caughtanyone for those break-ins yet?’ Whinge, whinge, whinge. ‘Tell you: next time that pointy-headed bastard comes down here I’m going to shove one of Fettes’s butt plugs right down his throat! See how he likes-’ There was more, but Logan just deleted it.
The second message was a bit more up to date, ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at? He was eight! How could you let him get away? What the … Hold on, I’ve got someone on the other line …’ and then silence. Beeeeeeep. New message: ‘Where was I? Oh, aye — Eight! Fuck’s sake …’ Then some coughing. ‘Anyway, the hospital called about the blokeyour wee villain attacked: punctured lung. It’s no’ lookin’ good. I’ve got a press conference set up for quarter to six, so get your arse back to the station!’ Beeeeeeep.
Logan groaned. His head was throbbing, the skin tender and swollen where Sean had kicked it. His ribs ached from being stamped on. His suit was stiff with dried blood. Right now all he wanted to do was go home, take a couple of the pills he’d been given after an embarrassing examination — ‘You were beaten up by an eight-year-old? Seriously? Hey, Maggie, come see this!’ — climb into a long hot shower, curl up and feel sorry for himself until Jackie got back from her shift. And then get her to feel sorry for him too. Instead of which he had to be at a press conference in — he checked his watch — just over half an hour. Muttering curses, Logan slouched back into A amp;E and went in search of one of the PCs stationed at the hospital to give him a lift.
The natives were getting restless as Logan limped into the media briefing room — rows of cameras and hungry faces from the national press, waiting for the main course to get to the table. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ DI Steel: an unlit fag in her mouth, clicking a cheap, petrol station lighter on then o
ff, then on, then off. DC Rennie trailed along behind her like a nervous spaniel.
‘Hospital.’ Logan pointed at the inspector’s cigarette. ‘They’ll throw a fit if you light up in here.’
‘Jerry Bloody Cochrane — silly sod went and died on us, so now every bastard under the sun wants to know what we’re going to do about it.’ She pulled the cigarette from her mouth and stuffed it back in the packet. Then took it out again. ‘Shite — why the hell did I have to get this sodding case, why couldn’t Fatty Insch have it instead? He should be used to PR disasters by now. I don’t need any more horrible cases …’ she trailed off as she finally noticed Logan’s suit and shirt were clarted in dried blood. ‘Oh fucking hell! Could you no’ have changed? We’re on in seven minutes!’
‘I was at the hospital!’
‘Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck …’ She screwed her face up, then stared at DC Rennie. ‘Right, the pair of you: find somewhere quiet and swap clothes. You’re both about the same size.’ Rennie opened his mouth to complain, but the inspector beat him to it. ‘NOW!’
There was no one in interview room number three so they used that — Logan grimacing his way out of his shirt, jacket and trousers while Rennie stripped down to his Fred Flintstone boxer shorts, took one look at Logan’s bruised ribs and scar spangled stomach and said, ‘Bloody hell — you look terrible.’
Logan couldn’t muster up the energy to scowl at him. ‘Thanks a heap.’
He got back to the briefing room with thirty seconds to spare and limped up to DI Steel. ‘Happy now?’ he asked, making it clear that he wasn’t. If he sat down too quickly, there was every chance he and his borrowed trousers were going to part company. She gave him a quick once-over.
‘You’ll do. But could you no’ have combed your hair? You look like a burst bloody mattress.’ Which was rich coming from her. Logan did his best with his fingers. Steel nodded. ‘Better. Did you get-’ The doors at the far end of the room banged open and the Chief Constable marched in. ‘Oh bollocks — God’s here.’ Deep breath. ‘Right, remember: we are not at home to Mr Fuck-up …’
The table was longer than usual, set up so there’d be room for a Family Liaison officer and a pale, sixty-eight-year-old woman with puffy red eyes and trembling hands: Mrs Cochrane, the victim’s wife. Logan waited for her to sit down before taking his place next to DI Steel, lowering himself carefully into his chair, trying not to aggravate his bruised ribs or split Rennie’s trousers.
‘Right,’ the Chief Constable stood, his silver hair glowing like a shampoo commercial in the bright television lights, ‘before we start today I want to make one thing crystal clear: Mrs Cochrane has had a terrible shock today. She’s lost her husband of nearly fifty years. She’s here because she wants to help us catch those responsible. But the first person I hear making inappropriate comments or asking tactless questions is going to get thrown out on their ear and barred. Do I make myself clear?’ There was an uncomfortable silence. The CC nodded. ‘Good.’ And sat down again.
‘Today, at eleven minutes past twelve a pregnant woman shopping in the St Nicholas Centre was accosted by a gang of children, ranging from six to nine years old. They tried to steal her purse, but she resisted, so they subjected her to a vicious assault. Mr Cochrane went to intervene on her behalf …’
Logan didn’t need to listen to the rest, he’d been one of the first ones on the scene — having nipped out to buy a sandwich and bag of crisps from Markies for lunch. Hearing the screams, running through the jumpers and trousers into the shopping centre, just in time to see Sean Morrison help himself to the old man’s wallet and scarper. Calling for backup, running over to the victim, trying to staunch the bleeding. Telling the store detectives to keep pressure on the knife wound till the ambulance got there, then chasing after the little bastards. And not catching them.
