Logan reached out and poked her in the shoulder. ‘See? Told you he’s not visiting the Co-op on the High Street.’ Back to the Airwave. ‘Maggie, can you get onto Tayside and ask them to check the bookshop CCTV? Might not be him, but it’d be nice if we can let his family know he’s OK.’
‘Will do. And I spoke to Bill, he’s asking round his fishing buddies for you about who’s paying Klingon and Gerbil’s rent.’
‘Thanks, Maggie.’
Out the window, the streets of Macduff gave way to the A98, skirting the bay.
Logan twisted his Airwave back onto its holder. ‘So … Liam Barden’s in Dundee.’
Nicholson stuck her chin up. ‘Can’t help it if I’m thorough.’
He grinned. ‘Deluded, more like.’
‘I’m not the one who gave Stinky Sammy Wilson my last ten quid.’
Ah … True.
Up and over the bridge into Banff.
A billboard sat at the side of the road, not far from the football ground. The horrible little old lady was right – someone had drawn a huge willy over the local SNP candidate’s campaign poster. A big purple willy. Geoffrey Lovejoy strikes again.
Still, at least it looked as if their one-man Marxist revolution was being even-handed in his coverage of the issue. And the candidates.
‘All units, be on the lookout for an IC-One female, five two, slim build, ginger hair, in the Peterhead area. Wanted in connection with an assault on a Salvation Army volunteer.’
‘Sorry.’ Logan turned the volume down, until the Airwave’s babble was barely audible.
Steam fogged the kitchen window, the air full of the rich meaty scent of mince and earthy mashed tatties. He dug his fork into his plateful again. ‘Very good.’
Sitting opposite, Helen smiled. ‘Natasha wouldn’t have mince and tatties without peas and carrots in it. Wouldn’t touch either on their own, but soon as you cooked them with mince: best thing ever.’
‘Much better than lentil soup for lunch.’
She cracked some black pepper over hers. ‘Are you heading up to see Samantha later?’
‘When the shift’s finished. Shouldn’t be too late.’
‘Good. You can give me a hand finishing the living room. Going to look nice when it’s done. Then, I was thinking, maybe steak for tea?’
‘Steak?’ More mince. More mashed potato. Logan swallowed. Had a sip of water. ‘Don’t know when I last—’
His Airwave gave its four point-to-point beeps.
God’s sake. ‘Can I not get five minutes?’ He picked it up, turned up the volume. ‘Sorry.’ Pressed the button. ‘Shire Uniform Seven.’
Inspector McGregor’s voice crackled into the room. ‘Logan? Are you safe to talk?’
‘Give me a minute, Guv.’ He scraped his chair back. ‘I have to take this. Only be a minute.’
Then out of the kitchen and through into the lounge.
The sofa lurked in the middle of the room, along with the bookcase and the TV, their shapes making tell-tale humps in the dustsheet draped over them. Above, the ceiling was a perfect field of white. Must’ve taken Helen at least three coats to get it looking that clean.
Logan eased the door shut and pressed the button. ‘Bang away.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Lunch. Nicholson’s got some shopping to do, so we’re getting together at quarter-to and heading over to Macduff again. Canvas Melrose Crescent and see if we can dig anything up on our peeping tom.’
‘You’ll have to leave that till later: you’ve got a visitor.’
No doubt another fine upstanding Banff citizen in to complain about wheelie bins going out on the wrong day, or their neighbour’s dog, or Martians stealing their tins of Tartan Special and getting the cat pregnant. God bless Care in the Community. ‘Can Deano deal with it?’
‘Logan, you—’
‘Oh, and while you’re on: can you do me a favour, Guv? Can you ask whoever’s running the Klingon and Gerbil investigation if they’ve got a name for their supplier yet? I’m hearing rumours.’
‘It’s not our case any more. You know that.’
‘Yes, but if more drugs are on their way up here, it’d help if we knew what we were dealing with before it hits the streets. And who’s dealing it.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s valid. Now, before I return to my rapidly chilling baked potato, your visitor—’
‘Genuinely: Deano would be best. I’m up to my ears with nutters as it is today.’
