Charles looked away, a crease between his eyebrows. ‘I’ve never seen this woman before.’
‘Really? Because we’ve got a witness who saw you snatch her off the street.’
‘No you don’t.’ But he wouldn’t look Logan in the eye. ‘Oh, but we do.’ Logan went back into the folder. No sign of the e-fit. He waved PC Guthrie over. ‘Go get the e-fit.’
The constable shifted. ‘Guv?’
God help us. Logan stood and whispered in Guthrie’s ear. ‘The e-fit. The one you did with Edward Buchan. Go get it.’
‘Oh… But I left a copy on your desk.’
Logan frowned at him. ‘That was you? The e-fits with no bloody case numbers? You have to fill in all the details — how’s anyone supposed to know what they’re looking at?’
Pink rushed up the constable’s cheeks. ‘Thought they were meant to be anonymous so the witnesses don’t-’
‘Not the internal copies, you idiot.’
‘Oh.’ Guthrie’s shoulders slumped. ‘Now go get me a copy of the bloody e-fit!’
‘But…’ The constable leaned in close, his voice carried on a warm chocolaty whisper, ‘It doesn’t look anything like him. The guy Edward Buchan saw was white.’
‘You made me look a complete prick!’ Logan slammed his hand against the cell door, and the boom reverberated around the small room, echoing back from the bare concrete walls.
Sitting on the blue plastic mattress with her knees drawn up against her chest, Emily — Britain’s Next Big Porn Star — flinched. She was backed up into the corner, keeping her head down, like a dog waiting to be beaten. Another victory for Team Logan.
He sighed and tried to soften his voice. ‘You told me they’d used Trisha Brown as a threat.’
Emily nodded, still keeping her eyes on her chewed fingers. ‘What happened?’
She glanced at him, then away again. ‘There was some drugs went missing, Shuggie got them on credit, like. Some cop raided them and he couldn’t pay them back…’
Logan leant back against the cell door. ‘And?’
‘Bob and Jacob thought Shuggie needed a lesson.’
She went back to chewing at her nails.
Silence.
‘Emily, I’m going to need more than that.’
‘Way I heard it, they invite Shuggie and Trisha over to discuss spreading the repayments, only when they get there, Bob takes this knife and he…’ She shuddered. ‘He, you know.’ Emily stuck out the little finger on her left hand, then pretended to skin it with an invisible knife. ‘Then the bastards make Shuggie watch them taking turns. You know: raping her.’
Emily wrapped her arms around her knees, fingertips stroking the bruises beneath her T-shirt. ‘Wrote the cop’s name on her chest and told her to fuck off and get the drugs back if she didn’t want to swap places with Shuggie.’
‘Fuck me.’ Acting DI Mark MacDonald closed the door to Logan’s makeshift office and slumped against it. ‘Like a bloody bear pit down there.’ He peered at the packet of shortbread sitting next to Logan’s in-tray. ‘Any chance…?’
‘Not mine, Rennie left them.’
‘Good enough for me.’ He tore open the wrapper and helped himself to a couple. ‘I hate media briefings.’ He perched himself on the edge of Logan’s desk. ‘How come you’re not off with the cavalry?’
Logan brushed the bits of shortbread from his mouse and scrolled onto the next page of the interview report form — typing up his meeting with Robert Marley. ‘You’re getting crumbs everywhere.’
‘Anyway, if you’re not off arresting this Clayton tosser, do you want to give me a hand with a risk assessment for the hostage handover?’
Logan sat back. ‘They’re arresting Stephen Clayton? Who’s arresting Stephen Clayton? When?’
‘Thought you knew. Finnie and the tosser Green set off with a firearms team fifteen minutes ago.’
Bastards!
Logan opened his desk drawer. His Airwave handset was nesting in a collection of witness statements and check-lists. He punched in Finnie’s number.
The head of CID’s voice crackled out of the speaker, nearly drowned out by the roar of an engine. ‘Ah, Inspector McRae, how nice of you to report for duty. What, were you busy getting your hair done?’
‘You’ve gone after Clayton! Why the-’
‘Where were you? We’ve been calling you for the last forty minutes.’
