by JD Kirk
It came as something of a disappointment, then, when rather than some big reveal taking place, Logan quietly announced to the recording that he was leaving the room, stepped outside, and pulled the door closed behind him.
They all sat in silence for a few seconds, then the door opened again and Logan poked his head through the gap. “I think we’ll take a break there for a while, Bennet,” he said. “We’ve just brought your dad in. I reckon it’s about time we heard his side of the story, don’t you?”
He waited for Ben to get up and follow him out of the room, then sent Uniform in to escort Bennet back to the cells.
“We should get onto the PF about holding him,” Ben said, once he, Logan, and Hamza had watched the boy and his bewildered-looking legal counsel be led away.
“He’s over sixteen,” Logan replied, then he sighed. “Aye. No. Better run it by them. In enough hot water with Mitchell as it is.”
“What for?” Ben asked.
Shite, Logan thought.
“Nothing. Doesn’t matter,” he said, then he turned abruptly to Hamza and changed the subject. “Tyler and Sinead back, then?”
“No, sir. Not yet. No word.”
Logan glanced at the door of the second interview room. “But Clyde Lennon’s here? I gave strict instructions that Tyler was to be seen first.”
“Aye, but you’re no’ in charge of the NHS, are you, Jack? Unlike us poor buggers, they don’t have to answer to you,” Ben pointed out. “Anyway, they do triangles.”
“Triangles?” Logan asked, his brow furrowing. “What are you talking about, triangles?”
“You know what I mean. When they see you based on how serious your condition is.”
There was silence for a moment, as the other two men processed this.
“You mean ‘triage’?” Logan eventually guessed.
“Oh. Is that it? You knew what I meant,” Ben said. “Maybe they thought Clyde Lennon’s condition was more serious than Tyler’s.”
“Aye,” Logan nodded, and looked along the corridor in the direction of the empty Incident Room. “I suppose it must be that.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Tyler lay on his back on a hospital bed, two padded foam blocks squashing his head, his body held rigid on a spinal board. His right shoulder blade was itchy. It had been itchy for quite some time now, and all attempts to ignore it had thus far been met with failure.
The Velcro strap across his forehead also itched, but it was nowhere near as bad, and was just providing a sort of backing harmony for the main, out of reach trouble area on his back.
He needed to pee quite badly. This had also been going on for a while. Sinead was allowed to feed him sips of water through a straw, but he had declined her last few offers, for fear of what might happen if any more liquid entered his body.
Worse than any of that was the boredom. It had been two hours since the CAT scan that the doctors had insisted he have. The scan images had to be sent up to Inverness, apparently, so someone could read them up there. Given the length of time they were taking, he was starting to think they’d sent them up the road by bus.
It was the hope that was the real killer, though. He was in one of five or six curtained off areas in the hospital’s A&E department, and the three-metre wide corridor on the other side of the curtain apparently got more foot traffic than Princess Street on Hogmanay. The first few dozen times he’d heard footsteps squeaking closer, he’d felt a little surge of hope that they were coming to extract him from this bloody contraption.
The next few dozen times, the surge became a flurry.
Now, he barely even registered the footsteps at all.
His spirits were sagging, his willpower was fading, and his bladder was on red alert.
There was only one thing for it.
“I spy, with my little eye,” he began. “Something beginning with… C.”
“Crappy clothes?” Sinead guessed.
Tyler snorted. “I thought the boss did alright!”
“Aye, you would,” Sinead said, looking down at her mismatched outfit. She hoiked at the back of her baggy jeans, adjusting the waistband of the men’s boxer shorts that Logan admitted he’d bought in a moment of panic. “I look like Vanilla Ice.”
“Was he the, ‘Stop! Hammer Time!’ guy?”
Sinead shrugged. “God knows. Bit before my time.”
“Aye, me too,” Tyler said. “Anyway, no. It’s not ‘crappy clothes.’”
Sinead clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she considered the possibilities.
“Cows?”
“No. Where are the cows in this cubicle?”
