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 porridge-muncher, 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?’
Jamie slowly slumped forward until his face was flat on the tabletop, his arms wrapped over his head.
‘You want we should give you a couple of minutes to think up some new lies, Jamie?’ asked the inspector.
‘I didn’t mean to hurt her. . .’
‘Aye, we know that,’ Steel pulled
out her cigarettes and popped one in her mouth without offering them around. ‘So why’d you do it then?’
‘Been drinking. . . Down the Regents Arms. . . This bloke kept going on how she was nothing but a posh wank. No’ even that. . .’ He shivered. ‘Followed him into the toilets and beat the shite out of him. Talking ‘bout Rosie like that. Like she was just a whore. . .’
Steel’s reply came out in a cloud of cigarette smoke: ‘She was a whore, Jamie, sold her arse on the streets for—’
‘SHUT UP! SHE WAS NOT A WHORE!’ He jerked up and slammed his fists on the table, making it jump. His face was flushed, eyes sparkling and damp.
Logan sighed and stepped in, playing the good cop. ‘So you taught him a lesson for insulting your woman. I can understand that. What happened next? Did you go looking for her?’
Jamie nodded, eyes fastening on Logan, ignoring the inspector. ‘Yes . . . I wanted to tell her: it has to stop! She has to stay home, look after the kids. No more going out on the streets. . .’ He sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve.
‘What happened when you found her, Jamie?’
He looked down at his picked-at fingers. ‘I’d been drinking.’
‘We know that, Jamie: what happened?’
‘We had this argument. . . She. . . She said she needed the money. Said she couldn’t stop.’ Jamie laid down another trail of silver on his sleeve. ‘I told her I’d support her. I was getting something together, she wouldn’t have to worry. . . But she wasn’t having any of it: kept going on and on about how I couldn’t support her and the kids. . .’ He bit his bottom lip. ‘So I hit her. Just like that. And she started screaming at me. So I hit her again. Just to make her stop. . .’
Logan let the silence hang for a bit, while DI Steel dribbled smoke down her nose. ‘Then what did you do?’
‘Threw up in the toilet. Washed the blood off my hands. . . She was lying on the floor, all bruised. . . So I picked her up and put her to bed.’
Steel snarled. ‘Put her to bed? That what they’re calling it these days? “Putting someone to bed”? What a lovely euphemism for strangling someone in an alleyway! Like fucking poetry that is.’
Jamie ignored her. ‘Next day she was covered in bruises. Threw me out. Said she never wanted to see me again. But I never meant to hurt her!’
Logan sat back in his seat and tried not to groan. ‘It’s Monday night we want to know about, Jamie. What happened on Monday night?’
‘Went to see her, on the street.’ He shrugged. ‘Wanted to say I was sorry . . . show her I was making good money. . . You know, from the fast-food jobs? I could take care of her and the kids. I loved her. . . But she wouldn’t talk to me: said she had to earn a living . . . didn’t want anything to do with me . . . had clients to see. I’d have to pay. . .’
‘And did you?’
Jamie hung his head. ‘I. . . Yes.’
DI Steel spluttered, sending ash sparking from the end of her fag. ‘So you forked out to screw your ex? Jesus, how fucking twisted is that?’
Logan scowled at her. ‘Then what happened, Jamie?’
‘We did it in a doorway and . . . and I cried and told her I loved her and I was so sorry for what I’d done, but I loved her so much I couldn’t stand to see her out there with other men. . .’ His red eyes filled with tears. ‘I was making good money now, I could do it, we could be together. . .’ He wiped his eyes with the same silvered sleeve.
Steel inched forward in her seat, bathing Jamie in a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘She said no though, didn’t she? She said no and you hit her. You hit her and you kept hitting her ’cos she wouldn’t take a slimy wee shite like you back. You killed her, ’cos it was that or pay for it your whole life. Pay to screw her in alleyways, just like hundreds of other desperate wee fucks.’
‘NO! She said she’d think about it! She was going to come back to me! We were going to be a family!’ The tears were falling freely now, running down his chubby cheeks, his scarlet nose streaming as sobs shook his body. ‘God, she’s dead! She’s dead!’ He crumpled to the tabletop, shoulders heaving.
Logan’s voice was soft. ‘Did you hit her again, Jamie? Did you kill her?’
He could barely make out the reply. ‘I loved her. . .’
10
The ride back from Craiginches was spent with DI Steel smoking and swearing furiously. Now that Jamie McKinnon had admitted to paying for sex with Rosie the night she died, Logan’s disappearing Lithuanian witness was worthless. And so was any DNA evidence they got from the hundreds of discarded condoms. Things had been a lot simpler when McKinnon was just denying everything. She pulled up outside Logan’s flat and demanded the tapes of the interview. He handed them over and asked if she didn’t want him to do the paperwork: taking them into evidence, releasing one copy to Jamie McKinnon’s defence lawyer. ‘Do I buggery,’ was her response. ‘Bloody things screw up my investigation.’ She took the recordings, turned them upside down and picked a loop of tape free with a nicotine-stained fingernail. Then did ‘Flags Of All Nations’ with it, sending reels of shiny brown ribbon spooling out into the interior of the car. ‘Far as anyone’s concerned there was something wrong with the machine OK? No tape was ever made. We forget anything that was said and go back to proving Jamie McKinnon did it.’ Logan tried to protest but the inspector was having none of it. ‘What?’ she demanded. ‘We both know he did it! It’s our job to make sure he doesn’t get away with it.’
