‘Hello?’ Logan slapped a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Switch off that bloody siren!’
PC Guthrie did. Now there was just the roar of the engine.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello? You still there?’
‘Who told you?’
‘About Knox? Privileged sources, journalistic integrity, etc. So you going to stop past a bakers or what?’
‘Don’t pull that privileged source crap with me: do you have any idea the kind of shit-storm you’ve started?’
‘Story was in the public interest, Laz. People got a right to know if a rapist moves in next door.’
‘There’ll be bloody riots!’
‘Shoulda thought about that before you dumped him on the poor people of Cornhill, shouldn’t you?’
‘I didn’t dump…’ Logan ran a hand across his forehead, gritted his teeth. ‘Where are you?’
‘Outside Knox’s house, freezin’ my nads off, where do you think? And when you go past the bakers get a couple of teas and a wee steak pie or two.’ There was some muffled conversation. ‘Yeah, and Sandy wants a macaroni pie, or sausage roll.’
‘I’m not going to a bloody bakers!’
‘Might tell you where I got the info…?’
Logan told Butler to stop at the next bakery she saw.
‘Took your time.’ Colin Miller swivelled round in his seat as Logan clambered into the back of the ancient beige Volkswagen and slammed the door. The engine was running, so at least it was warm inside.
The bald man in the driver’s seat turned and frowned. ‘Watch the car, yeah?’
Colin smiled. He was immaculately turned out in brand new designer jeans and a leather jacket that probably cost more than Logan’s Fiat. A muscle-bound action figure with a faint whiff of cologne. ‘Laz, this is Sandy. Don’t let the crappy manners fool you, he’s a photographic wunderkind. Aren’t you Sandy?’
‘Sodding thing’s falling apart as it is. You any idea how much it cost to get it through its MOT?’
‘Then buy a decent bloody car for a change.’ Colin held out his black leather-gloved hands. Some of the finger joints didn’t bend, making them look like deformed claws. ‘So…tea?’
Logan dug into the white plastic bag and produced two wax-paper cups with plastic lids. ‘Milk, no sugar.’ Handed them over, then dug out a pair of paper bags, partially transparent with grease.
‘Good man, yersel!’ Colin peeked into the paper bags, then passed one to the driver. ‘Your lucky day, Sandy: macaroni pie and a sausage roll. Say thank you to the nice police officer.’
Sandy grunted and took a bite of his sausage roll. Flakes of pastry tumbled down the front of his baggy green jumper.
Colin gave him one of the teas. ‘Go make yourself scarce for a couple minutes.’
Sandy stopped chewing, looked out at the street with his mouth hanging open. ‘It’s snowing.’
Cairnview Terrace was a winter wonderland. Big fat flakes drifted down from a gunmetal sky, flaring as they passed through the streetlights’ glow, blanketing everything. Predawn light painted the street in shades of blue, making it look even colder.
The photographer’s Volkswagen was parked directly in front of Knox’s house, the patrol car two doors down, behind a blue Volvo estate with ‘BBC SCOTLAND’ down the side, across the road from a Transit Van bearing the SKY NEWS logo, exhaust fumes clouding out into the cold morning.
No signs of a lynch mob waving pitchforks and burning torches. Maybe they were having a long lie?
Colin reached over from the passenger’s side and fumbled with the driver’s door handle. Popped it open. ‘Take your tea for a walk; enjoy the taste of your pie in the great outdoors; bum a fag from the Sky lot.’
Sandy grumbled for a bit. Stuffed his sausage roll in his mouth, grabbed his greasy paper bag and his tea, them clambered out into the early morning and slammed the door even harder than Logan had. But at least he’d left the engine running.
Colin watched Sandy stomp away into the snow, then helped himself to a steak pie. Talking with his mouth full. ‘So what you doin’ about Knox, now his cover’s blown, and that?’
‘Yeah, and who blew it?’ Logan went back into the plastic bag for a milky coffee and a cheese and onion pasty. ‘Who told you?’
‘Suppose you’ll have to move him. Might be an idea to let him put his side of the story first, you know?’
