He twisted the big circular control on the MUX and sent the tape reeling into fast-forward, looking for someone running away from Golden Square — where Hissing Sid had his offices — around the time the lawyer was attacked. The middle of Aberdeen was like a wildlife preserve for CCTV cameras, and Logan had last night’s tapes for all of them stacked up on the floor beside him.
Insert tape: whirrrrrrr forward till the timestamp said nine pm; watch people lurch past at one frame a second; look for anything suspicious; feel guilty for not trusting Jackie; feel even guiltier for not telling Rachael it was all a big mistake; watch until the timestamp said nine thirty; eject tape and repeat.
The only highlight came when he was going through the Union Terrace tape — the camera tilted at a funny angle, picture partially obscured by a fat-arsed pigeon clinging onto a window ledge. Behind the grey feathers was the little alleyway that linked the Terrace with Diamond Street. Half past nine: cars swept by, headlights reflecting back off the rain-slicked tarmac. People wandered into shot, drunks, more cars, a bus, more people — Logan scrutinizing each and every face to see if they were on the ‘Who Hates Hissing Sid’ list he’d compiled with DI Insch — and then it happened.
A pair of girlies, staggering up towards Union Street, arms round each other for balance as much as camaraderie, ignoring the rain. The one on the left was wearing what could almost be called a skirt — even though it must have been freezing that night — her companion a skimpy top and a pair of trousers that looked painted on. But they’d have needed a lot of paint — she was huge. They looked up and spotted the camera, laughed, then the big girl hoicked up her top and jiggled.
‘Oh dear Jesus …’ Logan didn’t know whether to laugh or cry — it was like watching someone swinging a pair of watermelons about in a duvet. A figure emerged from Diamond Place, hands in pockets, did a double take and limped past, trying not to look at the woman’s naked boobs. She put them away fast, then she and her friend roared with laughter and carried on up the road and out of sight. Logan ejected the tape, wrote FLASHER on a Post-it note and stuck it to the label. With any luck it would make it onto the Christmas blooper reel, along with all the other idiots who thought it was a good idea to expose their breasts, willies and arses to the surveillance cameras.
He dumped the videos back in the CCTV control room and went home.
Eight o’clock. Logan sat bolt upright, blinking, trying to figure out where the hell he was … In the lounge, on the sofa, something awful on the television, his mobile phone’s shrill squeal competing with the lumpy-looking ‘celebrity’ singing away on the screen. He grabbed the remote and put her out of his misery, then picked up the phone.
‘Hello?’ Trying not to sound as if he’d just woken up.
‘Logan? It’s Rachael,’
Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, ‘Rachael, hi. I-’
‘Thought we had a date?’
Logan checked his watch: eight o’clock, he was supposed to be at the cinema half an hour ago. Which probably meant she was bloody furious.
‘I’m really sorry.’ Why the hell didn’t he call and cancel? ‘I got caught up in an assault case. Didn’t get back …’ he sighed. ‘I fell asleep.’
‘I see.’
‘Look, I’m really sorry. I was at that call all last night, only got two hours sleep, then it was nonstop all day. Hissing Sid got attacked …’ He sagged back into the sofa cushions, running a hand over his face, trying to figure out how on earth he was going to tell her it was all one big mistake.
‘Believe it or not I understand. The number of men I’ve left standing outside things, or sitting in restaurants on their own …’ an embarrassed cough. ‘Well, it’s not been hundreds, or anything like that. Maybe one or two. I mean I’m not … ehm …’ Silence. No doubt waiting for him to make the next move.
‘I’m really sorry,’ he said, stalling for time, ‘look, we need to-’
‘Damn: hold on, I’ve got someone else trying to get through …’ and the line went silent. She’d put him on hold.
