The little red dot traced the shadows and highlights that fell across the bare floorboards. ‘I have some very clever boffins in Edinburgh who can work out the position of the sun at eleven thirty-two this morning, relative to Aberdeen. We combine that with the angle of incidence on the shadows and that’ll give us a good idea of where this was filmed.’
One of the uniformed officers whistled. ‘Fucking hell…’ Green turned, a smile on his face, one eyebrow raised. ‘I know: impressive, isn’t it? It won’t give us an exact address, but it’ll let us know roughly which part of the city we should be looking at. Then we search every derelict property in that area.’
Logan frowned.
Finnie nodded. ‘Excellent.’
Green’s chest came out a notch. ‘I’ll get them onto it.’
‘Erm, sir?’ Logan shifted the laptop bag on his shoulder. ‘Are you sure?’
The head of CID turned in his seat and gave him a rubbery scowl. ‘Tell me, Sergeant McRae, do you have a better idea?’
‘It’s just that—’
‘You’ve been going through the files for an hour and…’ He checked his watch. ‘Ten minutes, and you’ve already solved the case, all on your own?’
Logan could feel the heat rushing up his cheeks. ‘No, sir. I just think we should take another look at the footage before we go running off to SOCA’s technical services.’
‘Really?’ Superintendent Green leaned back against a desk, that TV smile of his slipping into a frown. ‘And why is that? Exactly.’
‘The kidnappers always take a lot of trouble to make sure we never get any forensic evidence. Why wouldn’t they do the same with the video?’
Green pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Sighed. Shook his head. ‘It’s a video, Sergeant – they can’t control the angle and position of the sun. Now, if we can get back to the footage?’
‘But they can control the timestamp on the camera.’
Green froze, half-turned back to the screen. ‘What?’
‘You have to set the time manually every time you change the battery.’ He pointed at the little digital readout. ‘Eleven thirty-two: the media briefing didn’t even start till eleven. And what about the newspaper?’
‘It’s today’s, so I don’t—’
‘The Edinburgh Evening Post headline was about the toe not being Jenny’s. How did they manage to write the article, print the newspaper, get it up to Aberdeen, and sell it in a shop, all in under thirty-two minutes? The paper doesn’t even go to press till mid-day. I checked.’
‘Ah…’ Green nodded. ‘I see. Well, that’s a very valid point.’ He turned back to face the screen. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
‘Anyway,’ Logan pointed at the graffiti-covered room, projected on the back wall, ‘just wanted to grab a copy of the video, if there’s one going spare?’
‘There’s one here.’ Doreen dug a CD in a clear plastic case from a folder on the desk beside her, then handed it over. Whispering. ‘You’ve made him look like a complete idiot.’ She gave Logan’s hand a squeeze. ‘Thanks.’
It was raining, pea-sized drops of lukewarm water that turned the pavement dark grey.
There was no point going out the front – the crowd was back in force, even with the horrible weather, huddling under thrumming umbrellas, being outraged for all the camera crews. The Lodge Walk entrance was just as bad, full of journos sheltering from the downpour while they waited to pounce on anyone leaving FHQ. So Logan hid the laptop bag under his jacket, trying to keep the thing dry as he hurried down the ramp from the Rear Podium and nipped through the little bit at the back of the Arts Centre.
Tonight the billboard sign outside the newsagent on King Street read, ‘EVENING EXPRESS: JENNY’S TORTURE – CAN WE RAISE ENOUGH TO SAVE HER?’ the white paper insert going nearly transparent as it soaked up the rain.
The other side had, ‘ABERDEEN EXAMINER: TOE TERROR OF BRAVE JENNY – KIDNAPPERS PROVE IT’S NO HOAX’. He stopped off and bought a copy of both, then hurried down Marischal Street.
It was getting colder, the rain leaching the heat from the city. His breath steamed around his head as he unlocked the building’s front door and dripped up the stairs to the flat.
‘You in?’
Samantha’s voice came from the lounge. ‘Hurry up, it’s just about to start.’
Oh joy.
