Logan stopped beside her.
Someone had put up a display with a mannequin dressed head-to-toe in black leather with a red notebook tucked under its arm. A sheet acted as the backdrop with a Ring Knot picked out in black paint on it, all the squiggles and circles and words identical to the one on the kitchen floor out in Kintore. A stack of hardbacks and paperbacks sat on a little wooden table beside the mannequin, a skull perched on the top. All of them copies of Witchfire.
Sim nodded at it. ‘My niece, Amanda, did it for her English Standard Grade. Got a B. Made the whole family read it then sit down and discuss,’ Sim made quote-bunnies with her fingers, ‘“symbolism” and “themes”, like some kind of resentful book club.’
‘Little sods don’t know they’re born. We never got a choice at school, it was Of Mice and Men and sodding Macbeth or a clip round the ear.’
‘I suppose Witchfire’s OK. I mean, if you like that kind of thing. Kind of a cross between Fatherland, Night Watch and Silence of the Lambs. Still, at least it got her reading; always thought she’d turn out thick as bogies, like her dad.’
Logan stared at the display. ‘Started reading it last night. Got to the bit where the Moderator tells Rowan about her father.’
Sim’s mouth curdled. ‘You’re not wanting to discuss symbolism and theme, are you? Only once was bad enough.’
Logan headed up the street again. ‘Agnes is recreating bits of the book; thought it wouldn’t hurt to know what to look for.’
‘Tenet Two: “Know thine enemy, for knowledge is power and power is victory.”’ She shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me like that, told you we had to read it.’
Gilcomston Church reared up into the sky, the jagged grey steeple towering over the surrounding buildings. The place was an elaborate gothic lump of dirt-streaked granite, its main entrance raised far enough above street level to need a short flight of stone steps up to the wide wooden door. A pair of posters were mounted on either side in Perspex-fronted display boxes. The eye-melting orange one read, ‘JESUS LOVES YOU EACH AND EVERY DAY!’ and the nuclear-urine-yellow one, ‘NEW: SENIORS’ BINGO EVERY WEDNESDAY!!!’
Two men and a woman lounged on the steps, wearing tatty parka jackets and waterproofs, dressed for winter even though the last few days had been like a furnace. A collection of carrier-bags made a plastic halo around them, stuffed with clothes and tins. Probably everything they had to their names.
Logan stopped at the foot of the stairs and smiled up at them. ‘Morning.’
One of the men scowled out from beneath a threadbare woollen hat, his eyes thin and yellow, flecked with red veins. He clutched a tin of extra-strong Co-op lager to his chest, shielding it with his other hand. The sour smell of stale piss and alcohol hung around him like a thundercloud. ‘I ain’t done nothing. You can’t prove I done nothing, I know my rights.’
The other man and the woman sidled closer together. He had one leg in plaster from the knee down, and his face was a mess of scabs and scratches. That would be Henry Scott, AKA: Scotty Scabs, the only one of Rennie’s shoplifting tramps not currently lying on a refrigerated drawer in the mortuary.
The woman had a wad of stained gauze wadding taped over her left eye, her hair like damp straw, fingernails painted bright scarlet. She slid a half bottle of supermarket vodka into her pocket.
Sim held up a hand. ‘It’s OK, Trevor, we’re not here to hassle you—’
‘Whoever says I did it is lying!’
Logan pulled the mugshot photo of Roy Forman from his pocket and held it up.
Trevor sniffed, wiped a hand under his nose, leaving a shiny trail on the dirty skin. ‘Whatever Fusty did, I didn’t have nothing to do with it.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘He was mental.’
Sim settled down on the step next to him, blinking. Probably from the fumes, they were bad enough from the pavement, up close they must have been horrible. ‘Trevor, we’re trying to help Mr Forman, we’re not here to hassle you. We just need to know if anyone saw him last week. Maybe Friday, or Saturday?’
The woman ran a pale tongue across chapped lips. Her voice didn’t go with the ratty, unwashed hair and missing teeth. Posh, and not local posh either, Inverness posh. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
Sim nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Sally. That’s why we need to—’
Henry Scott burst into tears. ‘He’s deid, he’s deid, he’s deid …’
Sally wrapped an arm around his shoulders. ‘Shhh, shhh, it’s all right, Scotty, it’s all right.’ She squinted her good eye at Logan. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’
Logan dropped down onto his haunches, so he was eye to eye with him. ‘You were Roy’s friend, weren’t you, Henry? You and Roy and Sally? When did you last see him?’