‘-talk.’ Logan swore, pulled himself to his feet and wandered over to the window, peering out into the dark night. A thin dusting of white clung to the sill, small flecks of snow drifting through streetlamp haloes. The sound of singing, muffled by the double glazing, came from somewhere down the street. He’d just have to come out with it: he’d made a mistake. He was seeing someone, and he’d thought Jackie was having an affair and … no, that would just make Rachael sound like a rebound. Even if it was true, she wouldn’t want to hear it. He-
‘Sorry, I’ve got to go: suspicious death in Tillydrone. I’ll call you later, OK?’
‘Wait, Rachael-’ But she’d already hung up.
The street was quiet. Expensive cars lined the road, chinks of light shone out between drawn curtains onto snow-whitened gardens while more flakes slowly floated down from the orange-black sky, melting where they hit wet tarmac, clinging to skeletal trees and the cold metal of parked cars. There was only one vehicle the snow wouldn’t cling to: an anonymous silver Vauxhall, on the opposite side of the road and two doors down from Rob Macintyre’s house.
Logan jumped into the passenger seat.
Jackie didn’t even look round. ‘Wondered how long it’d take you.’ She was dressed in her cat burglar outfit again, the plastic mug from the top of a tartan thermos clutched in her gloved hands.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were watching Macintyre?’
‘Insch didn’t want you blabbing to Steel.’
‘Yeah, because that’s going to happen.’
She shrugged. ‘Not my call.’
He sat, frowning out the window. ‘You could have told me.’ No response. ‘You know what’s going to happen when it gets out you’ve been doing an unauthorized surveillance-’
‘You’re in no position to talk about unauthorized surveillance ops!’
‘And look what happened!’
Jackie turned to look at him for the first time since he’d got in the car. ‘I spoke to Rennie. So don’t talk to me about trusting you — you didn’t bloody trust me!’
Logan hoped to God she couldn’t see him blushing in the dark car. ‘Don’t be ridiculous-’
‘Rennie might be thick as two shorts, but I’m not, OK? I know what you were doing!’ She turned in her seat and slapped him on the shoulder, face creased and angry. ‘How could you think I was having an affair? And with Rennie!’ She hit him again. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘I-’
‘No! You don’t trust me and-’
‘What was I supposed to think?’ Not quite shouting, but getting close to it. ‘You’re never in, you’re having sneaky get-togethers, I heard you on the phone — talking to him, telling him how I didn’t suspect a thing, like I’m some arsehole to be-’
‘Macintyre! How Macintyre didn’t suspect I was bloody watching him. For fuck’s sake! Eight months we’ve been living together, why didn’t you just ask?’
Silence settled into the car.
‘You could have told me.’
‘Yeah, well I didn’t, OK?’ She turned back and glowered out of the window at Macintyre’s house, while Logan sat beside her, wishing he’d never come.
A sharp elbow dug into his ribs, bringing him snorking back to the land of the living. ‘Whh?’ Logan blinked blearily in the thin streetlight.
‘You’re snoring.’ Jackie, still scowling at him.
‘I’m awake.’ Logan sat up in his seat and stretched as best he could in the cramped car. Ending with a shudder. ‘Cold …’
‘Yeah, well, you should have worn something warmer then, shouldn’t you?’
Logan bit back his reply, and checked the car clock instead. Just after one in the morning. ‘Sandy the Snake got the crap beaten out of him,’ he said, going for neutral territory.
‘I heard.’ Silence.
‘Look, if you don’t want me here, just say so, OK? I’m sick of being growled at.’ He opened the passenger door and clim
bed out into the frosty night. For a moment Jackie looked as if she was going to say something, but it passed, and she went back to watching Macintyre’s house. ‘Fine,’ Logan closed the car door, turned up his collar and … There was a man standing in the shadows, just up the street, three or four cars behind Jackie’s. Shortish, heavy build. Staring across the road at the footballer’s place.
He didn’t know he was being watched.
Logan reached down and gently tapped on the passenger window. Nothing. He tried again. The driver’s door opened and Jackie stuck her head out. ‘Bloody hell, what now?’