Logan draped his jacket over a chair in the kitchen, moved the chair in front of the hot oven, grabbed a cold tin of Stella from the fridge, and made it back to the lounge in time to catch the opening titles.
Alison and Jenny McGregor
BRITAIN’S NEXT BIG STAR! – TRIBUTE SPECIAL
With Special Guests…
He sank into the sofa next to Samantha. ‘Chucking it down out there.’
‘You’re cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you?’
Logan fought with his soggy laces, then kicked his shoes off. ‘Lasagne in?’
She raised her tin of lager. ‘Bottoms up.’
Cheering burst from the television speakers as the camera swooped in over an excited audience to a big black triangular stage, polished to a mirror sheen, surrounded by hoops of red, green, and blue neon. Above the stage, three screens flashed from a red skull and crossbones to a green tick, the words, ‘MARTINE’, ‘CHRIS’, and ‘SOPHIE’ picked out in glowing white Perspex beneath them.
Logan pulled off his damp socks as the camera came to rest on two youngish looking blokes in black suits and black ties. ‘Who the hell are they?’
‘One on the left used to present Blue Peter, one on the right does a comedy thing on Channel Four.’
‘So what, they’re some kind of bargain basement “Ant and Dec”?’
‘Shhhhhh… They’re doing the intro.’
It was a bizarre concept – a TV talent show doing a tribute to two of its contestants, by getting celebrities to come on and do cover versions of the cover versions Alison and Jenny McGregor did in order to get on the show and become the kind of celebrity that got asked to do tribute shows…
The first couple of acts were OK. But after every one the camera would zoom in on the row of judges for their comments.
Logan took another slurp of Stella. ‘What’s the point? Not like they can say anything nasty, is it?’
And then a familiar figure bounded onto the stage. Gordon Maguire, head of Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Productions, dressed in the same Reservoir Dogs get-up as not-Ant-and-Dec. He waited for the applause to die down. ‘Thanks, guys. This has been one hell of a rollercoaster. First we thought Jenny was dead. Then the police told us they’d made a mistake, and she was still alive after all!’
A cheer went up. ‘And then, we all saw that horrible video this afternoon.’
That didn’t get a cheer.
The record producer nodded. ‘I know, I know. They told us we had fourteen days to raise enough money to save Jenny and Alison’s lives … well we’ve only got four days left. I want to remind everyone that the charity single is on iTunes, Amazon, and Britains NextBigStar.com, or you can buy it at HMV. All proceeds are going to pay the ransom…’
Samantha shifted on the couch, a little line puckering the skin between her neatly-trimmed eyebrows. ‘He’s a greasy little shite, isn’t he?’
‘Hmmm…’ Logan crumpled the empty tin. ‘Oh, I saw the Reverend today. He’s got a new dog collar – black leather with silver studs. I quite fancy one if you’re feeling flush.’
On screen, Maguire finished his rousing speech to a standing ovation. Then there were comments of support from the judges. And then Lily Allen doing the McGregors’ version of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
‘And viewers, tonight you can vote for which of our celebrities will perform Wind Beneath My Wings at the end of the show.’
‘Yes, and don’t forget: every phone call you make contributes towards the Alison and Jenny Freedom Fund…’
Samantha turned the volume up. ‘He wants to know if you’re using the lotion.’
‘What is this, Silence of the Lambs?’
‘You have to use the lotion. Do you want it to get infected?’
‘I’m using the lotion.’ Logan stood. ‘You want another beer?’
She raised her tin. ‘Check on the lasagne when you’re there?’
It looked like pretty much every ready-meal vegetarian lasagne he’d ever seen, bubbling away in its little oven-proof plastic tray. Smelled good, though. He pulled another two tins from the fridge.
The Alison and Jenny Freedom Fund – who the hell came up with that one? Made them sound like terrorists…
He popped open the cupboard above the fridge, hunting for crisps. Then groaned: his mobile was ringing, deep in the pocket of his steaming jacket. Logan shifted the chair and went rummaging until he found it. The number was withheld.
Sod it then. They could wait till he was on duty.
Unless it was something important.
