Sean screamed.
‘Come back here, you little bugger!’ The PC yanked Sean back into the garden. They went down in a tangle of limbs and swearing. Then a loud yelp, and the PC let go, holding his left wrist in his right hand, staring at the gash across his palm. Fresh blood glowed neon-red in the security spotlight. ‘Aaaaagh!’
Sean scrambled away, swearing, crying, holding a glittering kitchen knife. Staring at the PC, then up at Logan as a policewoman cleared the wall, crashed into a decorative border and went sprawling across the lawn. The eight-year-old murderer snarled, waved the knife and backed against the fence, eyes darting round the garden. ‘Fuckers! Fucking bastard fuckers!’
A window opened at the back of the house and an old man stuck his head out, yelling that he was calling the police.
‘It’s over, Sean.’ Logan put on his understanding, approachable voice. ‘Come on, put the knife down. I know you don’t want to hurt anyone else.’
‘Fucking KILL YOU!’ Tears ran down his cheeks, a silvery trail heading south from both nostrils. Bottom lip trembling. ‘Kill you …’
Behind him, Logan could hear the policewoman groaning to her feet as another uniformed officer crashed into the garden. ‘You don’t have to run any more.’
‘Fuckers …’ The knife’s point wavered, dipping towards the churned-up grass.
‘Shhhh, it’s OK, Sean, it’s OK.’
The policewoman marched straight up and sprayed Sean Morrison in the face with pepper spray. ‘That’s for Jess Nairn, ya wee shite.’
They could have heard the boy’s screams in Peterhead.
‘They’ll sting for a while, but the swelling’ll go down soon enough. No’ that it’ll make much odds where he’s goin’.’ Doc Wilson, slouched against the corridor wall, hands in his pockets, face like a bank holiday weekend — long and dreich. He gave a dramatic sigh. ‘I’m seein’ one of them oncologists tomorrow morning …’
Logan nodded, not really wanting to get drawn into Doc Wilson’s world of misery again. ‘Is he well enough for questioning?’
The doctor thought about it then shrugged. ‘Doesn’t really matter, does it?’ He pulled himself off the wall, picked up his medical bag and slumped off, mumbling to himself all the way.
‘Well,’ said Steel when Logan got back up to her office, ‘what did Doctor Doom and Gloom say? He show you his tumour?’
‘No permanent damage. You can interview Sean if you want. And Big Gary says the kid’s dad’s downstairs shouting the odds: police brutality, human rights, legal action. The usual.’
She checked her watch. ‘Twenty-seven minutes till show time … what do you think, worth a punt?’
‘Up to you.’
She rubbed a nicotine-stained finger along the bridge of her nose. ‘What the hell: get them into an interview room. If nothing else we’ll put the fear of God into the wee bugger.’
Interviewing Sean Morrison was like interviewing a breezeblock. He just sat on the other side of the table, sullen and silent, scowling at the camera. His face was swollen and red, like a bad case of sunburn, eyes the colour of beetroot. Still tearing up from the pepper spray. He wouldn’t even confirm his name.
Mr Morrison sat next to his son, one arm wrapped around the little thug’s shoulders, trembling with anger. ‘I demand you take my son to the hospital!’
‘No — and I’m no’ telling you again,’ said Steel. ‘He’s been checked over by the duty doctor, he’ll be fine.’
‘He’s in pain! Look what your storm troopers have done to him! LOOK!’ Clutching Sean’s red chin, leaving white fingerprints behind when the child shook him off. ‘He’s only eight!’
Steel slammed her hand down on the table, making the plastic cups of tea and coffee tremble. ‘Listen up: your innocent little darling tried to stab two police officers tonight. One’s up in A amp;E getting his hand stitched back together. Then there’s the policewoman he stabbed in the throat and THE OLD MAN HE KILLED!’
‘We demand to see a lawyer.’
Logan tapped the inspector on the shoulder and whispered in her ear, ‘Seven fifteen — press conference in five minutes.’
She stood, scraping her chair back from the table, staring at the father. ‘You’re here at my discretion Morrison. I can have you replaced by a social worker, like that.’ Snapping her fingers under his nose. ‘I’ve got him on CCTV killing the old man. I’ve got a police witness to him stabbing Constable Jess Nairn. I’ve got even more witnesses to him trying the same thing on tonight. I’ve got the knives; I’ve got his fingerprints. I don’t need a confession.’
