She blinked. Then a frown made little wrinkles in her shiny forehead. ‘You’re him?’
‘Who wrote it?’
She placed a bony hand against her chest, rubbing the halter-top where it hid Logan’s name. ‘You’re the one did that raid on Billy’s house, yeah? Took Ricky round to stay with mum?’
What about it?’
She licked her pale, chapped lips. ‘You seized all that gear, right?’
‘We—’
‘You’ve still got it, right? You know, where you can get at it?’
Trisha – focus. Who wrote my name on you?’
‘Cos you’ve got to give it all back to me. Everything you’ve got.’
‘No chance.’ Logan slammed the hatch shut.
‘No, you have to! The guys Shuggie got it off want paid – if we haven’t sold it we gotta give it back!’
Logan opened the hatch again. ‘You got six bricks of heroin and a suitcase full of mephedrone on sale or return?’
‘They’re gonna fuck him over if we can’t get the money …’ She stepped closer to the hatch, sour breath washing over Logan. What if they come after me and Ricky again? He’s only a wee kid.’
‘Here’s the deal: you give up your suppliers, Shuggie turns himself in and coughs to the drugs charges, and I’ll get you and your little boy into protective custody.’
Trisha looked away for a moment. And when she came back she was pouting. She licked a finger, then stuck her hand up inside her halter-top and rubbed at shrunken breast. ‘How about you let us have the gear and you get anything you want. Yeah? I do it all. Rough as you like. You can bring your mates too, if you like?’
Logan shrank back from the hatch. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘Bet a big guy like you could make me come and come and come. Mmmmmm … Oh yeah. I’d be a dirty bitch for—’
Logan slammed the hatch shut, before Trisha wasn’t the only one smelling of sick.
Davey ‘English’ Robertson, AKA: Daniel Roberts (69) – Rape, Indecent Assault, Attempted Murder
‘… so you see, it wasnae my fault, was it? Fucker came at me in the shower wi’ a fuckin’ hard-on, what was I supposed ta dae? Bend ower and spread ma arse cheeks? Fuck that.’ Davey Robertson squared his shoulders inside the threadbare suit jacket. Grey-stubbled chin coming up. Poof bastard was askin’ for it.’
Logan stifled a yawn. God it was hot. Even with the window open, the hotel room was like a microwave. He rubbed at his eyes. ‘Can we just stick to the—’
‘And anither thing, fit wye do you think I’ve got nithin’ better ta dae than ponce about in here wi’ you lot? Saturday mornin’: should be gettin’ ready for the match.’
‘Alison and Jenny McGregor, Mr Robertson. Did you—’
‘I seen her man oan the telly, after that rag-head cock-pirate blew him up. Fuckin’ disgrace. IEDs … Every retard’s makin’ bombs out of washin’ up liquid and Blu-Tack these days. What’s the point of spendin’ millions on tanks when you can blow holes in the fuckers with crap you find under your sink? Should nuke all them Muslim bastards and have done with it.’
Logan slammed his palm down on the arm of the chair. ‘Did you, or did you not know Alison and Jenny McGregor?’
Robertson’s chin came up again. ‘I’m no’ a young mannie, loon, but I could still kick yer arse from here tae Rhynie and back.’
Logan rubbed at the palm of his hand – both scars stung and throbbed like cuts laced with Tabasco. He gritted his teeth. ‘Just answer the question, Mr Robertson, and we can all get out of here.’
‘Seen the pair of them at that civic thing the cooncil hud for those visiting French bastards. Even got tae say, “fit like” tae the pair of them. Ken this: Alison wis nice tae everyone. No’ like these stuck-up cows you see on the telly. Hud the common touch like.’
Logan nodded. ‘And what did you talk about?’
Davey Robertson grinned. ‘Asked me back tae her place for a tin of Special and a blow-job.’
Silence.
‘What the fuck d’you think we talked aboot? The weather, her bein’ oan the TV, my lumbago. The usual.’
‘Not much better than yesterday. You?’ Logan squeezed himself a cup of coffee from the pump-dispenser thermos in the hotel meeting room. The rest of the team were slumped around the tables, speaking in low voices while DI Steel grumbled her way through the interview notes DI Bell’s team had filled in yesterday evening. Trying to find out if any were worth watching on video.
