‘Good boy, such a good boy … Oh what a good boy …’
Logan told Rickards to turn it off.
‘My good boy … Oh Craig …’ Click. Silence.
Mid-afternoon and the rain was drumming down from a lead-grey sky. The road glistened, reflecting back the rotating blue and white lights from Alpha Two Seven as Logan climbed out of his pool car and into the downpour. Hamilton Place was quiet – there was no sign of the Whytes’ people carrier.
‘You bring the warrant?’ he asked and Rennie nodded, digging it out of his jacket pocket and handing it over. Logan checked to make sure it was all signed in the right places before marching up to the front door and pounding on it like DI Insch. No response.
‘Maybe they’re not in?’
Logan tried again, waited, then marched round to the back of the house, Rennie and Rickards trotting along behind him. A small radio was playing in the shed at the bottom of the garden, the Rolling Stones’ (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction mingling with the rain. Someone sang along, slightly off key. Mr Whyte Senior had a hand-rolled cigarette sticking out of the side of his mouth as he worked a chisel back and forth on an oil stone, pausing every now and then to check for sharpness. He looked up and smiled as Logan stopped just outside the shed. ‘Sergeant McRae, how are you? Anything I can do to help?’
‘I want to see your leg.’
The old man raised an eyebrow and ground his cigarette out on a china saucer. ‘On a first date? What kind of—’
‘This isn’t a joke.’ Logan held up the warrant. ‘I’m detaining you on suspicion of child abuse.’
‘Surely there’s been some mistake. I would never touch a child. It’s repulsive—’
‘You remember Sean Morrison, Mr Whyte? Remember how much he looks like Craig? Your wee boy? The one who ended up killing himself? Because of what you did?’
Whyte looked down at the chisel in his hand, then back up at Logan. ‘I’m not listening to this any longer.’ He tightened his grip on the handle. ‘I want you off our property.’
‘What did you do, play the surrogate granddad? You’re about the same age. He’s worried about his grandfather and you took advantage—’
‘If you don’t leave, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.’ He stepped forwards, the chisel weaving back and forth like the head of a snake. ‘Get out of my garden. Now.’
‘And you were stupid enough to video it!’
‘Lies!’ Whyte’s face darkened. ‘You’ve no business being here!’
‘We found it this morning. You abused an eight-year-old boy and you videotaped yourself doing it, you moron. The old sporting injury.’ Logan pointed at the man’s leg. ‘We’re going to match your scar to the one in the film and then I’m going to lock you up where you can’t—’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong!’ The words came out in a small shower of brown spittle. ‘You get out of here, NOW!’ Another step forward, weak sunlight glinting on the chisel’s freshly sharpened edge.
Logan pulled out a canister of pepper spray and levelled it at Whyte’s face. ‘Put the weapon down and step out of the shed.’
Whyte’s eyes darted over Logan’s shoulder, to where Rennie and Rickards stood. No way out. He looked at the canister in Logan’s hand, then dropped the chisel. It fell end over end, landing point down and burying itself in the sodden grass. ‘I want a lawyer, I—’
Logan sprayed the old man in the eyes. He screamed even louder than Sean Morrison had.
54
‘Fuck’s sake.’ DI Steel sat at her desk reading Logan’s report. ‘And he’d no idea Garvie was floggin’ the video to other kiddie fiddlin’ bastards?’
‘We don’t even know if he was. Kevin Massie’s come over all repentant now he’s looking at another stretch in Peterhead – says there were five or six of them, sharing homemade videos and pictures, and stuff they got off the internet. They encrypt it, so only they can see it, and upload it to Garvie’s server. Massie claims he never knew who the other members were: no one ever used their real names, so he can’t finger them.’
‘That’s convenient.’
‘Whyte’s not saying anything, but the scar on his leg matches the one in the video. So he’s screwed anyway.’
Steel nodded sagely. ‘See! I told you there was more to this Sean Morrison thing than met the eye.’
Logan didn’t bother answering that – DI Steel’s selective memory strikes again – instead he slouched in his chair and stared out of the nicotine-filmed window. ‘The IB’ve tried the encryption key we found at Daniel Whyte’s place on Garvie’s servers.’
