Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘You know what teenaged girls are like.’

  ‘Think you’re going to find her?’

  Logan crossed his arms behind his head and frowned at the ceiling. ‘Depends how things go tonight.’

  Jackie stood, letting the towel fall away as she squatted on the floor and dug about in an overnight bag, coming out with a hairdryer. Plugged it in. ‘I need to phone Bill later. See how he got on at the Home Office.’ The hairdryer whooshed and howled.

  ‘Chances are she’s not going back to the soup kitchen again, not if the place is swarming with CID … But maybe we’ll turn up someone who’s seen her? Someone who knows where she is?’

  Jackie raised her voice, over the noise. ‘They’re interviewing him for a new position: liaising on terrorism suspects.’

  ‘I mean, it’s not like she’s just going to waltz into a police station and hand herself in, is it?’

  ‘He wants us to move to London … Only just got Rory settled in primary, how’s he going to feel getting uprooted from all his friends and dumped in some school full of Cockneys and Essex boys? Bloody stupid idea, but then that’s Bill all over.’

  ‘And the whole thing’s a mess too – Steel’s running about like an angry crocodile, Ding-Dong and Leith are at each other’s throats, and you lot are up here telling us we can’t do our sodding jobs.’

  The hairdryer fell silent. Jackie stared at him. ‘You’ve not been listening to a word I’ve said, have you?’

  ‘Bill’s getting a new job; you don’t want to move to London. See?’

  ‘And we’re not saying you can’t do your jobs, we’re saying there are other avenues of investigation you could be following. No one’s even looked into local Wicca groups. And what about the metal stake she used to necklace Roy Forman? She had to get that from somewhere. Then there’s the soup-kitchen angle—’

  ‘I know – I came up with it. Assuming Rennie and Ding-Dong don’t screw everything up …’

  The hairdryer started up again. ‘Thought you’d be over this obsessing about work thing by now.’

  ‘Agnes Garfield is a card-carrying danger to herself and others. The longer she’s out there, the more people she hurts playing Witch-Finder General. It matters.’

  A sigh. ‘Fine, go. Leave me here in your fusty caravan. But I’m warning you right now: I’m drinking the rest of the wine. And I have to be up at half six tomorrow, so if you think you’re in for seconds you’d better get your arse back here before midnight. Understand?’

  Logan picked his way through the drizzle, down the long stairs from Union Street to the Green. At the bottom of the first flight a man was huddled in the boarded-up doorway of the sports shop hunched over a sticker-covered guitar, knocking out a reasonable rendition of some country and western tune. The damp woolly hat open in front of him held a couple of coppers and a few fifty-pence pieces. Logan dropped in a couple of pounds and kept on going. Down. And down. And down.

  The Green was a lopsided rectangle, buried away in the foundations of the city, lined with tall granite buildings, their grey faces darkened by moisture, lights making glowing orbs in the misty drizzle. Some sort of birthday party was underway in the open-air eating area outside Café 52, everyone huddled under a big green patio umbrella as they belted out ‘Happy Birthday to You’, a cake topped with dozens of candles blazing away.

  Logan kept going, across the slippery cobblestones, towards the back end of Aberdeen Market – a semicircular lump of seventies concrete, its windows dark, everyone shut up for the night. Down one side, Correction Wynd cut straight under Union Street, a handful of restaurants glowing in the shadow of St Nicholas Kirk. But right ahead, the road disappeared into the gloom.

  Seagulls screamed abuse from the slate rooftops far above as he followed East Green into the bowels of the city and out of the rain.

  A row of neon squiggles glowed around the entrance to Blofeld’s Secret Underground Lair, casting multicoloured light on a big bald bloke in a white shirt and bow tie, standing all on his own. Looking for someone to bounce as dance music thunked out of the door behind him.

  At the end of the road, where it hooked around before climbing back up onto Nether Kirkgate, a mobile catering unit was parked up on the narrow kerb. The thing was a rectangular white trailer with a fold-down flap on the front beneath a sign: ‘LOLA & RUDY’S Tasty TREATS’. Steam curled from the open hatch, and a handful of figures formed an orderly queue in front of it. About a dozen others were gathered in small groups, eating and talking over the growl of a diesel generator. At least three of them were nightshift CID, blending in like lumps of coal in a bowl of porridge.

