‘I … I can’t—’
‘You killed him. You chained him to a stake, stuck a tyre over his head and set fire to it.’
‘It wasn’t—’
‘Twenty minutes, that’s how long it takes someone to burn to death like that. Twenty minutes.’
Guy’s mouth fell open, bottom lip sticking out, tears spilling down his cheeks. ‘I … I don’t—’
‘Guy Ferguson, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murdering an unknown male yesterday afternoon. You do not have to say anything—’
‘I did it …’ He sniffed, then blinked in slow motion. ‘I killed him …’ Guy wiped his eyes on his forearm, tears darkened the white bandage. ‘What else could I do? He was screaming and burning and I couldn’t get the tyre off and it’s all over my hands and they’re on fire and it’s horrible and it hurts and I had a … I had the knife.’ A deep, rattling breath. ‘So I stabbed him. And stabbed him, and stabbed him, and my hands are on fire and it hurts so much and … I couldn’t just leave him like that!’
Ah … Logan sat back in his seat. ‘He wasn’t part of your crew for the heist?’
‘His face … you should have seen his face … screaming.’
‘He was burning when you got there?’
A nod. ‘We … we ditched the car, divvied up the watches and rings and necklaces and stuff, and … and there he was.’ Guy held up the boxes where his hands should have been. ‘They’re going to cut off my fingers, because I tried to help someone …’
7
A woman’s voice blared in the corridor outside the hospital room. ‘I don’t bloody care – you let me in to see my son right now!’ Mrs Ferguson.
DS Chalmers sniffed. ‘You think he’s telling the truth?’
‘Well …’ Logan leaned against the room’s little sink, staring down at the bed.
Guy was curled over, boxed hands against his chest, great heaving sobs rocking him back and forward.
‘Guv?’
‘Necklacing, it’s … it’s a big-city gangland organized-crime thing. Not something I can see a bunch of teenage wannabes doing. So … maybe. Probably.’
‘He did it so the victim wouldn’t suffer any more.’ She puffed out her cheeks, hissing out a breath. ‘Did the right thing, and it’s going to cost him his fingers.’
‘When everyone’s calmed down a bit we’ll interview his mates. See if they corroborate.’
That voice again. ‘I DEMAND TO SEE MY SON!’
Here we go …
Logan pointed at Chalmers. ‘Tell him to let them in.’
As soon as she stuck her head around the door, Mrs Ferguson barged her way past the uniform on guard, into the room. ‘Guy?’
Mr Ferguson scurried in behind her, crying. ‘They told us you were dead.’
Guy’s mother wrapped him up in a hug. ‘My baby …’ Then she straightened up and glared at Logan. ‘YOU! You told us he was dead. How could …’ Her eyes went wide, staring down at her son’s ankle: at the handcuff. ‘HE’S IN A HOSPITAL BED!’
‘It’s not—’
‘HOW DARE YOU!’ She clenched her fists, took a step forward. ‘You take that off him, and you take it off him now.’
The stairwell echoed with footsteps and murmured conversations, overlaying the background hum of the hospital. Then Logan’s phone joined in – Darth Vader’s theme again. Should have left the damn thing turned off. He pulled it out. ‘It’s not—’
‘Have you got him? Where are you?’ She sounded like a small child with a new puppy. If the kid had smoked forty a day for its whole life.
Chalmers pushed through the doors onto the ground floor, holding them open for Logan.
‘We’re heading back to the car, but—’
‘There! I see you!’
He froze.
DCI Steel was marching along the corridor towards them, mobile held against her ear, a big Cheshire grin pulling her wrinkles into a starburst. ‘Who’s Aunty Roberta’s special wee soldier then?’
He hung up. Stood there, waiting for her.
Steel gave a hop-skip, then grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a little squeeze. Then frowned. ‘Where is he? How come you’re no’ taking him in?’
‘He’s … upstairs under guard. They’re amputating most of his fingers this afternoon.’
‘And you’re sure he’s our boy?’
DS Chalmers held up her notebook. ‘Confessed to the killing, and the jewellery heist too.’