“Cubicle!”
“No. Good try, though.”
“Castle? Is it a castle? I bet it’s a castle.”
“You’re not even trying now,” Tyler told her. “You’re not taking it seriously.”
He felt her join him on the bed. Not fully—there wasn’t room for that—but partly. She turned her chair and leaned out from it, contorting herself into a position so that her head was next to his. Or next to the padded bracing that was clamped around his, at least.
Her hand slipped around Tyler’s and squeezed, and he felt himself relax.
Then, he remembered how close he was to wetting himself, and tensed again as best he could.
“This make it easier?” he asked her.
“Definitely,” she said. “I can see what you see now.”
“Shite, isn’t it?”
“Definitely no cows,” she said. “They should put a telly up there.”
“What if it fell down?”
Sinead smiled. “I’d be OK. I could move.”
“And I’d pretty much welcome death at this point, so it’s a win-win,” Tyler said.
He felt Sinead turn to look at him, and caught a suggestion of movement out of the corner of his eye. “Is it uncomfortable?” she asked.
“What, this old thing? Nah,” Tyler said. “I was thinking I might get one for home, actually. I wonder if they do them in blue.”
“That’d bring out your eyes.”
“I know. That’s why I suggested it,” Tyler said.
“You could wear it to the wedding,” Sinead suggested. “Imagine everyone’s face if you rocked up at the altar wearing that.”
Tyler made a strangled choking sort of sound. “Oh, don’t make me laugh,” he begged. “I’ll piss myself. I mean it. I’m one wrong move away.”
The cubicle curtain swished open, revealing the young female doctor who had insisted on the scan, and an older man who looked like he hadn’t slept for more than half an hour in the last thirty-six.
“Good news, Mr Neish. No damage done,” the doctor announced. “The scan shows no injuries.”
“Oh, thank God,” Sinead said, sitting up.
“I told you there was nothing to worry about,” Tyler said. He shot a hopeful look at the female doctor, who now loomed above him. “Can I get out of this thing?”
“You absolutely can. Right now,” she replied, already hauling at the Velcro that held him in place.
The relief was immediate. He sat up, wrenched an arm up his back, and groaned with pleasure as he clawed at the itch on his shoulder blade, his fingers just long enough to hit the spot.
“Aw, man. That’s good. That’s so good,” he muttered, his eyes shut, and his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth. “You’ve no idea how good that is.”
“I think you’re painting a pretty vivid picture,” Sinead told him. She stood, stole a brief look at the older man who hadn’t yet said anything, then turned her attention to the doctor. “So, is that us? Can we go?”
“Soon. Yes. There’s just a couple of things to discuss first,” the doctor said, returning Sinead’s smile. There was something plastic about it, though. Something not quite right.
Sinead looked at the older man again. Another doctor, according to his lanyard. Senior Consultant.
“What is it?” Sinead asked.
Th
e consultant replied before the younger doctor had a chance to. “I appreciate you’re colleagues, but I think it’s probably best if we speak to Mr Neish on his own.”
“We’re engaged,” Sinead said. “We’re getting married next week.”
“Oh,” the consultant said. He looked at Tyler as if awaiting some sort of confirmation. “Right. Well, then, if Mr Neish is happy for us to go ahead…”
“Aye. You can say anything. What’s wrong?” Tyler asked, swinging his legs down so he was sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Right. Well. OK, then. I’m Doctor Nisbet. I’m a consultant here at the Belford. And, well, I’m afraid something has come up on your scan. I’d like to arrange some more tests.”
Tyler felt Sinead’s gaze turn on him. Felt it burning there.
“I thought you said it was clear?”
“It was. Kind of. There were no spinal injuries, which was the main purpose for the scan,” the consultant explained. “But, I’m afraid… Well.” He smiled, but it wasn’t a real smile. Not by a long shot. It was an apology, plain and simple. “I’m afraid it may have showed up something else.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Clyde Lennon was one of the least pleasant individuals DCI Jack Logan had ever met. And, given the standard of the competition, this was really saying something.