‘Colin, my boss is sitting in that patrol car over there, thinking up new ways to make my life a living hell, because I talked her into stopping off to get you breakfast. Now who told you where Knox was staying?’
‘And how is Madame Wrinkles the Lesbo Lothario?’
‘Colin!’
‘No one told me.’ Colin took another bite of pie, the hot meaty smell oozing out into the Volkswagen’s interior. ‘See, the thing about bein’ an investigative journalist is you go out and investigate. Should try it some time, be amazed what you can turn up, but.’
Smug git.
Logan creaked the plastic lid off his coffee. ‘How about I tell Isobel where you really were two weeks ago? When she thought you were in Dundee interviewing the idiot who got hypothermia trying to steal that statue of Desperate Dan?’
Colin stared at him. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Got till I finish my pasty, then I’m calling her.’
‘You are such a…’ Scowl. ‘OK, OK: when I was down in Newcastle I spoke to a neighbour, who put me onto his old English teacher. Creepy auld wifie with too many cats and a face like a skelpt arse. She says every single one of Knox’s “What I did on holiday” essays was about him comin’ up to Aberdeen and stayin’ with his granny and grandad, while his mum went aff on the pull.’
Colin took another bite of pie, taking care not to get any gravy on his gloves. ‘Offered to sell me one of the essays, you believe that? Soon as they charged Knox with raping that old man she went and dug everythin’ she could out of the school records. Knew it would be worth somethin’ some day.’
He shook his head, took a sip of tea. ‘Report cards, notes from his mum, complaints from the gym teacher…Tell you, makes you proud of the education system, doesn’t it? First thing she thinks of is how much cash she can rake in.’
‘And?’
‘Gonnae be in tomorrow’s Examiner: “Portrait of the monster as a small boy”, kinda deal. Four-page spread.’
‘No, you idiot, how did you get the address?’
‘School kept next-of-kin details on file. Mrs Euphemia Abercrombie-Murray was down as a second point of contact, in case they couldn’t get hold of Knox’s mum.’
At least that meant Finnie could call off his witch hunt.
Logan looked out through the falling snow. Lights were on in Knox’s house, everyone probably woken hours ago by Colin and his grumpy photographer. That was one good thing about the weather: no journalist was daft enough to camp out on the doorstep.
‘Anything else I should know?’
‘Well—’
The driver’s door creaked open and Sandy stuck his head in, snow clinging to the shoulders of his blue parka and the fringe of hair around of his head. ‘God it’s freezing out—’
‘No’ yet, eh, Sandy?’
‘Oh for…’ He threw his arms wide. ‘It’s my bloody car!’
‘Five minutes, mate.’
‘You know what: it’s my bloody petrol too.’ He yanked the key out of the ignition, then slammed the door again and marched off, hauling the parka’s fur-trimmed hood over his bald patch.
Colin dropped his voice to a whisper, ‘Ever heard of someone called Michael “Mental Mikey” Maitland?’
‘Newcastle mobster. If you’re going to tell me Knox was working for him, save your breath. I know.’
The reporter seemed to deflate a bit. ‘Oh.’
‘Anything else?’
‘You know he died Friday night?’
Pause. ‘So?’
The smile was b
ack on Colin’s face. ‘Welcome to Wednesday’s exclusive: Knox was Mental Mikey’s accountant, right? Not someone you’d trust your grandad with, but cash: genius. Word is Mikey got Knox to squirrel away a bit of rainy-day money.’
‘How much?’
‘Millions. Two weeks ago Mikey has himself a wee “cardiac incident” and they wheech him into hospital for observation. He has three more, then a bloody huge one on Friday. Mental Mikey, Terror of Tyneside finally passes away in the wee small hours, surrounded by his nearest and dearest.’
‘Who all now want to get their hands on Mikey’s nest egg.’
Colin tapped the side of his head with a stiff, leathered finger. ‘Aye, but our boy Knox is the only one knows where it is and how to get at it.’
Logan watched a robin bob and hop across Knox’s front garden, leaving little CND footprints. ‘The lying bastard…’
‘Eh?’
‘Nothing.’ He clunked open the back door. ‘Anything else comes up – and I mean anything at all – give me a call.’
Colin shrugged. ‘Aye, and what’s in it for me?’
