‘Eh?’ The man took off his rain-misted glasses, polishing them on the corner of his cardigan, before putting them back on again. ‘Inspector Steel! How nice t’see you again.’ This time he did smile, showing off a huge number of perfect white teeth, as if they’d come out of a packet. He cast a quick look at Logan, then back to Steel, lowering his voice to a stage whisper: ‘I’ve no’ got that thing in for you yet. They say it’s still out of stock.’
Steel shook her head. ‘I’m no’ here about that, Frank. I need to know if you’ve seen this bloke.’ She waited for Logan to pull out a copy of the e-fit picture – baseball cap, round face, glasses, huge moustache, goatee beard.
The bald man took the picture and frowned at it. ‘Fit’s he done?’
‘None of your business. Recognize him? He’ll be one of the BDSM crowd.’
Frank peered some more then handed it back. ‘Nope. But we get a few of them in here; you want I should ask around?’
‘Couldn’t hurt.’ She turned to leave then froze on the doorstep, turning back. ‘And try lighting a fire under your supplier, eh? I’m in my sexual prime here, no point wasting it, is there?’
They tried the other licensed sex shops in Aberdeen, then had to make a last-minute dash back to FHQ for a meeting Steel had forgotten about with the Detective Chief Superintendent in charge of CID. ‘If anyone asks,’ she said, jumping out of the car, ‘we were detained questioning a suspect, OK?’ And then she was gone, scurrying into the building, complaining about not having time for a cigarette all the way.
Logan parked the car.
Up in the incident room, things carried on as normal – occasional telephone calls from public-spirited idiots claiming to have seen a blue Volvo estate, others who said they knew who the man in the e-fit was, some with alternative IDs for Jason Fettes, and a couple who actually claimed to have seen him shopping in Boots that morning. Even though he was still lying in a refrigerated drawer down in the morgue.
Logan sat with the admin officer, a skeletally thin woman in her mid-forties, going through the reams of actions churned out by the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, and assigning them to the available officers. After that he went through the progress reports. And then, with nothing else needing his attention, wandered off to the archives to see how Jackie was getting on. Only she wasn’t there.
Up at the reception desk, Big Gary looked at him as if he’d been dropped on his head as a child. ‘She’s in court, you idiot – they’ve got that special hearing thing for Macintyre.’
‘Sodding hell.’ He’d forgotten all about it.
‘If you hurry, you can still go cheer on your beloved.’ Gary dunked a KitKat in his huge mug of tea, then sooked off the melted chocolate. ‘Eric says she’s next up.’
Court One was a lot busier than normal – the public galleries crammed with people here to see Sandy Moir-Farquharson trying to get Rob Macintyre off with rape. The place always made Logan think of a converted cinema: magnolia walls, balcony and stalls, the screen replaced by a tall wooden platform topped with pillars and a portico, and above all that the royal coat of arms keeping watch over the proceedings. Even if it was covered with elastic bands, presumably pinged up from the floor below when the court was empty and no one was watching. An oval podium sat in front of the bench, the court clerk and his assistant on one side facing the unwashed masses, the prosecution and defence on the other – looking up at the Sheriff in his robes and silk drop.
Normally all this would have been done in a little room round the back, behind closed doors, but the defence had requested a hearing in open court and to everyone’s surprise Sheriff McRitchie had agreed. According to station gossip it had something to do with his being a lifelong Dons fan in search of an extra season ticket.
Hissing Sid was in full flow as Logan sneaked in the back doors and found a seat at the end of a row, right behind DC Rennie. The constable was wearing his ‘court appearance’ suit – the one that always made him look like the accused, rather than a police witness.
Logan inched forward and whispered in Rennie’s ear: ‘How’s it going?’
The constable turned and gave him a pained look. ‘Not good. I thought Insch was going to tear Hissing Sid a new one when he started banging on about police bias and harassment.’
Logan pointed at the dock where Jackie glowered down at Sandy the Snake as he postured and played to the court. ‘How’s she doing?’
‘Well . . . she’s not hit anyone yet.’
‘Oh.’
‘So, you see, Milord,’ said the lawyer with a flourish, ‘every time Grampian Police have investigated my client they have been forced to drop the charges, because the malicious claims of these women have been proven groundless. My client is an irritation to Inspector Insch and his ilk: an innocent man they can’t “fit up” with—’
The prosecution was on her feet like a shot. ‘Milord – I must object!’
