‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Steel gave her left boob an extra hard jiggle. ‘You know what, Superintendent? You’re about as welcome round here as a blow job off your own granddad.’
His eyes went wide. ‘How dare—’
‘All right, all right.’ Finnie rubbed at his face. ‘Just for a moment, could we all pretend that we’re on the same side?’
Green made a big show of taking a deep breath, then aligning the cuffs of his shirt sleeves. ‘You need to find Frank Baker. You need to come up with a strategy for recovering Alison and Jenny. You need to come up with a strategy for following the money when it’s handed over. You need to sort this out now. Not tomorrow, not next week: now.’
Steel let go of her bra. ‘I say we give Goulding fifteen minutes with Clayton. Not like we’ve got anything to lose, is it?’
Finnie nodded. ‘Agreed. Do it in an interview room, with the cameras running. And make sure Clayton knows he’s being filmed so his defence can’t moan about it afterwards. Any objections, Superintendent?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Good. McRae, set it up. Acting DI MacDonald: I want that risk assessment on my desk by three. Steel: find out where we are with Frank Baker. I’ll see what we can do about tracking the ransom payment.’
Dr Dave Goulding sat in Finnie’s office, a mug of tea in one hand, a Jaffa Cake in the other. ‘I’d say it’s … possibly not as clean-cut as that.’
The head of CID closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. ‘This might come as a bit of a shock, but I just want to know “yes” or “no”.’
Logan rested his back against the bank of filing cabinets, the metal cool through the white cotton of his shirt. Steel stifled a yawn.
‘It’s not as simple as that.’ Goulding turned his Jaffa Cake into a crescent moon. ‘Stephen Clayton feels comfortable playing with us because he’s not worried about slipping up. That means he’s either incredibly arrogant, or he had nothing to do with Alison and Jenny’s abduction.’ The rest of the Jaffa Cake disappeared. ‘I just don’t think he’s the right personality type. Oh, he’s bright enough, but he couldn’t keep it secret. He’d want to shout it from the top of Marischal College: “Look at me! Look how clever I am!”‘
Finnie pursed his rubbery lips. ‘He’s definitely not involved?’
‘It’s not impossible, but it’s unlikely.’
Then we’re back to square one. And we’ve wasted a whole morning, and hundreds of man-hours on a bloody student.’ Finnie massaged his nose again. ‘Inspector McRae, can you tell that I’m slightly disappointed?’
‘He was a Doctor Who fan, he had history with Alison McGregor—’
‘That doesn’t matter if he didn’t have anything to do with their abduction!’
No, it didn’t.
Steel puffed out her cheeks. ‘Well, look on the bright side, at least Green’s got something new to whinge about.’
‘… join us next week for more Britain’s Next Big Star!’ Canned applause filtered through the house, echoing up the stairwell from the television in the lounge.
Logan sat on Alison McGregor’s bed and stared at the photos he’d found in a shoebox at the back of the cupboard: Alison in a bikini, Alison in T-shirt and jeans, Alison at the beach … He held up one of her in a school uniform. She was sitting on a low brick wall, a tin of extra-strong cider in one hand, a cigarette in the other, her school blouse unbuttoned so far her bra was on display, school tie disappearing into cleavage.
Everything was completely fucked up. Stephen Clayton had to be involved. If he wasn’t … what else did they have?
Logan turned the photo over, ‘MY BIRTHDAY ~ 14 TODAY!!!’ was picked out in blue biro on the back. She didn’t look fourteen.
‘Welcome to Britain’s Next Big Star!’ Cheering. ‘We’ve got a terrific show for you this week, but remember: only four of tonight’s contestants can go through to the next round, so make sure you vote for your favourites!’
Alison’s DVD recorder was full of the stuff – Britain’s Next Big Star, the X-Factor, Britain’s Got Talent, Strictly Come Dancing, three different things with ‘Andrew Lloyd Webber’ in the title …
Logan laid the photograph on the bed, next to the others, and pulled another one from the box: Alison in the pub with another girl and a pair of gormless-looking blokes. The other girl … looked a bit like Vicious Vikki, only a lot thinner. One of the blokes was definitely Doddy McGregor.
