Look at it as penance for breaking into Dr Marks’s office.
‘Or I could be a PI, like in the films? Simon Rennie: Private Investigator …’
‘Simon Rennie: idiot, more like.’ The phone on Logan’s desk trilled. He jabbed the speakerphone button. ‘What?’
‘Don’t you “what” me, McRae.’ Big Gary on reception. ‘Just ’cos you’re a DI now, doesn’t mean I won’t take you over my knee and spank your arse for you.’
Logan scowled at a grinning Rennie. ‘Say something, I dare you.’
‘You’ve got a visitor: one Timothy Mair Esquire from Trading Standards.’
‘What the hell does Dildo want?’
‘I don’t know, and I don’t care.’ A clunk and the line went dead.
Rennie yawned, arms stretched way above his head. ‘Don’t take it personally: Big Gary’s been biting everyone’s head off since he found out someone got his little girl up the stick.’ He sagged back into place. ‘And before you ask: no, it wasn’t me.’
Tim ‘Dildo’ Mair pulled the scabrous council Transit van out onto Broad Street, the gearbox sounding like someone trying to run a set of maracas through the spin cycle. His eyes were narrowed behind a pair of John Lennon glasses, his black goatee beard bristling around a thin-lipped mouth.
Logan hauled on his seatbelt. ‘Seriously? You’re going to sulk at me the whole way?’
Dildo didn’t look at him, kept his eyes on the road. ‘Constable Sim, would you please tell DI McRae that I’m not sulking, I’m trying not to give him another black eye to match the one he’s already got.’
Sitting on the second row of seats, PC Sim pulled a face, then wiped her hand on the van’s wall. ‘It’s all sticky back here …’
‘Look, I’m sorry I missed our appointment yesterday, but I’m having a pretty shitty day, so you can—’
‘Appointments. As in plural.’
The Transit rocked like someone was kicking it as it accelerated past Marischal College.
‘Didn’t think you were this delicate.’
‘Constable Sim, you can tell DI McRae I’m only doing this because his friend Insch promised to give my niece a tour of the set and a part as an extra if I caught who was counterfeiting the Witchfire stuff.’
She sniffed at her hand, then wiped it on the back of Logan’s seat. ‘What do you guys do in here to get it this sticky?’
‘I’m in the middle of a murder enquiry, OK? I’m sorry that’s so bloody inconvenient for everyone, but I’ve got a killer to—’
‘Oh, bite me.’
They rumbled on in silence all the way up past the ugly concrete lump of Aberdeen College, then down the hill towards the massive Mounthooly roundabout.
Little muscles twitched along Dildo’s jaw, making the skin ripple.
Fine. Someone had to be the grown-up. ‘I’m sorry I blew you off yesterday. Can we just—’
‘Let’s get something straight: you’re just here to provide a police presence, because Insch said I had to use you. I’m in charge, get it?’
‘You don’t have to be such—’
‘I did all the legwork. I found out who was selling the stuff. I found out who was making it. And I’m in charge.’
‘Fine, you’re in charge. You’re the big man. All hail, King Dildo the Great, Lord of the Shop Cops.’
Sim scooted forward in her seat, feet making scritchy noises on the sticky floor. ‘Why do they call you Dildo?’
He glanced in the rear-view mirror, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘That’s King Dildo, to you.’
The council Transit van stuttered to a halt in the corner of a car park, facing a row of shops. A bakery, a newsagent’s, a dry cleaner’s, a tropical fish shop, an estate agent’s with a ‘FOR SALE OR LET’ sign in the window, and a bookie’s: J STEWART & SON – BOOKMAKERS EST. 1974. Heavy metal grilles covered the windows, empty crisp packets and bits of old newspaper were trapped in the gaps.
Up above, the sky was like dark-grey ink dripped onto wet paper, slivers of blue shining between the towering clouds.
Logan undid his seatbelt. ‘Ma Stewart. Again? Does the woman never learn?’
Dildo reached back behind the driver’s seat and hauled out a large sports bag. ‘Oh, she’s done herself proud this time …’ He unzipped it, then paused.
Logan’s phone was singing Rennie’s theme tune.
They couldn’t leave him alone for five minutes, could they?
‘What?’
