Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Don’t think so.’ He hauled a drawer out of a battleship-grey filing cabinet. ‘Here we go …’ A hanging file with an evidence bag and a single sheet of paper. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘No prints, no fibres, no DNA. Sorry, Inspector.’

  ‘… and another four letters of complaint.’ Big Gary placed a stack of paper in the middle of Finnie’s desk. ‘Bloody law students are the worst – getting their eye in for a lifetime selling other buggers’ houses.’

  Finnie picked up the paperwork and dumped it in his pending-tray. Then looked up and scowled at Logan. ‘Two weeks. Two weeks and we’ve managed to do is piss off a bunch of students and get a paedophile hospitalized. Remind me again, Inspector, why do I pay you lot?’

  Logan stepped into the office. ‘Did anyone get anywhere with the ex-police-officer angle?’

  There was a moment’s silence. Tell me, DI McRae, do you really think I’ve got nothing better to do than sit here answering asinine questions? Or might I just have something slightly more important to do today?’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Should think so too.’ He turned in his seat. ‘Anything else, Sergeant McCormack?’

  Big Gary produced a clipboard and held it out. ‘Need you to approve the overtime plan. Acting DI MacDonald’s got half the station down for a green shift: riot patrol.’

  ‘God help us …’ He signed the form.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Big Gary squeezed his way out of the room.

  Logan shut the door. ‘I think we’re being screwed with.’

  Finnie didn’t even look up. ‘Inspector, this might surprise you, but I don’t have time to listen to you moaning about Superintendent Green today.’

  ‘The tip-off – the one that had us interviewing every sex offender in Grampian – I think it’s a fake.’

  The head of CID picked the next report from his in-tray. ‘Some people think it’s fun to waste police time, Inspector. Like you’re doing right now.’

  ‘No, I mean it was the kidnappers trying to distract us. The tip-off note’s forensically neutral, just like everything they’ve ever sent us.’ Logan sank into the visitor’s chair. ‘And we found out who the big toe belongs to: five-year-old girl, car accident, they amputated her leg at ARI. It was supposed to be cremated. She’s not dead.’

  A frown. ‘Are you sure it’s not—’

  ‘Just got a DNA match. Whoever they are, they’ve got access to Aberdeen Royal Infirmary’

  Finnie punched a button on his office phone. ‘Acting DI MacDonald – my office, now. And bring everything you have from the hospitai investigation.’

  ‘But I’m—’

  ‘Now, Mr. MacDonaid.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Finnie pressed the button again and the phone went silent.

  I swear to God, these forensic students get younger every year

  Logan scooted forward until he was leaning over the desk. ‘It’s a teaching hospitai, right? What if they’re all students?’

  Finnie shook his head. ‘MacDonald and McPherson both ruled out—’

  Think about it: the medical student gets them the drugs and amputates Jenny’s toes. The IT student makes the videos and emails untraceable. And the forensic student keeps them all from getting caught.’ Logan pulled out his phone and dialled. ‘Bob?’

  ‘If you’re calling to complain, it wasn’t me, OK?’

  ‘I need to …’ Frown. ‘What wasn’t you?’

  ‘… Nothing.’ A cough. ‘What can I do you for?’

  ‘Did you find the dealer who sold your suicide that morphine?’

  ‘“Stumpy the Dwarven Queen”? No one in Tayside’s ever heard of her. Why the sudden interest in Bruce Sangster?’

  Of course no one had heard of her – she didn’t exist. Craig ‘Arrogant-Patronizing-Prick’ Peterson made her up. That’s why none of Bruce’s friends knew anything about his alleged drug problem. Sangster didn’t buy the morphine, he stole it from the hospital, along with some thiopental sodium and a little girl’s severed leg.

  ‘You still got that list of his friends?’

  ‘… Why?’

  ‘Did you take a note of what courses they were doing?’

  ‘Course I did. Now why do you—’

  ‘I’m looking for someone doing computer science and someone doing forensics.’

  ‘Hold on …’ Some rustling.

  The door to Finnie’s office creaked open and Acting DI Mark MacDonald lurched in, arms loaded down with box files. He took one look at Logan and sniffed.

  ‘Yeah, here we go: three computer scientists; and one Davina Pearce, BSc Rons, Forensic Science with Law. She’s doing Media Studies too.’