Logan placed it next to the schoolgirl shot. Then frowned.
Alison McGregor looked identical in every single picture.
Her clothes changed, her hair changed, her make-up changed, but her face didn’t. It was exactly the same smile in every picture – mouth, teeth, eyes, eyebrows all exactly the same.
It wasn’t a bad smile: it was open, warm, wholesome, and a little bit sexy all at the same time … It suited her. But seen like this, all these photos spread out on the duvet cover, it just looked as if she was wearing a mask. As if whenever a camera came out, the real Alison McGregor disappeared.
Sitting on his own, in an empty house, Logan knew how she felt.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ TOM stands in the middle of the room, with his hands on his hips.
Jenny looks up from the bed as DAVID walks in, swinging his legs like he’s a cowboy in a movie.
‘Don’t be so fucking gay.’ DAVID dumps a plastic bag from the supermarket on the floor. ‘Got stuck with our friendly neighbourhood plod this afternoon. Took forever to get rid of the bastards.’ He pulls a newspaper from the bag and throws it to TOM. ‘Front page.’
TOM fumbles, then unfolds the paper and stares at it. ‘Holy shit.’
‘I know. Where’s Sylvester?’
‘Lecture.’
‘Cool. Cool.’ DAVID nods at the bed. ‘End game, Alison. You ready?’
He pulls a bottle out of the bag – a big bottle with a big cork. ‘I think celebrations are in order. Tom?’
‘Spectacular!’ TOM turns the newspaper around until they can all see it. There’s a picture of Jenny and Mummy on the cover. ‘Nine point four million. Ca-fucking-ching!’
Mummy sits up and the chain around her ankle rattles. ‘We just want to go home.’
‘Well, here’s the problem,’ DAVID holds the bottle in his hand like it’s a doll, ‘we’ve had a change of plan. Tom?’
What?’
‘You got the duct tape?’
‘Bingo.’ TOM holds up a thick grey hoop.
‘Cool.’ DAVID snaps his fingers. ‘Let’s see it.’
‘Nine point four million.’ TOM skips across the room. ‘Shit that is a load of—’
THUNK. DAVID swings the bottle like a hammer, right into the back of TOM’s head.
Don’t bottles break when you hit them on things? Like when the Queen launches a ship and she has to thump the bottle on the ship and it breaks and there’s all this foam everywhere and the ship slides away into the sea.
‘Nnnnng …’ TOM wobbles. The silvery tape falls from his hand, hits the floorboards and rolls away.
DAVID hits him with the bottle again. Thunk.
TOM’s legs stop working and he falls to the floor. His left foot twitches, the fingers of one purple-gloved hand shaking. Something dark seeps down inside his mask, making the clear plastic go red.
Jenny scrambles backwards until she bashes into the bedpost, not caring about the burny pain in her feet.
DAVID puts the bottle on the floor. He goes back to his shopping and pulls out a big black bin-bag. Shakes it so it’s all puffy. Then puts it over TOM’s head. ‘Don’t want to get blood on our nice clean floor, do we?’
He holds it tight around TOM’s neck for ages and ages, till TOM stops moving. Then he stands and turns to them. ‘And then … there were four.’
Mummy shakes her head. ‘I just want this to be over with.’
‘About that …’ DAVID grabs her hair and drags her off the bed. Mummy scr
eams, hands clawing at him.
‘NO!’ Jenny can’t back away any further, the metal bedpost digs into her back. Teddy Gordon smiles up at her with his dead crow eyes. Laughing. She grabs him by the throat and throws him with all her might. ‘DON’T HURT MY MUMMY!’
Teddy Gordon bounces off DAVID’s chest.
He looks down at the bear lying on the floor beside TOM. ‘Yeah, cute.’
DAVID hauls Mummy over onto her stomach, and kneels on her back. Then catches her hands, holding them in one big purple-gloved fist as he wraps her wrists in shiny silver tape.
‘GET OFF ME! GET THE FUCK OFF ME!’
He tears off another bit of tape, and now Mummy only mumbles and hisses.
Jenny jumps onto the floor and runs at him, her feet stabby and aching and sore. Brave Little Girl … She snatches the bottle off the floor. I name this ship DAVID. She swings it with all her might.