‘Dundee, Desperate Dan: truth. Remember?’
Logan climbed out into the snow, clunking the door shut on the reporter’s reply.
28
It was almost as cold inside Richard Knox’s house as it was outside, the windows spidered with tendrils of frost. So everyone gathered in the kitchen, listening to the kettle rumbling its way back to the boil again.
Everyone except Richard Knox: he was through in the lounge, kneeling in front of the three-bar electric fire, praying.
Logan nodded towards the door. ‘How’s he doing?’
Mandy from Sacro pulled a face. ‘Not happy. When that Weegie short-arse hammered on the door this morning Knox went off on one. Smashed the rest of the ornaments and broke all the furniture.’
Harry, her partner, stifled a yawn. ‘Only thing he didn’t do was lie down and beat his fists on the floor.’
Steel hauled herself to her feet. ‘Good. Maybe he’ll get so upset he’ll sod off somewhere else.’ She clunked her mug on the tabletop. ‘Anyone wants me, I’m outside having a fag.’
Guthrie worked his way through the cupboards as Steel shouldered the back door and stomped out into the overgrown garden. ‘Any biscuits?’
‘Already?’ Butler shook her head. ‘You just had three pies.’
‘Got a fast metabolism.’
‘Got a bloody tapeworm, more like…’ She trailed off into silence.
Someone was hammering on the front door. Then the letterbox clattered open and a voice shouted in through the gap, ‘MR KNOX? RICHARD? WHAT WOULD YOU SAY TO THE FAMILIES OF YOUR VICTIMS?’
‘Christ, not again.’ Guthrie looked at Butler. ‘Whose turn is it?’
‘I did the last two.’
‘Sod.’ Guthrie grabbed his peaked cap off the kitchen work-surface and jammed it on his head, then marched down the corridor.
‘RICHARD? DON’T YOU DESERVE THE CHANCE TO TELL YOUR SIDE OF THE STORY?’
Logan watched Guthrie haul open the front door – the woman squatting on the other side almost fell on her backside. It took Guthrie nearly two minutes to get rid of her, with a lot of arguing, complaints about freedom of the press, two attempts at bribery, and a veiled threat that Guthrie hadn’t heard the last of this.
She stormed off down the snow-covered garden path, a photographer in tow.
Guthrie closed the front door again. ‘Bloody Daily Mail.’
Something thumped against the wood and he sagged. Swore. Then put his hat back on again and wrenched the door open. A second snowball thumped against the wall beside him, sending out a flurry of white.
Logan could just make out the Daily Mail reporter ducking down behind Sandy the grumpy photographer’s beige Volkswagen.
Guthrie shouted: ‘Hoy! You!’ then hurried down the path after her.
Logan closed the door.
Richard Knox crossed himself, stood, then wiped a hand across his eyes. The room was even gloomier than usual, curtains drawn, the only light coming from the three-bar electric fire: its middle coil giving off a weak orange glow, the other two dead and dark.
Logan stood on the threshold, looking into the lounge. There wasn’t a single ornament left in one piece, the faded wallpaper pockmarked with the residue of ceramic explosions. The standard lamp lay tipped into the corner, its wooden upright snapped in the middle, brown wires poking out. Broken television on its back. Coffee table on its side, missing two legs. The overturned sofa missing an arm.
The only thing he hadn’t touched was his three-bar votive flame.
Logan hauled one of the armchairs back onto its legs, shoogled it in front of the fire and sat. ‘Like what you’ve done with the place.’
Knox didn’t look around, his voice small and snivelly. ‘How did they find us?’
‘Your old English teacher sold your school records.’
‘She always was a bitch, like.’ He rubbed his eyes again. ‘You ever stop and think, “maybe God doesn’t love us any more”? That he’s doing all this to punish us?’
Knox turned and wandered over to the closed curtains. ‘It’s a test, though, isn’t it? All this? A test of me faith.’
‘We have to move you somewhere else.’
‘Like prison.’ Knox smiled, his face creasing up on one side. ‘It was a test of me faith, and when I passed, God rewarded us. Got the prison shrink help us come to terms with me childhood. Stuff that was confusing us, subconsciously and that.’
