She held up a copy of the script. Post-it notes stuck out of the edges like brightly coloured spines, the visible text covered in scrawled annotations and yellow highlighter pen. ‘I wanted to talk to you about three-eighty-two. Don’t you think Rowan should be more concerned about the inquisition team? Would she really go into the tower block without taking backup with her? I can’t emotionally connect with her decision-making here.’
There was a small pause, then Insch blinked. ‘I see where you’re coming from … But if she takes backup then we don’t get that sense of deep primordial threat when she finds Issobell Barroun’s body.’
‘But—’
‘And she doesn’t want Mrs Shepherd finding out, does she? If one of the team’s compromised, then everything becomes a lot more dangerous.’
A little frown pulled at the fake scar on her face. ‘So what you’re saying is: at this point, Rowan’s the only person Rowan can trust? She’s isolating herself and that emphasizes her core vulnerability … It’s a metaphor for her need to be loved. Yes, I can work with that …’ Then Nichole looked over and gifted Logan with a smile. ‘Sorry, I’m such a drama queen when it comes to getting the scene right.’ She hauled off a black leather glove and stuck out her hand. A network of shiny scar tissue traced its way across the skin of her wrist. ‘Nichole Fyfe.’
Logan took her hand – slightly damp – and shook it. ‘DI McRae. I used to work with … David.’ Still felt strange using his first name.
‘Right – Logan McRae. I’m sure David’s mentioned you.’ The smile got brighter for a second, then she picked at the fabric of her shirt, pulling it away from her armpits. ‘Sorry, been under the studio lights all day, I’m a mess. Anyway, it’s been great. I’m sure I’ll see you later.’ And she was gone, scribbling something down in the margins of her script.
As soon as the door closed behind her, Insch sagged, massaging his forehead with the fingers of one hand. ‘It’ll be worth it, it’ll be worth it …’ Deep breath. ‘Whatever happened to just turning up on time and knowing your lines? Now everyone’s a method-acting nutjob pain in the arse: “What’s my motivation, would my character really think that in this situation, what’s the emotional heart of the scene …?” Every bloody day.’
Another carrot stick disappeared. Then he turned and stalked back down the corridor.
Logan followed him. ‘Seems nice enough to me.’
‘You know we send her a car every morning? With a driver, a punnet of raspberries, and three bottles of Perrier. Has to be Perrier, any other brand and she flies off in a strop. It’s fizzy bloody water, not insulin. If she deigns to turn up at all. Four hours we were waiting for her this morning. Four hours.’
‘So fire her.’
Insch stopped and stared at him. ‘Don’t be stupid. She’s the best thing that ever happened to this film.’ He pulled out a carrot stick and pointed it at Logan like a magic wand. ‘She was still filming In Death We Trust when we cast her as Rowan. And soon as they stopped shooting, she dragged Morgan off to stay with a coven in the Midwest US so they could learn about witchcraft. She even learned to smoke a pipe for the role. We told her she didn’t have to – we’d fix it in post-production – but she did it anyway. That’s how dedicated she is.’ The wand disappeared between his teeth. ‘Just because Nichole’s a nightmare to deal with, it doesn’t mean she’s not a great actress. Not just good: great.’
The fire door clunked shut behind them. Insch squinted in the sunshine as they stepped out onto sticky black tarmac. ‘So I finally managed to persuade Zander it was still possible to make an artistic statement, but he’d have to get away from cinerotography to do it. Let’s face it: the people watching porn are, by definition, a bunch of wankers. We needed a genre that would appreciate the work we put in.’
The car park was bathed in a golden glow, sparking on chrome bumpers and gleaming paintwork. Logan settled back against a BMW. ‘When I searched Agnes’s house I found your missing Dittay book: the one with all the squiggles and sigils in it. And a script.’
‘So we pooled our resources, remortgaged our houses, optioned the rights to Witchfire, and got a stack of investors involved. Meant we could afford proper big-name actors, set designers, cinematographers, costumes … We’ve got the budget to do something really special here.’
‘Why didn’t you press charges?’
Off in the middle distance, Steel was grumbling into her mobile, kicking a stone about like a sulky teenager.
