‘Derek MacDonald.’
‘No, can’t help you. Now if you wouldn’t mind fucking off before someone sees you, I’ve got a surveillance operation to—’
‘I don’t give a toss about your operation.’
‘You’re such an arsehole.’
‘I’m investigating a murder.’
‘Fine. Be like that. Fuck over six weeks’ worth of work. Way to be a team player, Insch.’
‘All I want is Derek MacDonald.’
‘HE – DOESN’T – LIVE – HERE!’
‘Tall chap,’ said Ma, beaming at him out of the window, ‘brown hair, sideburns, mid-twenties, squint nose, little round glasses like Harry Potter?’
Finnie marched round to the Range Rover’s passenger side and climbed in the front. ‘Go down to the end of the street and take a left.’
‘Are you deaf? I’m not—’
‘I’m trying to help, OK? Now go down to the end of the bloody street and take a left!’
Left and left again took them up a small side street running parallel to the one they were just on. ‘Pull in here.’ Finnie pointed at a space next to a suspiciously familiar-looking scabby Vauxhall. ‘Five minutes.’ He climbed out into the cold morning, let himself through a wrought iron gate into the garden of a boarded-up house, and disappeared round the side of the building.
‘You see the paper this morning?’ said Insch when Finnie was gone, pulling a copy of the Press and Journal from underneath his seat. Front-page headline: LAWYER BLOCKED MACINTYRE’S POLICE PROTECTION! and a big photo of Hissing Sid’s bruised and battered face. ‘You know,’ said the inspector, grinning, ‘I’m starting to like that soap-dodging Weegie bastard of yours.’
Logan skimmed the article while Insch started in on a packet of Refreshers. Colin Miller had done a proper hatchet job on Sandy Moir-Farquharson, contradicting half of what the lawyer had told the other papers, making him look like a self-serving, arsehole. No wonder Insch was happy.
‘I’m getting that framed.’ The inspector took the paper back, laying it out on the dashboard and smoothing it flat. ‘Nice photo too, don’t you think? Really shows up the bruises.’
‘Well I think it’s a terrible shame!’ said Ma, arms crossed, face set. ‘That poor wee lad had his whole life ahead of him and a baby on the way. Whoever beat him up should be ashamed of himself. Whatever happened to National Service? You know, I was just telling Denise the other day—’
Insch told her to shut up.
Ma was still sulking when Finnie returned, clutching a brown A4 envelope. He pulled out a glossy photo. ‘This him?’
Ma squinted at it for a second. ‘Oh, yes. He’s got lovely hair, don’t you think? Like our Norman’s boyfriend. I’m sure he uses a full-bodied shampoo.’
‘Jimmy Duff. Local lad. Small-time dealer.’
‘We want him,’ said Insch, staring at the photo, then opening negotiations with DI Finnie to get the guy picked up.
Logan was the only one to see the expression on Ma’s face when she found out ‘Derek MacDonald’ wasn’t who he’d said he was. It wasn’t pretty.
Back at FHQ the computer forensics people had finally got around to forwarding on the contents of Jason Fettes’ hotmail account. Logan worked his way through the emails, ignoring the spam and day-to-day dross, concentrating on the messages from people in the BDSM scene instead: offers of money for sex, and personal appointments.
From the look of things Fettes had a number of regulars, none of whom gave their real name. The email addresses weren’t much help either, they were all things like ‘[email protected]’ and ‘[email protected]’. From the look of things the usual practice was to meet Fettes at the regular Aberdeen munch first, and after that it was, ‘My place: six, Thursday. Bring your lube.’ No names and no addresses. And no bloody use.
He put them all in date order, then took the lot up to DI Insch.
‘No, I don’t. . . no. . . Look, just because you think you’re. . . yes. . . just pick the bastard up, OK? Because if you don’t, I bloody well will!’ The inspector slammed the phone down and scowled at it, then dug about in his desk, coming out with a Sherbet Fountain. ‘I’d offer you one,’ he said, ripping the orange and yellow paper off the top, ‘but you know how it is.’
Logan dumped the pile of emails on the inspector’s desk, watching in hypnotic fascination as Insch sooked the end of the liquorice straw, dibbed it into the white sherbet, and transferred it back to his mouth. Then repeated the whole process: dib, sook, dib, sook. . .