She gave Logan the nod and he said, ‘Interview suspended at seven sixteen.’
Steel leant on the table, engulfing Sean Morrison’s father in a wave of stale cigarette breath. ‘He’s going to “secure accommodation” till he’s sixteen — it’s like a children’s home, but they lock the little bastards up — then he’ll go to a young offender’s institution till he’s twenty-one. Then he’ll go to prison. If he’s lucky he’ll be out in time for his thirtieth birthday. You want to make it easier for him? Maybe cut his sentence? You get him to talk.’
Everyone was waiting for them, the Chief Constable sticking his hand over the microphone and whispering something to the inspector as she settled into her seat — probably something about what a great job she’d done, because she smiled happily — and then they got the press conference underway. Logan sat back in his chair and listened as the CC announced Sean Morrison’s capture, then opened the floor for questions. First up: ‘Why did it take Grampian Police four days to catch an eight-year-old boy?’ Then, ‘Will there be a public enquiry into the handling of the investigation?’
It was Colin Miller who asked the question Logan had been dreading: ‘Is it true Sean Morrison was assaulted durin’ his arrest?’
Steel gritted her teeth. ‘No it isn’t.’
‘Then why did neighbours report a child “screaming in pain” when it took place?’
The inspector launched into an explanation, but the press had tasted blood. Wasn’t it true that DS McRae had assaulted a young boy at the beach yesterday? Were officers looking for revenge after PC Nairn was stabbed by Morrison on Thursday? Was there an institutionalized vigilante culture in Grampian Police?
The Chief Constable didn’t let it go on for too long. The press conference was brought to a close and everyone ‘invited’ to leave.
‘Bunch of bastards!’ said Steel, in the corridor afterwards. ‘What the hell happened to “well done” and “for she’s a jolly good fellow”?’
Logan stepped out of the way as the CC stormed past, closely followed by the Press Liaison Officer. ‘Don’t think God’s very happy about it either.’
Steel watched the man disappear through the double doors. ‘Bugger the lot of them. Come on: we’re going to the pub. I think we deserve a pat on the back, even if no other bastard does.’
Logan clunked the drinks down on the sticky, beer-spilled table and dumped half a dozen packets of crisps in the middle. There was a feeding frenzy as Steel and two uniforms from the team that had grabbed Sean Morrison fought over the tomato sauce flavour. Three rounds into the evening and the conversation had drifted from work to football and Rob Macintyre’s hat trick against St Mirren at the weekend. Everyone tactfully ignoring the rape allegations in favour of the four-one final score. DI Steel threw her hands in the air, staring over Logan’s shoulder, back towards the bar, shouting, ‘Just in time!’ at the constable who’d tackled Sean in the garden. He had one hand swathed in white bandages. ‘Laz!’ the inspector bellowed, ‘Laz, go get that man a drink! On me! Double whisky!’
Logan was still waiting to get served when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, expecting to see Steel, or Jackie, but it was PC Rickards, dressed in tatty jeans, a pornographic T-shirt, and a scruffy jacket. ‘Er … sorry to bother you, sir, but Sergeant Mitchell said I’d probably find you here.’
‘You want a drink? Steel’s buying — we caught Sean
Morrison.’ Logan knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn’t help it.
Rickards looked uncomfortable. ‘I just wanted to tell you I’d gone through all those carpet places — no one’s sold anything to a B amp;B for months. Sorry.’
‘Not your fault, it was always a long shot …’ Logan frowned. ‘Wait a minute, didn’t your shift finish about three hours ago? Have you been hanging around the station waiting for me all this time?’
‘What? No, no. God.’ He pulled a face. ‘I mean, how sad would that be? Urgh …’ Going slightly red. ‘I had a couple of hours to kill, so I’ve been reading through some of those break-in reports. You know, see if I can spot a pattern.’
‘In that case you definitely deserve a drink.’ Logan caught the barman’s eye and ordered Steel’s double whisky then turned to ask Rickards what he wanted.
‘No, really, sir, I can’t-’
‘Yes you can. Pint?’
‘I …’ Rickards was going red again. ‘Everyone keeps taking the piss. Ever since that bloody briefing — it’s all innuendo and double entendre and bloody “suits you, sir!” Some bastard’s even been posting condoms through the grille in my locker. I’m bloody sick of it.’
