Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8

by Stuart MacBride

  Angry noises filled the briefing room.

  Finnie banged his coffee mug on the nearest desk. ‘All right, that’s enough. Let’s try to behave like grown-ups and professionals.’

  Superintendent Green sat back down again.

  ‘We have one last item of business.’ A smile spread across Finnie’s lace. ‘You’ll have heard we made a significant seizure of drugs last night – thanks to DS McRae – and expect to make further inroads into the supply chain over the next few days. You’ll also have heard that DI McPherson met with an unfortunate accident yesterday. As he’s going to be out of commission for at least three weeks, I’m promoting DS McRae to the rank of Detective Inspector effective immediately. I’m sure you’ll all …’ he turned his smile on Green for a moment, then back to the rest of the room, ‘join me in wishing him every success in this challenging role.’

  Logan stared. ‘What …?’

  Woohoo!’ Rennie started a round of applause that rippled around the room, then grew.

  Logan stared at his hands. The knuckles were still slightly swollen, the skin around them mottled with faint bruises. That was what they were clapping for – because he beat the crap out Shuggie Webster, a crippled junkie with his hands cable-tied behind his back.

  Go Team Logan.

  He should have resigned when he’d had the chance.

  ‘I know, OK?’ Logan covered his head with his hands, then slumped back in his seat in the make-shift office. ‘It’s not like I planned it, is it?’

  He could hear Steel sighing. ‘You’re a sodding lucky bugger, Laz. But if Shuggie changes his mind …’

  ‘He won’t.’ Not unless he wanted to feel the wrath of Wee Hamish Mowat. And Jonny Urquhart had made it quite clear what would that would involve.

  There was a pause. Then her voice went cold. ‘That what you were doing up the hospital yesterday afternoon? Threatening him to keep his gob shut?’

  ‘No …’ Logan crumpled forward until his elbows touched the desk. ‘I spoke to Trisha’s mum, I sat with Samantha. That’s all’

  ‘You used to be …’ Steel grunted. He could picture her, standing behind him, shaking her head, eyes closed, chewing on her top lip. ‘Fuck’s sake, Laz.’

  The door banged open. ‘Celebrations!’ Rennie danced into the room – a one man conga line. ‘Da-da-dada-da, da! Da-da-dada-da, da!’

  He grabbed Steel’s hips and kept on dancing. ‘Da-da-dada-da, da! Da-da-dada-da, da!’

  ‘Get off me you daft wee sod!’ She smacked his hands away.

  ‘Oh, come on Guv, not every day one of our own gets bumped up the ranks.’ He performed a little curtsey. ‘Detective Inspector McRae, may I be the first to tell you how gargantuanly sexy you look as a DI, and if you ever need a sidekick—’

  ‘Thanks, but—’

  ‘I think Detective Sergeant Simon Rennie has a certain ring to it, don’t you? I mean, if you’re being promoted, they’ll need someone to fill in for you at the Wee Hoose, yeah?’ He grinned, his teeth sparkling white against the unnaturally orange tan. ‘Then I can get some poor sod to make the tea for a change.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Steel clicked her e-cigarette into life and sooked on it. ‘Latte: three sugars, extra chocolate, and some of that hazelnut syrup if they’ve got it. DI McRae’ll have decaf: two and a coo.’

  Rennie’s grin slipped. ‘Can’t I get someone else to—’

  ‘If you’re no’ back in two minutes with those coffees, you’re going to spend the rest of the day as Biohazard’s bitch, understand?’

  Rennie pretty much sprinted from the room.

  Steel waited until the door was closed and they were alone once more. ‘I’m no’ going to say this twice, so pin back your lugs: you ever, ever do anything like this again, I’ll hang your arse out like a pair of scabby knickers, understand?’

  ‘Then let me quit.’

  She thumped him on the shoulder. ‘You’re no’ getting off that lightly.’

  Of course he wasn’t.

  ‘Now what?’

  Steel sent a perfect smoke ring crashing against his computer monitor. ‘I mean it, Laz. I’ll no have wee Jasmine growing up with a bent copper for a dad.’

  Logan logged into his email, scrolling through the backlog of messages. ‘Anything else?’ Not looking at her.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’ He clicked on an email from DI Bell – an update on the interviews conducted overnight with the ‘Marley brothers’.