‘It wasn’t me, it wasn’t, I didn’t do it, I didn’t steal stuff …’
‘It’s OK, I’m not here about the shoplifting thing and I’m not going to arrest you, I promise. I just need to know what happened to Roy. Did you see something?’
Sally hauled Henry Scott closer. ‘You think we’re just tramps, don’t you? Just drunks and junkies, but we’re people too!’
‘I know you are, that’s why we’re—’
‘We die all the time and you never do anything about it, do you? You don’t care. You’re just like all the other fascists.’
Sim sighed. Furrowed her brow. ‘We do care, Sally.’
‘If you cared, you’d do something about it! They take us in the middle of the night and they do experiments on us …’
‘Who do?’
Her lonely eye whipped left and right, then her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘The government.’
‘He’s deid, she killed him: he’s deid, he’s deid …’
Logan shook his head. ‘The police are independent, Sally, the government doesn’t own us, they can’t make us do things. That’s why we want to find out what happened …’ He stared at Henry Scott. ‘Wait a minute: you said, “she killed him”. Who killed him, Henry? Who hurt Roy?’
Henry Scott stared off down Union Street, towards the East End. His voice was barely a whisper, the words hidden in a barrage of raw onion breath. ‘The dark angel. She swoops down from the sky in the death of night and she takes us.’
Sally stared at the sky for a moment, then sighed. ‘Don’t be stupid, Scotty, it’s not angels, it’s the government! The government took him, I saw them in their big black cars with their guns and suits. They took him to do experiments.’
Well, this was going well. They’d only been there two minutes and already they had new suspects: the angel of death, and the government. Welcome to care in the community.
Sally licked her lips again, her other hand stroking the pocket she’d hidden the vodka in.
‘It’s OK, I’m not going to do you for drinking in public. We’re really not here to cause any trouble. Just trying to find out what happened to Roy Forman.’
‘It …’ She let go of Henry, fished out her bottle, unscrewed the top, chugged down a mouthful, put the top back on, and rammed it back in her pocket all in the space of three seconds. ‘Fusty was trying to get better. Seeing someone about his problems. Was going to get a job and a family and a dog called Savlon. Maybe they turned him into the government?’
‘He’s deid, she killed him, he’s deid, he’s deid …’
The arm went around Henry again. ‘Shhh, shhh, it’s all right. They can’t hurt him any more.’
‘Guys, it’s important: when did you last see Roy Forman?’
Trevor hunched his shoulders inside his stained parka jacket, the fur trim all matted. ‘Friday night. Soup kitchen down the Green. That’s where I saw him … I didn’t cause no trouble though! Anyone who says I did is a liar!’
Logan pulled out the photo of Agnes Garfield. ‘What about her? Do you recognize her?’
‘Whatever she says, she’s lying. I never did nothing.’
Logan swapped th
e plastic carrier-bags from one hand to the other and squeezed out of the baker’s, past a pair of tracksuit slobs at the end of the queue and onto Schoolhill. Overhead, the sky was heading from grey to greyer, taking the granite buildings with it. He nipped across the road, skirting around the back end of an illegally parked taxi.
Then froze on the pavement.
A small knot of Strathclyde’s finest turned and stared at him: Steel’s National Police Improvement Authority review team. Two male officers and one female – all wearing Man at CID suits, with not a smile to be seen. The tallest of them, in a sharp black number, sniffed at Logan. His little evil-magician’s goatee was about three shades darker than the hair clinging to either side of a high creased forehead. He narrowed his hooded eyes. ‘Detective Sergeant McRae, isn’t it?’
‘Superintendent Smith. Nice to see you again.’
Now that did get a smile. ‘I trust we’re not going to have a repeat of last time?’
‘That wasn’t really my fault.’
‘DS Kelly still limps when the weather changes, don’t you Gerald?’
A lump of muscle with a shaved head and big glasses glowered out from beneath heavy eyebrows. ‘He was supposed to be unarmed.’
