‘I was wondering,’ said Logan as they stood to leave, ‘Sean’s friend: Ewan. Has his dad been in touch with you at all?’
The man looked puzzled, as if trying to remember why they were there. Logan got the feeling he probably hadn’t slept in a week. ‘No. Not since Sean stopped going round there. Not since we came back from Guildford.’
‘So he hasn’t said anything to you about his house getting vandalized?’
‘Look, I’m sorry but Gwen needs her medication.’ He levered himself out of the armchair. ‘She’s not been well.’
They let themselves out, scurrying through the rain to the car. ‘Can you no’ keep your mind on one thing at a time?’ asked Steel as Logan cranked the blowers up to full. ‘Vandalism, my sharny arse.’
‘You never wondered about Sean—’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake, no’ this again: I get enough grief from the bloody social workers. He’s a wee shite. That’s all there is to it.’
Logan pulled out from the kerb, heading downhill back towards FHQ. ‘I don’t buy it: you don’t go from being a well-balanced wee boy to a thieving little thug who knives old men and policewomen for no reason. Something happened.’
Steel sighed. ‘Look, and I want you to pay attention this time: I – don’t – care! OK?’
‘Oh, come on, you’ve got think it’s a bit—’
‘I – don’t – care! Bloody hell. In the good old days you caught the bad guy, you banged them up, and you forgot about them for seven, eight years. Nowadays it’s all “community-fucking-service” and “addressing offender behaviour”. That social work department needs a stiff kick up the arse with a pointy boot!’
‘Why was he vandalizing his ex-best-friend’s house?’
‘We speakin’ the same language here? Hello? I couldn’t give a rat’s arse!’
‘How come the family never reported him for all the damage he did to their house? They knew it was him. We—’
‘OK! OK, FOR GOD’S SAKE!’ She sat and seethed. ‘Ten minutes. We go round there for ten minutes, and if we don’t find anything you never, ever get to mention that wee shite again? Understand? Like a bloody broken record. . .’
Ewan Whyte – Sean’s ex-best friend – was still at school and his dad was at work, but his mother and little sisters were in: the girls finger-painting in the kitchen while Mrs Whyte made sure they didn’t do anything stupid, like eat the paint, or start colouring in the walls. DI Steel begged a cup of coffee and a custard cream while Logan went outside to talk to the grandfather.
The old man was in the shed at the bottom of the garden, the little wooden hut smelling of engine oil and hand-rolled cigarettes as he cleaned the blades of an old-fashioned lawnmower. Rain drummed on the roof. He smiled and waved when Logan shouted, ‘Hello?’
‘Here, hold this bit, will you?’ Mr Whyte Senior tipped the mower up on its side.
‘You remember when I was here before,’ said Logan, as the old man started in with the WD40, ‘we talked about Sean Morrison?’
Whyte nodded. ‘I read all about his arrest in the paper – can you believe they used pepper spray on the poor wee soul? He’s only eight. . . Thanks, you can let go now.’
‘I wonder why your son didn’t report Sean – for all the vandalism.’
The old man smiled sadly. ‘Oh, he wanted to, but there was never any proof, and I thought Sean had enough to deal with without all that. What with his granddad being at death’s door and problems at school. It wouldn’t have been right.’ He levered the mower down from the worktop with a grunt. ‘Old sporting injury. Always gives me gyp when it’s wet out. Now, would you like a cup of tea? It’s no bother.’
They were walking back across the lawn when Mr Whyte stopped at the koi pond. A large orange and white fish broached the rippled surface, then disappeared back into the shadowy depths. ‘My son’s a good man, Sergeant. A better father than I was in many ways. He just gets a bit stressed from time to time. I’m sure he’ll forgive Sean eventually. His brother’s death hit him hard, and Sean looks so much like Craig.’ He shivered. ‘Anyway, what about that tea?’
In the rain FHQ looked even more miserable than normal, the lobby slick with dirty grey water walked in off the streets. Sergeant Mitchell collared Logan as soon as he was back in the building. ‘Hoy, what the hell is it with you and mobile bloody phones? Do I look like your secretary?’ Moustache bristling.
Logan pulled out his phone and peered at it. The battery was dead, but he wasn’t about to admit it. ‘You sure you’re calling the right number? I—’
‘We give everyone a sodding Airwave handset for a reason!’