‘Yes, anyway,’ he said at last, snapping out of it, ‘Fettes’s emails: I’ve been through them. Nothing on the night he died, but I highlighted any BDSM appointments for the fortnight before he got dumped outside A&E.’
‘Names?’ asked the inspector, white powder dusting his top lip like cocaine.
‘No real ones, it’s all, “Mistress Nicky” and “Jenny Spank Me”, that kind of thing.’
Insch nodded and went back to the dibbing and sooking. ‘Not a lot of bloody help then.’
‘We can forget about anyone who’s a bottom, sub, or masochist,’ said Logan, sorting through the file. ‘They’d be the ones strapped to the table, not Fettes. So it’s got to be a top, a dom, or a switch.’
The inspector looked at him, one eyebrow raised, the liquorice straw sticking out of his mouth like a thermometer. ‘You’re getting a bit . . . familiar with this whole bondage thing, aren’t you?’
‘Point is these people are probably local. And if they’re active in the Aberdeen scene we can find out who they are from their bondage names. Hell, Rickards might even know them!’
Insch tipped the last of the sherbet into his mouth, tapping the empty paper tube to get every last milligram of powder out. ‘Well? Go get him then!’
‘Yes, sir.’
According to Control, Rickards was out on a shout with DI McPherson, so Insch would have to wait. In the meantime Logan had paperwork to catch up on. That DVD of Fettes was causing no end of grief – Garvie was dead because they’d screwed up and jumped to conclusions, and as if Logan didn’t feel guilty enough about that, the Chief Constable was on the rampage. Insch was determined to keep Garvie in the frame: the person in the bondage suit might be female, but there was still the driver with the Irish accent – Garvie fitted the description perfectly . . . but Logan was beginning to have doubts about the whole thing.
He was heading downstairs to watch the CCTV footage from the hospital again, when shouting and swearing echoed up the stairwell from the custody suite. Crash, bang and wallop. More swearing. Whatever it was, Logan wanted nothing to do with it. He’d got as far as the ground floor when half a dozen constables charged past, heading for the disturbance. Another loud crash and more shouting.
Logan left them to it.
‘Fucking hell. . .’ DI Steel lurched over to Logan’s table in the canteen, clutching a blue icepack against the side of her head, and nearly collapsed into the chair opposite. ‘Don’t ask. And go get us a coffee: three sugars. And a doughnut or something.’
Logan opened his mouth, but Steel cut him off: ‘I said: don’t ask.’ He shrugged and went up to the servery.
‘They’ve no doughnuts, so I got you a KitKat.’
The inspector didn’t seem to mind, just slurped and munched and winced. ‘Fucking McPherson’s a bloody disaster magnet,’ she said at last. ‘You know how many days the bastard’s had off sick in the last four years?’ Logan didn’t and said so. Steel frowned. ‘Me neither, but I bet it’s heaps. Probably has more days off than he works.’
‘What happened?’
‘Which part of “don’t bloody ask” do you no’ understand? And how come you’re in? Did I no’ tell you to take a couple of days off?’
‘We got a last-minute lead on the Jason Fettes killing.’ He stood, stacking his empties back onto a tatty plastic tray.
‘Yeah?’ She polished off the last chocolate finger and scrunched the silve
r paper up into a little ball. ‘I thought Insch the Amazing Fatty already solved that one.’
‘Yes, well . . . we unsolved it.’
The inspector pointed at Logan’s vacated seat. ‘Sit. This I want to hear.’
‘Not much to tell. We found a film of Fettes strapped to a table, getting spanked and fisted. He pretty much bleeds to death on camera.’
Steel grabbed her coffee and stood, ‘Well, come on then, let’s see it.’
‘But—’
‘Fettes is my case remember? DI Fatboy is just helping me out. So get your finger out and make with the film.’
She watched it all the way through in silence. ‘Let’s see it again.’
Logan set the DVD playing once more. There was a knock on the door as the mystery woman started dripping hot candle wax onto Jason Fettes’ back. PC Rickards stuck his head in and said, ‘Sergeant Mitchell said you wanted to see me, sir?’
