Somehow that didn’t make him feel any better.
Half an hour later Logan and DI Steel were sat in the back of a newish Vauxhall with DC Rennie driving and a family liaison officer in the passenger seat. Somehow Steel had managed to convince the Chief Constable to give her the Rosie Williams case – probably only because DI Insch was up to his ears and no one else was free, but Logan wasn’t about to say so. According to Steel this was her chance to shine again. She and Logan were going to solve the case and get the hell out of the Screw-Up Squad. Let someone else look after the no-hopers for a change.
Rennie slid the car around the bloated bulk of Mount Hooly roundabout, making for Powis. No one said much. Logan was brooding about being transferred to the Screw-Up Squad, Rennie was sulking because the inspector had said he was expected to fuck up, and DI Steel was expending all her effort on not smoking. The family liaison officer had tried to strike up conversation a couple of times, but eventually gave up and descended into a foul mood of her own. Which was a shame, because it was a lovely day outside. Not a cloud in the sky, the granite buildings sparkling in the sunshine, happy smiley people wandering about hand in hand. Enjoying the weather while it lasted. It would be freezing cold and bucketing with rain soon enough.
Rennie swung the car around onto Bedford Road and then left again into Powis. Past a small set of shops: wire mesh over the windows, graffiti over the walls, leading to a long, sweeping, circular road lined with three-storey tenement blocks. They found Rosie’s address in a row of boarded-up properties with a yellow Aberdeen City Council van parked outside, the sound of power tools echoing out of the open stairwell next door. Rennie parked out front.
‘Right,’ said Steel, pulling a packet of cigarettes from her pocket, fingering them, and stuffing them back again, unsmoked. ‘What do we have on the next of kin?’
‘Two kids, no husband. According to Vice she’s currently involved with one Jamie McKinnon,’ said the family liaison officer. ‘Conflicting reports on whether he’s her boyfriend or pimp. Maybe a little of both.’
‘Oh aye? Wee Jamie McKinnon? Would’ve thought “toy boy” was closer to the mark; she’s got to be twice his age!’ Steel gave a big, snorting sniff, and chewed thoughtfully for a while. ‘Come on then,’ she said at last. ‘Job’s not going to do itself.’
They left DC Rennie watching the car, trying not to look like a plainclothes police officer and failing miserably. Rosie’s flat was on the middle floor. There was a window set into the stairwell, but it was covered over with a flattened cardboard box parcel-taped into place, shrouding the hallway in gloom. The door was featureless grey with a rusty brass spyhole set into it, a faint glimmer of light shining through from the flat into the murky hall. Taking a deep breath, DI Steel knocked.
No response.
She tried again, harder this time, and Logan could have sworn he heard something being dragged against the other side of the door. The inspector knocked again. And the light in the spy hole went out. ‘Come on, Jamie, we know you’re in there. Let us in, eh?’
There was a small pause, and then a high-pitched voice said, ‘Fuck off. We’re no’ wantin’ any police bastards today, thanks.’
DI Steel squinted at the spy hole. ‘Jamie? Come on, stop buggering about. We need to talk to you about Rosie. It’s important.’
Another pause. ‘What about her?’
‘Come on, Jamie, open the door.’
‘No. Fuck off.’
The inspector ran a tired hand across her forehead. ‘She’s dead, Jamie. I’m sorry. Rosie’s dead. We need you to come down and identify her.’
This time the silence stretched out far longer than before. And then the sound of something being dragged away from the door, a chain being undone, a deadbolt being drawn back, and the door being unlocked. It opened to reveal an ugly child wearing an out-of-date Aberdeen Football Club top, tatty jeans and huge sneakers, laced up gangsta-stylie. The haircut was pudding bowl on top and shaved up the sides. Behind him was a tatty dining-room chair. He couldn’t have been much more than seven.
‘What do you mean, “she’s dead”?’ Suspicion was written all over his blunt features.
Steel looked down at the kid. ‘Is your daddy home?’
The child sneered. ‘Jamie’s no’ my dad, he’s just some fuckin’ waster Mum’s shaggin’. She kicked his arse oot weeks ago. Fuck knows who my “daddy” is, ’cos Mum hasn’t got a fuckin’ clue. . .’ He stopped and examined the visitors on his doorstep. ‘She really dead?’