  They weren’t the only ones: a brick outhouse with a crew cut, dressed in black jeans and a red T-shirt, stood guard a hundred yards from the catering unit: Mr Muscle from the hotel. The one who spoke like he was giving evidence. Another heavy stood at the far end, hands folded in front of his groin, narrow eyes constantly moving back and forth.

  No way Agnes Garfield would come anywhere near the place with that kind of security hanging around.

  Logan took two steps towards them, then stopped.

  Someone was moving in the shadows, halfway between the nightclub and the soup kitchen, lurking in one of the barrel arches that lined the road. Too dim to make out who … Logan wandered across the road, nice and casual, hands in his pockets, keeping the figure in the corner of his eye. Then turned and walked slowly and quietly up behind them.

  Whoever it was, they were layered up in a padded parka jacket with a hoodie on underneath, tracksuit bottoms. A woolly hat pulled down over their ears. Then they shuffled to the side and the lights spilling out from the nightclub caught the once-white case of a plaster cast – left leg, from the knee all the way down. His foot was encased in a shapeless black leather boot to keep the cast out of the dirt and damp.

  So it wasn’t Agnes in disguise, it was Henry Scott, AKA: Scotty Scabs, from the Gilcomston Church steps. The only tramp Rennie needed to complete his set.

  Logan stopped creeping. ‘You avoiding someone, Henry?’

  The wee man flinched, spun around, then backed away until he was hard up against the brick wall. ‘He’s deid …’

  ‘Did you see her again: Agnes Garfield? The woman who took Roy Forman?’

  Henry blinked at him, eyes gleaming in the darkness. ‘She killed him. He’s deid.’

  OK. So much for that. ‘Are you hungry? Why don’t you go get yourself a nice bowl of soup or something?’

  ‘What if the witch gets me? I don’t want to be deid …’

  ‘She’s not really a witch, Henry, she’s just lost and sick and can’t tell what’s real any more.’

  The rubber tips of Henry’s crutches squeaked on the cobblestones. A little sob caught in his throat. ‘She killed him …’

  ‘You want me to go get you something to eat? Would you like that, Henry?’

  ‘If she catches me, she’ll kill me too …’

  Logan came within an inch of patting him on the shoulder, but Henry flinched away again. ‘OK, it’s OK … You stay here and keep an eye out, and I’ll go get you some soup.’

  Poor sod needed more than soup. Like somewhere safe to sleep, medication, therapy, and a bath.

  Logan made for the mobile catering unit, joining the queue. Only five people to go and it’d be his turn.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Guv?’ Rennie, wearing his leather jacket and a scarlet T-shirt, a paper soup bowl in one hand and a plastic spork in the other. ‘Thought you were going home?’

  A shrug. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Yeah: the chicken and chorizo casserole is bloody lovely. I’m having thirds.’

  ‘Any luck with Agnes Garfield, you idiot.’

  Rennie scooped up a sporkful of butter beans and chunks of sausage. ‘Nope.’ Then stuffed it in and chewed. ‘Spoken to all of the regulars, and the organizers, and the volunteers, and you’ll never guess what …’ He leaned in close, enve
loping Logan in a waft of herbs and spices. ‘See that tall thin bloke over there,’ he pointed to a figure doling out hot drinks from a catering-sized thermos, ‘the one who looks like he’s two sizes too small for his skin? That’s DI Insch! Can you believe it?’

  ‘If you’re looking for a pat on the head, you’re too late: I know.’ Logan had another peer around. ‘Where’s Chalmers?’

  ‘Pffffff …’ The last of the stew disappeared, then Rennie licked his piece of plastic cutlery clean. ‘Sloped off, didn’t she. Want to bet she puts in for a whole night’s overtime anyway? Can’t trust people like—’

  ‘If you spoke to all the regulars, you’ll know where Henry Scott is, won’t you?’

  Rennie’s mouth popped open for a moment, then he closed it again with a clack. ‘Scotty Scabs? He’s here?’

  ‘If you spent more time doing your job and less time stuffing your face, you’d know.’

  ‘Why didn’t you arrest him?’

  Seriously? ‘Because I’m trying to catch a murderer: I couldn’t give a toss about shoplifted bacon and cheese. You want him? Go get him.’

  ‘Ah, right …’ Rennie dumped his paper bowl in the bin fixed to the side of the catering unit, then scurried off, doing a tour of the little groups of people.

