‘So,’ said Rennie on the way back to the car. ‘You want to tell me what that was all about?’
‘Agnes Walker had the crap beaten out of her about twelve days ago. Four days later, give or take, Rosie Williams is beaten to death. Four days after that it’s Michelle Wood’s turn.’
‘So?’ Rennie plipped the locks and clambered in behind the wheel.
‘What if Rosie Williams wasn’t the guy’s first?’ said Logan, getting into the passenger seat. ‘Suppose he’s been out there hunting before, only victim number one puts up a fight and he can’t finish the job. He learns from his mistakes and out he goes again. He tries Rosie, and she’s not as strong as the first one, or maybe he’s just better prepared this time: he kicks and punches her till she’s dead. Four days later he’s back again. He did Rosie right there in the street; anyone could come along – too risky. This time he snatches his victim. Instead of killing her at the scene, he takes her away somewhere quiet and secluded where he can enjoy himself a bit more. Less chance of discovery.’ Rennie did a three-point turn and headed back towards Anderson Drive as Logan fought with the seatbelt. ‘The more he does it, the better he gets. So far, Skanky Agnes is the only one who’s seen him and lived. Soon as we’re back at FHQ get a lookout request out for her. We need to know what he looks like.’
Rennie whistled, waiting for his turn at the roundabout onto the dual carriageway. ‘So that definitely puts the kybosh on Jamie McKinnon killing Rosie…’
‘If it’s the same man.’
The car lurched onto the roundabout as Rennie floored it, nipping out before an articulated lorry could flatten them. He drove straight across the Drive, heading back into town. ‘You think it’s the same man, don’t you?’
Logan shrugged. ‘Either that or it’s a huge bloody coincidence…’ He watched the houses on Rosehill Drive go by for a moment, before coming to a conclusion. ‘Change of plan: drop me off at the Journals. I’ve got to see a man about some drugs.’
20
As Rennie pulled away from the P&J’s concrete bunker, Logan called Colin Miller on his mobile. ‘Colin, it’s me.’ Silence from the other end of the phone. ‘Look, Colin, I know Steel can be an arse at times, but…’ He couldn’t actually think of an excuse for the inspector’s behaviour, so he settled for, ‘But I could really do with your help.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Five minutes. I’m outside. Come on, we can go for a walk in the sunshine…’
A deep sigh. ‘OK, OK – if I do, will you promise tae leave me alone?’
‘Scout’s honour.’ Ten minutes later Miller appeared, dressed in his shirtsleeves, jacket slung casually over one shoulder. They walked up the Lang Stracht, sun on their faces, bus fumes in their lungs. ‘So, you want to tell me about your friends from down south?’
Miller sighed. ‘You know the bloody answer to that.’ He glanced back at the bulky, grey P&J building as it slowly disappeared from sight. ‘Everythin’s fucked.’ He shook his head. ‘I was on tae a nice wee gig here, know what I mean? All the front page stories I wanted, nice car, good woman…’ He trailed off as he remembered he was talking to Isobel’s ex-lover. ‘Aye, well… you know. Now these fuckers are screwin’ it all up.’
‘I saw your piece on McLennan Homes.’
‘Piece of shite, that was. Can you believe I had tae beg tae get that on the front page?’ He gave a bitter smile. ‘Everyone thinks I’ve lost it, Laz.’
‘What they do, threaten you?’
Miller looked up at him, brow furrowed. ‘What, Malkie’s lads? Oh, just your basic how hard would it be to type with no fingers? Tellin’ me whit a lovely home I have and how pretty Isobel is, what a shame it’d be if somethin’ happened to her face … So I published, and now I’m damned: stuck doin’ shitey wee pieces on fairs and bloody bake sales.’
‘If it makes you feel any better, last night they broke a guy’s fingers in hospital. Smacked him around a bit. Probably forced him to hide a couple of condoms of coke up his arse. So he probably had a worse day than you.’ Miller almost smiled; it was the first time in ages Logan had seen him without a scowl on his face. ‘Look, you need these guys to go away – I can do that if you help me. I’ll keep you out of it. I just need to know who they are, where they’re staying, anything you’ve got.’
They walked along in silence for a while, heading back towards the newspaper building. Up above, the pure blue of the sky was beginning to fade, a long, low purple band of cloud coming in off the sea. ‘Brendan Sutherland,’ said Miller at last, ‘known as “Chib” to his pals, on account of him stabbin’ folk, like.’