‘Have you fallen on your head, Logan?’ Her voice dropped to a dramatic stage whisper. ‘You do not let anyone hear you calling him a “nutter”. What if he found out? God knows, he’s scary enough as it is.’
Logan cleared his throat. ‘Guv?’
‘Chief Superintendent Napier’s come all the way up from Aberdeen, just for you. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen him looking so happy in my life.’
Napier was happy?
Why did that sound like a very, very bad thing?
28
Chief Superintendent Napier steepled his fingers, rested his elbows on the desk, and stared. He’d commandeered the Major Incident Room on the top floor, sitting at the head of the long conference table with his back to the windows, so the light would be in Logan’s eyes.
The sun caught his thinning nimbus of ginger hair and made it glow like a halo of fire. A smile spread across his face, causing the end of his long nose to twitch.
He didn’t look very comfortable in the police-issue black T-shirt. Probably didn’t have enough shiny buttons for him. Or a place to hang his good conduct medal. Nothing to intimidate anyone with but the silver crown and single pip on each epaulette.
Logan sat perfectly still in his seat.
The Inspector who’d arrived with Napier fiddled with a digital video camera mounted on a tripod. Muttering to herself as she played with the settings. Then a red light appeared on the thing and she nodded. Middle-aged and gaunt, with a brown fringe swept forward in an attempt to cover the toast-rack wrinkles that crossed her forehead.
She settled into a chair diagonally opposite Logan. Put a digital dictaphone on the table between them. Then delved into a leather satchel and came out with a memo pad and a thick folder. Lined them up. Took the top off her pen. Cleared her throat. ‘Saturday twenty-fourth of May, two forty-seven p.m.’ Her voice was surprisingly light and girly. ‘Present are Chief Superintendent Napier, Inspector Gibb, and Sergeant Logan McRae.’ She turned and nodded to her boss.
His smile widened. ‘Sergeant McRae, how kind of you to take time out of your busy schedule to talk to us today.’
Rule number one of being recorded during interview: keep your gob shut unless you’re asked a direct question.
Napier rested his chin on the tips of his steepled fingers. ‘Perhaps you’d like to get something off your chest before we begin? Something that’s weighing on your conscience.’
Still no actual question. Logan kept his gob shut.
‘Well, perhaps later.’ He checked the file lying open on the desk in front of him. ‘For example: I see that you’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time on one Francis “Frankie” Ferris. Hundreds of man-hours spent for no result at all. Do you really think that’s a worthwhile expenditure of police resources?’
‘Yes.’ Rule number two: only answer the question you’ve been asked, nothing more. Never volunteer anything. Never go off on a tangent.
‘Really?’ A frown creased Napier’s forehead. ‘Can you explain?’
‘Raids disrupt the flow of drugs and keep the dealers unsettled. It makes the environment more dangerous for them to deal in.’ Not quite word-for-word from the B Division drug-prevention strategy document, but near enough. ‘It’s proactive policing.’
There was no way Napier came all the way up from Aberdeen to ask about Frankie Ferris. This was just starters for whatever horrible meal he had planned. A prawn cocktail before the main course arrived.
>
He couldn’t be leading up to something about Stephen Bisset dying in hospital, could he? Already had a big moan about that over the phone on Wednesday night. Why do it again, in person?
Inspector Gibb sat with pen poised. She hadn’t taken a single note so far.
Logan narrowed his eyes. Opened his mouth … then shut it again. Rule three: never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to.
Napier let the silence stretch. Then tilted his head to one side. ‘You have a girlfriend, called Samantha Mackie, do you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s currently residing at a private care home not far up the coast from here, I believe. Sunny Glen?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Hmm …’ The head came up, then tilted to the other side. ‘From what I understand, it’s a rather expensive facility. Full-time care for someone in a vegetative state – that must be difficult to afford on a Sergeant’s salary.’
Never volunteer anything.
‘So tell me, Sergeant, how exactly do you pay for Miss Mackie’s care?’
Inspector Gibb’s pen scrawled across her memo pad.
OK, that was a question. ‘I sold my flat in town. I was going to rent it out, but it wouldn’t bring in enough to cover Samantha’s care.’