  ‘I’m sorry about Samantha. If you need to talk to anyone …’

  ‘I don’t need to—’

  ‘’Cause if you do, you can call your pet psychologist. All that touchy-feely bollocks gives me the dry boak.’ She sniffed. ‘Now, maybe we should—’

  Logan’s mobile burst into song.

  ‘Laz?’ Colin Miller. ‘We got another message from the wankers in the white sperm-suits. You near your computer?’

  The email package chimed at him, a little window popping up in the bottom left corner of the screen: ‘COLIN MILLER. FWD: ONE DAY TO GO.’

  The door banged open and Rennie lurched over the threshold, breathing like a pervert, clutching his side. ‘They’ve … They’ve got a … got a … a new video!’

  Logan opened the message: a link to YouTube. He clicked on it.

  ‘No’ more toes, is it?’ Steel pulled the fake cigarette from her mouth.

  The video finally downloaded enough to start playing. Logan hauled the headphones out of the socket and the speakers crackled with static, then that cold computer voice boomed into the room.

  43

  Steel tapped the screen. ‘Play it again.’

  ‘You have twenty-four hours left to save Jenny’s life.’

  On the screen a fuzzy image snapped into focus – Jenny McGregor lying curled up on a bare mattress. A chain was wrapped around her neck, the other end padlocked to the metal bed frame. Her Winnie the Pooh pyjamas were grubby, but the bandages on her feet looked fresh – a faint stain marking where her little toes had been hacked off.

  Steel bared her teeth. ‘Bastards.’

  ‘Some newspapers insist on telling you that this is all a hoax: it is not. I promise you Jenny will die if you fail to raise enough money.’

  A figure stepped into shot, dressed in the familiar white SOC outfit with gloves and a plastic mask that distorted their features. They held up an eight-inch carving knife.

  ‘She will die, and the police will receive a different part of her dismembered body every day for fourteen days: one piece for every day you failed to raise enough money.’

  The speakers crackled. A woman screamed, ‘Don’t hurt my baby!’ and the camera swung around to show Alison McGregor, scrabbling at the bare floorboards with her fingernails, trying to drag herself away from the radiator they’d chained her to. Her hair was a mess, face bright pink, tears streaming down her cheeks. Then the sound cut off, leaving Alison screaming and shouting in silence.

  Jenny filled the screen again.

  ‘If you fail her, she will die. Then we will start the process all over again with her mother.’

  The white-suited figure took a handful of hair and hauled the little girl’s head up, then held the knife against her throat.

  The picture zoomed in. Jenny’s nose bright pink and shiny, her bottom lip trembling. Her eyes darted up to the right, probably looking at the bastard with the knife, then she nodded. It wasn’t a big nod, but it was still enough for the blade to make a little crease in her skin. She looked straight into the lens, and fat tears sparked in the corners of her eyes.

  Her voice came from the laptop’s speakers, small and trembling. ‘I don’t … I don’t want … to die …’

  ‘You have until midnight.’

  The screen went dark, then YouTube’s little line of ‘if you liked that, you’ll love these’ videos appeared, along with an option to play the thing again.

  ‘Lights.’ DCI Finnie pointed the
remote at the projector mounted on the roof of the briefing room, freezing the picture as the man in the SOC suit pressed the knife against Jenny’s throat.

  Someone flipped the switch and a cold fluorescent glow filled the room. The audience shifted in their seats. It was a much more select group than earlier, just the top brass and senior CID officers.

  Finnie placed the remote down on the lectern next to him. ‘At least we now have a timeframe: midnight.’

  Chief Constable Anderson swore, light glinting off the polished silver buttons on his dress uniform and the top of his shiny head. ‘What’s the pot standing at?’

  ‘Er …’ Acting DI Mark McDonald fidgeted his way through a small stack of paper. ‘It’s about—’

  ‘Six point three million.’ Superintendent Green lounged in his chair, staring up at the screen. ‘Conservative estimates put the total at about seven million by midnight.’

  ‘Dear lord.’ The Chief Constable shook his head. ‘Any idea how they’re planning on getting their hands on the money?’