‘“Chib”? What is he, west-coast mafia?’
Miller laughed, short and sharp. ‘Naw, he’s a wannabe Weegie. An Edinburgh tosspot with delusions of grandeur. Only trouble is, as you know, he’s a fuckin’ huge tosspot. When he turned up first time, I did me some diggin’. Wee shite’s got himself a big reputation. Doesn’t play in the shallow end of the cesspit. Malk the Knife likes tae keep Chib for breakin’ in new territories. Fixin’ stuff. Gettin’ rid of people Malkie doesn’t want anyone to find.’
Logan wasn’t surprised Miller had been bricking it in the pub the other morning. ‘What about the other one, his driver?’
Miller shook his head. ‘No idea. Soon as I saw Chib’s résumé I stopped askin’ questions. Someone slaps my knob in a blender, I’m no’ playin’ with the buttons.’
‘Does Isobel know?’
The reporter blushed. ‘I… er… You’re no’ to tell her, OK? I don’t want her upset. No’ now.’
‘If this Chib bloke’s threatening both of you, she’s got a right to know!’
‘You don’t fuckin’ tell her! Promise me! I’ll sort it out.’
‘How? How the hell can you sort this out? If Chib’s here to carve up Aberdeen for Malk the Knife, he’s not leaving any time soon!’
A crafty light glimmered in Miller’s eye. ‘Unless something happens to him…’
‘Don’t even start. What you going to do? Hit him over the head and bury the body in your back garden?’
Miller grinned. ‘I’ve got a mate with a pig farm up by Fyvie. They’d love a bite of prime Edinburgh bampot…’ He thought about it for a minute then shrugged. ‘Give us a day. I’ll get you an address. But for Christ’s sake don’t let him find out where you got it, OK?’
‘OK.’ They walked back to the P&J offices, Miller promising to phone as soon as he found out anything. And while they were on the subject, Logan asked for a little favour. ‘I want you to lay off DI Steel.’
‘Bollocks to that. I’m no’ taking shite like that from a manky wee bitch—’
‘If you screw her over in the paper, Professional Standards will have my arse. I don’t know why, but they’ve got a thing for her. She goes down, I do too. And if I go down, I can’t help you.’
Miller swore. ‘OK, OK: hands off the saggyfaced old cow. I get it. I don’t shaft her and you don’t tell Isobel about these Edinburgh bastards. Deal?’ They shook on it, then the reporter shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking as if he was gearing himself up for something. ‘Er… Laz, you know I’m stuck doin’ this shitey bake-sale crap? Well, any chance of… you know… You got anything I can use? Somethin’ about them dead prostitutes, like? Or anything else? I’m fuckin’ dyin’ here!’
Logan was about to say he’d see what he could do when his phone rang. It was Steel; telling him to get over to the hospital. Jamie McKinnon had just failed his rectal exam.
Aberdeen Royal Infirmary wasn’t far, just over the lights at Anderson Drive and down the hill a bit, so Logan made his excuses and walked. By the time he got there the thin band of cloud had grown until it covered half the sky, battleship grey and ominous purple. He ducked into the hospital’s lobby as the first tentative specks of rain stuttered against the automatic doors.
The ARI front lobby was an open-plan space with pictures and comfortable seating that always made his skin crawl. He hurried across the i
nfirmary’s coat of arms and made his way to Jamie McKinnon’s ward. Only Jamie wasn’t there any more. A knackered nurse in a bloodstained uniform told Logan he’d been moved to a private room on the third floor. It didn’t take him long to find it.
DI Steel was already there, along with a tall bloke from the Drugs Squad. Logan was introduced and got as far as shaking the man’s hand before remembering where it had just been. It was a huge hand, engulfing Logan’s own, and he had a sudden pang of sympathy for Jamie McKinnon – who was now lying curled up on the bed like a spanked child, face to the wall. That must have hurt! Councillor Marshall would have been delighted.
‘Go on,’ said Steel to her large friend. ‘Show him what you found.’
The man gave a cold smile and held up a stainless steel kidney dish with two slimy, lumpy packages in it, each one no more than four inches long, looking like a pair of small mealie puddings. ‘Rough guess, I’d say you’re looking at about a quarter-kilo of crack,’ he said. ‘No way this much cocaine is for personal use: this is for dealing. Don’t see that much of it up here. Your boy must be looking to start a trend.’