‘Excellent!’ Steel let go of Logan and gave Chalmers a hug. Holding on for long enough that the DS started fidgeting.
Logan took a deep breath. ‘There’s something I need to—’
‘The ACC looks like he’s won free boobs for a year; scheduling a press conference for half three.’ She released Chalmers. ‘You’re both invited. Is this no’ great?’ Steel poked at the screen of her mobile, then held it up to her ear. ‘ACC wants a word …’
‘Actually, Guy Ferguson—’
‘Aye.’ She stuck a finger in her other ear. ‘Dougie? Is his nibs about? Yeah …’
‘Look, it’s not as simple as—’
‘Sir? I’ve got him here … Yup, under arrest and under guard as we speak.’ The grin got bigger. ‘Well, you know us: CID always gets its man.’
‘Seriously, we need to—’
‘I’ll put him on.’ Steel held the phone out to Logan. Nodded at him. ‘Go on then.’
Sod.
He took the phone. ‘Sir?’
‘McRae, well done.’ The Assistant Chief Constable’s put-on posh telephone voice wasn’t enough to cover up the Teuchter underneath – all elongated vowels, dipping for no reason in the middle of random words. ‘Excellent to get a result so quickly.’
‘Sir, it’s—’
‘No, no: credit where it’s due. Why haven’t you applied for that permanent DI’s position in Peterhead yet? You’re obviously qualified, and a shoo-in after this!’
A frown. ‘There’s a permanent DI’s job?’
Steel cleared her throat, stared up at the ceiling tiles. ‘I … Must’ve slipped my mind.’ Scheming old bag.
‘Didn’t Roberta tell you? I could have sworn I asked her to disseminate it to the troops. Anyway, you should definitely get your name down.’ He lowered his voice a notch, as if there was a secret on the way. ‘Listen, we’re having a press conference here at half three, and you know me: I like to ensure my team gets the kudos it deserves. Make sure you’ve got a decent suit on, don’t want them thinking we all fell off the back of a tractor, do we?’
Deep breath. ‘Actually, sir, it’s a bit more complicated …’
‘You don’t have a clean suit?’
‘No. I mean yes, I’ve got a clean suit, I mean it’s Guy Ferguson. He claims someone necklaced the victim before he got there. He tried to get the tyre off. And when that didn’t work Ferguson stabbed him so he wouldn’t just … burn to death.’
Steel’s eyes went wide. ‘You … what?’
Logan turned his back on her. ‘Ferguson got molten rubber all over his hands trying to save the victim. They’re going to amputate most of his fingers this afternoon.’
Silence on the other end of the phone.
‘Sir?’
The posh telephone voice was slipping. ‘Are you telling me you arrested a good Samaritan?’
‘He confessed. And he was in on the jewellery heist too. We’ve got two of his associates in custody and—’
‘How the hell am I supposed to spin that? For God’s sake, McRae, could you not have arrested someone who wasn’t a hero?’
‘But the jewellery heist—’
‘Please tell me he’s not photogenic.’
Acne scars, thick eyebrows, junior moustache. ‘No, he’s not photogenic.’
A sigh. ‘Well that’s something at least …’ The ACC hung up.
Logan returned Steel’s phone. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the DI’s job?’
‘Tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen, would you?’ He turned and headed back into the hospital.
‘Hoy!’ Steel’s voice boomed down the corridor behind him. ‘Where do you think you’re going – we’re no’ finished!’
‘Visiting hours. Got someone to see.’
Interview room three was baking hot, the usual pervading odour of cheesy feet and stale digestive biscuits was joined by a thick layer of oniony BO. Its owner shuffled his bum in his seat – the one on the wrong side of the scarred Formica table. The one bolted to the floor.
Sammy McCloist, seventeen and a half, squint nose, sideburns like a pedestal mat, hair down to his hunched shoulders. The fibreglass cast on his right wrist reached all the way from the palm of his hand to just before the elbow. Brand new, and it was already filthy.
He opened his mouth, but the git in the suit sitting next to him put a hand on his arm.
‘My client has nothing to say on that matter.’ McCloist’s lawyer smiled. He was huge, broad and tall enough to tower over everyone, even sitting down. Big hands, big chin, big ears, hair cut short trying to disguise the big bald spot.