The man in the shadows’ head snapped up, staring wide-eyed at them. And then he was off, running as fast as his little legs would carry him. Cursing, Logan ran after him, shoes slithering on the frost-coated paving slabs. Behind him he could hear Jackie starting the car, pulling out into the road for the three-point turn she’d need to get the car facing the right way.
The lurker was moving fast, his shoes more suited to the slippery pavement than Logan’s, as he turned the corner and sprinted onto Great Western Road. Heading back towards the centre of town. But by the time Logan skidded out onto the road, there was no sign of him.
Jackie’s pool car screeched to a halt at the junction, both windows wound down so she could shout, ‘Which way?’ Logan pointed in the vague direction of the traffic lights, and the car roared off.
33
Bent double, panting like an old lady at a Tom Jones concert, Logan was halfway down Burns Road. He’d checked as many of the neighbouring streets as he could, but there was no sign of Mr Lurks-in-Darkness. It was ten minutes since the man had run and Jackie still wasn’t back yet, her parking space hollow and empty among the snow-crusted cars like a missing tooth.
Logan stamped his feet and buried his hands in his armpits, hoping she’d give up and come back soon. It was bloody freezing. Snow spiralled lazily down all around, making his ears sting, his breath coming out in thick clouds of white. He marched up and down for a while, trying to keep the circulation going. Far too cold to be hanging about in the middle of the night … He stopped pacing, staring down at a shimmering trickle of frozen urine on the pavement, solidified on its way from a tall box hedge to the kerb. Right about where he’d first spotted their mystery lurker.
‘Bloody hell …’ The man had stopped for a pee: that was why he’d run when Logan saw him — he didn’t want to get attacked by an irate householder for poisoning his hedge. Swearing, Logan went back to pacing. It was so stupid — who’d hang about on the street when the weather was like this? You’d have to be a complete idiot. Trying to ignore the irony in that thought as his toes slowly went numb.
No, you wanted a vehicle to sit in. Somewhere warm, out of the bloody snow. He should have stayed in the car with Jackie. At least he’d be warm now, even if she was giving him the cold shoulder.
Logan’s eyes followed the trail of frozen piss to where it disappeared under a foosty-looking Renault Clio. Not the sort of car you expected to see in a place like this. Well, unless it belonged to someone’s kid, but even then, he’d expect it to be newer. He stepped closer, peering in through the passenger window. Discarded chocolate wrappers, empty packets of crisps, a bag of sherbet lemons, two Marks amp; Spencer sandwiches, three tins of Red Bull, and a hot-water bottle with faint curls of steam rising from it. Logan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, using it as a makeshift glove as he tried the car door. It wasn’t locked.
So the Phantom Piddler had been watching Macintyre’s house. A quick call to Control got him a name and address for the Clio’s owner — a Mr Russell McGillivray, living in a flat on George Street. Logan stood, contemplating the car, the junk food and the hot-water bottle. OK, so it was possible this was just a coincidence, that Mr McGillivray was up to something else, but he doubted it.
Taking one last look up and down the street, Logan folded the passenger seat forward and hopped into the back. He grabbed the hot-water bottle and stuck it under his jacket, before pulling the door closed, enjoying the warmth as it slowly spread across his chest.
A quick rummage in the back turned up a couple of old copies of the Daily Mail, and for a moment Logan toyed with the idea that McGillivray might be a journalist, but then why would he run? Logan settled back in the seat, shoogling down, keeping himself as hidden as possible.
A car slid past outside — the engine noise dying, not fading, soon afterwards. That would be Jackie, returning to her surveillance parking spot. Logan pulled out his mobile and called her.
‘Jackie?’
‘Where the hell have you been? I-’
‘Listen, I found the guy’s car, it’s about twenty yards behind you. He’ll be back for it. I need you to keep out of sight, OK? If he sees you he’ll do another runner.’
‘I’m not going anywhere! Insch would kill me. And that wee fuck Macintyre might get out again!’
‘You don’t have to-’
‘You know what happened last time I wasn’t here, don’t you? Your bloody mother’s birthday party, and some poor cow-’
‘For God’s sake! I’m not asking you to abandon your bloody post, OK? Just keep your head down!’ Snapping at her. There was an ominous silence from the other end of the phone.