‘And you were supposed to stay in the car.’
The third member of the trio’s mouth twitched, but she kept the smile in check. She’d aged a bit since the last time – filled out a bit too, but on her it looked good. Her long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, frizzy around the edges, her makeup almost enough to disguise the dark circles beneath her eyes, but doing nothing to hide the crow’s feet. She nodded at him. ‘DS McRae.’
Logan nodded back. ‘DS Watson. And it’s DI now: acting.’
‘Congratulations.’ She still hadn’t moved.
Superintendent Smith sniffed again. ‘All right, that’s enough unbridled sexual tension for one day. I want to get lunch before the witch-hunt starts. We’ll be seeing you, DI McRae.’
‘I can barely wait, sir.’ Logan stayed where he was as they wandered off towards the Bon Accord Centre. Oh, today just kept getting better and better …
Logan dumped the carrier-bag down on Steel’s desk, then sank into the visitor’s chair and let out a long sigh.
She stared at him. ‘Well?’
‘Didn’t have any stovies, so I got you macaroni cheese instead.’ He dug into the bag and came out with a Styrofoam carton. Handed it over. Then went back in for the other one. Creaked it open to reveal a baked potato with tuna and cheese; savoury smells filled the office. ‘So far, last time anyone saw Fusty Forman was half-ten, Friday night, at the soup kitchen on East Green, where it disappears under Market Street.’
Steel opened her carton. A quivering mound of glistening tubes in a gloopy yellow sauce, next to a jumble of deep-fried potato. ‘You got us chips too!’ A smile deepened the wrinkles about her eyes. ‘There’s hope for you yet.’
‘Going to canvas the soup kitchen tonight, but—’
‘No you’re no’. Overtime budget’s bad enough as it is without you pulling a double shift.’ She balanced some macaroni on a chip, then shovelled it in, the words, ‘Get Ding-Dong on it,’ muffled by the mouthful.
‘How am I supposed to run the necklacing bit of the investigation if—’
‘There’s no “I” in team, Laz, but there will be my boot in your arse.’ She jabbed up a couple of chips. ‘Besides, if you’re up all night, you’ll be sod-all use to me tomorrow. Ding-Dong’s doing the soup kitchen.’
Well that was just brilliant: he did all the work and if something came of it, DI Bell would be the one who got all the credit.
‘Fine, Ding-Dong can do it, but if it leads to an arrest—’
‘Yes, yes: you shall have a gold star and a sweetie.’ More macaroni disappeared. ‘God, you’re such a whinge.’
‘Just remember, it was my lead.’ Logan ripped the top off a tiny sachet of pepper and sprinkled it over his tattie. Then did the same with one of salt. ‘The cast and crew of Witchfire have been volunteering at the soup kitchen, and do you want to guess who set the whole thing up?’
Steel squinted at him for a moment, chewing. ‘Agnes Garfield?’
‘Bingo.’ He pulled out the plastic cutlery and sawed a chunk off his baked potato. ‘We haven’t had any hits on her photo when we’ve shown it around, but for all we know this redhead thing is just the latest in a long line of changes. Could be altering her appearance every other week.’
Steel let out a cross between a sigh and a growl. ‘That’s all we need.’
‘Told you.’
‘Not helping, Laz.’ She popped a couple of chips in and gave them a sour-faced chewing. ‘Had a call from the hospital: Robbie Whyte’s alibi checks out, he was at his dear mum’s bedside right up till they called time of death. There’s no way he killed Fusty Forman or our torture victim.’
Of course he didn’t. That would make life too sodding easy.
Logan took a bite. The potato was hot, the tuna cold, the cheese like napalm. ‘They get an ID yet?’
Steel blew a wet farty raspberry. ‘Face is that battered we can’t do a dental match, fingertips are pulped so we’ve no’ chance of getting any prints off him, and the IB says there’s about as much chance of us getting viable DNA from the body as Rennie has of winning Mastermind. Four days in a warm room and it’s all turned to mush.’ She shovelled in some more macaroni. ‘Might get some from the tooth-pulp cavities, but that’s it.’
‘What do you think: do another facial reconstruction?’
Steel scowled at him.
