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didn't hire choirboys. Not unless he thought he could rent them out to 'discerning' priests. Suddenly DI Steel rocked forwards and slammed her hands down on the tabletop, making the whole thing jump. But Greg Campbell didn't so much as flinch, just sat there with a misty, faraway look in his eyes. 'Enough!' Steel stuck her finger in Greg's face. 'You don't want to talk? Fine.' She turned and glowered at the bored-looking WPC. 'Constable, take this sack of shit down to the cells. Charge him: assault, possession with intent to supply . . . Looking like a child molester.' For the first time a flicker of emotion showed in Greg Campbell's face. 'I am not a child molester.' 'Jesus Christ on a moped!' Steel struck a dramatic pose. 'It talks!' 'I am not a child molester.' His voice was low and soft, not threatening, or angry, just matter of fact. 'Sure you are; long hair and a moustache equals child molester in anyone's book.' Steel leant over the table, her face inches from Greg's. 'That why you're up here? Eh? Come to indulge your sick little self? Get some wee kiddies hooked on crack cocaine, so you can have your wicked way with them?' She winked. 'Come on, Greggy, you can tell your Auntie Roberta: what you doing up here?' Greg took a deep breath, closed his eyes and said, 'I have done nothing wrong. I am cooperating with the police.' He settled back into his fuzzy gaze, and nothing Steel tried could get him to talk again. She eventually gave up and ordered the WPC to take him back to the cells. As soon as Greg Campbell was gone Steel exploded, cursing, swearing, snatching the Manila folder out of Logan's hands and hurling it against the far wall, where it spilled open, scattering its contents across the stinky room. Logan just crossed his arms and sat on the edge of the table, waiting for the tantrum to pass. Eventually she ran out of steam, the
torrent of foul language fading to a trickle and then drying up entirely. 'Christ she said, slumping down in one of the plastic chairs. 'I needed that - wee shite was doing my head in. Fuckin' bursting for a fag.' She pulled out a packet and lit one up, sticking two fingers up at the big No Smoking sign screwed to the wall next to the door. Then she saw the little red light winking away on the video camera, swore again and mashed her finger down on the stop button. 'Damn. Now I'm gonna have to screw about with the tape to get rid of the evidence. Smoking in the workplace, what would the Scottish Executive say?' She rubbed a tired hand across her face, moving the skin around. 'So, you didn't get anything out of Tweedledee then?'
Steel laughed, a short barking sound borne on wings of second-hand smoke. 'That wee outburst you witnessed was the most he'd said all bloody night. Beginning to think the bastard was mute.' 'You touched a nerve with that child molester thing though.' 'All the bloody good it did.' She slumped back against the wall and puffed her cigarette down to a tiny stump, grinding the remains to death beneath her shoe. 'Come on, let's go tell Mr Sutherland some dirty, stinking lies.'
Brendan 'Chib' Sutherland looked somewhat the worse for wear. Five and a bit hours in captivity had left him with bags under his eyes and a peach-coloured fuzz on his chin. He made a big show of yawning and stretching as DI Steel settled down on the other side of the table. She was grinning like a Halloween lantern. 'Sergeant McRae, do the honours, would you?' and Logan went through the usual rigmarole of getting the tapes in place and performing the introductions: Chib Sutherland, DI Steel, DS McRae and the bored PC from the corridor. Then Steel bounced up and down in her seat, like an excited schoolgirl. 'Chib, Chib, Chibbity,
Chib-Chib-Chib . . . Guess what a wee birdie just felt us!' She gripped the edge of the desk and leaned forward. 'Go on, guess. No, you'll never guess, but try anyway!' Silence. 'OK.' The inspector gave a big leering wink. 'I'll give you a clue. 'We've been talking to your mate, Greg the Kiddie Fiddler, and he's been telling us all sorts of funny stories about you, two condoms full of crack cocaine and Jamie McKinnon's backside!' Chib's face was like a stone. 'He's not a bloody child molester. I won't tell you again.' 'Poor old Chib, here you are looking after your mate's best interests and all the time he's been through there fitting you up. 'Cording to him, you did the whole lot: you broke Jamie's fingers and then you forced some crack-filled condoms up between his plump little bum cheeks.' She stuck a finger in the side of her mouth and flicked it out with a loud pop. 'Says you really enjoyed doing it too. That you're into that kind of thing . . .' Chib's face was getting darker and darker, like a storm gathering. Steel beamed. 