Ahead of the Game

by JD Kirk

  All three of the other detectives blinked in perfect unison.

  “You… You got in?” Hamza asked. “How did you get in?”

  “There’s ten thousand combinations,” Sinead said again. “How did you figure it out?”

  Ben tapped the side of his head. “Mind like a steel bloody trap, that’s how,” he said. “I just put myself into the victim’s shoes. Got under his skin. Thought like he thought.”

  “What was the number?” Logan asked.

  “His date of birth,” said Ben. “Second thing I tried.”

  “What was the first?” asked Hamza.

  “One, two, three, four.”

  Logan snorted and shook his head. “The master bloody hacker at work, eh? We’ll be losing you to the Pentagon yet.” He gestured to the phone. “Get anything off it?”

  “Not yet. Just unlocked it a minute ago. Thought I’d leave some of the excitement for someone else. You know, with my bad ticker and everything. Wouldn’t want to overdo it.”

  “Alright, point made, Benjamin. Point made,” Logan conceded. “That was some good work.”

  “Oh, I know,” Ben said, tucking his thumbs into a pair of imaginary braces. “Network report is on the printer, too. Haven’t had a chance to look at that, either.”

  “I’ll get on that,” Sinead said, dumping her jacket on the back of her chair.

  “And I’ll go over the phone, if you want?” Hamza suggested. “See what we can get off it?”

  Logan nodded. “Right. Good. And I suppose I should—”

  “Phone Mitchell?” Ben prompted.

  “That is on the list. That’s definitely on the to-do list,” Logan said.

  “What’s before it?” Ben asked.

  “Oh, you know…” Logan began. His lips moved in silent calculation as he tried to come up with a solid excuse for not calling the Detective Superintendent right that instant. “Well, I mean, the case for one thing! We’re about to blow it wide open, thanks to this stroke of genius from yourself. I want to give that my focus and—”

  “She told you not to bring me down here, didn’t she?”

  Sinead looked up from where she was retrieving the bundle of paper from the printer. Hamza paused in his tip-tapping on the mobile’s screen.

  “What makes you say that?” Logan asked with a sort of practised indifference that had exactly the opposite effect to the one he was hoping for.

  “Call it polis instinct,” Ben said.

  “First time for everything, I suppose,” Logan replied, deflecting for all he was worth. “I’ll give her a call soon. Find out what she’s after. It’s probably just about the press. She’ll be wanting me to make a statement or some shite.”

  Ben sucked in his bottom lip, spat it back out again, then nodded. “Aye. I’m sure it’ll be something like that, right enough,” he said, then the Incident Room door flying open brought the conversation to a merciful end.

  They knew something was wrong the moment Tyler entered. He looked agitated, his movements sharp and erratic, his eyes darting at shadows.

  “What’s the matter, son?” Logan asked. “Another dog after you?”

  DC Neish tried too hard to laugh it off, which only made him appear borderline hysterical. “Haha. What? Nah, boss. Nah, nothing like that!”

  Once again, everyone stopped what they were doing. Tyler squirmed as their stares turned on him, one by one.

  “What is it then?” Logan asked.

  Tyler laughed again. This one was a high-pitched squeak, like a fork scraping on a plate. “It’s nothing! Nothing. It’s…” He flicked his tongue across his dry lips and swallowed. “It’s just… The school.”

  “God Almighty. As bad as that, was it?” Ben asked. “Wish we’d gone in to watch now.”

  Logan was still scrutinising the DC. Something was definitely up. Something bigger than he was letting on.

  “What about the school?” he asked. “What happened?”

  Tyler wasn’t laughing now. He shot a glance around at the other detectives, lingered on Sinead for a moment, then nodded over at the window. “I, eh, I think you should maybe a look for yourself, boss.”

  Logan turned, strands of heavy dread weaving together in his stomach as he approached the window. He widened a gap in the blinds with two fingers and looked out at the waste ground across the road from the station, where the foundation of the new hospital was now in place.

