‘Yes, well …’
A dark rumbling voice cut through the background noise. ‘Nichole?’ Insch. ‘They’re ready for you in makeup, if you’re sure you’re up to it?’
She nodded, patted Logan on the chest. ‘Thanks again.’ Then turned and marched away, arms swinging at her sides, as if she was on parade.
Insch scowled, dug into his pocket, and came out with a little bag of apple slices. Popped one in his mouth. ‘You should’ve spoken to him yesterday. And I don’t appreciate you chatting up my lead actress.’
‘I wasn’t chatting …’ Every bloody time. ‘Is the writer here?’
‘Mr Hunter is in conference room two. Try not to piss him off, or he’ll spend the rest of the day hitting the gin and we’ll get nothing decent out of him till tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Can’t promise anything …’ He craned his neck, scanning the soundstage. ‘Now, have you seen PC Sim?’
Conference room two was thick with the dark scent of freshly brewed coffee – a percolator gurgling away to itself in one corner of the large rectangular room. A load of desks had been pushed together to make one huge surface, the top nearly invisible beneath piles of different-coloured paper covered in scribbles and highlighter pen. The blinds were down, leaving the room to slump in the unsympathetic glare of fluorescent lighting. One wall was completely plastered in yellow, green, and orange Post-it notes, the opposite one hiding behind what looked like A4 frames from a storyboard.
The room’s only occupant sat in the middle, frowning at the screen of a laptop, a ‘WORLD’S WORST DAD’ mug sitting by his mouse. Mid-forties; curly hair surrounding a high, domed forehead that shone in the overhead lights; goatee beard; glasses obviously bought to look ‘hip’ and ‘with it’, but failing.
Sim grabbed Logan’s sleeve. ‘Eek! That’s him!’
Logan produced his warrant card. ‘Mr Hunter?’
The man didn’t look up from his screen, just waved a hand at the far corner of the desk. ‘Just put them over there, and tell David I’ve solved his continuity problem with four-fifteen.’
‘Police, Mr Hunter. I’m Detective Inspector McRae, this is PC Sim. We need to ask you a few questions.’
He peered at them over the top of his glasses. ‘You haven’t brought the sandwiches?’
Logan pulled out a chair and sat. ‘Sim, why don’t you get us all a cup of coffee. I’m sure Mr Hunter would like a refill.’
‘Mmmpnnnn …?’ She fidgeted for a moment, blushed, then scurried off to fiddle with the percolator.
Hunter shifted a stack of scripts to one side, and picked up a copy of the Scottish Sun. ‘Let me guess, you’re here about this?’ The headline, ‘SICKO SATANIC KILLER COPIES FILM MURDER SCENE’ sat above a photo of the house in Kintore, and an artist’s impression of the Ring Knot from Witchfire.
Logan took out his notebook. ‘Do you have a lot of fans, Mr Hunter?’
‘Why do the police always have to use people’s last names? Is it meant to intimidate us?’
‘It’s meant to be polite.’
‘Then you can call me William. I hate Will, Willy, Billy, and Bill, so don’t bother.’ He dumped the paper on the table. ‘And yes, I have a lot of fans. Got so many emails I’ve had to employ a young woman to pretend to be me. Which is ironic, it’s normally the other way round on the internet. But all that, “Where do you get your ideas from?” “Who would you cast in a film?” “When’s the next book out?” was driving me mad.’
‘What about … the more obsessive ones?’
His mouth stretched out and down. ‘Nutters, you mean? Every writer gets them. People who think the characters are real, people who think they’ve got the right to tell you how to do your job, people who want to be Fingermen, people who want me to write their life story. You name it, I’ve had it.’
Sim plonked a coffee down in front of Logan, her hand shaking hard enough to slop some out over the side and onto the blue pages from a revised script. Then she scurried around to the other side and picked up Hunter’s ‘WORLD’S WORST DAD’ mug and took it round to the percolator.
‘And it’s got worse since they started making the film?’