DS Doreen Taylor pulled a face. ‘A nice young man offered to “bang the living shit” out of me.’ She’d abandoned her usual twinset-and-pearls for a pair of jeans and a fuchsia hoodie with ‘ANGEL’ picked out in sequins across the back. Like someone’s mum trying to convince herself she was still down with the cool kids. ‘I swear, after a morning questioning rapists and other assorted sexual degenerates, DI Steel’s lifestyle is becoming a lot more appealing. You men are disgusting.’
Steel didn’t look up from her paperwork. ‘I heard that.’
‘No one connected to any hospitals or vets’?’
‘One dentist done for molesting his sister’s little girl, but he’s not allowed to practice any more.’ Doreen took a sip of coffee. ‘Have you spoken to Mark recently?’
Logan grimaced. ‘Acting DI MacDonald? Yeah.’
Another sip. ‘The first fortnight, I went home and cried my eyes out – every night. Dealing with Finnie was the worst. You think he’s bad when you’re a DS? Wait until it’s your turn in September.’
‘Yeah, I got the same motivational speech from Mark.’
A bee buzz-bumped against the widow, braining itself, retreating in dazed loops, then smacking its head into the glass again. So at least they weren’t the only ones.
Logan’s phone went off in his pocket. ‘McRae.’
‘Hello? Logan, is that you?’ Doc Fraser. ‘Hello?’
‘Doc, what can—’
‘Remind me again: why did I let you talk me into coming out of retirement?’
‘It—’
‘We just got the DNA results back on the toe you brought in.’
There was a long pause.
‘Doc?’
‘BBC One.’
Logan stuck the phone against his chest. ‘Who’s got the remote?’
Shrugs. Then Rennie stuck up a hand. ‘Found it.’
‘BBC One.’
The flatscreen TV mounted on the far war bloomed into life. Some sort of kids’ programme. A click. And the picture switched to the media briefing room – DCI Finnie, DCS Bain, that prick Green from SOCA, and the Media Liaison Officer – all sitting behind a desk topped with microphones.
The news ticker along the bottom of the screen read, ‘BREAKING NEWS: TESTS SHOW SEVERED TOE DOES NOT BELONG To JENNY MCGREGOR.’
Steel scrambled up from her seat, interview reports going everywhere. ‘Shite …’
‘Why did I let you talk me into it?’ Doc Fraser made rummaging noises. ‘Must’ve been mad.’
On the screen DCS Bain gritted his teeth. ‘I’m not saying that, I’m saying DNA evidence has confirmed the toe belongs to an unknown individual.’
‘What the hell happened?’
‘I told Sheila to run the usual tests -she sent samples off to the lab for toxicology, and DNA. It’s standard practice.’
A weedy-looking reporter with frizzy brown hair stuck up her hand. ‘Chief Superintendent? Why did Grampian Police claim the toe was Jenny’s yesterday?’
Doc Fraser: ‘We didn’t get the sodding DNA back till today. Whoever sent the blood on the note off for testing didn’t bother sending a tissue sample to go with it.’ A long sigh sounded in Logan’s ear. ‘The blood was Jenny’s, but the toe isn’t.’
‘Oh, buggering hell.’
Rennie waved the remote at the screen. ‘But this is good, isn’t it? Means Jenny’s not dead – she’s still alive.’
‘Chief Superintendent,
will the memorial service for Jenny still go ahead?’
‘I really can’t comment on that.’
Doc Fraser sniffed. ‘Logan: your boss is storming about like a shortarsed Godzilla, and if he calls me an idiot once more, I’m not going to be responsible for my actions, understand?’
‘I know Finnie can be a bit—’
‘I retired to get away from crap like this!’ The pathologist hung up.
‘Now I really can’t answer any further questions—’
‘Michael Larson: Edinburgh Evening Post. Are you now prepared to admit that this has all been a hoax perpetrated by the production company behind Britain’s Next Big Star?’
‘—briefing to an end.’
‘Answer the question, Chief Superintendent!’
The three people on the stage got up and marched off, led by a trembling Finnie.
‘Chief Superintendent!’
‘Wow …’ Rennie rubbed at the back of his neck, a faint bloom of skin-flakes glowing in the sunshine. ‘Finnie looks really pissed.’