He listened to Mrs Cochrane make an impassioned plea for anyone who knew where her husband’s killers were to come forward and tell the police, tears sparking in the harsh media spotlight, running down her pale, lined cheeks. And then the Chief Constable thanked her for her bravery and threw the briefing open to questions.
Mostly it was the usual: ‘Do you have any suspects?’ ‘Are you anticipating any arrests?’ Then the woman from Sky News asked the Chief Constable about the trial of Iain Watt: was he going to be charged with the other rapes supposedly committed by Rob Macintyre?
The Chief Constable glowered at her — the ‘Granite City Rapist’, as the papers had started calling Watt, was a something of a sore point. And with that, the press briefing was brought to an abrupt close.
13
The sun was hot enough to turn the car into a microwave oven, but when Logan clambered out into the late February morning it was so cold his nipples instantly pointed due north. His back was killing him: the bruises where Sean Morrison had kicked and battered him spreading like green and purple ink on wet blotting paper. King’s Gate stretched downhill from the King’s Cross roundabout on Anderson Drive to where they used to film The Beechgrove Garden, and the view from the top of the hill was stunning — a slice of Aberdeen: grey granite shining in the sunshine, dark slate roofs, church spires, the North Sea glittering like a vast, deep-blue sapphire, a neon-orange supply vessel slowly making its way south towards the harbour. Just a shame it was bloody freezing.
‘Jesus Effing Christ!’ DI Steel stamped her feet, swore, dug out a cigarette and lit it, the smoke whipped away by the icy wind. ‘My fridge is warmer than this!’
Logan ignored her, looking down the street at the Morrison residence — a large granite two-storey job with a huge BMW 4x4 sitting outside. Not exactly the type of place you’d expect a nasty, thieving, murderous little bastard like Sean Morrison to come from. Parked cars lined either side of the road — many of them containing bored-looking journalists, cameras and notebooks at the almost ready. No one seemed to have noticed that the inspector and Logan had arrived yet. ‘You want me to get started?’ he asked, one hand rubbing the small of his aching back. The painkillers they’d given him last night were about a fifth of the strength he was used to — might as well have been Smarties for all the good they were doing. At least they would have tasted better.
Steel shivered, hands jammed deep into her armpits, puffing away on her cigarette like mad. ‘Give us a minute … I only get one fag this morning and I’m going to bloody well enjoy it if it kills me.’
Logan sighed and made a show of checking his watch. ‘Nearly half eight — we’re going to have to get a shift on if we’re going to make the PM.’
‘Nicotine patches my arse …’ The inspector squinted into the bright sunshine ‘Anyway, think I’m going to give this one a miss. Not like we don’t know what killed the old guy, is it?’
‘Suppose not.’ He watched the bright orange supply boat disappear behind the tombstone slab of St Nicholas House. ‘What do you want to do about Jason Fettes?’
‘What about him? The whole bloody thing’s dead in the water. No one’s got any idea who did it, and no one cares either. Except the bloody parents and those fuckers at the P amp;J.’ Colin Miller leading another ‘campaign for justice’ as an excuse to give Grampian Police an extra kicking. The inspector scowled, cigarette smouldering away between her lips. ‘We’ve got no evidence, no witnesses and no bloody clue.’
‘I know, but you’re supposed to do an update for the ACC today, remember?’
‘Is that today?’ Steel swore. ‘Tell you, between that, this thing, and those bloody housebreakings, my crime statistics look sodding awful. Still,’ the cigarette was flicked out into the middle of the road, where it got crushed beneath the wheels of a number twenty-three bus, ‘at least we’re guaranteed a quick result this time.’
Logan had heard that one before.
They marched down the pavement, making for the Morrisons’ front door where a lone uniformed officer stood looking cold and miserable. They were still one house away when a baldy wee man appeared in front of them, clutching a digital record
er. ‘Ken Inglis — Radio Scotland. Inspector, have you found the boy yet?’ It was as if someone had dropped a dead zebra in a tank of piranha: as soon they smelled blood there were reporters everywhere.
‘No’ yet,’ said Steel in a sudden barrage of camera flashes. ‘But we are pursuing several lines of enquiry. Now if you’ll excuse-’
‘ITN News: is it true Morrison’s been in trouble with the police before?’
‘I really can’t comment on any-’
‘Has Constable Nairn recovered consciousness yet?’
‘Joanna Calder — Guardian: How worried are you for the boy’s safety?’
Steel gave the uniformed PC guarding the Morrisons’ house a wave and he shambled into action, forcing his way through the cameras and questions, holding them back and keeping them there, so Logan and Steel could get to the front door. Right at the very edge of the pack, dour-faced civilians stood, glowering after them. None of them carried placards yet, but it would only be a matter of time.
Logan leaned on the bell.
Inside, chez Morrison was like an advert for furniture polish. Everything gleamed. Logan stood by the fire, roasting the backs of his legs, while Steel sat on the couch, working her way through a china mug of tea and a couple of digestive biscuits. Mrs Morrison was on the other sofa looking plump, startled and a lot older than she should have at thirty-two, while her husband paced, wringing his hands, flipping from worried to angry to apologetic and back again. ‘Sean’s never done anything like this before!’ he said, and the inspector snorted.
‘I should bloody hope not! Knifing seventy-year-old men and police officers isn’t something you want becoming a habit.’
Logan tried a slightly less confrontational approach. ‘And Sean’s not been home since yesterday?’
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