‘What, took the gloves off, set the wick, lit it, then put her gloves back on to chuck the thing?’
The reporter stared at him. ‘You’d be surprised what you get used to when you have to wear gloves all the time.’
Sigh. ‘Yes: it was all my fault and I’m sorry. Happy?’
‘I’m just-’
‘Every damn time…’ Logan reached over and poked the laptop’s ‘next’ button a couple of times, flicking through the photographs. ‘Anyway, she chucked two petrol bombs, there wasn’t time to get her gloves off and on between them.’ He flicked through to the end of the sequence, then back again.
Someone was standing next to Miss Black-and-White-Bobble-Hat in every single photograph. A young-ish man with the same curly brown hair; the same green eyes; the same snub nose; the same expression on his face.
Lynch mob, a game all the family can play.
Colin leaned forward, staring at the faces. Then gave a low whistle.
‘What?’
He pointed at the screen.
‘And?’
‘Do you lot no’ do any research?’ He tapped the young man right between the eyes. ‘That’s Ian Leadbetter. See his grandad? Supposed to be one of Knox’s earlier victims. What the hell was it…’ Colin screwed up one side of his face. ‘Seventy-six-year-old, Parkinson’s, went missin’ from a park. Cops found him six hours later on a patch of waste ground, bashed and bruised. Wouldn’t talk about it. Wouldn’t take a rape kit.’
Another poke. ‘The kids’ parents were all for keepin’ it quiet, but wee Ian here’s been shootin’ his mouth off to anyone who’ll listen. Wants Knox strung up for what he did to his grandad.’
‘Any proof?’
‘Says the old man saw Knox’s picture in the paper when he was released a couple years ago and wouldn’t come out of his room for a week. Got blootered a month later and told Ian all about it.’
‘He could still make a formal complaint.’
Colin shrugged. ‘Bit difficult when you’re sittin’ in a wee brass urn on the mantelpiece. Pneumonia, three months ago.’
Good point.
‘Can you email me a copy of the photos?’
‘Do you one better…’ Colin dug about in his jacket with his stumpy-fingered hand, and produced a little blue USB stick with ‘THEABERDEEN EXAMINER, SERVING THE NORTH EAST SINCE 1856’ printed on the side.
Snoring rattled the windows of the CID pool car. Steel was slumped back in the passenger seat, a dead cigarette butt dangling from her open mouth, stuck to her lower lip — a slug-trail of ash tumbling away down the front of her padded jacket.
Logan tried the door handle.
Locked.
The street was almost deserted: the media hadn’t hung around after the fire engines had gone. A burning house was news. A burnt-out shell was old news. One by one they’d drifted off till all that was left was Sandy the photographer’s antique Volkswagen, and DI Steel’s pool car.
Logan tried the door again, just in case it had magically unlocked itself in the last ninety seconds.
It hadn’t.
He knocked on the passenger window. Steel jerked upright in her seat, blinking, the cigarette butt still stuck to her bottom lip.
Logan knocked again.
The inspector wiped a hand across her mouth, sending the butt tumbling into her lap, then frowned at him.
‘Come on, it’s bloody freezing out here!’
She leaned over and opened the driver’s door. Logan scrambled in behind the wheel and turned the engine over, then cranked up the heat — treadling the accelerator, trying to get it to warm up faster.
‘Was having this really…weird dream about Gloria Hunniford, and she was wearing this huge black cloak, and carrying a scythe…’
Logan held up the little USB drive Colin had given him. ‘Got the arsonist and her accomplice on film.’
‘And she had this massive red strap-on, and she wanted-’
‘You still got that Airwave handset on you?’
Steel blinked again. Then shuddered. ‘How long does it take to get hypothermia?’
‘Mobile phone’ll do.’
Steel passed over her little Nokia, and Logan punched in the number for Control, then waited for someone to pick up at the other end.
‘Yeah, I need you to run a PNC check on one Ian Leadbetter, Newcastle, late teens/early twenties. While you’re there, see if he’s got a sister, or a female cousin.’
