They got more drinks and the day-shift started squelching in, the pub slowly filling up with off-duty police men and women. Logan knew most of them by name – well, except for some of the younger ones – but he’d only ever seen one of them naked: PC Jackie Watson, marching towards them, bearing beer, a scowl, and tomato sauce flavour crisps.
She plonked herself down next to Logan and offered the crisps round. ‘Jesus, what a shitty day.’
‘And hello to you too.’ Logan grinned at her: the effects of two pints on a nearly empty stomach. ‘We saw Hissing Sid outside the courthouse.’
Jackie scowled. ‘Little bastard. How come every bloody case he’s involved in has to have a press conference on the steps outside FHQ? You know anyone else who does that?’
Logan shrugged. ‘He’s a media whore.’
‘Aye,’ said Steel, polishing off her drink, ‘he’s a whore, but we’re the ones getting screwed the whole time. Anyone for another?’ She took their orders and stomped off to the bar, leaving Logan and Jackie alone.
‘Can you believe he had the cheek to say I assaulted his rapist bastard client while he was cuffed and on the ground?’ Jackie scowled. ‘And get this – they’re saying he was only out jogging. He approached me to “ask directions”.’ She even made little sarcastic quote-bunnies with her fingers. ‘With a knife. Can you believe that?’
Logan knew better than to say anything, just sat there and nodded. Letting her rant. ‘And the bloody media! According to them he’s already been found innocent! Bastards. And the bloody search team couldn’t find their arses with both hands and a map. All through Macintyre’s house and not one bloody trophy. No knickers, no jewellery, nothing. Not a bloody thing!’ There was more, but Logan gradually tuned it out. Jackie just needed to let off a bit of steam: get it out of her system.
Jackie was still going strong when DI Steel wobbled back to the table with a handful of glasses. The inspector clinked them down on the tabletop, with an apologetic, ‘I forgot what everyone wanted, so I got whiskies.’
And slowly, but surely, they all got very, very drunk.
5
Wednesday morning’s half-seven briefing was a lot more painful than Tuesday’s, but at least this time Logan got to slouch in a seat at the back of the class, while DI Steel grumbled her hungover way through the day’s assignments, finishing off with a subdued chorus of, ‘We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up!’ The whole team joined in, trying to make Logan’s head split in two.
Three cups of coffee later and he was beginning to feel slightly less terminal, even if he was bored out of his pounding skull. The incident room was busy, everyone still all excited and determined to get a quick result, the walls lined with maps and pin-boards and post mortem photographs. The local papers had been full of speculation about Rob Macintyre, but Steel’s unknown body had still managed to make the front page of the P&J. They’d printed the touched-up morgue photo, the killer’s e-fit, and a story that somehow managed to make it all sound like Grampian Police’s fault.
Which wasn’t surprising, considering who wrote it: Colin Miller, the Press and Journal’s star reporter. He certainly knew how to hold a grudge.
Sighing, Logan folded the paper and dumped it in the bin. So far the response had been lacklustre, only about a dozen people had phoned in claiming to know who the dead man was. No one had recognized the killer yet. But all that would change as soon as the press conference went out on the lunchtime news; then they’d be swamped. Televised appeals always brought the nutters out in droves. Still, you never knew. . .
‘Hoy, Laz.’
Logan looked up to see a thin man in a sergeant’s uniform and huge Wyatt Earp moustache. Sergeant Eric Mitchell, peering over the top of his glasses and grinning like an idiot. ‘Your “lady friend” about?’
Logan frowned, suspicious. ‘Which one?’
‘Watson, you daft sod. Is she about?’
‘Back shift, won’t be in till two.’
‘Aye, well you might want to tell her to call in sick. . .’ he tossed a rolled-up copy of the Daily Mail onto Logan’s lap, winked, then sauntered off. Whistling happily to himself.