Logan ordered him a pint of lager. ‘Look, if you let them get to you they’ll keep on doing it. They like to get a reaction, that’s all. Come on — one pint’s not going to kill you, is it?’ He took the drinks from the bar and handed Rickards his pint. ‘That’s an order, Constable.’
Rickards cracked a twisted smile. ‘Yes, sir.’
It was quieter outside, standing under the columned portico at the front of the pub, staying out of the wind, waiting for Jackie to pick up the flat’s phone. It rang through to the answering machine, so Logan tried her on her mobile. Ringing and ringing and ringing and …’ Hello?’
‘Hey, we caught him!’
‘What?’ sounding distracted.
‘Sean Morrison, we caught him.’
‘Oh, yeah, I heard on the news. Cool …’
‘We’re in the pub, want to come?’
A pause, then, ‘Oh, no, I can’t — you remember my friend Janette? Her fiance’s just dumped her, she’s in a right state, so I’m kinda stuck.’
‘Oh,’ trying not to sound disappointed, ‘well, that’s OK. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Sorry … Look, don’t wait up for me, I’ve no idea when I’m going to escape. Probably not till late. She’s a nightmare when she gets started.’
A bendy bus thundered past, narrowly missing a barely dressed young woman and her Neanderthal boyfriend. Logan watched them hurling abuse at the driver.
‘Look, she’s coming back from the toilet, gotta go.’
‘OK, I …’ But she’d already hung up.
Logan stood on the top step, looking down at the phone in his hands. Then closed it up and went back inside.
24
First thing Tuesday morning and Logan was in DI Insch’s office, listening to the big man grumble about not getting enough resources to make a murder case against Frank Garvie. They still hadn’t found anywhere he could have taken Jason Fettes to kill him: he didn’t own or rent any other property; wasn’t looking after anywhere for an ageing relative, or a work colleague; and the B amp;B idea was a complete dead end. So all they had was the large black dildo found in Garvie’s closet. Yes it was clarted with DNA, but none of it belonged to Jason Fettes.
The inspector scowled and tore open another family-value-sized bag of jelly babies. ‘The PF’s not happy,’ he said, ripping the head off a little pink infant, ‘says we’re not going to get a conviction without forensic evidence …’ A handful of tiny figures disappeared into Insch’s mouth, to be chewed unhappily. ‘And I’ve got this bloody stupid terrorism thing today. Like I don’t have enough to deal with!’ He dragged a copy of that morning’s ScottishSun from his in-tray and slapped it on the tabletop. MACINTYRE SAYS, ‘I’LL SUE!’, above a photo of the ugly footballer and his well-dressed lawyer, Sandy Moir-Farquharson. COPS CATCH KILLER KID was relegated to a tiny sidebar. ‘Bad enough we get slapped with an injunction for harassing him, but now the raping wee bastard thinks he’s got a case for libel and slander!’ Little flecks of spit sparked in the overhead lights. He ground his teeth, turning a delicate shade of angry scarlet, then stared over Logan’s shoulder at the big framed Mikado poster. Fuming. ‘What about his alibi for Friday night?’
‘I got Rickards to check it out: Macintyre and his fiancee left the pub at nine, went to the takeaway, picked up a chicken chow mein, beef in black bean sauce-’
‘I didn’t ask for the bloody menu!’
‘Sorry, sir. They left the carryout at half nine.’
Insch gave him a grim smile. ‘Nikki Bruce was attacked between midnight and quarter past — plenty of time for the wee shite to get down the road to Dundee and catch her coming out of the nightclub.’
‘Only his fiancee swears he was with her all night. And we’ve got nothing that proves otherwise, so-’
The inspector’s smile vanished. ‘Exactly whose side are you on, Sergeant?’
Logan didn’t answer that and Insch scowled at him, letting an uncomfortable silence grow, before grabbing the Fettes case file off his desk and tossing it across the Formica. ‘I want you to go through everything we seized from Garvie’s flat — find me a connection.’
Rickards was waiting for him in their tiny, makeshift incident room when Logan lurched in, carrying a huge box from the evidence locker. The constable helped him get it up on the desk, eyeing the contents suspiciously. Everything was covered in a patina of black and white fingerprint powder, sealed away in individual evidence bags. Logan pointed at the open box. ‘Need to go through this lot for DI Insch. And before you say anything: I know, OK?’