  Idiot.

  Three more minutes and Logan was at the head of the line.

  A dark face smiled back at him from the hatch, perfect teeth and a white goatee. ‘What can we do for you, my man?’

  Logan pulled a copy of the ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN’ poster from his pocket and held it out. ‘Have you seen—’

  A deep, rumbling voice sounded at his shoulder. ‘You’re too late: DI Bell’s already been around with the photographs. Do you not trust him, or are you just trying to muscle in on his operation?’ Insch hefted his thermos up onto the counter. ‘We’re out of coffee, Rudy.’

  ‘No problem, boss.’

  Logan shifted his shoulders. ‘I’m not muscling in on anything, I’m just—’

  ‘Everyone knows to keep an eye out for Agnes Garfield. We’re not idiots.’ Insch took the poster from Logan, folded it up, and handed it back. ‘Rudy and Lola do the cast and crew catering. That’s why everyone’s getting free-range chicken and chorizo casserole, penne arrabiata, Cullen skink, and tiramisu, instead of watery vegetable soup and a stale roll. Costing us a bloody fortune, but Zander insists. We’re giving something back to the local community, once a week.’

  ‘And it’s always a Tuesday?’

  ‘Everyone on the film knows to look out for the Garfield woman. I’m not having her anywhere near my people.’

  Which explained the secret-service-style muscle.

  A pale woman appeared in the hatch, wearing far too much eye makeup, her spiky ash-blonde hair sticking up in all directions. ‘What can we get you, my darling?’

  ‘I don’t know … Chicken?’

  ‘Coming right up.’

  Insch scowled at him. ‘I forgot what a bunch of freeloading bastards CID—’

  ‘It’s not for me, it’s for someone too terrified to come over, in case he gets grabbed and killed like Roy Forman.’ Logan pointed at the pair of heavies with the earpieces. ‘Or maybe it’s your rent-a-thugs scaring him away?’

  The scowl didn’t shift. ‘Your bloody colleagues act like they’ve never seen food before. I swear some of them are having seconds. And it’s supposed to be for the homeless!’

  Rudy reappeared with the huge thermos and a stack of polystyrene cups in a plastic sleeve. ‘There you go, boss: hazelnut latte.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Insch took them both, cradling the sleeve against his chest. ‘McRae: walk with me.’

  The spiky-haired woman placed a paper bowl heaped with glistening beans, chunks of amber sausage, and slivers of chicken, on the counter. A spork stuck out of the top, like an antenna. ‘Watch, it’s hot.’

  Heat leached into his hands as he followed DI Insch away down the tunnel, back towards the nightclub. ‘Well?’

  ‘I need you to do something about this counterfeit Witchfire merchandise. I don’t care if it is high quality: I’m not having some thieving git making fake stuff and flogging it. They’re doing replica props from the film, and we haven’t even finished shooting it yet!’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Why aren’t you doing anything about it? I told Mair to liaise with you, because you’re the only one in CID who isn’t going to sod it up. The rest of these idiots couldn’t investigate their own feet for toes.’

  35

  Insch stopped at a knot of three men, all stick-thin and trembling, long sleeves pulled down to their fingertips, hiding the needletracks. He gave each one a polystyrene cup, then filled it with frothy pale coffee. ‘Here you go …’

  Logan stared at him. ‘You do know I’m trying to catch someone who’s killed at least two people, don’t you? Never mind the grave robbing.’

  They moved on to the next group, Insch doling out more hazelnut latte. ‘Do you have any idea how much money I’ve sunk into this thing? Every bloody penny. I don’t need people stealing from me as well! And counterfeiting is theft.’

  Insch kept walking, on towards a couple of women in shapeless grey jogging bottoms and hooded tops, his voice dropped to a rumbling whisper. ‘Now try not to act like a lovesick teenager this time.’

  ‘Why would I—’

  ‘Ladies: I come bearing hazelnut lattes!’

  Both women turned, one holding a black plastic bin-bag in her gloved hands, the other holding a long-handled grabber. She used it to pluck an empty crisp packet from the pavement and dropped it into the open bin-bag. Nichole Fyfe. ‘Ah, David, you’re an absolute lifesaver!’

