‘So, when he didn’t you phoned the police?’ said Logan, scanning the report for the date she’d reported her husband missing: half past seven, Thursday morning.
She nodded, sending tears dripping into her congealing tea. ‘Sometimes he doesn’t get back till four or five, if he has to go to the casino, or one of those…’ she blushed, ‘clubs, so I went to bed. When he wasn’t back by six I tried his mobile, but it said to leave a message. I tried again and again and… then I called the police.’
Logan nodded, trying to concentrate on her story and failing. Why on earth did he have to threaten Hissing Sid? As if the enquiry into PC Maitland’s death wasn’t going to be painful enough without adding a formal complaint to the pile… Suddenly Logan realized that Mrs Cruickshank had just finished saying something and was looking at him expectantly. ‘Hmmm…’ he said, putting on a frown of concentration, no idea at all what she’d just asked him. ‘In what way?’
‘Well.’ She scooted her chair closer to the table. ‘What if she’s done something to him? She’s dangerous!’
‘Dangerous… I see…’ No he didn’t: he wasn’t any the wiser. He’d just have to bite the bullet and admit that he hadn’t been listen—
‘That woman next door has been nothing but trouble since she moved in! She hit him! Gave him a black eye! He reported it…’ The tears started again. ‘You have to find him!’ Logan promised her he’d do his best and escorted her to the front door. There was no sign of Sandy the Snake in reception – probably off complaining to the Chief Constable in person – so he made himself scarce, grabbing one of the CID pool cars. Not really caring where he went just as long as he was far away from FHQ before anyone noticed he was gone. To be on the safe side, he switched off his mobile phone as well. What he needed was something to keep his mind off things. Something to make him feel useful, even if he was only marking time until the summons back to headquarters for another ear-bashing. And maybe a bit of getting fired. According to Mrs Cruickshank, her husband worked for an oil-service company based in the Kirkhill Industrial Estate, hiring lifting gear out to the drilling rigs and platforms. OK, so it was only a missing persons job, but at least he’d be doing something.
ScotiaLift occupied a featureless two-storey rectangle with a small car park in front and a gated enclosure out the back stacked with brightly coloured lifting equipment. The car park boasted a Porsche, a huge BMW four-wheel-drive thing, a soft-top Audi – none of which looked more than a couple of months old and all of which had personalized number plates – and a six-foottall sign with the company’s logo rendered in layers of shiny plastic. Logan parked his filthy, dented CID pool car next to the Porsche, severely lowering the tone of the place, and let himself into the building’s reception.
Aberdeen had a long and proud history of hiring attractive young ladies to sit behind reception desks and ScotiaLift was no exception. She smiled brightly as Logan entered. ‘Can I help you?’ The smile faltered as he proffered his warrant card and told her he was there to ask some questions about the disappearance of a Mr Gavin Cruickshank. She looked from the card to Logan and back again, worry making little creases at the corners of her eyes.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘it’s a dreadful photo. I need to speak to Mr Cruickshank’s colleagues and anyone else who might have seen him on Wednesday.’
‘But he didn’t come in on Wednesday!’
Logan frowned. ‘Are you sure?’
The woman nodded and tapped the reception desk with a painted fingernail. ‘I would have seen him.’ Logan turned and took a quick look around the reception area. It wasn’t huge and the front door was directly opposite where the woman sat. She was right: if he’d come in the front she would have seen him.
‘There isn’t a back way?’
She nodded, pointing off through an open door to the left of the desk. ‘Round the side, but it opens into the yard and the gate’s kept locked. Well, unless there’s equipment getting moved. Everyone parks out front – I’d’ve seen his car.’
‘In that case,’ asked Logan, ‘how come when Mrs Cruickshank phoned on the Wednesday afternoon she was told her husband was out with a customer?’
A slight blush. ‘I don’t know.’
Logan let the silence hang for a minute, hoping she’d leap in and say something more. But she didn’t. Instead she took an all-consuming interest in the phones, as if willing them to ring and give her an excuse not to speak to him any more, cheeks turning redder by the minute. ‘OK,’ he said at last, breaking the uncomfortable silence, ‘then I’ll need to speak to everyone who worked with him.’
