‘You want to get in?’ he asks her. And it’s her turn to think about it. After all, that old tart got herself beaten to death a couple of nights ago. But it’s a nice car, and it’s pissing with rain. And she really, really needs the cash… She jumps in. The car has that lovely new, leathery-plastic smell to it, the upholstery clean, the interior spotless, not like that piece of shit she has to drive. This thing must have cost a fortune. She pulls the seatbelt over her breasts, giving him another flash of red lace, and he smiles. He has a nice smile. For a moment the Julia-Roberts-Pretty-Woman-Fantasy flashes through her brain. Just like it does every time she meets a client who’s good to her. Doesn’t want it too rough, or anything disgusting. He’ll look after her and she won’t have to fuck strangers for money any more. He tells a joke and she laughs as he puts the car in gear and drives them out into the rainy night. He’s really nice, she can tell. She has a sixth sense about that kind of thing.
9
Nearly one in the morning and the morgue was, appropriately, deathly quiet. The only sounds were Logan’s shoes squeaking on the tiles and the hum of the overhead lights. The cutting tables sparkled in the middle of the floor, the huge extractor fan set into the ceiling, waiting to whisk away the smell of death. Good job it worked better than the one in Logan’s kitchen: that wouldn’t whisk away the smell of frying onions, let alone decaying Labrador. ‘Hello?’ The morgue was supposed to be manned twenty-four hours a day, but as he wandered past the loading bay, the fridges, the cutting room and the viewing suite there wasn’t a living soul to be seen. ‘Hello?’ He finally found someone in the pathologist’s office, sitting with her back to the door, feet up on the desk, headphones on, reading a huge Stephen King novel and drinking Lucozade. Logan reached out and tapped the woman on the shoulder. There was a loud shriek; Stephen King and Lucozade went flying as she scrambled to her feet and whirled round. ‘FOR FUCK’S SAKE! YOU NEARLY GAVE ME A HEART ATTACK!’ Logan winced and she peeled off her headphones. ‘Christ!’ she said, the metallic tssshk-tssshk-tssshk of something loud hissing out of the earpieces. ‘I thought you were…’ then she stopped, clearly not wanting to tell Logan she’d thought the dead had risen up to claim her. Carole Shaw: Deputy Anatomical Pathology Technician, slightly chubby, shortish, early thirties with long curly blonde hair, little round spectacles and a MORTICIANS DO IT WITH DEAD BODIES! T-shirt on under an open white lab coat. The latter now stained sticky-orange with ejected Lucozade.
‘Good book?’ asked Logan innocently.
‘Bastard. Nearly sodding wet myself…’ She bent down and grabbed her book off the floor, cursing as the neon-orange fizzy drink soaked into the pages. ‘What the hell do you want?’
‘Labrador’s torso, brought in for post mortem Wednesday afternoon. Got the results back yet?’
She shuddered. ‘Christ, I remember that one. Bloody hell, how come when a rotting, suppurating carcass gets dragged in here for some poor bugger to cut up, it’s always yours?’
Logan didn’t smile. Last year it had been a little boy and a little girl, neither of them much over four years old. Both of them dead a long time. ‘Just lucky I guess,’ he said at last.
‘Here.’ She rummaged through a filing cabinet, emerging with a slim Manila folder. ‘Fido was dismembered with a boning knife: seven-inch single-sided blade – scooped near the handle, straight for most of its length and curved at the tip. They come in most kitchen sets, so nothing distinctive. Find the knife and we’ll probably be able to match it, but the carcass is pretty far gone … can’t guarantee anything.’ She flipped through the pages, her lips moving as she skimmed the text. ‘Here we go … one thing might help: Fido was drugged before he was killed. Amitriptyline: prescription antidepressant. Works a bit like a sedative, so they give it to people who’re wound up, anxious, calms them down. We got what looks like minced beef and about half a bottle of the things from the stomach contents. And you do not want to know what that smelled like.’
Logan agreed. He didn’t. ‘What about the suitcase?’
Carole shrugged. ‘Pretty standard fare. ASDA in Dyce, Bridge of Don, Garthdee and Portlethen all had them on special a couple of months ago. Sold hundreds of the things.’ Logan swore and she nodded. ‘Also, fingerprints: bugger all. Same for fibre: clean as a whistle. Whoever did this wasn’t keen on getting caught.’
The rest of Logan’s night was spent getting together e-fit identikit pictures of the Lithuanian fourteen-year-old and her pimp, then shoving them under the noses of everyone in the station; putting the pictures up on the intranet and briefing pages; emailing them to all the other stations in the area – hoping someone could ID them.