Sandy didn’t even wait for the Sheriff to rule on it, just smiled his oily smile and apologized. ‘I merely meant that while we all have our crosses to bear, Grampian Police seem to have their axe to grind. . .’
Logan scanned the court. It didn’t take long to make out the huge, angry figure of DI Insch, looking as if his head was about to explode. He was going to be a nightmare to deal with after this. Rachael Tulloch – the deputy fiscal left in charge while the PF was off sunning herself on a beach in the Seychelles – wasn’t looking any happier, sitting at the central desk next to the prosecution scribbling furiously while Moir-Farquharson put on his one-man show.
The lawyer held up a clear plastic evidence pouch so everyone could see the contents. ‘Can you identify this item, Constable Watson?’
Jackie nodded. ‘It’s the knife Macintyre attacked me with.’
The lawyer smiled. ‘That would be for a jury to decide, Constable. You say he attacked you with this knife, but your labs couldn’t find a single fingerprint from my client on it. Could they?’
‘He was wearing gloves.’
‘So you have no proof at all that this knife belongs to my client, or that he’d ever used it?’
‘He attacked—’
‘Please answer the question, Constable.”
‘We . . . we have no empiric evidence, but—’
‘You have no evidence.’ He turned and faced the Sheriff, smiling up at the man. ‘They have no evidence, Milord. My client was out jogging in preparation for tomorrow’s match against Falkirk and stopped this woman to ask for directions. She attacked him.’
‘That’s a load of—’
‘Constable!’ Sheriff McRitchie waggled his gavel at her. ‘I will not warn you again!’
Jackie shut her mouth and seethed.
‘Thank you, Milord. You assaulted Mr Macintyre, didn’t you, Constable Watson? Even after you had nearly crippled him, cracked two of his teeth, and had him handcuffed on the ground – you assaulted him!’
‘Boll. . .’ she stopped herself. ‘I restrained him: that was all!’
‘You kicked him in the ribs, it’s in the photographs!’ Hissing Sid held the glossy eight-by-tens up as proof.
‘He fell. Ask DC Rennie.’
‘You’ve been warned for excessive force before, haven’t you, Constable?’ And that was how it went for the next five minutes: he attacked Jackie’s credibility as a witness, made her out to be little more than a thug with a warrant card. She looked ready to throttle him by the time he was finished.
‘Milord,’ he performed a slow pirouette, and pointed at the footballer, sitting all prim and proper like a good boy, holding his mum’s hand, ‘Robert Macintyre is an upstanding member of this community, a hero to many, an inspirational figure to children everywhere, a man who works tirelessly for local charities. We all heard Constable Watson admit that there is no evidence against my client. I’ve shown that the identifications obtained from these so-called “victims” are flawed to say the least. Let’s not forget that Gr
ampian Police were adamant that Laura Shand was attacked by Robert Macintyre, yet now we find that someone else has confessed to that crime. And most important of all: my client has an alibi for each and every night these rapes are supposed to have taken place. Milord, given all these facts, I have to ask why this frivolous and malicious case is being pursued. Surely it behoves the Procurator Fiscal’s office to cease these proceedings before they waste even more of the taxpayers’ money.’
The Sheriff pursed his lips, cogitated for a moment, then asked the Deputy PF if she had anything to add at this point. Rachael Tulloch didn’t look happy as she stood to say she’d have to consult with her superiors. She’d pulled her long, frizzy, not-quite-red hair back in a severe ponytail and it was beginning to unravel along with her case.
There was an exasperated sigh, then the Sheriff called for a half-hour recess.
Jackie marched down from the stand, glaring at Hissing Sid the whole time. The lawyer just turned his back on her and shook the hand of his smiling client. ‘Can you believe this shite?’ she demanded, back at the prosecution bench. ‘Where the hell did Macintyre get an alibi from?’
‘His bloody fiancée,’ said the Deputy PF, groaning. ‘She now swears blind he was with her every night. Why does stuff like this always have to happen when the PF’s away?’
Jackie stared at the footballer with his expensive suit and sticky-out ears. ‘He’s going to walk, isn’t he.’ It wasn’t a question.