Steel sank down on the bed, next to Jamie’s foetal form, patting him on the thigh. ‘So, Jamie, you want to tell us all about your mates from down south now, or shall I just go ahead and add “possession with intent to supply” to your list of charges?’ But Jamie had had enough of the long arm of the law for one day. He kept his face to the wall, curled up in a ball, silent.
Half past four. Ailsa Cruickshank picked up the phone and called Gavin’s office. It was Norman who answered, far too young to be an account manager and a terrible flirt. Blushing, Ailsa asked him if she could talk to her husband. There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the phone, as if Norman was thinking about something. And then, ‘Ailsa, what does a fine, hot babe like you want to be speaking to an old fart like that for?’
‘I need him to pick up some things for tea,’ she said, embarrassed and thrilled to be called a ‘hot babe’.
‘Hold on a minute, OK, sexy?’ There was muffled conversation at the other end. ‘Sorry, Ailsa, my kitten, I’m afraid the old stinker’s out with a customer. Probably won’t be back till late. Sorry, love, you know how it goes here: customer comes first and all that. But if you’re lonely, I could always come over and keep you warm?’ Smiling, she told him it was OK and hung up. Norman was simply dreadful! Full of compliments and naughty suggestions, just like Gavin had been, before all the tests had taken the spark out of things. Four years of trying for children. Four years of medical evaluations and ovulation cycles… Anyway, it didn’t matter. Things would be back to normal soon. Life had a way of working things out. It always did.
With a brave smile she picked the keys to their new car off the table. She’d just have to go to the supermarket herself. Gavin always liked steak for his birthday tea, maybe she’d make it tonight as well. Just for a treat.
Next door the music started booming.
The stakeout operation started again at ten on the dot: same team, same cars, same positions. Thick raindrops had given way to a fine drizzle before petering out, leaving the alleyway rife with puddles and slick cobblestones. High above, the clouds were low and dark, reflecting back the orange-yellow glow of the streetlights. Down in Shore Lane that was pretty much the only illumination there was. Three of the remaining lights had died, leaving only one sulphurous lamp for WPC Menzies to strut her stuff beneath.
Logan had parked the pool car in the same place as before and while the inspector called round all the positions on her radio – making sure everyone was in place – he reclined his seat and shut his eyes, determined that tonight was going to be his turn to catch up on sleep. Since leaving the hospital he’d requested Brendan ‘Chib’ Sutherland’s record from Lothian and Borders Police, chased up the lookout call on Agnes Walker – still no sign of her yet – and filled in the paperwork to get Jamie McKinnon charged for the drugs he was packing. As soon as McKinnon got out of hospital he was going to go straight to court and then back to Craiginches. Logan couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy: it wasn’t as if he’d had much say in the matter when Chib decided to ram a quarter-kilo of crack cocaine inside him.
Logan wriggled in the driver’s seat, trying to get comfortable without standing on the pedals or banging his knees on the steering wheel. It was the same car from yesterday – no one had even bothered to chuck the chip papers in the bin. They were still lying on the back seat, along with all the items seized from Councillor Marshall’s car. Logan had half expected them to get signed into evidence, but for that to happen some sort of charge would have to be pressed, and the inspector flat-out refused to do it. Christ alone knew what sort of dodgy deal she’d done with Marshall to keep the man out of court and out of the papers.
He was just about asleep when the sound of snoring drifted across from the passenger seat. The inspector had beaten him to it. Grumbling, Logan pulled his seat upright again and sat staring morosely at the darkened alley: one of them had to stay awake in case something happened. It was going to be another long night.
Five to midnight and Logan was sent out to fetch the inspector’s chips. Again. At least it wasn’t raining any more and, to be honest, he was grateful for an excuse to get out of the car and stretch his legs. The inspector had been making sounds like a tractor from one end and a leaky inner tube from the other, all night.
Instead of heading straight up Marischal Street to the chip shop he cut right along Regent Quay, intending to make a left onto Commerce Street like last time, then keep on going till he could nip across the roundabout and in round the back of the Castlegate. At least it would keep him away from Steel and her noisome backside for an extra ten minutes.