Steel nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Son, you shouldn’t have found out like this. . .’
The kid took a deep breath, bit his bottom lip, and then said, ‘Aye, well. Shit happens.’ He went to slam the door in their faces, but Steel had her foot wedged firmly against the hinges. In one of the other rooms they could hear a baby start to cry.
The family liaison officer dropped down to the kid’s eye level and said, ‘Hello, my name’s Alison. Who’s looking after you while your mummy’s away?’
The kid looked at her, then at Steel, and then back again. ‘How fuckin’ stupit are you? “Mummy’s” no’ away. “Mummy’s” dead.’ But the defiant edge to his voice was starting to crumble. ‘Understand you stupit cow? She’s dead!’ In the back room the baby bawled louder and the kid turned and roared a tirade of abuse in its direction, telling it what was going to happen, if it didn’t shut up right now! By the time he’d finished there were tears in his eyes.
They left the family liaison officer to call Social Work and have the children taken into care.
Logan was on a serious low by the time they got back to Force Headquarters. Telling the kid that he and his baby sister were off to the children’s home had just put the perfect cap on the day. The kicking, the swearing, spitting, threats. . .
At least now they had a suspect. Jamie McKinnon: Rosie Williams’s pimp and ex-toy boy. He had prior for assault, possession with intent, breaking and entering, shoplifting, stealing motors. You name it, Jamie had tried it. According to the kid, Rosie had kicked Jamie out for beating her up so badly she couldn’t work for a week. DI Steel had Control radio every patrol car in the city. She wanted Jamie brought in, on a voly if possible, in cuffs if not.
‘Well,’ she said when the call had gone out, ‘anything else I should know about?’ Logan told her about the new deputy fiscal and her desire to collect used condoms. Steel laughed so hard Logan thought she was going to bring up a lung. ‘Rather you than me, Sunshine!’ she said, wiping a tear from her eye.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You telling the search team to go hunting for nearly-new prophylactics! They’ll have a fit!’
‘How come I have to tell them? You’re the one in charge!’
Steel grinned broadly at him, cigarette smoke oozing out between her teeth. ‘Delegation, Mr Police Hero. I delegate, you do.’ She pointed him at the door. ‘Off you go.’ Only remembering at the last minute: ‘Oh, and while you’re at it, you can phone your new condom-loving friend and get an apprehension warrant for Jamie.’
Logan stomped off to the lifts. This was so like DI Steel. He did all the work; she smoked fags and took the credit. Grumbling, he called Rachael Tulloch and told her about Jamie McKinnon. She promised to set up a warrant ASAP. Then Logan called Control and got them to patch him through to the team searching the alley. They weren’t happy when he said they had to start collecting every condom they could find. Not happy at all. But by then Logan was past caring. It was nearly five o’clock and he’d been on duty for fourteen and a half hours. The day shift was over. It was time to go home.
5
There was something nasty sitting on Logan’s desk when he turned up for work on Wednesday morning. The search team had done as he’d asked, bagging and tagging each and every single used condom they could find in Shore Lane. And there were a hell of a lot of them; little slimy latex tubes oozing their contents out into individual evidence bags, all piled up in his i
n-tray. Grimacing, Logan scooped them all into a cardboard box, trying not to think about what was making the little bags so cold and clammy.
DI Steel didn’t turn up for the morning briefing, so the Screw-Up Squad just sat around their tables, drinking coffee and talking. Today’s topic was ‘Harry Potter: seminal moment in world cinema, or a load of old wank? Discuss.’ Logan left them to it, taking his box of used condoms down to the morgue where they could be frozen for future analysis. Procurators Fiscal: go figure.
He pushed through the large double doors, onto the sparkling clean tiled floor of the cutting room. There was no sign of yesterday’s rancid-barbecue reek. Instead everything smelled of formalin and pine disinfectant. Standing with her back to the doors was a familiar figure, prodding away at something in a bucket on the dissecting table. Logan’s heart sank even further.
‘Morning,’ he said and she turned to look at him.