‘I’ve got a list of pseudonyms I want you to go through and. . .’ he trailed off, realizing there was something wrong with Rickards’ face. Or more wrong than normal. His left cheek was all swollen. ‘What happened to you?’
‘DI McPherson.’ As if that was explanation enough.
Steel didn’t take her eyes off the screen, ‘What was the verdict?’
‘Broken arm, two cracked ribs and a concussion, ma’am. They’re keeping him in overnight.’
‘Wonderful. Of course you know who’s going to get stuck with his caseload, don’t you? Again.’
Logan waited for someone to elaborate, but they didn’t. So he pulled out the list he’d made of Jason Fettes’ BDSM contacts and gave it to the constable. ‘I need real names and addresses for all of them.’
Rickards blanched. ‘Ah, yes . . . er, sir, I can’t . . . I mean it wouldn’t be ethical of me to . . . they. . .’
‘Come here,’ said Logan, pointing towards the screen where the hot wax had given way to the leather ping-pong paddle. ‘See that? That’s our victim, the guy who’s backside got turned the wrong way out. You think it’s more important for your bondage mates to remain anonymous, or for us to catch whoever killed him?’
‘Well . . . I . . . it’s just. . .’ The sound of spanking grew louder, mingling with muffled grunts from the shackled and gagged Fettes. And then the strap-on came out. ‘Look,’ said Rickards, blushing, ‘we can probably eliminate half the names, get rid of anyone not into penetration . . .’ he took out his pen and started scoring his way through the list. ‘Sometimes a top will change their MO to accommodate a bottom’s new fantasy, but most just like what they like.’
He watched until things got serious, then his blush went nuclear. ‘Er . . . that kind of fisting isn’t all that common. . .’ More names disappeared. There were only three left after Rickards had finished: ‘Big Dunk’, ‘Dirty Nicky’ and ‘Mistress Barclay’.
Insch was in his office, grinding his teeth as Logan handed the shortlist over. The fact that DI Steel was slouched in the inspector’s visitors’ chair, fiddling about with her bra strap, supervising, probably didn’t help. And Logan knew it would somehow end up being his fault. ‘We can forget about “Big Dunk”,’ he said as Insch scowled at the list, ‘I’ve watched that DVD a dozen times now and it’s definitely a woman in the rubber suit. Rickards says the other two are into the kind of stuff being done to Fettes, but they’re not likely to have screwed up like that. They’re experienced.’
‘Bring them in anyway. Big Dunk too. If we lean on them they’ll. . .’ The inspector ground to a halt and stared at DI Steel. ‘What?’
She shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing. I just think you’d have more luck playing this one a bit more softly, softly.’
Insch scowled at her. ‘Thank you for your valuable input, inspector, but I’ve no intention of pussyfooting around with a bunch of rubber-clad—’
‘Look, I’m only saying, OK? I’ve met a few of the spanking crowd and they’ll clam up like a virgin’s legs if you come on all rough and ready. They’re no’ wee scroats you can just push about: they’re accountants and lawyers and bloody business analysts.’
Logan had to agree with her. ‘It’s a pretty middle-class thing, BDSM.’
‘Oh for God’s . . . fine. OK, bring them in and we’ll give them tea and bloody biscuits.’
‘In the meantime,’ said Steel, giving up on her bra, ‘you should get a lookout request going for Jimmy Duff. Watch him though, he’s a slippery wee shite.’
Insch was rapidly heading from pink to purple. ‘Yes, inspector, anything else, inspector?’
‘Oh, aye: I’m going to have to borrow Laz here for a wee while.’
‘But we—’
‘You let me know how you get on, OK? Be nice to see a proper result on this one. No’ like last time.’ She was out of the office door before the fat man started swearing, with Logan hurrying after her, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked, looking back over his shoulder at Insch’s door, almost expecting to see the inspector come crashing out into the hallway and go on the rampage like an angry pink Godzilla.
‘Sean Morrison’s: hate mail, threats, remember?’
‘But, Jason Fettes—’
‘You and I both know Insch is going to get bugger all done till they pick up Jimmy Duff. So what’s the point hanging about watching him screw up them BDSM interviews?’ She slapped Logan on the back. ‘Come on, think how much more fun you’ll have without his fat ugly face looming over you.’
But all Logan could think of was what Insch would do to him when he got back.