Logan sat forward. ‘You know, there’s a psychologist in Aberdeen who wants to help you as well.’
‘Like after Grandad Joe died in his sleep. Me mam was downstairs in the kitchen, arguing with Granny Murray – can’t remember what about, but there was lots of crying…And there was us upstairs, alone in the room with Grandad Joe.’ Knox reached out and stroked the faded velvet curtains. ‘He looked like butter, like he was made out of it, you know? All yellow and greasy, but when I touched his skin it was dry. Dry and cold. I was nine.’
‘His name’s Doctor Goulding. I can set it up an appointment for today, if you like?’
‘His teeth was sitting in a whisky glass beside the bed, and he’s lying there, mouth not quite shut, you know? Like he’s about to say something? So I pulls his mouth open, all the way, and runs me finger round the inside. His skin was cold, but inside he was still warm…’ Knox trailed off into silence, one finger tracing a circle on the dried-blood curtain. The smell of mould getting stronger.
Logan cleared his throat. ‘Maybe we should just—’
‘In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.’
‘Richard, we’re going to need to get you out of here.’
‘And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.’
‘Look, we’ve got a contingency plan for—’
‘And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.’ Knox stopped drawing his circle and grabbed the curtains with both hands.
‘Richard, this is important. I need you to—’
‘And God said, “Let there be light”!’ He threw the curtains open and Aberdeen did its best to rise to the occasion. Dawn had finally breached the horizon, colouring the snowbound garden with gold and amber.
Knox turned and smiled at Logan. ‘And there was light.’
And then there really was – blinding white light, shining straight in through the bay window. Logan covered his eyes with a hand, peering out.
Someone shouted, ‘There he is!’
An outside broadcast van sat on the other side of a lopsided holly bush, TV spotlights trained on the house. A bank of cameras. A group of people, placards jabbing into the cold morning air: ‘KNOX OUT!’ ‘ABERDEEN DOESN’T WANT GEORDIE RAPISTS!!!’ ‘PERVART GO HOME!’
‘Bloody hell.’ Logan creaked out of the armchair. ‘Richard, close the curtains!’
The weaselly little man just stood there, staring out at the people staring back at him.
‘Richard!’ Logan pushed past him, hauled the dusty red curtains shut.
Darkness.
Then the chanting started. ‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’
‘But…it’s me home. They…’
‘Go. Pack your stuff.’ Logan grabbed him by the sleeve. ‘We have to—’
‘DON’T TOUCH US!’ Knox scrabbled backwards, hands working at his chest like angry spiders. ‘Don’t touch. You’re not allowed to touch!’
‘I’m sorry, OK? Calm down.’ Logan held his hands out. ‘No one’s going to hurt you.’
‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’
‘Make them stop!’
‘It’s OK, you’re safe. They can’t—’
A loud crash ripped through the musty room, the curtains billowing, the shatter of falling glass, shards spilling out across the carpet.
‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’
The lounge door clattered open: Mandy from Sacro. ‘What the hell was that?’
Another crash and the curtains humped out again. More glass. A fist-sized lump of rock rolled out into the gloom.
Logan backed away, looked at her. ‘Get him out of here.’
‘Come on, Richard, it’s not safe.’
‘Don’t touch us!’
‘I’m not going to touch you—’
‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’
Through the lounge door, Logan could see Butler and Guthrie running for the front door, extendible batons at the ready.
More glass, another rock.
‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’
Logan stood at the upstairs window, looking down at the crowds. They’d grown thicker over the last hour, now the whole street was packed with angry faces, staring up at the house, shouting.
‘Knox, Knox, Knox: Out! Out! Out!’
Had to be two, maybe three hundred people out there, chanting in the snow, breath steaming into the cold morning air. Waving their placards. Being outraged for the cameras.
And there were a lot of cameras: newspapers and TV channels basking in the collective hatred of a community at war with one creepy little man.
At least reinforcements had arrived. Two unformed officers shivered at the front gate, while a reporter with a Channel 4 News umbrella did a piece to camera with them in the background. BBC Scotland had done exactly the same thing ten minutes earlier, probably catching the last live slot on Breakfast News.
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