Logan closed his eyes and swore. He pulled out his mobile phone and swore again: he’d switched it off for the interview with the flame-haired ‘Marley’ brother. He turned the thing back on and it bleeped at him, the screen flickering with little alerts. ‘YOU HAVE 12 NEW MESSAGES’. Perfect.
‘I’ve been interviewing suspects in the Trisha Brown abduction.’
‘I want your pet psychologist at the station in half an hour, ready to downstream on the Clayton interview.’
‘I can be out at Hillhead in fifteen minutes, if…’ A solid tone came from the speaker, then silence. Finnie had hung up on him. ‘Great.’ He dumped the handset back in the drawer and slammed it shut. ‘I do all the work and they waltz in and make the arrest.’ He scowled at Mark. ‘What’s that look for?’
‘How come, you’re “Detective Inspector McRae”, but I’m always, “Acting Detective Inspector MacDonald”?’
‘Because Finnie’s a dick, that’s why.’ He turned back to his screen. ‘Can’t believe they went after Clayton without me.’
‘You’re only DI till bloody McPherson gets back, I’m-’
‘Did anyone else find a suspect for Alison and Jenny’s abduction? Did they buggery.’ Logan hauled everything out of his in-tray and dumped it on the desk, rifling through the pile of letters and forms. ‘But do I get to be part of the pick-up team? No. That’d be too much to ask for.’
Burglary, burglary, unlawful removal, complaint about someone’s dog barking, memo from Baldy Bain about not parking personal vehicles on the Rear Podium… Where the hell was Guthrie’s e-fit?
The door thumped shut. Logan looked up — Mark was gone. Flounced off in a huff.
How could Finnie go after Stephen Clayton without him? The anonymous trio of e-fits were wedged between reports of a flasher and complaints about a gang of kids dressed in Cub Scout uniforms running riot in Bridge of Don. Logan laid the three computer-generated identikits side by side on his desk. Two looked as if a drunken monkey had been operating the software, but the third actually bore a passing resemblance to a human being.
A man, mid-fifties to early sixties, long hair, goatee beard, glasses, a Brothers Grimm fairytale nose, lopsided ears of different sizes. Vaguely familiar. Logan held the e-fit out at arm’s length and squinted at it, blurring his vision…
Nope.
He trundled his chair back from the desk and headed downstairs.
A middle-aged man was standing on the grey terrazzo floor in front of the reception desk, waving his arms about like an angry windmill, his brown suit stained and splattered with scarlet. As if he’d stood too close to someone who’d exploded. ‘…little bastards! What sort of people raise children like that?’
Big Gary was standing on the other side of the desk, behind the glass partition, nodding — every gesture setting his collection of chins wobbling. ‘I know, sir. Dreadful. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll get someone down to take your statement…’ His eyes locked on Logan, then a grin pulled at his chubby cheeks. ‘Ah, DS McRae: there’s a gentleman here who’s-’
‘They need a damn good slap. If I did that when I was kid, my mum would’ve battered the shite out of me!’
Logan slipped the e-fit through the gap between the glass partition and the desk. ‘He look familiar to you?’
‘This is what you get for being a concerned bloody citizen. Who wants to use a bus shelter covered in graffiti?’
Big Gary scratched at his big pink head. ‘Kind of…’ He squinted one eye shut. ‘Who did it?’
‘Guthrie.’
‘When I was in the Cubs we
respected our elders, now it’s Lord of the Bloody Flies!’
‘That explains it.’ Big Gary stuck his tongue out and frowned. ‘Might be Darren McInnes? If it is, he’s not been well…’ He handed the e-fit back to Logan. ‘You could try the Horny Grolloch Squad; but I’m pretty sure it’s him.’
‘It’s a bloody disgrace. Who’s going to pay for my suit, that’s what I want to know!’
‘Aye, weil, I suppose it does kinda look a bittie like him.’ DC Paul Leggett held the e-fit up next to his computer screen. A familiar wrinkled face stared out of the monitor: Darren McInnes (52) — Exposing Children to Harm/Danger or Neglect, Possessing Indecent Images of Children, Theft by Housebreaking, Serious Assault.
No wonder he’d looked familiar: he was one of the first registered sex offenders they’d interviewed in the Munro House Hotel.