  ‘It has to be electronic transfer.’ Green tapped his pen against the palm of his hand. ‘They can’t ask for it in cash – we can’t get that much together by midnight; then they’d have to launder it. Not to mention the risk involved with picking it up.’

  ‘I see. And what about this Frank Baker?’

  DI Steel narrowed her eyes at Green for a moment. ‘We’ve got sightings from Nairn to Portsmouth and back again. His face is in every regional newspaper in the UK, and most of the nationals as well; posters up at every ferry terminal, bus station, and airport.’

  Green nodded. ‘I knew he was involved from the moment I spoke to him.’

  ‘Oh aye? And did you no’ think it’d be a good idea to let us know so we could keep an eye on him before you scared him off?’

  ‘I can’t be expected to do your job for you, Inspector.’

  Then followed five minutes of arguing, moaning, and trying to pass the buck.

  Logan stared at the screen. The Knife Man had a stick-on conference-style name badge just like the two in the abduction video. It was difficult to make out, but it sort of looked like ‘Sylv—’ something. Sylvia? Sylvester?

  Logan tried them both out on his notepad. Sylvia, David, and Tom. Sylvester, Tom, and David.

  Didn’t really make any difference – they were fake names. No one went to all the trouble of producing forensically-neutral crime scenes and notes, then stuck a big sticky label on their chest with their real name scrawled across it.

  No, this was Reservoir Dogs territory.

  The badges were so they could tell who they were talking to, when they were all done up in their SOC suits and masks. All humanity obscured.

  Sylvia, Tom, and David.

  Sylvester, Tom, and David—

  Someone elbowed him in the ribs.

  Logan looked up from his notepad. The whole room was staring at him.

  Finnie pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed. ‘I know you’re new to this, Detective Inspector McRae, but generally we like to pay attention in case strategy meetings.’

  Logan could feel the heat prickling at the back of his neck. ‘Yes, sir.’ He glanced down at the notepad in front of him. He’d been doodling – a Dalek, complete with sink-plunger arm, and beady eye.

  Not Sylvester, Tom, and David. Put them in the right order—

  ‘For goodness sake, DI McRae, are you listening to a word I’m—’

  ‘Doctor Who.’ Logan stood. ‘Tom Baker, Sylvester McCoy, David Tennant all actors who’ve played the Doctor. It’s their naming system.’

  That got him a sea of blank looks.

  Superintendent Green raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes well, that’s fascinating. But it still doesn’t help us determine—’

  ‘Hold on a second …’ Logan flipped back through his notebook.

  Green snorted. ‘Sergeant, I mean Inspector McRae, a little career advice: if you can’t focus for two minutes, how—’

  ‘Here.’ Logan poked the page with a finger.’ Stephen Clayton, he’s on the same psychology course as Alison McGregor. He tried to chat her up, but she knocked him back pretty hard. He called her – and I quote – “a stuck up, holier than thou, lying, two-faced bitch.” Said, “getting kidnapped was the best thing that ever happened to that manipulative cow”. And he’s a Doctor Who fan: signed posters, remote-controlled Dalek, the works.’

  The Chief Constable sat forward, silver buttons sparkling on uniform black. ‘Is he a viable suspect?’

  ‘Who else have we got?’

  No one leapt in with any helpful suggestions.

  Steel had a scratch under the table. ‘How’s a wee psychology student tosser pull all this off?’

  ‘Well …’ Logan looked up at the screen. ‘What if Clayton gets other students to help him? We know one of them has medical training: he could be studying to be a doctor.’

  Acting DI Mark McDonald shook his head. ‘Couldn’t be. I’ve been over McPherson’s case notes half a dozen times – the hospital say access to the pharmacy’s restricted to doctors and authorized nurses. No exceptions.’

  I’ve got a mate who’s a medical student, fixes me up now and then.

  Steel leant over and rapped her knuckles on the top of Mark’s head. ‘Hello? This thing on? Testing, testing.’

  ‘Get off!’

  ‘McPherson couldn’t investigate shite for sweetcorn. Sticky-fingered medical student helps himself to a bunch of surgical drugs, does a wee bit of amputation, and Bob’s your builder. No’ like it’s open heart surgery, is it?’