  Mark dumped the files on the corner of the desk. ‘That’s everything. But I’ve been through it all dozens of times. There’s nothing there.’

  Logan stuck his phone back in his pocket and grinned at Finnie. ‘Bingo.’

  49

  Logan climbed out in to the warm evening, mobile phone clamped to his ear. ‘Any luck?’

  The Woolmanhill halls of residence was a lopsided grey canyon of three five-storey buildings set at angles to each other around a lopsided car park, just off the Denburn roundabout.

  Bob gave a big wet sigh. ‘Peterson’s not in.’

  ‘Anyone know where he’s gone?’

  Rennie scanned the intercom entry system next to a freshly-painted stairwell door, then pressed the button for flat six. The intercom buzzed.

  ‘Flatmates say he’s out with his mates: cinema, pizza, pints.’

  ‘Mobile?’

  ‘Went straight to voicemail.’

  A high, singsongy voice crackled out of the speaker. ‘Hel-lo?’ Very girly.

  Rennie pressed the talk button. ‘Yeah, is Davina in? It’s Simon.’

  ‘What would you have us do now, your temporarily-promoted-to-inspectorship?’

  ‘See if he’s got a car, then get onto CCTV: I want every Automatic Number Plate Recognition camera in the north-east looking for him. And find out what he’s been doing for the last two weeks: where he’s been going, who he’s been talking to, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Hi, Simon. Yeah, Davina’s in her room, but she’s sulking.’

  ‘God, you’re not asking for much, are you? See when it’s my go at being DI—’

  ‘Yeah, “the wrath of Bob”. I know.’ Logan killed the connection.

  ‘Oh … Well, can I come up?’ The intercom buzzed again, and when Rennie leant against the door it swung open. ‘Ta.’ He winked at Logan. ‘We have lift-off.’

  A plump young woman opened the door to flat six. She was growing her very own curly brown halo, held in place with a golden scrunchie. She smiled, showing off a mouthful of metalwork. ‘You’re Simon, right? So nice to meet you. I’m Robin, bet Davina’s told you all about me!’

  ‘Yeah, hi. She about?’

  Robin rolled her eyes. ‘God, you know what she’s like; went storming off to her room yesterday, slammed the door, and hasn’t been out since; honestly, it’s like a soap opera in here some weeks; you want a cup of coffee? I’m making anyway, think we’ve got some biscuits too.’ All done in two breaths.

  ‘Cool. Can my mate have one too?’

  The smile slipped a little as she caught sight of Logan, then she rallied with a cheery, ‘More the merrier.’ She turned and bustled down the hallway, pausing to knock on one of the internal doors. ‘Davina, your friends are here. Davina? I’m making them coffee, you want some?’ Pause. Another knock. ‘Davina?’

  No response.

  She did the eye-rolling thing again. ‘Some people, eh? Didn’t even go to lectures today, and we were doing blood spatter analysis; I love blood spatters, does that make me weird? Suppose it does, but then I am a bit loopy …’ She stuck her tongue out and circled a finger beside her head. ‘Now, coffee!’

  Logan stopped outside Davina Pearce’s do
or. She’d decorated it with photos of a young Asian woman: big smile, serious glasses, long black hair. Some were taken in pubs, others at parties, a few in snow-smothered woods. He knocked as the human whirlwind dragged Rennie off to the kitchen.

  ‘Davina? Davina, we need to talk.’

  Still nothing, but he could hear music coming from the other side of the door, something upbeat and rocky. ‘Davina? Can you hear me?’ He rested his ear against the cool wood. Not so much as a rustle, just that cheery music, then the sound of raucous laughter cackled out of the kitchen. Either Rennie had said something very, very funny or Little Miss Motor Mouth was desperate.

  He tried the kitchen. ‘Are you sure she’s in?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve got the room at the end, by the front door, and I always hear everyone coming and going and coming and going, and I swear she’s not been out of that room since yesterday lunchtime. It has to be a man, right? Only men can make you that miserable.’ She offered Rennie a tin of biscuits. ‘No offence, I’m sure you’re really nice to your girlfriend; do you have a girlfriend? Listen to me prattling on; I’ll get some mugs washed.’

  Logan pointed down the corridor. ‘Do you have a spare key for Davina’s room?’