She found him an empty office on the first floor, Gavin’s: an untidy room with a girlie calendar hanging on the back of the door, another one on the far wall, two computers and a huge desk that looked as if it hadn’t been cleared since the last ice age. But it did have a lovely view of the car park. One by one, all of ScotiaLift’s employees were called into Logan’s commandeered office, from the yardsman to the managing director, sitting on the other side of the messy desk and telling Logan what a great guy Gavin Cruickshank was and how it wasn’t like him to just disappear like that. None of them admitted to speaking to Gavin’s wife on the phone and telling her he’d just popped out to see a client. Logan was getting ready to leave when a flashy two-seater sports car pulled up out front. He watched from his first-floor window as a tanned man in his early twenties hopped out, pointed his key fob at the car and plipped on the alarm, before swaggering towards the building and disappearing from view. Thirty seconds later the same tanned face popped around the door to Logan’s office and grinned at him.
‘Evenin’, squire, understand you’re looking for me?’ Spiky blond hair, linen suit, no tie, Armani sunglasses, faint Dundee accent.
‘That depends. You speak to Gavin Cruickshank’s wife on Wednesday?’
‘The lovely Ailsa?’ The grin grew even wider as the man peeled off his jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. ‘Guilty as charged. One of these days she’s going to wise up and dump that tosser husband of hers.’ He gave Logan a wink. ‘You ever met her? Knockers like melons, sexy as hell. Never believe she used to be the size of a house. Must go like a fucking bunny…’ He sighed, happy with his fantasy.
‘Wednesday afternoon: why did you tell her Gavin was out with a client?’
‘Hmm? Oh,’ cos he was.’
‘Funny. Everyone else says he didn’t turn up for work that day.’
Pause. Fidget. And then the smile was back. ‘You got me, it’s a fair cop. He didn’t show up Wednesday morning.’
‘So why did you lie to her?’
‘Well, you see, it’s kinda like this: sometimes he doesn’t come in till later. Sometimes he doesn’t come into the office at all. Gav brings in a lot of business, so he can get away with murder round here.’
‘So how did you know he was with a client? Did you speak to him?’
‘Not as such, no. But he sent me a text message.’
‘When was this?’
‘Dunno, mid morning I think. Said he wouldn’t be in till later, didn’t say when.’
‘So you assumed he was with a client?’
‘Ah…’ The smile flickered on and off as he settled into the chair behind the messy desk and switched on one of the computers. ‘Not really, no. You see, Gav is what we call a “cheating bastard”. Here…’ He dug about in the piles of paper, coming out with a glossy photograph of a topless Gavin Cruickshank, surrounded by a gaggle of T-shirt-stretching blondes and brunettes bearing the legend HOOTERS. One of them was squeezing his tanned chest, her hand almost covering a black tattoo. They had Hooters emblazoned on their chests; he had AILSA on his. ‘Got that taken when we was in Houston for the last offshore technology conference. He knobbed three of them in four days. Not that his poor bloody wife has any idea. She still thinks he’s Mister Shiny.’ He shook his head. ‘Unbe-fucking-lievable isn’t it? I mean if you could go home and screw someone like Ailsa, why the hell would you need anyone else? But
there you are: he’s an arsehole.’
‘So when he sent you a text saying he wouldn’t be in until later, you thought…’
‘That he was off getting his knob sucked by some lovely young thing? Yeah. Wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘Any idea who?’
‘Well, you met Janet on reception? He’s been poking her off and on for a bit. I think he’s been giving one of your lot’s wife a good seeing to. Detective Sergeant something or other. And he’s been seeing this pole-dancer at Secret Service, you know, the titty bar on Windmill Brae? Hayley…’ An envious grin. ‘’Cording to him she does some of the filthiest things with a carrot you ever seen! Criminal. Hey, maybe she’s got a pimp or something and he’s done for Gav? Or maybe they’ve just run off together. Silly bastard’s talked about it often enough…’ And the grin became a leer. ‘I could console his poor, sexy, abandoned wife! Give her a shoulder to cry on and a knob to bounce on. Jesus, that would be sweet.’
Back outside in the sunshine Logan stood in the car park, looking up at the building Mr Gavin Cruickshank ran his empire of extramarital sex from. Four women – how did he have the energy? Logan had enough trouble with one.