‘What if he didn’t do it?’
‘Of course he did it! He’s got form for beating her up ’cos she was on the game. He goes and pledges his undying love and she makes him fork out for a knee-trembler in an alleyway. Then goes off to shag someone else. He’s overcome with rage and kills her. The end.’ She shook her head. ‘Now get your arse out of my car. I’ve got things to do.’
Logan spent the rest of the afternoon pottering about the flat. Sulking. So much for the Rosie Williams murder being his ticket out of the Screw-Up Squad. The way DI Steel was going they’d end up with no admissible evidence and a fully compromised case. The woman was a bloody menace. By seven thirty there was still no sign of Jackie, so he went out to the pub and to hell with everyone else. Archibald Simpson’s wasn’t an option: being just around the corner from Force Headquarters and full of cheap beer, the bar was a regular haunt for off-duty police, and he’d had enough dirty looks about getting PC Maitland shot to last him for one week, thank you very much. So instead he wandered up Union Street to the Howff, sitting on a creaky beige sofa in the farthest corner of the basement-level bar, nursing a pint of Directors and a packet of dry-roasted. Brooding over Jackie and her foul temper. And then another pint. And another. And a burger – smothered in chilli so hot it made his eyes water – and then another pint, getting maudlin. PC Maitland – Logan couldn’t even remember his first name. Until the screwed-up raid he’d never worked with the guy, only knew him as the bloke with the moustache who shaved his head for Children In Need one year. Poor bastard. Two pints later and it was time to lurch blearily home, via a chip shop for jumbo-haddock supper; most of which he abandoned, uneaten, in the lounge, before staggering off to bed alone.
Saturday morning started with a hangover. The bathroom cabinet was devoid of massive blue-and-yellow painkillers – the ones Logan had been given after Angus Robertson had performed un-elective surgery on his innards with a six-inch hunting knife – so he had to make do with a handful of aspirin and a mug of strong instant coffee, taking it into the lounge to see what kind of cartoons were on. There was a shape on the couch and his heart sank. Jackie, all wrapped up in the spare duvet, blinking blearily as he froze in the doorway. He hadn’t even heard her come in last night. She took one look at him, mumbled, ‘Don’t want any coffee. . .’ and pulled the duvet over her head, shutting him, and the rest of the world, out.
Logan went back to the kitchen, closing the door behind him.
Saturday, their only full day off together, and Jack
ie still wasn’t speaking to him. Obviously she’d rather sleep on the couch than share his bed. What a great bloody weekend this was turning out to be. He checked the clock on the microwave. Half past nine. Outside the kitchen window the rain was just coming on again, not the sunshine-and-rainbows rain of yesterday, but the heavy-grey-skies-and-freezing-wind kind of rain. It leached the warmth out of everything, making the city grey and miserable all over again. Matching Logan’s mood. He dressed and headed out, meandering up Union Street, taking perverse pleasure in getting cold and wet. ‘Playing the martyr’ as his mum used to say. And she should know, she was a bloody dab hand at it.
He moped about the shops for a bit: bought a CD by some band he’d heard on the radio last week, two newish crime novels and a couple of DVDs. Trying to take his mind off everything that was wrong and failing miserably. Jackie hated him, Steel was a pain in the arse, PC Maitland was dying. . . He gave up on the shopping and wandered across Union Terrace, down School Hill and onto Broad Street. Drifting inexorably back towards the flat through the rain. At the corner of Marischal College, where the pale grey spines of its elaborate Victorian-Gothic frontage raised their claws to the clay-coloured skies, he stopped. Straight ahead and it was back to the flat. Turn left and it was a stone’s throw to Force Headquarters. It wasn’t a tough choice, even if he was supposed to be off. He could always kill some time poking his nose into someone else’s investigation. DI Insch was usually good for a. . . Logan screwed up his face and swore; the dead squatter – he still hadn’t told Insch about Graham Kennedy. Bloody idiot. Miller had given him the name days ago! Sodding DI Steel and her malfunctioning tape recorder act.
The desk sergeant barely spoke to Logan as he squelched in through the front doors and dripped his way across the patterned linoleum of reception.
DI Insch’s incident room was carefully orchestrated chaos – phones being manned, information being collated and entered into HOLMES, so the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System could automatically churn out reams and reams of pointless actions at the press of a button. Now and then it came out with something that made all the difference to an investigation, but most of the time: crap. Maps of Aberdeen were stuck up on the walls, coloured pins marking the locations of significant events. The inspector was sitting on a desk at the front of the room, resting one large buttock on the groaning wood while he read through a pile of reports and chewed on a Curly Wurly.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 49