‘Hud oan a mintie…’
He pinned the phone between his shoulder and his ear, flipped his notepad open, and pulled the lid off his biro with his teeth. ‘Uh-huh…’ Scribbling down the details as Control gave him everything the Police National Computer had on Ian and Wendy Leadbetter.
‘Right, I need you to get a lookout request on both of them.’
‘Fit for?’
‘Arson — Richard Knox’s house.’
‘Oh aye? You sure we shouldnae gie them a medal instead?’
‘Just get them picked up.’ He snapped the phone shut and handed it back.
‘Got any fags?’
‘All out.’ He clicked on the headlights and pulled away from the kerb, the Vauxhall’s wheels crunching through the snow.
‘In that case, you can drop us off at home on your way back to the station.’
Logan groaned. ‘It’s nearly eleven! I’m not going back to the-’
‘You’ve got to sign the pool car back in, you idiot. And while you’re at it, check on the search teams. I want to know what else is lurking in Gallagher and Yates’ Grotto O’Fun.’
‘But-’
‘And tell Big Gary I said to put us both down till midnight on the overtime. Got a kid on the way, after all.’
Night-time CID were all gathered around the middle set of desks in the office, drinking tins of Irn-Bru and sharing two coffee-table-sized pizzas, the smell of garlic, tomato and spicy sausage hanging in the air — Detective Inspector Bell handing out the food and telling stories of the good old days.
Logan turned down a slice, and slumped over to the DSs’ cubbyhole. Someone had stuck up a sheet of A4 on the wall, with ‘THE WEE HOOSE’ printed on it. The door was locked.
‘Oh for fuck’s…’ He closed his eyes, screwed up his face. Then placed a hand against the wood.
Know what: who cared? Steel would just have to wait for her update. It wasn’t as if she could do anything about it till the morning anyway. And at least this way he’d be home before midnight — hopefully to find Samantha still at the flat.
Logan turned on his heel, and the door clunked open behind him.
Crap.
He turned back and pushed through into the little room.
Doreen’s desk was as immaculate as ever, Mark’s was covered with dusty cardboard boxes from the archives, but Biohazard Bob’s was a disaster area. He was sitting with his back to the door, ruffling a sheath of paper into some kind of order.
Logan paused. ‘You weren’t in here playing with yourself, were you, Bob?’
The DS cleared his throat. Didn’t look around. ‘Just getting caught up on some paperwork.’
‘With the door locked?’
Shrug. He ran a hand across his face. ‘What you doing here? Thought your shift ended six hours ago.’
‘You and me both.’ Logan collapsed into his office chair, jabbed a finger at the computer’s power button. ‘Ding-Dong’s got pizza out there if you fancy it?’
Another shrug. ‘Not hungry.’
Silence. Just the whirr and bleep of the machine coming online.
‘You OK, Bob?’
Pause.
‘Yeah. Fine. Never better.’
‘OK…’ Logan logged into the crime management system and called up the Police Search Advisor’s contact details, then dug out the Airwave handset from under a pile of junk in his top drawer and punched in her warrant number.
‘Aye, just finishing up now — got a couple kilos of heroin in the back of the cottage, and twa bin-bags of
ecstasy.’
‘What about the IB?’
‘Done a wee whilie ago. Now they’re awa’ building a snowman.’
All right for some. Logan thanked her and hung up, then called the hospital for an update on Norman Yates. Still critical, but stabilizing. Which wasn’t bad for someone who’d been shot three times.
Logan cobbled together a quick incident report on the fire at Knox’s house, and how they’d identified Ian and Wendy Leadbetter, then sent it off to the printer. While it was chuntering away to itself he called up his emails and checked to see if anything interesting had come in.
Couple of memos. A new directive about Stop And Search procedures. Something from DC Rennie inviting him to a stag night in Amsterdam at the end of the month. One from a DI in Northumbria Police, saying they’d been to see Knox’s cellmate, Oscar Renwick, in Frankland Prison about the four house-fire murders Logan had identified. Renwick had been up for probation in three weeks, but with this on the go, it looked as if he’d be waiting at least another sixteen years before he set foot in the real world again. And the DI would be writing to Aberdeen’s Chief Constable to tell him how it wouldn’t have been possible without Logan’s help.