The inspector’s face lit up, all the wrinkles looking excited. ‘Aye?’
‘Twenty video clips, that’s it. It won’t decrypt any of the other files. There’s still thousands and thousands we can’t get into.’
‘Oh …’ The excitement evaporated and Steel’s face fell back into its usual leathery sag. ‘Ah well, win some, lose some. Get all the other fuckwits who paid Garvie by cheque hauled in and we’ll give them a hard time. Meantime,’ she leant back in her chair, swivelling back and forth, ‘I had to cancel the search for Macintyre’s rapemobile. Fuckin’ thing’s nowhere to be seen and the DCS’s been banging his gums about the overtime bill. Apparently,’ she put on a Banff and Buchan Teuchter drawl, ‘DI Finnee’s operation taks precedence.’ She scowled. ‘Glory-hogging bastard. And see if you can get us some tea, eh? I’m gaspin’ here.’
Twenty past four and Logan was staring at the phone, debating the merits of calling Rachael Tulloch back and making up some excuse to cancel whatever he was supposed to be doing with her tonight. A large shadow loomed over him and he flinched, expecting to see DI Insch’s furious purple face. But it was just Big Gary with a pile of incident reports in one hand and a mug of tea in the other, a rowie clamped between his teeth. ‘Mmmwow, gowfffmmm mounnsmmmph.’
Logan just stared at him, so Gary took the cowpat-shaped roll out of his mouth and tried again. ‘Don’t tell Watson, but your girlfriend’s outside.’
‘What?’ How the hell did Gary find out about Rachael? And if Gary knew, it would be all over the station in a matter of minutes. Jackie would have his balls for earrings!
‘Ashley is it? Macintyre’s bint – she’s out front telling everyone what a bunch of shites we are. Only got out of court five minutes ago and she’s already giving bloody press conferences.’
Thank God for that. ‘Oh.’
‘Here,’ Gary said, dumping half of the incident reports on Logan’s desk, ‘Steel says you’re in charge of these.’ He took a big bite of rowie, and lumbered off.
Logan took one look at the pile of paperwork and decided he really couldn’t be bothered. He grabbed his coat and left the building instead: he had a sudden masochistic urge to hear what lies Macintyre’s fiancée was coming out with now.
The camera crews were packing up as he pushed through the front doors. Rickards was standing on the top step, watching the woman from Sky News doing a piece to camera. The welt on his cheek where Debbie slapped him had faded overnight, leaving nothing more than a pitiful, skelped-arse look. He gave a big puppy-dog sigh as Logan stopped beside him.
‘Well, what did Macintyre’s fiancée say?’
Rickards shrugged. ‘The usual.’
Logan scanned the dispersing crowds, looking for Ashley’s telltale brassy blonde hair. She was climbing into a taxi with Macintyre’s mother. ‘If you were …’ he frowned, watching as it pulled away. All that time they’d spent searching the city for the missing little red hatchback, when everyone knew the car would be a burnt-out hulk by now, dumped in the middle of nowhere, miles from civilization. But what if everyone was wrong? He grabbed Rickards. ‘Go: get a pool car, now!’
As the constable scurried off, Logan pulled out his mobile and called the inspector in charge of the CCTV room, telling him to get his cameras tracking the Rainbow taxi currently turning right onto Broad Street. ‘And I need backup – a couple of—’
‘Aye,
right, Finnie’s got a big drug bust going on; every bugger’s off playing Miami Vice. They’ve no one spare. Tell you, I had a gang of shoplifters …’ He was still moaning two minutes later when Rickards puttered up in front of the station in a fusty old Vauxhall that smelled of armpits.
Logan jumped in the passenger seat. ‘What the hell took you so long?’
‘It was—’
‘Well, get a shift on! Out, left on Broad Street …’ he held the phone to his ear again, ‘Schoolhill …’
Rickards put his foot down and the scabby car lurched out onto the road, pausing at the junction to let a huge bendy bus hiss and judder past. The constable strained forward in his seat, looking for a gap in the traffic. ‘I don’t get it: why are we—’
‘They’ve just got out of court, they’re charged with perverting the course of justice, they know the only way we’re going to prove Rob Bloody Macintyre’s guilty is if we find that little red hatchback. No car: no forensic. No forensic: no conviction. If you were them, what would you do?’