24
Logan’s phone started ringing pretty much the moment he switched it back on – a harsh cacophony of bings, squeaks and whistles that made his stomach clench. But it was only Colin Miller; the reporter had managed to track down an address for Brendan ‘Chib’ Sutherland. According to Miller’s sources, Chib and his mate with the long hair and ‘tache were staying in an exclusive little development on the western edge of Mannofield. Logan got the feeling there was something else, something the reporter wasn’t telling him, but no amount of prompting, cajoling or questioning would get him to spill the beans. So in the end Logan just had to thank Miller for the info. Whatever it was, he’d probably find out soon enough. ‘So, Laz… you got anythin’ for me? You know, quid pro quo, like?’ Logan thought about it. DI Steel wanted to let Councillor Marshall get away with abusing a fourteen-year-old, wanted everyone to look the other way, had told him in no uncertain terms to keep his nose out of it? No problem, he’d let the Press and Journal do it for him. So Logan told Miller all about Councillor Marshall, the Chief Greenbelt Development Planner, and the fourteen-year-old Lithuanian prostitute. Miller nearly exploded with delight. ‘Holy shit, that’s fantastic! Talk about caught with your pants down!’ Pause. ‘You sure can use this?’ Logan told him to go ahead and knock himself out, then hung up. It was the first time in ages he’d actually agot some job satisfaction.
Logan turned the car back towards FHQ – he’d managed to spend a whole four and a quarter hours away from the office, but like it or not, he’d have to go back in to do something about Chib and his greasy-looking mate.
Sergeant Mitchell was having a sly fag on the back podium as Logan slid the pool car into one of the vacant parking spots. ‘What the hell you doing back here?’ he shouted, not bothering to take the cigarette from his mouth. ‘Thought I told you to make yourself scarce?’
‘I take it Napier’s been looking for me.’
‘Surprisingly enough, no.’ He oozed smoke out through his nose, where it became entangled in the hairs of his moustache, leaving it smouldering. ‘The lovely Count Nosferatu has been away with the Chief Constable all day, on what is being politely referred to as “a jolly”.’ Logan nodded gloomily. It just meant the bollocking was postponed until tomorrow. ‘But one of them Wildlife Crime Officers came past about your dog in a suitcase.’
‘Yeah?’ He’d forgotten all about handing the investigation over, what with the fires and all the dead prostitutes. ‘Any luck?’
‘How the hell should I know?’
‘Wonderful, thanks, Eric.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Sergeant Mitchell took a deep drag and tried for a smoke-ring, failing miserably. ‘By the way: Social Work’ve been round, that wee whore of yours is really only thirteen.’ He raised his cigarette in salute. ‘Fuckin’ proud moment for Aberdonians everywhere…’ and suddenly Eric looked all of his forty-one years. ‘Oh and DI Steel wants to see you as well. And before you ask: no idea. You’ll have to ask her yourself.’
DI Steel’s incident room was slowly fumbling its way back into chaos, as time and the inspector’s natural flair for entropy took hold. The back shift were manning the phones and pushing paper about; not that there was a lot going on at the moment. Dr Bushel’s profile for the prostitute killer – or ‘The Shore Lane Stalker’ as the papers were calling him – wasn’t being released to the media, but it was stuck up on the wall next to the post mortem photographs. There was no sign of Steel.
Three fresh yellow Post-it notes lurked in the middle of Logan’s desk along with yet another plastic bag of videotapes from Operation Cinderella. Logan stuffed them, unwatched, in the cupboard with all the others. The first Post-it was from Steel, telling him that the labs had finally got their finger out and come back with an analysis of the items retrieved from Jamie McKinnon’s bumhole: crack cocaine. No surprise there, but he was to call her. Note number two was from the Wildlife Crime Officer: he’d been through all the reports of missing black Labradors but none of them were likely candidates for the torso in the woods. And note number three was from an inspector whose name Logan didn’t recognize saying that he was to phone as soon as he got in. As long as it was before five. Which it wasn’t. So Logan went off to look for DI Steel instead. She was in the canteen, polishing off a ham and cheese sandwich.
