by JD Kirk
Logan jumped from the Beamer, elbowed his way through the crowd of nosy bastards that had formed beside the queue of traffic, and reached the front in time to see Tyler depositing Clyde Lennon into the back of a police van.
“Boss!” Tyler gasped when he saw Logan barging through the onlookers. His legs gave way beneath him, and Logan caught him with a lunge and a grab.
“You’re alright, son,” the DCI told him.
“Sorry, boss,” Tyler said, forcing his legs to support him again. “Just a bit shaky.”
Logan released his grip, but kept his hands close in case he needed to catch the DC again. “You look like shite. What happened?”
“Am I bleeding?” Tyler asked. He turned, showing himself from every angle. “I feel like I should be bleeding.”
“No. You’re fine. You just… You’re no’ a good colour.”
“Bit racist, boss,” Tyler said, his voice a little slurred. He inhaled slowly through his nose, then shook his head. “It’s not racist. I don’t know why I said that.”
“What the hell happened?” Logan asked. “Did you hit your head or something?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Tyler wondered. “No. I mean, aye. Maybe. It all happened so fast. One minute, I was… Wait. Where did that bastard in the other car go? The one that nearly hit me?”
Logan looked around them. There was a bus stopped a little further back in the Fort William direction, and dozens of cars stopped in both directions behind a couple of polis vehicles, including the one that now held Clyde Lennon.
“Ah, fuck it. I’ll have his plate on my dashcam,” Tyler announced. “We’ll get him. Or her. Might be a her. I didn’t notice. Not sexist that, is it?”
“You’re talking even more shite than usual, son,” Logan pointed out. “What actually happened?”
It was then that Logan noticed the fence of the house beside them. Or the relative lack of fence, at least. What was left of it was spread across quite a considerable area that stretched from the road, down the hillside, and all the way to...
“Your car!” Logan exclaimed. “That’s your car.”
“Where?” Tyler asked, then he shook his head for about the fifth time that minute. “Oh. Down there. Aye. It’s upside down.” He frowned, just a little. “I think. It is, isn’t it? Upside down.”
“What the hell happened?” Logan demanded.
“Same as always bloody happens,” said a sturdy-looking woman in a flat-cap and Wellies. “They come off the big straight too quickly for the bend and lose control. A dozen times it’s happened, easily. And that’s just in the last three years, since we moved in.”
“We’ve been on at the council,” a man beside her said, but Logan managed to tune out the rest of his rant, and turned his attention back to DC Neish.
“How the hell did you walk away from that?” he asked.
“Women’s intuition, boss,” Tyler said, winking and tapping the side of his head.
Logan regarded him in silence for a few seconds, then called over to the closest Uniform. “Call ahead to the hospital, will you? Tell them I’m bringing one in.”
“Will do, sir,” the Uniform confirmed.
“I don’t need the hospital, boss,” Tyler said. “Unless…” He dabbed at his head. “Am I bleeding?”
“No, you aren’t bleeding, son,” Logan told him, taking him by the elbow. “But best get you checked out, eh?”
Tyler puffed out his cheeks, then relented with a nod. “We’ll maybe need to take your car, boss. Mine’s upside down.”
“Aye, we’ll take mine,” Logan said, guiding Tyler through the crowd, and clearing a path with a barked, “Out of the road, you rubbernecking bastards.”
“Go easy on the twisty bits, eh, boss?” Tyler said, as Logan opened the passenger door and poured him inside. “My stomach doesn’t cope well with them.”
“Aye. I’ll take my time,” Logan assured him.
He started to close the door, but Tyler held a hand out and blocked it. “Have you heard from Sinead?”
“Aye. She rang into the office when I was on my way up here. She’s with Lana Lennon. We’ll probably meet them at the hospital.”
“Hospital?” Tyler said, pouncing on the word, the haze that had been clouding his eyes clearing instantly. “Why? Is she hurt?”
“Aye. Badly battered, by the sounds of thing,” Logan confirmed. “Claw hammer. Real mess.”