  “What am I looking at?” he asked.

  Tyler swallowed again, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “Down a bit.”

  Logan leaned closer to the window. There was a crackle as he widened the blinds further, giving himself a clearer view of the station car park.

  “Tyler,” he began, still staring.

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Why are there several hundred teenagers standing outside the station?”

  Everyone but Tyler joined the DCI at the window.

  “Jesus,” Sinead muttered. “They don’t look happy.”

  “Aye, see, that’s the thing,” Tyler babbled. “You know how I was going into the school to help set their minds at ease?”

  “That was the general idea, aye,” Logan replied as, down in the car park, the teenagers began to chant their demands for justice.

  Tyler tried to smile, but the best he could do was grimace. “Aye, well, I don’t think it quite went according to plan.”

  The press was there. Of course, they were. Logan had seen them gathered out front when he’d driven up to the station, but he’d quickly diverted around the back of the building and used the rear entrance, so he didn’t have to talk to the bastards.

  He had no choice but to talk to them now, though. And, to be honest, he actually rather enjoyed it.

  “Fuck off,” he told them, ignoring their questions as he barged through them like a bowling ball through… No, not skittles. What had skittles ever done to anyone?

  Like a bowling ball through shit.

  It wasn’t as satisfying as it could have been, as it was only a small breakaway pack standing outside the station door. The rest of them had scuttled gleefully over to where the Lochaber High School pupils had assembled and were snapping photos and barking questions while three or four hundred teenagers chanted, “Justice for Fergus!” over and over again.

  “Alright, alright, that’s enough!” Logan bellowed. A few of the closest kids flinched at the sight of him and became notably less enthusiastic on the chanting front, but most of the mass ignored him.

  A TV camera was swung his way. Several flashes went off. His field of view was suddenly filled with microphones, and iPhones, and a tape recorder that even he knew was a bloody antique. He recognised the guy wielding that. Scottish Daily Mail. Absolute rodent of a man whose values were even more outdated than his technology.

  “How do you respond to these young people?”

  “What do you have to say to them?”

  “They believe the police are letting the victim down. How do you respond?”

  The presence of the TV camera made Logan reconsider the outburst that sat on the tip of his tongue. He took a modicum of pleasure from ignoring them completely, but it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as swearing at them would have been. He’d have enjoyed swearing at them. Being sworn at was about all the bastards were good for.

  He tried shouting at the teenagers again, but those at the back didn’t hear him, which gave those in the front enough confidence to go ahead and ignore every word he said.

  He’d have to try another approach.

  “Whose car is this?” he barked at the journos, the cigarette packets and junk food wrappers abandoned on the dash telling him it belonged to one of them.

  To his joy, it was the relic from the Scottish Daily Mail who answered. “That’s mine, why?”

  Logan clambered onto the bonnet, then up onto the roof.

  “Here! Wait! What are you bloody doing?! You’ll dent it!”

  “Aye. But think of the picture,” Logan said.<
br />
  The stunt worked instantly. The sight of a six-and-a-half-feet tall man scrabbling up onto the top of a journalist’s shitty car, brought a level of hesitation and uncertainty to the chanting. All eyes were suddenly on him, and when he cupped his hands around his mouth and roared at them to, “Shut the fuck up!” then shut the fuck up they did.

  “Thank you. About bloody time,” Logan boomed with such ferocity that the whole crowd took a step back. “Let me start by saying how heartening it is to see so many young people getting engaged in the legal process. And then, let me finish by saying cut your shite, and go back to your bloody classrooms. Now.”

  “Not until you find out who killed Fergus!” an older boy down the front yelled. His fists were clenched and his eyes were bloodshot. Clearly, he was taking the teacher’s death hard.

  “We’re going to,” Logan replied, still shouting for the benefit of the crowd. He could see a few teachers hurrying along the road from the school, as passing cars slowed to see what all the fuss was about. “At least, we’re trying to. We were just working on a breakthrough now, in fact, when I had to step away to deal with you lot. So, you might think you’re helping, but you’re not. We’re not sitting on our arses up there, twiddling our thumbs. We’re working hard to find a killer. And we’re getting closer. We are. But this…?”