'Oh! Oh - I know! I've got some magazines you'd love Took them off someone who's into it too, but just between you and me, I think it's a bit rude to stuff things up someone else's bum, unless you've at least bought them dinner first.' 'I have done nothing wrong, I am cooperating with the police.' Chib's voice was trembling with the effort of staying calm and level. The vein in his forehead throbbing in time to the clenching of his jaw. Steel scooted her chair closer to the table. 'So, how come it was crack then? Did you no' know heroin was the drug du jour up here? You trying to start a new trend?' 'I have done nothing wrong. I am cooperating--' 'With the police.' Steel finished for him. 'Yeah, we've heard it before. Your mate the paedophile trotted it out at least a dozen times before he turned on you.' 'HE IS NOT A BLOODY PAEDOPHILE!' Chib was halfway
out of his seat before the PC grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him back down. 'Chibbly.' The inspector smiled at him. 'You don't want to go getting yourself all riled up like that, could cause yourself an injury. Now why don't you tell us your side of the story, eh? Do a bit of damage limitation. 'Cos as it stands, when we go into court later today and tell the nice sheriff what's been going on, you're gonna be screwed. Right now, your buddy goes free and you go down. I ask you: is that fair?' Chib glowered at DI Steel and said, 'I have done nothing wrong. I am cooperating with the police.' After that, his lips were sealed.
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The sunshine was somehow thinner today, as if it knew autumn was on the way. Logan and Jackie wandered along Union Street, fighting their way in and out of the stream of Saturday-morning shoppers. So far the day had consisted of a much needed lie-in, a late breakfast and a long shower. Jackie had unplugged the phone and made Logan switch off his mobile - they were going to have a day off, just like normal people did. They stopped off pretty much at random: a couple of bottles of wine, a CD, some chocolate, and then off into the Trinity Centre where Logan had to hang about while Jackie tried on clothes. Just what he wanted to do on his day off. He slumped against the wall, along with all the other afflicted husbands and boyfriends whose womenfolk had decided it would be fun to go shopping. While Jackie was in the changing room with an armful of blouses and trousers, he clicked his phone back on to see if anyone was looking for him. There was a message from Colin Miller sounding depressed. Logan wandered off to the periphery of the changing area, far enough to not be overheard by the motley collection of bored men, but still close enough to keep an eye on Jackie's shopping, and called him back. 'What can I do for you, Colin?'
'Hey, Laz.' Sigh. "Wonderin' if you 'we got anythin' for me?' 'What, again? What happened to the Lithuanian spit roast?'
'Bugger all, that's what happened to it. I went and spoke to the guy in Plannin': says they threatened to go to the press with pictures of him and Marshall with their dicks in that wee girl if he didn 't push through the plannin' permission for Malk the Knife's houses.' Another sigh. 'Can you see the headline? Housing Hood Hires Teenage Tart To Pervert Planning! exclusive. . . I can't publish anythin': they'll kill me.' Logan was about to admit that Miller had a point when Jackie stuck her head round the corner of the changing room, searching the collection of bored men for him. He had just enough time to throw Miller a hurried goodbye and switch the phone off again before she saw him. As soon as she did he was handed a pile of clothes and told to find the same things in a size fourteen. As he rummaged through the summer tops, Logan wondered why on earth he'd agreed to come on this expedition; probably because Jackie had made the gesture of a full Scottish breakfast this morning - a peace offering, like the curry he'd bought last week - and he was still feeling guilty for having that dream about Deputy
PF Rachael Tulloch. And her pale breasts . . . An hour later they'd got as far as Marks and Spencer's underwear department - no doubt to buy some more World War I army surplus industrial-strength bras and pants - before Logan got the chance to secretly turn his mobile on again, intending to call Miller back and see what else the reporter had got out of Councillor Marshall's friend. The screen lit up with about a dozen messages, all from DI Steel. Call her back, or ignore her? It was his day off after all. He called her back. 'Where the hell have you been? I've been calling all bloody morning!' 'I'm on my day off,' said Logan, eyes darting across the rows of underwired bras, making sure Jackie was still in the fitting room.