It bounces off his shoulder.
He turns to look at her, his head on one side, like next door’s cat watching a bird with a broken wing. ‘Mistake.’ His hand snaps out, thumping down on Jenny’s left foot.
Something sharp bursts inside her, tearing up her leg, she opens her mouth to scream, but there’s no breath left. She falls, clutching her ankle in both hands, staring as a poppy blooms on the white bandage. The broken thing catches fire. And now she can scream, over and over again. So loud it makes her throat rattle.
‘Fuck’s sake. Shut up.’ He grabs her face – stinky rubber fingers clamping her jaw shut – then forces the sticky tape over her mouth. ‘There we go, much better.’
Mummy wriggles on the floor, eyes small and sparkly. making noises that don’t count as words.
Tears make everything blurry. Jenny’s bandage drips red. She doesn’t even move when DAVID tapes her wrists together, then does the same with her ankles.
He stands, towering over them. ‘Like I said: change of plan. Sylvester’s figured out a way to get away with it all. Nine point four million. Completely untraceable. So you’re surplus to fucking requirements, Alison. A liability. Yeah, we could let you go, trust you to keep your trap shut …’ He laughs. ‘A publicity whore like you? Soon as people start forgetting about you, soon as you’re not on the cover of Hello! any more, it’ll be all,’ DAVID throws his arms out wide, ‘“My secret kidnap hell!” Plucky Alison McGregor reveals all!’
He drops his arms. ‘Not going to happen. Jenny does one last video, and then … Well, I’ll make it quick, OK? I’m not a complete fucking monster after all.’
48
‘And what are you going to sing for us?’ The ex-Blue-Peter presenter hunkered down so he was on the same level as the little girl with the curly blonde hair.
Jenny McGregor looked at him with those big blue eyes of hers. ‘We’re going to sing a song about my Daddy.’
Logan sat back on the couch, the remote control for the TV balanced on his knee. He’d found a can of Diet Irn-Bru lurking at the back of the fridge. That’s what happened when you got kidnapped – Grampian Police came round and helped themselves to the contents of your kitchen.
They sure as hell didn’t rescue you.
Alison McGregor put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘It’s called Wind Beneath My Wings.’ They were wearing matching costumes, covered in sequins.
‘OK, well, good luck.’ Mr Blue Peter turned his smile on the camera. ‘And remember, if you want to vote for Alison and Jenny, we’ll be putting up the number to call at the end of the show.’
The music swelled and the McGregors walked hand in hand to the front of the stage. A big projection screen sat on one side – the words ‘IN LOVING MEMORY OF JOHN “DODDY” MCGREGOR’ faded up for a couple of bars, then was replaced by the photo they’d used in the papers when his body was transported back from Iraq.
As they sang, the image changed: Doddy at the beach with Jenny; Doddy sitting on an armoured vehicle, somewhere hot and dusty; Doddy holding a small pink baby … And then the first instrumental break came and Doddy was replaced by a video clip of a pair of injured squaddies, talking about how he’d saved their lives. Then back to the montage for the next verse.
No wonder Alison and Jenny got the most votes of the entire series. Everyone loved them.
Logan’s phone went off, the Danse macabre clashing with the saccharine song. He thumbed the power button on the remote, shutting the TV off. ‘McRae.’
‘Where are you?’ DI Steel.
He picked himself off the couch and wandered out into the hall. ‘Alison McGregor’s house.’
‘Find anything?’
‘No.’ He headed up the stairs, back through into Alison’s bedroom. ‘We’re screwed, aren’t we?’
‘Just got off the phone to Tayside.’ A pause. ‘Frank Baker’s turned up. Ninewells Hospital. Made it as far as Dundee before a bunch of neds recognized him.’
Logan made a little gap in the lace curtains and peered out. The same two old ladies were camped out on the pavement, with their folding chairs and their thermos of tea. Soon it’d be a sea of faces and television cameras, all gathered together to be part of the moment as the deadline expired.
‘He OK?’
‘What do you think? Be lucky if he lives to see tomorrow.’