Logan grinned: result.
Then there were a couple from someone offering to ‘EMBIGGEN YOURE TROUSER BEAST AND THE WOMENS WILL QUEUING UP!’
And right at the bottom, an email from Beattie, CC’d to Dildo and the woman from HMRC, saying how pleased he was they’d made so much progress at the meeting that afternoon. So the rats in the basement hadn’t eaten him alive.
Shame…
Logan closed his eyes. ‘Bugger.’ He’d forgotten to call Dildo about Gallagher and Yates. Too late now. He scribbled himself a note and stuck it on his monitor, then powered the computer down and grabbed the sheets of paper from the printer. He stopped with one hand on the door handle. ‘You sure you’re OK, Bob?’
‘What are you, my mum now?’ Bob turned around for the first time, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. A forced smile. ‘Go on, sod off home. Give that redhead IB tech of yours a good seeing to from me.’
Logan didn’t anwer that.
He pushed into the flat and flicked on the hall light. Silence. The whole place was in darkness. ‘Sod…’ He peered into the bedroom, closed his eyes, sighed, then shut the door, gently. Samantha was still there. She hadn’t abandoned him for her static caravan.
At least that was something.
He dumped his coat on the hook and wandered into the kitchen. Stared at the contents of the fridge for a while, before helping himself to a tin of Irn-Bru. Opening it on the way through to the lounge.
Maybe watch a little telly to help him unwind.
The curtains were drawn, the only light coming from the LEDs on the TV and PlayStation, and the blinking one on the answering machine.
Logan closed his eyes and groaned.
Probably Steel. Or even worse — his mother. He took a scoof of vaguely fruity fizzy juice and hit the button.
‘MESSAGE ONE: Hello, Logan, it’s Hamish. I-’
‘Fuck!’ A mouthful of sticky Irn-Bru sprayed out over the sideboard.
Logan scrabbled for the voulume control, turning it down in case Samantha woke up and heard Aberdeen’s biggest crime lord leaving a message ON HIS BLOODY ANSWERING MACHINE.
He squatted down and hit play again.
‘MESSAGE ONE: Hello, Logan, it’s Hamish. I notice you’ve not done anything with your money yet.’
Oh fuck. What the hell was Wee Hamish Mowat thinking?
‘It’s important for the local economy that we all do our bit, don’t you think? Don’t leave it too long, eh? Oh, and do let me know if you need any more.’
Beeeeeeep.
‘END OF MESSAGES.’
He flipped open the cover and hauled the little cassette out. What if someone found out? What if Samantha picked up his messages? How the FUCK was he supposed to explain it?
He dug his fingernails into the cassette, tugging out the tape and unreeling the whole thing until there was a spaghetti mess of shiny brown-black ribbon curled across the sticky sideboard. Then dropped the plastic case and stomped on it.
Still not enough. The IB could just wind it back onto another cassette.
Logan scooped the lot up and carried it through to the kitchen, dumped it into the empty sink, then went rummaging through the cupboards for the methylated spirit and drenched the lot.
Better be on the safe side…
He tore a dozen pages out of that morning’s Press and Journal and mixed them through the slippery mess, before throwing the window open and dragging out his lighter.
Whooomp: the stainless steel sink filled with purple-blue flame, the newspaper crackling as the tape melted and shrank. Until there was nothing left but curls of ash, a lump of brittle plastic slag, and a gnawing coldness in the depths of Logan’s stomach.
37
Our Father who art in heaven.
Just six words, like, but they’re true. Richard Knox places a hand against the doorway, stands there quietly, looking into the bathroom. Three o’clock in the morning, and all the lights in the flat are off. Except for this one.
Richard’s da’s in heaven — had himself a bit of an accident, didn’t he? With a length of metal pipe over the back of the head. On his knees in a vacant warehouse, blood pouring from his shattered mouth, making gurgling noises. Sobbing. Trying to kid on he was really sorry, you know? Like he didn’t mean to run out on Richard and his mam. That it wasn’t his fault.
Mandy from Sacro’s on her knees too. Gripping onto the toilet bowl. Heaving and retching. Bile spattering from her open mouth. Not caring she’s getting sick on her hair.
