‘Give the kid a break. Like you’ve never entertained a five-fingered shuffle over a photo of some half-naked bird.’
There was a wee girl in the pic, Bob.’
He curled his top lip. ‘Aye, I’ll give you that.’
Maybe that’s what he’d been running away from?
‘Sangster leave a note?’
‘Yeah, the usual. I’m sorry, I couldn’t take it any more, I’ve let everyone down …’ Bob shook his head, then settled on the edge of the bed. ‘Do you have any idea how often people write exactly the same thing? Their last words on earth, and they’re sorry they let everyone down. How fucked up is that?’ He ran a hand through his hair, until he got to the bald patch at the back. ‘At least I’m not doing the death notice this time, some poor sod in York can tell Bruce’s parents he couldn’t live up to their expectations … I fucking hate suicides.’
Logan looked around the room. ‘So, come on then – why are you here? We’ve got no suspicious circumstances: why aren’t the GED dealing with it?’
‘They are. I’m not here because Bruce’s dead – apparently Finnie doesn’t care about that. What Finnie does care about is where Bruce got the morphine from. Controlled substance. Must be someone dealing on campus.’ Bob raised his chin. ‘So now I’ve got to go tell all of Bruce’s mates he’s dead, and ask them, “Are you a drug dealer?”’ He pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and passed it over. ‘Got them off his phone and laptop contacts. Don’t fancy helping do you?’
Fat chance.
Logan skimmed the names. ‘Think I did Liam Christie for stealing shop mannequins last year. Silly sod said he was building a plastic army to overthrow our reptilian overlords. Bloody medical students are always the worst …’ He stopped, then pulled a list from his own pocket. Double checked the names and addresses. ‘You’re in luck, Bob – I’m speaking to some of these guys today anyway.’
‘Do us a favour: ask them if they’re doing a bit of dealing to pay their way through university, eh?’
Logan threw Bob’s list back at him. ‘We can sort out what it’s going to cost you later.’
31
‘It’s just, like, can the world get any worse?’ Another poky little room – this time plastered with Twilight posters and featuring a life-sized cardboard cut-out of the vampire bloke with the greasy hair. Tanya Marsden dabbed at her pink eyes, sniffed, then worried the paper hanky into tiny scraps with bony fingers. ‘I mean, first Alison, and now poor Bruce. It’s like, the whole university’s been placed under some evil curse …’ She stared at Logan from the depths of a dark, floppy fringe.
‘How well did you know Bruce, Miss Marsden?’
‘Please, call me Tiggy We used to role play together: AD&D, a bunch of us, you know, got a group together in first year. Most of them just drifted away … But Bruce hung in till last Christmas – too much studying to do. I like Bruce. He was a good friend, you know?’
‘And did he ever speak to you about drugs?’
‘For real? No way. Bruce is going to be a doctor …’ She looked down at the shredded paper in her hands. ‘Was going to be a doctor. He was super smart, there’s no way he’d risk getting kicked out of uni.’
‘Did he say anything to you in the last couple of weeks? Anything that might explain why he did it?’
Her shoulders quivered. ‘I should’ve done something. I mean, what’s the point of doing psychology if you can’t even help a friend? He was always working, you know? Always had his head in a textbook, never went to the pub …’ She bit her bottom lip, blinked, then rubbed a hand across her eyes. ‘I’m sorry …’
Logan sat back in the plastic chair and watched her sniff. That was the trouble with psychology students, the little sods were being taught how to manipulate other people. Of course, they didn’t call it that, they called it Neuro-Linguistic Programming, and things like that. The kind of thing Rennie was trying to pull with the sex offenders.
‘So, you knew Alison McGregor, eh? Must’ve been hard for her – single mum, studying, raising a little girl, rehearsing, being on the telly?’
She rolled her eyes and laughed, a short, brittle sound. ‘Oh God, yes. But she was terrific, seriously, like a total inspiration. We were thick as thieves, Alison and me, complete BFFs. Used to crib each other’s lecture notes, if one of us couldn’t make it and that.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Logan wrote the word ‘LIAR’ next to Tanya Marsden’s name in his notebook. Every single student he’d talked to had sworn they were Alison McGregor’s bestest friend. Jumping on the D-lebrity bandwagon and fighting over the seats: look at me, I know the kidnapped woman and her tortured daughter!