‘So you sold your flat to take care of your sick girlfriend. How very noble of you.’
Please don’t ask who he’d sold it to. Stay far, far away from that particular wasps’ nest.
Logan spread his hands on the desktop, felt the muscles in his shoulders bunch. ‘She was hurt as a direct result of an ongoing investigation, she should’ve been covered under occupational health!’
Napier settled back in his seat. ‘Your investigations have a habit of creating collateral damage, don’t they, Sergeant McRae? Other people’s misery follows you around like an unwelcome stench.’
‘That wasn’t …’ He closed his mouth. Stupid. That’s what he got for breaking rule number two. Don’t go off on a tangent.
‘And speaking of collateral damage, we have Stephen Bisset. Murdered in his hospital bed, much to the delight of the press.’ Napier flicked a finger in Inspector Gibb’s direction and she dug into her thick folder.
Gibb pulled out a small stack of newsprint – the front pages of six or seven papers – then spread them out in front of Logan. ‘A small selection from the Daily Mail, Daily Record, Scottish Sun, Aberdeen Examiner, Evening Express, Scotsman, and last, but not least, the Press and Journal.’
The headlines ran from, ‘TRAGIC DAD MURDERED IN HIS BED’ to ‘PERVERT’S VICTIM KILLED WITH HOSPITAL PILLOW’. The Aberdeen Examiner had gone with, ‘“DAD WASN’T A SEX FREAK!” SAY GRIEVING FAMILY’.
Each came with a photo of Stephen Bisset, all smiles and happy families. Not lying beneath a filthy blanket, covered in his own blood and filth, in a shack, hidden away in the depths of a snow-covered forest.
One had a little inset picture of Logan in his full dress uniform, getting a commendation for catching the Mastrick Monster. ‘POLICE “HERO” ACCUSED OF “FITTING-UP” GRAHAM STIRLING.’ Another had ‘“OFFICER FABRICATED EVIDENCE” JURY TOLD.’
So that was it.
This wasn’t about someone killing Stephen Bisset, or Samantha’s care-home expenses, it was about Logan not following procedure back in January. Because obeying the rules mattered more than someone’s life.
He kept his mouth shut.
Napier pursed his lips. ‘Tell me, Sergeant …’ dramatic pause, ‘where were you last night between the hours of eleven p.m. and three a.m.?’
What?
OK, wasn’t expecting that.
Logan stared at him. ‘Why?’
‘It’s a simple question. Where were you?’
‘I was at home, painting the bedroom.’
Napier did the head-tilting thing again. ‘Until three in the morning?’
‘No, about one. Then I went to bed.’ Rule Number Two.
That pointy smug smile of his never wavered, it sat there on his stupid face like it’d been welded on. ‘And can anyone vouch for that?’
Yeah, because Logan was going to tell him all about Helen Edwards staying at his house.
The red light on the digital camcorder glowed like an ember, the lens a dead, black, eye.
Logan shuffled his chair back from the table an inch. To hell with the rules. ‘Do I need to have a Federation rep in here with me?’
‘Do you think you need one?’
‘I want it made clear – for the record – that I haven’t been cautioned, nor am I under oath, nor have I been informed what the hell is going on.’ Back another inch.
Napier spread his hands, palms up, fingers out. Like a Bond villain about to disclose his master plan. ‘It’s interesting that you think you’ve done something which merits being interviewed under caution.’
Logan stood. ‘We’re done here.’
‘Do you remember discussing Graham Stirling with Miss Mackie on the morning of Wednesday the twenty-first?’
‘Discussing? Is that meant to be a joke?’ His hands made fists, the knuckles hard, skin stretched tight. ‘Samantha hasn’t spoken a word in four years.’
‘Did you discuss—’
‘No.’ Go on, swing for him. One last glorious act as a police officer – batter Napier’s head clean off his bloody shoulders.
‘Inspector Gibb?’
She reached into her folder again and came out with two sheets of paper, stapled together. ‘We have a statement from a Mr Kevin Cooper, an orderly at Sunny Glen. On the twenty-first of May he heard you talking to Miss Mackie about the collapse of Graham Stirling’s trial. He quotes you as saying, “I’ll go to Graham Stirling’s house in the middle of the night, and bash his head in with a crowbar.”’