‘Pfff …’ He scratched at the curls fringing his big shiny forehead. ‘Like mushrooms in a damp basement. Still, I suppose it’s a small price to pay. I was fed up of being screwed around by the big Hollywood studios promising the earth, then delivering sod all. Eight times this thing was going to be made, before fizzling out. Eight times.’ He swept his hands out, gesturing at the table and its piles of paper. ‘But this time I get a percentage and a say in the production, so I let them have the rights cheap. Of course, I’m stuck in here, rewriting scenes, but at least the thing’s actually getting made.’ He let his hands fall back to the tabletop. ‘Mind you, soon as they found out, the nutters came out in force.’
‘Did any strike you as particularly odd, or threatening? Anyone speak about necklacing witches, or torturing them?’
‘I don’t even read most of them. If I did I’d have no time to get any writing done.’
Sim put the mug back on the table, by the laptop, blushing so hard she couldn’t have been far off spontaneously combusting.
Hunter nodded at her. ‘Thanks.’
The blush grew even darker and Sim just stood there, staring at him, not saying anything.
He patted her on the arm. ‘It’s all right, I don’t bite. Would you like a signed book? I’m sure there’s a copy or three knocking about here somewhere.’
‘Eeek …’
Logan took out his Grampian Police business card and passed it across the tabletop. ‘Your woman who answers the fan mail, can she forward everything suspicious on to us?’
‘Don’t know if she keeps it, but we can find out …’ He moved the mouse about and clicked on things for a moment, then his fingers rattled across the laptop’s keyboard like machine-gun fire. ‘Done. She’s in Iowa, so it might take a while. I can never remember how many hours they are behind UK time.’
‘But you’ve not noticed anyone hanging around, behaving suspiciously?’
Hunter raised an eyebrow. ‘The place is full of actors and film people, Inspector. All they do is behave suspiciously.’
It looked as if Anthony Chung’s parents were actually home this time. An ugly Alfa Romeo four-by-four and a silver Porsche sat on the driveway behind the gates, both of them looking brand new, with custom number plates. Hard to believe that only three people lived in a house that big; a football team would have rattled around in it.
PC Sim pulled up at the kerb and peered out through the rain-flecked windscreen. ‘Not short of a bob or two, then. Probably explains why their kid turned out the way he did. Rich and spoiled.’
‘And dead.’ Logan set his phone on silent, climbed out of the car, and hurried up the path to the front door – huddling under the porch as Sim ambled after him, glancing back over her shoulder every couple of steps at the signed limited edition hardback copy of Witchfire on the dashboard.
She straightened her stab-proof vest. Then reached for the doorbell. Ravel’s Bolero kicked in, followed by the bellowing of the massive Alsatian.
There was a buzz, then a woman’s voice crackled from the intercom, mounted beneath a security camera. ‘Who is it?’ The accent was posh and English. One of those BBC-announcer voices, before they went all regional.
Sim took a step back, looking up into the lens. ‘Mrs Chung? It’s the police.’
Inside, the dog was going mental. Barking and barking and barking.
‘Can I see some identification please?’
As if the ninja black outfit with stab-proof vest, airwave handset, utility belt, and bowler hat with a chequered band around it wasn’t enough. Sim held her warrant card up to the camera. ‘We need to talk to you about Anthony.’
A pause. Then, ‘Yes. Yes, of course …’ Click. The intercom went silent.
Sim puffed out her cheeks. ‘How do you
want to play this, Guv?’
‘Rock-paper-scissors?’
Logan sat on the sofa in an opulent lounge. White walls, oil paintings, life-sized marble statue of a tiger with bronze stripes, deep-red leather furniture, and a cream carpet. The kind of room that probably got dirty if you looked at it.
Mrs Chung stood by the oversized marble fireplace, fidgeting with the heavy gold bracelet on her wrist. She was immaculately dressed in a red silk jacket and blue jeans, long glossy black hair framing a delicately featured face. An Alsatian sitting at her feet like a statue of Anubis. She cleared her throat. ‘Is this … Should I get you a cup of tea or something?’
Sim took off her bowler and held it against her chest. ‘Maybe you should have a seat.’
‘Oh no …’
Even though he’d won, Logan stood. ‘Mrs Chung, did Anthony have any distinguishing marks? Any tattoos, or something like that?’