Maybe Superintendent Green was calling to say he was sorry for being such a cock. That he didn’t realize what a deductive genius Logan was. That he wished he hadn’t picked Doreen to be his babysitter.
Not that Logan was jealous. The man was a prick after all. But what did Doreen have that he didn’t? Other than boobs. And an ex-husband who’d run away with a social worker called Steve?
He hit the pick-up button. ‘McRae.’
A pause. Then a fuzzy, vague voice sounded in his ear. ‘Gotta give us them back, yeah?’
It took a moment to place her. ‘Trisha? Trisha Brown? That you?’
‘They came to my mum’s house and everything. Broke her leg and that.’
‘Deal still stands, Trisha: tell me who they were, and we’ll get them locked up. Don’t want them to get away with battering your mum, do you?’
There was a big bag of Bacon Frazzles lurking behind a tub of Twiglets from last Christmas. Logan pulled them out and clunked the cupboard door shut again.
‘Trisha?’
‘Shuggie says they’ll kill us if they find us.’
‘All the more reason to dob them in then, isn’t it?’
Silence.
Logan tucked the phone between his shoulder and his ear, picked up the tins of beer and the crisps. ‘I’m going to hang up now, Trisha.’
‘He says you gotta give them back, or next time he’s gonna use a Stanley knife, you know?’
‘On your mum?’
‘To write your name on my chest…’
Samantha appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘What, are you brewing the beer yourself?’ Arms folded across her ‘ONE OF THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE’ T-shirt, left hip jutting out. That line back between her eyebrows.
He held up a hand, mouthed, ‘One minute…’
‘I’m going for a pee – you’ve got till the end of the adverts.’
‘Trisha, you have to tell me where you are.’
‘You gotta give them back.’
‘Who is it? Who’s going to cut you?’
But she’d hung up.
Chapter 22
An old man wheezed his way up the stairs, one hand on the black balustrade, the other clutching a rolled up, bright-pink Hello Kitty umbrella.
‘Morning, Doc.’ Logan leaned against the wall. ‘Back again?’ Doc Fraser scowled from beneath hairy eyebrows. Water dripped from the point of his brolly. ‘This is all your fault. I could’ve stayed retired, at home, chasing Mildred around the conservatory in my pants, but nooooo…’ The pathologist shook his shoulders, sending a little downpour pattering to the stairs at his feet. ‘Your mate Hudson’s called in sick again. So it’s either muggins here, or no one.’
‘Toes?’
‘Yes, toes. It’s always bloody toes these days.’
‘Erm…’ Logan glanced up the stairs, then down. No one around. ‘Fancy a coffee?’
Logan clicked the button and set the video playing again.
Doc Fraser leant forward in his seat until his nose was almost touching the screen.
Dr Dave Goulding had the room’s only other chair. He’d turned it the wrong way around, straddling it and leaning his arms on the back. Head tilted to one side, watching the pathologist watching the video. Goulding had on his little rectangular glasses, and a brand-new 1960s-Beatles-style moustache to go with his pelt-like hair. He ran a finger along the bridge of his hooked nose. ‘It’s an interesting choice, don’t you think?’ The voice was pure Liverpool.
Doc Fraser shrugged. ‘They obviously know what they’re doing. The stitching’s good – not wonderful, but good… Which button pauses it again?’
Logan clicked it with the mouse. ‘Thanks. Well, they’ve definitely got access to proper medical supplies. The brown stuff they’ve painted her feet with is Videne – it’s an iodine-based disinfectant used to prep people for surgery. She’s on an IV drip, so I’m assuming they don’t have access to a PCA system—’
‘PCA?’ Logan opened his notepad. ‘Patient Controlled Analgesia. You know, one of those machines where you press a button and it gives you more morphine? Well, until it thinks you’ve had enough, then it cuts you off so you can’t overdose.’
‘I see.’ Goulding pointed at the screen. ‘So they don’t want to cause Jenny pain.’
Logan tried not to laugh. ‘They cut off her toes, Dave.’ So much for a psychology degree.
That got him a shrug. ‘But that doesn’t mean they want her to suffer. First they try to fob everyone off with a surrogate big toe from another child – it doesn’t work, so they’ve got no choice, they have to amputate. It shows they’re serious about killing her.’