‘Guv? You better get back here: Ding-Dong and Leith just had a stand-up in the CID office. Proper toe-to-toe yelling match.’
‘So? Get Steel to—’
‘She’s going ballistic – and I mean intercontinental. Ding-Dong lamped Leith one, right on the nose.’
So much for DI Bell’s pretentions to the throne. ‘Why?’
‘Leith made that bell-end crack again. They’re both standing there, yelling about how the other’s screwing up the case, then bang – swinging punches, blood, DCs shouting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” … You should’ve been here, it was great.’
Dildo pulled a sword as long as his arm from the sports bag. The blade shone and glittered.
Logan frowned through the windscreen at the row of shops. The estate agent’s looked as if it had died a death a while ago. All the property notices abandoned in the barred window were stained yellow, their colours faded. Dead flies and wasps made a little line of bodies along the inside of the sills. Bars on the windows. A graffiti-covered shutter over the door. No way in or out …
‘Guv? You still there?’
How did Agnes and Anthony get into the house?
‘Put him on.’
‘What, Ding-Dong? Can’t – Steel’s got him in with Professional Standards for a reaming, he’ll—’
‘No: Leith.’
‘Hold on, I’ll see if he’s done with the Duty Doc …’ Rustling and crunching noises came from the earpiece.
Dildo pulled a dittay book from the bag and handed it to Sim, then went back in for what looked like a gold torque – the twisted metal band finished with ivory skulls in the end pieces. Then some T-shirts, a couple of baseball caps with the same ‘WITCHFIRE’ logo as the one Agnes Garfield wore to take out Anthony Chung’s money, a roll of posters, and what looked like a leather warrant card case. ‘Good, aren’t they?’
Sim’s eyes went wide. ‘Ooh, a finder’s badge …’ She flipped open the leather case, and smiled at the shiny badge inside. ‘It’s just like the book.’ Then caught Logan staring at her and cleared her throat. ‘You know, if I was interested in that kind of thing … Which I’m not. Obviously.’
‘Thought you didn’t like Witchfire.’
‘Well … I never said that, exactly …’
Dildo went back into the sports bag and came out with a dagger. He slipped the knife out of its black sheath. The blade was as long as his hand, sharpened on both sides, and carved with squiggles and lines, topped off with a dull metal T-shaped guard, a handle wrapped in red leather, and a hexagonal pommel. The whole thing looked hard, functional.
Sim put the Finder’s badge on the seat beside her and held out her hand, mouth hanging open. ‘Jeepers …’
Dildo passed it across. ‘According to Insch, they’re all perfect replicas of the film’s props, right down to the tiniest detail. Look at the end of the handle bit.’
She turned the dagger around and peered at the hexagonal pommel. ‘A real-life pricking knife … It’s got the witch-finders’ crest on it, all mirror image so it’s the right way round when you use it to make a wax seal for death warrants.’ A grin plumped her cheeks. ‘This is so cool!’
More rustling from the earpiece, then Rennie was back, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘Found him. But do me a favour – he’s in a crappy mood already, don’t set him off, OK?’
‘Just put him on.’
A crackle, then Leith was on the line, voice all nasal and jagg
ed. ‘This better be important.’
‘If it’s any consolation, at least you saw it coming. I just opened my front door one morning, and bang.’ The brotherhood of getting punched in the face. ‘Your deposition site in Kintore, how did Agnes and Anthony get in?’
‘Did you call up just to take the piss, because if you did, you can—’
‘It’s not my fault Ding-Dong lamped you one. The first attending officer said the place was locked, he had to get keys from the estate agent’s. Agnes and Anthony didn’t break in, so they had to have a key.’
‘Rennie – give me the list.’ Pause. ‘I got the boy to chase up everyone who’s seen the property since it went on the market fifteen months ago. Plus details of the owners’ relatives, and friends. We’re working our way through them now. That all right with you?’
‘I wasn’t trying to tell you how to do your job, I was just—’
‘That’s exactly what you’re trying to do. Now why don’t you sod off and let me do it?’
‘Come on, Leith, it’s—’
‘I was a DI long before you, McRae, and I’ll be one long after you’ve gone back to the Wee Hoose with the rest of the detective sergeants. Remember that.’ And then he hung up.