By the time he got back to the flat, the rain had formed an uneasy truce with the early morning sunlight; purple-grey clouds scudding across the sky at a great rate of knots. Jackie was still asleep, curled up under the duvet like an unexploded bomb. She blew up when Logan told her he’d have to go back into work at half eleven to help DI Steel interview Jamie McKinnon. ‘What the hell do you mean you’ve got to go back in? You’ve just got off night shift! She’s already screwed up our whole weekend and now you’re going back into work? I had plans! We were going to do things today!’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s—’
‘Don’t you bloody “sorry” me, Logan McRae! Why can’t you just stand up to the woman and tell her no? You’re supposed to have time off! It’s only a job for Christ’s sake!’
‘But Rosie Williams—’
‘Rosie Williams is dead! She’s not going to get any less dead, just because you work more bloody overtime! Is she?’ She stormed off to the shower, leaving a deluge of foul language in her wake. Fifteen minutes later she was fighting with the hairdryer, trying to work a comb through her wet hair with the fingers of her broken arm. Swearing and muttering at her reflection in the mirror.
Logan stood in the doorway, watching her angry back, not knowing what to say. Ever since she’d moved in – three months ago – they’d rubbed along fine. It was only recently that he’d started to piss her off. And he couldn’t seem to do anything about it. ‘Jackie, I’m sorry. There’s always tomorrow…’
She gave one last tug of the comb, losing it in the long curls of her dark hair, swore, dragged it out and hurled it onto the dressing table, sending jars and tubes of moisturizer clattering. ‘Fucking thing!’ She stood staring down at the mess. ‘I’m going out.’ Jacket, keys and gone.
Logan stood alone in the kitchen. Swearing.
The Black Friars was a real-ale pub at the top of Marischal Street, all dark wooden floorboards and beams, split over three levels, following the downward slope of the road. Weekday mornings were usually pretty quiet, just the occasional pensioner washing down the full Scottish breakfast – eggs, sausage, bacon, beans, black pudding, tattie scones, clootie dumpling, mushrooms and toast, all slathered in tomato sauce – with a couple of beers. Logan perched at the end of the lower bar, eating his breakfast and drinking a pint of Dark Island. So what if it was half nine in the morning? He was supposed to be on holiday. With his girlfriend. Who wasn’t speaking to him, thanks to DI Bloody Steel and her guilt trip. They could have still been in bed, with nothing to do but laze about playing doctors and nurses. Logan scowled, downed the last of his pint and ordered another.
‘Bit early to be gettin’ hammered isn’t it?’
Logan groaned, put down a forkful of beans, and turned to see Colin Miller, the Press and Journal’s golden boy, leaning on the bar next to him. As usual the wee Glaswegian was dressed up to the nines: sharp black suit, silk shirt and tie. He was wide, in a broad-shouldered, muscular kind of way, with a face that took a little getting used to. At least Isobel had tamed down the man’s taste for flashy gold jewellery: instead of the three and a half tons of cufflinks, rings, chains and bracelets he used to wear, Colin was restricted to a single silver band on his left pinkie. Like a misplaced wedding ring. But his watch was still big enough to cover the national debt of a small third-world country. He l
evered himself up on the next barstool and ordered himself a mochachino latte with extra cinnamon.
‘What you doing here anyway?’ Logan asked. ‘Looking for me?’
‘Nope, got an appointment: wanted to make sure it was on neutral territory. You know how it goes.’ Miller scanned the bar before taking a drink. ‘So then, Laz, how’ve you been, eh? No’ seen you for ages, man.’
‘Not since you gave me duff information on that bloody warehouse, no.’
Miller shrugged. ‘Aye, well, can’t be right all the time, eh? My source swore blind it was kosher, like.’
Logan snorted and washed the last of his fried egg down with a mouthful of beer. ‘And who was that, then? No, don’t tell me: journalistic integrity, protecting your sources, none of my fucking business, etcetera.’
‘Jesus, man, who rattled your fuckin’ cage? Did I no’ keep your name out the papers, eh? You see one story blamin’ you for what happened?’ When Logan didn’t say anything, Miller just shrugged and took another sip of coffee. ‘And I can tell you who my source was this time: Graham Kennedy. Remember him? One of the squatters got all burned up in the fire the other night? He was the one told me about that warehouse bein’ full of nicked gear, like. No point being anonymous if you’re dead.’
Logan groaned. He’d forgotten all about Graham Bloody Kennedy – he still hadn’t told DI Insch about him. One more thing he’d screwed up. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me all this on Wednesday?’