Insch ran a hand along the wattle of skin under his chin. ‘She never changes, does she?’
‘There must have been a reason.’
‘Go back in time five years and you’d have been mad to put money on her running CID. Me: yes. Her: no chance. You’d have more luck betting she’d be out on her backside for gross misconduct. Or banged up somewhere.’ A sigh. ‘Now look at us.’
‘She’s not running CID … Well, she is, but only till Finnie gets back from Malaga: serial rape, case review.’
‘Not that I’m complaining, mind: I love making movies. And Witchfire’s only the beginning, we’re already looking about for the next project.’ A smile stretched his cadaverous features. ‘This is the start of something big, Logan. Aberdeen’s going to be the film capital of Scotland. Goodbye Hollywood, hello Stoneywood.’
‘So why didn’t you press charges?’
Insch settled onto the bonnet next to him, the bag of carrot sticks plonked down between them. ‘Because Zander is ruled more by this …’ He poked himself in the chest. ‘Than this …’ The finger doinked off the side of his forehead a couple of times. ‘We called the police, went round, demanded our property back, and her father gave us this big sob story about how she’d tried to kill herself and she’s a good kid really and we can’t blame her for being mentally ill.’
‘And Zander …?’
‘Hook, line, and stinker. Didn’t want to be responsible for her taking another overdose.’
‘Yeah, well, I suppose you can’t blame him for …’ Logan dragged out his notebook. ‘Hold on, her dad told us she’d slit her wrists.’
‘That was at Christmas. She took an overdose in February: Valentine’s Day.’ A nod. ‘Nothing like it for bringing out the suicidal romantics.’
‘The bastards lied to us, again.’
Insch cleared his throat, looked down at his huge shoes. ‘I heard about Samantha, and the fire. I’m sorry.’
Everyone was always sorry.
Logan cricked his neck from side to side. ‘What about you? How’s Miriam and the kids getting on?’
‘Apparently Canada’s lovely this time of year. Anna’s got a boyfriend. Can you believe that? Only eleven and she’s got a boyfriend. Haven’t seen her or Brigit for two years …’ Insch chewed on the inside of his sunken cheek for a bit. ‘Miriam’s getting married in September. He’s called Jeff, owns a restaurant in Vancouver.’ The word ‘Jeff’ was pronounced as if it tasted bad.
‘Sorry.’
‘It is what it is.’ Insch crunched his way through another carrot. Then stared off into the middle distance. ‘Speaking of arsehole boyfriends: I need you to do me a favour.’
Wonderful. ‘Oh aye?’
‘Nichole Fyfe. Her ex has been causing trouble: turning up at her hotel, declaring undying love, having a go at the security team, threatening her driver, throwing his weight around. Won’t take “You were dumped four years ago” as an answer.’
‘So she wants to make a formal complaint?’
‘This is the movies, Logan. The leading lady doesn’t make complaints about her ex-boyfriend stalking her, she gets someone else to do it for her. And I don’t want the papers getting hold of it.’
Logan couldn’t keep the laugh in. ‘Your film’s all over the gossip mags, and the radio, and the TV, and—’
‘That’s not the point. Nichole doesn’t want to look like a big-headed diva who’s too good for Aberdeen. And I don’t want her distracted and not focu
sing on her job.’ He shoogled the bag, then held it out. ‘Want one?’
‘So, what: you want me to go lean on him? Read him the riot act? Get him to fall down the stairs a couple of times?’
‘You’d rather wait till he hurts someone?’ Insch helped himself to some carrots.
Logan closed his eyes for a moment. All these years and Insch was still manipulating him. ‘I’m not promising anything, OK?’
‘His name’s Robbie Whyte, twenty-five, lives in Inverurie with his mum.’ Insch hauled himself off the car and checked his watch. ‘Time’s up. I’ve got a meeting with Trading Standards in five minutes – haven’t even finished principal photography and some scumbag’s already flogging counterfeit Witchfire merchandise – then it’s the council historian we use as a witchcraft consultant. Then some arsehole journalist, then a competition winner … And at some point, I’ve got a film to make. Make sure you hand your passes back in at the gate when you leave.’
‘Right.’