Leggett ran a hand through his collar-length hair. ‘Aye, maybe…’
The stocky wee man wouldn’t have got away with the bohemian look in uniform or CID, but in the Mong Squad it helped not to look like a police officer.
The Offender Management Unit office was cramped, every available surface covered in box files and bits of paper. The bitter-burnt smell of cheap coffee filled the air; an oscillating fan whirred and clicked its way left to right, ruffling the stack of forms nearest to it.
Leggett made humming noises. ‘The ears is all tae buggery, and the nose is three times too big, but other than that, it’s him.’
Logan took the e-fit back, folded it in thirds, and slipped it back into his pocket. ‘Thanks.’
‘Fit’s he done?’
‘McInnes? We think he might’ve snatched Trisha Brown off the street in Kincorth.’
‘Trisha Brown?’ Leggett curled his top lip. ‘And Dodgy Darren? Nah, he’s strictly into the younger woman. Did eight years for molesting a three-year-old girl doon the beach. He wouldnae know whit tae do wi’ a fully grown one.’
‘You don’t think he’s-’
‘Oh, dinna get me wrong, he’s a cantankerous dirty auld bugger and I wouldn’t put anything past him, but…’ Leggett shrugged. ‘Never can tell, I suppose. You want to go gie him a wee knock?’
Tempting. But then, what if Finnie came back with Stephen Clayton…? Not that Logan would get a look in at the interrogation — not if Superintendent ‘I’m A Prick’ Green had anything to do with it.
‘Give me a minute.’ Logan wandered over to the corner of the cramped office, looking out of the window while he dialled. Three storeys down, on the opposite side of the road, someone was peeing into the open top of an illegally parked Porsche in full view of Grampian Police Force Headquarters. You had to admire that level of stupidity.
The psychologist picked up on the third ring. ‘DrDave Goulding?’
‘Can you get down to FHQ in about…’ Logan checked his watch. ‘Fifteen, twenty minutes? We’re picking up a suspect in the McGregor case.’
‘Ah…’ There was a pause. ‘And how do you feel about that?’
‘I feel you should get your arse over-’
‘Logan, the thing about being a professional psychologist is that you learn to pick up on the tone of someone’s voice.’
‘Can you make it or not? Finnie needs you to do downstream monitoring and advice.’
‘Are you’re feeling excluded?’
‘Yes or no?’
Silence. ‘I’ve got a client at half ten. I’ll be-’
‘Cancel it.’
‘That’s not exactly-’
‘We’re talking about saving a little girl and her mum here, Dave.’
This time the silence stretched on and on and… ‘On one condition: you and I sit down for half an hour to talk. We do that, or you wait till I’m finished with Mrs Reid.’
Down on the street below, a man in a dark-blue suit stopped in the middle of the road to stare at the Porsche piddler. He dropped the collection of green Marks amp; Spencer bags he’d been carrying and ran at the guy who was using his pride-and-joy as a urinal.
‘That’s blackmail.’
‘Sauce for the goose. Take it or leave it.’
The piddler lurched back and sideways, his legs looking as if they weren’t really under control. And then the Porsche’s owner cracked a fist into his face. The pair of them tumbled to the pavement, arms and rebellious legs flailing.
‘Just make sure you tell the front desk you’re here to interview Stephen Clayton. If I’m not about you can start working up some questions.’
‘Half an hour, Logan. That’s the deal.’
A pair of uniform charged across the road, peaked caps held down with one hand. Logan watched them haul the piddler and the piddlee apart.
Logan glanced over at DC Leggett. He was holding up a set of car keys.
‘I’ll be back soon as I can. Just got to take care of something first.’
Chapter 45
‘…want to thank all your listeners for their generous donations. Really, on behalf of Alison and Jenny: you guys are terrifi c. With your help, we’re going to get them back.’
The beige council van grumbled to a halt outside a shabby bungalow in Blackburn.
‘I’m here with Gordon Maguire of Blue-Fish-Two-Fish. You’re listening to Original FM, and here’s Alison and Jenny McGregor with Wind Beneath My Wings…’
The van’s engine gave one last diesel rattle, and there was silence.