  He made a sweeping motion with both arms, gesturing to the crowd as a whole. A few cameras flashed, capturing him in this striking moment of drama. He hoped there’d be something Christ-like about him, standing there addressing the crowd, but suspected he’d just turn out looking like a fat lad on the roof of a car.

  “This is just slowing us down. You lot standing out here shouting the odds, you’re making it less likely we’ll find who was responsible, not more. You’re helping Fergus’s killer. Is that what you want?”

  Nobody made a sound. Logan singled out the lad who’d challenged him.

  “You. Is that what you want? To help Fergus’s killer?”

  The boy wrestled with his answer, trying to find some way out of the trap. There was no escape from it, though. There was only one answer he could possibly give.

  “No, but—”

  “Right. Good. Glad we’re in agreement,” Logan barked, cutting him off. “So, if you want to help us do our jobs—if you really want justice for Fergus, here’s what you have to do.” He pointed to the school. “Piss off, the lot of you. Get back to your work, and let us get on with ours.”

  The silence had become something wavering and uncertain now. The tightly-packed throng of pupils started to fan out a little at the edges, like storm clouds drifting apart.

  Logan rocked back on his heels, and enjoyed the thu-thunk the car roof made beneath his feet as the metal buckled and then popped back into place.

  It was the arrival of the teachers that messed everything up. They came barrelling in at the back of the crowd, all raised voices and angry glares. They identified the troublemakers right away, and started cutting their way through the crowd towards them, as if guided by some laser targeting system.

  The troublemakers knew what this meant, and instinctively understood that it was in their best interests to keep the protest going for as long as possible. Sure, they’d have to face their punishment eventually, but ‘eventually’ was a more appealing option than ‘right now.’

  They began to chant again and, with a bit of nudging and goading, encouraged the others around them to join in.

  “Justice for Fergus! Justice for Fergus! Justice for Fergus!”

  “Cut it out!” Logan bellowed, but it was too late. The whole crowd was united in one voice now, and he’d lost the element of surprise that he’d gained from climbing on top of the car.

  Maybe if he jumped on it a few times, it would trigger an alarm? That might shut them up.

  Be fun, too, to watch the Daily Mail man’s face.

  It was Sinead who stopped him. He didn’t realise she was there beside the car until she gave him a tug on the trouser leg to get his attention. She said something, but the racket from the teenagers completely drowned it out.

  “Hang on, hang on,” Logan said, stepping down onto the bonnet, then jumping the last couple of feet to the ground.

  “You’d better not have bloody dented that, or you’ll be paying for it,” the journalist warned him, running a hand across the scuffed paintwork at the front of the car.

  Logan held a finger up, indicating that Sinead should wait, then he bent down beside the car, and stood up with a satisfied smirk on his face.

  “Your tyre tread’s looking awfully low. That’s two-and-a-half grand and three points on your licence. Per tyre,” he said. “Do you want to continue this conversation, or will we both just agree that you should button your fucking cakehole right now?”

  He knew what the answer would be, so didn’t bother waiting to hear it. Instead, he turned to Sinead, his eyebrows already rising.

  “What’s up?”

  Sinead leaned in and spoke urgently in his ear, loud enough for him to hear, but low enough that the journalists didn’t stand a chance.

  “Something’s come up with the victim’s phone, sir,” she told him.

  “What is it?”

  Sinead glanced at the crowd of school kids, then at the reporters trying desperately to earwig in on their conversation.

  “I think you’d maybe better see it for yourself.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Olivia stood alone at the back of the school building, away from prying eyes. Paulo, one of the Second Year kids, was meant to have met her there right after the breaktime bell, but the little shit was nowhere to be seen.

  She didn’t like doing business on school grounds. It was too risky. But Paulo got a lift to and from school every day without fail, and so she had no choice but to make their exchanges on the premises.