'Don't be so bloody wet; we've got a missing tart to find!' 'We don't even know she's missing.' 'Aye, well that's where you're wrong. Got a warrant to force entry this morning. Found the boyfriend passed out in a pool of vomit - he's no' seen her for about a week.' 'Maybe she's gone away for a bit?' 'Aye, right, and my arse squirts perfume. Get back here: we need to come up with a plan.' 'I'm on my day off!' He turned and scowled at a line of scarlet thongs. 'Can this not wait until tomorrow?' 'No it bloody can't.' Jackie could tell he'd done something stupid the moment she stepped out of the changing room. 'You're going in, aren't you? That bitch called and you're going in.' Logan nodded and she screwed her face up, counting to ten. 'Right, I want you back at the flat by seven at the latest - we're having dinner. If you're late I'll kill you. And then I'll kill her. Understood?' Logan kissed her on the cheek. 'Thanks.' 'Aye, well, just you make sure you solve this bloody case and get shot of the rancid old cow for good.'
The rancid old cow was standing in front of the incident room whiteboards, a magic marker in one hand and a cup of milky coffee in the other. There was a new picture on the board - though this time it wasn't paired off with one from the associated post mortem - and DI Steel stared at it, tapping the pen off her cigarette-yellowed teeth. The new girl was in her late thirties: frizzy bleached-blonde hair, brown eyes - one slightly off centre, wide nose, cleft chin and one of those fake-looking beauty spots. Like a greasy black mole. Not the prettiest. Right up their killer's alley. DI Steel turned suddenly and caught Logan standing behind her. 'Jesus,' she said with a start, 'what you doing sneaking up on me like that for? You want to give me a heart attack?'
Chance would be a fine thing. 'This Holly?' he asked, pointing at the new face. 'Yup. Probably lying battered and dead in a ditch by now, but at least we know who we're looking for. I've got three search teams out.' She counted them off on her fingers, 'Hazlehead, Garlogie and Tyrebagger - where we found the last one.' Logan nodded. 'Think he'll go back to the same place twice?' 'Stake my left boob on it, but just in case I want the other two given the once over. And if we don't find anything we expand the search: get some more bodies in and work our way through every bit of woodland from here to Inverurie.' Logan shuddered to think just how much effort that would take. 'So what do you want me to do then?' he asked. 'Sounds like you've got it all under control.' Steel opened her mouth and then closed it again. 'Buggered if I can remember,' she said at last. 'Oh, aye: that woman with the missing husband's phoned about a million times today, and you've got to go see Complaints and Discipline. Here.' She passed him a hand-scrawled note. 'If you hurry you'll just catch him.'
Logan sat in the small reception area outside Professional Standards scowling at the note, trying to get some sense out of its random collection of squiggles. He could strangle DI Steel! Dragging him in on his day off, again, just so that smug bastard Napier could tell him he was going to be fired. Hooray! What a great way to spend the day. It would serve them all right if he just marched straight in there, slammed his warrant card down on the table and told Count Nosferatu where he could shove it. The job and the warrant card both, right up his sanctimonious ar-- 'Ah, Sergeant, if you'd like to step inside . . .' It wasn't
Napier, it was the other one, the quiet one who always sat in the corner taking notes. The quiet man settled himself down into one of the nasty visitor chairs and motioned for Logan to do the same. There was no sign of Napier. 'I take it you know why you're here?' said the inspector, pulling out a copy of Sandy the Snake's complaint. 'Mr MoirFarquharson alleges that you were abusive and threatened him when he visited the station yesterday. That you said you would, and I quote, "break his bloody fingers". Is that correct?' Logan nodded and kept his mouth shut. 'I see,' said the inspector, scribbling something down on his copy of the form. 'And were there any witnesses to this incident?' Sigh. 'No. We were alone in the reception area.' 'Really?' The inspector sat forward in his chair. 'Mr MoirFarquharson says that a member of the public was also present. A Mr . . .' he flicked through his notes. 'Mr Milne who'd come in to report a theft?' 'Milne?' Logan frowned. 'What, Manky Milne? He turned up, ranting about having his script nicked, same as he does every Friday. Thinks if he reports his dihydrochloride stolen he can get more from the drugs rehabilitation scheme. But he's just selling them on to buy heroin. Makes up the difference with a bit of housebreaking.' 'I see ... so not a reliable witness then.' 'Last time he was in court the judge called him a barefaced liar with the morals of a plague rat. And anyway, he didn't arrive till after.' The inspector smiled. 'Excellent. In that case it will be down to Mr Moir-Farquharson's word against yours. Especially if this Milne character wasn't even present at the time of the alleged incident. . . Excellent, excellent. . . Well, thank you for your time, Sergeant. I'm sure you have much more important things to be getting on with.' And that was it: Logan was shown out of the office, given a handshake and sent on his way.