‘What’s the message?’
‘That Weegie reporter of yours has been on half a dozen times – call him back for God’s sake. I have to listen to his soap-dodging nonsense once more I’m going to kill someone. The rest are in your bloody email.’ He wagged his finger under Logan’s nose like an irate schoolteacher. ‘And switch your bloody phone on, or I’m going to report you. Got better things to do than sod about after you all day!’
There was always a big mess of phone chargers in the CID office, so Logan helped himself to one that fit and plugged his mobile in, then rummaged through his desk until he found his Airwave handset. It was about four times the size of his normal phone, but it would have to do. The battery was nearly fully charged, which wasn’t surprising: he’d barely used the thing; it had spent most of its life switched off in a drawer. He tried calling Miller, but it went straight through to voicemail so he left a message and contact number. If it was anything important the reporter would call him back soon enough. Until then Logan had some digging to do.
Over an hour later he was no further forward. As far as the various police databases were concerned, Sean’s ex-best-friend’s family were clean. Not so much as a parking ticket. In fact, the only blemish on the Whytes’ family tree was Craig, the dead brother. He’d got into a fight when he was sixteen and ended up crippling a lorry driver with a snooker cue. The man had accused him of being gay. There was a spell at Her Majesty’s pleasure, followed by a battered girlfriend, therapy, then an overdose of sleeping pills. Daniel had no reason to be jealous of his younger brother – he’d not even made it to twenty-four.
When the Airwave handset started ringing it was such an unfamiliar noise that Logan nearly didn’t answer it. ‘Hello?’
‘Where the hell you been, man? I been callin’ you for ages!’ Colin Miller sounding agitated, which was pretty much par for the course these days.
‘Afternoon.’ Logan tried for one last mouthful of coffee, only to find it stone cold. He spat it back out into the mug. ‘Urgh, Jesus. . .’
‘She’s done it!’
He peered at the marbled liquid then tipped it into the nearest pot plant. ‘Done what? Who’s done it?’
‘It’s a wee boy! Seven pounds! He’s fuckin’ brilliant! Wee fingers an’ toes an’ everythin’!’
‘Oh. . .’ There were things you were supposed to say to new fathers: ‘Congratulations. How’s Isobel?’
‘Knackered. Says if I come near her again she’s going to chop ma dick off!’ He laughed. ‘Can you believe it: six days early?’
‘Well, I suppose it’s—’
‘You gotta come see him!’
‘Thing is, Colin. . .’ Logan looked at his desk. It wasn’t exactly overflowing with urgent actions, just DI Steel’s paperwork – all the things she was supposed to do, but never did. And the sooner he reported back to Insch, the sooner the grumpy sod would shout at him for being dragged away in the first place. As if Logan had any say in the matter. ‘No, sounds good. See you soon.’
He abandoned his CID pool car as close to the maternity ward as he could and hurried in out of the rain. A nurse gave him directions and after a brief shopping spree in the Women’s Royal Voluntary Service shop, he was marching down the corridor, clutching a cat-shaped helium balloon, a box of chocolates and a Hallmark card with IT
’S A BOY! on it. As if the parents didn’t already know.
The reporter was waiting for him at the maternity ward door. ‘Laz, my man! Come see the bairn!’
The next twenty minutes passed in something of a blur. The baby, no matter what his proud father said, looked like a shaved monkey, but Logan kept quiet about it and pretended not to notice. Isobel looked dreadful: pale, tired and sweaty, with dark purple bags under her eyes. She clearly wasn’t up to a prolonged visit, so Logan made his excuses, promising to meet up with Colin when the fathers were kicked out at nine, to wet the baby’s head with some thirty-five-year-old single malt whisky the reporter had bought specially.
Outside, the rain had stopped, late-afternoon sunlight cutting through the low clouds, painting everything gold and ochre, casting long blue shadows as it sank towards the horizon. Logan climbed into the pool car and switched his handset back on, trying to remember how to check for any messages and failing abysmally. So he called Control and asked Sergeant Mitchell.
‘For God’s sake! I’m not your—’
‘Bloody secretary, yeah, I know. Look, I’m using the damn thing, what more do you want?’