The Deputy PF scowled and dug out her mobile phone. ‘Not if I have anything to do with it.’
Logan slumped in the visitor’s chair on the other side of DI Steel’s desk, while the inspector battered away at her computer keyboard. ‘Oh, cheer up for God’s sake,’ she told him, ‘it’s not the end of the world, is it?’
He shrugged and went back to staring out at the grey granite bulk of Marischal College. The misting drizzle had given way to heavy rain, bouncing off the jagged spires, hammering down on the black tarmac streets and concrete pavements. Drenching the just and unjust alike.
‘You know,’ Steel stopped typing for a moment, ‘I remember when Macintyre was a kid, wee bugger was never out of trouble, but you could always rely on his mum to lie for him.’ Putting on a broad Aberdonian accent for, ‘“Oh, no, he couldnae hiv burnt doon yer man’s sheddie, he wiz with me a’night!”’
‘Arson’s a long way from rape. And it’s his fiancée this time, not his mum.’
‘Aye, well, you’ve got to start somewhere, haven’t you?’ The inspector finished typing with a flourish. ‘Right, they’ve cut our manpower budget, but I think we can still do this if we concentrate on the bondage scene and porn merchants.’ She smiled and hoicked her feet up onto the desk, scattering a small pile of reports. ‘I tell you, Laz, I’ve got a really good feeling about this one. We’re going to get a quick result. I can feel it in me water.’
VIOLENCE
Three weeks later.
12
Logan skidded to a halt, scanning the empty street. Nothing but parked cars, a skip full of builders’ rubble, and the rain. No sign of Sean Morrison, or any of his nasty little friends. Shite. He did a slow turn, trying to figure out where the wee bugger had got to. He’d been right behind Sean all the way down North Silver Street; nearly lost him in Golden Square when some idiot in a people carrier reversed out without looking; and now Logan was standing halfway down Crimon Place with blood all down the front of his suit, and Sean Morrison was nowhere to be seen.
It was all residential on the right-hand side of the street – flats at one end and small terraced houses at the other, their granite walls contrasting with the dark-glass-and-concrete office units opposite. Logan was pretty sure Sean hadn’t gone into one of the houses and it was unlikely he’d be welcome in any of the business premises. Not looking the way he did.
The cathedral car park went straight through to Huntly Street, and so did a small path down the side of the GlobalSantaFe building, but Logan had seen Sean sprinting past them onto Crimon Place, the little eight-year-old’s arms and legs going fifteen to the dozen.
That left the King’s Gate car park at the far end, but there was no way Sean could have got there so fast. He was hiding somewhere.
Gritting his teeth against the stitch in his side, Logan jogged forwards, pulling out his mobile phone to call for backup. It rang and rang and rang. . .
A drenched, knackered-looking policewoman staggered to a halt at the far end of the street, face flushed, panting and shiny as the rain drummed on her peaked cap and black waterproof jacket.
Still waiting for Control to pick up, Logan shouted, ‘You see him?’
She shook her head. ‘No . . . not . . . not a sign. . . Little bastard can run. . .’
A voice crackled in his ear – Control telling him the switchboard was buggered and— Logan cut the man off and told him to get a patrol car to Crimon Place right now. Sean Morrison had gone to ground. He snapped his phone shut and started back up the street, yelling, ‘Check the cars!’ to the constable at the far end. He peered underneath and between the vehicles as he went, splashing through puddles, the cold rain bouncing off the road, pavement, BMWs, Porsches, clapped-out Fiestas, Rovers . . . soaking through Logan’s stained suit, plastering his hair to his head as he searched for the child.
‘There!’ It was the policewoman who spotted him. ‘Behind the skip!’ Sean Morrison – eight years old, four foot two, bloody nose, wearing jeans and a red AFC hooded top – grabbed a length of wooden banister not much smaller than a cricket bat from the debris filling the skip, swinging it as the constable lunged for him, catching her right in the face. She grunted and jack-knifed, both feet leaving the ground as she fell, leaving a spray of bright scarlet hanging in the air, glowing against the low, blue-grey clouds. Logan froze for a moment, and so did Sean, watching as she battered onto the wet tarmac, then the eight-year-old looked up at Logan, turned, and legged it.