‘Really.’ Logan checked his watch: quarter to three. ‘Well, you know what, Sammy? That’s fine with me. Right now we’re getting a warrant to search you and your mates’ houses. Think we’ll find anything interesting?’
A sniff. ‘You broke my bloody wrist.’
‘You were resisting arrest. Remember?’
‘My client strenuously denies your interpretation of events. He was visiting a friend when you attacked him.’
‘Do you know we’ve recovered DNA from the jewellery heist? Nice clear sample. Right now they’re seeing which one of you it matches.’ Which was a lie. The way things were going, they’d be lucky to get any DNA results back before Christmas.
‘It cannot possibly match my client, because my client wasn’t there. My client—’
‘Was visiting his sick granny. You said.’
‘Then there’s really no reason for us to continue this interview, is there?’ The massive lawyer stood. ‘We have co-operated fully with your investigation, now it’s time for you to release my client.’
Sammy grinned. ‘Going to sue your arse off for breaking my wrist. Police brutality, that is. I’m going to own your house, man.’
Logan shook his head. ‘Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. One: you don’t want my house. Even I don’t want my house. Two …’ He sat forward, lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘We’ve got a witness. When you broke into the jewellers, someone outside recognized you.’ Another lie, but worth a try anyway.
Sammy curled his top lip. ‘That’s bollocks!’ He thumped his cast on the tabletop. ‘No one could’ve recognized us, ’cos we was wearing masks the whole time.’ He sat back, folded his arms, nodded. Smiled. Look how clever I am.
The lawyer sank into the chair and buried his face in his hands.
The Procurator Fiscal wandered over to the window and stared out at the view. A hint of grey was creeping in at the temples of her dark-brown hair. Blue tweed Jackie Onassis suit, cherry-blossom nail varnish. Distinguished, in a cougary kind of way. ‘Could you not have found a less … complicated solution?’
Sitting at the boardroom table, Logan shrugged. ‘It wasn’t really up to me, ma’am.’
From here, most of central Aberdeen was laid out in a patchwork of slate and flat roofs, bristling with satellite dishes and obsolete aerials. Big fat seagulls spiralled in the pale-blue sky, like bleached vultures, hunting for scraps and any dogs or children small enough to carry off.
‘There’s no way we’ll get a conviction for murder, not in the circumstances … Manslaughter, at a stretch, but it won’t be popular.’ She rested her hands on the windowsill. ‘We’ll have to prosecute him for the jewellery robbery, of course. That’s going to play well in the press.’ A sigh. ‘Inspector McRae—’
‘I didn’t do it on purpose.’
‘No, I suppose not. But still …’ She turned, took off her glasses and polished them on a little yellow cloth. ‘Do we have any good news about the necklacing case?’
‘We’re—’
‘If you’re about to say, “pursuing several lines of enquiry”, I’m going to stab you in the eye with a pencil. And don’t think I won’t get away with it.’
Ah … ‘The fact he was necklaced out at the Joyriders’ Graveyard has to be significant. Up a rutted track on a dead-end road past Thainstone Mart – it’s not exactly somewhere you just stumble across on your way to the shops, is it?’
‘So whoever it is has local knowledge.’
‘They’ve probably got form for unlawful removal as well, or know someone who does. We’re still waiting on a full DNA work-up; you know what it’s like these days. Until we’ve ID’d the victim it’s going to be hard to get anywhere.’
She slipped her glasses back on. ‘I don’t like this, DI McRae. I don’t like this at all.’
‘We could get a forensic anthropologist in? Do a facial reconstruction?’ He cleared his throat. ‘You know, if we had the budget …?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Find the budget. I’m authorizing it. This case is now Grampian Police’s number one priority.’
Steel would love that.
‘ … no, that’s not what I’m saying at all.’ The Assistant Chief Constable waved a finger and twenty flashguns went off, reflecting off his high forehead, catching him in all his chunky glory. He must have shaved right before the briefing, because the lower of his two chins was an angry shade of puce flecked with tiny spots of scarlet. ‘What I’m saying is we have to treat these two cases separately. That’s how the law works.’