  The other one dumped the bag at her feet and pulled off her gloves. ‘Lovely.’ She peeled back her hood, exposing a curly mass of scarlet curls, every bit as post-box red as Samantha’s. That would be Morgan Thingummy – the one on the TV Sunday morning making come-to-bed-for-kinky-fun eyes at the camera.

  Insch handed them each a polystyrene cup, grinning away like a proud parent. ‘Slumming it, I’m afraid: we left the bone china back at the studio.’ He pressed the plunger on the thermos and the sticky sweet scent of roasted coffee and hazelnut syrup coiled around them. ‘Logan, this is Morgan Mitchell, she’s our incredibly scary Mrs Shepherd. Morgan, this is DI McRae.’

  She curled her hands around the polystyrene cup, peering at him over the edge. Her accent was pure New York, a lot stronger than the one she’d used on the TV and completely unlike the voice she’d used on film, necklacing the man whose face wasn’t composited properly. ‘Well, well, well …’ A slow, naughty smile. ‘Nichole, you said he was cute, but you didn’t tell me he was a hunk too.’

  It got very hot between Logan’s neck and his collar. ‘Well, it … I …’

  ‘That’s some pair of black eyes you got there. Makes me think of Fight Club, God I loved that film. Very sexy.’ She stuck out her hand for shaking. ‘McRae … You’re the guy who used to be David’s protégé, right?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if I’d—’

  Insch thumped Logan on the back. ‘Of course you were.’ The grin changed into a frown as he hunched forward in front of his stars. ‘Now, are you both OK? Need anything?’

  Nichole smiled at him. ‘We’re fine, honestly.’ Then she slipped her arm through Logan’s. Looking up at him with those pale-blue eyes, the pupils large, dark, and shiny as buttons. ‘So, DI McRae, have you come here to sample Rudy and Lola’s chicken casserole, or …?’

  It was definitely getting warmer out here. ‘We need to find anyone who’s seen Agnes Garfield, or knows where she is.’

  ‘God, Agnes …’ Morgan made choking noises. ‘Don’t get me wrong, lovely girl, but jeesh, she could be intense.’

  Nichole gave his arm a squeeze. ‘It was such a shame, she was so desperate to get into film. It was her life’s ambition.’

  Insch cleared his throat. ‘Yes, well �
�’

  ‘Zander was going to give her a trial as my body double. She was so excited. And then she just …’ Nichole shrugged. The movement rubbed Logan’s arm up, then down the side of her breast.

  ‘She flipped. Wigged out.’ Morgan bugged her eyes. ‘Went totally pill-popping crazy. I came back from makeup one time, and she was in my trailer trying on my underwear. True story. Then she has a complete fit because she says I’m not doing Mrs Shepherd’s lines right and the character has to be more creepy, and I’m like, you’re the creepy one: get out of my bra!’

  Nichole took a sip of coffee. ‘Well, to be fair, she did a lot of good too. We wouldn’t be doing this right now if it wasn’t for her. Giving something back to the community’s really important and she set it all up.’

  Morgan rolled her eyes. ‘Ack, you’re so nice I could stab you.’

  Logan pulled out his poster again. ‘Have you seen her recently? She might have changed her appearance, dyed her hair?’

  Morgan squinted at it. ‘Wow. Is it just me, or does she look like she’s trying to turn herself into Rowan? All she needs is the scar …’

  Nichole looked away, back down the tunnel towards the soup kitchen. ‘She was here last Friday night. Morgan and I like to help out down here when we can – the usual food’s nowhere near as good as tonight’s, but the people making it really care about the homeless. I was on bread-and-butter duty and I …’ A frown painted little creases between her eyebrows. ‘I thought I saw someone watching from the shadows. As if they were afraid to come out into the light.’ She shrugged. ‘So I went over to say hello, see if they needed help. It was Agnes, she … She said some pretty hurtful things, then she ran away. I went after her, tried to make her see it was OK, but she lost me in the St Nicholas Kirk graveyard.’

  Wonderful. ‘Why didn’t you come forward?’

  ‘What good would it have done? I didn’t know where she was, I didn’t know where she was going, how could that help?’

  Morgan took a step closer, gazing up into his eyes. Boxing him in. Her pupils were massive too … That familiar sweet, slightly sweaty, smell of smoke coming off her. ‘I know this is kinda out of left field, but if I asked very nicely, would you arrest me? I could smash something, or, you know, hit someone, but I just want to spend a night in the cells. See what it’s like?’