Napier sat back and crossed his legs. He wasn’t wearing a nice solid pair of black boots – like everyone else in uniform – instead his tiny leather brogues were polished to an onyx shine. Couldn’t be more than a size six. Probably didn’t need anything bigger to cover his cloven hooves. One hand made a lazy circle in the air. ‘Do you remember saying that, Sergeant McRae?’
‘No. Maybe. I don’t know. If I did, it was—’
‘The reason I ask, is that Graham Stirling’s missing. His sister went to his house at nine o’clock this morning and, in her words …?’ Napier gave Inspector Gibb a smile.
She picked up a sheet from her folder. ‘“I let myself in using my key. I shouted for Graham, but there was no answer. I went into the kitchen and it was like a bomb had gone off. There were broken cups and plates, and a chair with its legs all snapped. And there was blood on the floor and on the fridge.”’
Ah …
Logan sat down again. ‘I had nothing to do with that. Nothing.’
‘But you can see why we’d be interested in talking to you? Here you are,’ one hand described a brief circle, taking in the room, and presumably the whole of Banff station and the area beyond, ‘reduced in circumstance, downgraded from a high-flying career in CID to Duty Sergeant in the back of beyond—’
‘I have not been downgraded. This was Chief Superintendent Campbell’s—’
‘Don’t interrupt. I understand you’ve been complaining that certain investigations have been removed from your remit and assigned to Major Investigation Teams better suited to completing them. So: reduced, downgraded, and frustrated.’ The fingers steepled again. Chin resting on the tips. That Cheshire Cat smile welded in place. ‘And then the case against Graham Stirling collapses, because you seem to think that following procedure is beneath you. Why not mete out a little justice of your own? Judge, jury, and executioner.’
‘I did not kill Graham Stirling!’ Logan shoved his chair back. Stood with his fists curled on the conference table. ‘And if you had any evidence we wouldn’t be having this little chat up here, we’d be in an interview room with a lawyer and a Federation rep. So you can take your accusations
and shove them!’
Napier didn’t flinch. His smile didn’t waver. He sat there, watching.
Logan stood back. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got real police work to do.’ He turned and marched for the door.
He was reaching for the handle when Napier’s voice cut through the room.
‘What would you say if I told you we know who killed Stephen Bisset.’
Logan wrenched the door open. ‘If you’re implying it was me, you can—’
‘Hoy!’ Steel barged into the room, hoicking up her trousers with one hand, holding a mobile phone in the other. She glowered at Logan, then at Napier. Then at the little digital camcorder. ‘Someone going to clue me in?’
Napier held up a finger, ‘Sergeant McRae has been assisting us in understanding the slick of destruction he seems to leave behind him like a leaky oil tanker. Dead bodies. People in comas. Things like that.’
‘Well … keep it down. Some of us are trying to work up here. And you,’ she poked Logan in the chest, ‘you’re meant to be helping me catch a wee girl’s killer, so say goodbye to your little friends and get your arse in my office. Now.’
Napier stood, the smile never wavering. ‘You didn’t answer my question, Sergeant. Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts last night?’
Steel had another haul at her trousers. ‘Sergeant McRae was with me last night. We were painting his manky house. Magnolia, I think it was.’
Inspector Gibb scribbled down another note.
Her boss licked his lips. Lowered himself back into his seat. ‘I see. Well, in that case, by all means get on with some “real” police work, Sergeant. Our business is concluded for the moment.’
‘Should think so too.’ Steel shoved Logan out of the room, into the corridor. ‘And keep it down in here.’ She thumped the door shut. Then crept along the grey carpet to the next office. Ushered Logan inside.
She closed the door behind her and slumped back against it. Dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Christ on an emu, that was close.’
Steel’s office was furnished with two ancient lockers, a filing cabinet, an office chair, and a desk covered in stacks of paperwork. A laptop, with a screensaver that seemed to consist of kittens peeking out of boots and teapots, sat between the piles and every available inch of wall space was covered in maps and pinboards. The latter plastered with index cards, connected by lines of red twine.
Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead Page 25