Logan held the phone in front of his face. ‘Not surprised Ding-Dong punched you on the nose, you miserable git.’
Sim swished the dagger through the air, pommel forward, the blade resting back along her arm. Knife-fighter style. ‘The balance is great. Does it have the thing?’
Dildo shrugged. ‘No idea.’
She took hold of the pommel and unscrewed it. Underneath was a tiny V-shaped blade, half as long as her pinkie was wide. Her grin got even wider. ‘It does!’ She held it up for Logan. ‘They use this end to find the Devil’s mark. Any deeper and you risk puncturing something … What?’
A small V-shaped blade, no more than half a centimetre long, set on a round metal guard. Exactly like the illustration on Anthony Chung’s post-mortem report.
At least now they knew what Agnes had used to torture her ex-boyfriend.
Dildo took the dagger back, slid it into its sheath, screwed the pommel into place again, then dumped the whole thing in the sports bag, followed by everything else. ‘Right. Remember, I’m in charge. You pair just stand there and look menacing while I confiscate stuff.’
38
One wall was a solid bank of TV screens. Most of them were dark, just a handful playing various matches and races from the other side of the globe, so a pair of auld mannies could perch on red-vinyl stools and stare at them through milk-bottle-bottom glasses. Swigging from tins of Special Brew at twenty to nine on a Wednesday morning.
Ma Stewart sat behind the counter, one plump cheek propped up on her hand, pulling her face out of shape as she leafed through something glossy with telephoto snaps of celebrities in their bikinis. Big red circles drawn around their thighs and tummies so the reader could indulge in a bit of cellulite schadenfreude. Not that Ma had anything to gloat about, she was like an overstuffed sofa in a violent orange-and-gold silk blouse, unbuttoned to expose a vast crevasse of pale quivering cleavage bedecked with gold chains and little sparkly things. She’d swept her wiry grey hair up into a bun that wobbled on top of her head every time she sighed and turned a page.
Dildo marched over, the sports bag slung over one shoulder, and knocked on the countertop. ‘Shop.’
Ma looked up from ‘CELLULITE BIKINI BODIES SHOCKER!’ and a huge smile spread across her huge face. ‘Mr Mair, how nice to see you again. Would you …’ Her eyes drifted across to Logan, then her scarlet lips parted in a wet O, like a bullet hole. ‘Sergeant McRae, we haven’t seen you in ages! Oh, what happened to your poor face?’ She closed her magazine, then reached across the counter and pinched his cheek. ‘You’re skin and bone! That’ll never do.’
The cover had a photo of Nichole Fyfe on it, posing in her witch-finder’s costume. ‘NICHOLE’S TROUBLED PAST: “ACTING SAVED ME FROM A LIFE OF CRIME”’ in lurid Helvetica.
Dildo hefted the sports bag up onto the counter. ‘We need to talk.’
But Ma wasn’t looking at him. She turned towards the back of the shop and took a deep breath. ‘Janice! Janice, put the kettle on: the police are here. And see if we’ve got any rowies left, poor Sergeant McRae’s wasting away.’
The replica sword glittered in the overhead strip-lights. ‘You recognize this?’ Dildo clunked it next to the sports bag, then went back in and came out with a dittay book. ‘How about this?’
A little old man shuffled out of the door behind the counter, hands dug deep into the pockets of a shapeless cardigan. He’d wedged a Witchfire baseball cap onto his head, far enough down to make the tops of his ears stick out at right angles. He blew his nose on a tatty grey hanky. ‘Dougie says we’re running out of blanks.’
Ma patted him on one sloping shoulder. ‘I’ll chase the suppliers up. Everything else all right?’
‘We’re doing Peggy’s birthday cake in a minute – her daughter’s picking her up at quarter past for a day’s shopping in Dundee. Takes all sorts.’ He folded up the hanky and stuck it back in his pocket. ‘You want to come sing?’
A big smile. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Just let me see to these nice police officers, and I’ll be right through.’ Then she mouthed, ‘Police!’ at him.
He just stared at her.
Dildo plonked the pricking dagger, witch-finder’s badge, T-shirts and caps down in front of Ma. ‘Care to explain these?’