‘Will wonders never cease? Insch is looking for you.’
‘Any idea what—’
‘No. So don’t ask.’
Logan hung up. It was just on the cusp of five: if he could stay out of the inspector’s clutches for another ten minutes he could sign out and slope off home, putting off the inevitable shouting at till tomorrow. But that would mean going back to the flat and dealing with Jackie. . . He dialled Insch’s mobile.
‘Where are you?’
Logan thought about lying, but it probably wasn’t worth the aggravation. ‘Up at the hospital.’
‘What?’ There was a moment’s pause, then the inspector said, ‘How did you get. . . ? No, never mind. Is that slimy bastard there yet?’
‘Er. . .’ He looked up and down the car park, trying to figure out what Insch meant. ‘Which one?’
‘Hissing Bloody Sid – who do you think? Soon as the TV cameras turn up he’s all over the place like a foul smell.’
‘Ah, right, not seen him yet.’ Which was true.
‘I’ve got a rehearsal at half-six, so I’m relying on you: don’t let the wee shite say anything stupid, OK? Last thing we need is more grief.’
Logan didn’t have a clue what the inspector was on about, but it would probably be bad. It usually was.
48
They were gathered outside the main entrance, holding up placards with things like WE LOVE YOU ROB!, GET WELL SOON! and AFC CHAMPIONS! scrawled on them. Floral tributes were piled up to either side of the hospital doors, with the occasional teddy bear dressed up in Aberdeen Football Club colours thrown in for good measure. Half the crowd had their replica shirts on under their thick jackets, and all of them were tearfully singing football songs.
‘Oh for God’s sake. . .’ Logan stood next to one of the uniformed constables stationed at the hospital, staring out at this public display of grief. ‘They been at this long?’
The constable nodded, her face puckered up like a chicken’s bum. ‘Aye, ever since it was in the papers this morning. One bugger drops off a bunch of manky carnations from a petrol station, and suddenly everyone’s at it. Like he’s Lady Fucking Di or something.’ She pointed off into the middle distance where a group of TV journalists were hanging about drinking tea and coffee from polystyrene cups. ‘And those bastards aren’t helping.’
It was nearly half an hour before things kicked off: Rob Macintyre’s mum and her grieving daughter-in-law-elect emerging from the hospital blubbering bravely for the fans and cameras. The sun had long since disappeared, but it’d been replaced by the harsh white glare of television lights. Macintyre’s mother shuffled forwards and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I want to thank you all for coming to wish my wee boy well,’ she said, launching into a speech about how her little darling was the best son in the world, who didn’t deserve this, and if anyone knew who was responsible . . . pretty much the same thing she’d said at the press conference, only this time Sandy Moir-Farquharson was nowhere to be seen.
‘Good wee boy, my arse,’ said the constable, keeping her voice down, in case anyone overheard. ‘Little rapist fucker got what he bloody deserved. Whoever did him wants a medal.’
Then the questions started from the press, most of which were variations on the theme of, ‘How does it feel to have your son in a coma?’ as if his mum and fiancée were going to say it was great. Then it was onto Macintyre’s medical condition and what it meant for the wedding plans. Ashley struck a determined pose, one hand over her tiny pregnant bulge. ‘We’re still getting married! Robert will get better – his baby needs a daddy and I’ll always stand by him!’
‘Aye,’ hissed the constable, ‘and his seven-figure book deal. How much you think she’s in for, fifty per cent with the mother? They’ll be rolling in it.’
‘Well,’ said Logan, ‘the guy is in a coma—’
‘Best place for him.’
The questions kept coming. Up till now, Hissing Sid had handled the media side of things, manipulating, spinning, lying, but without him Macintyre’s mother was forced to take centre stage, and she was doing a surprisingly good job of it too, only wheeling Ashley out for the emotional bits.
The footballer’s fiancée was in the middle of telling everyone how her Robert wouldn’t hurt a fly when a man lurched drunkenly up from the road, shouting, ‘Fucker deserves to die!’ As soon as he opened his mouth Logan recognized him: Brian something, boyfriend of Macintyre’s sixth victim: Christine Forrester. The one before he’d tried it on with Jackie and got himself kneed in the balls and arrested.
‘Here we go. . .’