‘Didnae know you was holdin’ a grudge.’ He paused, coffee halfway to his lips. ‘Oops, gotta dash, that’s my half ten appointment turned up.’ He pointed through the bar, up the stairs to the middle level, where a dangerous-looking man in an expensive charcoal-grey suit was scowling at an OAP in an Aberdeen Football Club bobble hat.
‘Who’s the thug?’ asked Logan.
‘He’s no’ a thug, Laz, he’s a “corporate investment facilitator” and if he hears you callin’ him a thug, he’ll break your legs. Policeman or no’.’ Miller forced a smile. ‘If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, start dredging the harbour.’ He waved, gave a hearty hello, marched up and shook the ‘facilitator’s’ hand, then led him off to a quiet corner. Logan watched them for a while, his breakfast congealing, forgotten on the plate. Miller was smiling a lot, laughing more than was probably necessary. As if he was doing his damnedest not to upset the man in the grey suit. The thug was easily six foot two, short blond hair, square-cut jaw, teeth straight out of a toothpaste commercial. Five minutes later the man handed over a large brown A4 envelope and Miller smiled ingratiatingly, but handled it like it was a dirty nappy. The conversation seemed to be winding to a close, so Logan got up from his seat and wandered over to the specials board, placing himself between their table and the exit, ‘accidentally’ bumping into the man as he finished shaking Miller’s hand and made to leave. The reporter’s eyes went wide with alarm as he watched Logan apologize profusely, call the facilitator ‘mate’ half a dozen times and offer to buy him a drink. The response was a curt: ‘Fuck off.’ Not shouted. Not emphasized, just quiet, cold and very, very clear. Logan backed away, hands up. Those two words were enough to tell him the guy wasn’t from around here. An Edinburgh lad, up on a jolly. The man straightened out his suit, scowled in Logan’s direction and left.
Miller stood on tiptoes, watching the grey-suited figure hurry across the road in the rain and jump into the passenger seat of a massive silver Mercedes. Logan didn’t get a good look at the driver – moustache, shoulder-length black hair, suit – before the door slammed shut and the car pulled away. As soon as it disappeared from view Miller ran a hand over his forehead and demanded to know what the fuckin’ hell Logan thought he was playing at? ‘Did I no’ tell you the man would break your fuckin’ legs? Are you lookin’ to get me disfingered?’
Logan smiled. ‘You mean disfigured—’
‘I know what I bloody well mean!’ Miller pulled up a barstool and ordered a large Macallan whisky, throwing it back in one.
‘So,’ said Logan, ‘you going to tell me what that was all about?’
‘Am I fuck. You want to piss in someone’s soup? Piss in your own. Mine tastes bad enough as it is.’
Logan watched the reporter storm off, Cuban heels stomping up the stairs two at a time, before turning back to the bar to finish his pint and pay for his half-eaten breakfast.
Quarter past eleven and he was loitering without intent in front of Force Headquarters. He’d tried to speak to DI Insch about Graham Kennedy, but the inspector wasn’t in – according to the admin officer he was off buying a big box of Sherbert Dib-Dabs from the cash and carry in Altens. Would Logan like to leave a message? No, he bloody would not. If there was any credit to be had for identifying Graham Kennedy, Logan wanted it. In person. So he slouched about in front instead, waiting for DI Steel. The daylight was pre-autumn amber, turning the grey granite to glittering gold. Up above the clouds were a rolling mass of dark purple and white. The air smelled of rain.
Sure enough, the first light drops started as DI Steel’s car purred into the main car park. Cursing and swearing, she struggled with the soft-top, shouting at Logan to get his finger out and help. They got the roof up just before the heavens opened. Logan sat in the passenger seat, looking around. ‘Very swish,’ he said, as the inspector revved the engine and pulled out onto Queen Street.
‘Best mid-life crisis I ever had, buying this thing: it’s a bloody babe-magnet…’ She flicked on the windscreen wipers, squinting at him out of the corner of her eye. ‘You been on the piss?’
Logan shrugged. ‘Keeping an eye on a friend in the pub. Shifty wee bugger’s up to something.’
‘Oh aye? Anyone I know?’
He paused for a long moment, before simply saying, ‘No.’ They cruised up Union Street in silence, the growl of the engine and the drumming of rain on the car’s soft roof the only noise. Steel was obviously desperate for Logan to tell her more, but he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. After all, it was her fault Jackie had stormed out this morning.