He sat across the table from Logan and Ben now, rolling his tongue around and around in his mouth like he was chasing a soor ploom. He had his arms folded and his head tilted back so he was peering along the length of his nose at the detectives, clearly as unimpressed by them as they were by him.
“Just to reiterate, Mr Lennon, you’ve declined legal representation,” Ben said.
“Don’t need it. Ain’t done nothing wrong.”
“A growing pile of evidence would beg to differ with that,” Logan told him.
“You’ve got nothing on me, or you’d have charged me already,” Clyde spat back. He grinned, showing his yellowing teeth. “See? I don’t need a lawyer. I know your tricks.”
“That’s no great surprise,” Logan said. “Given the number of run-ins you’ve had with the polis over the years.”
“I’ve never been charged with nothing.”
“No, not charged, but we have our own internal database where we log details of complaints. Even those that have been withdrawn by the victim. And, I must say, your entry is longer than most,” Logan said. “You’re a violent man, aren’t you, Mr Lennon?”
“I can handle myself, if that’s what you mean.”
Logan consulted the paperwork spread out in front of him. “Aye. You certainly seem to be able to handle yourself against women and children, alright. Good for you. That must take some guts.”
“I’ve never been charged—”
“How did it feel finding out your wife was cheating on you, Clyde?” Logan asked. “Did that make you angry?”
Clyde licked his lips, unfolded then refolded his arms, but said nothing.
“I bet it made you furious,” Logan continued. “The thought of the two of them. Together. Going at it.”
“Younger man like that,” Ben added.
“Probably at it for hours,” said Logan.
Ben sighed longingly. “Oh, for half that energy.”
“I know what you’re trying to do,” Clyde sneered. “You’re trying to get me riled up, so I’ll say that I killed that fucking teacher. Well, I didn’t. Alright? I didn’t know anything about any affair.”
“Aye, you did,” Logan said. “We’ve got the texts to prove it.”
“Texts? What texts? What are you on about, texts?” Clyde demanded. “Texts from who?”
“These texts,” Logan said, giving Ben the nod. He watched as the DI took the printouts from a folder and set them out on the desktop, facing the suspect. “Ring any bells?”
Clyde leaned forwards and regarded the printouts with a mix of suspicion and contempt. “No. What are these?”
“Don’t piss us about, Clyde. They’re texts sent between you and Fergus Forsyth the night before he died.”
“I’ve never sent a text in my life! Check my phone bills. Or my phone. Check them. You’ll see. I don’t text. Ever,” Clyde insisted. “Why would I start with him? If I’ve got something to say, I’ll fucking say it face to face. Anyway, where would I even get his number from?”
“These messages were sent to and from your phone,” Logan said, but there was something about Clyde Lennon’s outrage that had sprinkled the first few seeds of doubt. “Are you saying you didn’t send them?”
“Give the man a fucking prize,” Clyde retorted. “Yes. That’s what I’m saying. I didn’t send them. I didn’t know anything about no affair until that fella phoned me today.”
Logan interlocked his fingers and leaned closer. “What fella?”
“Journalist. Said he’d heard about the affair from teachers at the school. Wanted a fucking quote, or something. Asked me how I felt about it.”
Logan’s hands clasped more tightly together until they were almost one big fist. “What journalist?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“I don’t know. The Mirror, or something. Cheeky bastard. Asked if I’d killed that PE teacher.”
“And what did you say?” Ben asked.
“I told him just what I’m telling you now,” Clyde spat. “No, I didn’t. But, if I’d found out he was shagging my wife, then I would have done.”
“Is that why you attacked, Lana?” Logan asked.
A blink. A frown. Another seed of doubt sown.
He didn’t know. The bastard didn’t know.
“What do you mean?” Clyde asked Logan. Then, when no reply came, he tried Ben. “What’s he on about? What’s he saying?”