But before Logan could ask what was going on, DI Steel plonked a pile of files on the table in front of him. ‘This bloody thing’s killing me,’ she said, fiddling with her bra strap. ‘Get a couple of uniforms to go through these, OK? See if we can’t find someone on the dodgy bastards list who matches that e-fit. Then you can go chase up that dental records lot.’ She gave up on the strap and started hauling at the underwire. ‘And while you’re at it—’
‘Actually,’ said Logan, cutting her off, ‘I thought I might go out and follow up a couple of those possible IDs for our victim. You know: show willing for the troops.’ Which had the added advantage of getting him away from the inspector before she could think up any more crappy jobs for him to do.
Steel thought about it, head on one side, focusing on a spot between Logan’s ears, as if she was trying to read his brain. ‘OK,’ she said at last, ‘but you can take. . .’ she did a slow turn, pointing at a constable in the corner, scribbling something up on the incident board, ‘yeah, take Rickards with you. Do the poor wee sod good to see the outside world. Might stop the short-arsed bastard whining for a change. He’s—’
‘Inspector?’ It was the admin officer, waving some more paperwork at them.
‘Oh God,’ Steel groaned and then whispered to Logan, ‘cover for me, will you? I’m dying for a fag.’ She turned and told the admin officer she had an urgent meeting with the ACC to get to, but DS McRae would deal with whatever it was. Then made herself scarce.
With a sigh, Logan accepted the sheets of paper.
He signed for a CID pool car – one of the many scabrous Vauxhalls in the FHQ fleet – and made Constable Rickards drive, so he could slump in the passenger seat and doze. At least he was starting to feel a little better now. After the whisky they’d gone onto vodka, then some weird little bloke had tried to chat Jackie up, and they’d all had a good laugh at him, and then it was more beer, tequila, and then . . . it was kind of blurry until they were standing outside the kebab shop on Belmont Street. And when they finally got home, Jackie had fallen asleep in the toilet.
Logan ran a hand over his face, stifling a yawn – he was getting too old for this. . .
Yesterday’s rain had gone, leaving the city sparkling clean. Everything glowed in the light of an unseasonably warm February sun, glinting back from chips of mica trapped in the pale grey granite. Rickards drove them down Union Street, heading for a small semi-detached in Kincorth – a blob of houses on the south-side of the city – and an old woman who claimed to know the dead man from the papers.
‘So,’ said Logan, as the PC swung the car across the King George IV bridge, the water sparkling like sharpened diamonds on either side, ‘you were in on that big brothel raid in Kingswells last week?’
Rickards mumbled something about a team effort.
‘Kinky dungeon, wasn’t it?’ said Logan, watching a pair of seagulls fighting over an abandoned crisp packet. ‘Whips and chains and nipple-clamps and all that?’
‘Ah . . . er . . . yes . . . it . . . erm. . .’ Rickards blushed, the twisted line of scar tissue that snaked up the middle of his top lip standing out white against red, as if someone had tried to give him a hair lip with a broken bottle. Logan smiled – it looked as if the constable wasn’t exactly a man of the world. He resisted the urge to take the piss, and went back to watching the world go by.
The old lady’s house was three-quarters of the way down Abbotswell Crescent, with a view out across the dual carriageway, over the Craigshaw and Tullos industrial estates. Lovely. Especially with Torry in the background, the sunshine and blue skies fighting a losing battle to make it look attractive.
Fifteen minutes, two cups of tea and some Penguin biscuits later, they were back in the car.
‘So much for that.’ Logan called DI Steel with the bad news,
only to be given another two addresses: one in Mannofield, the other in Mastrick. Both of which were equally useless.
Rickards squirmed in his seat, as if his underwear was trying to eat him. ‘So what now?’
Logan checked his watch: coming up for eleven. ‘Back to the station. We can—’ His mobile phone went into its usual apoplexy of bleeps and whistles. ‘Hold on.’ He dragged it out. ‘Hello?’
‘Where the hell are you?’ DI Steel, sounding annoyed.
‘Mastrick. You sent us here, remember?’
‘Did I? Oh. . . Well . . . in that case, why haven’t you finished yet?’
‘We have. We’re just heading back now.’
‘Good – press conference is at twelve. We’re going to be on the lunchtime news. And when I say “we” I mean you too. Don’t be late. And you can check out another address on your way in – woman phoned to say the dead guy lives next door with his parents. And remember: if you’re no’ back here by twelve, I’ll kill you.’