Logan watched the door at the back of the briefing room swing shut, then the journalists and TV cameras jostled into position to do their pieces to camera. A doughy-faced man with a comb-over appeared on screen, clutching a microphone. ‘So there you have it. Grampian Police admit that the severed toe, found earlier this week, doesn’t belong—’
The screen went black.
DI Steel dropped the remote control onto the table. ‘Right, you bunch of jessies. Back to work. This changes sod all -we’ve still got a little girl’s killer to find.’
The two-person teams bustled out of the meeting room, all of them talking about Jenny McGregor’s return from the dead.
‘No’ you, Laz.’
Logan froze on the threshold.
‘Rennie!’
The constable stuck his head back into the room. ‘You rang?’
‘Get Laz’s share of paedos and rapists divvied up between the other teams, we’re going to pay our respects.’
18
‘No, it’s definitely getting colder.’ Rennie shifted from loot to foot, tilted his head back and let out a long, huffing breath. A faint plume of white drifted up from his mouth. ‘See! Told you.’
‘Aye, very clever.’ Steel screwed up her face, peering into the line of dignitaries in through the front doors of the Kirk of St Nicholas, mobile phone clamped to her ear. ‘No’ you, sir … Aye … I think so too …’
A sea of faces filled the graveyard – everyone, packed in shoulder-to-shoulder all the way from the church to the ornate columned frontage that separated the grounds from Union Street. A row of orange traffic cones and ‘POLICE’ tape kept the crowd off the wide path to the church. There had to be at least a thousand people in here, probably more. Camera crews and photographers clumped together into little islands, training their lenses on the shuffling masses.
Rennie popped up onto his tiptoes. ‘See anyone famous yet?’
Logan ignored him. Almost everyone was wearing black, some clutching garish teddy bears, others floral tributes with the price stickers still on from Asda, Tesco, or the nearest petrol station.
Think they didn’t have time to go home and change?’ Rennie nodded, agreeing with himself. ‘Bet half of them are really disappointed Jenny’s not dead any more. Can’t mourn a wee girl if she’s still alive.’
‘Cynical bugger.’ Steel held her phone against her chest. ‘Ooh, is that no’ thingie off the telly? What is it, Eastenders?’
‘Where?’ Rennie bounced up and down. ‘God, it is! Wow. How cool is that? Look, he’s got Melanie from Corrie with him! MELANIE! MELANIE, YOU’RE BRILLIANT!’
‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Logan slapped him on the arm. ‘Will you grow up? Supposed to be a police officer.’
Rennie grinned. ‘Think we’ll get to meet them after the service?’
Steel stuck a finger in her ear, back on the phone again. ‘Aye, sorry sir, bit noisy here – got the telly on for the memorial service … Who’s looking into where the toe came from? … Oh.’ She drooped slightly. ‘No, no, I’m sure you know what you’re doing …’ She snapped her phone shut.
‘Surprised they’re still going through with it.’ Logan leant back against a lichen-covered headstone, the name barely legible on the weather-beaten granite. ‘What’s the point of having a memorial service when she’s not even dead?’
‘Too late to back out now. Look at it …’ Steel waved a hand, indicated the milling throng packing the graveyard, the TV crews, the huge screens and speakers. ‘Celebration of a wee girl’s life and all these famous buggers actually setting foot in Aberdeen for a change. They’re here anyway, what else they going to do, go down Codonas and play on the dodgems?’
‘Ooh, ooh! Look, it’s Robbie Williams!’ The only thing Rennie didn’t do was clap his hands as he jumped up and down. ‘ROBBIE!’
‘Next time, I’m not going to thump you, I’m going to knee you in the balls.’
Rennie’s face fell. ‘Inspector …?’
‘Don’t be such a jobbie, Laz. Rennie, you scurry off and wet your wee star-struck panties if you like.’
‘Thanks, Guv!’ Rennie pushed his way through the crowd, making for the progression of VIPs. ‘God, there’s the bloke off Cash In The Attic!’
Logan watched him go. ‘Next time we’re at the vet, I’m getting him fixed.’
‘Let the wee loon have some fun.’ She pulled out her fake cigarette, switched it on, and took a puff. ‘Finnie’s got a team going through all the missing kid reports, see if we can get a match on the toe. Bastards must’ve got it from somewhere.’
Logan shifted, the tombstone’s cold leaching through his suit jacket. ‘If it is a paedophile ring they might’ve had her for years …’ There was a comforting thought. ‘Might not even be local – they could’ve bought her off the Eastern Europeans.’ In which case they’d probably never know who she was. ‘Who’s SIO?’