“You know what he’s saying, son,” Ben said, sticking gamely to the plan. “You attacked her with a hammer. We saw you fleeing the house. We gave chase. Don’t tell me that crash has done damage to the old memory banks?”
“Attacked with a hammer? What? When? I don’t know anything about… Is she dead?”
“You’ll be sorry to hear, but no, she’s not. We’re hoping to get a statement from her soon, in fact,” Ben told him. “So, you might want to get in first and give us your side.”
“Oh, thank Christ,” Clyde said, practically laughing with relief. “She’ll tell you, then, won’t she? She’ll tell you it wasn’t me.”
“Or she’ll tell us it was,” Ben said.
“Nah. She won’t.”
“Why not?” the DI asked. “Because you’ve got her too scared?”
“Because it wasn’t me!” Clyde spat.
“Then why run from the house?” Logan asked.
Clyde sat back, his scowl returning. “Because I knew this would happen, didn’t I? Soon as I found out she’d been shagging that teacher, I knew you lot would put two and two together and come up with five, like you always do. You’d say I did it. You’d try to pin it on me, get yourself looking good for the bosses. So, I went back to the house, grabbed some stuff from upstairs, and fucked off, sharpish.”
“Wee bit too sharpish, eh?” Ben said. “Could’ve been nasty, you losing control of your van like that.”
“Yeah, well, I heard one of you lot chasing me, didn’t I? Giving it all wee-woo, wee-woo. Put the wind up me.”
Logan wasn’t ready to move on to the car chase. Not yet. “And you didn’t go into the living room?” he asked.
“No, I came in, went upstairs, put a bag together, and left,” Clyde said. “Why? Is that where…? Fuck me. Seriously? She was in there? Jesus. Does Bennet know?”
“He does,” Logan confirmed.
“Bet he fucking blames me, too, doesn’t he?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“She’s fucking poisoned that boy against me. It’s what they do, women,” Clyde spat. “You’re divorced, ain’t you? You got kids?”
Logan made no move to answer the question.
“Bet your missus has done the same to you. Poisoned them agai
nst you. Twisted things to make you look like the bad bastard.” Clyde shook his head in disgust. “They’re all the same. Lana, my ex, yours. They’re all the bloody same.”
“Speaking of your ex-wife, Mr Lennon. Lana told us earlier that you claim to have killed her. That right?”
“What? No. I never said that,” Clyde said.
That wasn’t true. Logan could see it written in every one of the man’s movements. He was a piss-poor liar. One of the worst the DCI had seen.
“I don’t believe you,” Logan said. “We checked up, and your ex—Beverley—she is dead. Wasn’t you, of course. Aneurysm. But Lana wasn’t to know that, was she? Why would you say that to someone, Clyde? To keep her scared? To keep her in line?”
“She’s talking shit,” Clyde insisted, even less convincingly. “And this is all a waste of time. You’ve got nothing to tie me to the teacher’s murder. You’re just trying to noise me up, in the hope you can find a way to pin it on me. You’ve got nothing.”
Logan raised an index finger. He’d been waiting for just the right moment, and here it was now, presenting itself.
“Far from it, Clyde. We’ve got something very interesting indeed.” He addressed the next part to Ben. “You heard the phrase, ‘a smoking gun,’ Detective Inspector?”
“Aye. Aye, I’m familiar with it, Detective Chief Inspector,” Ben said, neither man taking their eyes off Clyde.
“Would you say what we’ve got is the equivalent of a smoking gun?”
“I’d say it’s better than a smoking gun,” Ben said. “I’d say it’s two smoking guns. I’d say it’s a whole smoking arsenal, in fact.”
“What the fuck are you going on about?” Clyde demanded.
Logan placed a glossy printout on the table between them. “Can you tell me what that is, Clyde?” he asked.
The suspect flicked his eyes down at the image. “It’s a toilet.”
“Have another look,” Logan urged. “See if it looks familiar.”
Clyde held his gaze for a few seconds, then relented and looked down at the photograph. Both detectives saw the moment the recognition hit. “It’s my toilet. In the workshop.”