‘I know you don’t think this is important, but-’
‘When? When did I ever say it wasn’t important?’
‘You said-’
‘I didn’t say anything! How could I? You never bloody told me what you were up to. Instead of acting like a spoilt brat at the party you could have told me! I would have made an excuse for you. Hell, I’d’ve come round after with a doggy bag of cake and fucking ice cream! You-’
She hung up on him.
Swearing quietly to himself, Logan reached over into the front of the car and helped himself to one of the sandwiches and a tin of Red Bull. Then he settled back to eat and brood.
It was nearly forty-five minutes before a ceasefire was declared — Jackie phoning to tell him there was a ‘suspicious-looking wanker’ hanging about at the far end of the road. Logan shifted round till he was peering out the rear window, between the UP THE DONS!!! stickers. A short, stocky figure stood beneath a streetlight, watching the road, breathing plumes of pale fog into the cold morning air.
Logan reached under his jacket and pulled out the now cold-water bottle, letting it fall into the footwell.
Whoever it was surveyed the street one last time, then started towards the manky Clio. Logan scooted further down, keeping out of sight, listening to the crunch, crunch, crunch of footsteps on crisp snow. A shadow fell across the car’s interior, then a jingle of keys, a clunk, and the driver’s door was hauled open. The man shivered in behind the steering wheel, filling the car with stale BO, turned the engine over and cranked the heater up to full.
He rubbed his hands together, stared up at the Macintyre place for a moment, then put the car into gear. Logan waited until the man was going for the hand break, before leaning forward and saying, ‘Going somewhere?’
The whole car reverberated with a terrified scream. The car lurched, the engine stalled, the driver fumbled frantically for the door handle, but Logan reached out and pressed the central locking button, before clambering into the passenger seat.
The man stared at him, terrified, sweat pricking out on his sloping forehead. ‘I’ve no’ got any money!’ He was young — no more than mid-twenties, twitchy, surprisingly pale, even allowing for the jaundiced streetlighting.
Logan held out his warrant card. ‘Police. Are you Russell McGillivray?’
‘I … I’ve no’ done nothin’! You scared the crap out of me! I’m makin’ a complaint! I-’
‘Name. I’m not going to ask you again.’
The young man coughed. ‘Don. Don Macbeth … er … but people call me Hamish, you know, because of the telly, I-’
‘You do know it’s an offence to give a false name and address to the police, don’t you?’
‘I’m no’ lyin’!’
Logan stared at him, letting the silence grow.
‘Seriously! I’m no’ lyin’!’
‘This your car Mr Macbeth?’
‘No … Yes … I mean it belongs to a mate.’
‘I see …’ Logan nodded. ‘Well, Don “Hamish” Macbeth I’m detaining you on suspicion of trying to pervert the cause of justice by giving false details-’
‘Oh come on! I’m no’ lying! I’m no’!’ He made a bid for freedom, stabbing the central locking off with his thumb, then wrenching open the driver’sside door. He scrabbled out into the road, only to find himself face to face with PC Jackie ‘Ball Breaker’ Watson.
‘Don’t even think about it!’
He wasn’t bright enough to take a telling.
‘So then,’ said Logan, walking back into interview room one, carrying the results from the fingerprint department, ‘there seems to be some mistake, “Mr Macbeth”. We sent your prints off to the main database and they came back belonging to a Russell McGillivray. Isn’t that strange?
Don Macbeth, AKA Russell McGillivray, fidgeted in his seat, one hand going to the crotch of his trousers, making sure everything was still there after his abortive attempt to get past Jackie. ‘It’s … aye …’ His skin shone with sweat, his body twitching and twisting on its own, while he gnawed away on his fingers. Twitch, chew, twitch, fidget, twitch …’ Any chance of a fag? I’m gaspin’.’ Voice trembling, breath smelling stale and rancid, adding to the general stink of unwashed armpits.
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