‘I can’t believe this happened …’ The tears were back. ‘They’ll let them go, right? Alison and Jenny? I mean, there’s got to be millions in the fund by now – that’s got to be enough.’
‘She was just the best person I’d ever met.’ Jade Shepley sighed. ‘Wow. To just, I mean, imagine what she must be going through.’ She furrowed her brow. Barely nineteen and she was already wearing a twinset-and-pearls, hair cut into a sensible bob, Velma-from-Scooby-Doo glasses.
Her room was decorated with yet another collection of posters: Audrey Hepburn – Breakfast at Tiffany’s; a kitten in a tree – ‘SOMETIMES MONDAY LASTS ALL WEEK’; and a couple advertising am-dram musical productions.
‘It’s such a horrible thing to happen. Poor Alison …’ Jade lent closer and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘We were best of friends, you know.’
‘Oh no, I can’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt her.’ Phillipa McEwan blinked, bit her bottom lip, stared at her hands. ‘Alison was just the loveliest person in the whole world. She was always popping past to talk about how her day went, or borrow a book or something.’ Posters: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix; Zebedee from the Magic Roundabout; Einstein sticking his tongue out. ‘There’s not a day I don’t pray for her.’
‘Actually, she was a complete bitch.’ Stephen Clayton sprawled in the room’s only seat, leaving Logan to stand. Posters: Coldplay; Yoda; U2; David Tennant getting his sonic screwdriver out, with the TARDIS in the background – signed; and the classic Jurassic Park logo. A remote-control Dalek sat on the floor, next to a wastepaper basket overflowing with scrunched up empty Cheesy Wotsits packets.
Clayton cracked open a tin of Red Bull and gulped at it. Belched. Skull-and-crossbones earring, T-shirt with cannabis leaf motif, stud in the nose, blond hair down to the middle of his back.
Ooh, look at me, I’m such a rebel.
‘And why was that?’
Clayton curled his top lip. ‘Why do you think? Always swanning about like she was fucking royalty.’ His voice jumped an octave. ‘“Oh, I’m on TV, I’m so special, so much better than the rest of you ordinary little plebs.” Bitch.’ He brushed the hair from his face. ‘Stuck up, holier than thou, lying, two-faced bitch.’
So predictable.
‘She turned you down.’ Logan tried not to smile.
‘Like she was such a fucking catch with a wee kid in tow. Who wants lumbered with that?’ Another scoof of caffeinated sugar. ‘Was doing her a favour.’
Yeah, you and your grow-your-own-moustache kit.
‘So, this kidnapping thing: you think she deserved what she got?’
Clayton’s face soured. ‘You’re kidding, right? When they let her go she’s going to be worse than ever. Everyone’ll be falling over themselves to lick her arse, like she’s Richard Hammond and Princess Fucking Di all rolled into one. Getting kidnapped was the best thing that ever happened to that manipulative cow.’
‘No, I didn’t know Bruce had killed himself. That’s … That’s just terrible.’ Craig Peterson sat on the end of the bed and stroked the little tuft of beard that clung onto his chin. Throw in the big nose, floppy curly brown hair and furrowed eyebrows, and he looked like a vaguely disappointed goat. Posters: Reservoir Dogs; Hitchcock’s North by Northwest; War of the Worlds
– the Orson Welles version, not the Tom Cruise one; Marc Caro and Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s La Cité des Enfants Perdus. ‘I mean, I knew he’d been a bit stressed recently – what with trying to catch up with his coursework and Tanya dumping him -but suicide? Why wouldn’t he come speak to me? He must’ve known I could have helped him.’
‘Tanya?’ Logan flipped a few pages back in his notebook. ‘Tanya Marsden?’
More beard stroking. ‘Likes to call herself “Tiggy” for some reason. I tried to tell Bruce she wasn’t his type, but “l’oeil de l’amoureux est aveugle à tout défaut”.’
Oh, to be young and pretentious.
So Tanya Marsden and Bruce Sangster had been an item – she’d kept that quiet.
‘I see …’ Logan underlined the word ‘LIAR’ next to her name a few more times.
‘Molière – it means “the lover’s eye is blind to all fault.”‘
‘Does it now.’ He moved on a couple of pages and wrote ‘PATRONIZING PRICK’ next to Peterson’s. ‘Did he ever say anything to you about drugs?’