The rain sparked off the windscreen, catching the golden sunlight as the traffic crawled past pavements packed with pedestrians. A few were hurrying along under umbrellas, but most of them just marched down the street, resigned to getting wet. Live in the North-east of Scotland for long enough and you stop noticing the rain. Up at the far end of Union Street a rainbow had formed against the lowering clouds.
‘Typical fucking Aberdeen,’ said the inspector, shoogling about in her seat, trying to get a hand into her trouser pocket. ‘Blazing sunshine and pissing with rain. Both at the same time. Don’t know why I bothered buying a bloody open-topped sports car.’
Logan smiled. ‘Mid-life crisis babe-magnet, remember?’
The inspector nodded sagely, ‘Aye, that was it … Come on you wee buggers…’ She was still fighting with her trousers. ‘Shite. Hold on to the steering wheel for a minute, OK?’ She didn’t pause for an answer, just let go of the wheel, unbuckled her seatbelt and dragged out the crumpled remains of a packet of twenty Marlboro Lights, digging one out of the pack before retaking control of the car. ‘You don’t mind?’ she asked, not waiting for an answer before setting the tip glowing. The cramped car interior quickly filled with smoke. Spluttering slightly, Logan wound his window down a crack, letting in the steady hiss of rain hitting the road, buildings, cars and people.
Steel swung off Union Street opposite Marks and Spencer, heading down Market Street. As the harbour drifted past Logan peered around, but Shore Lane was hidden from view by a dirty big supply boat. The clanging and bashing of containers being loaded and unloaded echoed through the rain.
‘So what about our hairy friend’s post mortem?’ the inspector asked as they headed along the north bank of the River Dee, taking the scenic route to Craiginches Prison. He told her about the knife and the suitcase and the antidepressant. Steel just snorted. ‘Lot of bloody good that does us.’
‘Well, the drugs are prescription only, so—�
�
‘So they might be the killer’s! Or the killer’s wife’s, or his mother’s, or their neighbour’s, or granny’s…’ She wound down the window and flicked the dying remains of her cigarette out into the rainy sunshine. ‘Damn things could be Gulf War surplus for all we know. Hell, they might not even have been prescribed locally!’ said Steel, swinging around the roundabout onto Queen Mother Bridge. ‘What we going to do? Phone up every doctor’s office and pharmacy in the country and ask for a list of patients’ names and addresses?’
‘We could get them to narrow it down a bit; just ask for details of anyone with mental problems who’s been prescribed the drug.’
‘“Mental problems?”’ She laughed. ‘If they didn’t have mental problems they wouldn’t be on anti-bloody-depressants, would they?’ She looked across the car at him. ‘Jesus, Lazarus, how’d you get to be a DS? They giving out sergeant’s stripes free with boxes of Frosties?’ Logan just scowled at the dashboard. ‘Aye, well,’ she smiled at him. ‘When we get back to the ranch you can go find one of them tree-hugging wildlife crime officers to chase it up. Dead dog’ll be right up their street. We’ll start paying attention again if it comes to anything.’
HM Prison Craiginches was segregated from the outside world by twenty-four-foot-high walls, and a small black metal plaque saying, ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY KEEP OUT’, as if the razor wire wasn’t enough of a hint. It was surrounded on three sides by residential streets – the houses festooned with burglar alarms – but on the fourth side there was nothing between the prison’s north wall and the River Dee but the dual carriageway to Altens and a very steep bank. DI Steel parked in a bay marked ‘STAFF ONLY’ and sauntered round to the front door, with Logan slouching along at her heels. Twelve minutes later they were sitting in a shabby little room with a chipped Formica table and creaky plastic seats complete with brown, slug-shaped cigarette burns. There was a tape recorder bolted to the wall, but no video, just the bracket and a couple of loose wires. They sat there for another five minutes, counting the ceiling tiles – twenty-two and a half – before Jamie McKinnon was finally shepherded round the door by a bored-looking prison officer. Logan popped a couple of fresh tapes into the machine and launched into the standard names, dates and location speech. ‘So then, Jamie,’ said DI Steel when he’d finished. ‘How’s the food? Good? Or is Dirty Duncan Dundas still wanking into the porridge?’ Jamie just shuddered and started picking at the skin around his fingernails, hacking away at it until the quick showed deep pink underneath. It didn’t look as if prison agreed with McKinnon; a thin sheen of sweat covered his face and there were dark bags under his eyes. He had a split lip and a bruised cheek. Steel settled back in her seat and grinned at him. ‘The reason we’re here, my little porridgemuncher, is that there’s a tiny problem with your alibi: someone saw you and Rosie Williams going at it like knives the night she got herself battered to death! How’s about that for wacky coincidence?’
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