‘Oh no, no, no, no … Please …’ She clutched a hand over her chest, scrunching the scarlet fabric into a fist.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Chung, but we believe we found Anthony’s body last night.’
She stared down at the coffee table. Rocking back and forward. ‘No.’
He took a step towards her. ‘PC Sim’s right, you should …’ Logan froze. The Alsatian was on its feet, teeth bared – a deep, bowel-loosening growl directed right at him.
He backed away, slow and careful. No sudden moves. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’
Sim’s right hand slid down to the small canister of pepper-spray clipped to her belt, never taking her eyes off the dog. ‘Do you want us to call someone for you? Your husband? Relatives? Maybe a friend?’
She just stared at them. ‘Anthony can’t be dead. He can’t.’
A rattling clunk came from the hall outside the lounge – someone coming in through the front door – followed by an American accent, ‘Honey? Thought we’d go out tonight. You know, bit of a celebration?’
Mrs Chung sank down onto the arm of a scarlet sofa, the dog still growling at Logan.
‘What’s eating Enfield?’ The living-room door opened. ‘Sounds like …’ A small man in a pastel-green polo shirt froze on the threshold, a sports bag in one hand, greying short-back-and-sides slowly retreating up a high forehead. He blinked at PC Sim, standing there in her police uniform and the smile died on his lips. He took a deep breath, then took off his glasses and hung his head. ‘I see.’
‘Ray,’ Mrs Chung placed a hand against her chest, one hand fanning her face, ‘tell them Anthony can’t be dead! Tell them.’
Raymond Chung stood at the study window, overlooking a perfectly manicured garden, the borders and bushes aglow with flowers and shining leaves. ‘I … I must apologize for my wife, Kim gets … She dotes on Anthony.’ His hands trembled at his sides. ‘Doted.’
Logan settled back against the large teak desk. ‘Please: there’s nothing to apologize for. It must have been a horrible shock.’
The room was nearly bigger than Logan’s entire caravan, lined with crowded wooden bookshelves. A couple of green leather sofas sat on the polished wooden floorboards, a small stack of gardening magazines lined up on a glass coffee table.
‘We …’ A breath. ‘We left San Francisco, because Anthony was getting into trouble. Falling in with the wrong crowd. They weren’t good for him, so we thought, hey – let’s go somewhere nice and quiet and calm. Somewhere he can grow up safe … If anything, it got worse.’ Raymond Chung sniffed. ‘How did it happen?’
No point dragging it out – it’d be all over the papers soon enough. ‘He was murdered. Tortured, then strangled. About four days ago.’
‘Tortured. Oh God …’ Ray Chung wiped his hands down the sides of his jeans. ‘God, I … His girlfriend, Agnes, is she …?’
‘We’re still looking for her.’
‘I should’ve asked first, her parents must be …’ He blew out a shallow breath, then eased himself down onto one of the sofas. ‘Tortured …’
‘How well do you know Agnes Garfield?’
‘She … I don’t know, it was …’ He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. ‘Sorry. If I’m honest, you know, one hundred percent honest, she was always too good for him. Anthony had her wrapped around his ego like creeping ivy. He said jump and she wouldn’t even ask, “How high?” she’d just do it. But he doted on her …’
‘Did Anthony ever talk about running away somewhere? Or moving out?’
‘He always gets … He always got what he wanted.’
‘Maybe he talked about a friend’s house? Or a family member?’
‘We don’t have any family over here. Anthony …’ A deep breath. ‘We left San Francisco after Anthony’s cousin got shot. He was dealing drugs on the wrong street corner. My brother and his wife said it was all Anthony’s fault: that he got Grant involved in it. We haven’t spoken in eight years.’
Raymond Chung turned his head, staring at the gardening magazines on the coffee table. Not looking at Logan. ‘I … I guess I always knew Anthony would end up … that he’d …’ He wiped his eyes again. ‘Oh, boy …’
Logan stepped over to the large window, giving him a bit of space to nurture his grief. A fat ginger cat picked its way along the fence at the bottom of the garden, tail making snake curves through the drizzly air. ‘I’m sorry, I know this must be incredibly distressing. A Family Liaison Officer is going to get in touch with you soon. They’ll keep you up to date on the investigation, answer any questions you’ve got.’