Fine. Change the subject. ‘Never guess who I bumped into, coming out of the baker’s: the NPIA team.’
‘Already? Who’d we get?’
‘Superintendent Smith, Wee Hairy DS Kelly and DS Watson.’
A groan. ‘And are the two of you on speaking terms this week, or are you going to sit and glower and snipe at each other all through the review? Because that would make it even more fun.’
‘Hey, I got you chips, remember?’
‘Because things aren’t bad enough with the bloody ACC nipping my arse every five minutes. “Oh the press are up in arms.” “Oh the Chief Constable’s no’ happy.” “Oh if only Finnie was here … ” Aye, like the frog-faced tosser could just turn up, wave his magic fairy wand, and solve everything.’ Steel skewered a chip, then frowned at it drooping there on the end of her plastic fork. ‘Any tomato sauce in the bag?’
‘Another thing: a couple of Forman’s associates said he was getting professional therapy. Give you odds on Agnes was too. Might be worth following up on?’
‘Why’d you no’ get any tomato sauce? How am I supposed to eat chips with no tomato sauce?’
‘Macaroni cheese with tomato sauce is disgusting. What about a TV appeal?’
‘Yeah, well … you eat Marmite. That’s like a wee jar full of Satan’s turds.’
‘She’s still in the city: she used Anthony Chung’s cards. They’re holed up somewhere, so someone’s bound to spot them.’
‘Know how they make Marmite?’
He scooped up another chunk of cheddar-covered tuna. ‘I’ll get onto the media department. See if they can set something up.’
‘There’s this mine in darkest England and at the bottom of the mine there’s a big crack in the earth.’
‘Not listening.’
‘And the Devil sticks his arse up through the crack, and they send this bunch of murderers, bastards, and rapists down there to scrape up the lumps and bung them in jars.’
‘No way Roy Forman can afford to see a private therapist, so whoever’s treating him: it’s on the NHS. Shouldn’t be too hard to track down.’
‘It’s true, there’s video of them doing it on the internet.’ She drummed her fingers on the desktop. ‘Come on, I know you’ve got some in your desk.’
‘I’m not giving you tomato sauce.’
A little smile tugged one side of
Steel’s face upwards. ‘Do you a swap.’ She leaned down and clunked open the bottom drawer of her return unit. When she straightened up there was a rectangular box in her hand, about the size of a thermos flask, wrapped in anonymous brown paper. She waggled it at him. ‘Told you I got a present for you.’
Logan put his plastic fork down and shrank back in his seat. Frowning. ‘What is it?’
‘Tomato sauce first, present later.’
‘Right … Well …’ Logan stood, gathered up his baked potato. ‘I’ll just … go get that then.’
And escape.
28
Rennie gave a huge yawn, showing off his fillings, then slumped into the visitor’s chair. ‘Gah …’
Logan looked up from the stack of overtime, expenses, and budget request forms that had magically appeared in his in-box. ‘If you’re here for a moan, you can bugger right back out again.’
‘Been round every drop-in centre and hostel in town, and no one’s caught so much as a whiff of Scotty Scabs.’
He checked his watch: one forty-five, which meant Henry Scott would have a decent head start. ‘That’s strange – he was sitting on the steps of Gilcomston Church when I spoke to him an hour ago.’
Rennie stared, a smile dawning across his face. ‘You found him? Cool, is he in the cells, because—’
‘I said I spoke to him, didn’t say I’d arrested him.’
The smile disappeared. ‘But I’ve been looking for him for ages! How am I—’
‘I needed information on Roy Forman; gave my word I wouldn’t do him for the shoplifting.’
‘But—’
‘If you get off your backside and hurry over there, you might still catch him. Otherwise …’ Shrug.
Rennie scrambled out of his seat, reaching the door just in time for it to swing open. He jerked to a halt, staring at Chalmers. ‘Oh. It’s you.’
She stuck her chin out. ‘DS Rennie.’
He folded his arms. ‘DS Chalmers.’
God help us. Logan grabbed a biro from his desk and chucked it at Rennie’s back. It bounced right between the silly sod’s shoulder blades. ‘Thought you were in a hurry.’
‘Yes. Right. Fine.’ Rennie pulled his shoulders back and marched from the room, not even looking at Chalmers.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 64