Insch stalked off a couple of steps, then stopped, with his back still turned. ‘If … there’s anything you need, give me a call and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Lying bastards swore to me there was nothing else we needed to know about Agnes.’ Logan put his foot down as soon as the car’s bonnet was level with the forty-miles-per-hour sign, overtaking the bus in the inside lane. ‘How are we supposed to—’
‘Blah, blah, blah, life’s tough, people lie.’ Steel cracked open the passenger window, letting in the dual-carriageway roar of Auchmill Road. ‘Get over it.’ She pulled out a packet of cigarettes and jiggled one out. ‘Weird seeing Insch again, isn’t it? All thin and bony and floppy like that …’
‘We’re taking a detour. Agnes Garfield’s mum and dad have got some explaining to do.’
‘Bet if you stuck one of them garage air pumps up his bum you could inflate him like a beach ball.’ She sparked the cigarette with a Zippo, then clunked one foot up on the dashboard and had a scratch. ‘You know, it’s just like old times: you, me, Inschy McFattypants … Except now we’d have to call him McSkinnypants.’ A grin. ‘I know: McFloppypants, he’ll like that.’
Five minutes later they were in deepest darkest Northfield. Logan hauled on the handbrake. The sound of shrieking children came from the other side of the high school wall, interspersed with shouted commands and laughter.
Steel sooked on the last nub of her cigarette, slouched so far down her seat she was nearly in the footwell. ‘You sure about this?’
‘They lied.’
‘Aye, I know that. But what does spanking them for it get you?’
‘What else are they lying about?’ He climbed out into the warm afternoon and called Chalmers: ‘I need you to run me a quick PNC on Agnes Garfield’s parents.’
It sounded as if she was in the middle of eating something. ‘Give me just a second …’ A slurp. Then the clacking of fingers on keyboard. ‘Did you see the results from the lab?’
‘Can we just focus on—’
‘The cannabis was about twenty-one percent THC, which is phenomenally high. And the blister pack of pills we found was Risperidone. It’s an atypical antipsychotic – might be to counteract the weed?’
No wonder all of Agnes’s friends thought she was a basket case.
Chalmers made a little humming noise. Then: ‘Here we go … The computer says Agnes’s dad, Mark Garfield, has been done for speeding, Council Tax evasion, and once for assault.’
‘So he’s violent.’
‘Got into a fight in a pub. I can try digging out the details if you want?’
‘What about the mother?’
‘Doreen Garfield: five warnings for threatening behaviour. Once told Agnes’s maths teacher she’d rip his balls off and make him eat them.’
‘OK, that’s—’
‘Apparently he said Agnes was thick. Another thing: I got a surname and an address for our mysterious Stacey. Her flatmate says she’s not been home since Friday night, didn’t turn up for work this morning either. Apparently it’s not unusual. She’s going to give me a call soon as Stacey shows.’
There was that efficiency again. ‘Good. Keep on it.’
‘And I’ve been looking through that red leather notebook we found in Agnes’s cupboard under the stairs, it’s exactly the same as the one the character—’
‘Rowan from Witchfire.’
‘Oh …’ Silence. ‘I haven’t read the book for years, but I picked up a copy at lunchtime and guess what: the Fingermen burn witches by—’
‘Necklacing. I know.’
This time the silence stretched on and on and on.
‘Chalmers?’
‘Sorry, Guv. I’ll …’ She cleared her throat. ‘Anything else I can do?’ Sounding a little desperate.
Steel tapped him on the shoulder. ‘See if I’m no’ back in the office by five, you’re getting my boot for a butt plug.’
‘Find out where they are with the remains from this morning. Then take a look at Rennie’s racial hate crimes – see if you can come up with anything.’
‘You can count on me!’ And she was gone.
Steel blew a wet raspberry, the spray of spittle glowing in the sunshine. ‘Have you still no’ solved that one yet?’
He walked up the path and rang the doorbell. ‘Investigations are still ongoing.’
‘And my arse is peanut butter. I’m no’ having racist scumbags running round crippling people, Laz.’
‘Well, tell you what, I’ll wave my magic wand and …’ The door opened.