‘Are you all right?’
She waves a hand, without looking up. ‘I’m fine…I just…I…Oh shite-’ She heaves again, spine humping as the sound echoes back from the toilet bowl.
It’s a crappy modern flat, in a crappy modern development, walls and carpets the same colour as prison porridge.
Mandy groans, then gives the toilet another mouthful.
Richard’s eyes drift down to the rolling pin in his hand. It’s no lead pipe, but it’ll work just as well. Only Christian to put someone out of their misery, like…
There’s a fine mist of red on his face. Tiny red dots.
His arm aches. Wrist throbbing.
Richard pushes open the door to the third bedroom. Harry’s there, lying curled up under the covers, face all pale and glistening. The room stinks of sour sweat.
Richard flicks on the light.
Harry gives a little moan in protest and sticks a hand over his eyes. Poor lamb. All helpless and defenceless. Richard could do whatever he wanted, and no one could stop him.
Been a long time.
There’s clothes spread all over the floor: jeans, jumper, shirt, towels…Hasn’t even been here twenty-four hours, like, and already the place is a tip.
‘Please…you need to call…call a doctor…’ Voice all slurred and blurry.
Richard licks his lips, they taste of copper pennies.
Course Harry’s a bit young, isn’t he? Bit podgy. Not quite Richard’s type. Still…
Been a long, long time.
He steps inside. ‘Hey Harry, not feeling so well?’
Harry forces a smile. ‘Something didn’t…didn’t agree with…with me.’
Richard smiles back. ‘It’s called Flunitrazepam, you know? Rohypnol? Takes everyone different, like. Your mate Mandy’s in the bathroom spewing her ring. Sometimes happens if you take it with alcohol — think she’s a secret drinker?’
He closes the door. Not that Mandy’s going to interrupt them, just…well, modesty and that.
‘Rohyp…?’
‘AKA: the date rape drug.’
Richard steps towards the bed, unfastening his belt. Then the secret mobile phone he’s not supposed to have bleeps. Got a new text message. All it says is: ‘DOWNSTAIRS.’
He checks his watch. Twenty minutes early.
Richard shuffles to the front window and peers out at the street, four stories below. There’s a big black car sitting in the car park at the back of the flats, its hot exhaust pluming out into the cold night air.
‘Sorry Harry. Love to stay and get better acquainted, like, but me lift’s here.’
Twenty minutes…
Maybe they’ll wait?
38
‘Fuck.’ This was no way to start a Tuesday morning. Half past eight and the day was already ruined. Logan puffed back up the eight flights of stairs to the fourth floor, then stood at the top, wheezing and dizzy. Got to cut back on the fags.
He straightened up and shambled through the door into the corridor.
Knox’s new flat was part of a huge, ugly development — a long winding terrace that looked more like municipal buildings from the 1970s than modern housing. A developer’s dream: build them cheap, pile them high, and charge a fortune.
There were six flats on the fourth floor, all leading off the main corridor. Alpha Three Nine were second on the scene, so they’d been given the task of going door-to-door, stopping people from getting to work. That and blocking off the elevator with ‘POLICE’ tape.
DI Steel was slouched against the wall outside Knox’s new flat, having a scratch.
Logan waved the plastic packages he’d dug out of the pool car’s boot at her. ‘Smurf time.’
She stuck her hand out. ‘Give.’
They struggled into the white paper oversuits, Logan hopping about like an idiot. Bloody shoes never went down the legs properly, did they? He fought his arms into the sleeves, hauled the hood into place, and zipped the thing up, from groin to chin, then slipped the blue plastic booties on. The elasticated facemask went on over his nose and mouth, he pulled on a pair of purple nitrile gloves, and finished off by sticking a second pair over the top of those.
DI Steel hauled her own zip up and stood there: booted and suited, masked and gloved, just like he was. She sniffed. ‘It’s what all the best-dressed people are wearing this season.’
Logan knocked on the door.
PC Irvine from the Offender Management Unit opened it, wearing the same protective clothing. She made them sign in before she’d let them over the threshold.
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