For a moment Logan was torn between checking the constable was OK and grabbing the little bastard who’d clobbered her. He sprinted after the boy.
Sean Morrison was fast all right, but his little legs weren’t nearly as long as Logan’s, plus he was still carrying his makeshift club. He made a hard right, skidding on the wet road, trendy trainers sending up a spray of rainwater as he leapt the kerb and hammered round the side of the Boys’ Brigade Battalion with Logan hard on his heels. And then he suddenly stopped, swinging his chunk of banister.
Logan had just enough time to get his arms up, covering his face before the wood cracked into it. But it was still enough to make him stop dead, slipping on the wet ground and hitting it hard as his legs went out from underneath him. The breath rushing out of his lungs, fire screeching across his scarred stomach. And then Sean was swearing, calling him a dirtymotherfuckingcuntbastard as he swung the wooden weapon again, smashing it down on Logan’s back, then more swearing – something about a splinter – and the banister went flying. Smash. A car alarm shredded the rainy air. Then a trainer crashed into the top of Logan’s head. He curled into a ball, protecting his stomach as a foot stomped down on his ribs. Making them creak. The little thug took three steps back, took a run up and slammed another foot into Logan’s back.
Sean was about to do it again, when a pained, angry shout cut across the blaring car alarm: ‘CUMB HERE YOU LIDDLE BASDARD!’
Logan opened his eyes in time to see Sean Morrison turn and begin to run. ‘No you bloody don’t!’ Lashing out with a hand, he grabbed the eight-year-old’s ankle, sending him crashing to the ground. More swearing. Logan lurched upright, staggered sideways and fell against an Alfa Romeo with a smashed front windscreen, clutching his head as the policewoman skidded to a halt. Everything was lurching in and out of focus in time to the ringing in his ears.
The PC’s face was a mess of blood, one eye already swollen shut, her nose flattened and misshapen, scarlet bubbles popping from her nostrils as she grabbed Sean Morrison by the scruff of the neck an
d hauled him off the ground. ‘You’re fugging nicked!’
She turned, asked Logan if he was OK, then suddenly went very pale. Clatter and Sean Morrison hit the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. The eight-year-old scrambled to his feet as the constable stared open-mouthed at the knife hilt sticking out of her neck, just between the stab-proof vest and her collarbone. Her hands fluttered, bright red spilling down her chest, her eyes locked onto Logan’s, imploring. . . Then she went down like a sack of tatties.
Logan caught her just in time to stop her head cracking open on the pavement. Easing her down he grabbed the Airwave handset on her shoulder and shouted, ‘Officer down! Corner of Crimon Place and Skene Terrace! Repeat, Officer down!’
He cradled her head in his lap as she twitched and moaned. Fresh blood soaking into his trousers as Sean Morrison ran away.
Four hours later and Logan was standing in Accident and Emergency, getting an update from a male nurse with a hairy mole. The PC was lucky still to be alive, the knife had nicked the brachiocephalic vein – one millimetre to the right and the last sixty seconds of her life would have been sprayed all over the pavement and Logan. She was still critical, but stable.
Outside, the rain had eased up a bit as the day had grown colder, not enough to snow yet, but it’d probably get there soon enough. Logan dug out his phone and switched it back on. Six messages. The first was Jackie trying not to sound worried as she asked about his run-in with Sean Morrison. Then it was Rennie telling him how that missing old-age pensioner they were looking for had been sighted in Turriff, and then Big Gary wanting Logan to keep him up to date with the PC’s condition. Apparently there was still no sign of Sean Morrison. Logan thought about just deleting Steel’s messages, but listened to them anyway:
The first was pretty much her standard whine these days, ‘Bloody ACC’s been down here again! Why haven’t we arrested anyone for Jason Fettes’s death? His bloody parents have been banging their gums in the papers again. Jesus, it’s no’ like we didn’t try, is it? No’ our fault their kid was a dirty bondage boy. . .’ Some muttered swearing. ‘And why haven’t we caught anyone for those break-ins yet?’ Whinge, whinge, whinge. ‘Tell you: next time that pointy-headed bastard comes down here I’m going to shove one of Fettes’s butt plugs right down his throat! See how he likes—’ There was more, but Logan just deleted it.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 85