47
There was a Bon Accord Glass van sitting outside the Morrison house, a couple of guys struggling with a large sheet of plywood, trying to keep it from sailing off in the blustery wind. Hesitant raindrops made polka-dot patterns on the pale wood as they heaved it up against the shattered window frame and started fixing it into place. The view was stormy today: dark clouds, dark sea, and gloomy buildings, but Logan barely glanced at it as he hurried after DI Steel into the house.
Mr Morrison wasn’t coping well: the bags under his eyes were deep purple, his cheeks sunken and speckled with stubble, hair sticking out all over the place. He let them in without a word, slouched through into the living room, fell into an armchair and stared at the big sheet of plywood that blocked out half the light. A radio on the sideboard burbled out local news into the darkened room: something about floral tributes flooding in for Rob Macintyre, then on to a piece about some local band who’d just been signed to a major record label.
A large lump of granite was sitting in a splash-pattern of broken glass. It must have taken two or three people to heft something that heavy through the double glazing – the thing was huge.
‘Indoor rockery. Classy.’ Steel scratched away at her shoulder, then dug out a packet of nicotine gum, offering it round as if it were cigarettes. ‘Any more hate mail, or was it just the dirty big stone?’
Mr Morrison didn’t even look at her. ‘Someone could have been hurt. Gwen’s not well. . .’
‘Aye, you’re right. Sorry.’ Much to Logan’s surprise, she actually sounded genuine. ‘You still getting the phone calls?’
He shook his head. ‘We went ex-directory when Sean was . . . found.’
‘Well, that’s something at least.’ She picked her way across the carpet, glittering shards crunching beneath her boots, and peered out of the one remaining pane of glass. ‘What happened to all the journalists?’
Morrison shrugged. ‘We just want our son home.’
‘Uh-huh. Got any idea who’d chuck a lump of granite through your window?’
‘They’ll let him home to visit his mother, won’t they? She’s not well. . .’
Steel closed her eyes, rubbing at the bridge of her nose with nicotine-stained fingers as if she were trying to shift a headache. ‘Sergeant McRae, maybe you should go make us all some tea, eh?’ she said at last. ‘And see if you can find any
biscuits.’
The Morrisons’ kitchen was a mess: unwashed dishes piled in the sink; overflowing laundry basket; a black, oily crust of burnt-on food like scabs on the hob; stuffed black bags sitting next to the bucket, as if Sean’s dad was scared to go outside and put them in the wheely bin for collection. Feeling nosy, Logan had a good rummage through the kitchen, pretending he was looking for tea bags. The cupboards were bare, not so much as a tin of soup. Like it or not, Mr Morrison was going to have to go outside soon, or they’d starve to death in here. Logan wondered if the man would be safe enough ordering takeaway, or if it would come delivered with a free side order of sputum and dog shit. Nothing like being the parents of an infamous child.
There was a small container on the work surface marked TEA, but it was as empty as the food cupboards. In fact, other than plates, gadgets and cutlery, the only thing Logan could find in the kitchen was a drawer full of envelopes. Some opened, most not. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and pulled one out: YOUR SON IS AN ABOMINATION! THAT OLD MAN DESERVES BLOOD! It went on for a page and a half, but the basic message was that they should bring back the death penalty and give it to Sean Morrison. Even if he was only eight. And hanging was too good for him.
Logan picked them all out of the drawer and carried everything through to the lounge. ‘Sorry,’ he said, setting them down on the coffee table, ‘there’s no biscuits. Or milk. Or tea.’
‘Oh.’ The inspector looked disappointed, but she perked up again when she saw the stack of letters.
‘I found them when I was looking for the teabags.’
Morrison shuddered. ‘We’ve been keeping them, like you said. I don’t open them any more. . .’
Steel nodded, borrowing Logan’s gloves so she could poke through the pile, pulling sheets from the open ones and squinting at them in the dim light. ‘Aye, nasty wee shites one and all.’ She flicked through another couple then asked if Logan had an evidence bag on him. ‘We’re going to take these away and see if we can get anything off them. And I’ll get someone from fingerprints to come down and give your rock the CSI treatment. OK?’
Morrison didn’t reply, just went on staring at his boarded-up window.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 108