The briefing room was packed with row after row of journalists and TV crews, all sticking their hands up and asking questions at the same time:
‘Was the surgery a success?’
‘Would you say Guy Ferguson is a hero?’
‘Why did your officers tell his parents he was dead?’
‘Why is Grampian Police persecuting a man who sacrificed his fingers trying to save someone?’
The ACC thumped his hand on the table. ‘We’re not persecuting anyone, and it’s irresponsible to suggest otherwise. What Mr Ferguson tried to do for the victim was admirable, breaking into a jewellery store and making off with thirty-four thousand pounds’ worth of merchandise was not.’
Sitting next to him, the Press Liaison Officer put one hand over the microphone, leaned across and whispered in his ear. Probably something along the lines of, ‘Stop antagonizing the bastards …’
Standing at the back of the room, behind a forest of microphone booms, Logan checked his watch. Fifteen minutes in and they were already struggling.
Steel nudged him in the ribs, her ancient-ashtray breath congealing around his head. ‘You’re a jammy bugger.’ She jabbed him again. ‘See if it’d been me? No way I’d let you weasel out of it: you’d be up there getting your wee pink bum paddled with the rest of them.’
‘I’m not weaselling out of anything. The ACC said he’d do it on his own – not everyone’s out to cover their own arse, some senior officers actually look after their team.’
A snort. ‘More fool him, then.’
Logan kept his eyes fixed forwards. ‘PF wants us to get a forensic anthropologist in.’
‘Oh, I see: I told you no, so you ran off and clyped to the Fiscal. Judas.’
Up on stage, the ACC ran a hand across his shiny forehead. ‘I’m not at liberty to discuss that for operational reasons.’ Which meant he didn’t have a clue.
One of the journalists stood: a scraggy man in an ill-fitting suit, all bones and sharp edges, nose hooked like a beak, Dictaphone pointed like a handgun. ‘Assistant Chief Constable! Michael Larson, Edinburgh Evening Post: how come Grampian Police refuse to mount a proper search for missing teenagers Agnes Garfield and Anthony Chung?’
Steel elbowed Logan in the ribs again. ‘Did I no’ tell you to get your bloody finger out and do something on that one?’
‘I haven’t had time, it’s—’
‘Now look what you’ve done. And who do you think’s going to get it in the neck, because you’ve no’ bothered your arse? Me. That’s who. Like our delightful ACC needs another excuse. The sweaty chunky wee sod.’
Larson, from the Edinburgh Evening Post, shook his head. ‘ACC Irvin, why won’t you even listen to the parents’ concerns? Do you just not care, or what?’
The press officer leaned forward until the microphone was inches from her face. ‘OK, we’re drifting off topic here. I need everyone to restrict themselves to questions about the case at hand.’
The journalist turned, looking around at the assembled press. ‘Sounds to me like Grampian Police are doing a cover-up, right?’
ACC Irvin thumped his hand on the table again, hard enough to make the microphones wobble. ‘We are not covering anything up!’
‘Then answer the question: how come you lot care so little about Anthony and Agnes’s safety that you can’t be bothered looking for them? Eh?’
8
‘ … complete and utter disaster.’ The pathologists’ office was empty, so Logan shifted Isobel’s ‘MUMMY AT WORK’ mug out of the way, then perched one bum-cheek on her desk. ‘The ACC looked as if he was going to have an aneurysm.’
Samantha laughed down the phone at him. ‘So you ran away and hid in the mortuary?’
‘I’m not hiding, I’m …’ He switched his mobile from one ear to the other. ‘I beat a tactical retreat till Steel and the ACC calm down. And yes: my nose still hurts, thanks for asking.’
‘Coward.’
‘What am I supposed to do? Everyone’s acting like Agnes and Anthony are this pair of lost wee kids, but they’re old enough to get married, join the army and get shot at … So what if they’ve run off to be together? Who are they hurting?’
‘You going to be late again tonight?’
‘It’s Agnes’s bloody parents causing all the trouble. Don’t like to think about their wee girl out there shagging Anthony Chung.’
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 45