Steel pulled her mouth down at the edges and took a long hard sook on the plastic cigarette. ‘McPherson.’
‘You’re kidding – they made McPherson Senior Investigating Officer? DI Disaster?’
‘All he’s got to do is go through the misper reports and get DNA samples. No’ even McPherson can screw that up.’ Another sook. ‘I hope …’
Rennie had shoved his way to the front of the crowd lining the path, waving his hands at someone Logan vaguely recognized from the TV.
‘I can’t believe they put McPherson in charge of a murder inquiry.’
‘Give it a rest, eh?’ DI Steel went for a dig in her armpit. ‘With any luck we’ll catch the bugger long before McPherson ruins …’ She pursed her lips. ‘There he is.’
Who?’
She pointed at a bald bloke with ridiculous sideburns and a pedestal-matt-style soul patch. Gordon Maguire – MD of Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Productions. Fancy black suit and expensive-looking T-shirt with a skull and crossbones on it. Sunglasses. Big cheesy grin.
He was waving to people as he strolled towards the church. Signing the occasional autograph.
‘You want to question him?’
‘Alternative line of enquiry Laz. Watch and learn.’
‘You think he …’ Logan stared. Someone had ducked under the blue-and-white tape and out onto the path: a rumpled, chinless sack of skin with a big hooked nose. Michael Larson. The git from the Edinburgh Evening Post.
A photographer stumbled onto the path behind him. Click, flash, whirr, click …
‘Mr Maguire, is it true you obtained a dead girl’s toe in order to con people into buying your so-called “charity record”, when—’
‘Complete rubbish, we’re here to celebrate the fact that Jenny’s still alive.’ Maguire turned and pumped his fists in the air. ‘JENNY’S STILL ALIVE!’
A huge cheer.
‘Mr Maguire, your company—’
‘I think it’s disgusting that you’re exploiting this terrible
tragedy to sell your sleazy newspaper. You should be ashamed of yourself. THE REST OF US ARE GOING TO FOCUS ON GETTING JENNY AND HER MUM BACK ALIVE! AREN’T WE?’
Another huge cheer.
The reporter glanced at his photographer – still snapping away – and back. ‘I put it to you, that you’re a heartless—’
‘NOTHING MATTERS MORE TO ME THAN JENNY AND ALISON’S SAFETY!’
Cheer.
Someone reached out and shoved Michael Larson, sending him lurching to the other side of the walkway, knocking over a traffic cone, where someone else shoved him back.
‘Get off me!’
Gordon Maguire stuck a hand in the middle of the reporter’s chest and pushed past. ‘WE DON’T HAVE TIME FOR SLEAZY JOURNALISTS, DO WE?’
A resounding ‘NO!’ echoed back from the headstones.
Logan shifted his feet, feeling for the little canister of pepper-spray in his pocket. ‘Inspector?’
‘Meh, not like Larson needs all his teeth anyway. A wee spanking might do the boy some good.’
The reporter was shoved again, this time hard enough to make him clatter to the ground. Then a grunt, as someone’s boot thumping into his ribs. Then another. Then a blister of people burst out onto the path, buckling the line of tape, hauling the reporter back between the graves, punches raining down onto his head and chest.
‘BASTARD!’
‘PEOPLE LIKE YOU MAKE ME SICK!’
‘FUCKIN’ HIT HIM!’
Steel sighed, then twisted the filter on her e-cigarette. ‘Suppose we better go do something.’ Stuck her hands in her pockets. Stared up at the clouds.
‘Fine …’ Logan dragged out his pepper-spray and shoved his way through the crowd. ‘POLICE! MOVE IT!’
By the time he’d fought his way to the path, Gordon Maguire was on his way again, smiling and waving at the crowd.
Logan pushed into the crowd on the other side. ‘BREAK IT UP!’
Feet thumped down on the reporter’s chest and head. He was curled on his side, arms covering his face, shrieking. ‘HELP ME!’
‘I SAID BREAK IT UP!’ People parted in front of Logan. Black suits, jeans, skirts, cargo-pants, forming a little ring around the groaning, bloody figure on the ground. Blood trickled from Larson’s ear, poured from his nose. His face was already beginning to swell.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 11