“What? No!”
Logan realised the misunderstanding when Tyler’s face all but collapsed in on itself.
“Shit. No. Lana Lennon was attacked, I mean,” he said. “Sinead’s fine.”
“Christ! Don’t do that, boss!” Tyler ejected, running both hands through his hair. “Jesus!”
“Sorry, I thought you meant… Sinead’s fine,” Logan assured him. “Arm in.”
Tyler frowned, stared at his extended arm for a few seconds like it belonged to someone else, then set both hands down in his lap, letting Logan close the door.
He didn’t speak again until the DCI was in the car beside him, and they both had their seatbelts on.
“I got him, though, boss. Didn’t I?”
“You did, son. You got him. Good work.”
Tyler smiled shakily. He swallowed, his eyes watering. “Cheers, boss,” he said.
And then, bending forwards, he vomited onto the floor.
Chapter Forty-Two
Hamza regarded his laptop like it had betrayed him in some way.
It had recognised the USB almost immediately, spent a few seconds whirring and grinding as it added it to the list of available drives, then presented him with a pop-up window demanding the security key.
“Bollocks. It’s locked.”
“How do you mean?” asked Ben, peering over the top of his glasses.
“The thumb drive. It’s protected.”
“What… like a password?” Ben asked.
Hamza almost delved into the technical details, then decided it was easier just to nod. “Yeah. Basically a password.”
“Can’t you, you know, hack it? Or whatever it is they do?”
Hamza almost laughed. DI Forde—and Logan, too, to an extent—seemed to be labouring under the illusion that he was some grand master of computer code, when in reality he just knew his way around a couple of different operating systems, understood some basic HTML, and was a certified power user of the Microsoft Office suite. Deciphering an encryption keychain was not really in his skillset.
“Afraid not, sir,” Hamza had to admit. “Now, if it was a spreadsheet, or a OneNote notebook, then I could…” He sat forward sharply. “Wait. Notebook.”
“You want a notebook?” Ben asked. “Stationery cupboard. But go canny, for God’s sake, or Mantits will—”
“No, I don’t mean me. Fergus Forsyth. The notebook Sinead found in his drawer,” Hamza said. “I think I might have just figured out what that code’s for.”
Logan sat in the cramped A&E waiting room at Belford Hospital, the smell of vomit still stuck halfway up his nostrils, and refusing to leave. Tyler sat stiffly upright in the chair beside him, insisting that all this was unnecessary, and regularly reminding the DCI that they had a murder to solve.
“I’m just saying, boss, it’s a waste of time. I’m fine,” Tyler said.
“Aye, well my bloody passenger footwell would beg to differ,” Logan grunted.
“It was the shock, that was all. I’m right as rain now, look.”
He raised both arms from the chair, almost like he was levitating, then dropped them back down again and pulled a face that suggested he’d proved some sort of point.
“See?”
“What was that meant to be showing me?” Logan asked.
“Just that I’m fine. Nothing’s broken. I might have a few bruises in the morning, but… Look. Legs, too.”
He raised one leg, then the other, bending them at the knee, then kicking them out again, much to the consternation of an elderly woman with one
red, weeping eye, who sat directly across from him.
“Sorry,” Tyler told her, setting both feet on the floor.
“He’s been in an accident,” Logan explained. “He’s no’ trying to kick you in the face.”
“Aye, you’d soon know if I was!” Tyler said. He started to laugh, then saw the woman’s look of horror. “Not that I would. Kick you in the face, I mean. That’d be out of order.”
Both detectives watched as the old woman got up, moved four chairs to the left, then sat down again and pretended they weren’t there.
“Jesus, I think maybe you’ve got a bleed on the brain or something,” Logan muttered. “What did you say that for?”
“I don’t really know, boss. Think maybe I’m still amped up on adrenaline, or something,” Tyler said. “But, honestly, I’m fine. We don’t have to stick around here. We should get back to the office.”