‘You wanted to see me?’ said Logan, dropping himself into a seat on the other side of the table, eyeing Steel suspiciously.
‘Mmmmphhh…’ She chewed, forced a big wedge of sandwich into the side of her mouth and mumbled something about leaving him a note.
‘I got a possible address for our Edinburgh pushers.’
A predatory smile slunk its way onto the inspector’s face. ‘’Bout bloody time too,’ she said, washing down the last of her sandwich with a skoof of Irn-Bru. ‘Right, let’s get a search and apprehension warrant. I want to take the bastards tonight, before they have a chance to do someone else.’
‘What about Insch?’
Steel frowned. ‘What about him?’
‘Well, we think that maybe these guys might have something to do with Karl Pearson. You know, the man we found tortured to death with his throat cut?’
‘And?’
‘Don’t you think we should tell him about—’
‘Bugger that: this is our collar. Insch can have his turn when we’ve finished doing them for the drugs.’ She settled back in her seat and started digging between her rear molars with a fingernail. ‘This is our chance to shine, Lazarus. We tell Insch and he’ll take the whole thing over. If there’s any credit going on this one, I want it. Insch doesn’t need it.’ And that was it, end of discussion. She wouldn’t even let him tell the Drugs Squad.
It took the best part of an hour to organize the warrants, identify a team and get them together so the inspector could take them through the compulsory pre-operation briefing. Nine firearms-trained officers and a handful of uniform for backup. There was a good mixture of men and women, all of them straight-faced and deadly serious, listening intently as Steel filled them in on Chib Sutherland’s colourful background. Much to Logan’s surprise, DC Simon Rennie had turned out to be firearms qualified – personally he wouldn’t have trusted him with a water pistol, but according to the computer he’d passed with flying colours. He sat right at the front of the room, his usual not-so-plainclothes replaced by the black SAS-style kit worn by the rest of the firearms team. As soon as the inspector had finished Rennie stuck his hand up. ‘You sure they’re going to be armed, ma’am?’
Steel shook her head. ‘Haven’t got a bloody clue, but I’m no’ taking any chances. No one is to go into that house without a gun and a bulletproof vest. Understand? I want everyone in the address accounted for, facedown in the lounge, with hands cuffed behind their backs before anyone unarmed goes in. OK? We clear on th
at?’ Sigh. ‘What is it, Rennie?’
‘Do we know how many of them there’s meant to be?’
‘We’re expecting at least two of them, maybe more. Possibly armed. That’s why I want the place turned upside down. I do not want some bugger jumping out the linen closet with a machete while we’re all having a cup of tea and scratching our arses!’ She stood, hands thrust into pockets. ‘What we need to… What?’ Rennie had his hand up again.
‘Do we know if they’ve got a dog?’
‘No we don’t know if they’ve got a bloody dog! If I knew they had a bloody dog, do you no’ think I would’ve told you?’ Rennie went red and apologized. ‘Right,’ said the inspector, dragging a bashed packet of cigarettes from her trouser pocket. ‘I want you all geared up and ready to roll in fifteen minutes.’
Twenty minutes later, Steel’s new firearms team was installed in the back of an unmarked van and heading off to Mannofield. ‘Operation High Noon’, as the inspector had tactfully named it, was underway. A pair of patrol cars took a more circuitous route to the target address, keeping a low profile so as not to attract too much attention. Logan and Steel followed in the inspector’s mid-life-crisis-mobile, detouring past Athol House in Guild Street so Logan could jump out and pick up the warrants while Steel loitered on the double yellows outside. The Procurator Fiscal’s office was on the fifth floor, but her deputy was waiting for him in reception, a buff folder in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other. Her frizzy hair was pulled back from her head in a ponytail that still managed to come down to her shoulder blades, her dark green suit wrinkled after a long day in the office. There were faint purple circles under her eyes. She gave him the folder, but kept the coffee. ‘Thanks,’ said Logan, riffling through the paperwork, making sure all the bits were signed where they were supposed to be.
‘Er… Sergeant McRae,’ she said, ‘I understand there’s a possibility your visitors from Edinburgh might be responsible for torturing Karl Pearson. That true?’
Dying Light Page 22