‘Will … Can we see him?’
Rotting away on a slab in the mortuary, with his teeth ripped out, covered in bruises and burns and cuts? ‘I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. He was very badly beaten, and after four days in the heat, he’s—’
‘I want to see my son!’
PC Sim humped the mattress back into place, then tucked the sheet in again.
Logan leaned back against the wardrobe. ‘Anything?’
Anthony Chung’s room was almost as big as his father’s study. A king-sized bed, shelves of DVDs and CDs, a dining-table-sized flatscreen TV, games consoles, sofa, desk, big shiny silver laptop, nautilus weight machine, collection of empty beer bottles stacked up into a pyramid.
She fluffed the duvet back where it’d come from. ‘Not a sausage. But if his mum’s up here making the bed and doing the hoovering …?’
He was never going to leave anything incriminating where she’d find it. Not unless he was trying to provoke a reaction. ‘So: nothing under the bed, nothing in the desk drawers, or under the socks and pants.’ Logan did a slow three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, with his eyes half-squinted shut.
Where would a rich, spoiled, manipulative little sod keep things he didn’t want anyone to find?
Sim sank down on the edge of the bed. ‘What makes you think he’s hiding something?’
‘Teenagers always are.’ Logan nodded towards the window. ‘Take a look.’
She picked herself up and wandered over, standing on her tiptoes to peer out at the garden. ‘What?’
He joined her, pointing at the black plastic guttering a couple of feet down. Little white twists of paper lay amongst the shrivelled leaves, small cylinders of grey cigarette filters poking out. ‘See that?’
A crease appeared between her narrowed eyes. ‘So he smokes roll-ups. That’s not—’
‘Every single one of his friends said he was stoned off his face the whole time. And if he’s up here smoking weed, then he’s got a stash.’
‘Are you sure, Guv?’ She did a bit more peering. ‘Why would he put filters in his joints? What kind of person does that? I mean, I know he was American, but still …’
‘So, where did he hide it?’
‘Hmm …’ Sim stepped back from the window. Then crossed to the shelves, fingers walking along the spines of the DVD cases, head tilted to one side – presumably so she could read the titles. And she thought Am
ericans were weird.
Logan pulled out his phone, ignored the list of waiting text messages and called Control instead. ‘Did DI Leith get an FLO organized for Anthony Chung’s parents?’
The voice on the other end was nasal and gluey. ‘Hold on …’ She paused for a moment, then a massive sneeze boomed out of the earpiece, followed by some bunged-up sniffing. ‘Sodding hay fever. Sorry, erm … Here we go: PC Munro, she’s down to visit soon as she’s finished with a fatal RTI. You want me to put you through?’
‘Just wanted to make sure it was—’
‘What?’ A scrunching noise, then some muffled voices. ‘Sorry about that. The Super wants to know if you’ve spoken to your visitor yet, only he’s lowering the tone of the place.’
‘I don’t have any visitors: I’m out at Anthony Chung’s house.’
‘You’ve got a visitor in reception.’
‘Well … why didn’t someone say something? I’m not bloody psychic!’
‘We tried calling you about a dozen times.’
Brilliant. ‘I’ve been delivering the death message to Anthony Chung’s parents.’ Oh God … What if it was Wee Hamish’s lawyer, back for another round of How Screwed Are You? Logan licked his lips. ‘Who is it?’
More scrunching and muffling. Then, ‘Seriously? That’s his name? OK …’ And she was back full-volume. ‘Someone called “Dildo”? From Trading Standards?’
Logan let his breath out in a long slow sigh. Whatever Dildo wanted, it could wait.
‘DI McRae?’
‘Tell him I’ll give him a call when I get back.’
‘But what about—’
He hung up.
PC Sim was grinning at him.
‘What?’
She hooked a thumb over her shoulder at the shelves of DVD cases. ‘He’s got PlayStation games, and he’s got Wii games, but he doesn’t have …?’
‘Is this going somewhere?’
‘He doesn’t have any Xbox games, but look,’ she waved a hand at the stack of electronic equipment in the unit below the flatscreen TV, ‘he’s got an Xbox. Not a new one either, one of the old suitcase jobs.’
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 68