Agnes’s dad blinked out at them, a tin of Export in one hand, a remote control in the other. ‘Mmm?’ The smell of beer came off him in thick waves. Not bad going for half four on a Monday afternoon.
‘Mr Garfield.’ Logan folded his arms. ‘Something else you failed to mention: she took an overdose in February.’
Garfield shaded his eyes with the hand holding the remote. As if he was trying to change the channel on Logan. Fat chance. ‘I … didn’t think it was—’
‘No, you didn’t think, did you? She was taking anti-psychotics; how much cannabis did—’
‘She didn’t …’ A sigh. Then he turned around and walked back into the house. ‘You’d better come in.’
Logan followed him into the lounge. The TV was paused: some sort of generic cop drama where everyone looked like models and no one ever broke wind, scratched their backside, or swore. An open pizza box filled the coffee table, a couple of slices lurking on the cardboard surrounded by discarded crusts. Empty beer cans were lined up like soldiers on the grease-flecked lid.
Garfield collapsed into a stripy armchair. ‘Doreen’s round her mother’s.’
Outside the living-room window, Steel leaned back against the car, pointing at her watch, then her boot.
Logan turned his back on her. ‘What part of, “Is there anything else you haven’t told us?” did you not understand?’
A swig of beer. ‘Agnes slit her wrists because her mother decided she wasn’t allowed to see Anthony Chung any more. Doctor said she was lucky she didn’t wind up with permanent nerve damage.’ Garfield waggled the can from side to side, making the contents slosh and fizz. ‘She tried to hang herself when she was twelve. So we sent her to a shrink, and that was it: medication.’ He reached for one of the last slices, pepperoni acne glistening on greasy cheese. ‘Twelve and she’s on antipsychotics. What kind of life is that?’
Silence.
‘Why the hell didn’t you tell us? I asked you if there was anything else, and you looked me in the eye and lied! Did you really think it didn’t matter?’
A shrug. ‘She was doing better. The overdose was … I don’t know. She was upset because Anthony wasn’t enthusiastic enough about her tattoo. They’re like that, always …’ He curled one hand into a claw, the whole arm trembling. ‘You know? But she loves him.’
‘Did Agnes take her medication with her when she left? What if she has anoth
er episode?’
Garfield’s mouth turned down at the edges. Then he took a bite, chewing as if it was bitter cardboard. ‘She couldn’t take it with her. We don’t … Doreen doesn’t want … After the overdose we don’t let Agnes manage her condition on her own. Doreen doles out the pills every day and watches to make sure she takes them.’
‘Then how come she had a pack of Risperidone in her stash?’
‘Risperidone …?’ He shook his head. Washed the pizza down with the last of his beer. ‘No, she can’t have that: it’s only for when the episodes are really bad. It’s too strong for regular use. We manage her condition with Aripiprazole.’ The empty tin went to stand guard with its comrades.
‘Well, she got hold of some, didn’t she.’ God’s sake. Logan marched off a couple of steps, then back again. ‘Does she get violent when she’s not taking her medication?’
Garfield stared down at the half-eaten slice in his hand. ‘We didn’t tell you, because we didn’t want it splashed all over the papers. Bad enough she has to live with her problems, without every bugger looking at her like she’s got two heads. None of their business.’
‘Is she violent? Yes or no.’
‘Agnes is a sweet little girl. She’s more likely to hurt herself than anyone else.’ He closed his eyes. ‘That’s why you have to find her …’
19
‘Going to be sodding late …’ Steel had one last dig at her bra, then slammed the passenger door shut.
The rear podium was packed with patrol and pool cars, the Chief Constable’s new Bentley standing on its own like a leper with halitosis. Everyone too scared of scratching the thing to park anywhere near it.
Logan plipped the pool car’s locks. ‘It’s five-to. You’ve got plenty of time.’
‘How am I supposed to have a fag, grab a coffee, shout at Rennie, and get to the meeting on time?’ She hauled up her trousers. ‘Didn’t even want to go to the sodding thing in the first place. Bunch of stuffed shirts stuck in a room moaning. How are we supposed to stop the forensic monkeys going on strike? We’re no’ the ones buggering them about.’
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 55