“Well … Off the record?’
Logan smiled. ‘No.’
‘I wouldn’t want his parents to get the wrong idea, they had very high hopes for him.’
‘But?’
‘Where do you stand on the subject of cannabis, Sergeant?’
Logan just stared at him, letting the silence stretch.
A big sigh. ‘Look, Bruce might have said something about hooking up with a woman when he was down in Dundee at one of those Dungeons and Dragons conventions last year. This person – Bruce always called her “Stumpy the Dwarven Queen” – was getting him cannabis, amyl nitrate – poppers, maybe some speed if it was coming up to exam time and Bruce needed to cram. And Bruce always needed to cram.’
‘Stumpy the Dwarven Queen?’
Peterson folded his arms, then crossed his legs. ‘Look, I’m really not comfortable talking about a dead friend behind his back, so if you’d like to save the sarcastic tones until you get back to the station, Sergeant, that’d be fine with me.’
‘Sarcastic tone, Mr Peterson? I think you’ll find I’m just trying to get to the bottom of a suspicious death. Surely that’s worth treading on a few sensibilities?’
The student’s nose came up. ‘You can’t “tread” on sensibilities, you have to “offend” them.’
Logan smiled. ‘If you insist: where were you yesterday afternoon between the hours of twelve and five?’
‘What?’ His eyes went wide. ‘My God, you’re actually serious. You think Bruce was murdered?’
‘And if you can give me the names and addresses of anyone who can confirm your whereabouts, that’ll be a great help.’ You arrogant little prick.
There was a bit of bluster, some self-righteous indignation, but eventually Peterson handed over the details of two friends who were with him most of the day watching DVDs and being pretentious. Logan took down the details. ‘Now: tell me about Alison McGregor.’
Peterson opened his mouth, puckered his forehead, then clamped his lips together. ‘Sorry?’
‘You were in the same psychology class as her.’
‘Well, yes … I mean, I went over all this with an Inspector McPherson—’
‘And now you’re going to go over it again.’ Logan shifted forward in the seat, getting close enough to make Peterson edge back, until his back was up against the wall.
‘I never really knew her. I mean, I knew who she was – well it’d be difficult not to when there’s paparazzi hanging about outside the lecture theatre – but we never really talked. I tend to be very campus orientated, and she lived on the other side of town, so I didn’t really see that much of her. Outside lectures and tutorials. Maybe a couple of times in the library.’ He rubbed a hand at the side of his neck. ‘It’s terrible, what’s happened, but I didn’t really know her. She seemed really popular … ?’
Logan just sat there and stared at him.
‘Lots of friends? Especially when there were photographers about. I think some of the girls had a pool running on who could get their faces in the papers the most. You know, by talking to her while she was being snapped …’
More silence.
‘Erm …’ He licked his lips. ‘Look, I never really knew her, OK?’
‘I see.’ Logan didn’t move.
‘And I’ve got studying to do. So if there’s nothing—’
The Danse macabre blared out from Logan’s pocket. He pulled it out and hit the button. ‘McRae.’
‘Sarge?’ Rennie. ‘Where are you? I’m in the car park.’
Logan glanced up at Peterson. It wouldn’t hurt to take the patronizing little sod down a notch or two. ‘Yes, I’m speaking to him now.’
‘Eh? You in the pub already?’
‘No, he claims he,’ Loan checked his notebook, smothered a smile, ‘“never really knew her.’”
‘Knew …? Ah – I get it. OK.’
That’s right. Says he has an alibi for the Bruce Sangster death too.’
Peterson shifted from cheek to cheek.
‘I got everything you wanted from the archives, so I’m out at Hillhead, ready to crack the McGregor case!’
Logan stared at Craig Peterson until the student looked away. ‘No, I think I’ll take care of it personally.’
‘Where do you want me to start?’
‘Stay where you are.’ Logan hung up and slid the phone back in his pocket. Then stood. ‘We’ll be in touch, Mr Peterson.’ He leant forward, looming, and the student shrank back again. ‘Don’t leave town; remember I’ll be watching you.’
Rennie leant back against a filthy Vauxhall, pink face raised to the sun, hands in his pockets, little white cables dangling from his ears, eyes closed.
Logan poked him in the shoulder. ‘How did you get a pool car?’