Logan let the curtain fall back into place. ‘As if thing’s weren’t …’
There was a clunk from somewhere downstairs.
‘And is Stupidintendent Green taking responsibility for his cock-up? Is he buggery – apparently it’s all my fault for no’ having Baker under surveillance in the first place.’
Another clunk.
‘Hold on a minute.’ Logan pressed the mute button …
Nothing. Maybe it was the house settling, or something outside, or—
Clunk.
There was someone in the house.
He crept down the stairs and froze at the bottom.
This time the clunk was a clink, then a scraping sound coming from the kitchen.
He reached for the handle and turned it slowly, one hand pressed against the door as he eased it open.
A shadow moved across the floor, then paused. Another clunk.
He stepped inside.
A woman was kneeling beside the cooker, a holdall open on the floor beside her. Bleached blonde hair; pink T-shirt; hipster jeans riding about mid-buttock. She was picking her way through one of the kitchen cupboards. ‘Baked beans, baked beans, baked beans … Where’s the caviar and fancy shit?’
Logan slammed his hand on the working surface. ‘Can I help you?’
She screamed, jumped, banged her head off the inside of the cupboard, then fell on her backside, clutching her centre parting. The pink T-shirt had ‘LITTLE MISS NAUGHTY’ printed across the front. ‘Ow … Fuck. What did you do that for?’
Logan frowned at her. ‘Do I know you?’
She looked up at him, her eyes going wide, mouth hanging open, chin disappearing into the skin of her neck. ‘No.’
‘You’re her, aren’t you? Thingy Wallace, Shona – I interviewed you – you’re not allowed to work with children any more.’
She blushed. Looked at the floor. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘On your feet.’
‘I’m supposed to be here. I’m, like, Alison’s best friend and she … asked me to make sure she had, you know, enough food and that for when they let her go.’
‘So you’re saying she’s spoken to you since she’s been abducted.’
‘Well … erm … It’s …’
Idiot.
‘I was only trying to help!’
The Police Custody and Security Officer slammed the cell door in Shona Wallace’s face, then held his clipboard out for Logan to sign. ‘They get worse, don’t they?’
Logan scrawled his name across the custody form, then headed upstairs to the third floor. Elaine Drever wasn’t in her office, so he tried the lab.
She was standing by the l
ight table in the middle of the room, frowning at a stack of print-outs. ‘What about fingerprints?’
A lumpy young man with a squinty face cricked his jaw from side to side. ‘Doing them next.’
‘Thanks, Tim.’ Elaine Drever tucked the report under her arm, then turned and flinched. ‘Sergeant … Sorry I mean, DI McRae …’ She reached out and touched his arm. ‘Logan. How you holding up?’
‘Did you find a match yet?’
The lab phone rang, and Tim shuffled over to answer it.
‘Hold on.’ She crossed to the in-tray perched on top of the fridge-freezer and rifled through some forms. ‘Tim? What happened to that blood sample we got last night? From the hospital? The one for DI McRae?’
Tim looked up from the phone. ‘The ASAP one? Ben’s running it now.’
What?’ Logan held up a hand. ‘No – the DNA from the flat door. Did you find a match yet?’
‘Oh.’ Elaine checked her watch. ‘We’ve done it a dozen times and it’s still not coming up with anything. And we’re not getting any fibres off the door either. Well, besides ones from the hall carpet, and given how hard the door must’ve hit him … It’s odd: I would have expected to find something.’
Another glance at her wrist. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to attend a bloody prize-giving at Robert Gordon University. I swear to God, these forensic students get younger every year. It’s like visiting a playschool.’
‘Boss?’ Tim clamped his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘We got a hit.’
Elaine shook her head. ‘Well, it’s just going to have to wait till I get back. Late already.’ She patted Logan on the arm again. ‘Really, we’re doing everything we can.’ And then she was gone.
‘Yeah, thanks, Ben.’ Tim hung up. ‘DI McRae?’
Logan stopped, halfway out the door.
That blood sample: it’s a DNA match for the big toe you brought in.’
He frowned, drumming his fingers on the door frame. The DNA matched … ‘Tim – did you get anything from the tip-off note? The one that said Alison and Jenny were snatched by paedophiles?’
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 36