There were a lot more people on the streets tonight, most of them drunk; lurching, staggering and singing away to themselves in a mixture of broken English and Russian. One of the big boats must be in.
WPC Davidson was standing at the corner of Mearns Street – dressed in a vast upholstered bra and tiger-print miniskirt, with a duffel coat over the top. She got into character as soon as she saw him coming, shouting out, ‘Oi, Big Boy, you looking fer a good time, darlin’? I’ll bile yer tatties and champit yer neeps! Whoooooarrrrr!’ ending with an embarrassingly graphic display of breast-clutching and hip-thrusting as he walked past laughing.
‘Couldn’t afford you, Mrs Davidson: too classy for me.’
She gave him a farewell two-finger salute and went back to picking her teeth. He took a left at the corner, leaving the Quay for Commerce Street, walking out into the road to avoid a huge puddle of black, oil-skimmed water.
It wasn’t the prettiest end of town by any stretch of the imagination. Unloved, utilitarian buildings in uniform grey, interspersed with modern units in plastic and corrugated steel. Welders and tool-rental places rubbed shoulders with ships’ chandlers, prowled after dark by late-night drunkards and drugged-up hookers. One of the latter was negotiating with two of the former in the mouth of a tiny, darkened alleyway. Logan kept walking, trying to ignore the exchange, but hearing it nonetheless: ‘Come on,’ said a big, unsteady bloke, slurring. ‘You… you can do both of us for that, can’t ye, darlin’? Aaatha same time like? Yer man Steve says you’re the best… aaatha same time?’
His mate, barely able to stand, shouted, ‘Am no’ takin’ sloppy fuckin’ seconds!’
‘Shuthafuckup – I know that! Did I no’ just say she had tae do us aaatha same time?’ Belch. Two steps backward, one step forward. ‘Which end you want?’
‘Cost more, both at same time. More!’ Slavic accent.
Logan froze: it was her.
‘More?’ It was Fat Boy again, undoing his trousers and letting them fall round his ankles. ‘C’moan, amma sex god! You should be payin’ me!’ He lurched forward, tripped over his trousers and fell in a heap on the cobbles. His friend immediately commenced pissing himself with laughter.
Logan stepped into the alley. The friend was now doubled up
, as Fat Boy tried valiantly to scrabble to his feet – vast, white, hairy arse first. ‘Kylie’ watched all this with unfocused indifference, scratching away at the crook of her left arm, the one with the cigarette burns and needle tracks. Logan walked right up to her. She stared through his shoulder for a moment, before swaying her eyes up to his face and smiling. ‘You want make fuck now? You police: I do for free…’
‘Why don’t you and me go for a walk and a chat?’
She grinned. ‘I talk dirty good!’
‘Yeah, I know: you told me that before, remember?’ He took hold of her arm and steered her back towards the street, provoking a cry of protest from the bloke with his trousers round his ankles. Apparently Logan was jumping the queue. ‘She’s fourteen,’ Logan replied, ‘and I’m CID. Want to see me arresting you for child abuse?’ The big man yanked his trousers up and mumbled something about having kids himself and wasn’t it terrible and he never meant anything by it and he really didn’t know she was fourteen…
Beneath the streetlights Logan got his first good look at her. Sometime in the last week she’d managed to break her nose. ‘What happened to your face?’
Kylie shrugged. ‘Steve – he get angry. I tell him rain bad for business, but he say I not make enough money.’
‘You look like you haven’t eaten for a week.’
She shook her head, staggering a little as they walked up the side of the Citadel and into the Castlegate. ‘I eat Happy Meal. Steve good to me.’
Yeah, thought Logan, good old ‘Steve’. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you some chips.’
The queue was longer than usual, the drunk and the not-so-drunk waiting patiently for their turn to order smoked sausage supper and a mealie pudding, beneath the silent, flickering glare of a television set up above the till. Logan and Kylie slowly shuffled their way around the little chicane in the middle of the shop to encourage orderly queuing, with the Lithuanian explaining why Edinburgh chip shops were much better than the ones in Aberdeen because they did salt and sauce, not just salt and vinegar. They’d finally made it as far as the long stainless-steel-and-glass bunker – where the deep-fried bits and pieces went to die – when Kylie pointed up at the silent TV screen and squealed with delight. ‘I make fuck with him!’
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