Logan took down the address and hung up with a groan. ‘Change of plan – we’ve got one more stop to make.’
Blackburn was more like a building site than a dormitory town: sprawling developments of tiny detached houses crammed into minuscule plots of land, spilling away to the north and west, costing an arm and a leg, even though it meant living like a battery chicken. The address Steel had given them was for the second-last house in a half-completed cul-de-sac that didn’t even have a proper road yet, just a thin layer of rutted tarmac covered in drying mud and potholes, the rumble of earthmovers battling for supremacy against the screech of circular saws and the bang of nailguns. Everything was slowly disappearing beneath a pale cloud of cream-coloured dust.
Number seven was a four-bedroom ‘executive villa’ built on a postage stamp. Logan got Rickards to ring the doorbell while he stared out over the rolling hills to the north. Wondering how long it would take the developers to carpet them in more houses.
The door was answered by a flushed-looking woman in baggy T-shirt and jogging bottoms, balancing a small child on one hip. ‘Hello?’ Sounding slightly nervous.
Logan went for a reassuring smile as the woman’s kid stared at him with open mouth and wide blue eyes. ‘Mrs. . .’ he checked his notes, ‘Brown? Hi. You phoned us this morning about this man?’ Logan held up the photo.
She nodded. ‘I think so. He sort of looks like the guy next door’s son. Jason I think it is.’ The toddler wriggled and she shifted him, bringing him round till he was sitting in the crook of her arm, clutching her hair and peering out at the policemen on the doorstep. ‘He’s looking after the house while they’re on holiday.’
‘You’re sure it’s him?’ Logan handed her the picture and she bit her bottom lip.
‘I. . . It looks a lot like him. . .’ Nervous giggle. ‘I asked Paul and he said it might be. . .’
‘When did you last see Jason?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s been kind of hectic. Couple of days?’
‘OK.’ Logan took the photo back and the child began to squeal. ‘What’s Jason’s last name?’ Having to speak up over the noise.
‘Sorry: we only moved in three weeks ago, everything’s still in boxes.’ She bounced the child up and down, making cooing, ‘Who’s Mummy’s big boy?’ noises. ‘Maybe the site office would know?’
‘Thanks for your help.’
Logan and Rickards went next door, tried the bell, peered in through the front window – a pristine living room with tasteful furnishings and paintings on the wall – then walked round the house. The back yard was a morass of mud flecked with grass seed, a solitary whirly standing in the middle like a marooned antenna, the yellow plastic cable sagging and empty. There was nothing in the garage either, just a dark black splot of leaked motor oil.
Rickards walked back to the unfinished road, staring up at the house’s empty windows. ‘What do you think?’
‘Much the same as every other sighting we’ve had today – bloody useless.’ Logan climbed back into the car and checked the time. ‘Jesus, it’s twenty to twelve! Come on, we’d better get a shift on: Steel will kill us if we’re late.’
6
They made it back to the station by the skin of their teeth. The room was already filling up: television cameras, journalists, and photographers staking out their territory among the rows of folding chairs, all eyes focused on the raised stage and table at the front. ‘Thought you was never going to turn up!’
Logan turned to find DI Steel standing directly behind him, fiddling with a packet of cigarettes, turning them round and round in her hands, like nicotine prayer beads. ‘You get anything from those addresses?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Bugger.’ The cigarette packet got a few more twists.
‘Problem?’
Steel shrugged, looked over her shoulder, then back at the gathering mass of reporters. ‘Just could do with a swift result on this one. We’re keeping a lid on the cause of death, but you know what this place is like: sooner or later, someone’s going to say something stupid.’ She paused and sneaked a glance at Logan. ‘Course, you know all about that.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing, nothing.’ She backed off, grinning. ‘Who cares what the Daily Mail says anyway? Shite, there’s the ACC. . .’ Logan watched her go, wondering what on earth she was talking about.