DC Leggett pulled the keys out of the ignition. ‘Sure your witness wasn’t taking the piss?’
‘Nope.’ Logan climbed out into the warm morning.
The bungalow’s grey-harled walls were streaked with green and brown; the front garden a jungle of knee-high grass and bright-yellow dandelions, bordered by misshapen bushes. A red helicopter droned by overhead, taking a detour around Kirkhill Forest on the way out to the rigs.
Logan marched up the path, raised his finger to the doorbell, then stopped. There was an old blue Citroen parked on the driveway beside the house, in front of a single garage with a heavy wooden door.
Leggett sniffed. ‘Fits up?’
‘Edward Buchan — the guy who sat on his arse and watched Trisha Brown getting beaten up and abducted — said they were driving a blue saloon.’
The doorbell made a dull buzzing noise deep inside the house.
‘I’m still no’ seeing Dodgy Darren grabbing a fully grown woman.’ The constable scuffed his shoe through a tuft of green, whipping the head off a daisy, then sighed. ‘His poor auld dad would have a fit if he knew what a state the place wis in noo.’
Logan tried the doorbell again.
‘Nice couple, his mum and dad — could nivver figure out fit they did to end up wi a child molester fir a son.’
This time he kept his finger on the button, letting the buzz drone on and on.
‘Wis his mum who dobbed him in the first time. Found a bunch of filthy photos under his mattress when he was sixteen. Wee girls. No’ pretty.’
The door yanked open and there he was: Darren McInnes, fists and jaw clenched, lips flecked with spittle, lank yellow-grey hair flying about his head. ‘Bugger off out of it!’ His breath stank like an ashtray.
He must have had the television and radio turned up full volume, because the noise was almost deafening, a TV advert for toothpaste fighting against Jenny and Alison’s version of Wind Beneath My Wings.
Strange — they hadn’t heard it through the closed door… Logan held up his warrant card. ‘Remember me, Mr McInnes?’
McInnes took a step back, eyes narrowed, goatee beard jutting out. ‘I told you: I’ve never even met Alison and Jenny McGregor.’
‘That’s not why we’re here.’
DC Leggett waved. ‘Fit like the day, Darren: keepin’ well?’
‘What do you want?’
The constable stepped over the threshold into the hallway, forcing McInnes to back up again. ‘You’ll no’ mind if we come in for a fly cup, eh? Thirsty work keeping tabs on registered sex offenders.’
‘On the scro
unge, are you? Well you can bugger off. I’m not running a soup kitchen.’
Leggett backed him up another couple of paces, making enough room for Logan to step inside and close the front door. The hallway was crowded with stacks of dusty cardboard boxes, piled up between the doors — high enough to brush the ceiling.
‘Now, now, Darren, you’re no’ refusing to cooperate with a supervising authority, are you?’
‘You’ve got no business barging in here. This is my home. I’ve got rights.’
‘Aye.’ Another couple of steps and they were in the kitchen. A portable radio sat on top of a stained fridge, blaring out the instrumental bit of the song. Leggett flipped the switch, killing the racket. Now it was just the television, shouting to itself in the lounge. ‘And right now you have the right to stick the kettle on and produce a packet of chocolate biscuits.’ He leant back against the working surface as McInnes stuck a dirty kettle under the cold tap, then slammed the thing down on the worktop and plugged it in. ‘Not supposed to be having a visit till next week…’
Logan stared at him, keeping his face neutral. ‘We know.’
McInnes froze for a moment, then opened a cupboard and pulled out three chipped mugs. ‘Don’t play clever buggers with me, Sergeant. I’m not some moron you can intimidate and manipulate. I haven’t done anything wrong, and you know it.’ He dropped a teabag in each mug. ‘You’re fishing.’
‘Trisha Brown.’
There wasn’t even a pause. ‘Never heard of her.’
‘Really? Because we’ve got a witness who saw you assault and abduct her.’
‘They’re lying.’ The kettle gave a low growl. ‘When we take your car down to the station, how much do you want to bet it’s full of her DNA, hair, fibres, blood?’
The theme tune to Friends blared out of the lounge. McInnes cleared his throat. ‘So what if there is? She’s a prostitute, isn’t she? Maybe I picked her up?’
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