Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8

by Stuart MacBride

  Fade to black.

  Then the artificial voice:

  ‘You will raise money for the safe return of Alison and Jenny McGregor. You have fourteen days, or they will be killed. You will tell the police. You will tell the television stations. You will tell the public. Or they will be killed. If you raise enough money within fourteen days, Jenny and Alison will be released. If not, they will be killed.’

  ‘You still here?’

  Logan turned. DI Bell stood in the doorway, a slice of toast in one hand, a mug of something in the other. A warm, meaty smell drifting out of it. ‘Just heading off, Guv.’

  Bell stepped into the room, wandered over to the window, stuck the toast in his mouth – like a rectangular duck’s beak – and peeked through the blinds.

  Logan powered down the laptop. ‘Thought you were in charge of back shift interviews?’

  The inspector let go of the blind, took the toast from his mouth. Chewed. ‘Got a call from Trisha Brown’s mum – nine, nine, nine. Completely off her face: says someone was round there with a cricket bat smashing her prized heirlooms to smithereens.’ Another bite of toast. ‘Wasn’t you, was it?’

  ‘Very funny, sir.’

  ‘Who says I’m being funny?’

  Logan just stared at him.

  DI Bell shrugged. ‘Anyway, when McHardy and Butler got there the place was even more of a craphole than normal. She’d been given a going over too.’

  ‘Drugs?’ Logan clunked the laptop shut and slipped it into its carrying case.

  ‘Poor old Helen probably tried to buy them off with a freebie, but being clean-living and sensible sorts, they beat the shite out of her instead. And the answer to your next question is no: your girlfriend Trisha wasn’t there.’

  He hefted the laptop bag over his shoulder. ‘Anyone found Shuggie yet?’

  ‘If the bugger’s got any brains he’ll be lying low in Dundee or Glasgow by now. Blending in with the scheemie smack-heads till the heat dies down.’

  Logan stood. ‘That’s me off.’

  ‘Right … Right.’ Bell finished off the last chunk of toast, washing it down with whatever was in the mug. ‘I’m not going to have to give you another call at three in the morning, am I?’

  ‘Christ, I hope not.’

  Logan stuck his head through the open door to the main incident room. It was a bit swankier than the one he’d commandeered on the fourth floor: Finnie had a complete set of carpet tiles for a start. It was lined with whiteboards and flipcharts, full of desks – seating for about thirty officers – its own photocopier, and a small glass-walled office in one corner so the Chief Inspector could keep an eye on his troops.

  They’d set up a screen on the wall furthest from the door, a roof-mounted projector flickering away in the darkened room. Playing the latest video from Jenny and Alison’s kidnappers.

  Finnie, Superintendent Green, Doreen, and a handful of officers were watching as the camera panned across to Jenny’s feet.

  Green held up a hand. ‘Stop it there. Go back a bit …’

  The picture lurched into reverse.

  ‘OK, freeze.’ He stood and walked to the screen, took a chunky pen out of his pocket and pointed at the image. Click, and a little red dot appeared on the wall of the graffiti-covered squat, tracing around the timestamp in the bottom right corner. ‘Eleven thirty-two. Now look at the patterns of light on the floor.’

  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.

  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 s
hrugged. ‘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.”’