  He was usually on time. He was usually early, in fact. Generally, he’d be there waiting for her when she arrived, standing stock-still in an attempt to look inconspicuous, which actually had the opposite effect.

  Today, though, he hadn’t been waiting. Today, he was late.

  “He’d better have a good reason,” she muttered, but the sound of her own voice in the silence behind the school made her feel strangely uneasy, and she said nothing more.

  She’d left the house early, not sticking around to eat breakfast. Not on her own. With time to spare, she’d walked to school, but had found herself checking over her shoulder every minute or so, eyes scanning the streets and alleyways for any sign of movement. Of danger.

  Of him.

  It scared her how carefree she’d been in recent weeks. How confident that she was in control. How sure of herself she had been as she’d walked those same streets, sat alone in her house, strolled freely around town.

  He could have been watching. He could have been anywhere.

  She’d picked up the pace and ran the rest of the way to school, not stopping until she was safely inside, surrounded by the smattering of other students who arrived stupidly early for whatever reason.

  She had felt safer then. Not safe. Not by a long-shot. But safer. There was a strength in numbers. Protection in the anonymity of a crowd.

  But now, she was alone. Isolated from her fellow pupils, the teachers, and the other school staff.

  She was tucked out of sight around the back of the building, waiting for a boy who should’ve been there ten minutes ago.

  Something was wrong, she could sense it. An ulcer of dread had formed in her stomach, spreading and growing, and consuming her from within.

  She held her breath—ten seconds, twenty—listening for the scuff of a footstep, or the click of a gun, or the whisper of a warning on the wind: I’m back, malyshka. I’m back for you.

  Suddenly, she didn’t want to be there. Some alarm bell rang in her head, kicking her legs into action. She set off quickly, hoisting her bag onto her shoulder, her skin crawling across the nape of her neck.

  She wanted to be with people.
Surrounded by them. Lost in amongst them. The canteen. A classroom. The cloakrooms, even. Anywhere but here, with her heart thumping, her head spinning, and her senses screaming at her that he was watching her. That he was near.

  Olivia turned the corner, and almost bumped into him. Her hand came up instinctively, scratching at his face, dragging her nails through his flesh, drawing three bloody lines down his cheek.

  He screamed. She blinked. Shook her head. Looked more closely.

  Paulo clutched his bleeding face, staring at her through a gap in his fingers, his gaze a mix of confusion, and horror, and fear.

  “Shit, shit, ow, ow, fucking ow!” he grimaced, dancing on the spot. “What the fuck? What did you do that for?”

  Olivia shot a look back over her shoulder. No one there.

  Of course, there wasn’t.

  She let out the breath she’d been holding, pushed back her shoulders and pulled on a scowl. “You’re late,” she told the boy with the blood on his face. “I don’t like it when people keep me waiting.”

  Logan sat at his desk with a dozen sheets of ever so slightly warm A4 paper spread out around him. Entries on the phone records had been marked in four different colours of highlighter—something Ben had insisted was impossible to do on a computer, despite having been shown how on three separate occasions now.

  The other printouts were screenshots of text messages, blown up by the printer so the edges of the text were slightly fuzzy. It made them look a little sordid, Logan thought, like knock-off DVDs shot on a phone camera in a crowded cinema, and punted three for a tenner doon the Barras.

  He’d only been looking over it all for a couple of minutes, but already a narrative was emerging.

  It was moments like these that made all the many frustrations of polis work feel almost worthwhile. That piece of the puzzle that made you think aye, maybe you could solve this. Maybe a killer wouldn’t go unpunished, and a victim unavenged.

  It wasn’t the full jigsaw—not even close—but it was an important piece. A corner. A bit of flat edge. A basis on which to build.

  Lana Lennon’s story held up for the most part. The text messages between them confirmed they’d been seeing each other. Logan could even follow the timeline, see the points when their relationship stopped being solely about clandestine sex and became something else. Something deeper.