Dr Isobel MacAlister, the Ice Queen, Chief Pathologist, ex-girlfriend, fellow victim. Looking a lot better than she had yesterday morning: her neatly bobbed hair held prisoner beneath a green surgical cap, the perfect bow of her lips hidden behind a green surgical mask. She blushed. As usual she was dressed like she’d just stepped off a catwalk: cream linen suit, silk blouse and tan leather boots, with an open white lab coat over the top. Golden jewellery trapped beneath the latex gloves. Obviously not getting ready to hack some poor sod up. ‘Good morning,’ awkward pause. ‘How are you?’
Logan shrugged. ‘Same old. You feeling any better?’
For a split second she looked puzzled, and then it clicked. ‘Oh, this morning. . .’ It was her turn to shrug. ‘Just a stomach bug.’
‘What, two days on the trot?’ he asked. ‘No pun intended.’
That almost got a smile. ‘Did you want something in particular, or are you just down here for a clip round the ear?’
‘Nope, official business. . .’ Logan turned and snuck a peek into Isobel’s bucket: a human brain, floating upside down in formalin, the preservative going slightly milky around the grey, whorled surface. Trying not to shudder, he popped his cardboard box up on the table next to the bucket. ‘Got a present for you.’
Isobel raised an eyebrow and dug out one of the little plastic evidence bags, holding it up to the light so she could see the slimy contents more clearly. A smile made her eyes sparkle. ‘How sweet,’ she said, ‘used contraceptives. And they say romance is dead. . .’ She rummaged about in the box. ‘There’s got to be a couple of hundred of them in here. You’ll go blind.’
It was Logan’s turn to blush. ‘They’re not mine. It’s the Rosie Williams case. These are all the condoms we could find in Shore Lane. They’re to be stored for DNA analysis.’
Isobel shook her head in disbelief. ‘Are you out of your mind? Do you know how long it’ll take to analyse the DNA from two hundred used condoms? It’ll cost a fortune!’
Logan held up his hands. ‘Don’t look at me; it’s that new deputy fiscal.’
Isobel sighed and snatched the box off the cutting table, muttering under her breath. She poured the lot into a large evidence bag, made Logan sign over the chain of evidence, and hurled the condoms into one of the specimen freezers. There wasn’t anything to say after that.
DI Steel rolled in at a quarter to eight, looking as if she’d slept in an ashtray. She yawned her way through a hastily reconvened morning briefing, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, before sending them all on their way with the usual benediction about not being at home to Mr Fuck-Up. Everyone except Logan. She had a job for him: they were off to look for Jamie McKinnon.
Outside Force HQ, the sun was shining happily down on Aberdeen from a clear blue sky. The inspector led the way out through the front doors and down onto Queen Street, not bothering to sign out one of the CID pool cars. Instead they wandered up Union Street, enjoying the late summer warmth. When the weather was miserable so was Aberdeen: grey buildings, grey skies, grey streets and grey people, but when the sun appeared everything changed. The Granite City sparkled and its inhabitants abandoned their anoraks, parkas and duffel coats in favour of jeans, T-shirts, and short summery dresses. But when a perky brunette tottered past in a tiny floral skirt and even tinier blouse, her bare stomach tanned a delicate shade of gold, DI Steel didn’t even look.
On the other side of the road a blonde, almost wearing a pair of low-slung jeans and a crop top, stopped to wave down a taxi, exposing more flesh in one go than the city had seen all year. Still no comment from the inspector. ‘You OK?’ asked Logan.
Steel shrugged. ‘Rough night. And before you ask: none of your business.’
Fine, thought Logan, sod you then.
Halfway up Union Street the wall of buildings was broken by Union Terrace Gardens, exposing a vista of vivid green all the way across to the glittering façade of His Majesty’s Theatre. The gardens were a rectangle of precipice-sided parkland, sinking way below street level. Steep grassy banks on two sides with huge beech trees clinging on precariously. A small bandstand sat at the bottom, sparkling with a fresh coat of paint. And on the far side the floral clock offered its multicoloured blooms to the cloudless sky and warm August sun. Picture-postcard time.
At the corner of Union Terrace a large white-marble statue of King Edward VII held court; his shoulders regally speckled with pigeon droppings. There was a row of benches in a semi-circle behind the king, there so his closest advisors could drink strong cider and lager, straight from the tin, at ten past nine on a Wednesday morning.