‘Oh.’
‘Exactly.’ They followed the trail of CCTV cameras, Logan relaying instructions as Rickards did his best to catch up with Macintyre’s nearest and dearest.
‘There!’ Logan jabbed a finger at the windscreen – the taxi was at the head of a queue of traffic, waiting for the lights to turn green and let them out onto Union Street. Red, amber… and they were off, trailing more than a dozen cars behind. A taxi ahead of them jerked to a halt as a pissed teenager lurched out on to the road, swinging her arms and singing incoherently for the benefit of her equally drunk friends. A sudden braying of horns, some swearing, threats and the vomit-spattered girl staggered back to the kerb, giggling. The traffic started moving again, just in time for the lights to do their slow parade back to red.
Rickards snapped on the siren, the noise wailing out into the rain-speckled afternoon, but nothing happened. The cars were too tightly packed on Chapel Street to get out of their way. By the time the lights were green again the taxi was nowhere to be seen. Logan got an update from the CCTV team and Rickards floored it, siren blaring, nipping between cars and buses as they pulled over to let them past, traumatizing an old lady with a shopping trolley halfway across a pelican crossing on Union Grove.
Logan grabbed the dashboard as the constable slammed on the brakes, trying not to make OAP pâté. ‘Switch it off!’
‘Eh?’
‘The siren, you idiot – switch it off! If they hear us coming they’re not going to lead us to the car, are they?’
Rickards did as he was told.
The pasty-faced old woman hobbled out of the way, clutching her chest as Logan checked in with the CCTV team again. They were screwed: the taxi had disappeared off the network. Wherever the car was, they’d run out of camera coverage. ‘Fuck!’ Logan slammed his hand off the dashboard.
Rickards cringed. ‘It wasn’t my fault!’
Ignoring him, Logan punched the number for Rainbow Taxis into his mobile and listened to it ring. ‘Come on, come on—’ Someone picked up at the other end. He cut them off before they could get into the whole introductory spiel. ‘You had a pick-up from Queen Street – the police station – ten minutes ago. Where’s it going?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t give out that kind of information over the phone—’
‘Fine: you call Grampian Police and you tell them where that taxi’s going. OK? You tell them that DS McRae needs to know urgently.’
‘Well … we—’
‘Urgently!’
The woman on the other end said she’d do her best.
His phone went not long after – Control with the address from the taxi firm. It was Rob Macintyre’s house. Logan swore. So much for that theory. ‘Aye, they say the driver dropped the mother off, then took the younger one to another address.’
‘Where? Where did he take her?’
‘You’re sure it was here?’ said Logan, looking around the flat, featureless car park, sitting in the shadow of a tower block on the outskirts of Kittybrewster. The wind was picking up again, sending an empty polystyrene carton bouncing across the damp concrete.
‘Aye.’ The taxi driver pointed a stubby finger at the far corner, where a ragged opening punctured the chainlink fence. ‘Dropped her right here an’ she tottered off ower there wie her box.’ He sniffed, looked up at the cold, blue sky, and said, ‘Nae bad weather for a change, eh?’
‘Box? What box?’
A shrug. ‘No idea. The mother goes intae the house and comes out with this cardboard box and gives it to the blonde bit in the back. Tells me to drive her here.’
The box – Macintyre’s trophies, the ones the search team couldn’t find – they were getting rid of the evidence. Logan thanked him and hurried off towards the hole in the fence, trying not to listen to Rickards moaning on about how Debbie Kerr would tell everyone in the Aberdeen scene he was a rotten wee shite and not to be trusted as he slouched along behind.
A churned mud path reached through the grass from the fence towards another tower block. Logan ducked through. Four o’clock on a Friday afternoon and the parking spaces in front of the tower block were empty. There were another two eighteen-storey blocks in the development – bland concrete towers that dominated the skyline – but their car parks were virtually empty too. No sign of a little red hatchback.
According to the taxi driver he’d dropped Ashley off only a couple of minutes earlier: so where the hell was she?
‘I mean it’s not as if I did it on purpose! Why did Debs have to—’
‘Look, would you shut up about your bloody bondage buddies for two fucking minutes and help me find Macintyre’s car?’