Her thick fingers drummed on the counter, gold and diamond rings shining. ‘These …? Sorry, I really have no idea what you’re talking about. Now, how about a nice cup of tea?’
‘How many times do we have to have the talk, Ma? You can’t counterfeit other people’s merchandise.’
‘How about a slice of birthday cake? It’s a Victoria sponge, Janice makes the best—’
‘I’ve got a warrant.’
Her face sagged around a scarlet pout. ‘But I’ve not done anything wrong …’
The last wobbling strains of ‘Happy Birthday to You’ faded away, then Peggy leaned forward and huffed out the candles in three wheezing breaths. A cheer went up from the assembled dozen-or-so OAPs and she sat back beaming her dentures at them, rubbing knobble-knuckled hands as Ma Stewart cut the cake.
Radio 2 burbled out into the large room. The ceiling was a patchwork of stained grey tiles, the breezeblock walls painted white and covered with posters of kittens and ‘YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE MAD TO WORK HERE’, the floor with beige carpet tiles patched with duct tape …
Metal modular shelving ran around the outside of the room, between the posters, spider plants trailing their pale-green tendrils down from between cardboard boxes of dittay books and baseball caps. Benches and tables filled the middle of the room, some with sewing machines, others with glue and glitter, another handful with assorted tools, bales of fabric, sheets of leather, cutting tools … A proper little cottage counterfeiting industry.
The wee man in the baggy cardigan handed out china plates with slices of birthday cake on them. A blue-rinsed woman – hunched over like a quaver – followed him with cups of tea.
Logan took one of each and settled back against a workbench festooned with blank notebooks. A pile of red leather covers lay next to them – each one tooled with the dittay book’s swirls and patterns. He took a bite, and a sip of tea. Good cake. Nice and moist.
Ma swept her hands up, until she stood there like an over-inflated letter T. ‘See, how can this possibly be wrong?’
Dildo picked up a witch-finder badge, the enamel only half done. ‘Because it’s illegal.’
‘I’m providing a service to the community. These poor dears need something to keep them busy, don’t you, Dougie?’
A man in a tank-top, shirt, and tie nodded, making his comb-over bang up and down like a trapdoor. ‘Better than listening to some wee tosspot singing ye olde wartime songs at us. I’m seventy-fiv
e, not ninety – I saw the Rolling Stones live about a dozen times. And the Sex Pistols. “Knees up Mother Brown” my sharny arse.’
Peggy put an arthritis-twisted hand to her chest and rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, Mr Galloway, such language!’
He grinned. ‘Ah, you love it when I talk dirty.’
Ma’s chest swelled up, as if she was about to explode. ‘You see? They get out and about, we have nice lunches, tea and biscuits, they get to make new friends, gossip, maybe a little romance …?’
A blush spread across Peggy’s lined cheeks. ‘One knee-trembler after the pub shuts and they never let you forget it.’
‘And you know what the state pension’s worth these days, don’t you? Nowhere near enough to keep body and soul together. I provide my ladies and gentlemen with a nice little income and a lovely place to work.’
Dildo sighed. ‘That’s not the point. It’s still—’
‘And who’s it hurting? The film people aren’t making anything themselves, are they? So it can’t be illegal. Stands to reason. You can’t counterfeit something that doesn’t exist yet.’
‘Ma, you have to stop doing this.’
‘They like getting together and making things. And they do such a good job too, have you seen the quality?’
‘It – doesn’t – matter!’
Logan plucked a pricking knife from a box. They’d fixed the guard in place, but the pommel was missing and the hilt wasn’t wrapped in leather yet, the words ‘MADE IN ABERDEENSHIRE’ stamped into the metal. Eight-inch blade at one end, tiny half-centimetre blade at the other. ‘How many of these have you made?’
She smiled. ‘Lovely, aren’t they? There’s a wee engineering works I know that produces the most wonderful metalwork. Between you and me: the manager picks his nose, but you have to overlook that kind of thing in an artiste.’
‘How many?’
‘Oh, we’ve got about three hundred in the store, don’t we, Charles?’
The man in the saggy cardigan shrugged. ‘Can’t make any more till we get those blanks in.’
Three hundred. So much for tracking down the murder weapon.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 74