Doc Fraser nodded. ‘Aye.’
‘And I think, if they do end up killing her, they’ll do it so she doesn’t have to suffer.’
Logan settled back against the windowsill. ‘Kidnappers with a conscience.’
‘Make it play again.’
He clicked the button.
‘This is not a hoax. You have four days left. If you raise enough money, they will live. If you do not, they will die. Do not let Jenny and Alison down.’
A mobile phone rang.
Doc Fraser sighed. ‘That’ll be Finnie. Probably having a wee strop because the post mortem was supposed to start…’ Quick check. ‘Ten minutes ago.’ The pathologist gave a big, pantomime stretch. ‘Any more biscuits?’
Logan pushed the packet over. ‘Now what I find interesting,’ Goulding opened a pale blue folder and pulled out a half-dozen sheets of paper, placing them on the desk, ‘is the language used. The voice on the videos is precise – no contractions, no colloquialisms – but the notes…’ He read the latest one out. ‘“The police isn’t taking this seriously. We gave them simple, clear, instructions, but they still was late. So we got no other choice: we had to cut off the wee girl’s toe. She got nine more. No more fucking about.”’
Goulding let his fingertips drift across the surface of the note. ‘“The police isn’t.”, “But they still was.”, “So we got no other choice.”, “She got nine more.”’
‘Different people?’ Doc Fraser helped himself to another Jammie Dodger.
Goulding shook his head. ‘No … different media. If they were slapdash, they’d use a voice-changer – like you get in toy Iron Man or Dalek helmets – but they don’t. They know if we can get hold of the conversion algorithm we can decode their voice; and the pattern and rhythm of your speech stay the same anyway. So when they write the notes, they’re typing in a fake accent. Trying to put us off.’
The psychologist held the note up. ‘But even then they still use a colon to delineate two parts of the compound sentence, and all the apostrophes are in the right place – given the idiom. Even the commas are correct.’
Doc Fraser’s phone went again. ‘Oh … bloody hell.’ He gave a long sigh. ‘I suppose I should really get down there and start the post mortem.’ But he didn’t move.
‘I do wonder about the toes…’ Goulding fiddled with the mouse, setting the video playing again.
Doc Fraser’s phone stopped ri
nging. Then started again almost immediately. ‘All right, all right. Some people.’ He levered himself to his feet and stuck his hands in the pockets of his beige cardigan, pulling it all out of shape. ‘Well, if you need me I’ll be downstairs discovering traces of morphine, thiopental sodium, and Barbie-pink nail polish.’
‘Thanks, Doc.’ The door clunked shut and Logan stood in front of the window, looking out at the grey city.
Rain hammered the glass, gusts of wind shivering the few straggly trees planted between FHQ and Marischal College, tiny green buds whipping back and forth. He couldn’t see the crowd gathered outside the front doors from here, but he had a perfect view of the outside broadcast units, parked illegally on the other side of the road.
The media must be loving this – the chance to whip up moral outrage, the chance to broadcast and print the most salacious and disturbing images and stories, all with the excuse that the kidnappers would kill Alison and Jenny McGregor if they didn’t… ‘What about the toes?’
‘How you getting on?’
He looked around, saw the psychologist starting at him, then turned back to the window. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You’ve not turned up for a session for five weeks, Logan.’ Someone hurried across the road, passing in front of a grey Transit van with a satellite antenna on top of it, struggling to control an umbrella that looked hell bent on making a break for freedom.
‘Do you think it’s important they’re sending toes, not fingers?’
Goulding sighed. ‘The big toe – that’s a huge loss to a foot, isn’t it? It’s the point of balance – cut it off and you’re facing months and months of physical therapy learning to walk again. But the little toe…’ A pause. ‘Not just one, but both little toes…’
The umbrella broke free, tumbling end-over-end away down Queen Street. Its owner lumbered after it, right out into the path of a taxi. A blare of horn. Flashing lights. Probably a few choice swearwords as well.
‘Logan, therapy isn’t a quick fix. You have—’
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