Logan leaned his head back against the wall behind him, and fixed his gaze dead ahead, to where posters promoting various mental health and stopping smoking helplines filled the wall.
“I ever tell you about Stanley Burns?” he asked.
Tyler shook his head. “Don’t think so, boss. Who is he?”
“Old colleague of mine. We used to get paired up from time to time back in my Uniform days.”
“What, did he drive the stagecoach?” Tyler asked with a grin. Logan shut him down with a look. “Sorry, boss.”
“He did do a lot of the driving, actually. In the car, I mean, no’ on horseback,” Logan continued. “Great driver. Really knew his way around a motor. Used to teach the advanced driving classes to new recruits sometimes, in fact. High-speed stuff. Pursuit. That sort of thing.”
“Bet he was a nutter, wasn’t he?”
“Actually, no. Nice guy. And sensible, too. You’re right, though. You’d think any bugger who enjoys driving that fast is going to be a bit of a headcase, but not Stanley. No, Stanley only went fast when he knew it was safe. He didn’t take chances, or unnecessary risks. Even sitting in the passenger seat when he went tearing up the motorway doing a tonne, you felt safe. Like… I don’t know. Invulnerable.” Logan’s lips pulled together into a thin line. “He was a good guy, Stanley. Two kids, he had. Lovely wife. Mairi, her name was. Real family man.”
“What happened to him?” Tyler asked.
Logan turned his head just enough to meet the DC’s eye. “Hm?”
“I’m assuming something bad happened, and there’s a big moral to the story coming,” Tyler said. “Like, he had an accident, didn’t get checked out, and then died a week later, or something.”
Logan shook his head. “No. He was fine. Retired a few years ago,” the DCI explained. “Lives in Motherwell now, I think.”
“So… what was the story about, then?”
“Nothing,” Logan said, crossing his arms. “I just wanted you to shut the fuck up for thirty seconds.”
Down at the far end of the waiting room, the old woman tutted at the bad language, and mumbled something about young people today.
She then looked up hopefully as the door opened, before recoiling when she saw a blood-splattered young woman come barrelling through the doors.
“Hey! You alright?” Sinead asked, hurrying over to stand before Tyler. “I just heard what happened.”
“Fine. I keep telling everyone, I’m fine,” Tyler said. He looked Sinead up and down. “But, Jesus, what happened to you?”
She looked down at herself, said, “Shite,” loudly enough to earn a muttered reprimand from the old lady, and suddenly looked like she’d rather be anywhere but in those clothes. “Didn’t realise it was this bad. I’d better get changed.”
“That from the attack?” Logan asked, being careful not to use any names, what with the disapproving pensioner earwigging in.
“It is, sir, aye.”
“In a bad way, then?”
“Very. They’re working on her now, but… Even if she survives…”
Logan nodded. From what he’d heard via Hamza and Ben, Lana Lennon’s injuries would be life-changing, at best. She wouldn’t be standing in front of a classroom for a while, if ever.
“You OK?” Tyler asked.
Sinead smiled, but said nothing. Tyler took her hand and squeezed it.
“Some day, eh?” he said.
“Aye,” she agreed. “Some day. I assume… the suspect got away?”
Tyler puffed up his chest and raised an eyebrow. “You know what they say about people who assume, Sinead. They ass… What is it? They ass you and me? That can’t be it. Is that what they say? Why would they say that?”
“Jesus Christ, son,” Logan sighed. “You had a big moment in the palm of your hand there, and you threw it away. No, he caught the bugger.”
“Caught him?” Sinead asked, equal parts surprised and confused by this. “But I thought… I thought you crashed?”
“He did,” Logan said.
“But so did the other guy,” Tyler added.
This did not make Sinead any less confused. “So… what? You crashed into each other?”
“No. Two separate crashes,” Tyler explained.
“In the same place,” Logan added.
“I mean, what are the chances?” asked Tyler. “But, anyway. The point is, I caught him. They’re keeping him in a van out front until the docs are ready to check him over. The boss is insisting they take me in first, though.”