The briefing started at twelve o’clock prompt, and as the ACC launched into his ‘thank you all for coming’ speech, Logan let his attention wander. He wouldn’t be needed until they threw the thing open to questions and probably not even then. So instead he scanned the assembled journalistic horde, looking to see if he recognized anyone. Colin Miller was sitting in the third row, face like a wet fart, mumbling into a small digital recorder. Probably getting ready to give Grampian Police another kicking in tomorrow’s P&J. There were a couple of others Logan knew from previous conferences, and some he recognized from the telly, but his eyes kept going back to Miller, his surly expression, and his black leather gloves. Not exactly playing the happy expectant father. The reporter looked up from his Dictaphone and saw Logan watching him. He scowled back, obviously still blaming Logan for the loss of his fingers, as if he’d been the one wielding the poultry shears. . .
The ACC threw the conference open to questions and the moment was gone.
As soon as they were finished, Logan hurried down to the incident room. Steel was the second person to make cryptic comments about the Daily Mail and Logan wanted to know why. The copy Eric had thrown at him was still sitting where he’d left it, so Logan skimmed quickly through the paper, looking for DS LOGAN McRAE SCREWS UP AGAIN! but not finding it. What he did find was a centre-page spread titled, POLICE HOUND ABERDEEN STRIKER! with a big photo of Rob Macintyre’s ugly face and an article charting his meteoric rise to fame; describing Grampian Police’s investigation as part of ‘an ongoing campaign to cripple Aberdeen Football Club’s only chance of winning the Scottish Premier League’.
‘Macintyre (21)’, the paper said, ‘was an obvious target for desperate women: young, successful, wealthy, and going all the way to the top!’ But that wasn’t the bit DI Steel and Sergeant Eric Mitchell had been dropping hints about.
It was a pull-out quote, big white letters on a bright red background: OF COURSE HE’S B****Y GUILTY – THE LITTLE S*** ATTACKED ME! attributed to PC Jackie Watson (28) with a couple more choice sentences further on in the article about how ‘little b******s like him should be banged up for life’. Logan groaned. No wonder Eric said Jackie should call in sick – she was in for one hell of a bollocking when she reported for duty. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. Which would be in about fifteen minutes. ‘Crap!’
He dialled the flat, hoping to God she hadn’t left for work yet. She hadn’t.
Jackie picked up the phone with an angry, ‘What?’
Too late. ‘You’ve seen the paper then?’
‘I’ve s
een the lounge! We’re living in a bombsite!’
‘Oh God. . . Look, do you remember talking to a journalist?’
‘What? I’ve got to get ready for—’
‘It’s in the Daily Mail: “Of course he’s bloody guilty – the little shite attacked me”. Sound familiar?’
There was a moment’s silence from the other end of the phone and then the swearing started. Lots and lots of swearing. ‘Bastard never said he was a journalist!’
‘Who?’
‘That greasy little fuck in the pub last night – remember? I told you he bought me a drink, was all “oh, I saw you on the telly”, and “what a great job you policewomen do” and “can I have your phone number?” Bastard!’
‘You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?’
‘Count Bloody Dracula.’
‘Eric thinks you should call in sick.’
Jackie laughed. Short and hollow. ‘Fat lot of good putting it off will do. . .’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘So what we got?’ DI Steel loomed over Logan’s shoulder, peering down at the report in his hands, her breath reeking of stale cigarettes and extra-strong mints.
Logan sighed and started ticking things off on his fingers: ‘Sixty callers say they know who our victim is, but none of them agree. We’ve got seven teams of two going through them. As for the suspect, there’s five men on the sex offenders’ list who look like the e-fit: two rapists, one paedophile, a flasher, and guy who sexually assaulted a priest.’
‘Yeah?’ Steel smiled, ‘Makes a change from them molesting choirboys I suppose.’
‘Don’t think any of them are likely though: flashers are all mouth and no trousers; the victim was too old to be of interest to a paedophile; both rapists only attacked women; and the priest fiddler’s just come out of Peterhead, so he’s under a supervisory order. According to his handlers he was locked up in his hostel when our guy was dumping his victim outside A&E.’
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 81