He stood on his own in the empty corridor, the sound of damp shoes squeaking on the drab, dirty-olive floor from somewhere round the corner. 'What the hell was that all # about?' This just didn't make any sense. It actually felt like the inspector was trying to help . . . Maybe he was having some good luck for a change? If so he'd better make use of it, before it disappeared again. Logan commandeered a couple of uniforms, an office, and three portable video units. They were going to go through the footage shot by Operation Cinderella on the night Holly McEwan went missing.
28
DI Steel squinted at the video monitor. 'So what am I supposed to be looking at again?' Logan hit rewind and the car that had been sweeping towards the camera went into reverse. He hit play and it swooped forward again. A brand new Audi. The picture was a little ropey, but it was clear enough to make out the figure in the passenger seat. She was caught in the glow of a streetlight: frizzy bleached-blonde hair, squint nose, cleft chin, half a ton of make-up and a black beauty spot on the left cheek. 'Holly McEwan,' said Logan tapping the screen. 'This was taken by the video surveillance unit in the van. You can't really make out all of the number plate, but if you look over here . . .' He pointed at the next monitor, where a view along Regent Quay flickered and jiggled. He pressed play and the image settled down to show the same brand-new Audi stop at the junction before disappearing onto Virginia Street. He rewound the tape and hit pause again. This time the car's number plate was clearly visible. 'You sure this is the same car?' asked Steel, pressing her nose against the glass. 'Positive: the partial registration from the other tape matches this one and so does the time stamp. But just in case,
I've asked the lab to see if they can't get a better image of the first number plate.' 'Ya wee beauty!' Steel grinned, showing off a row of yellow teeth. 'All we need to do now is--' Logan held up a piece of paper. 'Vehicle registration, name and address.' 'Sergeant, if you were a woman: I'd kiss you.'
The Bridge of Don was4a sprawl of housing developments on the north of the city, growing over the years like a Mandelbrot fractal of cul-de-sacs in tan brick. Neil Ritchie owned a four-bedroom, two-storey detached villa on the very edge of the development, its large back garden studded with mature trees marking the boundary between the city and fields of oilseed rape. Around the front of the property Logan and DI Steel sat in a reasonably clean CID car, with DC Rennie in the back. There was no brand-new Audi sitting on the driveway - just a little
, dark blue Renault Clio and a huge motorbike - but there was a double garage sitting at the end of the lock-block drive. Steel pulled out her mobile and punched in Neil Ritchie's phone number. There was a pause, and then DI Steel said in a broad Aberdonian accent, 'Hullo, is iss Mistur Ritchie? . . . Fit? . . . Aye, aye, aye . . . Noo, I ken he wis askin' fer a pucklie chuckies, but ah canna deliver em imarra ... A pucklie chuckies . . . Chuckies . . . Aye, d'yis want taste pit im oan?' She clasped one hand over the mouthpiece and smiled like a crocodile. 'Bastard's in. Let's do it.' She opened the car door and stepped out into the cloudy afternoon, closely followed by Logan and Rennie. Logan spoke into a radio handset and told the other team it was all systems go as Steel strode up the drive to the front door. She gave the nod and Rennie leant on the doorbell. 'Hullo?' she said into the phone clamped to her ear. 'Is iss Mistur Ritchie?' From the other side of the door they could hear a man's
voice: 'Damn, can you hold on a minute? That's the front door . . .' It opened revealing a man in his early thirties holding a cordless phone. He was all dressed up in a set of expensive biker's leathers, a little heavy around the middle, with a face that no one would think to look twice at. Not ugly, just forgettable. Exactly the sort of face you'd want for picking up prostitutes and beating the life out of them. He smiled at Rennie and pointed at the phone. 'Be with you in just a minute . . .' He turned his attention back to the call. 'Now, who did you say was calling?' 'It's the police,' said Steel, 'we've come to have a little chat.' The man looked at the phone, then at the inspector, then said, 'Sorry?' into the mouthpiece. Steel smiled at him and snapped her phone shut. 'Mr Neil Ritchie? Want to let us in, or would you prefer us to drag you down to the station, kicking and screaming?' 'What? I'm just on my way out, I--' 'Not any more you're not.' She whipped out the warrant and pointed at Rennie. 'Make sure there's not a dead tart lying on the kitchen floor, there's a good boy.'
McRae 2 - Dying Light Page 23