Sinead shot Logan a grateful look, which he dismissed with a shake of his head.
“Is he hurt?” she asked.
“Only his pride!” Tyler said, smiling proudly.
“And his head,” Logan reminded him.
“Oh. Aye. And his head.”
Logan slapped his hands on his thighs, then stood up. “Right then, Sinead, what size are you?”
Sinead frowned. “Sir?”
“There’s that clothes shop just down there on the High Street. Across from the church. I’ll go get you a change of clobber, then you can sit here and make sure this eejit doesn’t make a run for it.”
“I’m fine, boss. Honestly! I don’t need to be here.”
“Aye, you do,” Sinead told him. She scowled at him for a few seconds, making sure he knew not to argue, then turned back to the DCI. “Eh, you sure you’re OK doing that, sir?”
“Can hardly have you sitting around looking like you’ve just escaped the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, can we?”
“Well, no. But I’ll need everything,” Sinead said. She fixed him with a look that emphasised this point. “Like… everything.”
Logan shifted a little uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. “What…? You mean, like… everything?”
“Aye,” Sinead confirmed. “Everything.”
“I mean… Aye. Whatever. That’s fine,” Logan said, his voice going a little gruffer and a little deeper, as if it was trying to assert his masculinity. “I can get you everything. That’s no problem, at all. It’s no’ like it’s the first time I’ve bought women’s underwear.”
He felt the look from DC Neish burning into the side of his face from below. Common sense urged him not to look down, but he didn’t listen, and found Tyler staring up at him with a grin that couldn’t believe its bloody luck.
“Don’t you worry, boss,” he beamed. “Your secret’s safe with us.”
One mildly humiliating shopping spree later, Logan returned to the Incident Room carrying a bag of bloodied clothing, and the faint but lingering smell of the contents of DC Neish’s stomach.
Hamza and Ben both rose from their chairs as he entered, and he could see right away that there had been a development.
“Well?” he asked, not beating around the bush. “What’s happened?”
Both the DI and the DS started talking at the same time, before Hamza relented and let Ben go first.
“We had a very interesting call while you were gone, Jack. From one…” Ben consulted his notebook. “…Lachlan Byres. Says he’s a friend of Bennet Lennon’s. They work together at
the castle.”
“And?” Logan prompted, as he dropped the bag of clothes onto the Exhibits desk, and began to shrug off his coat.
“Apparently, Bennet was round his house earlier this afternoon, between twelve and one. He told Lachlan he had something he needed to get off his chest.”
Logan paused with his coat half-off. “And?” he said again.
“He confessed.”
“Confessed?”
“To the whole thing. Killing Fergus. Cutting his head off—we’ll find it in his dad’s workshop, apparently. I’ve got Uniform heading over there with a battering ram now. Hamza was about to head out and meet them.”
“I’ll do it,” Logan said, pulling his coat back up onto his shoulders. “Why would the boy kill him, though? I thought he liked him? I thought all the kids loved him?”
“Bennet told his pal that Fergus was blackmailing him.”
“Blackmail? What about?”
“He didn’t know,” Ben said. He pointed to Hamza. “However…”
“Got into that USB stick, sir,” the DS said, taking his cue. “It’s, eh… It’s pictures. And video. Of Bennet and Fergus. Together.”
“What, shagging?”
“That and more, sir, aye.”
Logan lowered himself onto the edge of the closest available desk. His eyes darted left and right, like he was reading something floating in the air in front of him.
“Jesus,” he uttered. “How old is he? Bennet?”
“Seventeen, sir,” Hamza said. “But timestamps on the files go back about eighteen months. It’s been going on for a while.”
“Christ Almighty. How are we just finding out about this now?” Logan groaned.
“Seems like Fergus was good at covering his tracks,” Ben said. “One of the numbers he was in regular contact with—the ones we couldn’t identify—it was Bennet’s. Looks like he deleted all calls and messages that passed between them.”
“When?” Logan asked.
“When what?”
“When did he delete them? Is there a way of finding that out?”