They were a fairly mixed bunch: one or two genuine tramps in the regulation filthy suit-trousers, stained vests and crusted sores, others in jeans and tatty leathers, defying the blazing sunshine. Steel cast her eye across the assembled early morning drinkers and pointed at a young woman with pierced ears, nose and lips, heavy black-and-white make-up and lank, pink hair. She was swigging from a tin of Red Stripe.
‘Morning, Suzie.’ The inspector flicked the last half-inch of her cigarette over the railing. ‘How’s your wee brother keeping these days?’
On closer inspection the girl wasn’t as young as Logan had first thought. Thirty-five if she was a day. That thick layer of white make-up was hiding a multitude of sins, and spots as well. Her face had a rough texture to it, the black-lipped mouth lined like a chicken’s bum. When she spoke her accent was broad Aberdonian. ‘Havenae seen the manky sod fer weeks.’
‘No?’ Steel flopped down on the bench next to her, smiling. She draped her arm across the back of the bench so it encircled the woman’s shoulders.
Suzie shifted uncomfortably. ‘You tryin’ tae poof me up?’ she asked.
‘You should be so bloody lucky. No: I want your wee brother. Where is he?’
‘How the fuck should I know?’ Suzie took a long swig at her lager. ‘Been shaggin’ that old whore of his.’
‘Funny you should mention that, Suzie, you see, that “old whore” turned up yesterday morning battered to death. And Jamie’s no’ exactly shy with his fists, is he?’
The girl stiffened. ‘Jamie didnae kill nobody.’ What the hell was Steel playing at? Logan could see the shutters coming down: they weren’t going to get anything out of her now! Steel should have played it cool, pretended it was nothing important, not gone charging in with both bloody feet! No wonder she was in charge of the Screw-Up Squad.
‘Tell you what,’ said Steel, handing over a dog-eared Grampian Police business card. ‘You have a wee think about it and give me a call, OK?’ She stood and lit another cigarette, coughing as the smoke worked its way into her lungs.
Suzie told the inspector exactly what she could do with her business card, threw back the last of her lager, and stormed off.
Logan waited until the girl was out of earshot. ‘Why did you tell her Rosie was dead? She’s never going to tell us where Jamie is now!’
DI Steel’s smile became predatory. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Mr Police Hero. She’s going to tell us exactly where he is
. She just doesn’t know it yet.’ The inspector stood up on her tiptoes, following Suzie McKinnon’s progress up Union Street. ‘Come on then, we don’t want to lose her.’ She marched straight across the street, narrowly missing getting squashed by a bus, with Logan in nervous pursuit. On the other side of the road she clambered into the passenger seat of an illegally parked Vauxhall. DC Rennie was behind the wheel, wearing a pair of trendy sunglasses, and as soon as Logan was ensconced in the back, they were off.
They spotted Suzie easily enough – her black leather get-up and pink hair stood out like a sore thumb amongst all the summer clothes – she crossed the road, just shy of the Music Hall’s Doric columns, hurrying off down Crown Street. Rennie kept well back, trying not to look like a kerb crawler. Ten minutes later they were parked opposite a basement flat in Ferryhill. The street wasn’t in the best of shapes, a collection of pothole pockmarks and different coloured patches of tarmac making it look like Frankenstein’s monster with acne. A rusty old Ford Escort was dying at the kerbside, bleeding oil. A quick PNC check confirmed it belonged to one James Robert McKinnon. Steel smiled at Logan. ‘Do you want me to say, “I told you so” now or later?’
The door to the building wasn’t locked, so Logan and DI Steel pushed straight through to the stairs leading down to the basement apartment. DC Rennie stayed out front, in case Jamie tried to do a runner.
Down in the mildew-smelling corridor Steel was just about to knock when a thought occurred to her. ‘Are you up to this?’ she asked Logan. ‘What with your Achilles stomach and all.’
‘It was nearly two years ago!’ he hissed. ‘I’m fine.’ Liar. The scars on his stomach still hurt when the weather changed, or he bent down too quickly.
DI Steel knocked gently on the door, putting on a Fife accent to ask if Jamie had seen her cat. A key rattled in the lock and a stressed-looking man, wearing a rumpled Burger King uniform, opened the door. Spiky, bleached-blond hair, bloodshot eyes, slightly overweight, podgy nose, daft little beard thing clinging on to the end of his chin for dear life.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 44