‘Eh?’ He took out his earbuds. ‘Oh, hi, Sarge. Did he cough? Whoever you were noising up?’
‘Bloody Eric told me all the cars were booked!’
‘Really? He was fine with me. Maybe—’
‘What happened with the archives?’
‘Not a lot. Couple of idiots kidnapped a jeweller’s daughter; animal rights activists dug up someone’s mum and demanded an end to animal testing at the Rowett; gang grabbed the wife and kids of a bank manager in Ellon so he’d let them in to loot the place …’ Rennie stared off into the middle distance. ‘Oh-ho, hold your breath, here comes Biohazard.’
Bob was shambling out of the block of student accommodation opposite, jacket over his shoulder, shirtsleeves rolled up to expose two forearms so hairy it looked as if he was wearing a furry pullover. He waved, then ambled over.
Logan turned, looking up at the block behind them. The one where, with any luck, Craig Peterson was currently crapping himself. ‘Waste of time then.’
‘Sorry, Sarge.’ Rennie rubbed his hands together. ‘So, come on – who were you winding up?’
‘Jesus, I bloody hate students. Bunch of animals …’ Bob had a scratch at his pelt, then nodded at Rennie. ‘Constable, what a happy coincidence! I’ve got a big list of tosspots who need interviewed.’
Rennie shook his head. ‘Sorry, Guv, but I’m officially DS McRae’s minion till Friday. We’re grilling Alison McGregor’s classmates. McRae and Rennie, at the ready!’
Bob raised his arms to the sky, then let them fall back to his sides with a theatrical groan. ‘Logie, you’ll let me borrow the loon, won’t you?’
‘Nope. Soon as we’re done here we have a nationwide search on historic kidnappings to wade through.’
‘Aw, come on – we could divvy up Bruce’s mates. Three of us, we’d get through them in no time.’
‘Goodbye Bob …’ Logan took a step away, then stopped, turned, and went back to the car. ‘You might want to keep an eye on one Tanya “Tiggy” Marsden. According to Craig Peterson she was Bruce’s girlfriend, but she says they were just friends.’
Bob ra
ised one side of his monobrow. ‘Oh aye, trying to distance herself after the fact? Think she’s his dealer?’
‘Doubt it.’ Logan told him about Stumpy the Dwarven Queen.
A grimace. ‘That’s sod all use …’ The grimace turned into a smile. ‘Still, at least it takes the source oil our patch – I can fob it off on Tayside. I was going to renege on buying you that pint, but I’ve changed my mind. Now lend us the wee loon here, and I’ll throw in a packet of crisps.’
Logan looked back up at the block of student flats. Someone was staring back down at them. Craig Peterson, stroking his billy-goat beard. Logan made a gun from his thumb and forefinger, pointed it at Peterson, then shot him in the face.
32
Logan made a special point of checking up on Peterson’s alibi. Adrian Kerr: MSc E-Commerce Technology; posters of The Muppet Show, China Town, a football team composed of half-naked women. Nicholas Tawse: Psychology; Citizen Kane, Che Guevara, Monty Python’s Flying Circus.
They both backed up Peterson’s story – of course – but it was still fun to make the stuck-up little sods squirm. Petty but fun.
Logan met up with Rennie back in the car park.
‘Anything?’
‘Thought a couple were a bit dodgy – one was trying to hide a home-made bong, the other got all gooey-eyed every time I mentioned Alison and Jenny’s names. Swear to God, she had a shrine to them above her bed. Newspaper clippings, magazine articles, signed photos, the lot. I think there was a lock of hair too.’
‘Hair?’
‘Not, like a scalp or anything.’
‘Nobody else?’
‘Nah, mostly they’re just students. Bit of weed, bit of booze, bit of studying, bit of pining away in their rooms wondering why nobody wants to shag them.’
‘Right, let’s go pay Alison and Jenny’s biggest fan a visit.’
Good God … Rennie hadn’t been kidding – there really was a shrine above Beatrice Eastbrook’s bed. Right in the middle of the wall was an amateurish watercolour portrait of Alison McGregor, Jenny sitting on her knee. Alison had a tinfoil halo that glimmered in the light of two big church candles, arranged either side of a lock of curly blonde hair in a little glass box, tied with a black ribbon and a sprig of heather. Just like the one on Alison’s photo of her dead husband.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 22