  ‘Well … Yes, but I couldn’t just go barging into someone’s room; I mean keys are for emergencies only and what would Davina think if I let two men into her room; I wouldn’t like it if I was her and I’m not sure it’s fair of you to ask, because I’ve never …’ She stared at Logan’s warrant card. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Are you sure she hasn’t left the building? She could have sneaked out when you were asleep, or when you were off doing your blood spatters?’

  ‘Wow, you’re police officers? That’s so exciting, I’ve always wanted to work with the police; that’s why I’m doing forensic science; I think it’s really fascinating what you can—’

  ‘Where would she have gone to?’

  ‘Nowhere. Davina’s the world’s biggest environmentalist; I mean she switches all the lights off and if you’ve got the fridge door open for more than three seconds you get a lecture about polar bears and she never ever leaves her music playing if she’s going out, she just wouldn’t do it; she’s like this total eco-ninja.’

  Rennie put a hand on Robin’s round shoulder. ‘What if something’s happened to her?’

  ‘Something …’

  What if she’s fallen and hurt herself? What if Davina needs our help?’

  ‘Oh God, that would be terrible; I’ll get the key.’

  Rennie waited until Robin disappeared into the room at the end of the corridor then grinning at Logan. ‘Said I’d make a great sidekick.’

  She was back a minute later, clutching a key with a yellow-haired gonk dangling off the end of it. ‘Here.’ She passed it to Rennie, blushing slightly as her hand touched his.

  Rennie slipped the key into the lock, turned it, then tried the door handle. ‘Open sesame!’

  Logan knocked and stepped inside, then froze. The room was slightly bigger than the ones at Hillhead, with space for an Ikea-style single bed, cabinet, desk, wardrobe, and a little sink in the corner. The wall above the bed was covered with photographs: a mix of landscapes, portraits, and industrial wastelands … Most done in arty black-and-white.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Robin, I think you should go back through to the kitchen.’

  ‘Is she OK? Davina? Are you OK? I didn’t want to unlock the door, but we thought you might be hurt and I thought—’

  ‘Rennie, take her back to the kitchen. Now.’

  ‘Why, what’s …’ Rennie peered over Logan’s shoulder, then backed up quickly. ‘OK: come on, Robin, why don’t we finish making that coffee?’

  ‘But I don’t—’

  ‘I know, but I’m really thirsty, aren’t you? I love your hair by the way …’

  Logan listened to their voices fading down the corridor, then the clunk of the kitchen door shutting. He took another step, keeping his feet as close to the skirting board as possible.

  Davina Pearce: BSc (Hons) Forensic Science with Law and Media Studies was sitting on the beige carpet with one leg tucked under her, the other sticking out into the middle of the room, her back against the wall. She was naked, except for the leather belt around her neck – one end fastened to the window catch. An orange in her mouth, juice sticky and drying on her chin. A black, rubbery vibrator lying on the floor by her knee.

  Her skin was pale as butter, but the underside of her thighs and legs were stained dark pink where the blood had pooled after death. Eyes open, glassy, and bloodshot.

  ‘Fuck …’

  Logan pulled out his phone and called it in.

  She wriggles closer, tears hot on her damp cheeks. Her left foot is on fire, burning and stabbing like a million bee stings all in the one spot. She’s getting blood all over the mattress, but she doesn’t care.

  Golden sunlight makes wiggly shapes across the floor, sneaking in through the cracks in the boarded-up windows.

  Ice cream and lemonade in the garden, listening to the bees bumble and Mummy singing a song while Daddy makes a wooden thing for the kitchen. A sandpit full of castles, and princesses, and the little black poops left by next-door’s cat that Mummy can’t know about or she’ll get angry. Jenny likes next-door’s cat. She doesn’t want anything bad to happen to it.

  The silvery tape is thick and sticky but she manages to tease a corner free around Mummy’s mouth with her fingernails.

  Jenny picks and pulls and tugs until Mummy takes in a huge breath and coughs. There’s a pink rectangle around her lips, tiny hairs sticking to the underside of the duct tape.

  ‘Oh God, oh my baby, I’m so sorry …’ Mummy’s crying. ‘We have to get out of here, we have to get out of here right now, before they come back! They’re not going to let us go …’

  Jenny rests her head against Mummy’s chest, just for a moment, feeling the warm softness, the thumpita-thumpita of her heart.

  ‘You have to untie Mummy’s hands.’