Rickards blushed and mumbled an apology, but five minutes later he was whinging again.
There was a small road lined with lock-up garages, tucked down the side of a cluster of shops. Puddles shone with oily rainbows, glittering in the sunlight as Logan picked his way between the potholes. The garage doors were peeling and chipped, bare metal showing through ancient paintwork; only one was open, down at the far end, the sound of someone talking to themselves just audible over the chattering of a single magpie and Rickards’ incessant whining.
‘What am I supposed to do? I mean it’s not as if—’
Logan hit him. ‘Shhh!’ pointing at the open garage door. ‘Down there.’
They crept forward, the voice becoming clearer with every step. It was Ashley, swearing away to herself. ‘Fucking bastards with their fucking fuck … shit …’ Something clanged.
Logan peered inside: Ashley was on her hands and knees fishing about beneath a little red hatchback, her pert, rounded backside wiggling in the air. Logan resisted the urge to take a running kick at it. ‘Lost something?’
She froze. Swore. Then slowly turned to stare at him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. ‘This … you … private property, you can’t—’
‘Step away from the vehicle please, Miss.’ It was hard to keep the grin from his face, so Logan didn’t even try. They finally had … He frowned, beneath the smell of dirt and oil was something a lot more worrying: bleach. The box – the one she’d collected from Macintyre’s house – was full of cleaning products and a tiny, handheld vacuum cleaner.
‘I was …’ She looked over Logan’s shoulder, eyes wide: ‘What the hell?’
Logan didn’t even bother looking round. ‘Nice try. On your feet.’
She swore again, and stood. ‘Bastards.’
‘Rickards, do the honours, will you?’
The constable pulled out his cuffs and started reciting Ashley’s rights, getting as far as, ‘anything you do say will be—’ before she kneed him in the balls. ‘Aya, fuck!’ She was fast, slamming an elbow down on the back of Rickard’s head as he crumpled, sending him crashing to the dirty garage floor, then snatching something out of the cardboard box – a squeezy bottle of bleach – spraying it in Logan’s face.
He got his arms up just in time, his head surrounded with fumes as she ba
rged past, bouncing him off the hatchback’s passenger door. He stumbled, tripped, and landed on his backside as Ashley ran for it.
He clambered to his feet. Rickards was groaning, coiled up around his battered testicles. He’d live, but he’d be bugger-all help. Swearing, Logan burst out of the garage, skidding to a halt on the pockmarked tarmac.
She was running for the main road, shouting, ‘HELP! RAPE!’ at the top of her lungs, going as fast as her high heels would carry her.
Logan caught up with Ashley outside a small newsagents, grabbing the back of her jacket and spinning her round. She swung at him, her fist whistling past his nose as he dodged back. He returned the favour, only he didn’t miss – there was a soft crack and she went down, landing flat on that pert backside of hers, blood dribbling out between her fingers as she clutched her broken nose and moaned.
Logan hauled Ashley to her feet, shoved her up against the newsagents’ window and handcuffed her wrists behind her back. She left a smear of bright red on the glass. ‘You fuck! You fucking fuck! I’m pregnant! I’m fucking suing you! POLICE BRUTALITY!’
The newsagent’s door sneaked open a crack and a wee mannie peered out into the street, shaking his fist, staying well back. ‘You leave her alone!’
Blood streaming down her face, Ashley glared at the not-so-have-ago hero still hiding behind his shop door. ‘You saw! You saw him attack me! Police fucking brutality!’
‘Police? Oh, er … I …’ He blanched, gripping the edge of his door, inching it closed again.
Ashley spat a mouthful of scarlet at him.
Logan frogmarched her back to the garage.
55
DI Steel fiddled with a packet of cigarettes as the IB crawled all over Macintyre’s little red hatchback. She kept glancing back towards the ambulance and the woman sitting on the tailgate glowering out into the drizzle: squint nose still leaking bright red blood, eyes already beginning to blacken. ‘Jesus Laz, could you no’ just ask her to come quietly? How’s it going to look – “Police Beat The Shite Out O’ Pregnant Bint”? You’re a walking PR disaster. I’ve …’ She frowned. ‘What happened to your jacket?’
Broken Skin Page 36