  ‘Right, Andy,’ the Chief Constable pointed at DCI Finnie, ‘I want this Clayton brought in for questioning. I’ll sort out the warrant with Sheriff McNab personally, you just make sure Clayton’s in custody within the hour.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll get a firearms—’

  ‘Actually’ Green folded his arms across his chest, puffing himself up, ‘that might not be the best course of action.’ He narrowed his eyes and stared off into the middle distance. ‘If we snatch him, he’ll just clam up. The deadline will come and go, and he doesn’t have to tell us anything. Why would he cooperate?’

  The Chief Constable shook his head. ‘Grampian Police will not sit stand idly by and do nothing while a little girl and her mother are killed!’

  ‘I’m not suggesting you do nothing, sir.’ A flash of perfect white teeth. ‘I’m suggesting we establish surveillance on DI McRae’s student: like DI Steel should have done with Frank Baker. If he really is one of the kidnappers, he’ll lead us right to them. After all, they’ll want to regroup before the midnight deadline, won’t they?’ Green nodded, agreeing with himself. ‘Then we swoop.’

  Logan stared at him.

  Swoop? The silly bastard really did think he was in a TV cop show. ‘With all due respect—’

  ‘Tell me,’ Steel fiddled with her fake cigarette, ‘this “watch and wait” approach’s no’ got anything to do with stringing things out, would it? SOCA hang on till the deadline’s past, take over the investigation; Alison and Jenny get released; then you “swoop”, pick up the only suspect we’ve had in a fortnight, and take all the sodding credit while we get our arses kicked in every newspaper in the country?’ She smiled at him. ‘How am I doing?’

  Green scowled back. ‘You have a very strange idea of collaborative policing, Inspector.’

  ‘Coming from you?’ She turned to the Chief Constable. ‘We could sit about on our thumbs, waiting for Clayton to lead us to his nasty wee Doctor Who appreciation society, or we can go kick in his door and actually do something about it.’

  ‘And what happens when the rest of the gang find out we’ve snatched him?’ Green leaned on the desk. ‘They abandon the whole enterprise, kill Alison and Jenny, then disappear. At least my way we have some chance of getting the McGregors out alive.’

  The Chief Constable sat back in his seat. ‘I think we need to take a break and consider o
ur options. In the meantime, DCI Finnie, get surveillance organized on Mr Clayton ASAP. If we do decide to take him, I want to know where he is. We reconvene back here in twenty minutes.’

  Robert ‘Marley’ was lying on the cell’s blue plastic mattress. The nightshift had obviously confiscated his clothes for forensic analysis, because he was partially dressed in a white paper SOC suit. He’d stripped off the top half, tying the arms around his waist, exposing a broad brown chest and the kind of washboard abs that didn’t belong on real people. One hand behind his head, the other tucked into the makeshift waistband.

  He didn’t look in the least bit worried about being banged up in a holding cell, facing three counts of murder, one of animal cruelty, and skinning Shuggie Webster’s fingers …

  And somehow Logan couldn’t work up the enthusiasm to congratulate him on that last one.

  Robert Marley looked up from his bed. He’d dyed his hair red and fluorescent orange, as if his head was on fire. ‘The fuck you lookin’ at, mon. I an’ I ain’t some fuckin’ peepshow for whitey.’

  Logan slammed the hatch shut.

  The Police Custody and Security officer standing next to him in the corridor puffed out her cheeks. ‘Pfff … Don’t let the fake Jamaican accent fool you; heard the pair of them talking last night in broad Mancunian – had to split them up in the end. Probably never been south of London in their lives.’

  Logan’s phone rang. He ignored it.

  ‘They’re up before the Sheriff at half-two. You want me to stick Bobby the Pseudo-Yardie in an interview room?’

  He flexed his right hand, feeling the skin pull tight over his swollen knuckles. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Want to see the other one? Got him downstairs?’

  His phone was ringing again. ‘Hold on,’ He pulled it out. ‘McRae.’

  ‘LoganDaveGoulding.’ The psychologist pronounced it as if it was all one big Liverpudlian word. ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with—’

  ‘You heard about the fire.’ Of course he had, it’d been in all the evening papers.

  ‘Well, yeah, but I wanted to know how you’re doing. I’m sorry about Samantha.’