The man wasn’t just drunk, he was pickled: tears rolling down his face, slurring as he shouted the odds about how Macintyre was a raping scumbag who deserved to die for what he’d done. How a coma was too good for him. How he’d ruined Christine’s life. Killed her. The cameras were on him in a flash, capturing his pain for the next news bulletin.
Logan pushed through the ring of journalists and took hold of the man’s arm. ‘Come on, Brian, you don’t want to do this. Let’s you and me—’
But Brian was stronger than he looked, breaking free and hurling a barrage of foul language at Macintyre’s family. Logan waved the constable over and told her to take Brian inside. But he had no intention of coming quietly; lunging at Ashley, shouting: ‘You gave him a fucking alibi! You lying bitch! They could’ve stopped him!’ Taking a wild swing and missing. ‘It’s your fault!’
‘Come on, sir.’ The constable grabbed his wrist, twisting it up behind his back before he could do any real damage, and frogmarching him away, the TV cameras hurrying after them.
With the spotlight off Macintyre’s nearest and dearest, Logan suggested it might be best if they went home now. ‘Before anything else happens.’
Macintyre’s mum glared after Brian – watching him struggle as he was forced through the doors into the hospital. ‘I want to press charges! He’s got no right talking to us like that when my boy’s in a coma!’
‘Why don’t we talk about that tomorrow, when everyone’s calmed down?’ said Logan, escorting them through the throng of well-wishers, across the road and up into the ranks of parked cars. Macintyre’s mum pulled out a key fob and pointed it at a silver Audi – one of the footballer’s collection of expensive motors – setting the hazard lights flashing as it unlocked. Obviously the little red hatchback wasn’t good enough for her any more. ‘Nice car. New?’ She ignored him and climbed in behind the steering wheel. Logan held onto the door frame, preventing her from closing it. ‘What happened to your lawyer: Moir-Farquharson?’
She gave him a withering stare. ‘If it wasn’t for him my wee boy would be fine! I saw the papers – he made them stop protecting Rob.’ Her face was an ugly, hard line. ‘He won’t see another penny!’ She pulled on her seatbelt as Ashley got i
nto the passenger seat, looking shaken by Brian’s outburst. Logan let go of the door and it was slammed shut.
The driver’s window buzzed down and Mrs Macintyre’s angry face glowered up at him. ‘My wee boy’s been half killed: you should be out there catching whoever did it, no’ going on about lawyers and cars! Call yourselves policemen? You should be ashamed!’ And then they drove off, leaving Logan to think that yes, he probably should.
‘Well that was stupid.’ Logan leant back against the wall, looking down at Brian as he cried quietly to himself. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘they want to press charges. I’ll try to talk them out of it, but even if they do make a complaint it’s not going to go further than a warning. So it’s not the end of the world: OK?’
Christine’s boyfriend didn’t answer, just cried harder. The man was a wreck.
Logan sighed. ‘Come on, I’ll take you home.’
Brian had settled down to a gentle, near-silent sob by the time they pulled up outside the house. It lay in darkness, curtains open, lights off, like all the life had been sucked out of the place. Logan waited, but Brian didn’t budge from the passenger seat. ‘Christine will be waiting for you.’
No response. Logan climbed out of the car. He really didn’t need this tonight – he had more than enough on his plate without having to spend the evening babysitting someone’s drunken, crying boyfriend.
Brian just sat there, not looking at the house. The front door was lying open. He’d probably forgotten to close it when he staggered out to shout at Macintyre’s family, too pissed to notice. Nothing to worry about. But Logan still felt something cold crawling about in his innards.
‘Are you. . .’ He stared up at the dead-looking house. ‘Why don’t you wait here and I’ll just—’
‘She’s in the bathroom.’
And the cold thing inside Logan grew claws.
The ambulance crew declared Christine Forrester dead at nineteen minutes past six. She was in the bath; the water would have been hot once, but now it was cold and deep pink. This wasn’t a cry for help: Christine had done a thorough job. Two long, pale-edged scars stretched from the crook of her arms all the way down to her wrists, several horizontal slashes opening the veins up even further. Just to be on the safe side there were two empty packets lying on the bathroom floor: one of heavy-duty painkillers, the other sleeping tablets.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 109