‘Oh God …’ Rickards pulled out a stack of DVDs with titles like Deutsche Mannliebe and Knechtschaftgummijungen with a lot of half-naked men on them. Some of whom were wearing lederhosen. ‘We’ve not got to watch this lot, have we?’
Logan patted him on the shoulder. ‘Not we, you. I’ve got to go chase up the IB about those servers.’
‘Give us a chance!’ said the middle-aged man in the SKATE OR DIE T-shirt, his desk littered with laptops, mice and scribbled-on Post-it notes. ‘We’re still going through that stuff from the brothel raid. No way we’ll get anywhere near your stuff for at least a week.’
Logan didn’t like the sound of that. ‘What about Dundee — thought they were supposed to be the computer experts.’
That got a shrug. ‘Big fraud case — ETSA four weeks minimum.’
‘ETSA?’
‘Estimated Time Sodding About.’ He picked up an old Biro from his pigsty desk and stuck it in his gob, sooking distractedly. A placebo cigarette.
‘Insch will throw a wobbler if we don’t get this done soon as.’
Skate Or Die swore. ‘Marvellous. Finnie in one ear, Insch in the other. What a bastarding week …’
‘Could you not just take a quick peek?’
‘No! Finnie’s on my neck as it is.’ He pulled the pen from his mouth, automatically flicking nonexistent ash on the floor. ‘Well, maybe … Look, I’ll see what I can do, OK? No promises.’
It was better than nothing.
Nine am and Logan decided it was about time Rickards had a break. He dragged the constable up to the canteen and bought him a cup of tea and a rowie with jam. Both disappeared in record time. ‘You got many more to go?’ asked Logan as Rickards wiped his greasy hands on a paper napkin.
‘Six.’ He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Highspeed, hardcore, German gay porn is even less fun than it sounds …’
‘Talking about your personal life again?’ It was DC Rennie, with a croissant and a cup of fancy coffee. He sat down with a grin. ‘Tell you, I was this close-’
‘I’m not gay!’ Rickards jumped to his feet. ‘Fucking hell, what’s wrong with you bastards? You know what? I have more sex in a month than you get all year!’ He leant over th
e table to poke Rennie in the shoulder, as the whole canteen went quiet. ‘With women! It’s BDSM, OK? Just because you don’t fucking understand it, doesn’t make it gay!’ And then he stormed off.
Rennie sat there with his mouth hanging open, and slowly conversations started back up again. ‘I was only kidding.’
‘Yeah, well … He’s a bit touchy.’
‘You think?’ Rennie ripped a bite out of his croissant and washed it down with a mouthful of coffee. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. Just taking the piss.’ He stared at the empty doorway. ‘Is he really into all that leather and spanking?’ Rennie grinned. ‘He’s probably on the phone right now to his mates in the bondage mafia. I’ll wake up tomorrow morning and there’ll be a horse’s head in a gimp mask lying on top of the duvet.’
‘Think you might have overreacted a bit there?’ asked Logan back in their grubby little incident room, sitting a fresh mug of tea down in front of Rickards and his protruding bottom lip.
The constable scowled up at him. ‘Did you tell them? I trusted you and-’
‘Of course I didn’t! Rennie was just pulling your leg. No one knew. Well, not till you shouted it all over the canteen …’
Rickards opened his mouth to say something and froze, realization dawning in his horrified eyes. ‘Oh fuck.’ He buried his head in his hands.
‘Congratulations.’ Logan patted him on the back. ‘You’ve just come out of the bondage closet.’
It was nearly lunchtime before they got to the bottom of Frank Garvie’s porn stash, and by then Rickards was beginning to come to terms with his outing. The DVDs were all what they claimed to be, the videos homemade — Garvie in his dark red rubber romper suit, sometimes with friends, but mostly alone. The only things Rickards hadn’t tried were the two canisters of old seventeen-millimetre film. Logan cracked open The Butler’s Revenge and examined the case. According to the Identification Bureau’s audiovisual team it was probably Victorian and there was nothing in the station that could handle film stock that old. Not that it mattered: anything illegal in there would be well past its sell-by-date. There was nothing here to tie Frank Garvie to the corpse of Jason Fettes.
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