  It takes forever. Every time she finds an end it tears and rips and Mummy’s crying and Jenny’s crying and it’s hard and her foot hurts so much … And then the tape’s gone and Mummy’s sitting up.

  Jenny is a Good Little Girl. She just needs to rest for a minute. Close her eyes and let the burny pain go away. Good Little Girl …

  ‘Sweetie?’

  Someone shakes her shoulder.

  ‘Come on we need to go. Quickly.’ Mummy unwraps Jenny’s wrists. ‘Can you walk?’ She looks down. ‘Oh Christ, all that blood …’

  Mummy rips the tape off Jenny’s face, it hurts for a bit, but not as much as her burning foot. ‘I want Daddy …’

  ‘We have to get out of here.’

  ‘I’m tired.’

  Mummy presses the palm of her hand against Jenny’s head. ‘You’re cold …’

  She hauls her arms up and Mummy hugs her. Holds her so close she can’t breathe. But that’s OK. Just want to rest a while. Be warm. Be loved.

  There’s a rattle, then the chain around her neck slithers away like a cold metal snake.

  Another rattle. Jenny forces her eyes open and sees Mummy holding up a little shiny key. Top lip curled, showing off her teeth, like an angry dog.

  They’re not so bloody clever after all. Are they?’ She stands and holds out her hand. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘What a waste.’ Rennie’s shoulders slumped as the IB carried Davina Pearce out of the room in a white body-bag. He plucked a photo from the wall above the bed – Davina in arty black-and-white, posing in front of a big chunk of machinery. ‘She was pretty. I mean, it wouldn’t be OK if she was a munter, but … you know.’ He held the photo out to Logan. ‘Do we have to tell her parents?’

  ‘Depends where she’s from.’ Logan turned the photo over. Four little blobs of Blu-Tack lurked in each corner, around a laser-printed sticker: ‘SELF-PORTRAIT, B&W, 18-55MM 1/80SEC AT F/4 ~ EQUIPMENT YARD WELLHEADS INDUSTRI
AL ESTATE’ along with a date/time stamp. ‘It’s a bit convenient, isn’t it?’

  ‘Autoerotic asphyxiation? Don’t fancy it myself.’

  ‘No, you idiot, I mean, that’s two of Craig Peterson’s friends dead in less than a week. Bruce Sangster takes an overdose with a bag over his head, Davina Pearce has a “sexual accident”.’

  ‘I heard about sixty people snuff it during a strangle-wank every year. Silly sods. Only takes seven pounds of pressure to collapse your carotid artery and that’s you. True story.’

  Logan stuck the photo back on the wall. Davina Pearce had a good eye for light and shadow, specializing in moody black -and-whites. Urban decay was a recurring theme – boarded-up tenements, rusting cars, skips full of random shapes, sagging chain-link fencing, a broken bottle, the sun setting over a burnt-out Volkswagen.

  The portraits were good too, but they didn’t have the same intensity as the landscapes and still lifes. Davina did like to pose for her own photographs though. There was one of her in jeans and a bra, looking back over her shoulder at the camera in some derelict house: walls covered with graffiti, the floorboards stippled with bars of light. Artistic and a bit sinister at the same time. A tattoo sprawled across her shoulder, a Chinese dragon, breathing fire … Samantha would’ve loved it.

  Logan pulled the photo off the wall.

  Still not been up to see her today. Still not worked up the courage to sit in that little room and listen to the machines breathing for her. Hold her cold hand and pretend everything was going to be OK.

  That was what happened when you were completely useless. When you couldn’t protect the people you loved. When you couldn’t even find the bastards responsible …

  He stared at the photograph in his hands, felt his eyes widen.

  Maybe not quite so fucking useless after all.

  Logan flipped it over, and there, between the blobs of Blu-Tack was another sticker: ‘SELF-PORTRAIT, B&W, 18-55MM 1/2SEC AT F/16 ~ DERELICT INDUSTRIAL UNIT, FARBURN INDUSTRIAL PARK’.

  He grabbed all the exterior shots, checking the stickers for one that matched the time stamp on the other image.

  There was only one that came anywhere near: a high, padlocked gate outside a blocky grey building with boarded-up windows and one of those big up-and-over doors you could get a forklift through. The company name was partially obscured by a birch tree growing through the fence. But that didn’t matter – all they had to do was drive through the industrial estate until they found the building in the picture.